#Spindlefreck

[paulhudd]

Spindlefreck Book Two: Pt Six: The Witch’s Promise

In a private room in Harrisburg Hospital, PA: Emil felt good. The world was blissful and peaceful. His legs, pelvis and right arm were in plaster, his face was badly cut-up, but none of it bothered him at all: bless you Sister Morphine... so cosy and warm... then he heard the whispery-hubbub of female voices, the approaching squelch of rubber soles on vinyl flooring, the swish of nylons, the click-clack-clunk of stilettos – weesh-weesh ticka-tock, weesh-weesh ticka-tock, weesh-weesh ticka-tock... then loud, familiar voices, one of which started low and became a high-pitched screech, “Oh my God! Emeeeeeeel...”

Fran! Lovely Fran, my lover, my wife, my soulmate has come to see me...!

“Will ye look at the state of him!” cried a harsh voice in an Irish accent.

Oh, Jesus no.... she’s brought her mother. That’s all I need: Broom Hilda harshing my buzz...

(Hilda Laverty, formerly of Co. Clare but resident of Toronto since 1952, was the dictionary definition of a formidable woman. Like a quilted Sherman tank in a Thatcher-wig & pink twin-set, she was a controlling, dominating harridan who despised her son in-law with a passion bordering on outright hatred.)

His eyelids eventually peeled back and a pair of flesh-coloured splodges shone through the haze.

“Look -- he’s awake!!” He felt the right side of the bed dip as Fran sat close and took his hand, her tearful, tremulous voice spoke close to his ear, “Oh, Emil how could you... I mean, what made you do this... you could've been killed!! What is wrong with you?!”

Hilda Laverty didn’t give him time to answer, she had a ready reply, her accent getting thicker as her anger increased, “He’s a friggin’ hippy – that’s what’s wrong w’ ‘im!! All that dope he smokes has finally addled his brain! Drivin’ hundirts o’ miles in his jammies like a mental patient! It’s a bloody disgrace!”

Emil watched like a supine tennis spectator, his eyes swivelling left and right as the women bickered over the bed. “Mommy – I’ve had you in my ear for the last three freakin’ hours! Gimme a break!!”

Typically, Hilda ignored her and ranted on, “I bet he was as high as kite -- look at him there -- it’s a blessing from heaven that he hasn’t killed somebody!”

“MOM! Enough! I warned you...!” Fran shouted, then turned back to her husband and looked at him with beseeching eyes, “Oh, Emil... I knew you shoulda seen a psychologist after the first time!”

“Aye -- he’s finally cracked under the weight of a guilty conscience!!”

“Shh! He’s trying to say something!”

Emil spoke in a weak whisper, “I’m so sorry, Fran...”

“Don’t try to speak, I understand...”

“No... I need to say this...” He looked down at his long-term archenemy and yelled as best he could, “Blow it out yer ass Hilda!!” It hurt a lot, but it was well worth it just to see the expression on the old bag’s face.

That face was now puce with fury; it took her all of a minute to gather her dander and deploy the wagging finger, “Don’t think you can shock me or insult me, Emil Labatt, cuz I have heard it all before – it’s not me you’re hurting (points at Fran) -- it’s her!”

Fran stood up and tried to shout her down, “Mom this is neither the time nor place --”

But Hilda Laverty was intent on saying her piece. She’d been longing for the day when Emil Labatt would be incapacitated and at her mercy. She gripped the rail at the end of the bed and gave him both barrels: “This is Divine Retribution for all yer ‘extracurricular’ activities, me laddo -- swannin’ round thon campus like Don Juan, with yer ponytail and yer safari shorts and yer convertible sports-car, pickin’-up wee lassies who have more tits-than-wit!”

Fran tried desperately to intercede, “Mom – stop -- don’t make me --”  

But Hilda was in full flow – she’d been mentally rehearsing the tirade all the way from Toronto and nobody was going to stop her, “What about that redhead lab-assistant who had to have an abortion?! Or that psycho-bitch who stalked our Fran when you dumped her?! Or that wee blonde bit ye had a fling with in Ireland?!”

For once in her life Fran finally stood up to her mother; she jumped to her feet, stomped her heels, pulled her hair and bellowed at the top of her voice: “Mommeeee -– shut-the-f**k-up and GET OUT!!”

Hilda was thunderstruck. Her mouth opened and closed like a guppy at feeding time as her mind chewed it over. She looked at her daughter as if she’d just seen her for the first time, “What did you say to me...?”

For once, Fran did not waver; she pointed at the door and said, firmly, “Get out!! I mean it!”

“Why... how...” Hilda was saved from further humiliation by the arrival of an enormous black nurse in a capacious purple cardigan, who strode in and hissed in a loud whisper, “What in hell is goin’ on in here!” she said, hands on hips, her shiny black bob swishing to-and-fro as she looked from one to the other, “there’s sick folk tryin’ ta sleep down the hall! Now, y’all be quiet or I’ll haveta ask y’all to leave!”

Fran apologised profusely for the disturbance, then turned to her mother and said, “My mother was just going -- weren’t you, mom?”

Still fuming, Mrs Laverty lifted her handbag from the chair by the door, “We’ll talk later, my girl! I’ll be in the car!”

“Don’t bother waiting, I’ll get a taxi,” said Fran, icily, sitting down on the edge of the bed again, taking Emil’s hand.

Hilda turned the air blue, “Well f**k you, you stupid f**kin’ bitch -- don’t come cryin’ to me when he lets you down again -- and you, Labatt -- I hope you end up paralysed from the waist down -- that’d be poetic justice!!”

The big nurse watched Hilda stomp off down the corridor and shook her head “Well, I’ll be. She looks like such a nice, Christian-kinda lady, too...” she opined, shuffling out the room.

Fran took his hand in both hands and regarded him with pitying eyes. He squeezed her hand and whispered, “I am so sorry, Fran. I mean it. I don’t know what happened or what’s going on. I think I could have brain tumour or something...”

She leaned close, looked into his eyes and said, “Yesterday morning... when you had that look in your eyes, like a... a zombie, I should’ve known there was something deep going on. But after all the rows we’ve had, it never occurred to me you were having a breakdown.”

High and dislocated, Emil found this conclusion somewhat amusing. “Is that what you think this is? A breakdown? You think Hilda’s right? I’ve cracked under the weight of a guilty conscience...?” Then he saw a tear trickle down her cheek and sobered up. He squeezed her hand again and said, “I swear to you, I don’t know what this is or what’s happening to me,” he whispered, “but one thing I know for sure is it’s got nothing to do with you.”

She reached up, took a paper tissue from the box on the bedside locker and dabbed her eyes, “Things haven’t been the same since you screwed Paddy’s niece,” she said bluntly. The time for civility was long past.

He sighed heavily. She’d never forgiven him for that fling. After all the other little affairs he’d had, she’d stayed by his side -- more for the sake of her reputation and career than anything else -- but she hadn't mentioned his brief fling with Niamh since he confessed to it 2 years ago. She didn’t forgive him. She just went on with her life as usual without ever talking about it, even when he tried again and again to apologise. “I told you, it was the worst mistake of...” he froze midsentence and stared into space.

“What is it? You've got that look again! Oh God...” Fran groaned.

He snapped out of his trance, looked at her and gasped, “You’re right. You’re absolutely right!”

She frowned and shook her head, “What do you mean?”

“I mean I haven’t been the same since I got back from Ireland!”  

...

Meanwhile, at Pagham House, Co. Kildare: Dozing on the grass outside the pavilion, Broo entered another world.

He was standing in a heavy downpour among a crowd of restive peasants in the middle of a muddy, tree-lined country road. He quickly grasped that it was the road that ran by the gates of Pagham House -- but unlike the present day, it wasn't surfaced with tarmac and marked with white lines, it was just a dirt-track slashed with puddling wheel-ruts, reduced to mire in the torrential rain. To the right there were six soldiers wearing wigs, clad in red uniforms and armed with muskets, standing to attention before a flatbed-dray, the horse whinnying and restless – as if it sensed the tension radiating from the crowd. A bedraggled, shoeless man in a soiled white blouse and baggy black stockings stood barefoot on the flatbed, his hands tied behind his back, a noose around his neck, his long, sopping wet red hair clinging to his pallid face like silky kelp draped on a porcelain bust. A cowled executioner stood to attention beside the dray holding a hood, presumably to place over the condemned man’s head when the moment came. On the opposite side of the road, sheltering under the foliage of a row of yew trees stood a trio of men in long black robes and tall buckled hats, their heads bowed as if at prayer.

Despite the high drama and the appalling weather, the old dog wasn’t in the least perturbed; in fact, he wasn't even getting wet. By now he was well-used to these visions; he knew no one could see him and he wasn't in any danger. He was just an impervious, invisible observer. But why am I here?

The shortest man with the longest wig walked into the middle of the road and read aloud from a rain-spattered scroll: “Tobias Aloysius Farley, you have been tried and convicted of theft and intent to defraud the person of Thaddeus Arthur Ravenhill, 8th Duke of Roxborough and loyal servant of His Majesty King George III. You have been sentenced to be hanged by the neck until you are dead. Have you anything to say before you meet your maker?”

“Oh aye, I have summat to say!!” The condemned man straightened up, smiled a humourless, triumphal smile, as if he’d been waiting for this opportunity for a long time. He yelled at the tallest man under the branches of the beech - a tall, gaunt man with dark eyes, sharp cheekbones and an alabaster complexion that gave him the look of a reanimated cadaver, “Go to hell, Roxborough! For I’m certain Old Nick will have a special torment set aside for wicked men the likes of you!”

A low, appreciative hubbub ran through the crowd.

The condemned man looked around the crowd and spoke with authority and sincerity, “Heed my words, my brothers - not as servants or soldiers - but as men! Men with children of your own! Brothers, I tell you with hand on heart – the man you are about to hang is an innocent man! My only crime is that I know too much and I’ve said too much and now men of influence ‘ave pooled their resources to shut-me-trap once-and-for-all! Tis another dastardly deed to conceal a series of dastardly deeds -- devilish schemes perpetrated by this man -- deeds that are an affront to God Almighty Himself!”

The gaunt man broke ranks and strode across the road, “Enough of this man’s blasphemy and desperate lies!” He pushed the man with the scroll aside, shouldered his way through the soldiers and smacked the horse’s rump with his silver-headed cane –- the nag reared and tried to bolt, knocking the executioner over -- the condemned man slid off the dray, his feet kicked frantically as the rope tightened around his neck. Everyone gasped in horror as they watched the body swing and twist on the groaning limb. It jerked for a few seconds, shuddered, then sagged. The mud-caked executioner picked himself up from the mire, tore off his mask and glared at Roxborough with a hate-filled scowl, “A dying man is entitled to be heard! History will judge his words, Roxborough -- NOT YOU!!”

There were cheers and jeers now; cheers for the executioner’s candour, jeers for Roxborough’s actions. Sensing a little rebellion in the making, the duke ordered the soldiers to close ranks around him. The soldiers hesitated, loath to open fire on an angry mob, especially since they appeared to agree with the crowd’s objections. One of the men who’d been standing by Roxborough’s side commanded them to follow the order. When they resisted, the Duke, stony faced and imperious, walked among them and announced with a look of utter contempt on his face, “Remember who I am, gentlemen. And remember where you are...”  

Then, the swaying, hanged man looked down at Broo, his pale purple face streaming with rain and said, “Hey doggy --Wake up!”

“Wake up!”

Broo opened his eyes to see Charlie Noble, Pagham House’s Head of Security, standing over him. “It’s rainin’ -- why aren’t ye under cover, ye silly mutt?” The old dog wearily pulled himself up and headed back to the main house. As he crossed the cobble-stone courtyard, he was forced to stop to allow a silver Toyota 4x4 to drive in and pull up. There was an old woman wearing overalls and a headscarf sitting in the passenger seat and a pale young woman with long, silvery-blonde hair, behind the wheel. “There’s summat ‘ee don’t see every day, aun’ie -- a three legged dog!” tittered the silver haired girl.

The old woman looked at Broo and scowled, “’is nibs musta called ‘em after all. ‘E said ‘e would.”

“’Oo?”

“Ghost ‘unters. That dog is psychic. Must be ‘ere about the poltergeist thing. ‘Is nibs must be at the end of his tether,” said Mrs Sparkes, opening her door. “Thanks fer the lift, our Oona, there wuz no way oi coulda walked up ‘ere this mornin’, me leg is killin’ me...”

Still staring at the old dog, the young woman answered distractedly, “Don’t you worry none... aun’ie... Craigy wuz jast off noightshift... so oi were up anyway...”

“Well, tell Craigy oi’m sorry oi woke ‘im.”

The younger woman didn’t hear the remark and continued to stare into Broo’s eyes. After a moment, he began to feel something getting into his head, like an unwelcome thought was trying to get through...

The old woman looked from the girl to the dog, seemed to realise what was going on, and walloped the girl around the head, “Cut that out!” she shouted, angrily. The girl suddenly severed the budding connection, “Ooow!” she moaned, rubbing her head, but didn’t argue, as if she’d done it before. “Now get ‘ee on ‘ome, Oona Nevin, ‘fore I clout ‘ee again!” said Mrs Sparkes, struggling out of the car. On her way across the courtyard, she paused to have a closer look at him. After a moment’s contemplation, she bent down and said, “’Ee’s looked in the old mirror, ‘aven’t ‘ee, boy? 'Ee’s seen the children, ‘aven’t ‘ee?”

Broo, of course, could only stare back blankly, giving no indication that he could understand what she was saying, although her words sent a shiver through his pelt.

“Get ‘ee on ‘ome, Mr Dog. Soon as ‘ee can,” she whispered in a low voice with a cold smile, “cuz this ol’ house’ll eat ‘ee alive.”

As Mrs Sparkes walked to the tradesman’s entrance, the young woman drove around him, her eyes locked on his as she turned in a circle; when the car was facing in the direction of the drive, she stopped and wound down the window so she could get a clear view without rain streaming down the glass. He began to get that strange feeling in his head again -- until the old woman screamed, “Oona!! Go HOME!!” and snapped them out of their trance. The young woman glowered at him, wound up the window and sped off.

That was almost a telepathic intrusion! Is she psychic?! What is going on here?! ‘This house’ll eat you alive’...? He was very worried now. Oh, c’mon Malky, get up so we can get out of this place...

 2 hours later: Malky was awoken by a firm knock on the door. He stirred, opened his eyes and looked up. “JESUS!” He jumped when he saw his reflection in the mirror overhead. He was not a pretty sight: unshaven, pale and puffy-eyed.

Knock-knock. “Are you OK, Mr C?” said Herbie, opening the door a crack, “Can I come in? Are you decent?”

Malky sat up and groaned, “C’mon ahead, Herbie, I ain’t got nuthin’ you haven’t seen before...”  

“... as the porn star said to the Pope!!” Herbie quipped, bringing in a silver tray with a slice of melon and a tumbler of freshly squeezed orange juice. He was bright ‘n’ breezy, dressed in his chauffeur’s uniform, all sparkly buttons and shiny boots, “It’s jast gawn eight firty, Mr C, an’ if you’s feeling up-to-it you’s welcome to join me ‘n the staff fer breakfast in the kitchen?”

With the bitter aftertaste of strong coffee still in his mouth, Malky took a gulp of juice, swilled it around his mouth before swallowing, “I don’t think so, Herb, not feelin’ too good,” he said, rubbing his tummy.

Herbie went to the console at the side of the bed and pressed the button that opened the curtains, “Befowah you awsk, our young master Kris ain’t up yet, what wiv the ol’ jet-lag ‘n bein’ up all night it’s unlikely we’ll see ‘im ‘fore we leave.” He went to the window and looked out, “An’ your best pal won’t be joining us neever, I’ve awsked him –- I tried to tempt him wiv bacon, bat ‘e flatly refuses to come in the ahse. I fink ‘e’s anxious to leave.”

Pulling on his pants, Malky hopped over to see; sure-enough, there was the old dog was sitting, watching the window from the top of the marble steps. It was raining heavily and the old dog was sopping wet. Malky raised the sash and called out, “Hey! Come in and get yer breakfast!”

The old dog sat where he was and didn’t as much as twitch.

“Then at least go ‘n sit under a tree?!”

The old dog stayed where he was and barked: Can we go home now?

“Och, he’s probably homesick...” Malky began to say, before a feeling of nausea hit him, “and talkin’ of feelin’ sick... Eeeuuugh...”

“Wossup?” asked Herbie, concerned, “gotta dicky belly, ‘ave ya?”

“Me guts’re doin’ somersaults... said Malky, turning a light shade of green. If I didn’t know better I’d think it was hangover...”

“Drink too much coffee last night, didja?” Herbie chuckled, “Charlie went dahn to the pavilion to lock-up this mornin’ ‘n ‘e said the machine wuz empty!”

The mention of the coffee set him off, “Here I go –-” mumbled Malky, making a run for the en suite.

Herbie shouted after him, “Lissen -- you get dressed and I’ll go dahn an’ fry-ya-up my breakfast special -- toast, a bit o’ black-puddin’ and wiv ‘ash-brahns an’ eggs in Worcester sawz - that’ll put ya back on yer plates!”

Malky threw up loudly.

“Well, maybe not...” said Herbie, smiling to himself as he picked up the tray.

 “So-oo, what’s the beef, chief?” Malky asked, gingerly staggering down the marble steps carrying his overnight bag, “why didn’t you come back to the house with us last night?”

Broo was too distressed to react. The rain had faded to a misty drizzle, but not so misty as to obscure the awful truth. He still has the aura. It wasn’t as strong as the grandson’s, but he could still see it and feel it: physically deadening and psychically inhibiting. Malky is infected! He whimpered and backed up.

“Look, I’m sorry you hadda sleep outside, but we couldn’t wake you, so we let you sleep...” said Malky, misreading Broo’s reaction, before doubling up and retching.

Broo was very alarmed now. It’s so bad making him physically ill! We must get out of here!

Then they heard footsteps crunching on the gravel behind him, but instead of going to the Rolls, he approached them with a look of trepidation on his face. He pushed back the brim of his cap, “The boss is awake and ‘e wants to tawk to ya before you go... would that be OK?” he said, apologetically.

“I’ve nothing to say to ‘im, Herbie.” Malky replied, shaking his head.

Herbie sighed, looked down at his boots and said, “‘E wants to fank you personally for what you done lawst night. ‘E’s still in bed, bat ‘e’s sober an’ of sahnd mind.”

Malky straightened up and had another bout of light-headedness; and again, Herbie had to lend a helping hand, “You ain’t lookin’ any better Mr C...”

Broo yipped, getting evermore anxious by the second.

“Stop fussing! I’m fine...” Malky lied, wincing, “I’ll go talk to Laphen, and as soon as I’m done, we’ll go home, OK?” he patted the old dog’s head and walked back up the steps with the bemused chauffeur, “You an’ ‘that ol’ doggy certainly are a pair, aintcha!”

As soon as Malky’s palm touched had his head, Broo got that same debilitating feeling he got when the grandson touched him the day before: physically drained, psychically blocked. Will this ever end?! He whimpered.

 When they entered the room, Malky was very surprised to find the little old man propped up on plump, ivory satin pillows in a huge four-poster bed. He looked well-groomed, his eyes were clear, he seemed calm and composed as she sipped a cup of lemon tea from a dainty china cup with his little finger crooked, his bony little hands as steady as a rock: whatever Rossington had given him, it’d worked a treat.  “I want to thank you for everythin’ you’ve done, Mr Calvert,” he said, in a cheery voice.

Malky shrugged, “We didn’t find anything.”

“You’re sure? There’s nothing here?”

“Nuthin’ spooky, no.”

Smirking, Laphen nodded and said, “That’s all I needed to know. Now I can concentrate on catching the real culprit.” He gave back the cheque for £7500 that Malky had thrown in his face the night before.

Malky didn’t want it, but took it for Zindy’s sake, “I can’t say it’s been a wonderful experience, Mr Laphen, but it’s been worth it to make the acquaintance of Kris. That kid is an absolute diamond and you should be proud of --”

Laphen put up a hand and stopped him, “Before you start to extol the virtues of my grandson, will you indulge me?” He got out of bed and slipped his feet into a pair of giant yeti-boots-style-slippers. Herbie helped him on with his red satin dressing gown. Just then there was a knock at the door and an old woman in overalls entered pushing an ornate antique silver trolley. He recognised her from Kris’ description: Pagham House’s indomitable, sour-faced housekeeper, Mrs Sparkes. “’Ere’s ee’s breakfast. There’s bacon ‘n’ eggs ‘n’ kipper,” she grumbled, lifting the cloche, “Oi didn’t know ‘ow you wanted ‘em done, so oi did two boiled, two froied ‘n two poached, so ‘ee can work it out fer yerself.”

“Yes, thank you Mrs Sparkes, put it on the table and bugger off,” said Laphen, offhandedly waving her away.

“And don’t ‘ee get egg on the chairs,” she grunted, on her way out.

“You can go too, Herbie,” he said, “I’ll buzz when I need you.” Herbie gave Malky a sly wink and followed Mrs Sparkes out of the door. Laphen went to the table at the back of the room, sat down and uncovered the platter; he shook out a napkin and put it on his lap, a picture of elegance and sophistication, apart from the yeti-boot slippers. Malky followed him and sat on an antique ottoman adjacent to the dresser, 6 or 7 feet away; the minute his arse hit the velvet, he sighed with relief; then the smell of the eggs hit him and his belly flipped again.

Laphen poured himself a cup of coffee, “Coffee?”

“God no!” Malky moaned, holding his breath.

“Are ye alright, ye look terrible,” said Laphen, as if he cared.

“I just wanna get out of here...”

“Herbie tells me Kris took you round the East Wing,” said Laphen, buttering a slice of toast.

“He was great, it was very... enlightening.”

“Hmm. When he was a kid he used to explore every nook ‘n cranny of this place. Up to all sorts, he was,” said Laphen, in a suspicious tone, “you couldn’t watch him.”

“Well he was very knowledgeable, very helpful,” said Malky, fading.

Laphen sat forward and looked Malky in the eye, “Look, the boy is trouble. Always has been. He’s a compulsive liar, so-he-is. That’s the only reason I keep him close, not because he’s wonderful company, but because if he’s left to his own devices somebody’s liable to get hurt.” He went back to his breakfast, “He’s a skilled manipulator and he’s got yez all wrapped around his wee finger. But not me, oh no.” He reached into his dressing gown pocket and produced a small oblong box. “This is a voice-activated digital tape recorder. I had Charlie stick it under the table in the coffee bar when he went over to turn on the power.”

Malky was affronted, “You mean...”

Laphen shook the little recorder, “Yes, I heard every word.” He pressed the little play button:

“... When I look at him now I know I’m looking at myself in 60 years time, cos that’s probably what I’ll look like if I live that long. But I won’t end my days like him, alone in a mansion miles away from his family, abandoned by his estranged kids. My grandfather is nothing if not a walking cautionary tale.”

“What the ....” said Malky, unable to adequately express his outrage without throwing up, all he could manage was a feeble croak, “...what gives you the right to tape us?!”

“My property, my prerogative, I can do what I like. And Kris knows it, too,” he said, confidently, “in fact he knew I’d be listenin’ ‘n put on that wee performance to get at me. That’s what he’s like. The spiteful little bastard...”

Feeling bewildered, betrayed and used, but mostly very sick and tired, Malky laboriously got to his feet and used all his strength to give out one last time, “How’s this for a performance!” He tore-up the cheque and sprinkled the pieces over Ollie’s eggs, “for the second ‘n last time - goodbye  Ollie! I hope you get what’s coming to you!” and stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

Outside the door, Malky all-but collapsed; he put his back against the wall and slid down until his arse hit the floor. Herbie, who’d looking out of the large oriel window at the end of the landing, saw him and came running. “You look like deff-warmed-up, Mr C. I dunno wevver to take ya ‘ome or take ya to casualty!” he said, putting Malky’s arm around his shoulder.

“Home, please, Herbie. If I’m gonna die, I wanna do it in me own bed,” Malky gasped, struggling to walk down the stairs, “don’t take this the wrong way, but most of all just wanna get outta this f**kin’ house...”

Meanwhile, at Odin’s Inn, Brodir, Co Wicklow: Zindy had been up-and-at-it since 5:30AM.

She struggled into a pair of black leggings, to hide her bump, she put on the most voluminous garment she could find –- namely an XXXL ZZ Top Eliminator tee-shirt that used to belong to her hulking ex -- put on her motorcycle boots and wriggled into Malky’s manky overcoat (looking like Dopey from Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs sans nightcap). She crossed her fingers under her cuffs, went out to the yard and tiptoed around the old van as if she was silently sizing up a sparring partner. “Now, I have lavished love on ya. I’ve cleaned your sparks, oiled yer pistons, greased yer nipples. All I ask is an 18 mile-round-trip. Get me there and back and ye can ‘ave the rest of the week off – eh – ‘ow would that be, eh?”

The van remained inscrutably silent.

“OK then, ‘ere goes...”

Lifting the tails of the coat, she got in making sure not to rock the suspension; she said a silent prayer and gently put the key in the ignition, took a deep breath and turned it:

Pfft.

Nowt. Try again.

Harrumph.

Pause... She prayed again and tried doing it slowly.

grumblelumblelumberrrrrrr

Hmmm, ‘... again, but faster...

FruummmmmmmmRRRRRRRRRRRRRRMMooooMMMMMMMMMMM......PUTTAPUTTAPUTTAPUTTAPUTTA

“YES!” she yelled, as the engine burst into life. Monday blues? Not a bit of it! She got out, pulled the tee-shirt over her head and sang Simply the Best while doing a little victory-dance around the yard. Then something suddenly struck her. She slowly stopped her little jig, pulled the coat from her eyes and looked up.

The parapet of the yard wall was lined with cats. They were on the kitchen roof and the coal bunker – cats of every breed and size. Just like that night McKee kidnapped her and killed Sammy. Cats seemed to turn- up when something wicked was going down. What do they want now? Were they there to warn her? What gives? She kept an eye on them as she carefully got back in the van and drove off, little knowing that when she returned, not only would the cats be gone, there wouldn’t be an animal within a twelve mile radius...

 Utterly bereft, Sammy stood at the parlour window and watched the van drive down the strand, his Essence troubled, his Aspect dim. He’d seen the cats in the backyard – confirmation that things were about to change. “See? The cats and birds always first to know,” said the boy in the mirror above the mantelpiece, “now will you believe me?” The face in the mirror belonged to a fine-featured, fair-skinned blonde aged 12 or 13 sent to convince him for the last time to go to Limbo before Malky got back. The boy made it clear he didn’t like being in the Mirror World one little bit, he was jumpy and kept looking around as if he was scared, “Look,” he said, losing patience, “Go to Limbo! - because if you don’t exist at all – you’ll be even more useless than you are now!!”

“But how do we know if this ‘darkness’ or ‘badness’ -- or whatever-ye-may-call-it -- won’t harm Zindy or the child she’s carryin’? I mean to say...” said Sammy, pacing the mat in front of the hearth, “you can’t gimme an answer to that question.”

“I told you the Powers That Be just told me to get you to go to Limbo. You don’t argue. They’re always right.”

Eventually Sammy’s shoulders dropped and he gave in. The face in the mirror closed its eyes and sighed with relief, “Please go now. I’ll wait.”

Sammy obediently closed his eyes, held his nose and dropped through the floor like a man jumping feet-first into a septic tank. The mirror misted like over like a windscreen on a wet day, but in this case the film of condensation was on the inside; and as it slowly evaporated, the usual reflection of the living room gradually materialised in the glass...

...

15 minutes later, on the road to Arklow: The radio was fooked so she chatted to her bump as she chugged along the bumpy back roads, “Mummy’s still got it kiddo! And your daddy said I was wasting my time – pah! What does he know, anyway? I’m the handyman in our house! You might inherit my powers! If you’re a girl ‘n you anything like me, you might be a bit of a tomboy. But if you’re into dolls ‘n girly stuff, that’ll be OK, too. If you’re a boy -– we’ll get dirt bikes and tear up the hills! If you’re musical - we’ll get you an electric guitar!” The spell of exuberance lasted all the way to the market in Arklow; she left the motor running and collected the standing-order ASAP -- but when she reached the DIY store she had no choice but to say another silent prayer and turn off the engine.

Afterwards, when loading the cans of emulsion into the back of the van, she once again got behind the wheel went through the little ritual, but just as she feared, the engine was dead. She did everything she’d done before, but the van flatly refused to respond. “You’re not even trying!” Throttle-out, throttle in; each twist of her wrist produced a whining sound as if the van was screeching killmekillmekillme. To make matters worse, drops of rain were pattering on the windscreen and drumming on the roof. “Fook! Bugger! bollocks!!” she cried, pounding the steering-wheel with her little fists. All the optimism and good cheer evaporated, she slumped in the seat and mithered, “I’ll have to phone for a f**king tow-truck now! Shite!” She was just about to get out and have a look under the bonnet, when she glimpsed movement in the wing-mirror: someone was headed her way. Her efforts had attracted the attentions of a Good Samaritan. She watched the figure approach in the ing mirror with some degree of resentment and grumbled, “’ere we go. A Knight in fookin’ shinin’ armour is comin’ to help a damsel in distress...”

The man tapped on her window. She wound it down and almost yelled, “Look mate, unless you’ve got a carburettor for a 1978 Ford Escort van, you can...”

She stopped talking when the guy took off his shades (‘oo wears shades on a day like this?) and she realised she was looking into a pair of very familiar eyes in an unfamiliar face. A familiar voice said, “You were gonna tell me to eff-off, werntcha?!”

Zindy was agape; her stomach flipped, her heart thudded in her ears; when she finally caught her breath, she gasped: “Raspo...?” He was completely transformed: the long plaited purple beard was gone, revealing a ruggedly handsome clean-shaven face with a cleft chin; his long grey hair tied back in a ponytail, creating a silver-streaked widow’s-peak; he’d forsaken his well-worn leathers and biker boots for a black reefer-jacket, blue jeans and Cuban-heeled cowboy boots. The most astounding thing was his shape; gone was the humungous beergut, gone was the enormous arse, he looked slim and fit. The only sign of the old Raspo was the blurry-blue spiderweb tattoo on the back of his left hand.

She couldn’t adequately express her surprise, “You’re so... so...?”

���Handsome? Intelligent? Sexually attractive...?” he said, that familiar gold tooth glinting in that familiar smile.

She tried not to sound impressed, “No... I mean ... it’s quite a transformation, to say the least. When you were with me the most exercise ya got was openin’ the fridge and pullin’ the tab on a can.”

He stood back, opened his jacket and let her get a good look, “Solitary confinement and a set of weights will do that to a man. I’ve lost 7 stone! I can see my toes now!” He slowly pulled up his roll-neck sweater to reveal his heavily tattooed torso, “Beer barrel to six-pack in 4 years -- not bad for a 57 year-old slob who never walked-the-length-of-himself, eh?” He put his hands on his knees and stooped, his grey-green eyes twinkling as he looked at her hair, “I see you’re a pinkhead now. Very becoming. And you’ve put on a bit of weight, too. Suits you. In fact, you’re still wearing my old clothes, I see...”

Zindy blanched and instinctively crossed her arms over the bump and told him what she thought of him. “So they shaved 3 years off your sentence for squealin’, did they?!  I wouldn’t know, see, since I ain’t a rat-fink-coont.”

Raspo threw back his head and laughed heartily before answering, “Am I to assume that I’m not exactly flavour of the month in Brodir? You ‘n the boys still mad at me, eh?”

“I haven’t seen ‘em since you grassed-‘em-up. The raid was so bad I hadda close the place up and renovate. Thanks for that,” Zindy snarled.

The winning smile vanished, “I didn’t squeal on me mates, just those bastards from abroad. It’s a shame our lot got caught in the crossfire, but in the end none of them was charged. I told Somerville to take it easy on them.”

Zindy recoiled and shook her head as if she couldn't understand what he was talking about and said, “Smokestack lost so much blood they had to do a transfusion -- Little Ted got a fractured skull! Marcus is blind in one eye from flyin’ glass! Not to mention the damage done to their bikes!”

Raspo made no attempt to justify or defend his actions he just stared at the ground and took his medicine like a big boy.

“What gets me is there wasn't a word of warning -- I visited you every week and you never said a word! Not a bloody word. You sat there, looked me in the eye 'n told me to arrange that Halloween party without the slightest hint of what was gonna ‘appen! The first I knew about it was when the riot squad kicked-in t’door ��n gave me customers a leatherin’ -- it wuz like a friggin’ warzone!”

Raspo had stopped grinning halfway through the harangue. His face became solemn, the heavily-lined brow vexed with concern, when he answered, there wasn't a hint of irony, “I’m really sorry, but Somerville made me an offer I couldn't refuse. And when-all’s-said-and-done, the men I gave up were murderers, kidnappers, pimps, Nazis and many other things besides. So f**k ‘em.” He regarded her with a pained expression, “You know me, Zin, I can’t be caged, I can’t be locked up... stuck lookin’ at the same four walls day after day, eatin’ the same auld shit, havin’ to cohabit with rapists, perverts and paedos.” He looked her in the eye, “Cuz that’s where they put you when you turn states’ evidence, Zin: the ‘secure wing’. So on top of everything else I hadda live with the worst kind of scum -- I used to beat the shit outta them just so’s I could spend some time in solitary to get me head straight.”  

For a second she remembered why she loved him. The timbre of his voice combined with the accent, the same voice she found so irresistible in the first place, so deep and melodic... then her common sense kicked in. She pulled the coat tight around her and stated with conviction, “Robert (she only ever called him Robert when she was really mad at him), you looked me in the eye ‘n lied to me every day of our relationship; you treated me like a wee queen, ‘n meanwhile you’re this fookin’ gangster dealin’ smack to kids ‘n cuttin’-‘em-up when they couldn't pay -– then, when yer caught in the act, ye shop yer mates to get a commuted sentence!” She shook her head, “To think that’s the guy I shared a bed with all them years! Makes me sick to me stomach!” she said, glowering, “Now kindly get yer arm off me roof and stay the fook outta my life.”

He put up his hands and made a show of backing off. She wound up the window and instinctively turned the key in the ignition. The engine coughed and died again. In the heat of the moment, she’d forgotten her predicament and now, on top of everything else, she looked stupid. Raspo didn’t gloat or make fun; he kept a straight face and said, “Pop the hood. I think heard somethin’. I think I might know what yer trouble is.”

Of course you do. Raspo was, like her, a mechanical wizard. He could have engineered the engine-trouble while she was in the store, just so he could weave his magic and get on her good side. Unfortunately, (or should that be surprise, surprise?) on this particular occasion, his powers appeared to have deserted him. He slammed down the bonnet and went back to the window, wiping his hands on a crumpled paper-tissue, “Nah, the carburettor’s completely knackered.”

“Brilliant. Tell me summat I don’t know.”

He wiped his hands with a crumpled paper tissue, “Look, I’m here in a mate’s Transit -– there’s a length of rope in the back. I could tow you home...?”

“Oh wouldn't that be cosy, you’d like that wouldn't you!” She might be in a tight spot, but she wasn't buying The New & Improved Raspo Canning. She wound the window down a few inches and spoke through the crack, “I know yer game, Raspo. This is just too much of a coincidence. Too convenient.”

“OK, OK, just tryin’ to be helpful.” He shivered and pulled his jacket tight around his shoulders, “I’ve got a warm flat and an even warmer woman to go home to, why should I waste my time standin’ in the rain talkin’ to a hellcat?”

She arched an eyebrow.

He knew that look, “It’s true -- that’s why I’m here -– we’re decoratin’ the kitchenette and I borrowed a neighbour’s van to collect some wall-tiles and a new sink,” he pointed at a white van parked by a trolley-shed at the far end of the car park, “you can go and look if you like!” He jangled the keys.

Zindy looked away, “I ain’t goin’ anywhere in a van w’ you! In fact, I ain’t goin’ anywhere with you...” she said, wincing as a wave of nausea came over her.

“I’m not tryin’ to pick-you-up or pick-up where we left-off, I‘m only tryin’ to do you a favour!”

Zindy’s resolve was severely tested, her curiosity piqued: who is this new woman? Where is this flat? “I’m glad to hear you’re settling down,” she said, sarcastically.

Raspo smiled and said, “Thank you,” then nonchalantly commented, “it looks like you’re settlin’ down, too.”

Another pang -- this time her stomach turned over, “Erm... uh, whaddya talkin’ about...”

“I saw you in the store – you’re pregnant, aren’t ya?” He took a step forward and looked at her bump, “or have I just said the worst thing a man can say to a woman who’s put on a bit of weight...?”

She succumbed to an unstoppable wave of morning sickness. She quickly pulled down the window with both hands, leaned out and puked all over his Cuban-heeled cowboy boots.

“I’ll take that as a yes, then...”

...

5 minutes ago, 47 miles west: “Stop! –- here comes the rest!”

Herbie slammed on the brakes for the second time. Malky lurched out of the car and ran for the bushes. Sitting on the backseat, Broo whinged and whined as he watched his partner projectile-vomit into the roadside briars -- the misty aura wasn't weakening the further they got from Pagham House -- in fact, it seemed to be getting stronger!

“My, my,” said Herbie, tutting, “yer pal is very sick, ol’ boy. I wouldn't be surprised if that li’l session last night puts ‘im off coffee fer life!”

Broo whimpered and wheezed with alarm: Why is this happening?! Is this permanent condition?! I can’t live like this!!

...

15 minutes later, in a little transport café opposite the DIY store: Zindy still wasn't comfortable in his company, but it was raining and there was nothing she could do. They sat facing each other at a table by the window, Raspo, utterly at ease, sitting back, legs stretched, his arm draped over the back of his chair; Zindy trying her best to look indifferent though her insides were churning, sat with arms crossed across her bump and let him do most of the talking. First item on the agenda was an old acquaintance they weren’t likely to ever forget.

“That was a total head-f**k about Barry, wasn't it? Killing kids? Did ye ever?!” said Raspo, disconsolately, shaking his head with disbelief.

“Och, c’mon, McKee was always a creep,” she said, curling a lip, “he was too quiet, always goin’ off on his own and keepin’ ‘imself to ‘imself. He wasn't really one of the lads.”

Raspo shrugged, “I used to put up with him cos I felt sorry for him, and yer right, most of the lads hated him on sight: Little Rich Boy who dreams of being a Bad Boy; we got ‘em all the time. Most of ‘em didn’t get past the initiation, but Barry did. He took it all without sayin’ a word or screamin’ in pain, so he had a bit of cred. I was very impressed by ‘im.”

She baulked, “We are talking about the same bastard ‘oo killed poor Sammy, kidnapped me and shot me, are we? Cuz this is startin’ to sound a lot like a eulogy!”

“None of us are good people, Zara (he only ever called her Zara when he was lecturing her). I know at least 10 guys from different gangs –- people who you’ve been introduced to -- that’re Nazis with criminal convictions for rape and possession of obscene material very, very likely to offend. Let’s put it this way, just cos they don’t have horns and cloven hoofs, doesn’t mean they don’t froth at the mouth every time Romper Room comes on.”

She was genuinely shocked. “Bloody hell! Thank God I’m out of it!” she cried.

“Well then, you can’t blame me fer wantin’ them locked-up, can ye?” he replied.

There was a pregnant pause. Zindy looked out of the window; Raspo idly stirred his coffee,

“We had some good times though, didn’t we?” he said, smiling nicely.

She wasn't biting, “When I turned 40 I looked back ‘n realised ‘ow much time I’ve wasted in cop-shops and law-courts over the years, and I vowed to meself that my life would begin with a clean sheet. And y’know what? I’m happier than I’ve ever been! I’m ‘avin’ a baby with a great guy – there are developers lookin’ at the town, so things are looking up on the business front -- ‘n best of all -- there’s no two-faced cut-throats around to f**k things up!”

He sat back and made an offhand comment, “I hear the father’s Malcolm Calvert, the guy that caught Barry. Well, him ‘n ‘is three legged dog... Ex-RUC isn't ‘e...?”

She took her time answering; is he threatening me? “This has got nuthin’ to do with Malky! I’d already washed my hands of you when we met,” she said, a little shaken. “Anyway, how do you know about him?”

“We do have newspapers and TVs on the inside, y’know,” he said, matter-of-factly, “I saw him comin’ outta the hospital after he was shot. He looked like a frail old man.”

“He’s fully recovered! He has a heart condition, but he takes plenty of exercise...” She shook her head emphatically, “Why the fook am I justifying myself to you of all people?! It’s none of yer fookin’ business what I do or ‘oo I’m with!”

“Don’t have a haemorrhage, Zin. I’m just makin’ conversation.”

Zindy rubbed a space in the steamed-up window with the cuff her jacket, and looked out, then gazed anxiously at the grease-smeared Coca Cola clock behind the counter. “What’s keepin’ that bloody truck?” she muttered.

Raspo looked at his watch, “Yeah, I should be gettin’ back, meself. She’ll be wonderin’ what I’m at.” She croaked a mirthless cackle and made the whip-crack sound. He shrugged and got serious again, “Um, there is somethin’ else, as a matter of fact: my bike. I’d like to get it back.”

“Oh, NOW it makes sense,” she chided in a sing-song sneer, “NOW we’re gettin’ down to the nitty-gritty, yes indeedy-do -- your precious wheels! Yer beloved bike! I wondered when that would come up!”

An eyebrow was raised. “It’s still there, isn't it? Hasn't been damaged at all?”

“I might wanna cut your eyes out with your own blade, but I’d never take my anger out on an innocent hog,” she said, “it was impounded after Barry stole it, but I got it back a year ago, reasonably unscratched. Yer lucky he didn’t wreck it like he wrecked everythin' else. Between the two of yez, you’ve fooked-me-over good-‘n-proper.”

Raspo sighed with relief, “I knew you wouldn't neglect her. Good job too, cuz I’m gonna sell ‘er and move to America. I’ve got contacts there and they’re gonna set me up in business. I just need a wee lump sum to get me there and the bike is my only asset. I hope to get at least a couple of grand for it. That’s why we’re decorating. We wanna sell the flat ‘n get over there ASAP.”

She snorted, “You've got a conviction for dealing drugs and violence – you’ll never get a visa...” He put a finger to his lips to and told her to pipe down. She leaned closer and hissed in an angry whisper, “There’s no way you they’ll let you in, soft-lad,” then she thought twice, slapped her forehead with the heel of her palm, “Of course, silly me- you won’t be usin’ the ‘proper channels’, will ya?!”

He looked at his finger nails and conceded, “The main thing is it’ll put an ocean between me ‘n my enemies.”

“That’s another thing – aren’t you takin’ a big risk hangin’ round these parts? What if somebody round ‘ere recognises ya?! No skin of my nose, la, but aren’t you askin’ for trouble?”

“Well, you didn’t recognise me, did ya?! I walked past you three times in the store and you were none-the-wiser.” He shrugged, “Somerville told me it’d be in me best interests to leave the country ‘n I agreed.”

In perfect synchronisation, they lifted their mugs, drank deeply and stared at each other for a moment. He smirked. She scowled. She was the first to break the silence: “How long have you been out?”

“Six weeks today.”

“And you found a new girlfriend in six weeks?”

He smiled, “She’s the daughter of an auld lag who died inside. Our eyes met across a crowded visitors’ room, and when her da passed away, we arranged to meet up when I got out. She’s a divorcée... sweet, easy goin’ girl, and she’s keen to make a new start.”

“With you?” she cried, greeting the information with some hilarity, “She doesn’t know what she’s lettin’ herself in for!”

“So, about my bike...?”

Zindy sniffed, put her nose in the air and spoke offhandedly, “I don’t want you comin’ near the inn. I’ll have it transported.”

He smiled, “Why? Is Mr Ghostbuster the jealous type?”

“Don’t even try to be funny about Malky. He’s got somethin’ you’ll never have: dignity. No, I’ll have it transported.”

Raspo started humming the riff from Ghostbusters.

She put her cup to her lips, took a sip and stated, plainly, “I don’t trust ya as far as I could spit ya, Robert. I couldn't care less about your ‘new life’, but if you ‘arm one ‘air on Malcolm Calvert’s ‘ead I will find you and I will cut yer eyes out. And you know I mean it.”

...

At that moment, in a private room in Harrisburg Hospital, PA: “Hello, Gilray residence...?” said a familiar, slightly anxious female voice.

Emil’s jaw dropped – he almost dropped the phone! Just my f**king luck! Well, she lives there -- what’d you expect?

“Hello? Is there someone there,” she asked, excitedly, “Uncle Paddy? Is that you?!”

Pretend you don’t know who you’re talking to! He cleared his throat and said in an officious, disinterested voice, “May I speak to Dr Gilray, please?”

“Erm... who is this?”

F**k it. “Um... this is Dr Labatt...?”

“Emil?!”

The second she said his name his heart leapt up into his throat and all attempts at pretence fell away, “Niamh? I’m very sorry. I didn’t recognise your voice -- how are you?!”

“Emil you sound awful – is there anything wrong...?”

“Er... uh-huh... I was in an accident... nothing to fret about – I’ll live, but I’m gonna be in hospital for a while.”

“Oh my God, Emil! Accident?! Hospital?! What the f**k happened?! Are you OK...?”

Although the voice was shrill, it was music to his ears. She was pacing, he could hear the clunk of her heels on the kitchen tiles. He closed his eyes and remembered the afternoon delight in Paddy’s bed, and despite the devastating effect on everyone involved, he didn’t regret it. And now she’s worrying about him, picturing him in plaster, upset that he might be in pain; that beautiful brow vexed with consternation, those beautiful green eyes wide with concern. To pile on the woe, he supplied a detailed summary of the accident and his injuries -- without mentioning blackouts or the voices in his head -- in a weak, gravelly voice. She listened intently and and oh-ed and ah-ed in the right places; every expression of dismay went straight to his groin.

Then her voice as it dropped an octave and became deadly serious, “Listen Emil, I haven’t seen Paddy since yesterday. No one has. I arrived back from Stockholm two days ago and I only saw him for 5 minutes, and 4 of those were spent arguing -- totally unlike him. And get this, the house is a mess -- you know how organised he is, hates the slightest speck of dust! I confronted him about it and he stormed out in a big huff and I haven’t seen him since! I heard a minicab beeping outside around 7 this morning, and I looked out and saw him get in. He wasn't wearing his jacket and he didn’t have his briefcase with him, I just hope he’s OK.”

The news was alarming, but he now he knew his theory was true, it had something to do with the dig 2 years before. “I think I have an idea what’s going on, but I have to ask you, Ni -- health-wise, are you feeling OK?”

“Yeah, why?”

“... Um... have you been ill since that dig in Kildare, y’know, when the mummy’s were exhumed...?”

“What? No...? Why?”

“It’s just that ever since I got back from Ireland -– ever since the dig -- I’ve been having these dizzy-spells. Then I had a strange blackout, like an out-of-body experience, y’know? That’s what caused the accident, I couldn't control myself, it was like someone was... using me like a puppet, y’know? I know it sounds freaky, but sounds like Paddy’s suffering the same symptoms...”

...

10:44AM, Odin’s Inn, Brodir, Co. Wicklow: As the Rolls taxied down the seafront, it didn’t take him long to notice that Brodir wasn't the town they left behind the day before. No cats on the parapet of the old burned-out cinema, no rats stirring in the empty lots, not even a seagull screaming in the sky; the crumbling masonry and general decrepitude of the strand was devoid of Spirit, the atmosphere as hollow as Laphen’s estate or Bogmire village-square. Sickly green and constantly coughing, Malky refused Herbie’s offer of a lift to the local hospital, took his bag and struggled up the steps unassisted where he stood at the front door and waved goodbye, “Very nice to’ve met you, Mr Gorringe, I’ll never forget... euuuurrrrrrgh!” and threw up down the side of the steps. Herbie got out and asked if he should wait with him until Zindy got back. Still retching, Malky waved him away, “No, go, go on Herbie... everything’ll be alright once I sleep this off...” Unconvinced, the chauffeur nevertheless thanked him again and said goodbye. On his way back across the concourse, he stopped, stooped and whispered to Broo (who was dragging his feet with good reason), "You an’ ‘is missus best keep an eye on ‘im, boy. ‘E ‘really should be in ‘ospital.” He patted the old dog’s head (again, no trace of anything adverse: the chauffeur appeared to be unaffected), and kept his eyes on Malky as he performed a u-turn around the little dilapidated bandstand at the end of the strand, stealing a rueful backward-glance at the old dog and shaking his head. As he disappeared from view, Malky staggered headlong into bar and flopped belly-first onto one of the barstools, where he hung, arms limp, hands dangling flaccidly, “I’m dying, Broo...” he squeaked.

Broo observed from the doorway, sympathetic, but unable to provide words of sympathy or even a comforting lick. Malky was a total no-go area now, and there was no way he was getting within 20 feet of him. The afflicted man lifted himself off the stool and staggered over to the jukebox gasping for air like he was climbing a steep hill against a gale. He looked at the old dog in the doorway and asked, breathlessly, “What’s happenin’ to me, Broo? I never felt like this before... Am I sick or is it somethin’... else? Any word from, y’know... beyond the grave...?”

Now their psychic link was broken, Broo could only stare back and whimper and yip to indicate that he was sorry, sad, frustrated and stumped; he turned, clambered back down the steps, sat in the middle of the cobbled concourse and howled, Help! Help! SOS! SOS!

...

10 minutes ago, outside the attic room of the Blackthorn boarding house in Enniskerry, Co Wicklow: Raspo furtively climbed the flight of stairs to the attic flat and paused at the door. He took the hunting knife from his boot, quietly unlocked the door, opened it a crack and peeked in; he’d angled the shaving-mirror above the wash-hand-basin so that it reflected the rest of the room; of particular interest was the area behind the door. Nobody there. He put the knife back in his boot, entered, took off his jacket and draped it over the back of the chair. He peeled off the polo-neck and threw it into the corner, then stood in the middle of the room and flexed his muscles. He put his arms in the air, stretched down and touched his toes, followed by a series of squat-thrusts and sit-ups to excise all the pent-up tension accrued from the little ‘reunion’. When he was finished, he washed himself down with a hand-towel and winked at his own reflection in the circular shaving mirror, “Max Cady -- eat yer heart out!” he said, rippling his pecs so that the huge tiger-head tattoo on his torso looked like it was snarling.

He was in a good mood. Phase 1 of his little scam had gone better than expected. She was angry and bitter -- she’d bristled when she heard that he had another woman. Naturally, that was a downright lie. He looked around at his cramped abode, no woman would live in a kip like this, he thought, as he watched a single drop of rain drip down from the skylight window and spatter on the bare mattress of the unmade bed. There was a fair-sized damp patch that made it look like he’d pissed himself the night before. F**kin’ shithole. He kicked the bedstead in fury, inadvertently banging his head on the sloping ceiling -- he was always banging his head on that f**king sloping ceiling! After the 3rd or 4th time he started punching holes in the plaster to vent his frustration. In fact, it was probably those angry blows that caused the crack in the frame of the skylight in the first place. But no punching the walls or kicking the furniture today. Oh no. Today nothing could jigger his joie de vivre and he decided to roll a celebration spliff to celebrate. Just as he took the box from under his bed, he heard a telltale creak on the second-last stair leading up to the flat. Even though he had a good idea who it was, he never took any chances. He lifted the baseball bat from beside the wardrobe and stood behind the door. There was a gentle rap, “Who is it?” he said.

“Felix. It’s OK, I’m alone,” said a little voice.

Raspo unlatched the door, walked back, leaned on the dresser and lit-up a Marlie. He looked his ‘business partner’ up-and-down  “Well?” he asked, with a disgusted sneer,

Felix, a medium sized, balding, nondescript little man in his early forties wearing well-pressed green overalls, edged into the room. He was the bearer of bad tidings and wasn't sure how Raspo would take it, “Raspo, now, don’t get upset, it’s got nuthin’ to do with me...”

“C’mon, c’mon, just give it to me,” said Raspo, keeping his cool.

Bracing himself for the worst, Felix continued, “... The boyos in the North said it’ll be Thursday this week. The boat carryin’ the goods got seized 40 miles off Rockall and they’re havin’ to make ‘alternative arrangements’...”

“Thursday?  Shite, no stock for 3 days...” said Raspo, shaking his head. “Where’s the takin’s from last week?”

Felix took a bulging white envelope from his pocket -- Raspo snatched it away, tore it open and started counting, “This better be all present and correct, nobhead...” he grumbled, “oh aye, by-the-way, I hadda put petrol in that shitty van o’ yours so I’m takin’ 20 notes outta your cut...”

Felix wasn't bothered. He wasn't in it for the money, he was in it for Raspo. And, heartened by the lightness in His Master’s tone, he felt bold enough to enquire after his day, “... So... I take it everything went according to plan...?”

Raspo stopped counting and shot his quivering confederate a dirty look, “Not that it’s any of your business, f**kface, but yes, the opening act in my little scheme did indeed proceed without a hitch.”

Felix sighed, leant against the cooker in the kitchenette and relaxed; oh, life is so great when he’s in a good mood. Sure-enough, the good cheer extended to a comprehensive account, “she’s creature of habit and sure enough, like every Monday, she was at the market, so I followed her to this big DIY store outside Arklow,” he bragged, chuckling maniacally, “I didn’t even need to nobble the motor, her carburettor was knackered already. And even if I do say so myself, I played her perfectly. Not too keen, not too blasé – the odd one liner here ‘n’ there to show her I’m still a sparkling wit...” He looked up and snarled, “And by-the-way -- the inside of yer van stinks to high heaven – it smells like you had a dead body in there -- so thank God I didn’t have to give her a lift home.” He sneered in a mocking whine, “Is that the van you used to patrol the primary schools and public parks, is it, Felix? Is it your ‘passion wagon’, huh?”

Felix looked at the floor and murmured, shamefully, “No, the garda impounded that van. And it wasn't a Transit. It was a Bedford Astramax. And I didn’t use it for pickin’ up kids -- I’ve never touched a kid in my life...”

Raspo sniggered, “Not for want of tryin’, eh? What about when ye got done for flashing in a playground!”

“I was not flashin’” Felix whined, “I was having a wee-wee behind a tree – I didn’t know they could see me from the top of the slide!!”

“Oh yeah?! And what about all ‘em them kiddie mags they found in yer van?!”

“One of the lodgers must've left them there!”

“Don’t even try to lie to me, f**k-face. Remember who you’re talkin’ to,” growled Raspo, screwing up his nose as if the little man emitted a foul odour, “Y’know, you are so lucky you’re useful to me or you’d be seagull fodder in a landfill.”

The two met in prison after Raspo was sent to the ‘secure wing’ for his own safety, meaning he had to co-habit with an array of rapists, perverts and paedos. Felix Costello was coming to the end of a 4 year term for transporting and importing of paedophilic pornography, and the last 7 months of that sentence were spent in a cell with Mr Robert ‘Raspo’ Canning, a muscle-bound former Hell’s Angel who liked to torture and kill men like Felix. But Raspo was a cut above the usual bearded monsters that spat on his dinner; and when Felix told him his mother owned the Blackthorn Guesthouse in Enniskerry, a final stop-over for widowers and elderly bachelors with no families on their way to the funeral parlour, Raspo was encouraged. The fact that it was 15 miles from Dublin and 30 miles from his old haunts made it the perfect place to hide out when he got out, and he and Felix became almost friendly. He even protected Felix from other hostile prisoners.

Then horror of horrors – with only days to go until his release -- Felix’s saintly mother had a stroke and died in her sleep. To keep up appearances, she never visited her delinquent son in prison but wrote regularly. She managed to keep his arrest out of the local paper and told the neighbours he was doing missionary work in Africa. She refused to acknowledge the gards who questioned her about Felix’s activities, screaming the place down that he was the unfortunate victim of circumstance and that he wouldn't hurt a fly. Naturally, her entreaties fell on deaf ears and she took to her bed with the stress of it all. Thank God she had Blackthorn’s long-term lodger Mr Paterson to look after her. He was a septuagenarian gentleman of no fixed accent, with a comb-over and a handlebar moustache that made him look like a retired RAF squadron leader. Despite his obvious dedication to his mother, Felix didn’t like him much. Too forward, always telling me what to do.

Felix’s mother was a psychic, though she never used her ‘Gift’ again once she found God. Felix was disappointed. He liked it when she did séances; he knew she was play-acting most of the time, but when he saw the pleasure it gave those little-old-ladies, he knew it was all worthwhile. He used to hide behind the curtains and do all the ‘special effects’. He became fascinated by the occult; he’d have a go on her crystal ball, but it never worked for him -– he tried three times to contact her after she died to no avail.

Mammy was a martyr to the various aches and pains incurred during a traumatic childbirth, “Would you believe I used to have an hourglass figure -- look at me now! I’m a balloon!” she’d joke, but Felix knew she was just putting on a brave face. She could tell him how great he was and how much she loved him till she was blue in the face, but he knew he was an unqualified disappointment. She’d take to her bed for weeks on end and he’d wait on her hand and foot – it was the least he could do for destroying her body. Through it all, she had nothing but praise for him. She called him her little Bunny Boy. Nonetheless, she went to the grave with a broken heart; her final memory of him was watching him being taken down to the cells in handcuffs, while one of the mothers shouted “I hope the big lads cut it off in the showers!” It’s a wonder she lasted as long as she did.

When he got the news of her passing, Felix wept in his cell for days. He collapsed at the funeral. They released him on licence a fortnight later and when he walked into the Private Rooms (as mammy called their living quarters), for the first time in 46 years and she wasn’t there to greet him, he wept all over again. Then, on top of everything else, he felt useless: Mr Paterson had been collecting the rent and taking care of the lodgers, so what use was he? He took to his bed and refused to get up. He brought the telly and the VHS into his room and watched all his Disney tapes 20 times each and re-read his entire Enid Blyton collection. He lived on Wotsits, jaffa-cakes, fig-rolls and Slimfast and wore the same clothes for days on end. He smelled like some of the lodgers whose rooms they had to fumigate when they got evicted or died.

Then pure joy. Rapture.

Raspo rang from the gaol and told him he was getting released and decided to take up Felix’s offer of a place to stay and for the first time in months, Felix got out of bed, had a bath, got his trusty cleaning wagon from the cupboard under the stairs and went to work! He took back the landlord’s duties from auld Paterson, evicted that old goat Kennedy from the attic room by typing a fake letter from the council saying it was too small for human habitation, and rolled out the red carpet for his Personal Saviour! All hail Emperor Raspo!

For Raspo it was a secluded garret and a steadfast, malleable servant who seemed to enjoy getting slapped-around; and today was no exception. He lunged and pinned Felix against the wardrobe doors -- putting an arm across his throat and slapping the wad of notes repeatedly on his grimacing face, “There’s only 430 quid here, dickwad?! Where’s the other 70?!”

With the wardrobe door booming behind him like an untempered kettledrum, Felix writhed and croaked, “Oh God, oh God, soorrreeee – I forgot to make-up the difference – take it outta my cut!!”  

Raspo stopped slapping but kept his arm where it was and gave him a lecture he’d repeated many times before, “You can’t keep doin’ this, you stupid c**t! How many times to I have to tell ya – never, ever, give a smackhead credit. They’ll bleed ye dry if yer not tough on ‘em!!”

“I don’t do the tough stuff, I take Big Marty when I go into the flats, but this guy lives in a squat on Carville Road, y’know, in the up-market bit, the ones I usually do on me own. But this boyo...” Felix pulled a sour face, “Ugggh! I couldn’t stick it in there. It stinks to high heaven, you’ve never smelt anythin’ like it -- there was a big curly turd in the corner and he doesn’t have a dog! I told him I’d be back tomorrow and ran straight out and vomited in an auld twin-tub somebody’d dumped in the front garden! I’ll take Big Marty and get it off ‘im!”

Raspo tensed his forearm and increased the pressure on Felix’s throat, “If you’re gonna front my little enterprise then you’re gonna have to buck-up-yer-ideas, Felix. The premise is very good – you deliver posing as a caretaker-slash-handy-man-slash-TV-engineer with yer wee toolbox full of class A narcotics –- but here’s your problem -- yer too non-threatening! You needa get one of these...” Raspo took the hunting knife from his boot and put the blade against Felix’s bobbing Adam’s-apple, “This is my wee persuader. I’ve carved-up guys that owed me as little as 20 notes w’ this thing.”

There was a gurgle then Felix croaked, “Sorry, Raspo, it won’t happen again.”

“You’re f**kin’ lucky I’m in a good mood cuz if there is one thing guaranteed to get me riled it’s people owin’ me money! And then there’s this!” He grabbed Felix by the scruff of the neck and pushed him towards the bed; Felix’s face was forced down and ground into the damp patch in the mattress; then his head was yanked back so that he could look up and see the source, “Erm, I’ll have a glazier look at it in the morning...?” he said, calmly, despite the indignity.

“In the morning, huh? And what about tonight?”  said Raspo, pushing him away “Now, where will I sleep tonight... let me see now...?” he  said, stroking an invisible beard “... a spare room for instance... a room that’s sittin’ all made-up and ready...” he sat in the chair by the door and awaited the inevitable conniption.

He wasn’t disappointed: Felix grabbed the tufts of hair either side of his bald patch and did a little dance on the spot like a kid that needs to wee, “No-no-no-no-no...” then genuflected and fell at Raspo’s feet (he was overdoing it a little, but abject pathos and cartoonish behaviour were the only way he avoided out-and-out beatings when he dared to defy direct orders), “No, please, please, please, Raspo, not me mammy’s room -- take my bed!”

Raspo lifted an empty lager can from the floor and threw it at him, “Get the f**k outta here - I’d rather kip in a skip than put my bare skin anywhere near somewhere you’ve been... eeeuggh,” Raspo shuddered, “‘my bed’, the very notion!” He grabbed Felix by the nape of the neck and growled in his ear, “I’m not feelin’ The Love, Costello. You said my wish would be your command.”

“But Raspo, you know how particular I am about my mother,” Felix implored him, “I’ve got it exactly as it was when she passed -- I even lacquered the pillows ‘n the quilt to save me washing them...”

Raspo pushed him away, “Lacquered bedsheets! Christ on a bike! You are sick! You ARE Norman f**ing Bates!”

“The settee in the living room!” Felix cried excitedly, in a moment of inspiration, “it’s very comfortable -– you’ve seen it -- it’s 8 foot long - big cushions, quilted leather -- and you’d have the radiogram -- the colour-telly -- and the video!”

“And what if somebody comes lookin’ for me?!” he tightened his grip on Felix’s neck.

“They can’t see through the net curtains!”

Raspo released his grip and considered the proposal, “Hmmm. Better than a dead woman’s lacquered duvet, I s’pose...”

“We can have dinner together! I’m making Pasta Primavera with chicken in a lemon sauce tonight... well, if you’re agreeable, like...?”

Raspo didn’t say no. After thinking it over he murmured, “Hmmm, sounds alright, sure enough...”

Felix grinned and chirruped, “See you at 8!”

“F**k-off, Felix.”

He departed the room walking on air, overjoyed that his suggestion had been approved and he’d have Raspo to fuss over for the next few days. He skipped down the four flights of stairs singing One Day My Prince Will Come. When he reached the bottom, Mr Paterson, the long-term lodger and mammy’s constant companion, was coming in the front door. Felix stopped singing and smiling.

“Good afternoon, Felix. Up visiting your new friend?” asked Mr Paterson, with more than a hint of sarcasm. Felix screwed up his nose and chimed like a little girl, “He’s my cousin, not that it’s any of your business!”

“Felix, I knew your mother 40-odd years and I never once heard her mention a relative called ‘Brian’.” Mr Paterson shook his head, “and I’m sure she would've mentioned a big brute like that.”

Exasperated, Felix crossed his arms, cocked a hip and tapped his foot, “Listen -- I don’t have to explain myself to you Paterson, I’m landlord here now, and can I rent to whoever I like!”

“He’s an ex-con, isn't he, it’s written all over that big ugly mug o’ his – I’ll bet you met ‘im on the inside,” said Mr Paterson looking upstairs. “And what have you been doin’ in the evenings, anyway?” he asked, suspiciously, “You didn’t get in until 4 on Sunday morning!”

Felix put a hand on his chest and recoiled in horror, “Have you been... spying on me? How dare you?!”

Paterson explained in a kinder voice, “As she lay on her death bed, yer mammy told me to look after you and she said...”

Sacrilege! “Don’t tell me what my mother said! I’ve only got your word for that! And anyway, I don’t need looking after by some wretched auld codger who collects model aeroplanes and goes dancing down the nursing home!”

Mr Paterson shook his head. He’d heard it all before. Felix watched him laboriously climb the stairs and muttered about nosy auld bastards. He shuffled through the mail on the hall table and found a handwritten letter addressed to his mother. He took it to the living room; the cats, sitting either end of the settee, watched him enter but didn’t stir. “Looky, looky, me loves -– mammy got a letter!” he went to the mantelpiece and got the silver letter-opener, opened it with a flourish, extracted the missive, ceremoniously shook it out, and read aloud:

“’Dear Miss Costello,

‘I am writing to invite you to an emergency meeting of the Real Irish Psychics at the home of Mrs Verity Murphy, Rottingdean Cottage, Addanstown, Co. Meath. Please attend if you can this is a matter of the greatest urgency, Ms Carmel McCool is attending and has urgent news...’”

Felix stopped reading and put a hand to his chest, “Mizz Carmel McCool?!” he gasped. The cats watched with some alarm as the man who fed and watered them pranced around the room like a caffeinated 5 year old on Christmas morning, “You know what this means don’t yez? Eh? EH?!”

The cats remained supremely impassive.

“Well, she’s a bona fide psychic like me mammy -- she’ll put me in touch with her Spirit!” he said, punching the air in triumph. As he put the silver letter-opener back on the mantelpiece, he told his mother’s urn, “Even when you were bible-thumpin’ you never questioned Mizz McCool’s psychic abilities, did ya mammy? Now I can tell you how sorry I am!”

Meanwhile upstairs: Raspo went to the little b/w portable TV sitting atop the battered tallboy and flipped the on-switch; he turned the mattress over and sprawled out to smoke the spliff; as he blew the first lungful into the air, the screen brightened to reveal a female reporter clutching a huge microphone, sheltering from the downpour under a white golf-umbrella as the anchorman chatted to her from the studio:  

REPORTER: “...his niece, Niamh Fitzgerald, who is staying at Dr Gilray’s home, reported him missing earlier today. Over the next few hours it became clear that this was no ordinary disappearance – apparently he stole a car and sped off in a hurry -- bizarre in the extreme!”

ANCHORMAN: “Yes, I must say I’ve interviewed him on a few occasions and found him to be very personable, respectable man. This is totally out of character.

REPORTER: “A witness said she saw him ‘peeking into parked cars’. When the owner returned and reported the car missing, the gards took the eyewitness’ description that they realised the thief was Dr Gilray.”

ANCHORMAN: “And apart from having led many high-profile murder cases in recent years - namely the Disappeared of Donegal case in 1985 – most people will know him as the man who discovered those mummies in a peat-bog in South Kildare a couple of years ago...”

Raspo changed channels, “Oh, f**k off. I wanna see somethin’ to lift me spirits...” The picture eventually settled and a familiar, dimpled grin flickered on the screen.

“Ahh -- wouldja look-at-that -- Ollie Laffin! The Quare Geg himself! That’ll do!” He sat back and took a deep pull on the spliff. 10 minutes later he was in kinks...

...

Odin’s Inn, Brodir: A few minutes after Herbie drove off, Zindy arrived in a tow-truck pulling the lifeless carcass of the old van. As soon as she saw the state of Malky she became Nurse Lindsay and fussed over him like a clucking hen. Broo stood well back and watched her minister to her patient, making no attempt to indicate how bad things were; in any case, she was avoiding his eyes for some reason. She put Malky to bed, unloaded the van then went about the painting and decorating without coming into the parlour to see how Broo was. In fact, she was strangely reserved. No radio, no singing to herself. That was odd. But then again, everything is odd now: why should she be any different? Could it be a side-effect of the infection? Maybe she’ll get it too! And the baby... What about the baby?!

As the clock struck midnight, Broo sat to attention on the velveteen banquette by the front door, watching the old seawall through the little side-window, waiting to see if any of the the little Drowners would appear and explain what was going on. It was a blustery night, the eaves whistled tunelessly with each gust of the cold northern wind; gobs of sea-spray splattered the windows, the lighthouse beam swung back-and-forth, intermittently illuminating the bar through the brine-strewn glass; all-in-all, it was a typical night in Brodir, but no sign of life or death: still no gulls in the sky, no rats in the abandoned units, and no ghosts in the ghost town. Worst of all, the inn’s resident spectre was absent.

He had no one to talk to and no one to guide him, and for the first time since coming to Odin’s Inn, Broo yearned to see the Ghost of Sammy O'Donnell...

...

08:53 EST, Harrisburg General Hospital: Emil managed to tune his radio to an Irish station broadcasting traditional Irish music 24/7 with news summaries from Dublin on-the-hour-every-hour, albeit 5 hours ahead of EST. According to the bulletin, the garda were still looking for the missing forensic scientist, Dr Patrick Gilray; there was an appeal for witnesses, but apart from that there had been no further developments. Whatever happened, whatever the circumstances, Paddy was his best friend and he was genuinely concerned.

They met when he was still seeing Paddy’s sister, Mairead, whom he met when she, like him, travelled all the way to San Francisco in ’67 with flowers in her hair to see what all the fuss about and got to know each other when they enjoyed some Free Love amongst the junkie dropouts at Haight-Ashbury. When Mairead introduced him to her brother Paddy, they hit it off immediately and their friendship outlasted the couple’s brief love affair. Paddy was a jolly, dapper, old-before-his-time confirmed bachelor who loved antique sports cars and Gershwin; Emil was an out-and-out hippy who loved women and avant-garde jazz; to the casual observer the men were polar opposites, but they bonded over a fascination for European pagan civilisation, the Celts in particular, and would talk till the early hours about everything from Golden Age comics to Iron Age cutlery. It was no surprise to learn that they were both studying pathology -- a career path that would result in them becoming respected forensic scientists in their chosen fields -- it was as if their companionship was meant to be. When it was time for Emil to return to Canada and resume his studies, they agreed to meet every summer and embark on archaeological digs in the Irish countryside; it became as traditional as Christmas, and it went on for 22 years... until the summer of ‘89.

Niamh was Mairead’s daughter from her affair with Enda Fitzgerald, the Irish poet, whom she shacked-up with 6 months after she and Emil split. Fitzgerald died from a heroin overdose a week after Niamh’s first birthday. A few years later, Mairead married an international civil rights lawyer and moved to Stockholm. Ni was sent to an English boarding school, and when she moved to Dublin to study Criminal Psychology at Trinity, she stayed with her beloved Uncle Paddy, an arrangement that suited them both perfectly. She was intelligent and funny and shared his interest in archaeology. She’d joined them for the annual dig every year from the age of 12, but to Emil, she was just another kid. She’d sit and read a book all the way through dinner and spent most of her time in her room. And then she suddenly grew up and -- BOOM! “A 19 year-old hottie with a drop-dead-body!” He couldn't believe his eyes -- a blonde bombshell, no less! Then, miracles of miracles -- she told him she’d always fancied him and offered use of said body for a spot of afternoon delight with no strings attached! He couldn't say no! It was 22 minutes of blissful madness, but it cost him his best friend and now his marriage. After 2 years of semi-estrangement, Fran finally made the break.

She never came back to the hospital. She went back to Toronto the next morning. The crash had brought everything to a head, she said. She rang and told him she was seeing a divorce lawyer and was desperately sorry about springing this on him in his current state, but couldn't hold off a moment longer: this had to be done before he talked her out of it. His lover, his wife, his soulmate had finally wised-up and left him high-‘n’-dry without a Soul in the world.

He heard the musical intro to the news and turned up the radio, “... detectives investigating the disappearance of Dr Patrick Gilray are still searching the residence. The detective in charge, DS Somerville -- who is also a close personal friend of Dr Gilray -- has appealed to the general public to report any sightings...”  

He didn’t hear the rest; he was distracted by Rowena, the big black nurse knocking the door, “Some police here to see ya, Dr Emil. You OK with that?”

“What do they want now?” he grumbled.

“All’s I know is he’s police. Now d’ya wanna see ‘im or not?” He sighed loudly and nodded. She ushered in a stylishly dressed American-Italian detective carrying a clipboard and a black-PVC sack emblazoned with the initials HBPD in bold white print. He was a good-looking guy, with a thick head of shiny black hair sculpted into a centre-parting. He smelled of spearmint and expensive cologne: Emil took an instant dislike to him and didn’t reciprocate when he offered his hand; the rebuff didn’t dint the man’s élan one iota, he unbuttoned his jacket and helped himself to the chair by the bed. “I’d say it must be hell lyin’ in here day-after-day, Dr Labatt,” he said, in a cheery voice, “I broke a leg skiing in Alberta in ‘83 and I was only outta action for 3 weeks but it drove me crazy!”

“What do you want?” Emil asked, dryly.

The young cop wasn’t fazed and politely explained, “OK, Dr Labatt, I’ll cut to the chase. I’m Detective Marty Esposito of Harrisburg PD -- I’m here to clarify a few details about the crash and give you the personal effects that survived the fire,” he held up the black bag.

Emil was his usual sarcastic self, “Do I need to call my lawyer? Cuz he’s busy handling my divorce.”

Esposito smiled a patient smile, “No, I’m not gonna charge you --”

“-- yet?”

“-- I just wanna hear your side before we --”

“-- decide whether or not to charge me?”

“ -- proceed.” Esposito, only mildly irritated, sat forward and got more assertive; he looked Emil in his good eye and said, plainly, “Dr Labatt, I find your attitude somewhat uncivil in view of the fact that you could've killed a lot of people. Because of your actions a young fireman lost his face! Now I think those people are entitled to know what happened. Don’t you?”

Emil just stared.

“Thank you.” Esposito consulted his notes and informed him, “Well, I’m pleased to tell you that your tox-screen turned up a negative result, no alcohol no drugs...”

“You mean I wasn't high?” Emil chimed sarcastically, “I was sure I had a kilo of coke and a bottle of vodka in the glove box -– thank god there was a fire!”

“As a matter of fact we did look in the glove box -- and no, we didn’t find any narcotics or liquor -- but we did find this.” Esposito reached into the plastic bag and produced an evidence bag with something heavy inside. “Why do you keep a claw hammer in your glove box, Dr Labatt...?”

A week later: Odin’s Inn, Brodir, Co. Wicklow: After three days of tossing and turning, dry retching, and a severe dose of the shits, Malky’s fever broke and he arose bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. It was a complete transformation. He was chatty, full of energy, helping with the decorating and whistling while he worked. Broo, though pleased by his recovery, knew things weren’t back to normal. The aura was still there; in fact, it was stronger than ever, Broo had to stay in the parlour out of harm’s way. Whatever was happening, it didn’t seem to affect Zindy or the baby. She was more agreeable than usual, no friendly banter, no teasing, just attentive and kind. She didn’t even pretend to be annoyed when Malky told her he’d had torn up Laphen’s cheque and threw it back in his face. He didn’t notice she was being atypically polite and pleasant. She didn’t seem to notice that he wasn't himself, if she did, she didn’t let on.

The thing was, Malky was so upbeat and energetic he couldn't sleep and took long walks every evening after dinner to wear himself out. He never took Broo, though. Ever since they got back from the Laphen house they’d been avoiding each other, and for the time being, that seemed to suit them both fine. But as the week wore on he began staying out past midnight. Broo followed him, keeping his distance (40 yards to be exact). He had been shadowing his errant partner for a week now: Every day at dusk, when the summer sun was just an orange glow on the horizon, it was the same routine: something clicked in Malky’s head and he left the inn and wandered aimlessly for miles. Broo followed him as he walked the empty streets and explored all the derelict buildings; he visited the disused units along the seafront and the abandoned cottages where the leathermen used to squat; along the way he’d pick up pieces of litter and examine them as if they were relics of a bygone age, paying special attention to pieces of newspaper and the print on food wrappers. He walked to an abandoned house on the edge of town and stood in front of an old mirror for 2 solid hours. It was exhausting and baffling.

Zindy was usually fast-asleep by the time he got back. When she asked him where he’d been, his reply was vague, “Just round-and-about...” he’d say, as if he didn’t know but didn’t want to admit it. One morning she awoke and found herself alone; his clothes were over the back of the chair, so he was definitely in the building. She checked the guestrooms and both bathrooms and eventually found him downstairs in the bar, perched on a stool in his underwear, gazing blankly into space. When she tapped his shoulder, it was like rousing a sleepwalker: he was scared at first, then confused and embarrassed. Weird, she thought, unaware that the worst was yet to come.

On Saturday evening, while Malky fried the steak for dinner, Zindy sat at the kitchen table chopping onions and slicing mushrooms, talking about her ideal kitchen, “I’m gonna have a big range – and a big dishwasher -– one of ‘em that can take the dishes from an entire dinner party in one load.”

“Sounds wonderful!” said Malky, flipping the meat.

She stopped chopping and chuckled, “Are you takin’ the piss, Malcolm Calvert?”

Malky turned, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, spluttered, “What? No. I mean... What did you say?”

She could tell by the vacant look on his face that she’d interrupted another daydream; the ‘wonderful’ was an unconscious, atypical response, the latest in a long line of uncharacteristic quirks and tics that made her uneasy. She resumed chopping and kept an eye on him. What is the matter with him? Does he know about the Raspo situation? Nah, he was on his way back from Kildare, there’s no way he could know... is there?

The phone rang in the hall and broke her concentration. She scraped the onion rings into the skillet, kissed Malky’s cheek and went out to the hall to answer the call.

“Odin’s Inn, Brodir...”

“It’s me.”

Shit! “You couldn't have called at a worse time!!”

“It’s been over a week!”

“Waitaminnit!” She went to the kitchen door, made sure Malky was still at the cooker then quietly closed it; she jooked in the parlour to make sure that Broo was watching telly, then covered the mouthpiece and whispered, “Whaddya want?!”

“Me bike! That’s what I want!”

“I’ve been very busy painting ‘n’ decorating an’ I ‘aven’t ‘ad time to do owt about it.”

“Well, I can’t wait any longer! I don’t care who’s there, I’m comin’ to get it!”

The whisper became a dissonant hiss, “I told you –- no way are you to come within a mile ‘o this place. I’ll make the arrangements, OK?! Leave it with me.”

“Has something happened to it? It is there, ain't it?”

“It’s out-back and it’s perfectly fine! It’s packed in polythene under a tarpaulin in the big shed!”

“C’mon Zin, lemme come and get me bleedin’ bike back! I’ve got a buyer and he ain't gonna hang around while you fanny-about!”

Zindy was in a pickle. In truth, there wasn't anybody she could ask to take it to him. Her mates had all deserted her, the mechanics at the local garage had fallen out with her when she told them how to do their jobs, and having it transported was bound to cost her dough they didn’t have...

“Here’s an idea – tell me when you’re goin’ out and leave backdoors open? Huh?”

“Outta the question! I ain’t ‘avin’ you comin’ round ‘ere unsupervised! I’m still not 100% sure this ain’t some kinda trick.”

“Don’t be silly. I can come down tomorrow morning if that suits.”

“No. I don’t want you comin’ when Malky is here.”

“OK, tell me when he goes out and we’ll do it then! It’ll only take 5 minutes.”

Zindy chewed the inside of her cheek and struggled in vain to find an alternative. Finally, she conceded defeat, “OK, he’s got ‘ospital appointment on Friday mornin’. Be here no sooner than 11:15. I’ll lock-up the inn, but I’ll leave the backdoors open. In-‘n-out mind. I don’t want you ‘ere when we get back.”

“Thank you. Much obliged.”

“Any funny business and I call the cops.”

Click.

 Click.

“That sounded as if it went well,” said Felix, with a hopeful smile.

Raspo blew a plume of smoke into the air, “Oh yes indeedy-do!” he chuckled contentedly, “the fish is on the hook, I just haveta reel-her-in and smash ‘er head on the deck.”

They were in the living-room, sitting opposite each other in high-backed leather armchairs in front of a roaring fire; it’s like a gentlemen’s club! Felix got the chance to show that he was an intelligent man of discerning taste, not just a lowly gofer. He lit the scented-candles on the mantelpiece and dimmed the lamps. He made Earl Grey tea and got out his best biccies. He groomed the cats so their fur was fluffy and tactile. Raspo was quite well-disposed towards Mr Minx and Mrs Jinx – but invariably referred to them as ‘Blofeld Cats’ (from a James Bond film, apparently, although Felix had never seen a Bond film; he preferred cartoons). At that particular moment, Felix was petting Mrs Jinx on his lap with a big stupid smile on his face; Raspo, stroking Mr Minx with one hand, spliff in the other, grinned like the cat that got the cream.

“So-oo... that Calvert guy is goin’ out, is he? That’ll make things a helluva lot easier,” said Felix, brightly.

Raspo went on stroking the cat and answered in a strange foreign accent, “Indeed, but it also poses a problem, Mr Bond...”

“How?”

Raspo continued in his normal voice, “... like, what if Calvert should arrive back early and catch us in the act? Nah, I’d feel more comfortable if I wuz tooled up.”

“He’s not gonna put up much of a fight, is he?” Felix tittered, “He’s got a heart condition -- I’ve seen ‘im, he doesn’t look very threatening.”

“He’s ex-RUC, dickhead -– he’s likely to have a gun for personal security.” Raspo thumbed the cat’s ear and thought it over again. “Aye, somethin’ small -- a .22 should do it. You’re gonna have to go and see Günter and make the necessary arrangements...” He thought for a moment then retracted, “no – don’t – get Big Marty on it -– if it gets out that you’re lookin’ fer a gun somebody might put 2+2 together and get me.”

“What about the dog?”

Raspo dismissed the question out-of-hand, “If it causes me any trouble, I’ll slit its bleedin’ throat. I’d enjoy doin’ it, too... three legged freak...”

With that, Mr Minx jumped off Raspo’s lap and ran into the kitchen. Mrs Jinx soon followed. It was as if they sensed things were about to get ugly.

But Felix couldn’t resist, “So... do you believe the dog might have special powers...?”

“No I feckin’ don’t! Do you?” grumbled Raspo, irritated by the question.

Felix chose his words very carefully, “See, I believe some animals, especially cats, have a direct-line to the Spirit World. They become what witches call a Familiar... erm... they see things we can’t...?” Felix stopped midsentence to make sure his guest wasn't about to punch him.

But Raspo didn’t heckle or threaten violence, in fact he took a sip of his drink, stared into the fire, nodding as if something had just occurred to him, “There was this one time the lads went to stay with a mate in Scotland who had this big ginger tom. When Barry McKee arrived the next day -- the cat took one look at ‘im ‘n bolted. Apparently he didn’t come back until we’d gone. Creepy, sure enough...”

Oh this is more like it! Felix was utterly rapt, and in the spirit of the occasion chanced to express a deeply-held and potentially controversial personal opinion, “That ties into the theory that he was pos --!”

Raspo raised an eyebrow.

Uh oh... Felix backpedalled furiously, “Well... what I mean is, y’know, there’s eejits who believe he was possessed by.... a demon...?”

Raspo might’ve been stoned and slightly pissed, but he couldn’t countenance such drivel, “Whataloadashite,” he raged, “The man was sick in the head, he wasn't ‘possessed’!”

“I’m only tellin’ you what they say,” said Felix, talking quickly, trying desperately to justify his opinion, “like there’s this guy I know who’s an outpatient at SCICI and he told me that one of the warders told him that every time McKee blinks the lights flash and the TV in the rec room --”

That’s as far as he got. Raspo reached across and slapped him lightly on the cheek, “I warned you about this,” he said, waving his finger in Felix’s face, “I told you I’d batter ye senseless if I heard ye mention any ‘o that auld demonic bollox!” He pointed at the bookcase against the opposite wall, “I know you’re into all that shite –- I’ve seen the books you read!”

Felix wanted to explain his fascination for the macabre, but it would only make things worse, so he kept his mouth shut and let Raspo rant without interruption; he had an important assignation tonight and he didn’t want to arrive on crutches...

...

30 minutes ago, at Odin’s Inn: Zindy opened the kitchen door and peeked in. Malky was still at the hob, tending the skillet; “Who was it?” he asked, innocently, without looking.

“It was somebody for me... erm... an old friend...” she said, sitting down at the table.

Her procrastination intrigued Malky, “Everything’s alright, isn’t it?”

She went to him and took his arm, “Yeah... look, luv, c’mere and sit down fer a minnit, willya...”

Malky, apprehensive and concerned, did as she asked; spatula in hand, he slipped into the seat opposite and looked at her bump “It’s not the baby, is it?” he asked, very concerned.

“No, no, no, nuthin’ like that.” She looked into his eyes and said, “It’s about Robert ‘Raspo’ Canning,- my ex.”

Malky crossed his arms and scowled, “The fat Hell’s Angel dope-dealer with the purple beard and penchant for ultra-violence? Outta gaol, is he?”

“Yeah... well, ‘e’s not fat anymore, ‘n ‘e’s shaved off the beard, but yeah, ‘e’s out ‘n ‘e wants to flog ‘is bike. He’s got a new girlfriend, see, and they’re tryin’ to raise the cash to emigrate.” She’d inserted this last titbit in an effort to put his mind at rest, but it didn’t have the desired effect.

He looked in the direction of the hall and slipped into detective-mode, “I must say, that’s a lot of information for such a short conversation. You were only on for a couple of minutes.”

He’s got me; but why the hostility? Zindy thought it best to be frank and supplied a detailed, open & honest account of the ‘chance meeting’, “... and when you came home I didn’t get a chance to tell you -– you were so ill I hadda put ya to bed, ‘n when you recovered you were in such good form I didn’t wanna spoil things by bringin’ it up.”

“Why?! How would it spoil things to be open and honest?” he asked, his mood slowly darkening.

“Look he doesn’t matter anymore -- he’s irrelevant! He means nothing to me now and once ‘e gets his bike ‘e’ll fook off outta our lives forever.”

He got up and returned to the skillet without saying a word.

She called after him, “That it, then? Crisis averted?”

When he turned back, his face was virtually unrecognisable -- eyes burning, nose wrinkled with rage, he shook the spatula at her and snarled, “It’s about trust, Zindy -– you should’ve told me! That’s what responsible adults do! They don’t have secrets! I thought you were different! But you’re sly and sleekit -- just like my ex-wife!”

She was totally thrown; this was entirely out-of-character. She held up her hands in a gesture of surrender, “OK, OK, calm down, chook...”

He banged the table with his fist, “Don’t f**kin’ patronise me, chook! Just tell me what you told him!”

Zindy, finding it increasingly difficult to keep her temper under control, answered in a strained voice, “I... I told him to come and get the bike when we’re at the cardiologist’s on Friday. I was gonna leave the yard door open for ‘im...”

He sat down again, his face blank and impassive.

“Mal?”

Behind him, the unattended skillet suddenly burst into flames. He didn’t even blink. “SHIT!” Zindy jumped up, turned ran to the sink, soaked a tea-towel in cold water and threw it over the flames -- the fire disappeared in a cloud of steam and greasefire-smoke that set off the smoke alarm.

Malky still hadn’t budged.

“Don’t you fuss yerself Malky Calvert, I’ll deal with this crisis,” she yelled, as she hauled on the big oven-glove picked up the fuming skillet and deposited it in the sink.

Malky was still in a trance. The smoke alarm continued to bleep.

She fetched the mop from the corner, stood on a chair and used the pole to turn it off. “I have to say, I’m surprised at you, Mal. I never had you pegged as the jealous type.” But he stubbornly maintained his silence and stared at the table top so he didn’t have to look at her. For the first time since they met, she lost her cool and bawled, “Hey! Soft lad! Look at me!!”

Malky continued to stare at the tabletop and replied under his breath, in a dry, sombre tone, “I’m goin’ out. If I stay here I might say something I’ll regret.” With that, he slowly got up, took off his apron, threw it onto the table, took his jacket from the nail on the back of the kitchen door and walked off down the hall.

Zindy was mentally and physically drained. She sat down at the table, patted her bump and groaned through a heavy sigh, “What the hell’s gotten into your dad, babe?”

 Broo heard the phonecall. At least it explained Zindy’s unusual behaviour. When she went back to the kitchen, he listened to them argue. Her reasoning was logical. His response was not. When Malky stormed into the hall, Broo skipped into the parlour and hid behind the couch. He waited until he heard the outer door slam shut and went to the kitchen to check on Zindy. She was sitting at the table, slumped in her chair, eating a thick slice of cheddar topped with blob of chutney, “’eard everythin’, didja?” she said unemotionally, pointing at the blackened wall behind the cooker,  “he burned the dinner ‘n went off in a jealous rage. What do you reckon on that, Broo?” All he could do was lick her hand to assure her he was on her side. “You gonna follow ‘im again, are ya?” she asked, stroking his head. Broo grunted an affirmative and went to the flap in the backdoor. “Well, keep yer distance, ‘ol boy, he’s in no mood for company,”she said, in a sad voice.

This time Broo didn’t have to walk far. In a change from his usual route, Malky went along the strand and turned into the alley at the side of the old burned-out cinema. Broo waited until he was out of sight and then skipped along and peeked around the corner. He saw Malky pushing through the broken emergency-exit door to gain access; once he was safely inside, Broo carefully made his way along the alley, careful not trip on the numerous discarded beer cans and broken bottles (the leather men used to use the cinema to have parties) and lose his balance. He managed to squeeze through the doorway and make it into the dilapidated theatre without making a sound. Malky was sitting on the aisle near the back, in one of the few remaining seats, staring straight-ahead at the big black space where the screen used to be. Up until now Broo hadn’t interfered, but tonight, considering the quarrel with Zindy and this latest development, he could wait and watch no longer. He threw caution to the wind, stumbled through the charred debris and tottered up the aisle to confront his partner face-to-face, regardless of the danger.

As usual, Malky was there in body but not in mind or spirit. He was wall-eyed, slack-jawed and virtually drooling, the aura’s insidious mist drifting in and out of his mouth and nostrils with every breath he took.

Broo let out a quiet ruff to snap-him-out-of-it.

Malky suddenly burst into life - “Get away from me!” he shouted, angrily and lashed out with his foot, kicking the old dog square in his left side –winding him  and knocking him over -- he rolled down the slope of the aisle, over-and-over-and-over-and-over, until he came to rest against a fallen beam. Malky sat back and resumed his terrible meditation as if nothing had happened.

Dispirited, covered in filth and fearing for his life, Broo staggered home, hurt and humiliated, his ribs aching, his head hung low with his tail between his legs.

Zindy had obviously gone to bed. The inn was very quiet. The parlour was dark.

“Pssst!”

What was that? A hiss in the chimney...?

“Dog!”

No, it wasn't coming from the hearth -– it was coming from above the hearth. He looked up and saw the slightest glimmer in the glass of the mirror, like the glow you get from a TV screen when you turn it off in a darkened room. He hauled himself up onto the couch and put his remaining front paw on the arm, stretching up and raising his head so that it was level with the mirror; it was steamed up, but the condensation appeared to be on the inside of the glass. Then a hand cleared a void in the steam and a face appeared: the familiar, silver-bearded, toothless countenance of none-other Samuel O'Donnell -- deceased barman, John Wayne fan and spectral pain-in-the-neck! The old dog’s heart leapt -- he barked a hearty hello!

Sammy was looking around him and talking at the same time, “I can’t see you but I can hear you -– well, I hear you in my head -- y’know the score. I’m sorry but this has to be a bit quick, like, cos I’m in what they call Mirror World or Glass Land or the Void, dependin’ on who you talk to, and you can’t survive here long cos it saps yer Essence...”

Get on with it you beautiful idiot!

“OK. Here goes,” and for the next five minutes Sammy told Broo all he knew as quickly as possible. “... the plan seems to be: abandon the immediate area for a while, starve it of the auld psychic energy, and hopefully it’ll die out before it spreads.”

What about humans?

“It won’t do ‘em any harm unless they have the Gift -– it attacks the psychic energy, see, and that’s why it affects you, so you gotta...” the words became distant and unintelligible, the mirror had begun to steam up again -- the image was fading. Broo whimpered and asked him to repeat the message, but Sammy was waving frantically, his voice now inaudible. The mirror misted over until the glass was completely obscured. He climbed down and pondered on what he had heard.

It only affects Sensitives? Is Malky a Sensitive...?

21:03 GMT, in a dark country lane near Addanstown, Co. Meath: “At last! Rottingdean Cottage!” cried Felix. “Thank goodness for that!” It was almost dark, another 10 minutes and it would've been impossible to see the sign at the end of the lane. It had been a long drive and he’d made a few wrong turns, but he felt as exhilarated as when he first set-off. He parked, preened himself in the rear-view-mirror, licked his thumbs to flatten his eyebrows, and teased the mousy-hair around his bald patch to make him look lovable and vulnerable. The perfect end to a perfect day! Raspo’s plan is proceeding nicely, the tenants have paid-up on time, and now I’m going to meet a genuine psychic and talk to me mammy! He had been looking forward to this all week and nothing was going to spoil it! He grabbed the carrier bag from the passenger seat, jumped out -– put a black armband over his anorak -- ran up the meandering crazy-paved path and rang the doorbell. Mrs Murphy, a tall, short-haired, homely middle-aged woman bursting out of a lilac trouser-suit, looked him up and down with a gimlet eye, “Hmm, yes, can I help you?” she asked, in a refined, unspecific Irish accent.

“Felix Costello from Enniskerry?!” he almost shouted.

“We don’t want any today, thank you.” She closed the door. Felix rang the doorbell again; she answered again immediately, “Look, if you don’t...”

“This is Rottingdean Cottage?” he said, excitedly, and held out the invitation, “I’m Betty Costello’s son!”

The homely face dropped several inches and she almost sang an apology, “Oh – I am so awfully, dreadfully sorry! I was using an old Rolodex and I must've forgotten to remove your mother’s card -- please accept my heartfelt condolences and humble apologies, I know you must've come an awfully long way, but this is for members only, so sorry...” She began to close the door again but he blocked it with his foot and quickly explained, “As you say, I’ve come all this way, and in honour of her memory,” he pointed at the black armband, “I’d like to attend this meeting, if that’s OK with you? I’ll sit at the back and be very quiet – I’ve brought my own snacks,” he rustled the blue carrier bag, “I’ll be no bother at all!” He gave her a painstaking blow-by-blow account of his journey to numb her into submission and ended by rifling through the carrier bag and presenting her with a Nestlé Black Magic Easter egg (5 Easters’ old -- he bought it for his mammy before he was gaoled), “I know Easter’s past, but chocolate’s chocolate no matter what time of year it is, eh?!”

“Yes... most kind, thank you...” she took it and grudgingly acceded, “Well, since you’ve gone to so much trouble Mr Costello, I can’t see how I can possibly refuse...” She stood aside and he scuttled into the hall, “Has Mizz McCool started yet?” he asked, standing on tiptoe, looking over her shoulder, peeking into the lounge. Mrs Murphy looked up at the ceiling and told him a quiet voice, “She’s upstairs preparing, doing her breathing exercises -– she’s very theatrical. It irks some of our older members, but in my opinion people with The Gift are entitled to their little eccentricities, don’t you agree...?”

“I entirely agree!” replied Felix, looking up the staircase, “She’s one in a billion!” he said loudly, so she might hear. “My mother had nothin’ but praise for Mizz McCool even when she was calling yez the ‘Black Hearted Spawn of Satan’!”

With that exclamation the conversations in the lounge suddenly ceased.

To cover for this faux pas, Mrs Murphy pretended to find it hilarious and cried in reply, “YES! Some of the things people shout at us are awful!” she grabbed his arm and hustled him through the bemused throng, “Now be quiet, this isn’t exactly a social occasion,” she whispered in his ear, as she took him to a crepe-paper covered pasting-table at the back of the room laden with pastries, nibbles and beverages. “Tea or coffee?” she asked.

He turned so that the room could hear him and joked, “I must say -- I was expecting spirits!”

The crowd fell silent again, turned and glared.

Felix gulped. “Tea, please.”

As she poured she announced, “This is Felix, everyone, he’s Betty Costello’s son, and as most of you know, Betty passed a few months ago, so he’s come as her representative, and is not an R.I.P. member or possessed of a Gift – except for an Easter-egg 5 years past its sell-by-date -- so please, in the nicest possible way, just indulge him if he asks a lot of silly questions, mm?”

His reputation went before him. He saw the scowls, he heard the snarky whispers. The ones that knew were very quick to inform those who were none-the-wiser. One of the older, deafer women said, “...You mean, that’s her son? The one that went to prison?” He didn’t care. He respected those who disrespected him: it showed good judge of character.

There were around 25 people besides himself: a couple of younger girls who looked nervous, one of them constantly giggling; a few Goth girls with multiple piercings who looked fierce and foreboding; lots of old women in shawls and hats of all shapes and sizes; a few podgy, effeminate men enjoying the refreshments, talking loudly about visions and ghosts in their silly, sissy-voices. Mrs Murphy introduced him to the ‘Guest of Honour’: Mrs Sparkes, a stout, buckle-faced woman in her 70s wearing a flowery pinafore over green charlady overalls. She smelled of Pledge and ammonia.

Mrs Sparkes shook his hand weakly and looked him up and down as if he was an alien species. “Is that a west-country accent I hear?” he asked, cheerfully, even though she hadn't said anything to him yet (he’d been eavesdropping).

Mrs Murphy immediately answered for her, “No, Mrs Sparkes has come from South Kildare.”

“But I have cousins in Devon who used to visit our guesthouse every year ‘n they speak just like you!” said Felix, bemused. “If I close my eyes you could be their mother!”

This time the old woman shoved the hostess aside and spoke for herself, “’Ow dare ee! Oi’ve lived in Kildare all moy loife an’ oi’ve never been near yer ‘guest’ouse’, whatever tha is! ‘Ow dare ee infur that oi ‘ave children by any man ovver than me own ‘usband -- may God rest ‘is Soul!” Her face closed like a fist and her throat made a rattling noise.

Felix was flummoxed “I wasn't inferring anything! I was just making conversation...?”

The hostess stepped between them, “Mrs Sparkes belongs to a sheltered community that don’t often communicate with the outside world, they originate from Cornwall and have customs we might find a little odd...”

“Oh, like the Amish!” said Felix, brightly.

“NO!”Mrs Sparkes barked, turned away and resumed the conversation she was having with another hardfaced old lady before Mrs Murphy had so rudely interrupted. She clearly didn’t like the hostess or Felix one little bit.

There were three sharp bumps from the room above.

“Saved by the belle of the ball...” said Mrs Murphy under her breath, as she strode to the front of the room and flashed the lights, “Ladies... and gentleman, would you take your seats, please.”

Everyone quickly found somewhere to sit, and despite his efforts to get close, Felix was jostled and hustled along until he ended up very back behind a trio of really old ladies. The room fell silent. Once she had their undivided attention, Mrs Murphy proceeded with the short introduction: “Tonight, ladies and gentlemen, as you are well aware, is an emergency meeting, Ms McCool has a lot to say, so listen very carefully, and keep your questions till the end.”

Lots of mumbling and nervous whispers.

“Now, without further ado, please welcome our chairwoman -– Ms Carmel McCool!” With that, Mrs Murphy opened the living room door, stood back and the woman of the hour entered to enthusiastic applause. It was like a film premiere! The room flashed as the sissy boys took photographs! A girl gave her a bouquet of lilies. Felix was on his feet, clapping, whistling and cheering (much to the annoyance of the old ladies in front), as the tall, slim figure stood in the doorway.

Carmel McCool was a heavily-made-up woman in her late 60s who didn’t wear anything made after 1929. The long, dark scarlet coat and flowing turquoise chiffon dress topped with a fake mink stole sporting a jet black bob; one of the sissies whispered, “She looks just like Louise Brooks in Pandora’s Box!” She acknowledged the applause with unsmiling aplomb then signalled for quiet. She might’ve looked like a silent movie star but her voice was in a class of its own. She was from Newry in Co. Down, not that you’d know it; she had a rarefied Ulster accent, her diction crisp, clear and commanding, “Thank you for your warm reception friends, colleagues, fellow Sensitives and psychics - I’m so grateful and honoured that you’ve taken the trouble to travel from all over the Island to be here tonight,” she cradled the flowers in her arms and scooped a tiny tear from her eye, taking care not to disturb her false eyelashes or smudge her mascara. “I only wish it could be a more joyous occasion, but it couldn't be more serious. Deadly serious.”

The smiles vanished. A discomfited rumble ran through the crowd.

Felix pulled the tab on a can of Tab and sprayed the old ladies in front with a short blast of carbonated brown. The grumbling stopped as everyone turned to see what was going on; the old ladies in front turned and glared at him as they wiped their sticky napes with dainty hankies.

He grimaced and mouthed sorry.

“Ahem.”

The crowd turned back.

Mizz McCool paused for a moment to make sure they were all listening before elaborating, “I have grave tidings, my dear friends. Something that hasn’t happened for many millennia is occurring in our time -– a danger I never thought we’d face in the Modern World.”

The rumble became a hubbub. People were looking at each other, totally perplexed. Utterly fascinated, Felix stared and ripped open a family bag of Maltesers.

Ms McCool passed the flowers to Mrs Murphy, “Let me explain with the help of our Guest of Honour,” she said, looking at the front row, “please stand up Mrs Sparks -- Mrs Sparkes, everyone!” she announced, clapping her hands over her head. Still bewildered, the crowd nevertheless followed her lead and applauded politely. Mrs Sparkes, looking very ill-at-ease, reluctantly set down her teacup, stood up and turned to face the rest of the room. Ms McCool stood behind her and spoke over her shoulder, “Mrs Sparkes, please tell the ladies and gentlemen why you called me.”

Uncharacteristically bashful, Mrs Sparkes  clutched her hand bag to her chest, shuffled her feet, cleared her throat and explained in an apologetic voice, “Erm, well, see... I read about ‘ee in the paper ‘n I thought ‘ee sounded loike ‘ee noo wot ‘ee was talkin’ about, so I called this-‘ere lady ‘ere (Mrs Murphy), an’ she put me through to ‘ee.”

Ms McCool prompted her, “But tell them why you called me.”

“Well, oi works in this-‘ere big ‘ouse, see -- oi can’t say where tis cuz boss is very private man, see -- any’ow, I were dustin’ the boss’ study one noight -- when oi looked ‘n saw this li’l boy in the ol’ mirror -– a ghost, oi think ‘e were -- all black ‘n burned-up, ‘e were -- as if ‘e been in a foire!”

The crowd gasped. They knew the old woman was reliable witness; most of them had spoken to her earlier in the evening and found her to be reluctant and brutally honest, not the type to concoct such an elaborate lie.

Spurred on by the response, she laid it on thick, “Then, coupla weeks ago, we hadda poltergeist! The boss said ‘e seen things movin’ about of their own accord -- books, antique ornaments an’-that -– floyin’ through the air! Oi never seen ‘em floyin’ meself, loike, but oi heard it ‘n oi saw the results -- all these very expensive vases ‘n that -- smashed to pieces! It even pulled down this big grandfather clock off the wall -- a big, heavy brute of a thing -- ‘n sent it crashin’ down on the floor! Boss saw it -- scared outta ‘is wits, ‘e were!!”

The gasps became a din of dismay. Felix chewed noisily and stared, transfixed.

“.... anyways, oi tol’ the boss ‘e should get professional ‘elp and ‘e were so desperate ‘e agreed so I rung this-‘ere woman (she pointed at Mrs Murphy again) ‘n she called Miss McCool. Tha’s me story,” said Mrs Sparkes, ending abruptly, “may God strike me down if oi tell a loie,” and went to sit down; Ms McCool put a hand on her shoulder to stop her -- the old woman looked at it as if it was a white tarantula. “Now I can’t speak to the house’s history, but the poltergeist is indicative of a larger problem,” Mizz McCool informed the room, “the land on which the house was built in the same area where those bog mummies were found a few years ago.” She paused for a second or two to let the tidings sink in, then delivered the coup de gras: “This poltergeist activity is proof that exhumation of those bodies has unleashed a destructive force that is about to wreak havoc upon us all!”

In the uproar that greeted this announcement, Felix took a big swig of Tab and belched loudly. The rude ejaculation silenced the crowd and finally drew him to the attention of Mizz McCool.

“What’s your name, friend?”

His heart leapt. He nodded slowly and answered nervously through a mouthful of Maltesers, “Felix. Felix Costello, M-Mizz Mc-C-Cool. I-I wrote to you about my m-mother.”

Mrs Murphy had a word in her ear. Ms McCool raised a pencilled eyebrow, “Mr Costello, of course. You do indeed write me letters. A lot of letters.”

“One every week for 6 months!” cried Felix, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Mizz McCool, put a finger on her cheek, looked skyward and intoned the name wistfully, “Betty Costello. Betty Costello. She was very gifted. Her Gift was as strong as mine, you know. But she misused it. She took to the Christian church and turned her back on us and denounced us as Satanists. Very galling, I think, coming from a fellow Sensitive; especially someone whom I befriended and treated with the utmost respect. I can only hope that now she has Passed Over she realises the hurt she’s caused.”

Hear-hears all round and a short ripple of applause.

The little speech hadn't wiped the smile off Felix’s face; the delivery was so disarming that he tuned-out after the compliments and just listened to the sound of her voice; when she stopped he just kept nodding and said “Thanks very much, I appreciate it and so will she!”

Ms McCool looked at him askance, then shook her head and said “idiot” under her breath.  “Nevermind, what’s past is past and after all, it is all in the Grand Design, I choose to forgive and forget and move on.” She quickly got back on track and turned her attention back to their guest of honour, “Tell us what happened to your cat Mrs Sparkes, your long-term companion that never left your ankle?”

Surprised by the question, Mrs Sparkes hesitated then answered, “’Umm... ‘E ran away, so ‘e did...”

“Yes! He ran away!” cried Ms McCool, making everyone jump! “Felines are highly Sensitive. They may seem indifferent to the untutored eye, but that’s because the Spirit World is as real to them as the Material World is to us,” she explained enthusiastically, “they see all and they hear all and when something like this comes along, they sense the danger and flee the area. And not just cats, though, eh, Mrs Sparkes?” She asked rhetorically, “in fact, there isn’t a bird or an animal within 12 miles of the house, isn't that right?”

Mrs Sparkes nodded, “Not even a crow.”

Another collective gasp.

“You see what we’re up against?” Ms McCool shook her head and looked around the room like an excitable school teacher, “You see how destructive this power is? The dark magic of an ancient wizard unleashed into the atmosphere?! If it spreads there is no telling what it could do!!”

The crowd were about to explode, but she put up a hand to appeal for silence; when it came, she looked at the floor and mournfully shook her head, “Alas, my friends, I cannot go to a police station and give a statement. The media treat me like a crank,” she looked around the room, “so it’s up to you, my friends -- my allies -- be vigilant. I need you to be my eyes and ears. Watch out for strange behaviour in your neighbourhood –- anything at all -– especially amongst the animal population -- and report back to me. The more evidence I have the more chance I have of proving my case.” She put a hand to her brow and wilted, like a swooning damsel in distress, “As for me, I must save my strength for the final battle. But I can assure you of this, ladies and gentlemen –- I am prepared to fight to the bitter end.”

Utter upheaval! The old ladies’ dentures were clacking, the Goths were clucking, the sissies were squealing, the young girls were too dismayed to do anything other than silent Scream impersonations, all of them asking questions beginning with w. Ms McCool turned away as if she couldn't bear to witness the clamour she’d created. Once Mrs Murphy had calmed them down, there was a brief Q&A, mostly concerning her definition of ‘negative forces’, then the meeting came to a close. As each member filed out, Ms McCool stood by the front door shaking everyone’s hand as they left. Felix straggled until the last disciple had departed, and finally got his face-to-face with his hero. “Mizz McCool, I must say, I thoroughly enjoyed myself this evening!”

She looked over his head with hooded eyes and sneered, “It’s not a ‘show’, Mr Costello. I am not an entertainer.”

He thought for a second and came up with what he thought was the perfect response, “Well, I was utterly hypnotised!”

She cleared her throat, “Mr Costello, I won’t waste time with smalltalk and hypocrisy is not in my nature, so I’ll get straight to the point: true psychics do not do ‘readings’ -- no tarot cards, no séances, no astrology. Your mother used those tropes to perpetrate a fraud and blacken our reputation. I’ve nothing to say to her, in this life or the n...” She suddenly stopped, realised that she would get nowhere by being blunt and adopted a more sympathetic attitude, “Look, if you wish to contact your mother you can talk to her anywhere, she’ll hear you, I promise,” she said, turning to go.

“But I need to apologise and put things right!” said Felix, getting desperate, “I need to hear her say she forgives me! Please, it’s very important.”

“Things change in the Next World: earthly worries and personal woes no longer trouble her now,” she groaned, “there are no vengeful or scornful Spirits on the Other Side and earthly matters no longer concern them. You can rest assured she forgives you -–” She turned away, “Now, if you don’t mind...”

“Out you go!” said Mrs Murphy, grabbing him by both shoulders like a nightclub-bouncer and propelling him out the door -- he tried to say goodbye but the door slammed in his face -- then it immediately opened again -- Mrs Murphy shoved the Black Magic Easter-egg into his hands and slammed it shut again.

He was very impressed. And do you know what? He felt better! He could talk to his mammy wherever he went! She doesn’t care what I do anymore! “Hey you!” an angry voice called out. It was that Mrs Sparkes woman standing at the end of the path, “’Ee’s blockin’ the road! We can’t get past!” she yelled. “Crabbit auld bat,” Felix harrumphed, and looked for his keys in his anorak pockets and went out to the van. When he saw the car waiting for her, he was very surprised indeed: “Wow! A chauffeur-driven Bentley!” he exclaimed to no one in particular. Bit swish for a housekeeper. Hmmm. She said her boss was a very private man. I wonder who he is... He drove the van onto the grass verge at the side of the road and let them pass. He was very curious. Who does she work for? As soon as the car rounded the corner, he looked at his reflection in the rear-view-mirror and said: “How about talking the scenic route, say, via South Kildare?”

...

Carmel McCool and Mrs Murphy were saying goodnight in the hall. “Oh, Mrs Murphy,” Carmel sighed, “I must take to my bed. This evening has drained me so.”

“I’m tired myself. I’ll go to bed once I’ve tidied the room,” said Mrs Murphy, with a kind smile.

They said goodnight and Ms McCool hitched up her dress and climbed the stairs to her room. Mrs Murphy went into the lounge where she stood behind the door and waited till she heard the guestroom door close. Once the coast was clear, she tiptoed back into the hall and opened a locked drawer in the telephone table, and consulted the well-thumbed, yellowing pages of an old address book...

100 miles North, in The Ivy House: Jamie was reading in bed when he heard the phone ring in the great hall. He put down the book and listened. It’s a bit late. I wonder who it could be? It was answered by Fordham the Footman (Jamie recognised the sound of his shoes on the old stone floor) who immediately, and without explanation, transferred the call to Jamie’s room.

“Can I speak to Ogden Castle?” a voice whispered in the earpiece, “it’s me, Mrs Murphy.”

Who the hell is Mrs Murphy? Oggy didn’t mention a Mrs Murphy?! “Ummm... he’s not here at the moment...” he said, confused, “this is Jamie...”

The educated, middle-class tones disappeared and the whisper took on a guttural, rural Irish accent, “Ooh, Jamie Jameson Lumb, is it? Aye, I’ve heard of you, alright. You’re the new Master, aren't ye?” she all-but sneered.

“Listen missus, I have no idea who you are but...”

“You lissen to me!” she hissed, “I’m a Witch! One of them Witches South ‘o the border -- y’know, one of them that auld Castle told to keep an eye on things?!”

Still unsure of whether or not this was a ruse, Jamie decided to hear her out, “Go on...?”

She tutted as if she was talking to an idiot, “Well, there’s been a big resurgence in negative energy round Kildare ‘n it seems to be spreadin’ so it looks like the things auld Castle was worried about have now come to pass!”

Jamie’s jaw dropped, “Shite...”

“Aye, shite.” She took a deep breath and continued, “See, I hadda meeting for some deluded eejits who think they’re psychics -- we haveta keep an eye on ‘em, just in case they accidentally stumble into somethin’ they’re not qualified to deal with. It’s usually a gaggle of quacks and impostors, but tonight the guest of honour was this auld housekeeper who told a story about a poltergeist hauntin’ the place where she works. You know where she works?

“Erm... no...?”

“Pagham House, that’s where! The very place where them bog mummies were dug up!”

His fears were wholly justified. “Oh God... Oggy was right... it’s starting all over again...” he said, worriedly, contemplating the implications.

Mrs Murphy went on to explain she had a houseguest who was causing the fully fledged witches some trouble, “Carmel McCool. She’s from Newry; I invited her down here so we could check ‘er out. She’s only a wee bit psychic, but she’s got enough of a Gift to sense the auld negative energy -- and if a minor Sensitive like her can sense it -- things must be bad! But here’s the worst of it: she’s one of these theatrical types, y’know, one of them that likes to be the centre of attention -- and she’s gotta big mouth on her! She actually went to the Gardai ‘n the papers ‘n tried to tell ‘em all about it!”

His mouth dry with apprehension, he asked “What... what do we do next?”

“Don’t ask me! We've done our bit! We were told to keep an eye on things and report back to you -- it’s up to youse to sort it! After all, you’re the Master now, aren't ya? Ye have the power ‘n all that, dontcha?!” she said, in a mocking voice.

“But... but I don’t have anybody to advise me! Oggy and Xavier and most of the staff have gone down for the Big Sleep......”

“Oh aye? Well, ye better get yer act together ‘n think of somethin’ quick!”

She hung up without saying goodbye. He put down the phone and stared into space. What am I going to do? He’d tried everything bar waking the sleepers; he’d tried to find out something about the mage exhumed from the bog, but now that the Psychosphere was unusable, he couldn't consult the Collective Memory, and there was nothing in the ancient annals in the library. He had no idea whom or what he was dealing with! What the f**k do I do?!

Desperate for help, he went back to the huge crystal ball in the centre of the room and once again tried to contact Ebben Blom in Sweden (the commune didn’t have anything as modern as a phone), but it was useless, the glass was hot and completely fogged-up: interference that can only be created by the presence of negative energy; yet another sign that all was not well and was about to get worse.

It was then he glimpsed a glimmer out of the corner of his eye. He turned his head slowly and looked around the room until his gaze settled on the full-length mirror set against the rear wall. The mirror was misted up too, but in this case the glass was glowing. He watched as the mist slowly parted and an image manifested in the frame: an all-too-familiar figure dressed like a Film Noir private eye walked out of the swirling fog and stood close to the inside of the glass. He pushed back the brim of his fedora and winked.

Jamie’s shoulders dropped. “Bernie bloody Pritchard,” he said, in a voice dripping with irony.

The phantom grinned, “Hello, big brother. I hear you’re havin’ a spot of bother...”

...

The Bentley turned left and disappeared behind a row of yew trees. Felix waited for the lights to disappear from view, then taxied along until he came upon a huge wrought iron gate, the apex of the granite archway laden with razor wire, like a prison. He listened until he heard the car disappear into the distance, then pulled in a few yards up the road, got out and went back to investigate on foot. “Who lives in a house like this?” he asked himself, in that funny voice everybody does. He was looking through the bars, trying to see the house in the distance -- when someone leapt on him from behind, got him in a headlock and forced his head down! “Easy, easy, now, li’l fella or I’ll snap yer fackin’ neck –- so don’t straggle or it’s crunch-time!”

Felix squeaked from under his assailant’s muscular armpit, “Sorry... I got lost... I saw the car pullin’ in and I thought I could get directions...”

The voice growled in his ear, “Wot?! Wiv yer lights off?! Nah, you’ve been tailin’ us since we left that cottage – wot’s your game, pal, eh? Casin’ the joint, is ya, eh? Paparazzi?! Stawkah, is ya?!”

“No, sexual deviant, actually....”

Without warning, Herbie took his arm away, threw Felix to the ground and kicked him four or five times in the midriff and once in the face, bloodying his nose. Herbie watched him writhe in the long grass for a second or two then pulled him up by the ears and shouted into his bloody face, “I don’t wanna see you anywhere near this place again, awright, or next time I’ll tear off yer fackin’ gonads ‘n stick ‘em up yer arse -- got that?! You li’l fackin’ weasel-faced cant!” he picked Felix by the scruff of his neck and the seat of pants and tossed him into the van. “Now fack off!”

Coughing, bleeding and clutching his ribs, Felix struggled to sit up and start up the van. The chauffeur stood and watched until he drove off. “Big bully... Raspo would eat him for breakfast...” he moaned, as he mopped the blood from his nose with a paper hankie, wincing with pain every time he changed gear. He was about to turn off the lane to get back onto the main road when he glimpsed a little figure standing in the trees up ahead.

Hmmmm, what have we here?

It was a little girl. She was cast in shadow so that only the bottom half of her body was illuminated by the headlights, but he could see she was barefoot and wearing what looked like a ragged summer dress.

Very nice.

His aches and pains were momentarily forgotten, this was too good an opportunity to pass up. He threw the hankie onto the floor and slowed to a stop, all the while looking back along the road to make sure no one was watching. When he was certain they were alone, he wound down the window and asked in his nicest voice, “Hello, are you lost?”

No reply.

“It’s very late. Does your mammy know where you are?” he said, squinting into the darkness.

No reply.

“Would you like me to take you home?”

The little girl walked out from under the trees and stood in the twin beams of the van’s headlights.

Felix screamed.

She had no face, just a pair of wild eyes staring out of a blackened skull -- her clothes were no more than charred rags -- her emaciated arms open as if to elicit an embrace -- her mouth gaping as if echoing his scream!

Without thinking, Felix floored the accelerator -- the wheels spun under him --the van lurched forward as it sped off! He closed his eyes and braced himself for impact -- but there was no sound of anything hitting the bumper -- nothing dragging beneath the wheels! He looked in the rear-view mirror and saw her standing in the same place, in the same pose, as if the van had passed straight through her! Felix screamed again...

To be Continued....

[paulhudd]

Spindlefreck Book Two: Pt Three: Swamp Witch

Gilray Residence, Mount Merrion, Dublin

April 21st 1989: Things were getting unbearable. Niamh felt as if she was losing her mind. Literally.

They were estranged now and Oona was having difficulty accepting the new situation. There was an increase in telepathic intrusions and Ni had to be constantly on her guard; they could come at any time, day or night. Oona was using everything in her power to make her life a misery; from childish name-calling to full-blown cerebral shouting matches, there was no end to it. Ni had given up driving into town when yet another psychic episode forced her to perform an emergency stop on one of the busy, city centre ring-roads, almost causing a pile-up. At her wits end, she took the bus to the central library and researched anything she could find on telepathy and psychic phenomenon. None of it was any help; the things described didn’t come anywhere close to what she was experiencing; it was a futile exercise that only served to antagonise her constant companion: <Why is we here? Why is ‘ee readin’ books?! I ‘ate books! Why isn't we in Top Shop or a shoe shop or somethin’ noice like that?> When Ni tried to reason with her, Oona repeated everything she was thinking in the whiny voice of a defiant 5 year-old. It got so bad that Ni had to get out her old Walkman and play tapes of obscure avant-garde music to drive her away, but she couldn't do that forever. The lack of sleep had affected her appetite and it was wearing her down; she was too tired to exercise; she looked drawn and gaunt. So, before heading over to the Somervilles that Thursday to report for babysitting duties, she broke her promise to herself and called Rossington’s private number:

“Rossington.”

“She’s still in my head. Why? How do I get rid of her?!” she cried, at the end of her tether.

“Good evening to you, too, Miss Fitzgerald, so nice of you to call...” he replied, cool as a cucumber.

“Don’t piss-me-about, James –- she still has 24-hour access and it’s been over a week since I had the last jab!” She had to lower her voice lest Paddy hear her, but she was so furious it took all her strength to keep it down, “I researched the effects of psilocybin hallucinogens and fungal toxins -– they’re more likely to get weaker over time, not stronger! Have you been injecting it into our milk-bottles or something?!”

“Piffle - and I don’t take kindly to that sort of accusation, Miss Fitzgerald,” he said, glibly. “You walked out of an experimental drug treatment at a crucial stage. My advice is return and complete the course you were contracted to take -- if the answer is no -– then you’ll have to live with the consequences --!”

She slammed the phone down and shouted at it, “What good are you anyway?!”

<That’s roight, ‘e’s uselass, ‘e ‘is.>

Ni tore at her hair and stomped both feet, “CHRIST ON A BIKE!!”

08:01pm: Somerville residence, Malahide: “Do fairies get pregnant?”

Ni slid the Bumper Book of Fairy Stories back into the little pine bookcase at the foot of 6 year-old Caitlin’s bed and said, “Cate, as I’ve told you before, your mommy will answer those sorts of questions -- I’m just the storyteller!” She went to lift little 3 year-old Cathy from Cate’s bed, but she rolled into a ball and refused to be withdrawn, “C’mon now Cathy, story’s over, sweetie, back in your cot...”

“Cathy wants to sleep in here with me,” said Cate.

“Is that right Cathy? Would you rather sleep with Cate tonight?”

Looking frightened, Cathy sucked her thumb, pulled the sheets over her face and snuggled close to Cate.

“Is she OK?” asked Ni, concerned, “she looks as if she’s afraid of me?”

“Not you. She’s scared the Wicked Witch from Wizard of Oz will come on her broomstick with her flyin’ monkeys ‘n take her away.”

Ni replied in an upbeat baby-talk voice, “Oh Catheeee, the Wicked Witch of the West was a nice lady called Margaret Hamilton dressed-up ‘n made-up to look like that. She was sitting on a broomstick suspended by wires with a fan blowing on her hair to make it look like she was flying – it’s only a film and she’s only an actor, silleeeee!”

But Caitlin was adamant, “There’re real witches, though – we see ‘em all the time on Perkin’s Road.”

She tried her best not to laugh, “That’s St Brigid’s -– it’s an old people’s home -- those aren't witches, they’re very old ladies! Sure, if they were witches why would the nuns be pushing them round in wheelchairs and fetching them tea-‘n’-biccies? Anyway, if there really were witches –- the sky would be teeming with ‘em –- air traffic control would be a different thing entirely!” she joked, pulling a funny face.

<Aww, ain’t that luvverleeeeeee...? They’s so cute when they’s that age, ain't they...?>

Ni kept smiling, Go away -- this isn’t the time!”

<Oi enjoyed that li’l story.>

So did I -- it kept you quiet for half an hour!

Cathy whispered in Cate’s ear. Cate passed it on, “Cathy says there’s a light round you.”

The comment made Ni’s blood run cold. She had to get out of there before things got weird, “Look kids, there’s no such thing as witches, they only exist in folklore tales and fairy stories....”

<Are ‘ee gonna tell ‘em there’s no Santa Claus nor Toof-Fairy, then?!>

Oona, I won’t tell you again, not in front of the children!!

Ni kissed them goodnight, switched off the lamp and turned on the night-light. Cathy whispered something in Cate’s ear. Cate passed on the message, “Cathy says ‘who’s Oona?’”

Ni fell to her knees in a mock-faint. Oh God... will this hell ever end...

She sat on the bottom stair, rocking back-and-forth, jiggling her leg, rattling her keys, constantly looking at her watch and sighing, 11:11? Where are they? She was playing Trout Mask Replica on the Walkman at a low volume (a definite no-no as far as Oona was concerned: Oi never ‘eard such clattery-blattery bollox!), when someone tapped her on the shoulder -- she jumped a foot into the air and dropped her keys.

Caitlin stood a few steps up, looking troubled and armed with what appeared to be a child-sized tennis-racquet; Cathy was lurking on the landing above, watching through the bars of the baby-gate. Ni pulled out the ear-buds, “What’s the matter? Bad dream, was it, honey?”

Holding the little racquet in front of her as if she was about to swat a fly, Cate explained in shaky voice, “Cathy says she saw a wee girl standin’ at the bottom of the bed.”

“A wee girl?”

“A wee girl with long-shiny-black-hair. But her head is all lumpy and wrong.”

There was something familiar about the description but she couldn’t think about it now. She whispered in Cate’s ear, “Listen honey, there are no such things as ghosts and remember, Cathy’s only 3 -- she thinks Barney the Dinosaur is a real dinosaur!”

“But she doesn’t make up stories. Mommy says we shouldn't tell fibs -– and if it’s true what would you do if she came in here now with a big knife?! You’re only a girl –- <she’d sloice you up like a well-‘ung ‘og!> cried ‘Cate’, pulling a knife from behind her back, jumping down and sticking it into the centre of Ni’s chest, laughing insanely as they tumbled head-over-heels down the last few stairs...

-- Ni awoke-with-a-start on the Somerville’s couch, those last 8 words still ringing in her ears!

Oona you bitch! What did you do that for?!

The voice in her head laughed uproariously.

Nevertheless, there, standing at the end of the couch, was Cate, little tennis-racquet in hand and a fearful look on her face. “Cathy says she saw a wee girl standin’ at the bottom of the bed.”

“A wee girl...?” said Ni, pinching herself to make sure she still wasn't dreaming.

“Aye, a wee girl with long shiny-black hair. And...?”

“... and?” her head is all lumpy and wrong?

Cate whispered instead, “... Cathy wet my bed. My jammies got wet, too.”

Ni wanted to scream.

A few minutes later -- 11 to 11 to be exact -- just as she was putting a fresh sheet on Cate’s bed, incoming headlights lit-up the windows in the hall. Shite! 20 minutes later and they’d never have known! No comment from her talking head, though. Well, at least that’s one thing I don’t have to contend with. In spite of her repeated apologies, it was as bad as she expected. Phil wasn't talking and that was always a bad sign. Pat, heavily pregnant and puffing with exhaustion, put on a strained smile, told her to go home and went about bathing the girls. Ni was mortified. Somerville waited until she’d said her goodbyes and approached her as she was unlocking the car. He had a very serious look on his face. Leaning on the roof, he casually and quietly enquired why his kids were too frightened to go back to bed.

“Phil, the movie scared Cathy, she’s seeing witches everywhere... she just has an amazing imagination. She wanted to sleep beside Cate and I couldn't see the harm... I’m sorry...” Her failure to keep eye-contact and the tremor in her voice made it look like she didn’t really believe what she was saying, and that only made matters worse.

He crossed his arms, shook his head and said, “I love you to pieces Niamh. You’re like one of me own, but you’re scaring me, never mind the weeuns. OK, you looked a bit rough after you came out of SCICI, but I thought you’d’ve come-around by now -- and look-atcha –- ye’re shakin’ like leaf, yer eyes are like two piss-holes in the snow -- yer as pale as a bottle of milk. Are you sure that bastard Rossington wasn't giving you something stronger than magic mushrooms?! - cos I’ve seen junkies livin’ in skips who look better than you!”

Ni bowed her head and burst into tears, “I dunno what to do anymore... I just.... I just can’t get her out of my head... I can’t get her out of my head...” she sobbed, utterly defeated.

Now that he’d unburdened himself and she seemed to be genuinely upset, he felt like a heel for taking the heavy-handed approach. Paddy had mentioned she was smitten with a married woman and he supposed they must've fallen out. He put his arms around her and squeezed her tight, “I didn’t know. I’m sorry for bein’ so tough on you. It’s just where my girls are concerned I get overprotective. Look, don’t drive. I’ll take you... huh?”

As she’d reached up put her arms around his neck, she’d rubbed her crotch against his suggestively; she’d put her tongue in his ear and moaned seductively. Somerville reacted immediately -- he did what he always did when a prozzie tried it on -- he spun her around so that she was facing away from him, grabbed her wrists and bent her over the bonnet of the car -- but instead of cuffing her, he whispered angrily in her ear, “I don’t ever want to see you again.” He pushed her away and walked back to the house, calling out without looking back, “Tell Paddy I’ll see him at the club. Get outta here.” A light went on above. Pat was closing the bedroom curtains, and by the look on her face, she’d seen what had happened. It was as if everything was synchronised to send her over the edge -– she needed to get away!

She was all–thumbs trying to unlock the car. What the fuck is happening to meeeee? What the fuck am I doing? She quickly got in --- the seatbelt wouldn't unwind –- it was caught in the door; she opened the door to release it -- fumbled and dropped the keys on the driveway, then banged her head on the steering wheel trying to pick them up!

The voice in her head laughed uproariously.

Fuck you Oona! Why did you do that?!

<I thought ‘ee wanted ‘im? It were one of ur fantasies, wannit? Oi was just givin’ ‘ee a li’l nudge in the roight direction.>

Ni slammed her hands against the wheel and yelled “NO!” Then she paused, took a deep breath, closed her eyes, slowly exhaled and regrouped. She started the car, calmly let off the handbrake and deftly manoeuvred around Phil’s Audi. She reversed out onto the street, all the while trying not to think about what she’d done, but as she got into the rhythm of the gear changes and slipped into autopilot, the implications slowly seeped to the front of her mind and she started shaking again. Then, just before reaching the main road, she looked in the rear-view mirror and glimpsed the top of someone’s head in the backseat –-

<This has to stop.>

It was the crackly, androgynous whisper again -- she instantly slammed on the brakes. Trembling like a leaf, she turned slowly and looked over her left shoulder...

There was no one there, of course, nevertheless she parked the car, turned off the engine, got out and sat on the kerb under the unforgiving amber glare of the street-lamps. She let it all out. She wept uncontrollably with her head between her knees, unmindful of who might see her. Luckily, like all suburban roads after 11pm, the area was deserted, and like all suburban areas after 11pm, any unusual behaviour was treated with suspicion. So when a light went on across the street and an old lady, hands on hips, watched from the parlour window, Ni couldn't have cared less. She’d reached her limit.

A minute or two later, Somerville’s Audi drew up. The passenger window wound down and he called out, “C’mon, Twink. I’ll take you home.”

She didn’t look up and let her hair hide her face, “S’OK. I’m OK. I’ll be going in a minute.”

He pulled up behind her little Fiesta, pulled a wad of tissues from the glove box of his car, got out and sat on the kerb beside her. “Pat saw what happened. She thinks I overreacted,” he said, in a kind voice, “I explained the circumstances, and we agreed: you’re not at yourself. You’re actin’ out of character and if anybody deserves a second chance, Ni, it’s you.” He gave her the tissues, “C’mon now, dry yer eyes ‘n I’ll take you home. I’ll get the local patrol to pick up the car and drop it over later.”

After a little coaxing, she eventually agreed and they walked to his car. The old lady was still watching from her parlour window. Somerville waved as he got in. She smiled, waved back and closed the curtains. “One of the many advantages of having a famous face!” he joked.

“It’s because people trust you, Phil. Just like you trusted me, and now I’ve sullied everything...” she sobbed.

“Sullied? See that’s why you always beat me at Scrabble!” He paused, then patted her knee and assured her in a low voice, “Nothin’ will change, Ni. It’ll be like it has always been. It’s forgotten. Let’s never mention it ever again.”

Oh God, Phil, if only that were true...

She’d never felt so ashamed, but Big Phil, ever the diplomat, couldn't let her stew in her own juices. He put on his ‘Thought for the Day’ hat and explained why she should forget it: “... Ni honey, 70 percent of the things we deal with are crimes of passion of one sort or another, spur of the moment madness – like road rage and domestic violence -- it’s all just all ordinary people who just snap. Somethin’ clicks in their heads and for a split second they lose their minds -- they lift a knife or a hammer and it’s all over. I mean, look at the ‘Head in the Microwave Murder’ as their callin’ it now -– those two fellas had been great buddies for 14 years –- inseparable, according to friends. Then one guy does something out-of-order, could be anything –- an insult, an insinuation, an affair, we don’t know yet -– but it sent the other guy over the edge. He sees red, lifts the oul’ Habitat meat cleaver from the counter and -– whump! You should see that poor fella now –- the murderer, not the victim -- he’s on suicide watch under heavy sedation cos he can’t live w’out the fella ‘e killed. And it’s all over the head -- if you’ll excuse the expression -- of something that coulda been sorted-out over tea ‘n’ biccies.”

He leaned over and nudged her, “Sorry, is any of this makin’ sense? I never know what to say in these situations, I tend to ramble...?”

After a sizeable pause she thought it best to clarify, “I love you Phil, but not in a sexual way, you’re like an uncle -- you’re Uncle Phil,” she said, earnestly, “I lost control, and that’s what makes this so awful...” what makes it worse is the fact that I know who’s doing it and I can do nothing to stop her...

Somerville pretended to be slightly insulted, “Well, I don’t know whether I should be glad to hear that or not, but I know what you mean. And truth-be-told, I’d be really concerned for your sanity if you thought of me that way...!”

She shook her head, “I can’t tell you what caused it, but I swear it was an aberration...”

“Aberration!” Somerville bumped his brow with the heel of his palm, “That’s the feckin’ word I was lookin’ for! T’was an ‘aberration’! See you, ye’re a walkin’ thesaurus!”  

“Oh, Phil.... I feel as if I’m dangling by my fingertips over a creek full of snapping alligators... I’m this close to jacking it all in, becoming a nun and dedicating my life to missionary work in the jungles of Central America.”

“Have ye thought about Social Work in North Dublin...?”

Somerville didn’t come in, but instead of doing a u-turn and driving back the way they came, he drove on. She had a pretty good idea where he was going, but by this time she was too exhausted, physically and mentally, to care. Paddy welcomed her home and chanced to jest, “I don’t know... lesbianism, psychedelics, nymphomania...? Who is this vampish seductress in our midst?”

“Oh, please, Paddy! Too soon!” Ni took the hankie from the breast pocket of his waistcoat and blew her nose. “How did you know?”

“Pat called. She explained what happened. She thinks it has something to do with you and this married woman,” Paddy said, regretfully, “she doesn’t know about your stay at SCICI or the drugs study, so you don’t have to worry about breaking your NDA.” He frowned and looked toward the door, “And speaking of NDAs, you know who Phil will blame for this, don’t you?”

She put her handbag on the occasional table, looked toward the door and said, “Maybe a little shake-down will shake-him-up...” Then -- out of nowhere -- “Owww!” -- she yelled, as she felt a sharp pain on her cheek -- her head swung to the right, her body swerved to the left -- her flailing arms toppled the crystal vase on the little table by the stairs -- it smashed on the tiles, spilling lupins and water over the floor! Still reeling, she slipped and fell forward -- Paddy caught her before she landed face-first on the shards!

He straightened her up and plonked her on the bottom stair, “What the hell just happened?” Then he noticed something on her cheek, “Where the hell did that come from?” She staggered to the mirror in the hall and looked; there was a scarlet welt across the pale skin of her left cheekbone and it seemed to be getting darker.

Paddy’s face went a pale shade of grey, his ‘tache drooped and his voice faltered, “Ni...... Tell me truthfully, did somebody do this to you?”

“Oh God no –- you saw me when I came in --” she thought twice about finishing the sentence when images of Oona flashed through her mind, “this just... showed up...”

“What do you mean ‘just showed up’?” he asked, exasperated.

“I dunno. It must be an insect bite from when I was sitting outside...?”

“An insect bite? That’s a contusion, my dear...” He turned on the main light and brought her closer to the mirror, “Look, you can see the impression of a wedding-ring on you cheekbone. I’ve seen this particular wound many times, on the same place on many a battered wife.” He sighed, “Dear God, Ni, what fresh hell is this...?”

I am going mad...

5 minutes ago, at the Nevin Residence in Bogmire, Co. Kildare: The door suddenly opened. The bedroom light went on. Startled, Oona wriggled under the duvet and pulled it over her head.

“What’re ye doin’!” Craigy yelled. “I’m sittin’ downstairs watching TV on me own –- again –- and you’re up here sleepin’ as usual!”

A muffled voice said, “Oi’m feelin’ poorly, me ‘ead’s sore an’ oi needs to loy down. Go ‘way.”

Craigy grinned. He turned out the light, took off his trousers and crept up to the bed, “How ‘poorly’ are ye...?” he said, sliding a hand under the duvet and groping her,

She threw off the bedclothes, her face screwed up in a hateful snarl, and squared-up-to-him, “Get ur fuckin’ ‘ands offa me, Craigy Nevin!! I told ‘ee before -– I ain’t in the mood! - and raised her hand to strike him, but before it even began its downward-arc, he caught her wrist and slapped her hard across the face, knocking her sideways -- he caught her by the arm as she fell, roughly pulled her to him and yelled into her ear “Don’t you dare ever lift a hand to me again, right?! Ye wee bitch?” and threw her down. She landed face first on the pillows, her silver hair splashing across the chocolate-brown duvet cover. She curled into a ball to cover her nakedness and began crying.

Craigy stood over her, unrepentant, snorting, hissing through gritted teeth, “Ach, don’t start gurnin’ ‘n playin’ the martyr, now! Ye drive me to such things! Ye’re always up to somethin’! You either come up here and ‘lie down’ or sit on the settee night-after-night like a feckin’ zombie off in a world of yer own! I asked you three times – three times -- to get me a cuppa tea tonight and you grunted somethin’ and I got nuthin’ -– then you go upstairs to take yer face off and you don’t come down again! Well I didn’t get married to sit on me own in a house in this shithole village in the middle of nowhere!!”

Oona snivelled like the child she really was. Her auntie Ella – who most people treated like a man, anyway – was always slapping her around, but that was kids-stuff compared to this. This was delivered with genuine spite. When he grabbed arm, she felt his loathing, she tasted the true bitterness of his words. Her castle was crashing down around her ears; her Prince Charming was an ogre and her Fairy Godmother had all but abandoned her.

It’s all her fault! She’s filled moy ‘ead wiv all these notions ‘n they do nuthin’ but get me in trouble!! Because the main thing she took away from their psychic connection was that No Man Is Better Than a Woman -- and under no circumstances should a man strike a woman. It was a doctrine that went against her upbringing, the Supplicant ethos and hundreds of years of tribal misogyny; it made sense, but this was the Real World not an Ideal World. She has me livin’ in Cloud Cuckoo Land ‘n I swallowed it up whole!!

Oona sat up, wiped the tears away with the heels of her hands and said “A cuppa tea... is that all ‘ee wants? You clobbered me fer a cuppa tea...?”

“That’s the tip of the iceberg!” He began pacing the room as he zipped up, ‘Iceberg’ being the appropriate word!” He kicked the dresser in a fit of frustration, forgot that he was wearing his slippers, and almost broke his toe, “Ahh!!” He hopped around holding his foot, “Now look at what ye’ve made me do, you silly bitch!”

She didn’t giggle or poke fun. She didn’t think it was funny at all. She feigned empathy, got up onto her knees and beckoned him hither with open arms, “You’s all toightly-wound-up, that’s all.” She patted her lap, “Come ‘ere and oi’ll give ‘ee one of moy special massages,” she said, in a sympathetic voice.

He regarded his naked wife, her pale skin glimmering in the moonlight, a beautiful sight marred by the crimson welt rising on her cheekbone. He sat on the bed with his back to her and groaned remorsefully, “Och, Oona... I’ve never hit a woman in me life... not even in the course of me duties...”

Kneading and squeezing, digging her thumbs into his shoulders, she did something she swore to herself she would never do: she read his mind. It wasn't pleasant. She saw a wishful daydream: Craigy packing his bags and moving back to Sligo. She felt the hole in his heart. The loveless sex; the disappointment; the regret. He was looking for a way out, just like Niamh.

“... I’m beginning to think this was a big set-up between your aunt and Marchant to marry-you-off! They virtually pushed me into this,” he suggested, presciently “and if that’s not bad enough, yer aunt’s got a wee network of spies watchin’ everythin’ we do! The other day I caught that auld doll across the lane, Crombie -- lookin’ through our feckin’ bin!”

“Lemme make ‘ee a noice cuppa cocoa ‘n we’ll go to bed,” she whispered in his ear, softly and nicely.

“What are you after?” he asked, suspiciously, looking over his shoulder, “I just hit you -- the next thing I know you’re all massages and cocoa...?”

She came close, looked into his eyes, cupped his cheeks, and spoke in her ‘inside voice’, the one that Ni found so alluring, “I know what’s important now. You’re right, I was off in a world of my own, but you brought me down to earth.”

He fell for it. “Oh, you’re using that voice again... I like it...”

“You stay here and I’ll bring up a little tray and we’ll have supper in bed.” She kissed him on the lips, got up and took the dressing gown from the hook on the back of the door.

“Hmmm... and you’re not gonna stick a few spoonfuls of rat-poison in it?” he asked, half-joking.

She grinned, “Don’t be silly. I’ll be 10 minutes.”

Oona went down to the kitchen and filled her new electric kettle. While it was boiling, she crept to the cupboard under the sink, reached into the back and retrieved the little bottle hidden behind the cleaning stuff. She turned it in her hands, watching the grey liquid inside flow to-and-fro, and contemplated using it. She desperately wanted to use it. If it was anyone else she wouldn't even think about it; or rather, she would think about it. She’d just have to think it and they’d dance to her tune. She could turn them all into puppets with no strings...

The kettle clicked off.

Something told her it wasn't time. Craigy was her husband, after all, he deserved a second chance. Besides, she’d promised to love honour and obey him. It don’t say nothing about killin’ ‘im, though. No, she wanted a baby, that’s all she cared about. As soon as she had a kiddie, she’d sort everything out. She’d show them all.

She put the little bottle back and made the cocoa.

SCICI; 12:38: “Well, then Barry, according to the good doctor here, you can hear me! So, howerya doin’, me auld mate?” Somerville, hands in his trouser pockets, stooped and put his ear to McKee’s cracked, unmoving lips. “What’s that Baz?” He stood up and addressed Rossington, “He thinks you’re scamming us. He thinks you’re a chancer.” He returned to the patient and shouted in his ear as if he was stone deaf, “Do you know he has cameras all around you, Barry?! You’re on more screens than Bruce Willis!” He looked around, “It’s more like a mad scientist’s laboratory than a hospital room!”

Rossington took a Georgian fob watch from his waistcoat pocket and flipped it open with his thumb, “We've enjoyed your little visit Detective Superintendent, but it’s way past Mr McKee’s bedtime, so...”

“You know something, I hate him,” said Somerville, taking one last look at the frail wretch on the bed before turning his attention back to the good doctor, “but I hate you more. He can’t help what he is and whatever he’s done he’s paid a heavy price for it –- because even if he is ‘conscious’, he’ll never have the use of his body again. He’ll still have to piss into a bag and get his dinner through a tube. Then there’s you -- a parasite living offa him. That’s how far down the food-chain you are.”

Matron Stranks, a hatchet faced harridan with terrible teeth, was champing at the bit to let rip -- she’d obviously been told to keep it shut but Big Phil’s attitude was too much to take. With every jibe and slur, her eyes got fierier, her ears got redder and her dentures clacked like arrhythmic maracas. Rossington sent her away before she exploded altogether. As her sneakers squeaked off down the corridor, he humbly apologised, “My staff is very loyal, Mr Somerville, they hate to see me suffer an indignity or injustice...”

“Bollocks. They hate me because I represent The System, not because they’re sweet on you, Jimmy boy.” Somerville chuckled, mordantly, “I had a look at your ‘staff’ file. Most of ‘em have criminal records or extremely dubious résumés; your photo-ID parade looks like a rogue’s gallery. That’s the sorta thing that makes my antenna buzz.”

Rossington sighed heavily to express his ennui and said, “Number one: I have a policy of employing ex-prisoners as part of my Restart Programme; number two: What are you doing here, detective superintendent? You come in here demanding to see Mr McKee at this unholy hour, then go on an undignified, libellous tirade...?”

Somerville walked around the bed and looked him in the eye, “A friend of mine was working for you and ever since they came outta this hell-hole they've been a shadow of their former-selves! I wanna know why!”

“If you are referring to Miss Fitzgerald, she is no longer in our employ. She signed a comprehensive NDA, and we will sue if she breaks it,” Rossington informed him, somewhat smugly.

Somerville exploded, “Fuck that! You listen to me, Jimmy boy: you stay away from Niamh Fitzgerald. I don’t care if she’s got the secrets of the universe tattooed onto the back of her eyelids –- leave her alone or I’ll nail your arse to the wall!”

Rossington smiled, “I’ll be sure to tell the commissioner about this visit when I talk to him later this morning.”

Somerville came closer and whispered, “That’s good, and while yer on the blower with ‘im, tell ‘im a blind-eye will no longer be turned to your little peccadilloes -– i.e. the frequenting of certain clubs to procure under-age persons and supplying said minors with proscribed substances. From now on you will be fair game, old chum, so it’ll be in your best interest to keep your nose -– hahaha -– clean!” He walked away, shouting over his shoulder, “Give the boss my best!”

A few days later, in the Wetlands of Bogmire, Co. Kildare, in the grounds of Pagham House: Clad in scuba gear or hazmat suits and waders, Paddy and his little expeditionary force were meticulously excavating the exact spot Ni had specified via a very detailed sketch. Using a weight-and-pulley system that was as laborious as it was awkward, they toiled undeterred. They knew something big was in the offing and everyone wanted to be the first to find it, not even the foul smell of the slime could deter them. Ni had stayed behind to pick up Emil from the airport; Paddy thought it would be best if they got started a day early before he had time to ask too many questions or raise any objections.

Scanlon the groundskeeper and Sergeant Marchant [Laphen and Gorringe were still in Europe shooting a movie] sat on a low bough a few feet from the bank and watched with binoculars as they ate their elevenses. Holding his waterproof Pentax aloft, Paddy broke away from the others and waded through the mire, put a boot up on the bank, looked up at the spectators and asked, nicely, “Ahem, would either of you men like to take photographs for me? You've got a good view from up there and I have to supervise the last bit of unearthing... Would you mind?”

The men put down their binoculars and stared back with blank expressions. Eventually Scanlon responded officiously, “We were told only to observe. Carry on as if we’re not here. Thank you.”

Paddy sighed at the obvious disdain in the man’s tone and turned away, “OK. Sorry to have bothered you... I’ll just put this on a rock and set the automatic shutter. Careful you don’t knock it down when you dismount. Thank you!”

“Dickhead,” said Scanlon under his breath as he watched the big scientist wade away. He nudged his companion and hissed, “That’s Gilray. Keep an eye on him, too. He’s the uncle of the Fitzgerald girl. She’s due to get here sometime later today, so remember -- keep her away from Oona. That is yer No.1 priority, got it?!”

The sergeant nodded, “For the hundredth time – aye! OK, OK! Jesus, you wanna watch yerself, this sorta stress isn't good for your heart!”

Scanlon watched Paddy convene with the students and grumbled, “...bloody Oona Umbert... You be sure and tell that husband of hers to keep her indoors til this blows over,” he mumbled though a mouthful of sandwich, “... first the Roxboroughs sell the house –- and now -- just when things were settling down nicely, my new lord ‘n’ master decides it’s time to dredge up the past...”

“What could there be down there that would cause you any trouble?” asked Marchant.

“... why would he give them permission to do this?” said Scanlon, angrily, ignoring the sergeant’s question; then his tone took an ominous turn when he said, “Maybe we should ask Dr Jimmy, eh?”

The Sergeant carried on eating and pretended he hadn't heard.

Scanlon pressed on, “Because when I met with him the other night, he seemed to know an awful lot about what’s been goin’ on around here.”

The sergeant reached for another sandwich, “How would I know about that, now...?”

“He pays you to keep him abreast of developments, sergeant, isn't that so?” Scanlon’s face clenched into a scowl.

The sergeant returned the glare with frightened eyes.

“I’ve turned a blind eye to it so far because it might work to my advantage. So you can keep in touch with him, find out what he’s up to and relay it back to me, alright? Or I’ll have you transferred outta here so fast it’ll rip the ‘tache off yer face!”

The sergeant resumed chewing, a look of horror on his face –- then he almost fell off his perch when the big groundskeeper’s walkie-talkie exploded into life.

A garbled, hissy voice screeched: “... ROGER OVER, COME IN COME IN... SCANLON... MR SCANLON YOO-HOO... COME-IN ROGER-ROGER COME IN...” It was Ella Sparkes.

“Bloody woman...” Scanlon unclipped the receiver from his belt and pressed the button, held it well-away from his ear and tried to keep his voice under control, “... I’m here! There’s no need to shout!!”

Silence.

Scanlon’s voice got a little louder, “Press the button when you want to speak! Over.” There was a pause, then he almost dropped the handset when the voice roared: “ - etter get up here, you’ll never guess who just showed up - roger-out-over... click.”

Scanlon’s voice got ever louder, “Who? Over.” Pause. He sighed and pressed his button again, “Press the button!”

Mrs Sparkes was confused: “What? What pullover? Roger...Over?”

“WHO IS IT – OVER?!” Scanlon barked.

Prolonged silence; crackling static.

Scanlon lost it: “Press the fucking button! Over! ... COME IN!” Nothing. He raised the handset above his head as if he was going to throw it – then thought better of it and shook his head, “Feckin’ woman is useless when it comes to electrical appliances. It took us 30 years to get her to use a vacuum cleaner. Well, I suppose I may go and see who tis,” he gave the walkie-talkie to Marchant, Give me or Charlie a shout on this if they find anything.” Scanlon poured the dregs from his cup onto the mulch below, then capped his flask, jumped down and landed with a squelch; he shouted one last command before setting-off, “And remember what I said about Oona -- alright?!”

Marchant bit off another mouthful... and as he chewed, he took a deep breath – and quickly spat it out as an unholy stench filled his nostrils! “Eeeuggh! What the fuck is that?”

There was always a peculiar smell around this place, and over the years they’d become accustomed to it, but this was something else entirely! It was strong enough to stop Scanlon in his tracks. He covered his nose & mouth with his handkerchief, looked back and reiterated the sergeant’s exclamation, “What the fuck is that?!”

The little pulley on the frogmen’s raft was winding up, dredging up mud and slime, unleashing an ungodly stench none of them could stomach. It was so pungent, the students who weren’t gagging and vomiting were falling over each other in their efforts to get away...

A hundred yards or so further down the bank, Oona watched the proceedings from behind an oak tree. The smell didn’t bother her none; she knew how to shut it out. She was more interested in what was coming up. She’d looked in Ni’s mind and this is exactly how she’d imagined it, but she had no interest herself. It’s just an ol’ bog. Who cares what’s in it? Nonetheless, she felt drawn to the place -- she felt this was something she had to see. But why...?

<Because it’s your destiny, Oona. >

It was that strange voice again. She took the little compact from the pocket of her apron, opened it and stared into the misty glass; <What do you mean?>

<The mortal remains of two people have emerged from the swamp. One is an evil seed unearthed to germinate in the open air after thousands of years of marinating in bog water and peat. The other is a little girl who met with an unfortunate end years later. She will be your Spirit Guide for a while.>

<What does that mean?>

<She’ll be your little friend. A constant companion, like Niamh, only she’ll control your... urges.>

She didn’t know how to take this. She didn’t want another voice talking in her brain, especially the voice of a little girl who died years ago. It would be like having a ghost living in her head.

<If it’s any consolation, your boyfriend’s back.>

This news put everything else out of her mind -– she knew exactly who he was talking about! <Kris?! Kris is back?! >

She began to run in the direction of the big house, but stopped in her tracks when the voice reminded her, <Ahem, excuse me, but besides the fact that you’re married, they've kept you apart for seven years for a reason –- they’re not going to let you see him now. Not now that you’re a fully grown Silver Siren. You’re too powerful. And by the way, that gash on your cheek makes you look like a battered wife... which, quite frankly, is what you are. I mean, what would he think?>

She looked at her own reflection in the little mirror and touched the welt, <Oi could put some foundation on it, oi s’pose...?>

Her attention was broken by a rustling in the bushes, “Hey there girlie – what are ye up to there?” shouted Sergeant Marchant, staggering through the brush. He wasn't too steady on his feet and he didn’t look too good.

Oona put on her little girl’s voice, “... just takin’ a shortcut to the orchards ‘n oi ‘eard the rumpus ‘n wondered what wuz goin’ on...?”

Marchant was extremely green around the gills and sweating profusely, but tried to continue the conversation, “You’re a bloody liar, the orchards are on the other side of therrrrrrrrreeeeeeeeugh!” and duly threw up.

She tiptoed around him and ran for home to put on some make-up, her ‘good clothes’... and Ni’s big blue ‘ bipperty-bopperty hat’...

Midday, at a pick-up-point in Dublin airport: Watching in the wing-mirror, Ni spotted him coming out through the arrivals door. She pumped the horn, wound down the window and yelled, “Emil!”

She’d almost forgotten how much she fancied him. Salt-and-pepper, well-trimmed beard, greying hair tied in a ponytail, he was certainly showing his age, but no less handsome; more so, actually. With his customary well-worn khakis and cargo shorts, tatty lumberjack shirt over a faded Allman Brothers tee-shirt, he always reminded her of a scruffy medico from the MASH movie. She touched the welt on her cheek and frowned. It was going to be hell trying to keep it from him.

He waved back and trotted across the busy concourse toward the car, threw his backpack onto the backseat and climbed in, “Nice to see you, Li’l Twinkie!” He tried to kiss her cheek -– she felt the fronds of his whiskers brush her skin -- but she kept her head turned and kept watching the traffic in her wing-mirror. He was a little surprised by her lack of reciprocation, but unconcerned, “I was expecting Paddy in one of his vintage saloons with a roomy interior – good job I’m travelling light...” Before he had time to say anything else, Ni took off -– they bounced over the zebra-crossing speed-bump (Emil’s head hit the sunroof several times) -- she sped around a busy roundabout with scant regard for road safety and sliced across 3 lanes of traffic on her way to the exit ramp whilst a cacophony of angry horns blared behind them. The manoeuvre had Emil clutching the dashboard for dear life, “Jeeeeeeezusssss Niamh!”

“I’m too afraid to take one of Paddy’s old cars. If I was to get a scratch on one of them, he’d have a conniption,” she said, indifferently, zipping through a steady amber and taking a sharp right. Also, I have to get this over with before the madwoman in my head starts her shenanigans again.

As the car swung onto the centre lane of the motorway, Emil slid the seat back as far as it would go and attached his safety belt, his big brown knees pressed against the glove-box. Eventually, he felt it safe enough to make with the smalltalk (he still hadn't looked at her, he couldn't take his eyes off the road – which was just how she wanted it), “I nearly didn’t make it –- Fran was on the warpath -– she’d told friends we’d go jet-skiing in Maine this weekend. We had to cancel, so I had to do the whole ‘it’s a tradition with my best friend’ routine... But her mother has been poisoning the well again, telling her that I do nothing for her, and so I get it in the neck every time I wanna do something for Me...” and off he went on one of his maudlin diatribes about the injustices of having an angel for a wife and the Mother-In-Law From Hell™, but, hey, maybe that’s why he married Fran in the first place, because opposites attract... she represents everything he resists: conformity... button-down, middle class life... conventions of society... blah, blah, blah... as was his wont when he’d had a few. She didn’t mind; she loved the sound of his voice.

<‘E’s a borin’ twot, ain’t ‘e?>

Go away! I’m driving!

<And ‘e smells of booze! >

He’s had a few on the plane -– now go away! You’ll get us killed!

But it was worse than usual. Every jibe was delivered in the spiteful tone of an immature jilted lover. Ni immediately pushed a tape of Neu! into the cassette player, “Sorry Emil, I need to listen to this. I find it helps me concentrate,” she explained in a strained voice, as the atonal buzzsaw-guitar of Negativland blasted out of the Fiesta’s little speakers. Emil was too ‘cool’ and tipsy to object, although judging by the uncomprehending frown and exaggerated grimace, he didn’t like it (he was more of a Dylan/Beatles/Hendrix fan), so she turned it down.

Oona was irritated but too intent on causing trouble to be deterred, <‘e’s quoite dishy, in ‘e? You think so anyway. I ‘ad a look in ur fantasies ‘n ‘is name is top of the list, you dirty gurl! >

Ni gritted her teeth, her knuckles white on the wheel, Oona, this isn't the time or the place, I’m on a busy motorway -- we’ll talk later -- go and do some chores!

But Oona wouldn't let it go, <‘e still hasn’t even looked at you yet!! ‘E’s witterin’ on ‘bout ‘is bloody woife ‘n there’s you -- this doyno-moite blonde -- sittin’ roight besoide ‘im! Wot’s ‘is problem, then?!>

He’s a 53 year old married man, Oona. He has no interest in me...

<Ur picturin’ it though, aintcha! I can see ‘ee! You ’n ‘im in a tent in the woods -- that’s the big fantasy, innit?!>

As the psychic dialogue escalated to a full-blown telepathic brawl, the speedometer climbed to 73mph.

Oh – and how’s your knight in shining armour?! Been smacking you around has he? Please warn me when he decides to knock you about again and I’ll be sure to keep a first aid kit handy!

That shut her up, which was a good thing since Emil had reached the end of his list of grievances, “... well, that’s my trials and tribs out of the way -– how is Paddy? How come he’s already at the site? He usually rings the night before I leave, but not a word. I called his service and left a message, but as of yet, no reply. What gives, Twinkie?”

Ni un-gritted her teeth and tried to sound chirpy, “Erm, Paddy didn’t know what equipment you might need so he went down a day early to do a recce with some of the students...”

He was very surprised, “Really? What’s with all the mystery? Where is the dig?”

“All will be revealed once we get there,” she said, without ceremony.

“You don’t seem so excited,” he said, still confused.

She sidetracked him, “Look, Emil, I have to call at the house -– I forgot my wetsuit. Shouldn't take more than a few minutes...?” This was true, but it was also the ideal opportunity to get him to drive the rest of the way.

She was aware of him shifting in his seat and looking at her. She turned her head away slightly so that the welt on her cheek was well hidden. “I must say, you’re looking well.” She heard the gratified surprise in his voice. She felt his eyes appraising her.

Oona tittered, <’ere we go...>

Get lost! She glanced sideways and said, “Well, I don’t look so good day, I’m knackered. Up all night with a... headache.”

Emil continued to pile on the compliments, “No, I mean, you look so... what’s right term? Blooming? All grown up. You’re usually hidden under an oversized sweater and baggy pants!”

<See, I tol’ ‘ee them jeans look good on ‘ee!>

Yes, thank you. “Och, don’t tease me, Emil, please, you’re gonna.... make me...”

“I’m not teasing! You look great!”

She suddenly felt very light-headed. The world was awhirl... the road ahead became a starlit blur

and just before the darkness descended, she happened to glance in the rear-view-mirror and once again saw a someone sitting in the back behind her. A figure dressed in a black motorcycle jacket with long, jet black, straggly hair hanging down over its face so that only its mouth and lower jaw were visible, but the cleft in the chin, the clean-shaven, alabaster skin were unmistakeable, it was a youthful, fully functional Barry McKee...

or was it?

The inside of the car brightened and everything went white

isn’t it a little girl?

12 or 13, long black hair...

That smell,

it was overwhelming, like every bad smell you could think of rolled into one nauseating miasma, filling her nostrils, filling her lungs, filling her mouth

she couldn't breathe.

Panicking, thrashing, gasping for air

sleep came down

her hands let go of the wheel and fell limp at her sides, her head lolled onto her shoulder and thudded against the driver side window.

“NIAMH!” Emil immediately unclipped his belt and lurched for the wheel -– simultaneously, he slowly raised the handbrake -- the Fiesta veered onto the hard-shoulder and skidded on the gravel, spun around three times before settling in a circle of tyre tracks shrouded by a terracotta-tinted dust-cloud -- half-in-half-out of the inside lane! A deafening horn blasted and a huge freight truck missed them by inches! He shouldered the car back onto the shoulder, then ran around to Ni’s side and opened the door...

Back at Paddy’s kitchen:

She’d begged him not to take her to hospital and told him she desperately needed some sleep. It was obvious that she was mentally and physically spent, so Emil reluctantly capitulated but insisted that he drive the rest of the way. Luckily, during the melee he hadn't noticed the mark on her cheek, so she kept her face covered with her hair until they got back to Paddy’s. They went to the kitchen and Emil checked her vitals and everything appeared to be sound, “You’re a very lucky girl. I don’t know what might’ve happened if I hadn't been there.”

“Oh, stop Emil, it doesn’t bear thinking about,” she said, groaning, sitting down at the table and thinking about it.

There was some beer left over from Gourmet Night, so he cracked-open a bottle and took a long slug and delivered his diagnosis: “Your blood sugar level has crashed and you need sleep. I prescribe a Labatt Club Sandwich with plenty of straight Coke!” he cracked open a can, put it in front of her and began buttering bread.

She answered absentmindedly, still contemplating what might have been, “I skipped breakfast... I overslept... the last week has been a nightmare. Literally.”

“Burning the candle at both ends, are ya?” He flashed that dashing, devilish grin of his and winked, “Sex? Drugs? All night raves?!”

“No, I’ve been working at SCICI: St Cedric’s Institute for the Criminally Insane. I was an intern, but I... I volunteered to do a drugs test. It didn’t agree with me. I’m still recovering, really.”

“What sort of drug was it?” he asked, opening a pickle jar and popping one in his mouth.

<Tell ‘im the truth. Go on –- tell ‘im ee spend ur days dozin’ ‘n playing wiv me -- playin’ wiv urself!>

“Fuck off, you sick bitch...!” Ni hissed, aloud.

Emil stopped chewing, “Sorry...?”

Shit! Think of something -- answer the question!! “Umm... Sorry, I can’t talk about it, had to sign an NDA.”

“NDA? Is that right?” He took another slug of beer to wash down the pickle, stopped for a minute, then asked with an inquisitive frown, “SCICI? I’ve heard of that place. They take in psychos from all around the world and study them, don’t they? Does it have something to do with the treatment of psychopaths or...?”

“Please, don’t ask Emil, it’s ultra-top-secret...”

“’Ultra-top-secret’ is it?” he reiterated, sardonically. He looked at her, “Whatever it is, it suits you, but in a... strange way. You look different. Older. Paler. Your eyes look darker, your hair looks blonder... you look very...nice...” he stroked her hair.

<Oh ho, ‘e’s got that look in ‘is eye!>

Get lost!

“What the... where the hell did you get this?” He’d finally seen the weal on her cheek! Shit. “It was an accident...” she said, weakly.

He put his hand under chin, raised her head and examined it closely, “Don’t bullshit me, Ni. This is a classic contusion associated with domestic violence –- commonly known as a backhander. In fact, I can see the impression of a wedding ring. Has Paddy seen this?”

“Yes. He was there when I got it,” she said, getting up, too tired to think of an excuse.

“He was there?!” he said, shaking his head in astonishment.

“Look, Emil, I’ll explain later, I’m absolutely shattered,” she sighed, “I’m going to bed for a couple of hours.”

He looked her in the eye, his voice half-angry-half-troubled, “Somebody’s been knocking you around, haven’t they? And a married man of all things?!”

“Emil, I really need to sleep...?”

He backed up, “I get it. I get it. None of my business,” he said, putting his hands up in an exaggerated gesture of surrender. He picked up the sandwich from the counter, plonked two straws in the can of Coke and gave them to her, “Go on -– eat, sleep -- I’ll chill-out with a beer or two and sleep off the jet-lag in front of the TV. Set your alarm for 5pm,” he said, waving her away.

She went upstairs, ate the sandwich, got undressed and got into bed. As soon as her head hit the pillow

<He’ll come to ur room wake ‘ee up ‘n do ‘ee.... >

Shit, shit, shit! The Walkman was in her case in the car, there was no way of shutting her out!

C’mon Oona, enough is enough, I’m totally drained. You of all people must know that. I’ll be down there soon; we’ll talk about it face-to-face --

<’Ee just wanna do ‘im while oi’m gone! Oi wanna watch ’ee for a change!> There was a heavy hint of jealousy in her tone. This wasn't going to end soon.

Ni put a pillow over her face and screamed a muffled scream. Then she sprung up, pulled on her dressing gown and marched across the landing to the phone by Paddy’s bed.

<Go ahead, call ‘im, it won’t do ‘ee any good.>

She sat on the bed, put the phone on her lap and stabbed the number into the key pad.

<I ain’t goin’ nowhere ‘n ‘e can’t make me!>

“Rossington.”

“It’s Niamh.”

“Oh. I thought you were off dredging the swamp.”

“She’s out of control and I’m at my wit’s end.” She explained the situation quickly while Oona chimed along with every word, “She’s at it as-we-speak! She’s fucking driving me insane! Tell me what to do -- I’ll do anything!”

He heaved a world-weary sigh, “Did you show her the door?”

“The door is permanently open and I can’t close it!! She’s too powerful now. I almost died on the motorway today! Not only that, but I’m starting to experience physical phenomenon! I’ve got a welt on my face from where her husband hit her!”

Rossington seemed genuinely interested, “Really? That’s a new one. Must make a note of that...”

“Fuck you, James! I’m serious!”

“Have you been talking about the project? Your friend Detective Superintendent Somerville came to see me. He threatened me because he thinks I’ve been, in his words, ‘screwing you up’?”

“Oona was plaguing me when I was babysitting his kids –- they picked up on it somehow, and it frightened the life out of them. He knows about the drug test, but not the details, he blames you for my.......?”

The hand holding the receiver dropped to her side. Silence. She listened to her thoughts. The chiming had ceased. No fuzziness. No tinnitus-like ringing in her ears. No incongruous mirages suddenly flashing through her mind. No bridge of clouds, no beach, no door, opened or closed. She felt unburdened. Her mind was her own.

Oona was gone.

“Niamh?.............. Miss Fitzgerald .......?”

“Niamh?”

“Niamh...?”

Emil was standing at the door, “Ni? I heard shouting. I thought you were in distress...”

“Niamh, are you there...?”

She put the receiver back to her ear, “It’s OK, James, everything’s OK. See you soon.” She rang-off and stared into space, listening to her thoughts.

Emil, hands in his pockets, loitering in the doorway, stared daggers at the phone, “’James?’ Is that the guy responsible for the gash on your cheek?” he growled.

In a way, yes. “No. He was my boss at the institute, and he’s gay.”

She looked at him. All her old fantasies about him replayed in her psyche, only this time no one was watching.

Emil was looking through his fingers, “Twinkie, um, adjust your robe, babe, I’m getting quite an eyeful here ....”

She didn’t adjust her robe. She gave him more of an eyeful when she walked to the window and pulled the curtains, took off the gown, slipped into Paddy’s big four-poster and pulled back the sheets invitingly. “Please. I need this and it has to be now.”

Wide-eyed and opened mouthed, he visibly baulked as he took it in, “What?! NO!”

She pointed out the burgeoning lump in his shorts, “I know you want to and I want to too.”

He was contemplating it. He came in and sat on the edge of the bed. Then he looked at her again and had a change of heart. He stood up, shook his head and refused to give in to his baser nature, “No. It would ruin a beautiful friendship.”

“One time offer,” she said, in all seriousness, “I’ll never feel this way again, and we will never ever mention it again. It’ll be like it never happened. Just switch off for half-an-hour, enjoy the ride, then we’ll sleep-it-off in separate beds.”

She knew the resulting pause for reflection and overt inner-conflict was all for show: a respectful pause before he did what he really wanted to do. Finally, he said, “This is madness” and tore off his shirt, revealing his trim, hairy body; he opened his belt, unbuttoned his shorts and jumped in before she changed her mind...

Afternoon delight my arse.

It had been one of the most horrifying experiences of her life – clothes on or off. It wasn't that he was bad at it or inattentive, it was the fact that during the intercourse, she found herself unwittingly locked into his psyche: as soon as he penetrated her body, she found herself penetrating his mind. To her amazement, she could read his thoughts, and it wasn't a pleasant experience, not at all. It became clear that he regarded young women as little more than talking dolls -– and with each buck of his hips, a succession of previous conquests, usually his students, mimicked her grimaces; blondes, redheads, skinny girls, chubby girls, girls with glasses in various states of undress, flashed before her eyes. But the creepy thing was they all had Niamh’s mother’s face! He was in love with her mother! That made it even worse! She stopped groaning and writhing, looked up at his reddened, straining face, and waited for him to finish. He was too wrapped-up in his own trip to notice her inertia. When he was done, she stayed for a few minutes as a courtesy and listened to his apologies for succumbing to a moment of madness, the inner-monologue forever contradicting the words coming out of his mouth. Once the clichés were done with, he fell asleep inside three minutes. She hadn't uttered a word for the entire twelve and a half.

He was right about one thing, though: It had ruined a beautiful friendship.

She had a hot shower and let the water run through her hair, wishing it would seep through her scalp into her brain and wash away the memory of what just happened. And as she rinsed the suds from her eyes, another swirl of dizziness swept over her –- her knees buckled –- she stumbled backwards into the wall and slid down the tiles until she was sitting on the floor. She wiped the soap out her eyes, and as they focused, she gazed through the frosted glass of the cubicle door and saw a dark shadow against the stark whiteness of the bathroom; it appeared to be standing on the mat by the bath. “Emil...?” she muttered, even though she knew it couldn't possibly be him. Putting one arm across her breasts and the other across her lap, she crawled closer to the glass, wiped it clear and looked out, “Who’s that...?” She reached up and slowly slid the door back...

It wasn't in the room; it was a reflection in the mirrored tiles of the wall along the bath. The glass was steamed up, the little figure was a blur, however, it was plainly a little girl with long black hair, dressed in a filthy nightdress standing straight-backed with her head bowed, her hands folded in front of her, as if getting a dressing-down from the headmistress: Is this the girl that little Cathy Somerville saw...?

“Who are you...?” she said softly, as she stepped out, snatched a towel from the rack, wrapped it around her and slowly approached. The closer she got, so the little figure got much taller and more masculine until it grew to the size of a fully grown man, only the long black tresses remained. She recoiled and lifted the only available weapon to hand: the loo-brush; she brandished it in her shaky hands; when it became clear the creature wasn't going to speak, she asked in a tremulous whisper, “... are you Barry McKee...? Or are you the demon that possesses him...? Or am I suffering from a new form of schizophrenia...?”

The crackly voice resounded between her ears: <I’m here to give you peace of mind.>

8 minutes later, she was pulling the sheets off the bed and informing the former man of her dreams, “C’mon, get up and get dressed. I wanna get down there before dark.”

Emil sat up and watched her tidy-up around him, a look of disbelief on his face, spouting superlatives like a besotted teenager, “What a trip that was. I haveta tell ya, and I’m being honest, that was the most amazing thing... It felt as if  we were locked together -- body ‘n soul -- it was like we were flying! It was like: Woah!”

She ignored him, “Please get up, I have to strip the bed and change it.”

He staggered to his feet and pulled on his shorts, “Didn't you feel it? It was like we were sharing a dream... Awesome!” He continued in this vein for a while until it became clear she wasn't similarly impressed. He watched her with narrowed eyes, as if sizing her up. “You've changed, you know that?” he said at last.

“I always change after a shower,” she said, impassively.

As she locked up the house and they made their way to her car, it was introspection time again. Gone was the cock-sure, intelligent adventurer with a witty quip for every occasion, instead, he trudged along behind her, moping, grumbling in a self-pitying groan about how big a deal it was and how much trouble he’d be in if anyone found out. “Your mother will kill me! My wife will divorce me! Oh God -- and we did it in Paddy’s bed! I won’t be able to look him in the eye ever again...”

She spun on her heel, “Shut the f --” she began to shout, before remembering it was the weekend and the neighbours were likely to hear, and lowering her voice to an angry whisper, “it’s forgotten. Didn't happen, remember? Speak of it no more, please!”

They exchanged suspicious looks then got into the car.  She adjusted the seat and tried to put the keys in the ignition, but her hands were too shaky, her head was too fuzzy, and in spite of the mystery voice’s assurances, she couldn't be sure Oona would make a comeback, “Can’t drive, still a bit groggy. You’ll have to do it.” She bounced over into the passenger seat, pulled up the hood of her hoodie and assumed a foetal-position turned away on her side, looking out of the window so she didn’t have to look at him. She felt him get in, readjust the seat and try to get comfortable. He had difficulty getting it started, “Fucking piece of shit car,” he yapped, as the engine spluttered twice then stalled, “It’s like a goddamn downhill-racer!!” He pounded the steering wheel with his fists. The car rocked and boomed. She didn’t lose her temper or shout him out, instead, without turning toward him, she told him exactly what he was thinking, “...’she’s over eighteen’ ‘it was her who invited me in’ ‘I’d been drinking on the plane’ ‘no man could refuse an offer like that’ ‘What if she spills the beans?’ ‘Oh my God, what if she gets pregnant?’...” she iterated, dispassionately. 

She was numb to it all. She just accepted the gift of telepathy as the latest in a series of incredible events set in motion when she first visited Bogmire and met Oona Umbert. It was getting boring now.

Emil was dumbfounded, “How do you do that? It’s like you’re reading my mind! Jeezus – you are just like --”

She turned, dug her elbow into his ribs and marked his card, “Now you listen to me, mister -– I am not my mother. This has nothing to do with her. I wasn't using you to settle a score or get one over on her. But I did use you. I was horny. It could've been anyone. You were the nearest thing with a pulse. Does that make you feel better?! Don’t get hung-up-on-it -– just drive!”

He gaped at her with uncomprehending eyes and said without irony, “I think I might be in love with you...”

Meanwhile, in the grounds of Pagham house: Wearing her nicest summer frock and her best shoes, one hand holding onto Ni’s big floppy blue hat to stop it from blowing off in the strong breeze, the other clutching her silvery clutch-bag, Oona crept along the path that led from the edge of the woods to the rear of the house. She planned to enter via the old disused servants’ door, she could get to the kitchens from there and sneak through to the main house. She got as far the old courtyard where the moss-covered graves of the 8th Dukes’ wife & child lay, when Charlie Noble, the bespectacled, beer-gutted head of security, pulled up and blocked her path with his jeep. “Where do you think you’re goin’, Mrs Nevin?” he enquired, in his dense North Antrim accent. He got out and walked toward her. She tried to run around him, but despite his size, he was quite agile –- he turned and deftly caught her by the arm, “Hey, hey, hey – where’s the fire, now?”

“Kris is ‘ere! Oi know ‘e’s ‘ere - oi can sense ‘im!”

“Well now, you can’t see Kris, Oona, he’s talkin’ to Mr Scanlon.”

“So ‘e is ‘ere!” she cried, excitedly, jumping up and down.

“You can’t see him! C’mon now, I’m takin’ you home!” he said, pulling her toward the jeep.

“That will not be necessary!” She replied in her poshest voice, as she squirmed out of his grasp and made to walk back the way she came, “Oi’d rather walk –-” she said, took a few steps then suddenly veered to the left towards the path that led to the front of the house –- the manoeuvre caught him off-guard -- he slipped on the mossy cobbles and fell on his arse, “Bollocks!” She bolted, “KRIS!!” she yelled repeatedly as she ran along the path “KRIS!!” Unfortunately her new shoes weren’t built for speed and it wasn't long before Charlie caught up with her and grabbed her from behind. He tried to reason with her as she struggled in his arms, “Now c’mon! Home with ye!!” He took the walkie-talkie from his shoulder and waved it in front of her face, “I’ll call yer auntie, I will! I’ll tell her ye’re out here tryin’ to get in!” She tore away from his grasp, spun on her heel and headed back down the path, “I can go home on me own!” she said, haughtily as she walked off into the trees.

He thought for a moment then walked after her, “Oona! Waitaminnit! Please listen to me!”

His voice sounded sympathetic so she stopped.

Charlie walked up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders, “Don’t come lookin’ for young Kris, Oona. Ye’re playin’ into ol’ Scanlon’s hands, darlin’. Nuthin’ would please him better than if you wuz to do somethin’ stupid.”

She shrugged off his hands, turned and shouted, “Why would oi do somethin’ stoopid?! Why won’t they let me see ‘im now we is all growed up?! We’s ol’ friends for ‘eaven’s sake!”

“You know why, Oona, you’re not like other girls, you’re... special,” he explained, pointing to his head, “and we haveta be extra careful where Kris is concerned, he’s the boss’ favourite grandchild, he can’t come to any harm.”

“But I don’t wanna hurt ‘im -- I luv ‘im!” she cried, tearfully.

“That’s what they’re worried about,” said Charlie, dolefully.

She gripped the hem of skirt, fell to her knees and screamed in frustration at the top of her voice -– the trees around them shook -- an ivy-covered branch snapped loose from the upper boughs of a dead chestnut tree and crashed to the ground, missing Charlie by inches! He backed up, scared out of his wits. “How the hell did you do that?!”

She was just as shocked. Something had snapped in her head -- there was a terrible rushing in her ears -- she saw fireworks exploding in front of her eyes -- it felt like her bones had turned to jelly! She toppled onto her side, eyes wide open, twitching and drooling...

Suddenly, just as they were driving along the dirt track that led to woods, a wave of nausea surged in Ni’s tummy, “Pull over -- gonna be sick!”

As soon as Emil slammed on the brakes -- she threw open the door and threw-up the sandwiches he made her earlier that day. He got out and shouted across the roof, “You OK...? Want me to hold your hair or something...”

She spat out the last of the chunks and shouted over her shoulder, “No! Go on ahead... it’s just round the corner, I’ll walk... need to get some fresh air...” Not that the air here could be described as fresh. “OK, then. See you at the bog!” He said, giving her a glum look before driving off.

What’s happening now? She took a few minutes to recover and wipe her mouth with a tissue, when a jeep came hurtling down the dirt track, and as she stood back to let it pass, she glanced inside -- and saw a familiar face propped up against the passenger side window -- Oona! -- for a split second she looked straight at Ni, or to be more precise, she looked through her. She was like a beautiful zombie, her deathly pallor and deathly stare making it impossible to tell if she was dead or alive. Ni ran after them shouting “STOP!”, but the driver was in too much of a hurry to hear her. She stopped running, buckled in two and threw up again. When she eventually stood up, she espied a diminutive figure standing in the long grass that bordered the woods.

It was the same little girl she’d glimpsed in the bathroom. The same little girl the Somerville girls described: long, shiny-black hair, but at this distance it was hard to make out her features. “Hello... Are you lost?” Ni called out, as she climbed over the wall and slowly approached, “Are you a local, honey? Do you live in Bogmire...?”

The little girl turned, ran into the trees and disappeared from view – “Come back!” shouted Ni, running after her, until she got to the edge of the wood and had to stop to throw up again...

In the east wing of Pagham house: The old infirmary hadn't been in use since the late 1950s, when Laphen bought the house. It had been originally intended as a hospital for the Redmen, but since they rarely got ill or endured an injury that required medical assistance and a sick-bed, it had been left to gather dust. But this was an unprecedented occasion, so they called on the services of a doctor.

Ella Sparkes opened the windows and shutters to allow rays of late afternoon sunshine to flood the room, turning the yellowing net-curtains into shimmering golden clouds, and unsettling a dust cloud that made the attendees cough and splutter. They composed themselves, gathered around the gurney and looked down at the patient.

[it was so bright Oona thought she was in Heaven looking up at the face of St Peter and the angels]

“Her eyes are open. That’s odd,” said Dr Morgan, an 83 year old GP originally from Anglesey who’d retired to a cottage in Carlow in the late-70s. Affable and slightly detached, Morgan ministered to the villagers’ medical needs, kept them stocked with painkillers and penicillin and dealt with any emergencies, such as the one in hand. He was partial to a pot of poteen, hence no stranger to blackouts himself, but this was a new one on him, “Are you sure she hasn’t been using drugs or alcohol?” he asked, in his melodious Welsh accent.

“No. Drugs is forbidden by our religion, and ‘er ‘usband’s a gard, so I very much doubt it,” replied Mrs Sparkes. Her eyes narrowed – she looked at the trio of men around the foot of the bed, “Unless theseuns know any different?”

The Dr Morgan looked to the men.

They shook their heads, “As far as we know she’s clean,” vouchsafed Scanlon.

“... No history of epilepsy, fits, sleepwalking or anything like that?” asked the doctor.

The old woman chewed her cheek and looked and looked at Scanlon, “Lemme think, now...”

Scanlon glowered.

She lowered her head, “No, but, umm... but she ‘as a lot goin’ on in her ‘ead all the toime.” She looked Oona and asked in all sincerity, “Could she‘d’ve blew a fuse or somethin’?”

Charlie chuckled.

Dr Morgan smiled and said, kindly, “Well, we’ll just have to have a look and see, won’t we.”

It was getting too much for the sergeant; he loosened his tie and mopped his brow with a sopping cotton handkerchief, “It’s so friggin’ hot in here... even with them windows open... Jeeesus, I can’t get a breath, and I’ve still got that stench from the bog in me nosterls...” he smelled the sleeves of his shirt “I think it’s got into me clothes. Ugh!”

“Ack, catch a grip, ye big girl’s blouse,” grunted Scanlon, “you’ve been livin’ with that stench for years, you must be used to it by now.”

“I never smelt anythin’ like the reek that came from that excavation. That was strong enough to make a skunk run for cover!” Marchant said, a little too loudly.

Scanlon nudged him, “Ssshhh -- the auld doctor is talkin’!”

Examining her unblinking, dazzling grey eyes, Dr Morgan asked Charlie, “And you say she just dropped and started twitching?”

Charlie lit up a cigarette and explained, “Aye -- she lost her temper, see, and let-out this almighty shriek like you wouldn't believe --”

Everyone but the doctor nodded and said in unison, “heard it.”

“-- and the next thing I know is the trees start shakin’ and (he pointed up) –- this bloody huge branch falls down and misses me (he made a tiny space between his thumb and forefinger) by that much!! Bleedin’ miracle I wasn't cleaved-in-half!” He shook his head, took a long drag and blew it out, sending spiralling clouds of bluish smoke into the shafts of sunshine.

“She can do that...?” the sergeant gasped.

Charlie shrugged, “Nobody knows what she can do, least of all her.”

Scanlon arched an eyebrow, narrowed an eye and nodded toward the door, “Ahem, maybe you should smoke that out in the corridor, Charlie?”

“With pleasure,” said Charlie, sneering, but just as he went to walk away, “Excuse me -- but when did she get this?” asked the doctor, pointedly, turning Oona’s head to the side. Charlie stopped in his tracks, “What?” The doctor pulled back her hair to reveal the purplish weal on her cheek.

“Looks like somebody’s hit her a quare slap,” the sergeant said, looking at the doughty security man.

Charlie protested his innocence, “Hey, hey, hey, now, now! I wouldn't hit a woman –- and look -– it’s not fresh!”

“That’s true,” said Dr Morgan, “it’s at least a day old.”

“Nevin’s been hitting her!” said Scanlon, almost smiling; he had a distraction and exploited it immediately, “Is it any wonder she’s fainting? She’s probably got a concussion, poor girl.”

Marchant covered his eyes in shame, “Ah, Jaysus, no...”

“It don’t surprise me none. If oi’m honest, oi can ‘ardly blame ‘im,” said Mrs Sparkes, with a dispassionate what-can-you-do shrug of the shoulders, “she’s as thick as shit ‘n she can’t cook. It’s enough to drive anybody round the twist.”

Scanlon glared at Marchant and said, “Where is that big shithead now?”

Slowly losing the will to live, the sergeant stepped back, took off his cap and wiped his brow with the back of his hand, “I left him ’n his partner to keep an eye on things down at the bog...” The pang of regret quickly turned to rage, “I’ll feckin’ kill the fecker!”

“AHEM!” Dr Morgan cleared his throat to take back the room, “A slap wouldn't cause a condition the like of this. I’d say this is a psychological rather than a physiological condition.” He turned to Mrs Sparkes, “In other words, something has upset her to such an extent that she’s put herself in a trance.”

Scanlon stooped and studied Oona’s glassy-eyes, “Pretendin’ is she...?”

Outraged, Ella Sparkes put her hands on her hips and shouted, “C’mon, get up ye lazy bitch!”

The doctor winced and put out his hands to quiet her down and put her right, “No, no – she’s had some-sort-of an episode. It could be stress-related. She’ll have to see a psychiatrist, and if there’s no joy there, we’ll have to send her for an MRI scan.”

Mrs Sparkes’ ears pricked up under her ginger wig; she didn’t trust modern technology and interjected every time she heard something she didn’t understand, “Emmer Eye-Scan? What’s that?”

While the doctor explained the rudiments of magnetic-resonance imaging, Scanlon grabbed the sergeant by the lapels and dragged him into the corridor, “Get that bastard Nevin up here ASAP! I want that string-o’-piss to take her home ‘n keep her there. She’s his responsibility!”

Marchant had a perturbing thought, “But what about ‘Is Nibs? What about Herbie?! Should I phone ‘em...?”  

Scanlon tightened his grip, pulled him close and whisper-shouted into his face, “The old man ‘n Herbie must NEVER find out about this or we’ll all suffer!” There was a gentle hubbub coming from the room. He shoved the sergeant away and told him to get on with it, then smiled broadly, went back in and clapped his hands, “Is that us? Are we done?”

Dr Morgan wasn't happy, “Look here, I’ll have to report this. If her husband’s been knocking her around -- a policeman, by God -- it’s my duty to inform the relevant authority.”

“Doctor, you know the Supplicants are protected by the laws on religious tolerance and are entitled to practise their own form of worship,” the groundskeeper reminded him in his most gracious tone of voice, “and they have different laws, different customs. If they want to treat her with toadstool-juice and frog stew, they’re perfectly within their legal rights to do so -– as long as it doesn’t endanger life -- and as you can see, aside from a wee turn, she’s perfectly healthy!” He turned, winked and whispered in the doctor’s ear, “Leave it with me – I’ll see that she gets what she needs...” and slipped him an extra £20. As Charlie escorted him off the premises, Scanlon took Mrs Sparkes to one side and had a quiet word.

“She’s dangerous now, Ella. What Charlie says is true. I saw the branch myself – it was ripped from a dead tree alright – the join was splintered and ragged. And today, right-around-the-time of her little temper-tantrum, the cutlery on the dish rack started tinklin’, the pots ‘n’ pans rattled on their hooks. Remember? You thought it was an earthquake...”

No sooner had those words parted his lips, than her niece’s eyelids flickered, her dark lashes fluttered like the wings of tiny rooks...

“It looks like she’s wakening...”

[she was awake the entire time. She couldn't hear their voices, just murmurs; she saw their blurred faces through a kaleidoscope of illuminated colours. 

Now the room was getting brighter -- everything faded into the background until there was silence and shining white... nothing but silence and shining white...

The light was pouring in from the mirror above a wash-hand-basin at the back of the room. She watched the little girl with the lumpy head, luminous and translucent, climb out of it and come to the foot of the bed.]

The little ghost girl looked down on Oona with a pitying-frown.

The other voice explained

< I’m so sorry about shutting you down like this, but you needed reining in, and since your mentor is proving so indispensable, I’m afraid I have no further use for you at this point in time.

This operation is on hiatus...>

Ni was making her way through the woods toward the site. It was dusk and the darkening skies made it difficult to negotiate what could be loosely described as the pathway to the bog. She’d just fought her way through a particularly dense hawthorn bush, when the voice that sounded like nothing on earth crackled in her head:

<How does it feel to be free?>

She stopped. Oh God. How bad is she?

<She’ll live. But she is temporarily telepathically-impaired. >

So, is that it? She’s out of my life?

<For now.>

So... What do you get out of all this?

<I may call in a favour at a later date.>

That sounded ominous. She paused before repeating her previous enquiry, Is that you Barry? Or am I talking to your ‘demon’? What’s your part in all this?

...........................

Hello...?

<Goodbye, Niamh. It’s been a pleasure working with -->

At that very moment, at SCICI: “... happy Barry? Well, you’ve got what you wanted. Your friend Somerville has seen to that!” chimed Rossington, hands on his knees, mock-smiling, yapping like an overbearing schoolmistress, “We’re taking away all the mirrors, wires, gadgets and spotlights and we’re going to put you in one of the older rooms: drab, dreary, padded walls, tiny windows, a plain white ceiling to stare up at all day. See how you like that, eh?!”

Matron and Matthew Cromarty were disconnecting the electrodes from Barry’s head while a pair of technicians on stepladders dismantled the mirrors, all listening as Rossington ranted at the insensible wretch on the bed, “But don’t worry -- I haven’t given up on you just yet,” he took out a large roll of print-out paper, unfurled it and pointed to various highlighted sections on a wave line, “I’ve had a look at your readings  -- dates and times -- and a very interesting pattern emerges: for instance, when Niamh nearly crashed the car -- when Oona had a fit,” he indicated a row of numbers in the highlighted section: “increased brain activity! This proves your mind is active! What do you say to that?!”

Matron put a hand on his arm, “James, c’mon now, you’re gettin’ upset, you haven’t slept for days...”

“Get your fucking paws off me, you damn silly bitch,” he said, calmly. He made sure the technicians were out of earshot and took the pair to one and berated them, “Matt Cromarty (sniff), phew -- stinking of liquor as usual, and Matron Stranks, Ireland’s answer to Nurse Ratched.” He pointed at the CCTV camera above the door, “Do you have any idea what would happen if Somerville got hold of those tapes?” he looked at Cromarty, “For instance, I have video of you pinching his genitals!”

“I was just testin’ his reflexes!”

“What? Like this?” Rossington slapped him full in the face with an almighty smack.

The technicians stopped unscrewing and gawped.

Once he’d recovered from the shock, Cromarty burst into tears. Matron put her arms around him and let him sob into her pillowy bosom while Rossington rounded on her, “and as for you, you gormless old trout -- I have footage of you lighting candles and saying prayers over him!”

“I spoke to my priest and he told me to do it because...” she began to protest.

Rossington wagged his finger to cut her off, stooped and stared into her eyes, “... because you think it’ll protect you from the demon from McKee’s in Soul, huh? I warned you about talking to clergymen, didn’t I?!” He took her crucifix in his hand and tore it off, “And you of all people should know that the wearing of jewellery is not permitted in the institute!!” and plonked the trinket in the palm of her hand.

“Ask Peter Sinclair what he believes,” Cromarty cried into matron’s chest, referring to Rossington’s ‘flatmate’.

It was a cheap shot and the good doctor dearly wanted to lash out again, but the technicians were watching, so he made do with giving Cromarty the evil eye. “This is your last warning, shithead. Now get out of my sight.”

As they exited, two burly orderlies entered. They picked up the long, frail shape of Barry McKee and carefully deposited him onto a gurney; as they passed, Rossington looked into Barry’s unblinking eyes and said, “Life is about to get very boring for you, Barry.....”

Back in his office, he walked straight to his desk, turned on the reading lamp and lifted the phone with the intention of calling the flat to talk to Peter, but before he could dial the number, someone in the darkness at the back of the room said, “So, your li’l experiment’s gone tits-up, ‘as it, Jimbo?”

“Jeez! Herb? I thought you were in France...?” said Rossington, gulping, putting down the receiver.

There was Herbie, in full chauffeur uniform, driving-gloves-and-all, leaning on the bust of St Cedric at the back of the room, “I came back to check-up on fings,” he said, shaking his head regretfully. “I hear Oona’s put herself in a trance cuz the boyo you chose to be ‘er ‘usband ‘as been knockin’ ‘er abaht, ‘n the Fitzgerald gal you brought in to 'elp ‘er is due to leave the cahntry in a coupla weeks. All this after you wuz told to leave ‘er alone? It’s a right-old balls-up, innit Jimbo?”

Rossington backed up slightly so that he was touching the handle of the top drawer of the desk.

“Lookin’ fer this?” Herbie took Rossington’s beloved Magnum .357 from his belt; it glinted in the half-light as the big chauffeur advanced on his prey, “You've cost us a blahdy packet, Jim, and for what -- a psycho we can’t control?!”

“Oh shit, no, Herb...” The good doctor put up his hands and backed up toward the door, “I warned you -– I told you Oona is uncontrollable -– I told you she’s a sociopath -- she was driving Miss Fitzgerald crazy! She almost killed her!” His back hit the door with a thud -- Herbie grabbed him by the tie and growled into his face, “She wuz perfectly awright until you got yer fackin claws into ‘er!” He pressed the muzzle of the pistol against the ball of Rossington’s nose turning it into a porcine snout.

The good doctor kept his head steady and answered nervously, “She wasn't ‘alright’ -- she was locked in a room shut away from the world and she would've rotted in there if not for me! If you want to blame anyone -- blame Scanlon -– he’s the one who spread malicious rumours to get me taken off the case! He’s the one who’s plotting to get rid of her!”

Gorringe ran the muzzle along Rossington’s cheek and growled, “You can squeal all you like, Jimbo, but this time there’s no escaping yer fate.”

“Don’t do this, Herb. We go way back -- at least 20 years -- and I’ve always done my upmost -- I got Ollie off booze, I got Annelise off smack --”

“Ollie’s fallen off the wagon loadsa times since then and your ‘treatment’ nearly killed poor li’l Annelise! Not only that -- - you then proceeded to exploit ‘er!”

“Hardly! We wrote a book together! She made a lot of money and she’s fully recovered!”

Herbie pushed the muzzle hard into Rossington’s cheekbone, “That’s the reason the boss can never bring isself to pull the plug on ya. But the boss ain't the geezer ‘e used to be, see, ‘n ‘e leaves it to me to make all the Life or Deaf decisions.” He grabbed the good doctor’s tie, pulled him across the room, thrust him into his swivelling, leather throne and put the gun against his temple, “Now, sit still. This hasta look like suicide!”

Eyes squeezed-shut, Rossington begged for mercy in his native New Jersey accent, “Christ no, don’t do this!! Look, Scanlon is your guy -- he’s your loose cannon –- he’s always hated her...!”

There was a long pause, then he heard Gorringe say “We know.”

The muzzle was withdrawn, the pressure on his Adam’s-apple eased. He opened his eyes. Herbie was sitting on the edge of the desk, grinning, “That’s why yer off the ‘ook, for now,” he said, matter-of-factly, and in one deft movement spun the pistol around his finger like a six shooter, caught it by the barrel, ejected the magazine and put it in the breast pocket of his tunic, spun it again and handed the disarmed weapon to Rossington. “The boss ‘n’ me ‘ad a powwow ‘n you’re the lucky winner, Jimbo. Scanlon is indeed ‘a loose cannon’ and ‘e will be dealt wiv in doo course, but we ain’t pleased with yer work, so from now on you go back to doin’ yer normal business  an’ we leave Oona alone to get on wiv ‘er life. OK?”

Rossington took the gun with a trembling hand and carefully put it back in the drawer, “Whatever you say.”

Herbie nodded, “Good. Until we decide wot to do next, this operation is on hiatus...”

The Wetlands of Bogmire, Co. Kildare, in the grounds of Pagham House:

12:45am: The clouds had opened, and as the raindrops hissed through the trees and strafed the canvas of the little shelter, the amateur archaeologists, some holding lanterns, gathered around to see what they’d found. Paddy knelt by the tarp and shone his torch on the entwined skeletons, now carefully washed down, relatively mud-free and finally exposed to the air. Shaking his head with incredulity, he turned to Ni and held up her little sketch, “You were right on the money. 100%. Exactly where you said they’d be, in the same position; one an ancient adult male, the other a child with a fractured skull -- you got it exactly right,” he said, utterly awestruck.

Ni, holding a handkerchief dipped in perfume to her nose, answered efficiently and unemotionally, “This lends credence to the legend that an ‘ancient magus’ was placed in the bog and cursed so that his evil wouldn't spread after his demise,” she explained to Emil, who was still too busy crapping his pants to take it in, let alone adopt his usual casual, cooler-than-thou attitude. But instead of raising any objection about despoiling a scene of natural beauty, he asked, tremulously, “And... you just had a dream... what...?”

Paddy tried to coax her into a confession, “C’mon Ni, did someone tell you about this? Is there someone out there who knows something about this?”

“I just had a vision, that’s all I can tell you. I can’t explain it. It could've been a side effect of the drugs Rossington gave me, but for some reason I knew it was true,” she said, equivocally.

“Well, I’m flummoxed,” said Paddy, standing up, pulling down his hood and scratching his head, “The older mummy is perfectly preserved! It’ll take some time to date it, but I’m pretty sure it’s thousands of years old. I don’t know whether to feel elated or afraid!”

“It’s very... exciting,” said Emil, very uncomfortable in his own skin, not knowing how to behave.

Paddy made a face and said, “Is that all you have to say? This is a monumental find! I thought you’d be overjoyed?!” He looked from one to the other and twigged something was wrong, “Did you two have a row on the drive down?”

“Oh, a disagreement over something insignificant,” said Ni, glancing at Emil.

Emil swallowed hard, looked away and said nothing.

“What about the little girl?” she asked, sparing his blushes.

Paddy hunkered down again and examined the smaller, whiter skeleton closely and shook his head, “Well, we’ll have to identity her, poor thing. In my opinion, she was definitely killed in this century; at least 50 years ago, so there must be a record of her somewhere. The murderer or murderers could still be alive.”

It struck her like a thunderbolt. She put the handkerchief over her mouth to stifle her gasp and stepped back. This time it wasn't the smell that made her recoil.

This is the little girl in the Somerville kids’ bedroom. This is the little girl she saw in the mirrors. This is the little girl she saw at the edge of the woods. This is her. There were tresses of black hair still clinging to the skull and the remains of a little nightdress clinging to the skeleton, but Ni didn’t need to see the physical evidence, she knew in her heart it was true. But why did McKee/his demon want her found?

Meanwhile, “... the question is: how did she come to be resting in the other’s arms? 5000 years apart and they’re positioned like Madonna and Child? It doesn’t make sense,” said Paddy, looking to his colleague for an opinion, “What do you think, Emil? Ever seen anything like this?”

Still distracted by guilt and embarrassment, nevermind the potential explosiveness of the situation, Emil answered diffidently, “Umm... yeah... sure looks like murder to me...”

Piqued by his friend’s semi-detached attitude and his niece’s apparent lassitude, Paddy stood up and gruffly announced, “Sorry folks, but this place will be a crime scene for the foreseeable future. Until we get this mystery sorted out, this operation is on hiatus...”

The Ivy House, Downpatrick, Northern Ireland:

01:45am: Ogden Castle, the Lumb’s rotund butler -- counsel to the New Master of the house and newly-installed leader of the coven, Jamie Jameson Lumb -- crossed the tiled lobby and waddled up the hall to the drawing room. He’d called a house meeting, although there’ll only be two members present; Lady Beth was off to her ranch in Connecticut leaving them to sort out the ‘hocus-pocus shit’. The housemates and household staff were under lockdown and warned not to venture out of the estate ‘until the Barry McKee business has been sorted’. Puffing and panting, he knocked the door and entered. “C’mon, Oggy,” said Jamie, “what’s the news? I had to put off a meditation session for this!” This was true; he was dressed in a Persian kaftan and beaded slippers, his brow and shaved head daubed with ancient runes peculiar to the coven.

Puffing and wheezing, Castle took a seat and explained, “Sorry, sir, I was waitin’ for word from the Council, it takes ages now, what with the Psychosphere still out-of-commission.” He took a deep breath and told them, “Anyway, according to the lads in Namibia, there’s the slightest hint of violet in the sunset. He’s definitely not weakening. He’s getting energy from somewhere. There are also traces of him in the Mirror World.”

Guy ‘Goz’ Gosling, Jamie’s school friend, ex-band mate, former rock star and now a successful movie actor, was slumped across one of the leather armchairs. He was also shaven-headed and bare-footed, but in his case it was a fashion choice, like his black Bowie tee-shirt and tight-fitting leather trousers. He was sick and tired of the whole affair and desperately wanted to get back to Hollywood to resuscitate his acting career, “That’s it then. Go to SCICI and unplug him. How hard can it be?”

“You know how hard it can be, dickhead, he has to die a natural death,” snapped Jamie, shooting him a dirty look. “If we kill McKee the demon will just migrate to the nearest lifeform, I don’t need to tell you that. We have to tackle him while McKee’s still alive, and to do that, we need to get close, and Rossington has him locked up safe ‘n sound in a secure unit in a high-security prison. That’s how hard it can be.”

They were at an impasse. It was times like that Jamie dreaded. Making decisions that could drastically affect the coven. It was the only time he doubted his abilities. Castle read him, “You've nothing to fear, sir, it’s only a setback. We’ll get him.”

“There is another option we haven’t explored,” said Goz, sheepishly.

Jamie read his mind without the aid of telepathy, “No. Not him.”

“But he can travel in the Mirror World and he has the energy to cast spells, he could tackle him from the inside...?”

Castle and Jamie considered it for all of second and then gave him a firm, “No.”

“Master Bernard is more likely to make a deal with the demon than try to stop him,” said Castle.

“That’s if he hasn’t already!” said Jamie.

Goz threw up his hands in anger and despair, “Well, what other choice do we have?! We can’t get close enough to him to curse him! We can’t attack him in the Mirror World...?”

Jamie paced the floor in front of the fireplace and bemoaned their lot, “If only Carla wasn't resting. She’d get into SCICI and no one would bat an eyelid.”

Castle was quick to correct him, “Aye, she may be able to beguile a lot of people simultaneously, sir, but she can’t beguile security cameras. And besides, Rossington’s already met her [See Book One Part 9]; he knows she’s one of us.”

Jamie heaved a heavy sigh, “Then, what the hell are we going to do?”

The prospect of enlisting Bernie Pritchard to do the dirty work was looking inevitable until there was a knock on the door and Fordham the footman entered, excused himself and whispered something in Castle’s ear. The butler nodded and Fordham left.

“Well, Oggy, what is it?!” said Jamie, impatiently.

Castle explained that an archaeological dig in Kildare had unearthed the mummy of an evil magus and broken an ancient curse releasing a cloud of dark energy into the air, “It’s so virulent that it’s rendered the entire area unapproachable for psyches like us. And it would account for the sudden surge of dark power.”

“How come we didn’t know about this? An evil magus buried in a bog? An ancient curse? I don’t remember any of this being mentioned in history class,” said Goz, getting more irritated with each development.

“It must've happened before our ancestors came home to Ireland,” offered Castle, “the curse put on his earthly remains must've been strong enough to cover all trace of ‘im. They mustn’t’ve felt anything at all when they arrived or they’d’ve dealt with it...” Castle’s voice dropped as he realised something relevant to the conversation.

“What is it now, Oggy?” said Jamie, getting evermore anxious with every disclosure.

“I dunno, it could be nothin’.” Castle told them of a residence in the immediate vicinity of the bog; Pagham House. It was built to the same specifications as the Ivy House at around the same time, “The 8th Duke of Roxborough -- Thaddeus Ravenhill -- a one time friend of Sir Arnold’s [Jamie’s grandfather], commissioned it. They were as thick as thieves back in the day, but he wasn’t one of us. He tried everything, y’know, the usual hokum: satanic rituals, virgin sacrifice, that sorta bollocks. He was executed in 1795, but Sir Arnold had nuthin’ to do with ‘im by then. He was off his rocker on mind-bending drugs. Anyway, I think the bog is in the grounds of his estate.”

“You think he could have something to do with this?” asked Jamie.

“Seems unlikely. If he did know about it, he didn’t mention it to Sir Arnold. And if anyone could see through Roxborough it was Sir Arnold. Still, it’s a bit of a coincidence them finding the mummy on his land....” said Castle, pensively.

“How dangerous can this mummy be?” said Goz, confused, “I mean, he must've Ascended when he died? If he was a ghost we’d know about it by now.”

Jamie looked to Castle, “He has a point.”

Castle sighed with fatigue, “It’s not his Soul that matters, sir,” he said, mopping his neck with his handkerchief, “he musta been beholden to the demon; only a disciple would have access to that sorta dark power. And that energy never dies; it lives on in the body. In other words, he’s as dangerous dead as he was alive.” He offered them some consolation, “On the other hand, it could take years for the demon to access it, especially in an isolated, incapacitated body. McKee could die a natural death in that time, ‘n if that’s the case, the demon will die with him ‘n none of this will matter.” Castle took a deep breath, “In the meantime, the witches can keep an eye on things. They’re the only ones who can be around dark energy and only suffer minor effects. I’ll give ‘em a call on the auld crystal ball, I just hope they’re agreeable. They can be a fickle lot at the best of times.”

“I just thought of something,” said Jamie, in a troubled voice, “as the crow flies, it’s only around 80 miles from Odin’s Inn.”

“Shite, I forgot about that ...” said Castle, groaning, putting his head in his hands, “... will it ever end?”

Goz looked from one to the other, “’Odin’ Inn’?”

“It’s in Brodir, a deserted seaside town on the coast of Wicklow,” Jamie told him, “it’s where Calvert and the Lindsay woman live; they were the couple involved in the capture of McKee. Danielle’s Soul migrated to the woman during the encounter. They’re due to have a baby at some time in the near future.”

Goz was suddenly very interested and sat up, “Jeezus! Dani? Dani’s coming back?! How do you know for sure?”

“Witches,” said Castle, tapping his temples with his index fingers, “they’re never wrong.” [See Book One, Part 21]

“But if the demon gets wind of it while all this shit’s going down, she could be corrupted all over again,” said Jamie, shaking his head at the enormity of the task ahead.

“Well, you’ll have plenty of time to work on a solution, sir,” Castle informed him with a regretful frown, “cos a few of us older ones are drained after the events of the last 6 months. We need to go down below ‘n get some rest or we’ll be no use to anybody.”

Jamie was aghast, “You’re hibernating?! For how long?”

“At least a couple of years. The witches can handle things while we’re away. As far as we’re concerned, this operation is on hiatus.”

2 years later...

ODIN’S INN, BRODIR, Co. Wicklow:

Sunday, May 2nd 1991

The bar resounded with a loud banging: there was someone at the front door. Zindy shouted from the kitchen, “There’s somebody at the front door, Mal!”

Malky looked over the banister and yelled back, “...And here’s me thinkin’ the woodworm were using heavy machinery!”

“I’m laughin’ but the door’s still bangin’!”

“I’m wasted in this place,” he muttered, put down his paintbrush and got to his feet, “Ooow, me back!”  He’d been sitting on the stairs varnishing the handrail for the past 90 minutes and his vertebrae had settled into an awkward curve; it took him a good few seconds to stretch-out the kink.

Meanwhile, in the parlour, Brooster was enjoying his Sunday; there was always plenty to watch: a film in the afternoon and documentaries on BBC2 at night -- unless there was sport on, in which case he’d watch Channel 4 or RTE2. He felt a little guilty lazing around like this, but after 10 years working as a RUC cadaver dog, going for runs every day at dawn and getting up at all hours to sniff for corpses in the dark, he felt he’d earned his rest. Anyway, today’s matinee featured an Alec Guinness double bill (one of Broo’s favourite actors) on BBC2: Kind Hearts and Coronets followed by Bridge over the River Kwai; just his cup of tea. He was enjoying Dennis Price committing the first murder when he heard a robust knock at the front door. It was very unusual to get visitors at this time of year, especially on a Sunday. He struggled to his feet, whimpering intermittently as his old bones ached with the effort, staggered across the floor and put an ear against the door.

The banging began again.

The kitchen door opened and Broo winced as Zindy’s voice shrieked in the hall, “Malky! The door!! I’m up to me tits in derv!” Evidently her pregnancy had not affected her vocal cords.

“RIGHT!” Malky shouted back, muttering under his breath about the abolition of slavery as he lurched through the bar and into the vestibule, and taking care not to touch the recently varnished woodwork, slid back the bolts and opened the door to a tall, sturdily-built man in his mid-to-late 60s looking up at him from the bottom step.

Clad in a neat, well-pressed, double-breasted grey uniform topped-off with a peaked cap and patent leather knee-boots, he had the bearing of an ex-military-man, and although it looked familiar, the uniform didn’t belong to any militia or security force Malky had ever seen. Then he looked across the cobbled concourse and saw an unoccupied Rolls Royce Silver Shadow parked at the kerb and realised that the caller was in fact a chauffeur. He wasn't a handsome man by any stretch, but he was tall and thick with wide shoulders; he had a long, horse-like face and teeth to match, but the tanned, heavily-lined and ruggedly earnest features lent him a certain charisma, like a US army general, or a well-travelled bouncer; tough but canny: someone who won’t take shit from anybody. And although Malky was certain he wasn't looking for a room, nevertheless he pointed out the inexpertly rendered homemade sign taped to the outside of the door that read Closed for Renovations, “Um, we’re not open til the autumn, pal. Try Arklow, 6 miles that-away.” He pointed due north.

The chauffeur looked at a piece of paper, then looked askance at the paint-spattered individual in the doorway, “Malcolm Calvert...?”

It has to be said, his misgivings weren’t without foundation: Malky was not a pretty sight at that particular moment -– unshaven with greying, uncombed collar-length hair, wearing Zindy’s ex-boyfriend’s outsized Hawkwind tee-shirt and emulsion caked M&S pyjama pants -- he looked like a hobo that’d really let himself go. “Who wants to know?” he asked, charily, well-used to uninvited attention -- usually pressmen waving cheque books or ghouls and geeks in search of the ‘truth’ about Barry McKee -- and normally, he would have slammed the door shut by now, but today he was intrigued: Who would send their chauffeur...?

The big driver took off his peaked cap revealing a dark, bog-brush silvery crew-cut (another tick in the ex-military column), put it under his left arm and moved-up-a-step so that he could shake Malky’s hand.

“Hello, Mr Calvert, ‘Erbert Gorringe. Pleased to meet ya,” he said, in a croaky, cockney rumble...

 To Be Continued Next Month in Ha! Ha! said the Clown

[paulhudd]

Spindlefreck Book Two: Pt. Four: Ha! Ha! Said the Clown

Odin’s Inn, Brodir, Co. Wicklow; Sunday, May 2nd 1991

Malky gave the big chauffeur a sideways look, crossed his arms, casually leant on the door post and refused to shake the extended hand.

Gorringe wasn’t offended, just mildly surprised. He looked at his unshaken hand and frowned. He ummed & ahhed, looked left and right and spoke hesitantly, rubbing his neck as if about to ask a contention question, “Erm... see, the boss sent me ‘ere wiv a proposition... ‘E instructed me to... that is...” he paused, stepped up so that they were face-to-face and pleaded for relief with beseeching eyes, “Lissen mate, can I use your lavvy? I’ve been on the road fer ovah-an-hour ‘n that last cuppa I ‘ad before I left the ‘ahse is abaht to bust me bladdah!”

It was an old salesman’s ploy and Malky knew it, and the chauffeur knew he knew it, nevertheless he cringed and gritted his teeth, “No messin’ guv - I’m this close to pissin’ me strides!” He seemed genuinely stricken, so after a second or two’s deliberation, Malky decided to give him the benefit of the doubt and stood aside, issuing a caution as he dashed by, “Straight in-and-out, mind. And don’t use the urinals – they’re not plumbed-in yet – use one of the stalls! OK?”

Gorringe already halfway there, “I don’t care if it’s a bucket -- I gotta go!”

Just as the door to the gents closed, Zindy walked through from the kitchen, “Who is it? Sales rep? Reporter?” she asked, wiping her oil-blackened hands with a rag, her elfin face smeared with black smuts. Malky was still at the door, looking out at the darkened windows of the Rolls, “... no, he’s somebody’s chauffeur. You should see the car he’s driving.”

Zindy lifted the waiter hatch and struggled through, “Ooow, I’ve been bent over too long, I’m all stiffened-up!” she groaned, clutching the small of her back with both hands so that her swollen tummy popped out of her denim shirt revealing an oily palm-print on the ivory-white skin of her bump. Malky closed the door, “There’s quite a draught – you can look out through the window.”

“For God’s sake a bit of sea air will do me good!”

Malky tapped her butt, “Aye, because you’re doin’ bloody auto-repairs on the kitchen table and the place stinks to high-heaven of gloss, varnish, engine oil and Swarfega! That child o’ mine must be gettin’ high on the fumes!”

Zindy made yakety-yak signs with her hand and said “I’m trying to save us some money, it’d cost us a bomb to take that van to a mechanic.”

“... because you’ve fallen out with all the local mechanics, haven’t you?” he chided ironically, “There isn’t a garage within a 30-mile-radius who’ll touch it, is there? Anyway, it’s a false economy. It’ll breakdown in the middle of nowhere and you’ll have to ring one of the garages for a tow-truck and the whole shebang will cost us three times as much as it would if we’d gone to a garage in the first place -– that’s not factoring-in the chance of an accident - or you gettin’ stranded high and dry – then whoosh – your waters break!”

“Jeezus Christ! You’re startin’ to scare me!” she cried.

“It’s a possibility -- like what if you breakdown and you fall getting out of the van -- or somebody comes round the corner too fast and hits you or something leaks in the engine and it goes up in a ball of flames...?”

“Why dontcha just swaddle me in bubble-wrap, pack me in polystyrene, stick me in an air-conditioned coffin and feed me through a tube til September! Oh I say, tally-ho, chaps,” she’d seen the stranger’s car, “a Rolls Royce Silver Shadow, no less,” she said, appreciatively, looking out of the window, “who comes to a place like this in a car like that?”

Meanwhile, Brooster was listening at the parlour door, “What’s goin’ on?” a voice whispered behind him, making him jump and almost fall over. It was Sammy, the silver-bearded, blood-spattered ghost of the inn’s elderly barman, crouching behind him with his hands on his knees. Brooster looked him in the eye and asked him with a thought: Why are you creeping about and whispering when only I can see and hear you?

Sammy stood up, stroked his beard and mused aloud, “Aye, I s’pose that’s true... Well then – I’ll just do this!” He walked through the wall, into the occupied cubicle, looked the urinator up-and-down and shouted to the old dog, “It’s a chauffeur. Big bloke. Ex-army – British army – he has a regimental pin. Big dick, if you’re interested in that sort of thing.”

Broo wasn't at all impressed by the resident phantom’s crude behaviour – one of these days the stupid old fool will walk in on a Sensitive and scare the life out of them (actually, that eventuality would be fortuitous – because escape from This Life and Ascent into The Next requires a death within the parameters of the haunting and in the three years since Sammy had been shot and killed by Barry McKee, the only candidate so far had been an elderly deep-sea fisherman suffering with angina and a bad case of hay-fever who died two days later after a particularly violent sneeze –- at home in his own bed. Sammy whined as he opined: “Why couldn't the auld eejit have snuffed-it here?! Some people have no manners at all! At this rate, I’ll have to wait for Malky to croak - and he’s got another ten years in him at least!”).

The chauffeur exited the gents and convened with Zindy and Malky. Zindy was friendly and bright and offered him a cup of tea; Malky was cagey and glum. But that’s Malky. Sammy, reclining on the couch to watch the movie, actually made an insightful comment, “He’s an Englishman and Zindy misses the company of Englishmen. She’ll bend his ear for an hour and then he’ll be off back to whoever he drives for: probably some auld oul’ banker or one of those rich pop stars who've been buying houses over here lately.” He pointed at the remote, “C’mon, turn the sound on. I love the old black and white fillums!”

The old dog was paying him no heed. He was enjoying familiar feelings of excitement and trepidation, that tingle in his pelt that told him the visitor was significant and he should prepare himself for important news. And sure enough, the chauffeur didn’t thank his hosts for the use of the amenities and return to his vehicle, he was taken to the kitchen for a cup of tea and a chat!

Sammy was still harping on, “Dog?! D’ya hear me? Hit the button that turns the sound back on!”

Oblivious, Brooster snuck down the hall, took-up position at the kitchen door and listened.

Sammy shouted from the parlour, “Ach, c’mon, you know I can’t press the buttons...?” Broo ignored him and harkened to the conversation around the kitchen table.

Once Gorringe had completed his ablutions and emerged from the gents refreshed, Zindy introduced herself and took him into the kitchen for a cuppa. They hadn't had much company lately and this was the first Englishman she’d met in ages so she was chatty and vivacious. Malky was characteristically sniffy and suspicious. He wouldn't sit down and slowly paced the floor by the backdoor and let Zindy do all the talking. She began by apologising for the engine parts on the kitchen table, told him to park his arse and have a Mikado. He took a biscuit, but kept well back from the table lest oil, paint or any other petroleum-based-product come into contact with his immaculate whistle, “Is that a Lancashire accent I ‘ear?” he asked, with a wry smile.

Zindy grinned, “Aye - Salford! ‘Ow can you tell?” she said, ironically.

“Heh-heh, two of me best mates is from Salford! Salts of the erf, they is, diamonds to a man. We ‘ad a couple of tours in Cyprus in the late fifties and then they was sent to... umm,” he suddenly stopped talking. He realised he was in the Republic of Ireland talking to a pair of total strangers about old friends serving in an occupying force and quickly changed the subject. He beheld her swollen belly and asked, sheepishly, “Ahem, ‘ow many mumphs ‘ave you got before the big day then, sweet’eart?”

“I’m due in late July or early August,” she replied, she replied, “Just wait til I’m at full-term, I’ll look like a two-legged Space Hopper in a pink-wig!”

Malky lost patience, coughed theatrically, walked forward and put an end to the sparkling repartee, “So, Mr Gorringe, what can we do for you?”

The chauffeur put up a hand and waived the formalities, “Oh, call me ‘Erbie, please, Mr Calvert. Nobody calls me Gorringe ‘cept the boss when ‘e’s in a bad mood. Everybody else calls me ‘Erbie.”

Malky sighed, “Then, what can we do for your boss, H-erbie?”

“Malky! - don’t be so rude!” Zindy snapped.

Herbie shook his head, “Nah, ‘e’s got every right to be wary, sweet’eart. I’m beatin’ arahnd the bush, as it were, I really should explain meself,” his face took on a pained expression of someone who knew that what he was going to say next would either elicit gales of laughter or get him forcibly ejected from the premises forthwith; he carefully set down his teacup, laced his fingers on his lap and spoke without looking at his hosts, “Well, y’see, my boss, see... ‘e’s not a superstitious man by nay-cha but, ‘e’s got it into ‘is ‘ead...” he sighed heavily, looked up at Malky and bit the bullet, “Look – ‘e thinks the ahse ‘as been invaded by ‘a poltergeist’ and ‘e wants a consultation. Y’know, whether you can confirm or deny, that sort of thing.”

Malky’s heart sank. He threw up his hands and whined, “Fer cryin’ out loud! Another crank! A rich crank, but a crank nonetheless!”

[In the aftermath of the Barry McKee case, there had been numerous requests for newspaper interviews, TV documentaries and even a book deal with movie-options that would have set them up for the rest of their lives, but Malky had rejected them all out-of-hand. Zindy was slightly exasperated but mostly impressed by his innate integrity and refusal to exploit his adventures - then sometimes she wished he had his price, just enough to afford a decent refit. But he doggedly kept to his Code and slowly-but-surely, the phone stopped ringing, people stopped arriving at the door and they settled into what was, in Malky’s case, blissful isolation in a place he loved as a child; for Zindy, it represented normality and domesticity, something she needed after years of living in the fast lane.]

She was too taken with their visitor to dismiss the offer out of hand, “Wait til you ‘ear what Herbie ‘as to say before you go on a rant, Mr Sour-Balls!”

Malky leaned against the fridge and crossed his arms, “He can say what he likes but it won’t make a ha’penny’s worth o’ difference. We live by a Code remember?”

“’Code?’” Herbie looked from one to the other.

Zindy harrumphed and rhymed-off Malky’s charter to their bemused visitor, “Malky’s Code: he won’t have anything to do with the supernatural stuff... he won’t have anything to do with the media... he won’t write a book even though he’s been offered a lotta money...”

Malky: “-- and with good reason! Once you make contact -– you let them in! They’ll be writing begging letters, making pilgrimages to our door!”

Herbie, slightly embarrassed that he’d caused trouble in paradise, assured them, “You come very ‘ighly recommended, y’know – by the Gardai commissioner ‘isself, no less...”

Malky’s jaw dropped, “What?!” he gasped.

“Oh gawd, I knew this would be a nightmare...” Herbie muttered under his breath, grimacing like a man tiptoeing through a minefield wearing a blindfold; he elaborated in an apologetic tone, “... a couple o’ weeks ago, the boss was at one of them grand-banquet dos they ‘ave in Dublin City where the top-nobs can ‘obnob -- y’know the sort o’ fing, VIPs, the politicians an’-all-that-lot. Well, the commissioner was seated next to the boss and they got talkin’ about strange cases and your name came up, an’ when ‘e mentioned that Barry McKee business a few years ago, the boss wuz all ears 'n ‘e got the commissioner to get your address...?”

Malky was furious, “The Barry McKee case was as weird as they come, but it wasn't anythin’ to do with the supernatural -- it was to do with the fact that he’s a schizo who liked to kill little girls.”

Herbie raised his eyebrows, “So all that tawk abaht ‘im bein’ possessed is just bollocks?”

“Well, he thought he was possessed, he heard voices...” Zindy was about to elaborate when Malky shot her a what-the-hell-look.  She took umbrage, “So what did happen, Malcolm? Why don’t you explain it?”

“You should know -- you were there -– we nearly died!” Malky snapped back.

“Yeah -- but who ‘elped us?! ‘Ow did the dog find them bodies in the woods? Who told 'im where to go?!”

Sensing trouble in paradise, Herbie reached into his inside-pocket and took out a large brown leather wallet, “Look, I tell you wot, if it makes it any easier,” he pulled out a folded slip of paper and set it on the table so that it stood like a little greetings-card, “the boss gimme this blank cheque ‘n awforised me to offer ya 7 grand to come up to the ‘ahse and ‘ave-a-butcher’s. If you can get rid of the spook, he’ll give you anovver free grand. That’s 10 grand! More, if ‘e’s really pleased! ‘Is pockets are deep, believe me.”

“Something strange in your neighbourhood? Who you gonna call...?” Malky sang.  

“I don’t think even the Ghostbusters would get 10 grand for one night’s work?!” gasped Zindy, £-signs in her eyes.

Heartened that the hostess seemed keen, Herbie went for the hard-sell, “7 grand just to ‘ave a shufti, 10 grand if you get rid of it. What would money like that mean to you two?” he said, looking at Zindy’s bump.

Malky saw his better-half look around the kitchen, read her mind and reminded her with a wagging finger, “Don’t start...!”

Zindy wagged straight back, “The Code of Silence made sense in the beginnin’ when we wuz inundated with whackos, weirdoes ‘n’ wankers of every stripe – before we ‘ad money trouble and baby on t’way!”

Malky pointed and laughed sardonically, “Did you just say that? Who the hell are you?!”

The chauffeur turned to Malky and spoke softly, “Lissen Mr C -- I fink the old man’s barkin’ up the wrong tree too, but ‘e’s at his wit’s end – ‘e finks there’s an ‘evil spirit’ out to get ‘im! Now, I ain't seen anythin’ myself, just the aftermaff - but ‘e says fings fly across the room, y’know, ornaments ‘itting the wall, books falling from shelves, that sort of fing. E’s afraid to go rahnd the ‘ouse on ‘is own. If it goes on for much longer, ‘e’s likely to ‘ave a stroke or ‘eart attack, the poor old git.”

“Who is 'e?” Zindy and Malky asked, in perfect harmony.

Herbie paused for a second then said: “Oliver Laphen.”

“Ollie Laphen?! ‘The Quare Geg’?!” cried Malky; amazed and delighted, he duly eschewed his standoffishness, pulled out a chair and sat down at the table.

“The old movie star? The hellraiser?” asked Zindy, only slightly impressed.

“Yip, that Ollie Laphen,” said Herbie, sheepishly, as if confessing a cardinal sin.

“My God. Ollie Laphen! That takes me back a-ways...” Malky enthused, whimsically, looking up, as if viewing the memory in a thought balloon hovering just above his head, “...in Belfast in the late 50s when me ‘n me younger brother Dessie were kids, we used to see his films at the Roy Rogers’ Movie Club at the Curzon on Saturday mornings and we loved the ‘Laffin Boy’ shorts he made in the early 30s when he was still called ‘Ollie Laffin’. Jeez, we must’ve seen them all at least 10 times each...!”

Zindy left Malky to wander down Memory Lane and got down to business, “And ‘’e’s willing to pay Malky 7 grand just to look round ‘is ‘aunted ‘ouse?!”

Herbie smiled and nodded.

Although mightily tempted, Malky still wasn't moved, “Nah – it smacks of exploitation. I’m not goin’ to take advantage of an old man who’s probably in the primary stages of senility... Oh, sorry, Herbie...”

The chauffeur shrugged and nodded, “You’re singin’ to the choir guv.  That’s what us lot reckoned, too - but in every ovver respect he’s fine. ‘E’s cantankerous and narky like ‘e always is, but ‘is memory’s fine - e’s workin’ on a one-man-show and ‘e don’t even ‘ave to look at the book. ‘E reads all ‘is contracts – even the small print - ‘e writes ‘is memoirs... If it is senility, then this poltergeist fing is the only symptom.” He winked, “Tell-you-wot -- why dontcha meet ‘im ‘n’ see for y’self.”

Malky had to smile. It was like being coerced by an aging Artful Dodger. He now knew how the big chauffeur had kept a job for so many years: Herbert Gorringe has made a career out of getting the boss exactly what he wants, by hook or by crook.

“Lissen, if you fink it’s all a loada ol’ cobblahs, you can tell ‘im so - take the money - and I’ll drive you ‘ome. No ‘assle. No one will ever know. Mr Laphen certainly won’t be tellin’. You know ‘ow much ‘e ‘ates the press.”

Zindy looked at Malky and batted her eyelids, “No one will ever know and you’ll have a great story to tell our kids.”

“Oh – you’re not coming?” said Malky, with a raised eyebrow.

Zindy indicated the engine parts on the table, “No time, lover –- we need the van back on the road by mornin’ cos I ‘ave to go to Arklow and pick-up the grocery order and fetch more paint from the DIY store. Incidentally, I’ll be ‘using’ t’credit card - you know the one I mean -– the one we owe £3,400 on?”

“My God woman, have you no shame?!” said Malky, semi-seriously, shaking his head with exasperation.

Herbie held up the cheque and flicked it with a finger, “A lotta lolly for a few hours’ work, my friends.”

“C’mon, Malk. Like ‘Erbie says, the ol' boy’s loaded and it’s only one night...?”

Malky stared at his paint-spattered hands and had a rethink: you’ll to get away from the smell of varnish and gloss, meet the great Ollie Laphen and have a look round his house...  “Well... I suppose one night wouldn't be so bad... ?”

Deal sealed, Herbie sighed with relief, got to his feet and shook Malky’s hand. Malky looked at Zindy and shook his head, “You know you’ll never hear the end of this, dontcha?”

Zindy grinned, “Careful Ollie Laphen’s poltergeist don’t drop summat ‘eavy on yer ‘ead, chook!”

Malky held his sides and pretended to cry tears of laughter.

“Oh yeah - one other fing,” said Herbie, looking around, “The commissioner-bloke told us that you usually work wiv a free-legged German shepherd...?”

Right on cue, the beast in question nosed the door open and sauntered into the room, someone call?

[Broo and Malky had a semi-telepathic link; they couldn't communicate directly, but over the years following the Barry McKee saga, they’d developed an intuitive sense of what the other was thinking.]

Malky glared, you heard all that didn’t you?

The old dog grunted, I can hear the rats building a nest three-doors-down, you twit - of course I heard. And I must say, it’s about time we had a case...

“It’ll be a bit of a lark, won’t it?” chirped Zindy, putting Malky’s toothbrush and shaving kit into his overnight bag. She gave the once over and shook her head, “you’re a walkin’ disaster. Things wrinkled as soon as you put them on.” She lifted the comb and tried to do something with his hair.

Her other-half still hadn't warmed to the idea, “Lark? It’ll be no laughing matter for me, wandering around some creaky, chilly stately-home all night with that grumpy hound at me heel.”

Broo growled back.

She stooped slightly and pointed the comb at the old dog, “Now listen – Broo – you be patient w’ ‘im and remember that ‘e ‘ates all this kinda spooky stuff,” she turned back to her man, “and Mal, you remember that Broo is old and crotchety and prone to snarkiness.”

How dare you madam! I’ll have you know my intellectual capacity is at its peak! The father of your child is the one with questionable mental faculties, not me!

Standing on tiptoe, Zindy cupped Malky’s cheeks and gave him one of her pep-talks, “Listen, chook... take a look round, if you don’t find anythin’ or it looks like a set up, or it don’t feel right -- whatever -- I’ll understand if you don’t take the money, OK?”

Malky was confused, “Then why....?”

She put a finger on his lips, “I’d appreciate a little time on me own, OK? Nothing sinister, just some time to meself. We've been in each other’s pockets day-and-night for 2 year now, so tonight -- for one night only -- I’m gonna finish workin’ on the soddin’ van, ‘ave a bath, write a coupla letters and get an early night. Meanwhile, you get to spend the night in a luxurious mansion in the company of yer boyhood hero.”

She wants a break from you, and who can blame her.

Malky shot the dog a reproachful glance, then smiled when he turned back to his better-half, “You don’t need to explain, Zin. You've got what’s commonly known as Calvert Fatigue.”

She pushed him out onto the landing, “Now fook off. I’ll be here when you get back.”

Broo surveyed the stray cats lined long the parapet of the old burned-out cinema. They had gathered to watch the Rolls roll by, just like they had at the time of the McKee affair: further confirmation, to him at least, that this journey was significant. He resolved to pay attention to every detail and use all his powers... to get to the bottom... of (yawn)... whatever....zzzzzzz He was asleep within 10 minutes. Malky looked over his shoulder and scowled. Lazy sod.

Herbie took the scenic route and drove slowly. The hedgerows bustled-by lackadaisically, the dry-stone-walls refused to become a grey-white blur as £400,000 worth of Rolls Royce shook ‘n’ shimmied along bumpy country lanes and pot-holey side-roads at a leisurely 32mph. He was enjoying the view of the misty Wicklow mountains, and despite the nip in the breeze and the baleful skies, he wound down his window and leaned out to take the air -- which reeked of compost and slurry, but which was entirely to his taste -- “Aaaaah! Smell that?! Laaave this cahntryside, I do! Y’know, at least once a day, I stop what I’m doin’ ‘n give fanks that we landed back ‘ere and not blahdy Swizzer-land. Swizzer-land,” he sneered. “I ‘ate blahdy Swizzer-land. The boss wuz a tax-exile for a while y’see...” He went on to list the many shortcomings of the Swiss in his bouncy cockney twang. Malky repressed the overwhelming urge to shout for Christ’s sake shut-up and step on it! and tuned him out. There he was, on his way to do something he didn’t want to do for people he didn’t want to know in a place he didn’t want to be, and the longer it took to get there the more the prospect bothered him. Bloody cheek, that Gardai Commissioner handing my name & number out to all-and-sundry – I should sue! ... Bloody hocus-pocus and hoodoo-voodoo... but as usual, money talks and principles go out the window... money, money, money... she’ll be setting up a Supernatural Detective Agency next... She’ll be advertising it in the paper...

Seemingly oblivious to the ennui emanating from the fidgety heap of grumpiness beside him, Herbie continued to natter away about getting acclimatised to the snail’s-pace of pastoral Irish life after so many years spent in the fraught, hustle-&-bustle of Hollywood: “They’re as nice-as-ninepence to ya just so long as yer putting bums on seats and bags of lolly in the bank – if not - they’ll drop ya like ‘ot potatah! Fankfully, the boss is always bankable – you put ‘is name on a marquee and you’s guaranteed a profit! ‘E still ‘as a core fanbase of millions who’ll come to everyfink ‘e’s in!”

Malky grunted a hollow, listless “Oh really?”

Unfazed, Herbie whispered in Malky’s ear: “Lissen, mate, if you wanna take the edge-off - ‘ave a drop of Irish. The boss keeps a flask in the glove-compartment for emergencies.”

Malky was caught off-guard and answered in an embarrassed stutter, “Er, no thanks, I don’t drink...”

“‘Recovering alcoholic’, are ya?” Herbie asked.

Although wholly nonplussed by the man’s audacity, Malky replied without raising his voice, “Let’s just say I had a problem at one time and leave it at that, shall we?”

But Herbie continued to pry, “Don’t take this the wrong way, pal, but you have the look of a man who’s no stranger to --”

“Oi! Enough!” Malky barked (Brooster woke up with a start), “Keep yer eyes on the road, Jeeves! Just cuz yer boss is willin’ to pay 7 grand for my services doesn’t give ye the right to dig into me personal life!”

Herbie was visibly taken aback by this unexpected tirade; he pulled down the peak of his cap so that it covered his eyes, straightened up in his seat, took the car up to a steady 40, and after a brief pause, spoke in a more professional tone, “I wuz only makin’ conversation, sir. If I’ve offended you in any way, I ‘umbly apologise and beg yer pardon, sir.”

“Forget it.” Malky turned away and looked out of the window.

A minute or two passed, and as the little surge of adrenalin dissipated, so the embarrassment sank in and he decided to restart the conversation, “Did I hear you tell Zindy you were in the army?”

Still somewhat narked, the chauffeur kept his eyes on the road and gave his name rank and number with the clipped diction of a well-drilled soldier, “Queen’s Royal Irish Fusiliers, 17 years: Corporal Herbert Valentino Gorringe 2063 reporting for duty, sah.”

Malky smiled, “Valentino?”

Herbie made a face, “It was that or Rudolph. My ol’ mum was a big fan. She was in-con-sole-able when ‘e died, grieved fer days, apparently.”

Where was another protracted pause, until Malky said, “I used to meet a lot of Tommies in Belfast in the early days of the Troubles. Seen a good few murdered, too. Bad times.”

The chauffeur turned slightly so that he could look Malky in the eye, “You wasn't chucking the ol’ Molotovs, was ya? You ain’t an ex-IRA man or anyfink like that, ‘is ya?!” Au contraire. Malky told him he was an ex-RUC policeman. Herbie was very interested, visibly relieved and wholly amazed, “Really? If you don’t mind me saying so - you don’t strike me as the type...?”

“My ambition was to be a detective, but I never made it out of uniform. I quit after my partner was gunned down right beside me and I went off the rails a bit and... Well, y’know...” Malky’s voice trailed off.

Herbie shook his head, “Gunned down right beside you? That’s rough that is.”

“But surely you’ve had near-death experiences yourself, Herbie, especially after 17 years in the army...?”

“Well, I wuz too young to serve in the war. I turned 17 the day after VE day. I didn’t join-up til the September of 46. And I never did no tour of duty in Norvern Ireland neevah, I was mostly overseas in Cyprus and the Middle East. We was part of a UN peace-keeping force tryin’ to keep the tribes apart: Jews, Muslims, Christians – not to mention the Greeks and the Turks! Bit like Belfast, but wiv loadsa sun, sand and bearded blokes in pyjamas wiv machine guns. Mind you, I saw the aftermaff of a lotta bombs, I saw fousands killed in genocides... terrible, ‘orrible it was... But I never really saw battle, just ‘minor skirmishes’. Luck, I suppose. It was during a tour of Norf Africa in 64 when I first met the boss!”

“Really,” asked Malky, suddenly interested, “you met oul’ Ollie while you were still in the army? You've been with him that long?”

Herbie was back on his favourite subject and relishing the opportunity to impart his favourite anecdote to a captive audience: “Oh yeah, it was me firtiefth birthday and I was on a day’s leave, so me and a couple of the lads went to Casablanca to paint the tahn several shades of crimson... and after a bit of a pub crawl rahnd the Kasbahs, I got separated from me mates, and while I was lookin’ fer ‘em, I strolls into this dark little tavern and sittin’ there in a corner was Oliver Laphen! Would you Adam ‘n’ Eve it?! ‘E was supposed to shootin’ an adventure movie wiv David Niven about archaeologists in World War Two called Diamonds in the Dust –- but he was skivin’-off cuz he’d ‘ad a row with the director and ‘e was layin’-low -- he didn’t wanna ‘ang round the ‘otel, so ‘e’s ‘iding-out in this dark little Kasbah, trying to be inconspicuous – wearin’ a black wig, big black shades, a kaftan and a fez - but I knew ‘im the minute I set eyes on ‘im! See, our CO was a big fan. He ‘ad all the reels of the comic shawts from the late 30s and some of the feature films the boss made for Paramahnt in the 40s – he used to get ‘em sent ovah and screen ‘em for the lads on a Satur’ay night! Anyway - there ‘e is, in the flesh, so-to-speak! Oliver Laphen! Jolly Ollie! So I go over an’ I say, ‘Can I ‘ave your autograwph Mr Laphen, sah?’ and at first ‘e‘s fumin’ – ‘e goes-off-on-one! Then ‘e calms dahn and says to me – ‘’ow the eff did you know it was me?!’ and I say ‘It’s the way you’re ‘olding your drink!’ Cuz ‘e’s always had this way of curling back ‘is little finger as if ‘e’s drinkin’ from the finest choy-nah. E ‘as these delicate li’l ‘ands, see...”

As he watched the chauffeur get more-and-more animated, Malky came to understand how a sensible, seemingly-well-balanced ex-squaddie like Herbert Valentino Gorringe could forsake marriage, family and blissful conformity just to spend his life at the beck-and-call of -- if popular opinion had it right -- a detestable, despotic, volatile, cranky little egomaniac like Oliver Laphen. Well, now he knew. Herbie wasn't just a fan – he was in love with the man. The pair’s long-term relationship had outlasted all of ‘The Quare Geg’s’ marriages put together. No wonder the story was related with such gusto and attention to detail, it was, after all, an epic romance.

“.... any’ow, at 400 hours, I ‘ad to get back to base, but before I go ‘e takes me to one side an’ ‘e says – ‘’Erbie, if you quit the army ‘n become my chauffeur and personal bodyguard, I’ll guarantee you a 50 knicker a week for starters, bed-‘n’-board - all the skirt you can ‘andle – plus -- you’ll get to see the world without ‘avin’ to worry abaht gettin’ yer ‘ead blown orf!’ So I laugh ‘n’ say I’ll fink about it. I fanked him for the best night of my life and we say ta-ra. I go back to camp finking it wuz all the blustah and idle boasts of a booze-‘ahnd and forgot abaht it.  But it didn’t stop ‘im. When ‘e asked for the fird and final time, I quit and I’ve been at ‘is beck-‘n’-call ever since.”

“Was it worth it, Herbie?” Malky asked.

The chauffeur thought long and hard about the question before answering. When he did, his voice was more mature and thoughtful, “E can be an ‘andful sometimes, but artistic people is prone to temperament, it’s ‘ow they’s able to do the fings they do. But I’ve learned ‘ow to balance it aht. I’ve been all over the world, visited all the major cities ‘n’ ‘istorical places... I’ve met a lotta Very Important People – besides movie stars an’ showbiz folk, there’s been world leaders, presidents, kings and queens, writers, top sportsmen – so whenever people awsk ‘’ow do you put up wiv ‘im?’ I say ‘take a look at me passport, me photos and me bank accahnt, moosh - there’s ‘ow!’” He turned to Malky and told him earnestly, “See, I’ve gotta lotta great memories. I’ve seen ‘istory bein’ made. I’ve supped Earl Grey wiv Picasso and knocked back bourbon wiv Dean ‘n’ Frank. I’ve made an omelette fer Einstein an’ cocktails for Noel Coward. I’ve played cards wiv Kate Hepburn for two straight days - and lost. No matter what the ol’ boy gets up to, I wouldn't trade those memories for the world.... Umm...” Something crossed his mind. When he spoke again, it was in a more tentative tone, “Look, before we get to the ‘ahse, I’d better mention the incident on Friday night wot started ‘im off.”

“Why? What happened on Friday night?” asked Malky, a little disconcerted.

“I was away visitin’ a lady-friend in Dublin, an’ apparently all the lights went aht and the ‘uge grandfavver clock in the lobby fell over and smashed on the floor -– the boss was frightened outta his wits -- fought it was burglars – so ‘e pressed one of the panic buttons and Charlie, our ‘ead of security, drove up to the ’ahse right away. But the power-cut musta shorted-aht the alarm system cuz ‘is swipe-card wouldn't work and the master key wouldn't turn in the lock! So, finkin’ ‘e’s under siege, the ol’ man pressed the button that calls the Old Bill, but by the time they got there, Charlie ‘ad managed to get in ‘n’ calm the old man down. Then the lights come on again – not just the lights that wuz on when the power went aht – but every single light in the ‘ole ahse including the bedrooms, bathrooms, the ballroom -- everywhere. By this stage, the boss is goin’ mental. Really, really scared.

“When I got back I got a right bollockin’ as if it was all my fault – like I ‘ad the temerity to ‘ave a night off! Any'ow, me ‘n’ Charlie searched that ahse from top to bottom; the cops  ‘n’ the security lads looked round the grounds, but we come up empty... there wuz nothin’ up iv the fuse-box, no sign of tamperin’ or anyfink dodgy.”

“Would the grandfather clock be easy to topple?” said Malky.

“Well, it’s set into the wall ‘n’ it’s solid, antique Bavarian pine, 9 foot tall wiv a ruddy great bell in it; it’s got a solid gold pendulum and it weighs around a two-and-an-‘alf ton, I couldn’t pull it dahn on me own.” Gorringe coughed then said, “And that’s the ovver fing... the boss’ been back on the bottle ever since, and if you know anyfink about the boss, you’ll know that ‘e’s a bit... volatile when ‘e’s on the sawse. So, ignore any strange behaviour, if y’know what I mean.”

Malky was a trifle miffed at being apprised of these tidings so late in the day; he was about to ask if there was anything else he should know when Herbie suddenly brightened and declared, “And ‘ere we are, my beauties! My little ‘ome-from-‘ome!”

Herbie slowed the limo to a funereal crawl as they entered a particularly picturesque little village, “Ahhh, ‘ave you ever been a little place like this before?” he asked, with a little smirk that hinted at a rhetorical question.

Malky honestly confessed, “No. I’m sure I’d remember if I had.”

“You wouldn’t ‘ave. This ‘ere is a protected community, see. Only a few people know about it.”

It was beautiful, rows of whitewashed thatched cottages with black gloss doors, all flowers beds and hanging baskets with a little square with a little roundabout in the centre, bedecked with a floral clock depicting the flag of St George (?); aside from the copious vegetation, there was very little sign of life and almost no sign of the 20th century. “What’s it called?”

“Bogmire. Pretty lousy name for such a laavly little ‘amlet, innit?”

If it wasn't for the faded & peeling Coca Cola sign stuck to the inside of the window of the post office-cum-newsagent and an old bicycle leaning against the bench outside a ramshackle little country pub (the Black Water Rat), they could be back in Tudor England. Malky made appreciative noises.

“It’s like a little oasis from bygone days, innit? You feel as if you’ve slipped frew a time-warp – eh?! But the funny thing is – it ain't Irish! See, most of the people ‘oo live ‘ere are descended from English peasant stock! Most of ‘em is originally from the wilds o’ Cornwall! The Duke of Roxborough brought ‘em ovah to build Pagham ‘Ahse ‘n ‘e built these ‘ere cottages for ‘em – and believe it or not, they lasted through the rebellion cos of a pact between the Irish rebels and the Roxborough family ‘n they’ve been ‘ere ever since. When ‘e bought the ahse the only proviso wuz that we keep the staff and let the Supplicants – that’s their religion, that is – live ‘n’ work on the estate.” Herbie went on to tell of the locals’ strange customs and bizarre lifestyle in a disbelieving tone, “... and they've been doin’ it fer 200 years straight!”

Malky looked around, “And this is all part of the estate?”

“Yep, it came with the ahse!”

This didn’t surprise Malky one bit. For an Irish ex-pat, the old man wasn't renowned for his patriotism; in fact, he was a close friend of Princess Margaret and during the height of the Troubles in the 70s he was renowned for making disparaging noises about the Republican movement in Ireland from the safety of his Bel Air mansion (when Lord Mountbatten was murdered by the IRA he told a NBC TV news reporter that the terrorists in question were ‘like a bunch of weasels attacking a lion’ and that Britain should ‘string ‘em up’), he was frequent visitor to the Whitehouse when the Republicans were in office, and was often mooted to be an anonymous sponsor of various right-of-centre US politicos -- he backed Nixon over Kennedy, was close to Ronnie Reagan since his  days as chairman of Screen Actors Guild, and was a frequent house guest of George Bush senior -- all of which made him a potential target for disgruntled boyos on both sides of the pond. It made sense that he’d want to live out his twilight years in a little slice of England transplanted into the heart of the Irish countryside, it suited his style: contrary to the end.

Herbie pulled-up outside a dainty little general store called The Peppermint Poke. The window was full of candy jars and pastries neatly arranged on little lacy paper doilies, “Dora oo runs the Poke is an Outsider, meanin’ she’s married to one of the Supplicants so she’s allowed to run a shop. None of ‘em is allowed to ‘ave a shop or make profit from their work, so the outsiders tend to do them fings, like business transactions and that. The local garda sergeant is an outsider, too -- he lives in that li’l cottage ovah there.” he pointed to one of the gleaming residences across the square...” Herbie opened the door, “I’m just gonna go in and get the Sunday papers ‘n’ a tube of Polos... I’ll only be a sec.”

Malky wound down his window to inhale the compliment of delicious odours to accompany the view: flowers, mown lawns and more flowers, “very restful. Then he heard a rumble outside the car -- a motorcycle had pulled up alongside and its rider, wearing a helmet with a dark visor, was looking through the driver’s-side-window. What’s this? Malky shrank back in his seat....The rider casually unzipped his black leather jacket and reached inside – for a second Malky flinched -- but instead of a weapon, he produced a video camera. Malky knew a maverick paparazzo when he saw one and immediately flew into a rage – he lunged out of the open widow, shook his fist and yelled, “Piss-off ya bastard! Get that f**kin’ thing outta my face or I’ll put my foot in yer arse!”

The shouting roused Broo from his slumbers. He saw the motorcyclist, heard Malky screaming and instinctively barked loudly and forcefully -- until he sensed that the stranger posed no threat and Malky appeared to be overreacting. He stopped barking, gave himself a shake and tried to get his bearings. The cameraman was quite small, dressed in biker’s leathers like Zindy’s biker chums, but these were more expensive and unsullied by general wear-&-tear. Then, as the bleariness subsided and his eyes refocused, Broo saw something that both startled and alarmed him. At first he thought it was the motorcycle’s exhaust fumes, then he realised the figure was shrouded in what he could only describe as a purplish-halo -- whatever it was, it was unlike any aura he’d ever seen before.

Malky was fit to be tied, “I’m not gonna tell you again, friend! If you don’t fuck aff immediately I’m gonna come out there and stick that camera where the sun don’t shine!!”

“That’s a take!” The biker cried, packing away his camera, “Thank you sir! Have a nice day!” he said and roared off, leaving a cloud of blue smoke in his wake. “Bloody paps – see – this is what happens when you do somebody a favour,” grumbled Malky.

Broo was still drinking in the atmosphere and looking for anomalies. Having been in places like this all over Ireland, the old dog had noted that each dainty village and township they visited had its own peculiar little ripples of the past shining through the present. On his travels he’d heard the echoes of ancient battles in the silence of the first light of dawn; he’d seen the children of ancient tribes playing on a busy motorway at noon; he’d seen 16th century Spanish galleons off the coast at Cork -– but Bogmire was a spiritual desert: there was absolutely nothing to sense or feel beyond the here and now. It was clearly old, spotless and brightly painted, but utterly devoid of soul. And that smell... beneath the floral scents and peat smoke, lay an ever-present stench that marred the otherwise wholesomeness of the place. Even for a dog that usually salivated at the stink of putrid flesh, it was hard to stomach. Most unusual...

Just then they heard the little tinkle of a bell and Herbie emerged from the shop with a bundle of newspapers under his arm and a Polo mint in his cheek; he got back in and offered one to Malky, “Did I ‘ear a mo’orbike?” he asked, “I was chattin' to Dora and I could've swawn I ‘eard a rumblin’ sahnd...?”

“Just a guy askin’ for directions,” said Malky, “so I told him where to go...”  

At that very moment, 3000 miles away, in the kitchen of a townhouse in North York, Toronto, Canada, the man of the house appeared in the kitchen doorway, barefoot in his pyjama bottoms, unshaven, hands deep in the pockets of his bedraggled dressing gown. 

“Emil! What the f**k?! Go get dressed – we’re late as it is!” shouted Fran, ever the fiery redhead, dressed to the nines in her Sunday-best, rifling through her purse in search of her car keys, “I told you to get ready an hour ago!” They were supposed to be going to her niece’s christening and they were running 10 minutes late. She looked under the cushions in the lounge; she looked in and under the couch; she checked every pocket in the coat rack. “Where the f**k are they?!!”

Emil watched her, his arms hanging by his sides, and said, “I’m not going. I have the shits.” 

Did I just say that? What the f**k?!

Fran, currently poking through the trash in the pedal-bin with the salad-tongs, threw her head back and mocked him in an ironic voice, “Hah! I knew it! Mom warned me – ‘he won’t go – he doesn’t even own a suit’! Well, it suits me – I don’t have to watch you get drunk and throw up in the swimming pool or make a pass at a waitress... Owww-ouch!” she’d cut her knuckle on the edge of a jagged tuna can, “F**k this!” she kicked the bin and ran to the sink to rinse it, screaming, “F**K! F**K! WHERE THE F**K ARE MY F**KING KEYS!!”

He knew exactly where they were. They were in his pocket. He was holding them in the palm of his hand; but for some strange reason he didn’t hand them over. It wasn't that he didn’t want to, it was because he couldn't. And no matter how hard he tried to communicate, his body wouldn't respond; he let her go on searching and said nothing.

She went to the knick-knack drawer in the welsh-dresser, rummaged around in the back and eventually emerged triumphant, “Ah - hah! The spare! I knew I’d put it somewhere!!” She had one last look in the mirror to check her mascara and top-up her lip gloss, “... If you go out make sure you turn on the alarm.... and if you go back to bed - don’t f**king smoke! That’s a new quilt and I don’t want it looking like somebody’s used it for target practice!” She strode down the hall to the front door; a few seconds later she came stomping back, madder than ever “You f**king asshole! You've done it again!! You've boxed me in! I can’t get my car out!” 

Emil remained silent. 

“Emil!” She approached him and looked up into his dull, blue eyes, “EMIL! You have to move your car! Are you listening to me?!

He stood and stared.

“Emil!”

“See you later, legislator,” he said, without smiling. It was a catchphrase he used when they said goodbye on the doorstep in those early days when they first moved in together; but here & now it just sounded weird. She gave him a sideways look, “Are you stoned?”

“Take my car.” He dangled his keys on his pinkie.

She grimaced at the smell of his breath, glowered and said, “Listen... I don’t know what the hell you’re on or what you are trying to pull, but my mother will be frothing at the mouth -– I was supposed to pick her 15 minutes ago -– this is a crisis!”

He dangled his keys.

She drew herself up and bawled in his face, “GET OUT THERE AND MOVE YOUR F**KING CAR!”

He jangled his keys.

She slammed her key down on the table and snatched his in one frighteningly limber move, “RIGHT! – I’m calling your bluff, asshole – I’m taking your beloved Porsche! You can take my Volvo -- I wonder what all those cutesy little students of yours will think when they see the delectable Dr Labatt driving through campus in a busted-up soccer-mom-mobile?!”

Emil stared back, unblinking and blank, and said, “I’ll miss you, Fran. You’re alright.”  

“F**k you, asshole!” She thrust the finger in his face and stormed out.

The slamming door was the last thing Emil heard before the darkness descended...

A few miles from Bogmire, along a road that was little more than a narrow lane, they arrived at a long, narrow lane lined on one side by yew trees concealing a tall, ivy-covered, red-brick wall that contained the entrance to Pagham House (or Paggum Ahse, as Herbie called it, making it sound like a particularly nasty proctological affliction), the stately-home of Oliver Laphen. Herbie reached into the inside pocket of his tunic and produced a small remote-control which he used to open a pair of inconspicuous but heavily fortified, solid iron gates, “As you can imagine, the boss is fanatical about security,” he pointed to the CCTV cameras perched atop the pillars either side of the gate, “this place ‘as got more cameras than Fort Knox.”

Inside of course, it was different story entirely: acres of well-tended lawns as smooth as billiard-table-baizes; vast flower beds moistened by a huge sprinkler system; topiary styled to resemble the figures in the Ascent of Man leading to the entrance of an extensive privet-maze; an enormous, ornate white-marble fountain with alabaster cherubs pissing into the air. It was all very tastefully ostentatious.

Like most of the world, his knowledge of Oliver Laphen was based on sensational gossip-columns he’d read in tatty magazines in various waiting-rooms over the years and the odd interview on Parkinson. Because Laphen was such an intensely private man, there were no official biographies and he used the services of an extremely litigious LA law firm to stymie any scandalous tomes that might shed light on the mystery he’d carefully nurtured over the years – a tantalising question: where did this fiery, working class, comic genius come from? The more reclusive he became, the more public interest increased, the more speculative the press became about his private life, the more outrageous the rumours -– the more tickets he sold. His career was indestructible. Not that everything was rosy on the home front. Enigmas, especially rich, volatile enigmas, are pap magnets; a good picture will fetch upwards of $10,000 so he was tabloid fodder from the day he stepped into the limelight. Editors from LA to Tokyo dispatched an army of dedicated investigative journalists to Dublin where they pored over thousands of files in public records offices in an attempt to trace the Laphen family line, but they always drew a blank: Jolly Ollie’s pedigree remained a tantalising mystery. He was certainly an Irishman by birth but refused to say anything about his childhood other than he was ‘educated by sadistic nuns’; he never talked about any parents or siblings and nobody knew where in Ireland he was from -- his accent was hard to pinpoint and changed as often as his anecdotes, the most famous of which was the story of his emigration to America when he allegedly stowed-away on a liner bound for New York at the age of 13 in 1929. After evading processing at Ellis Island he hitched his way across the States east to west and landed in Hollywood, where, according to (his) legend, he slept on the beach and did whatever work he could find during the day. At night he’d ‘hone his art’ performing slapstick in vaudeville, readying himself for stardom; two years later, at the age of 16, he was discovered by the celebrated ‘King Of Comedy’ Max Sennett. The talkies were the new big thing, and at a time when most silent stars were finding it impossible to ‘sound funny’, Ollie’s cartoonish Irish accent was a godsend and Sennett gave him his own series of 15 minute shorts. As Laphen retold this story over the subsequent decades, the narrative was wont to evolve until the embellishments rendered it wholly unreliable.

In the mid-30s when he traded under the moniker Ollie Laffin, he was happy to mug and gurn for the downmarket rags and Pathé News presentations; then, when he got ‘serious’ in the late-40s/early-50s, he stopped playing the fool and became a semi-reclusive thesp. The post-war world was a different place: screwball comedy and slapstick was old hat and Ollie was too canny to go down with the ship. When he returned to movies in ‘46 he went under the name of Oliver Laphen, stopped doing interviews and avoided all ‘that red carpet bollox’, preferring to leave the PR to his co-stars and directors who’d either guardedly sing his praises or proffer equivocal comments that were actually thinly-veiled digs, such as: ‘[working with] Mr Laphen was an experience I’ll never forget... but I’m trying.’ (Lauren Bacall) ‘He brings a piece of himself to every role and playing the villain comes so naturally [to him]...’ (David Niven), but one vox-pop in particular had stuck in in Malky’s mind: "He kept us mere mortals waiting for 4 hours before gracing us with His Presence, we went $4 million over-budget, 4 producers suffered a collective nervous breakdown and 2 of the crew died from heatstroke, but when you hire [Oliver Laphen], you get the best and some studios are prepared to set aside a few million to ‘feed the beast’.” Regardless of what his fellow-travellers thought of him, and how big a pain in the arse he was, Ollie Laphen = Box Office Gold.

“There she is!” cried Herbie, like an enthusiastic tour guide. The Rolls had rounded a bend in the driveway and Malky got his first glimpse of Pagham House.

“Jeez –- house is too small a word, Herbie! This makes Windsor Castle look like a B&B!” said Malky, when confronted by the huge, sandstone edifice of palatial proportions, with rows of latticed gothic windows, draped with thick beards of ivy.

The chauffeur chuckled, “Impressive, eh? It used to belong to the 10th Duke of Roxborough til ‘e fell on ‘ard-times ‘n the boss made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. We rent it aht when we’re ahtta town. It’s very popular wiv the Arabs ‘n the Chinese. It’s got 30 rooms, swimming pool, gym, ballroom, sauna -- it even has its own church -- the works!” They pulled into a gravel forecourt and parked at the foot of a huge white marble staircase leading up to a tastefully-weathered, balustrade-lined terrace. But Malky’s attention was drawn to another vehicle parked to the right of the steps: namely, the same Harley-Davison touring bike he’d seen in the village, and sitting on the steps was the mysterious rider/cameraman filming them as they drew up!

Malky was furious all over again, “What’s he doing here?”

“More to the point, ‘ow the ‘ell did ‘e get in?!” said Herbie, slowly unclipping his seat belt and opening his door, “I’ll ‘andle this...” Herbie got out, straightened his cap and walked toward the diminutive figure, “Can I ‘elp you, mate...?” Malky heard him ask, and then he and Broo watched as the biker promptly stopped filming, jumped down and met the burly chauffeur head-on -- he took off his helmet, grinned, opened his arms and the two embraced like they were very pleased to see each other.

“Uncle Herb – you look great!” trilled a cherub-cheeked, heavily-freckled, copper-headed American kid in his mid-20s, brimming with childlike-enthusiasm, speaking quickly and excitedly, “Listen - we’re gonna be shooting in July! I’m here to scout for locations and do the final negotiations...!” The lad stopped short when he noticed Malky trudging across the gravel.

“Sorry, Mr Calvert sir, I got a bit distracted then,” said Herbie, putting a hand on the young man’s shoulder, “This ‘ere’s Kristof Katz, Mr Laphen’s grandson. Kris – this-‘ere is Mr Malcolm Calvert ‘oo’s come to... erm... sort out a little... plumbing problem...”

The young Master Katz took off a leather gauntlet, shook Malky’s hand, chattering incessantly, “Very pleased to meet you sir, I’m very sorry for the candid camera incident, but when I saw the car I thought my grandfather was inside and I wanted to catch him unawares but I caught you unawares and once you started to rant I couldn’t resist capturing that intense anger! I guess it’s the habit of lifetime -- Herb here will tell ya -- I’ve hadda movie-camera in my mitt since I was old enough to lift one – isn’t that right Uncle Herb? I’m a total geek!”

Malky gaped at him as if he’d arrived from another planet.

“Yer caffeinated up-to the-eyeballs again!” said Herbie, playfully clipping him round the ear and scolding him like a naughty schoolboy, “jet-lagged, ridin’ rahnd windin’ cahntry roads on a bleedin’ two-wheeled deff-trap?! Are y’ off your trolley, boy?! You coulda been killed -- there’s farm vehicles on these-‘ere roads, you coulda turned an ‘airpin bend an’ wahnd-up in the blades of a combine ‘arvester or summink!!”

Kris apologised for his over-enthusiasm and slowed down, “... anyhow, pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr Calvert,” he turned and pointed behind him, “welcome to Ollie Towers, The Laphen House -- Xanadu -- whatever you wanna call it.”

Now that he was up close, Malky saw the family resemblance; the lad was short, around 5’ 5”, the same steely-blue peepers and winsome dimples that had graced millions-upon-millions of magazine covers since 1930. Malky felt compelled to comment, “I must say, you are the spitting image of your granddad.”

Herbie was gushing again, “Not only that -- but he’s in’erited his talent too! Kris is a movie director!” he tweaked the lad’s cheek and pretended to punch his jaw.

Kris went all aw-shucks and kicked at the gravel with the toe of a leather boot, “Well, I’m about to direct my first full-length feature. I’m very excited. It’s been in development hell for 3 or 4 years and now it’s finally in pre-production.”  

“’E’s like a son to me!” Herbie put an arm around Kris’ shoulders, tweaked his cheek again and beamed, “when he was a nipper ‘is mum used to leave ‘im wif me on those days when she was... erm... uvverwise occupied...”

Kris, utterly unfazed, merrily took up the slack and filled in the blanks, “What Herb won’t tell you is my mom – Annelise Katz, née Laphen - had a lotta ‘substance abuse issues’ at the time, Mr Calvert. She used to unload me onto Herbie for weeks on end when she went on a jag [Now that the lad had mentioned it, Malky recalled reading something about one of Laphen’s daughters getting arrested for possession in the late 60s. In fact, from what he could remember, all 8 of the Quare Geg’s children had ‘issues’ of one kind or another]. Thankfully she’s been clean and sober for the past 6 years and now she’s counselling other women with similar issues...” he squeezed the hand dangling on his shoulder, “So I have this man to thank for givin’ me a relatively normal childhood! We used to play on the film sets in the studios when gramps was making a movie - that’s where I got my training!”

Herbie blushed, “Ach, it wasn't ideal, but where else was I gonna take ya? You know your granddad always ‘as to ‘ave me arahnd to fetch and carry for ‘im. And watchin’ a film get made is like watchin’ paint dry, if you awsk me - it’s a wonder it didn’t put you off movies for life!”

They were distracted by the sound of paws hitting gravel. The old dog had finally exited the Rolls but didn’t join them; he kept close to the car and watched from a distance. “Whassup wiv the pooch, ‘e’s gawn a bit shy, ‘in ‘e?” asked Herbie.

Malky called out to him: “What’s the matter with you, Hopalong? What has you all cagey, huh? Come over here and say hello!”

“Aww, look, he’s only got three legs,” crooned Kris, in a childishly sympathetic voice. Broo whimpered as he watched the glowing boy walk toward him, stooped and spoke softly as if addressing a bashful toddler, “You don’t have to be afraid of me, boy, I wouldn't hurt a fly! No I wouldn't...” he reached out

Broo recoiled and whimpered: Get off me, you idiot... you’re killing me!

But Kris carried on, unaware of the old dog’s distress, “Easy, boy, I won’t hurt you...”

AARGH!!

Kris cuddled him, stroked his back and made silly noises, “Eh? Who’s a handsome fella, then? You must quite the VIP, huh? A German Shepherd who’s so important he gets to ride around in the back of a limousine...?”

Mercifully, he was rudely interrupted by a loud voice from above, “Where the f**k have you been, Gorringe?!”

The boy stopped petting and turned away – Broo (unseen) wobbled for a second then keeled over.

There was an elderly man in a gaping, black silk kimono, electric-blue satin boxer-shorts, and bright green unlaced baseball boots standing at the top of steps; he pointed at Kris with an accusing finger, “and what-the-f**k’s that wee ginger gobshite doing on my property?!”

Malky looked up and regarded their prospective client. His collar length grey hair was thinning and unruly as if he’d just got out of bed, his heavily lined face clenched in distaste; but underneath the grizzled exterior and the bizarre attire, was none other the Quare Geg Himself: the fun-loving Ollie Laphen, former Crown Prince of Comedy! Looking at him now, though, it seemed there was little to laugh about, but you wouldn't know it to hear his grandson.

“Gramps! How-the-hell are you?! It’s me, Kris!” The boy put the helmet on the seat of the Harley and joyfully bounded-up the steps two-at-a-time, “so goo-ood to see you, dude...” he embraced the frail, bristly figure - who immediately pushed him away. “Gitcher filthy hands affa me, ye wee shite!! I’m not senile yet -- I know damn-well who you are!” Laphen put his fists on his hips and sneered in a high-pitched whine, “Whaddya want from me this time? Money, is it? Well, you can feck-off back to La-La Land - this bank is closed! Go and ask that crooked auld kike of a father o’ yours – oh yeah, I forgot – he’s back in the bankruptcy courts -- yet-again -- after yet-another one of his half-assed business-deals went tits-up in the water – still - why break the habit of a lifetime, huh? Once a loser, always a loser!” he stuck his little pug nose in the air, stuck out his chin and tied the belt of his silk kimono, like a superannuated prize-fighter squaring-up at a weigh-in. 

Doing his best to suppress a fit of giggles, Kris reassured him in a sober tone, “S’OK gramps, don’t have a cow, man. I don’t need any of your filthy lucre, after all -- we've got a backer! And for the record –- I’ve never asked you for anything in my life, you old goat -- and you know it!”

Laphen stepped closer, “Why are you here then?”

“To see you you...” said Kris, smirking.

Laphen went nose-to-nose with his grandson and growled, “So, you don’t need me?! Well! You've seen me! Now piss off!”

Kris put a hand on the old man’s shoulder and smiled, warmly, “C'mon, we’d better get you inside, it’s quite chilly out here and we wouldn't want you catching cold, now, would we?”

The old man swatted the hand away like a particularly stubborn piece of lint, “Stop treatin’ me like a feckin’ invalid! I’m perfectly capable of walkin’ unaided – I’m not in a feckin’ wheelchair yet!” in the same breath, he broke away, looked down at Herbie, pointed at Malky and barked, “Is this the guy?”

“Yessah!” Herbie replied, standing to attention, as if addressed by a superior officer, “this is Mr Malcolm Calvert, the, erm... consultant from Brodir.”

“Well – don’t just stand there like a spare cock at a hen-night! Bring him in!”

With that, Laphen stomped back to the house with Kris walking alongside him, chatting incessantly despite the cold shoulder.

As Herbie fetched his overnight bag from the trunk of the Rolls, Malky watched them walk off and commented, “Chirpy little git, isn't he?”  

Herbie slammed the lid shut and explained in a low voice, “Don’t let the ol’ Scrooge act give ya the wrong impression, Mr C. Kris is the apple of the old man’s eye - ‘e dotes on that boy. This is the way they speak to each uvvah. There’s no real malice intended so it’s best if you just let ‘em get on wiv it. Neevah wants to admit that it’s all a big contest to see who’ll crack first –- it usually ends in ‘uge laughs all-round. Only fing is the old man’s been ‘ittin’ the bottle again. I’m afraid ‘e’ll end-up sayin’ somefink really ‘urtful to the boy and ‘e might never come back. Kris is the only grandchild ‘oo ever comes to visit, see -- so for all of our sakes -- I ‘ope they chill-aht 'n have a civilised conversation.”

“Uh-huh,” Malky grunted, distractedly. The more he heard, the stronger the temptation to hand back the cheque and book a taxi back to Brodir, but he was so hungry now he had no choice but to reserve judgement until after dinner.

As they climbed the steps he suddenly realised they’d forgotten someone; he looked back and saw that his trusty companion was finding it hard to drag himself up, “Och, c’mon Broo, they’re not as steep as the stairs at the inn -- and you manage to climb those when you fancy a drink from the bog!” said Malky, turning away.

Broo could barely stand, let alone climb a flight of steps. When the young leatherman approached to indulge in a spot of light-petting and the strange, purplish halo enveloped him, Broo was instantly numbed -- he felt a sensation akin to sinking into a vat of virulent, viscous quicksand; a toxic vapour overwhelmed his senses -– and when the boy eventually let go, the dread feeling went with him. Alas, the men were too busy to notice him collapse in a heap, having been distracted by the sudden appearance of an angry old man who smelled of cigarettes, alcohol and bathsalts. Then something strange happened: when the younger man climbed the steps -- the aura around him grew more transparent –- by the time he embraced the old man - it had evaporated completely! One second it was there, the next – nothing. This was most perplexing. And if his senses were to be believed, aside from a few passing crows, there were none of the usual creatures one would find on an estate as big as this. Just like the village, there was no livestock or wildlife in the vicinity at all. Not only that, but as his head cleared, he realised that something else was missing: there’s no sign of anything Other in the ether either, and that bothered him most of all. The sky was darkening for dusk, the shadows were lengthening and the sun was low, so why are there no apparitions in the Golden Hour? Where was the shimmering residual energy of past events that can only be glimpsed through the rays of twilight? In a land such as this, historically ravaged by epidemics, tribal violence, famine and murderous invaders, there should be at least a few ghostly children playing in the fields... And yet, there’s nothing. If the Barry McKee case had taught him anything at all, it was to Beware Spiritual Vacuums. Bad things happen in Spiritual Vacuums.

... at that very moment (12:56 US Eastern Time), approximately 3600 miles away, at a checkpoint at the Canadian/United States’ border, on the Peace Bridge at Fort Erie, between Ontario and Buffalo, New York State...

“Sir? Sir... hello...

“Sir?!

“Wind down the window, sir!”

Somewhere... off in the distance Emil heard a man’s voice and a clicking sound. Metal on glass...

It wasn't like waking up, more like someone switching on a light. He was sitting in Fran’s Volvo, at what appeared to be the US/Canadian border!

“Sir, would you please wind down your window?” the muffled voice barked “SIR?!”

In his peripheral vision, Emil discerned a uniformed figure peering through the window. A US border patrol guard?! Holy shit?! What the f**k is going on?! 

But the inner-turmoil, dislocation and downright terror didn’t register on his face: on the outside, he was deadpan, ice-cool and composed. The inner-Emil watched his own hand reach out and push the button that wound down the window; he felt the crisp breeze buffet his face and arms as the glass descended.  If this is a dream, it’s very vivid. The guard stooped, leaned-in and sniffed the inside of the car. The outer-Emil remained unfazed, but when he caught a glimpse of himself in the wing-mirror, he soon realised why the guard was so suspicious.

He appeared to be wearing an unbelted towelling bathrobe, pyjama pants and his XXL Jimi Hendrix tee-shirt -- the ensemble he wore when he was slouching around the apartment... Shit -- you gotta be kidding me -- no briefs?! He desperately wanted to grab the hem of the gown and tuck the tails between his legs, but his arms refused to budge!

The certainties: it was daylight; he was at the border. I’m driving my wife’s 1979 Volvo estate dressed like an extra from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest! This has to be a dream! I’m gonna wake up at any minute...

Meanwhile, somewhat surprised that he couldn't smell any liquor, the guard returned to the business in hand, “May I see your passport, sir?!” he asked, acidly, in a thick New England accent. He was leaning on the roof now, the midday-sun gleaming off the chrome-plated badge on his cap; despite the dazzling flashes, Emil’s eyes refused to blink. The Inner-Emil wanted to grab his tie and shout: Stop me! I’m out of my mind! but his lips remained firmly zipped; his body remained still. For all-intents-and-purposes, he was a puppet with no mind of his own.

So who’s pulling the strings?

The guard was getting impatient; he pointed at the passenger seat, and snapped, “Your passport, sir!!

Emil’s outer voice said “Passport?”

The guard pointed, “It’s there. Right beside you, sir.”

His head turned to the right and he found himself looking down at the passenger seat; sure-enough, sitting atop an array of various official papers, was his passport. He saw his hand reach out, pick it up and hand it over. Maintaining eye-contact, the guard took the little booklet, ceremoniously shook it open and read it with a disdainful look. Emil had taken many acid trips and tried every psychedelic he could get his mitts on, but this was unlike anything he’d ever experienced in his voyages through the Doors of Perception. So what does that leave? Sleepwalking? He tried to make the fingers of his left hand pinch his thigh... but nothing.

“What brings you to the US, Mr Labatt?”

Emil heard himself say, “Doctor Labatt. I’m on my way to visit an elderly relative, if you must know. She’s very ill. Dying. It’s an emergency.”

What?!

“... Are you planning to drive all the way, Dr Labatt?” the guard asked, doubtfully.

The inner-Emil wanted to cry out: I don’t wanna drive anywhere! I don’t know why I’m here or what I’m doing! Please call my wife, Frances – she’ll come and get me!! In fact – arrest me! Take me into custody right now!!

Instead he heard his outer voice reply, dryly, “Yes, officer. Driving all the way.”

The guard handed back the passport, sighed heavily and asked pointedly, “Dr Labatt, have you been imbibing today? Narcotics, alcohol, have you taken any prescription drugs that might affect your ability to drive?”

This could work to his advantage: if I’m cheeky enough they might arrest me on suspicion of DUI! Alas, the invisible ventriloquist kept the voice calm and answered succinctly, “I most certainly have not been imbibing, officer. I’m a well-respected forensic scientist and a senior lecturer at the University of Toronto. I’m on my way to Baltimore to see an elderly relative with a terminal illness. It’s matter of some urgency. I need to get on.”

Baltimore?!

The guard handed back the passport and enquired, brusquely, “Carrying any foodstuffs, livestock including pets, liquor or sundries that may be considered contraband by the United States of America?”

“No, sir.”

“Then, would you mind popping the trunk, sir?”

Emil didn’t stir.

“Sir... pop the trunk?”

“This is my wife’s car and I don’t know where the trunk popper is.”

‘Trunk popper’?! Listen to me! Arrest me, you fool! I’m frickin’ nuts!!

Shaking his head, the guard reached in and groped under the wheel; “There she is,” and tugged the lever.

While the guard searched the trunk, the Inner-Emil tried to think logically: Could I have been inadvertently poisoned at the lab? Unlikely, he was very careful about sterilisation and wore a mask at all times... Have I ingested something in the course of my work... a fungus...? A spoor that causes one to act out in some way...? But he was ignoring the obvious: there was a taste in his mouth -- a taste that was as familiar as it was bitter and earthy that usually preceded the bouts of sickness. In fact, it had been happening ever since he’d got back from the dig in Kildare 2 years ago when they discovered the bog mummies (he’d abandoned the annual expeditions after his little fling with Niamh). Lately, he’d been prone to intermittent lapses in consciousness and bouts of short-term memory-loss. He’d find himself staring at his reflection in the bathroom mirror for hours on end. Fran thought he was smoking too much weed, but not even strongest strain of mary jane could induce blackouts like this, and nothing would leave a taste in his mouth this bad.

The trunk slammed shut. The guard returned, “Everything seems to be in order, Dr Labatt...” he leaned on the roof and spoke close, “Listen doc, if I was you I’d stop at the first motel I came to and I’d get myself a couple of hours sleep. Then I’d have a shower and a change of clothes and I’d drive the rest of the way feeling wide awake ‘n refreshed. I wouldn't want to fall asleep at the wheel and maybe kill myself or some innocent folk who were unlucky enough to be travellin’ the same road. Whaddya say to that, doc?”

An uneasy silence followed. The inner-Emil waited for his body to respond but nothing came: his eyes remained unblinking, his mouth stayed shut. He prayed that this was a turning point -- that he’d do something so outrageous they’d have to take him in -- but it never came. Finally, the guard sighed and patted the roof with the flat of his hand, “Welcome to the United States, doctor.”

Before the lights went out, Emil heard his voice reply with a curt, “Thank you. Have a nice day.” He felt his right hand release the handbrake; he felt his foot gently depress the accelerator. He watched as the Volvo taxied through the checkpoint; he paid the toll and ventured onto the open road... that was the last thing he remembered before the darkness descended again...

Malahide, Dublin: The Somerville family were going to Mass.

“Put on yer seat-belt, Cate, luv. You don’t have to sit in the baby-seat but you still have to strap yerself in,” said Somerville, getting into the driver’s seat.

In the back, Cate turned to her younger sister, “See, Cathy – he called it a ‘baby’ seat!’”

“Mommeeeeeeee!” Cathy wailed.

Pat got into the passenger seat and took control: “Ssshhhh, Cathy.... Cate don’t tease Cathy! You’ll start her off -- then baby Clare will start!” She playfully slapped her husband’s shoulder, “That’s your fault, daddy! It’s a CAR seat not a BABY seat, silly -– it even says so on the little label ‘Car Seat’ –- so-there, Miss smarty-pants-Caitlin -- you were wrong!”

“Daddy said it not me.”

“It was a slip of the tongue, Pat.”

“He didn’t mean to say it, Cathy. I’ll never hear the feckin end of this... will you be more careful what you say!”

“I’m not a baby I’m 4 and 4 months! I have to sit in it cuz I’m too wee for the seat belt!”

“That’s right! You tell ‘em Cathy! It’s a seat for small people, not babies! Cathy’s very sensitive and unassertive and I’m trying to build her confidence!”

“Daddy, what’s ‘police brutality’?” asked Cate, apropos of nothing.

“Where did you hear about ‘police brutality’?” said Somerville, looking at her in the rear-view mirror.

“One of the older girls shouted it when Sister Marie dragged her into the bogs to wash her face.”

“Toilets, Ladies, loo or lavatory, please, Cate, dear. What are bogs?” said Pat, sternly.

“Sorry mommy: ‘Bogs are Irish swamps...’” Cate sang, rolling her eyes.

Herbie led the way through the huge front door into a huge, cavernous sandstone vestibule lit by a quartet of gothic, arched windows, not unlike the narthex of a Christian church, but cluttered with precisely the sort of tone-lowering kitschy bric-a-brac that one would expect a working-class-boy-made-good to put on display -- as much a screw you to visiting nobs & snobs as it was a totem to his wealth and wilful nature, to wit: a suit of armour wearing an American Indian headdress, a deep-sea diving-suit with a stuffed monkey’s head in the helmet; a pair of large Persian vases filled with strange umbrellas. One item in particular gave Malky cause for pause: standing to the left of the adjoining Gothic archway, stood a life-sized waxwork of the Master of Mirth himself, fashioned and dressed to represent his ‘hey-day’ in the 30s; this waxen Laphen was the youthful, joyful Jolly Ollie Laffin, grinning that trademark  squidgy-grin, complete with pinchable dimples, the rash of freckles across the bridge of his little pug-nose, the glassy sky-blue eyes gleaming like sapphires – you couldn't help but smile. Malky couldn't help but remark, “Whatever happened to that sweet li’l guy, eh?”

The burly chauffeur didn’t take the bait and doggedly maintained his chummy, sunny disposition, providing information with the patter of a well-informed tour-guide, “That used to reside in the foy-yer at Madame Toussauds in Lahndahn! They replaced it wiv a more recent model in the 70s an’ the boss brought the originals back ‘ere when he bought the ahse. This one was done in ’38, just after his first full-length feature: Ollie and Molly Strike Oil!” Herbie moved to the right of the connecting archway and unconsciously adopted an almost identical pose to the grinning effigy on the left, “This way, Mr Calvert. I’ll take you to yer room and you can freshen up ‘n that ‘n we can tawk about the ‘situation’ over dinnah.”

As they walked through a slate-floored lobby lit by muted spotlights, it was more of the same: a veritable Ollie Laphen museum exhibit; an autobiography laid out chronologically -- from glass-cases containing newspaper columns, magazine covers and PR stills from the slapstick days of the 1930s -- to the chin-stroking thesp (a framed headline in The Irish News: ‘Laphen’s Lear is a masterclass!’). The dark, wood-panelled walls were lined with framed photographs of Ollie pressing flesh and embracing some of the greatest movie-makers, movers-and-shakers of the past 60 years: FDR, Bogart, Monroe, Gable, Jackie O, Bing, Hope, Groucho, Einstein, Fidel, Vidal, Hitchcock, Wayne, JFK, Johnson, Nixon, Kissinger, Elvis, the Dalai Lama, the Beatles, the Queen of England and various royals – as far as the 20th century is concerned, Ollie is the OED definition of ubiquitous. As they passed through the connecting archway, Malky got quite a jolt - enough to stop him dead in his tracks. Dead being the appropriate word, for in the shadows of the dimly lit reception hall stood a menagerie of dead things ready to attack -- lions, bears, tigers, panthers -- feral, snarling, glassy-eyed, posed in a stance of attack; ugly birds-of-prey hung on wires from the rafters, talons bared, poised to swoop; and to be certain that arachnophobes didn’t feel excluded, there were a few tarantulas strategically attached to various pillars and posts.

Malky gaped and gasped, “Wow! Did Ollie kill all these himself?!”

This time Herbie did seem a wee bit uncomfortable, “Nah, ‘e commissioned ‘em from a taxi-dermist’s in Sarf Africa where they can get you anything...” He sniffed and shook his head, “I ‘ate it too, to tell the troof – I never come frew ‘ere if I can avoid it. It’s the old man’s sense off ooma, see – he likes to lull visi’ors into a false sense of security then - aargh! They get the shock of their lives,” he reached behind a curtain and threw a switch -- the animals’ eyes shone bright red and and roared in their respective voices. “The boss ‘ates animals, see –- he got rid of all the livestock ‘cept for stables when ‘e bought the ahse. ‘E ‘ates ‘orses most of all. ‘E got thrown by a donkey when ‘e was doin’ a cameo in Around the World in Eighty Days in ’55 or ’56 –- ‘e walked orf the set and refused to ‘ave anyfink to do with animals evah again! Animals and kids. If he could get ridda the crows he’d be ‘appy.”

Broo found the menagerie obscene and growled accordingly.

Their attention was briefly diverted by shouting in a room somewhere further in: “... Will you quit naggin’ me – ye’re worse than a feckin wife!”

“NO! I won’t stop til you see sense! If I don’t say it – who will!?! You’re cracking up!! You’re a delusional... egomaniacal narcissist! You’re like Stalin without the people-skills...!”

Herbie quickly ushered his guests into the lobby and closed a connecting door turning the voices into incoherent murmurs, but Malky had heard enough. Herbie’s stoic exterior slipped, he got jittery and muttered something about an ‘Inquisition’ under his breath. Malky was about to ask what he meant when he quickened his step and led the way through another archway that led to a lobby at the foot of a huge white marble staircase cleft with a dark scarlet runner. On the bottom step stood the other waxwork of Ollie dressed as a tramp holding the Oscar statuette for his role as a shady boxing promoter in the movie Knuckledusters. In an alcove in the rear wall to the left of the staircase stood an imposing, but badly-damaged grandfather clock; the glass insets covering the face and pendulum case were smashed, the hour-hand hung limp on the wheel and part of the ornate, intricately hand-carved casing was cracked down one side.

Herbie stood next to his guest, looked up at it and said, “Big f**ker, innit?”

Malky was inclined to agree that it was highly unlikely that such a huge piece of solid timber could be toppled so easily by a man as old and small as Ollie.

The bickering voices were making Herbie very uncomfortable, there was a pained expression on his big, weather-beaten face. As they climbed the staircase, he said, “Look, Mr Calvert... I don’t know ’ow to say this... what I mean to say is.... you might ‘ear certain fings whilst you is ‘ere... and I don’t like ‘avin’ to ask... but we’d be grateful if you would sign, for the want of a better phrase, a gag order.”

Malky shook his head, “Like I said, Herbie, I hate the press as much as ‘oul Ollie, but I don’t feel comfortable signing that sort of thing. Cuz if there is anythin’ iffy goin’ on – I’m not sayin’ there is – but should we detect signs of chicanery or skulduggery in the course of our ‘investigation’ -- like, say, we uncover a plot to get the ol’ bugger certified and bleed him dry or rewrite his will -- a gagging order could severely hinder an official investigation, and, when all’s said and done, I’m on the side of law and order.” He held up his right hand, “But if it makes you feel any better – as far as petty gossip and scandal-mongering is concerned -- my lips are sealed,” he turned, looked down at Broo and added, glumly, “... can’t speak for the dog, though...”

Broo grunted, still too stupefied to take anything in.  

In light of such an earnest assurance, Herbie relaxed a little and explained, “Um well, the ‘Inquisition’ I mentioned refers to some recent sackin’s in the last week or two. ‘E’s fired a coupla security guards, the assistant gardener and the young gal who ‘elps out wiv the ‘ahsework on Tuesdays ‘n Fursdays!”

“Why did he sack them?”

“Cos somebody leaked some gossip to an American tabloid ‘n it could only ‘ave come from the staff, so ‘e hadda clear-aht.” Herbie took a deep breath and spoke in a half-whisper, “So you can see how bad it is ‘ere. It’s got to the point where the only people ‘e trusts is me and the ‘ahsekeeper, Mrs Sparkes - and ‘e only trusts ‘er cuz she’s from the village and they believes all this ’aunted ‘ouse bollox.”

Again they were distracted; this time it was the jingle of unbuckled buckles and the stomp of motorcycle-boot-heels on the chequered tiles below, “Uncle Herb! Is it true? He’s sacked Scanlon?!” Kris shouted from the hall, clearly incensed. The three turned and looked down; Herbie maintained eye contact but didn’t answer; his uneasy silence said it all. “He has?! Shit! Where did he go?”

Herbie lowered his head, looked at his shoes and said, “Nobody knows. He packed up ‘n walked aht wivvaht a word ‘n we’ve ‘eard nuffink since.”

The lad stamped his foot and punched his thighs with his fists in a sudden fit of anger and disbelief, pacing back and forth at the bottom of the stairs, as the implications hit him one by one, “This is such bullshit, Uncle Herb -- I was working with Scanlon -- he was helping me with the movie -- what did he do?!”

Herbie’s head dropped, “Look Kris, yer grandpaw’s been ‘avin’ a bit of bovver lately and...”

“And where’s the cat? Don’t tell me he’s fired him too?!”

“He ran away.”

“Huh?! Fey Ray ran away? I not friggin’ surprised! The entire estate is a no go area for anything with more than two legs!” yelled Kris, without realising how odd it sounded, and stomped off in a huff; a few seconds later they heard him shouting at the old man in another room.

“Do ever stop and think: ‘hey, maybe I’m the problem?’ – cuz unless you straighten-out you’re gonna die a very lonely old man...” “Ach, blow it out yer arse, ye ginger shite-hawk...!”

A door slammed and the squabbling voices became muffled and unintelligible again. Herbie put a hand to his brow and groaned to himself, “Kris, son, you couldn't-a picked a worse time to pay us a surprise visit...”

“Who was Scanlon? The butler?” asked Malky.

“No, groundskeeper, but he might as well’ve been,” Herbie replied, unhappily, “’E did all the odd-jobs arahnd the ahse. Lifetime’s service – gone - jus-like-that - phfft! Kris an’ ‘im wuz thick as thieves too. ‘E knew all the stories about this place. Kris used to sit up for hours on end listenin’ to ‘im but Scanlon and the boss never really got along – Scanlon came wiv the ahse, see, just like all the servants – but ‘e wuz a bit of a law onto ‘isself. When we checked, we found ‘irregularities’ in our finances. The boss confronted him, he couldn’t answer, ‘n that was that.”

They reached the second landing and the old retainer ushered them along a long corridor with row-upon-row of sky-blue doors with ornate brass name plates, the panelling in-between bedecked with gold and silver discs, “Were all these recorded by Ollie?” asked Malky, genuinely impressed.

Herbie, pleased to have a diversion, nodded and cheerfully slipped back into tour-guide mode, “Oh, people forget ‘e was a great crooner. In the 50s he recorded loadsa LPs and they wuz big ‘its all ovah the world - not-so-much in the US or Britain - but ‘ere in Ireland ‘n France ‘n’ Germany.  Can’t walk dahn the street in Japan. We go over to Tokyo every now-‘n’-then and ‘e records all these TV commercials for ‘em. Liquor, potato chips, candy bars, mostly. ‘Big bucks for a load of ol’ bollox!’ ‘e says.”

“I know how that feels,” muttered Malky, thumbing the cheque in his pocket.

Herbie opened a door with an engraved plate bearing the legend The Wonderland Suite and put the case on an ottoman by the door. The room was weirdly magnificent, in an oversized, child’s playbox type-way. The floor was a chessboard, there were huge cushions in the shape of chess pieces scattered around the floor; the walls were decorated with blow ups of Tenniel’s drawings of Alice in Wonderland characters; an emperor-sized four-poster swathed in white satin sheets patterned with black diamonds; and a large, white tallboy with outsized, bright red knobs and drawers that were shaped to look warped and uneven, like a prop from a kids’ cartoon. “’Ere’s the TV,” he said, opening the doors of a huge white sideboard to reveal a 38” screen, “If you wanna take a walk round before dinnah -– go ‘ead, nowhere’s off limits -– oh, part of the east-wing’s locked-up, but I can get the keys from the safe and take you down later. There’s some PJs ‘n wot-not in the dresser drawer and fresh towels in the en suite. There’s the phone,” he pointed at an ornate, art deco phone, “just dial 9 for an outside line.”

Astonished by his surroundings, Malky could only gaze and nod his head.

Herbie clicked his heels and stood to attention, “There’s plenty of ‘ot-wa’ah if you wanna ‘ave a showah and a shave or wot-evah. Dinnah will be served at 8pm sharp (it was presently 5:50pm), I’ll bang the gong. In the meantime, make yerself at ‘ome 'n I’ll see you at 8,” said Herbie, brightly, closing the door behind him.

Malky sat down on the edge of the bed and examined a brass plated console next to the headboard; he pressed the first button: the curtains closed; he pressed the second: the curtains opened; he pressed a third and the lights either side of the bed came on; he pressed the fourth and the drape across the canopy over the bed rolled back to reveal a full-size, horizontal mirror. “Bit sordid for a room that looks like a nursery,” Malky opined, flopping down and looking up at his reflection, “God, I’m getting old. Remind me to close that curtain before I go to bed – if I wake up and see meself in the morning I’m likely to scare meself to death.” He kicked off his shoes and writhed in the welcoming sea of satiny-softness, like a Labrador pup in an unfurled toilet roll, “Oh, I just wanna sleeeeep... wake me up in September when the baby’s born...”

Broo growled quietly, that’s right, you have a nice relaxing catnap while your tiny, put-upon wife labours over a hot engine just so that she can get that wretched old banger of a van back on the road in order to buy provisions and decorating materials to build a nest for you and your unborn progeny.

Malky sat up, “Hmm. maybe I should ring her. This is our first night apart since we moved in together. I’d better give her a progress report.” He rolled over, picked up the art-deco phone and called the inn.

“Well, what’s Ollie’s house like?! Is it dead grand or what? I wanna know everything!”

He gave her a detailed description of the house so far, right up to and including the mirror in the canopy over the bed, “... the stories are true, though -- Jolly Ollie is one grouchy oul’ shite. I don’t think I’ve ever met such an obnoxious old git in all me life.” he said, shaking his head. “Zindy, what the hell am I doing here? This isn't me.”

Zindy had obviously been thinking about it too, “Listen luvver, this ain’t a justification or an excuse, but both of us know that there’s certain things we can’t explain away with logic. I mean, look what ‘appened with Barry McKee? Just put yer Sherlock hat on and look at it from a detective’s perspective; treat it as a sorta murder-mystery weekend. What about Broo? He should be able to let you know if there’s anything spooky about the place?”

“I dunno, he seems a bit drowsy, like he’s half-asleep,” said Malky, giving the old dog a cursory glance.

Of course I’m sluggish, you oaf -- this place is sucking the life out of me! Can’t you tell?!

But the semi-telepathic link remained infuriatingly out of order, “It was a long drive. He’s probably knackered.” Then, much to Broo’s chagrin, they forgot about him and exchanged love yous, miss yous and take cares before hanging up.

“Have you noticed somethin’?” said Malky, rhetorically, going to the en-suite and turning on the light; he looked around, “Hmmm,” he opened the bathroom cabinet: the mirror was on the inside of the door. “Whilst me ‘n Zindy were talking, it suddenly occurred to me -– there isn't a mirror to be seen around the house -- even the one above this bed is covered by a curtain.” Malky nodded, “It’s ironic, isn't it: the big Alice in Wonderland freak who doesn’t have Looking Glass –- an egotist who treats you to a personalised autobiographical stroll through his glory days but doesn’t like to look at his own reflection? I find that somewhat strange...”

5 minutes ago: Zindy put the receiver back in its cradle, sat back and winced, “Settle down, kiddo,” she said, patting the elongated face of Jimi Hendrix stretched across her bump, “I still have a gearbox to sort out before we ‘ave a nice bath ‘n go to bed.” She sat at the kitchen table, radio tuned to a classic rock station (Malky listened to nothing but BBC Radio 4) and sang along to Deep Purple’s Child in Time, wailing like a banshee as she screwed and unscrewed oily nuts and rusty bolts: très cathartic. She felt a little guilty, but surely she was entitled to a night on her own. She looked down at the bump: I mean the two of us. I’ll never be alone again

Zara ‘Zindy’ Lindsay, you see, was an accident; everybody told her so.

Ever since she could understand rudimentary English, her aunts and her mother would mention it regularly - usually after something burned down or yet another little boy’s mother had arrived at the door complaining that she was demanding dinner-money with menaces. When she was old enough to understand the mechanics of human reproduction (hard not to when you live on a farm), they’d tell her she was the result of a drunken one-night-stand with a Spanish scout master (visiting Burnley on an exchange-visit) that no one had seen or heard from since. Fortunately for Dory, the Lindsays were/are a well-to-do family with links to the cotton trade that go as far back as the 17th century, so they had the wealth and power to cover it up. After a secret birth, mother Dory and baby Zara were spirited away to a remote farmhouse in the heart of the Lancashire countryside under the care of a pair of huge, lumbering maiden-aunts. Unlike the petite and genteel Dory, Maggie and Lottie were tall, mannish land-girls with no time for molly-coddles and sentimentality -- what’s more they didn’t care what their niece got up to so long as she didn’t burn the place down or leave a gate open (she could drive a tractor by the age of 6). When she was 7, Dory married and moved out, but Zindy didn’t like her new stepdad and he didn’t like her (a snooty, middle-aged bank manager who read the FT and went to Mass twice a week). She preferred Dory’s long-term boyfriend Tam Horsham who drove the Mother’s Pride bread van; but he was too common, apparently, “He eats his dinner off a tray and smokes in the bath!” said Dory, tartly, when asked if Zindy should start calling him dad. So, after numerous tantrums, she was allowed to stay at the farm and enjoy the relative freedom of life with the ‘Looney Lindsay Sisters’ (as the locals called them). Then puberty hit, so did a lifelong passion: motorbikes. She found a broken down old ‘39 Triumph Tiger in the barn and with some help from Lottie (“It belonged to an old boyfriend who left it here in ’42 when he went to war... but he never came back for it so I assumed the worst.”) she cleaned it up and replaced the missing parts. It took 8 months of scouring scrapyards and hard labour, but she managed to restore it to its former glory. She was in the Gazette! ‘Tearaway Tomboy Triumphs!!’ Consequently, she met dozens of motorcycle enthusiasts and a lot of them just happened to be Hell’s Angels. That’s when she first got that weakness in her knees. Big, fat, hairy men. Her pals were aghast. It could've been a father-daddy complex or just a weird perversion, but she could get enough of grizzled, over-weight geezers most girls would cross the road to avoid.

In spite of her aggressive side, she was quite the artist and spent hours quietly painting and sketching the scenery behind her great-aunts’ farm. According to her second year teacher in her annual report (Zindy refused to go to boarding school and went to the local comprehensive): ‘She has shown a flair for art and is very intelligent – when she wants to work, which isn't often ... for the most part she is headstrong, opinionated, brusque and quick to temper; a girl who sees life as a big adventure ... it may be a symptom of her diminutive stature that she feels she has to be brash and contrary, but if she continues in this fashion she may face expulsion....’

Zindy just couldn't be tamed. She was up before the magistrate on a regular basis, mostly for driving without a licence or brawling with boys twice her size. On her 18th she stood on a table in the Flat Iron pub in front of her closest friends and allies and vowed never to settle down to a life of domesticity, to forsake motherhood and be a free spirit for the rest of her life. Three weeks later, she moved in with a recently divorced woodwork teacher 17 years her senior. He proposed (‘wanna shack-up?’) and she couldn't say no. So began her lifelong ‘thing’ for older men – the daddy syndrome, probably.

The cohabitation with the woodwork teacher was as passionate as it was incendiary – he turned out to be a secret drinker – there were vodka bottles hidden all over the flat; she tried to keep up for a while, but all they did was fight. Things came to a head with the couple spending a night in the cells of Bottle Street nick. The desk sergeant told her he was a lost cause – “He’s dried-out 3 times -– and he’s still the same mess he was when I first started in here 15 years ago! My advice lady – run as fast as them wee legs can take ya – find a fit young man with a good job!” She took this advice to heart, and a in a few months she met a recently widowed sculptor at a Henry Moore exhibition –- this time 40 years her senior; tall, with long grey hair who dressed like Tom Wolfe -– and got swept up in a whirlwind romance. ‘Whirlwind’ in the sense that the trail of destruction they left behind: various foodstuffs were hurled, crockery was smashed, household utensils took flight and embedded themselves in walls. Zindy loved it. She loved him. Alas, his kids, two of which were older than her, did not approve and weren’t shy about letting her know. It was grist for Zindy’s mill; it only strengthened her resolve. She thrived in adversity; she lived to Fight the Good Fight and persevered with the relationship without a thought for the toll it was taking on the poor man’s heart. Of course, like most Spring/Winter love affairs it ended with a lonely vigil in a draughty hospital corridor listening to the impassive beep of medical machinery whilst his own flesh & blood hold his hand as he drifts over. Previously estranged siblings now united in their grief against a common enemy: “The stupid bitch is still sitting out in t’corridor.” “She’s only after ‘is money.” “She looks about 9, makes you wonder...?” She heard every word, approached and told them in no uncertain terms she didn’t want or need his money – all she wanted was to organise the funeral in accordance with his last wishes. They told her his last wishes were enshrined in his last will & testament, not word of mouth, and while they were on the subject, he hadn't left her anything. They told her he was never done talking trash about her behind her back, telling them how he didn’t trust her; that she was a little gold-digger. Meanwhile he was telling Zindy how ungrateful and spiteful his children were and how they’d never done a day’s work in their lives! She had to stand there and listen as they sneered and talked about the stranger with whom she’d spent the last 2 years. It turned out he was a compulsive liar. His wives were all basket-cases by the time he’d finished messing with their minds. All told, the heart condition came as a result of the stress of numerous love affairs and having to remember what lie he told to whom.

Zindy swore to herself that she’d never have anything to do with men ever again! She cut her hair short, dyed it blue and foreswore make-up, skirts and blouses, bought a motorbike and toured Europe with a chapter of Hell’s Angels who treated her like one of the boys. The vow was broken 5 years later when she accompanied her new pals to the Isle of Man for the TT and met a biker from Wicklow. Robert ‘Raspo’ Canning was a built like a brick-shithouse with a long plaited (usually purple, sometimes blue) beard and intense stare (hence the moniker; Raspo: short for Rasputin). He was a nightmare in a studded leather jacket but Zindy was besotted with him. Despite his hulking size, expanding waistline and intimidating manner, he was smarter than the average bear. He read science fiction and knew a lot about astronomy. They used to ride up to Donegal, sit on the cliffs and he would teach her the consolations. She was hooked.

While she was there, one of her great-aunts died and Raspo took her back to Salford for the funeral. She inherited £30,000. Then Barry McKee, one of the gang of bikers from Brodir, happened to mention that his father was selling a seaside pub and she was very interested. She could run a business - she used to do the sculptor’s book-keeping and worked behind a bar in Germany for a few weeks; plus, Brodir might’ve been a rundown town, but it was a Mecca for bikers from all over Europe -- trade would be brisk –- she couldn't see what could possibly go wrong!

But you don’t know anybody until you live with them for a while.

At first, Raspo enjoyed playing host and worked behind the bar, but he had other business interests and that was OK – she preferred running things on her own – it was her name on the licence, her responsibility. She never asked about his business, she didn’t want to know, but she assumed he was a small time dealer: grass and tabs. Then one day he said, “Oh Zin, I’m off to Dublin to do bouncer for a boxin’ match at the National Stadium!” he kissed her goodbye, got on his trusty Triumph and off he went to bounce in Dublin. She found out later that he was off to collect a sizeable debt owed to him for a delivery of coke. When the debtor wasn't forthcoming, Raspo lost his temper and took it out of his hide with a crowbar. This information came courtesy of DS Phil Somerville, who also informed her that her beloved Raspo wasn't just peddling grass, he was dealing in all the a-listed narcotics, not to mention a little sideline in video piracy. She had to sit and listen while Somerville listed her lover’s shady dealings with various Dublin-based organised crime syndicates and proscribed terrorist militias when he tried to coerce her into turning tout and aid in the apprehension Raspo’s subordinates/associates/friends etc. She flatly refused. Raspo was sent down for 7 years, but 8 months later, to shave a few years off his sentence, he did what she refused to do: he shopped most of his former associates including some regulars, and - boom – the bulk of her clientele has declared her persona non grata and boycotted the inn. Somerville told her it was her own fault; she knew what Raspo was and chose to ignore it. He was right. A psychologist would say that it was indicative of a subconscious desire not to commit to a long-term relationship... Whatever, she was alone again, naturally.

Then along came Malky and his spooky three-legged German shepherd and their notorious pursuit of the evil Barry McKee. It was a thrill-a-minute-life-or-death roller coaster ride but it nearly killed them. She took a bullet to the shoulder; Malky had a heart attack and almost bled to death (the irony: Somerville saved Malky’s life after destroying hers). And here she was, back in another hospital corridor listening to bleeping machines. Just when she thought history was repeating itself, his old broken heart kept beating, “and it’s been beating for you ever since,” he said, in an uncharacteristic show of mawkish affection. 

Good ol’ Malky. He made her laugh. He was a good man and he made her feel good. They had conversations that lasted all night. OK, so he has a psychic three-legged dog who complains about the noise when I play me records, but that only makes it more fun. To put it simply, life was good. She was painting again; he’d made her a studio in the attic. (He never told what he was doing up there and she didn’t ask; he just hammered and sawed and cursed whilst she went about her business. In the end he’d put a ribbon across the door for the grand unveiling. He’d widened the skylight to let in more light and built a little podium for her still-life subjects. She accepted the keys like a gushing thesp before bursting into real tears. And although , he was hard work at times - he was sometimes taciturn and prone to moodiness – he was a good, kind man.

Then, wonder-of-wonders, she gets pregnant and her instinct, much to her surprise, is to keep it. Malky acted as if he wasn't overly keen, but she knew that deep-down he was delighted; he just felt unworthy and old.

And here we are. 2 years later and things couldn't be better. We’re broke but we ain't bust. We’re just about keepin’ our heads above water...

She went to the bar and looked out of the big window at the dirty, litter laden, windswept promenade. The council were meeting on Thursday; word on the wind had it that property developers were looking at the town with a view to redevelopment, so things were looking up. That’s good, ain't it? Lots of meetings with property developers and councilmen: all very ‘establishment’.

So 22 years later, what would she say to the silly girl standing on the table telling the world she’ll be a wild-child forever? Is she where she wants to be, where she has to be, or where she needs to be...?

Sammy couldn't read her mind but felt her doubts as if they were his own. It must be something to do with Malky. He hoped that it wasn't anything serious. Malky had grown on him. The old dog was a godsend, somebody to talk to who can see you, hear you... not that he ever feckin’ listens! But what if the auld dog died? Sammy shuddered at the thought: There would be no watching TV until 4 in the morning for a start. It was tough being a ghost. And although he knew Zindy couldn't see him, he still felt a little self-conscious about his appearance; as the old dog says: “the bloody-bullet-hole-ridden-apron makes you look like a psychopath (ghosts are stuck with what they wore when they died -- the last image The Light captures before their Soul passes), so he was discreet. He sat on the bin in the dark corner by the stove and watched from what he considered to be a reasonable distance. He’d been a bachelor all his life, he’d never met a woman he could live with, but Zindy was closest thing he’d ever had to a daughter – this, despite the fact that she was a headstrong, blue-haired English girl who dressed like a boy and swore like a docker. When she bought the inn, he thought she’d only last a few weeks, and yet, thank God, here we are. 

There were very few advantages in existing between Worlds, besides the walking through walls and not having to eat or sleep or all that malarkey, his senses were heightened and attuned to the Oneness of All Living Things (well, that’s how the dog put it) –- which meant he was able to see the little glow in Zindy’s belly. It was nothing more than an amber glimmer throbbing with the minute pulsebeat of a budding Soul, but it radiated an energy that brought a ripple of warmth to his Essence. Sometimes, when she was sleeping he’d stand close – not too close – and look into her womb. Oh, but it was a joyous sight to behold, “Look at the miracle begin again,” he whispered, to no one in particular.

Zindy climbed up onto the draining board to close the window above the sink -– Sammy was jumping up and down, pulling at his silver beard, “Are ye mad woman?! Get down o’ that w’ ye!” Thankfully she performed the exercise without incident, but he still hadn't settled; as she went about preparing her evening meal, he paced the floor behind her, fussing, wagging his finger, “Look at that floor! There’s engine oil down there! Ye’ll slip ‘n’ go on yer hoop! You’d better buck-up yer ideas, lady – that’s a chile in there – not a bag o’ chips!”

“Oh, I’d love a bag o’ chips,” she said, apropos of nothing.

Sammy stood by the cooker as she toiled over the sizzling pan and talked to her unborn baby, “Your silly daddy doesn’t know what to do with himself. He hates all this spooky stuff... He hates anything that brings the world to his door -- God knows what he’ll be like when the inn’s open for business...” Whether she was consoling a restless foetus or trying to convince herself, she didn’t know. She stopped stirring and stared as she contemplated her certain future.

The old ghost saw the doubt in her eyes and fought Malky’s case from his corner, “He’s a decent sort who won’t let you down –- you have to grow up sometime, missy! Stop moonin’ about and think like a mammy!”

No, let’s make no bones about, she was getting bored. It isn't good when life gets too predictable, when routine becomes rut. She needn't worry; things were about to get very strange indeed...

St Cedric’s Institution for the Criminally Insane (SCICI): Rossington watched the sundown from his office window, a very large brandy in one hand, a cigarette in the other. It had been a bad day. The news from the board had been direct with no room for interpretation. His time had run out. The victims’ families’ petitions and writing campaigns had fulfilled their purpose, the pressure to do something had forced their hand. He had to give up Barry McKee to the authorities so an independent assessment of his condition could be made. He’d explored every legal avenue to keep him at SCICI, but there was nothing more he could do. The mob has spoken.

He was angry and frustrated, but mostly angry. He finished his brandy, carelessly stubbed out the cigarette, left his office and made for the sick bay in the high security wing. He walked quickly and purposely, collected the swipe cards from the nurses’ station and marched on, swiping through the sophisticated system of doors, along the corridors and across the walkway that led to the security ward and the room of SCICI’s most infamous inmate. Then, just as he swiped the lock, he had a moment of inspiration. He turned and walked to the staff toilet at the end of the corridor, to the mirror above the wash-hand basin; using his penknife to unscrew the frame, he carefully prised the hexagonal glass from the wall, put it under his arm and took it to McKee’s room.

“Hello, Barry,” he said, quietly closing the door behind him and turning on the lights. The sudden blaze of brightness didn’t faze McKee. Hooked up to the machines that kept him alive, long haired and bearded, he continued to stare unblinkingly at the ceiling, like a stricken biblical prophet transfixed by a vision of hell.

“I must apologise, it’s been quite a while since I visited. I’ve been busy with other patients and projects, not to mention running this establishment, you know how it is. I’ve kept abreast of your progress, though... what there is of it.” Rossington slowly crossed the floor, talking in a casual manner as he approached the bed, “Anyway, I’ll get straight to the point: I’ve received some bad news regarding your case and I thought you should to be the first to hear it.” He sat in the chair by the bed and put the mirror on his lap, “They've decided to take you off my hands, Barry. They say I’ve had enough time to prove you’re worth keeping alive. They say it would be mercy: ‘it’s cruelty not to let nature take its course’. No doubt they’re under pressure from the families of the victims, not to mention that bastard Somerville. Whatever, you’re doomed, and there’s nothing I can do to save you.”

As always, McKee remained silent and seemingly insensible.

“You've shown no significant progress since that business with Niamh and Oona 2 years ago.” He tore off the latest print-out from the EEG and indicated the flat lines across the graph, “See, nothing like the flurry of activity we recorded during those instances in 1989. Why’s that, eh?” He scrunched the page into a ball and threw it into the corner. “It all stopped when I took away the mirrors and had you moved you to this room, didn’t it? Niamh and Oona lost their connection and have exhibited no psychic abilities since. It’s no coincidence, is it, Barry?”

He stood up and held the mirror over McKee’s face, “I know you use mirrors to reach out other telepaths and psychics,” he said, looking deep into McKee’s unseeing eyes, “so I’m having them re-installed, and you can do whatever is you do. Good or evil, I don’t care anymore. I just need results, Barry. I need something to show for my work. If not, I’ll hand you over to the authorities and they’ll perform what will be, for all intents and purposes, a public execution...”

To Be Continued Next Month...

[paulhudd]

SPINDLEFRECK: 21 novella-length episodes available here: Table of Contents 

Witches, warlocks, necromancers... and that’s just the kitchen staff.

[paulhudd]

Spindlefreck: Pt.21: Devil-Dogs, Hellcats and Cowgirls

3 November 1988

10 minutes past midnight: The Ivy House is eerily quiet now. No sound save for the whistle of the pipes, the tick-tock of antique clocks and the distant tinkle of wind-chimes in the Oriental Garden. The household staff and security detail have been rendered unconscious. Some are sleeping comfortably at their posts, some are lying around in the corridors. In the yard, at the rear of the East Wing, a guard lies sprawled at the foot of the iron staircase after passing out on the top step when he stopped to light a cigarette; fortunately for him he was too insensible to feel his ulna fracture on the way down or endure the excruciating pain that followed. In the main kitchen, cooks, chefs, maids and stable boys are either slumbering in front of the huge granite fireplace in their favourite chairs or slumped across the table, their slack-jawed faces marinating in a murky amalgam of spilled milk and bedtime beverages.

However, not everyone is out for the count. 

For instance, up on the second storey, in a small bedroom at the rear of the South Wing, naked save for a pair of white boxer shorts and strapped to a single bed, lies internationally famous rock star and Hollywood actor, Guy ‘Goz’ Gosling, wide-awake and desperately trying to escape his bonds before the Lumbs’ huge, Middle-Eastern chauffeur - currently spark out on the floor by the bed - wakes up and does whatever he intended to do with that big knife before he collapsed! He certainly wasn't going to cut the straps, that’s for sure! All the same, that wasn't such a bad idea. A big knife could be very useful in extricating him from his predicament - if only he could get his hand to it. The straps that bind his wrists and chest are much too tight to shift, but after much wriggling and twisting -- I knew those yoga classes would come in handy one day! -- he’s managed to free his left leg and is now stretching it to its full extent as he tries to wrest the khanjar from the big chauffeur’s half-opened hand using his foot to grip the edge of the curved blade. Needless to say the process is proving quite painful, and it isn't long before he feels that ominous warm-stickiness on his sole and has to check to make sure he still has a full complement of toes. After a further 5 minutes of gyrations, contortions and agonizing bouts of intermittent cramp, his efforts are abruptly curtailed by the sound of the door being thrown open and crashing against the inside wall. The candle-flame slants and flickers as the through-draught breezes across the room, chilling his exposed, perspiring torso and sending a shiver of dread the length of his spine. There’s a shadow in the doorway; as it enters, he glimpses the unmistakeable glint of gun metal. Oh shit. Somebody’s come to finish the job... He takes a deep breath and braces himself for the worst.

“What’s going on in here?” growled a familiar, female voice.

He sighed with relief and relaxed, “Jeezus. Lady Beth... Oh thank god it’s you. Please, please undo these straps. There’s no need to worry, now, I’m completely back to normal...”

She emerged from the darkness of the doorway, revolver in hand, her silk dressing gown shimmering in the candlelight, and looked down at the prostate body of her poleaxed chauffeur, “Are you responsible for this?” she asked, nonchalantly.

Puzzled, Goz looked down at the straps and replied, “Erm, no -- but whatever happened couldn’t’ve happened at a better time -- it probably saved my life! Look at the size of that fucking knife!!”

She glanced at the Prussian wall-clock above the dresser, “So... Xavier -- khanjar in hand -- collapsed on the dot of 12, just like everybody else, did he,” she purred, gently tapping the barrel of the gleaming pistol against her pursed lips and nodding slowly, as if absorbing the information in order to form an opinion.

“What do you mean, just like everybody else?” he asked, perturbed.

She reached down, took the khanjar from Xavier’s hand, put it on the dresser, then walked around to the foot of the bed, leaned on the footboard and looked their prisoner up-and-down. “As if you didn’t already know, the entire house is unconscious. But not you. You and Carla. Are you two up to something, Guy?” she asked, pointedly, cocking a hip and levelling the gun at his head.

“Carla? You mean the tall woman with the long silver hair... Is she Carla?”

“Don’t fuck with me, Guy. You know full-well who Carla is.”

He shook his head, “I’ve only just met her... what I mean is, we were in a dream together, but I’ve never actually met her in the flesh... Is she awake too?”

Her Ladyship responded with a disbelieving shake of her head and asked in a sceptical, pissed-off-voice, “What have you been up to, Guy?”

He was beginning to panic a bit now. He didn’t know her well enough to tell if she was deadly serious or teasing; under the circumstances, he thought it best not to beg, charm or bullshit her, but give it to her straight albeit with a few omissions and embellishments, “Please, Lady Beth, I know what you must think of me, what with all the trouble I’ve caused ‘n everything -- but I swear, I’m OK now. I’m not a... beast anymore. I need to see Carla and find out what’s going on!”

Smiling, she lowered the gun, traipsed around the bed, leaned forward, stroked his unlined, sweat-beaded-brow, and spoke in a sweet, motherly tone as she gazed into his eyes, “Hmmmm. No fangs, no claws and no tail, now, but you’re still a bit of a wolf, aren't you, Guy,” she said, enigmatically, looking toward the window, “and the moon is still full.”

He shook his head, “What... what do you mean?”

She raised the gun again, “You know what I mean. I can’t trust you. How can I? You’re an actor, after all. A great pretender! A professional fraud! You lie for a living,” she cocked the trigger, “You’re lying now...”

He panicked and squirmed in his bonds, “I’m not -- I’m not -- I really am sorry -- I mean... I transformed because of an anomaly in the Void! -- but the danger has passed! -- I’m back to normal! -- back in the Real World...”    

Before he could bluster any further, she whispered in his ear, “You were one of Pritchard’s little errand boys. You were in his thrall; always at his beck-and-call. And when Jamie went to boarding school, he assigned you to ‘look after’ him... and you’ve been ‘looking after’ him ever since. You've been like a brother to him.... for better or worse,” said she, mischievously, "and Pritchard put you up to this, too, didn’t he? This is all part of the same sordid little scheme -- isn't it?!”

He knew what she was getting at and stridently rejected the insinuation, “This has got nothin’ to do with me and the business with Jamie and Bernie! Well, I mean - OK - I wanted to get Jamie back for the puppeteering stunt [See Part 10] - and OK - so B-Bernie told me where to find the scrapbook - and yes - I went to SCICI and used it to cast the sp-spell that kicked all this off -- but that’s as far as it went! I didn’t know the d-demon had set a trap! I mean, look what happened to me -- I mutated into my avatar -- I almost died!! I-I’m as much a victim as the rest of you!” When he saw that his flustered explanation was evoking nought but a doubtful smirk, he regrouped, settled back into the pillow and clarified in a more dignified tone, “Look, milady, I need to know what’s going on just as much as you. So if you’d please unstrap me, we can go and see Carla and maybe she can explain it to both of us.”

She eyed his lithe, toned, personally-trained, movie-star-body with a disdainful curl of the lip, and remarked, “My, how you’ve grown, Guy. I remember when you were a pale, scrawny, knock-kneed little 10-year-old with greasy hair and acne. I remember the little boy who watched me like a lovesick calf when we happened to pass each other in the hallway. The sweet little choirboy singing-his-little-heart-out and constantly glancing in my direction during his solo at the Winter Solstice recitals. You would've done anything for me, wouldn't you, Guy?” She laid on the edge of the bed next to him, put her head on his shoulder, reached down and ran the cold steel of the muzzle along the his tensed, bronzed, outer-thigh, “but I don’t trust you. I don’t trust any of Bernie’s Boys. I trust Xavier implicitly, though,” she stole a glance at her slumbering driver, “and if he felt the need to arm himself for the duration of this little vigil then he must've thought you were a risk. Pretty big risk, if that knife is anything to go by.” Her voice coarsened as she jabbed the gun into his naval and moved closer, “What are you up to, Guy? Why go to SCICI?” she asked, her lips inches from his, then answered her own question before he could open his mouth, “it’s all about Pritchard’s stupid ‘Mindchild’ project -- you’re in cahoots with Rossington, too -- aren't you?!” 

Goz was very scared now. Not only was she partially correct, but the gun was still cocked and her breath stank of  booze! He pleaded with her in a quiet voice, “Now, now, now, listen to me, Lady Beth, please, hear me out. It’s true, I’ll admit it, I always had a thing for you, I mean -- we all did -- you’re an extremely attractive woman! And I did do some work for Bernie back in the day -- but I’m not involved in anything now! What’s happening tonight isn't about the Real World! It isn't about business, politics or anything that could affect the organisation. This is all about the psychic side of things, the coven, the demon, The Darkly Martyrs, The Prime Directive -- all that ancient-magic-hocus-pocus-shit. And I’m just like you, milady -- I’m not a full-‘Güül, I’m only a Sensitive, a grunt, a drone -- I’m not mentally equipped for any of it.”

She sat up and wagged the gun in his face naughty-naughty-fashion, “Nevertheless, you performed dark magic with the aid of civilians, and that, as you well know, is strictly verboten. Biggest of no-nos. The Council won’t stand for it... and they’re on the warpath as it is,” she paused then announced in a harsh whisper, “as if you didn’t know, the Washington Witches are actively trying to get rid of us. While you were in Dublin consorting with the good doctor at SCICI, I was attending the President’s Halloween Ball in DC [See Part 16], after which an attempt was made on my life,” She looked him in the eye, “and by the looks of things -- i.e. ex-soldiers-cum-chauffeurs-slash-hired-assassins inoculated against telepathic intrusion -- Rossington is in on the hit. Now is that a coincidence or...?”

He began to panic again; the last thing he wanted was the Washington coven on his case, he had his career to think of, nevermind his life. “Look, Lady Beth, I went to Rossington because I needed the scrapbook! That’s all!” He winced as she jabbed the muzzle into his sternum and growled, “You’re lying. I can read you like a book.” 

He continued to shake his head vigorously and protest just as vehemently, “Yes, yes, I made a mistake, OK, a BIG one -- but I helped put things right -- ask Carla and Jamie, they were there! -- they’ll explain everything...!”

She clamped a hand over his mouth and hissed in his ear, “Keep your fucking voice down, idiot! We have company! A Detective Inspector called. He’s enchanted at present, but he could wake up at any moment -- can’t have you squealing like a pig with a hot poker up its ass!” She duly got up, went to the dressing table, rummaged in a drawer and returned with a pair of thick, black woollen socks.

“What are you doing?”

“My apologies in advance for the triteness of this gag, but I’m afraid I really am going to have to put a sock in it,” she quipped, dryly, before stuffing one into his mouth and securing it in place with the other, deliberately pressing her cleavage against his face as she tied the knot behind his head, “Oh, but this brings back such fond memories of life here in the mid-60s,” she trilled, as she moved down the bed to tighten his restraints and re-secure his wandering leg, “a very distinguished foreign ambassador loved to play this game. He liked me to dress up as an urban guerilla -- red beret, shades, boots and khakis: like South American Revolutionaries or Baader Meinhof, you know the sort of thing -- and I’d strip him and strap him to the bed, just like this,” she tweaked Goz’s left nipple, “then I’d bugger him with the barrel of a Kalashnikov,” she chuckled, evilly, “it’s funny how our deepest fears inform our darkest desires; isn't it, Guy?”

He was incandescent, but all he could do was splutter a stifled stream of incomprehensible curses.

She stood up, put the gun against her shoulder and let it dangle on her little finger while she took him in. “Thanks to our lovely longevity potions, I’m the same woman I was back in those days,” she said, putting the pistol on the bedside locker. “I’m the same woman you idolised when you were a child, the same woman you fantasized about when you were a teenager,” she unbelted let her gown and let it fall to the floor then began unbuttoning her pyjama-top, “so struggle all you like, Guy - in fact, please do. Because whether you like-it-or-not, little boy, all your silly teenage dreams are about to come true...”

Meanwhile, down in the dungeon: Dani had given up shouting for help. It became clear that Dresh and the guards - currently sprawled across the floor outside the cell with their guns scattered around them - weren’t the only ones who’d suffered what she was referring to as ‘the big knock-out’. “I must be the only one awake in the whole house,” she moaned, as she sat cross-armed cross-faced and cross-legged on the floor, wrapped up in a ragged blanket in front of the big glass door, listening to the incessant hiss of the overhead pipes and her captors’ rumbling snores. 

“Bloody typical! I get turned back into a proper girl again and there’s no one here to see it or set me free!” She scowled, stuck out her tongue at her lovely new face in the smudgy glass and grumbled, “You ‘n your crummy luck!”

She mightn't be a gruesome little-green-goblin anymore, but her circumstances remain the same. She’s still locked up like a monster in a horrible dungeon in a horrible house with horrible people who hate her and want her dead... 

Or maybe not. Hmmmmm...

She had a notion: Maybe now that I’m normal they won’t treat me like shite anymore? I mean, they certainly wouldn't shoot a sweet little girl! She stared into her own eyes, scratched her chin and considered the situation. I’ve got to look as normal as possible! Inspired, she sprang to her feet, threw off the blanket and looked at her tattered clothes. Better put something presentable on. Gotta look nice as poss. Most of all, she wanted to impress Jamie. Wait’ll he sees me now! So she skipped to her little dressing table and pulled out all the drawers, looking for clothes that weren’t stained, ripped, plucked or full of holes. The best thing she could find was a short-sleeved, ankle length, white cotton nightdress she’d never worn that used to belong to Alice the chambermaid. Huh! Bloody Alice! Two-faced bitch! Some friend she turned out to be! “Well, it’s better than nothing,” said she, and began to get undressed. When she was naked, she had a good look at herself in the glass. From head to toe, back and front, she double-checked every inch by the light of the lantern, just to be sure there wasn't the slightest hint of green or the odd patch of scaly skin. Nope, I’m as white as the nightdress and not a scale in sight!

That wasn't to say she felt completely ‘normal’. She was still aware of that the transformation hadn't robbed her of her Gift. She still felt wired to nature; the air was still alive with ethereal vibrations; her natural senses were strong and finely tuned, and although she daren’t enter the Psychosphere until she got the all-clear, she could tell her telepathic abilities were wholly intact. Stronger, in fact. And if what the old wizards told me is true, then I’m just as powerful as Jamie....more powerful, maybe...? She pulled the nightgown over her head, and glared at the big Plexiglas door, not powerful enough to get outta this place, though! As she primped her long blonde hair in the glass, she was struck by another notion: Or am I... She put her cheek against the door so she could see the locking mechanism on the adjacent wall at the opposite end of the basement: the Emergency Release Button. 

She’d tried telekinesis before, she’d moved a few things like bobbins and pens, small things like that, just to see what she could do, but the blinding headache that inevitably ensued was enough to put her off for life! It felt like her skull was going to crack! However, in this case, she had no choice but to grit her teeth and bear it. So she put her hands against the glass, took a deep breath, closed her eyes tight, put her head down and concentrated really, really hard. She visualised a ghostly hand materialising in the air outside the cell... she pictured it floating toward the box... its index finger pointing directly at the big red button... pressing it....

And what do you know? It friggin’ worked! Well, the button definitely clicked -- she heard it -- she felt it -- but the door remained stubbornly shut. Then it occurred: the electric’s off. That’s why there’s lanterns ‘n candles everywhere, dummy! But before she could ponder any further: “Oh shiiiiiite...” she groaned, folding in two as the customary headache began to surge through her synapses. For the next few minutes she rolled on the floor furiously massaging her temples, gasping in agony as wave after wave of excruciating pain rolled through her cranium.

Bloody dungeon.

8 minutes later, when she was sufficiently recovered, she had another think: if the electric’s off, then maybe I can force it... She examined the lock. It would require a lot of psychic energy and it would definitely result in a very, very sore head, but she had no choice: I mean, gawd knows how long they’ll be out! I could starve to death in here! She waited for a couple of minutes to gather her strength, then put her cheek to the glass again, squeezed her eyes shut, gnashed her teeth, furrowed her brow and concentrated with all her might...

It wasn't long before the gears, cogs and tumblers inside the lock began to groan and grind... she screamed as she pushed hard and willed it with every fibre of her being -- finally, the bolt began to slide back -- he innards gave-way -- the wall shunted and moved sideways! It worked!! But there was no time to rejoice: “Oooooow...” Drooping head clasped in her hands, panting as if she’d just run a marathon, she slid down the glass and rolled on the cold stone floor as the pain returned with a vengeance. This time it was so bad it made her throw up. As soon as it passed and her eyes had refocused, she went to the corner, put her fingers into the crack and slid the door to one side. She was out. Free at last!  

She tiptoed through the bodies of the sleeping guards - taking care not to trip on their rifles - stepped over Dresh’s long, splayed legs, climbed the flight of steps, then down the corridor to the backdoor and into the botanical gardens. No guards. Nobody around. She ran into the trees where she came across Gebbit, the other gardener - nasty little dwarf who keeps calling me ‘Demonspawn’ - slumped in his deckchair, snoring heavily and drooling into his bushy ginger whiskers. She couldn't resist and kicked the leg of the deckchair from under him -- the frame duly flattened-out on the ground, sending him tumbling into a nearby allamanda bush. She giggled and skipped on into the misty environs of the Judge’s Jungle, leaping over roots and tall, spiny grass, taking care not to snag her nightie on any thorny bushes or low hanging branches; then up the steps, across the back patio, through the open doors of the conservatory, across the white marble tiles of the summer room and into the house. She snuck under a pair of guards who’d passed out on each other’s shoulders in one of passageways and entered the warren of low-ceilinged, wood-panelled corridors at the rear of the East Wing. It was very dark, and although she trod carefully and lightly, she still managed to stub her toe on the plinth of an ornamental vase and trip over a fallen footman. When she finally reached the main hall, she saw the flickering glow of a log fire in the drawing room up ahead and paused to steel her nerve. Here we go, time to act the sweet little princess, she thought, as she arranged her hair on her shoulders, straightened up, stuck out her chest and strode purposely into the room. There was neither sight nor sign of Jamie, Lady Bitch or big fat Castle, although Alice the chambermaid, her erstwhile fellow psychic traveller, was spark-out in one of the armchairs. Well, well, look who it is! She was just about give her unconscious former-friend’s nose a good tweaking when she was disturbed by a contented gurgle behind her. She turned and discerned the unmistakable figure of Detective Inspector Harkness sprawled over the arm of the big leather couch -- completely out of his tree! What the bleedin’ hell’s he doin’ here? Is he one of us? She had a closer look:  Nope, he doesn’t have an aura. He looks happy, though. Like an ol’ drunk having a naughty dream. It was all very odd...

She gave herself a shake! What was she thinking of?! I don’t have time for this! Her No.1 priority was Jamie! He must be in his room in the sanatorium! He was in the dream -- maybe he’s awake too! Oh, wait til he sees me! She took to her heels, ran off down the hall and out of the front door...

...

In the sanatorium, sitting on the edge of Jamie’s bed, her unconscious uncle at her feet, his head resting on a black velvet cushion, Mme Carla Infanté looks through Ivan Cochrane’s scrapbook for anything that might explain the current situation or yield a clue as to what’s going to happen next; but as far as she can see it’s nothing but page after page of science-fiction themed adventure stories, childish drawings, photographs and clippings from 50s pop culture magazines.

“Well, missssy, what does it sssay?” hissed Noel the python, as he spiralled down the bedpost behind her.

Usually, Noel’s presence would be an unwelcome intrusion, but at that moment she found his company weirdly comforting and answered accordingly, “These runes mean nothing to me. I am not well versed in the ancient texts... The rest is just what one would expect to find a little boy’s scrapbook, nothing pertinent as far as I can see...” she replied, gloomily. She looked down at her uncle and shivered, “One has to wonder... is this how it ends? Has the demon won?” She turned and looked at the slumbering young Master, “Is Jamie possessed? I have no way of knowing...”

“But Oggy’sss not dead,” hissed Noel, nodding toward the butler’s humongous spare-tyre, “Look at that big ol’ belly heavin’ up-‘n’-down! He’s asssleep, chile!”

“That doesn’t mean anything, Noel,” Carla explained, “if his Soul is destroyed the body can only last for a few days, eventually the vital functions will shutdown.”

Just then, they heard the front door opening and closing. Assuming it was Lady Beth, Carla stood up, zipped up her catsuit and prepared herself for another ill-tempered contretemps, but when the door opened and her great niece entered, she reeled on her heels, put a hand to her mouth and gasped with a muted mixture of astonishment and delight, “Danielle! You are awake... And you have... changed?!”

“My, but yer lookin’ well, kid!” agreed Noel, very impressed, “the last time I sssaw ye you were greener than a bullfrog! What did you do, ssshed yer ssskin?”

But Dani wasn't interested in providing explanations or entertaining compliments, she wanted to see Jamie. She jumped over Castle, climbed onto the bed and held the sleeping beauty’s hand in hers. “Hey! Why isn't he awake?” she cried, “Why didn’t he come back like me?” She turned, glared at Carla and said, “How come you’re awake and he isn't?”

Unfazed by the undiluted scorn, Carla regretfully replied “I think I was spared because I was still travelling through Harkness’ subconscious when the clock struck 12.” She looked in the direction of the house and nodded, “But you are right: those of us who were present in the dreamscape seemed to have survived: Master Gosling is awake, too. I heard him shouting in his room just after the stroke of midnight.”

Dani related the events that occurred after Carla’s exit and before the big sleep, “....then the Martyrs made us form a circle and twirl around, then everythin’ began to swirl around -- then the old wizard with the big beard told us to say the magic word -- and we did -- and there was this bang ‘n he pointed his stick ‘n zapped the demon with a bolt of lightning or somethin’ -- the next thing I know I’m back in my body in the dungeon -- and I’m like this! So if I’m OK 'n Goz isn't a Big Bad Wolf anymore,” she cupped Jamie’s cheeks, looked into his half-opened eyes and asked, “then why aren't you awake, JJ?!”

“Because of this,” said Carla, holding up the shards of broken mirror, “the portal was shattered. He has no way back, he could be anywhere...”

For what seems like weeks, Jamie has dozed on and off - or to be more precise - he periodically seems to lose and regain consciousness: no dreams, no nightmares - but each time he ‘awakens’ to the same disheartening, soul-destroying ‘reality’: a stark, white, antiseptic hospital-room-cum-padded-cell with a rubber floor and a padded door fitted with a little curtained viewing window. Every now and again a surly orderly will pull back the curtain and look in at him to make sure he hasn’t had a 'episode’ or tried to kill himself. And it has to be said, at this stage, suicide is a very tempting option. But it might also be exactly what his tormentor wants: total surrender, so screw that for a game of soldiers. In the meantime he clings to Carla’s previous reassurance that “the natural laws of time and space do not apply in an abstract dimension...” i.e., 5 minutes in a phantasm can last a lifetime, and doggedly sticks to his guns. All he can hope for is a breakthrough like last time, but the way things are going, it’ll have to come from the other side, because this time he can’t forge any meaningful dialogue: there’s been no interaction with anyone who relates to him on anything other than a ‘professional’ basis; he’s considered too dangerous and volatile to mix with the other patients; the nurses bring him his meds and food, the same two orderlies escort him everywhere and take him round the garden path for an hour’s exercise every day, but none of them engage in conversation beyond the occasional please or thank you. The ‘doctors’ and ‘psychologists’ interview him every week and regard him with the same bemused, glassy-eyed, semi-detached stare as they sit cross-legged in their easy chairs and listen patiently to his story; a story that never alters. They've stopped taking notes because he has nothing to offer beyond ‘you are a cypher; this is just an illusion’. 

He doesn’t know where he is or how he got here, but is 100% certain he’s trapped in someone else’s subconscious; the question is, whose? He’s pretty sure it isn't Harkness’ head -- this version of that reality lacks the finer details: aside from the key-players, there’s nothing in this ‘scape that couldn't be scraped from even the most prosaic psyche; everyone’s seen a movie with a set-up like this. No, as far as he’s concerned, this is a repurposed memory; and since he’s made up his mind that the Martyrs were on their side -- at least I trust they wouldn't be so crass as to pull the same trick a second time -- he is utterly convinced that this is the demon’s handiwork. He has that familiar churning in his guts that usually indicates the presence of dark energy...

Or is it just the meds?

He’s thought of hiding the pills, but the nurse stands over him and the orderlies check his mouth, so he swallows them in the knowledge that the effects would be purely psychosomatic. Whatever their efficacy, he could still think straight, but over the past few days he’s become unnaturally listless and despondent; the doctor reckons the relentless boredom and isolation are taking their toll and prescribed an anti-depressant, but there’s nothing they can do about his circumstances until he has a ‘breakthrough’.

Breakthroughs.

The night before, he could take it no more, he dropped to his knees and begged the demon to let him go, promising him everything but his Soul. But there were no booming voices in the darkness; no cyphers offering deals. The interminable nightmare drags on. So ‘suicide’ may be the only possible way to break the deadlock... unless, like last time, a third party intervenes....

And sure enough, later that day, just as Jamie’s spirits dipped to a subterranean level and he lay on the bed contemplating some sort of grand gesture, instead of Nurse Whitethorn, the small, skinny, middle-aged woman who usually brought him his midday supply, Nurse Gaston Masterson, the stocky, urchin faced 19-year-old from Wolverhampton whose career he’d previously jeopardised [See Part 20], arrived to “Dish out the tabs!” Jamie hadn't seen him since the first day of his current incarceration and his unexpected reappearance could mean one of two things: either he’s the key to unlocking this or he’s here to kick me when I’m down.

“Hullo! Long-time-no-see -- ‘ow’ve you been, mate? Still climbin’ the walls, are ya?” he chimed, with a wicked wink and a cheeky grin.

He’s here to kick me when I’m down. “Hello, Gaston,” said Jamie, icily, without getting up or even raising his head.

Masterson held the tray on his splayed fingers like a waiter and put the other hand on his hip, “’Ere, I ‘ad a look at your notes just now. It says you’ve become ‘withdrawn’ ‘n ‘lethargic’,” he teased, in his thick Midlands drawl, stooping to have a good look at Jamie’s face and adding gruffly with a hint of satisfaction, “oh yeah. You look bleedin’ awful. ‘Orrible. That’ll be the barbiturates, mate. They sap yer will to live, they do.”

Jamie sighed and held out his hand, “Gimme the fucking pills and get out.”

“Oooh, that’s how it’s gonna be, is it?” Masterson sneered, cocking his head and looking around the stark, windowless room, “At least I can get out, mate,” he sighed, wistfully, “and I must say, it is such a beautiful day today. The sun is shoinin’, ain't a cloud in the skoy...”

Jamie propped up his head and cocked an eye, “You know, for someone in your profession, you haven’t got a very caring nature, have you, Gaston?”

“Ach, I get a kick outta emptyin’ bedpans. I luv the smell of ammonia in the mornin’, me!” he bantered, nonchalantly, grinning like a Cheshire cat as he handed over the little plastic vial of water, “but the main thing is I get to meet wonderful people like you, Jamie.”

Jamie took the cup, sipped it, swallowed, and then looked up into Masterson’s little piggy eyes as he handed it back, “Mm. You’re a very interesting character, Gaston. You intrigue me, you know that?”

Masterson curled a lip and looked at him askance, “Oh yeah? ‘Intrigue’ you ‘ow?”

Jamie grinned and said, “You don’t fit in round here. You stick out a like a sore thumb. In fact, you even look like a sore thumb. Then again, it’s not your physical appearance or your sparkling personality that fascinates me. It’s your function. The purpose you serve.”

“What are you talkin’ about, ‘purpose-I-serve’? I’m a friggin’ nurse! I’m ‘ere cos I work here, y’ daft twonk!” Masterson sniggered, shaking his head.

Jamie’s smile disappeared, his eyes narrowed, “... because each time I reach rock-bottom you reappear, either to supply a ray of hope or provide some exposition. What the hell are you, Gaston?”

The nurse was utterly confounded, “You’re crackin’-up, mate. You’re startin’ to rant like a lunatic,” Masterson tittered, a little nervously, clasping the tray to his chest like a breast plate.

Jamie shook his head and spoke plainly, “It doesn’t matter how long you keep me here, I won’t change my story. My consciousness is trapped in a timeless abstraction. I know I’m still lying on a bed in the Ivy House, enchanted.”

Baffled, Masterson shook his head, tutted and put on an officious voice, “I’ll have to report this to Mondale; 'is course of treatment don’t seem to be workin'. If anything, you’re gettin’ worse...”

“... I don’t know why you’ve dragged me here, but you’ve got to face facts: the battle is lost. You must know by now that I’ll never crack,” Jamie insisted, soberly. “Now, if you don’t mind, it’s long after midnight and I really should be back in my own head. C’mon. Either show your hand or quit.”

Masterson backed up but continued to goad, “I’ve been reading-up-on-this, too: you know what this is? This is amnesiac-paranoia, this is: when you can’t remember nuthin’ ‘n you start thinkin’ everybody’s out to getcha. If you don’t woise-up ‘n show some improvement, you’ll never get out of this room, mate.”

“Oh, I’m thinking straight, mate. You are the only truly interactive member of this regime. His little deus ex-machina,” said Jamie, assuredly, sitting up, “the orderlies never utter a word; the doctors spout the usual psychobabble and scribble down what I say without comment. No one really engages with me... except you, Gaston.”

Still chuckling to himself, the chunky nurse turned toward the door, then paused for thought, turned back and said, “Just for the sake of argument: - if I’m not Nurse Masterson, then who am I?”

“A figment of a demon’s imagination.”

“Oh God, wait til I tell the lads about this...” he snorted, feigning a fit of the giggles.

“Then what’s your address, Gaston Masterson?”

The mocking laughter immediately stopped: “What?!” Masterson recoiled, as if stung by the question.

“Where do you live?”

“That’s none of your fookin’ business!” he looked very rattled.

“OK then, what’s your date of birth?”

“Ummm...” he looked very confused.

Jamie rephrased the question: “When were you born?!”

“I know, I know -- just shurrup!” Masterson yelled, getting angrier and more frustrated by the second.

“OK. Then what was the name of your primary school?”

“None of your...”

“What’s your mother’s maiden name?”

“Stop it! Stop it! STOP IT!” he yelled, putting his hands over his ears.

But Jamie got to his feet and kept up the barrage, “What’s your favourite colour? What’s your favourite movie? Where did you spend your first ever summer holiday?”

“SHUT UP! DON’T MOVE! STAY WHERE YOU ARE!!” Masterson dropped the tray and backed-up toward the door.

“You don’t know anything, do you?”

“Of course I do, but I’m not tellin’ a total psycho like --” he abruptly froze: mouth half-open in mid-syllable, eyes half-closed in mid-blink, his body rigid despite leaning backwards with one foot on the floor, as if someone had just hit the pause button on a 3D video movie. Jamie walked around him and studied him up-close. He looked solid, like an expertly-rendered sculpture, the blonde spikes looked as stiff as iron spines... He couldn't resist and reached out to touch one -- then quickly recoiled -- for as soon as his finger made contact with the tip of the uppermost peak, the inanimate nurse proceeded to subside and crumble like a column of coloured dust, spreading-out and seeping into the rubber flooring until all trace of it was gone. Unperturbed, Jamie stroked his unshaven jaw and nodded to himself: it’s nice to be right, but where do I go from here? That’s the $100,000 question... Masterson had left the door ajar. That’s convenient. It could also be a trap. Jamie slowly and cautiously edged along the adjacent wall so that he could peek through the crack without being seen. He needn't have worried: the orderlies weren’t at their station, in fact there was no sign of anyone anywhere; for the first time he noticed that the hospital was eerily silent... except, that is, for what he perceived to be distant sobbing. 

Someone is crying somewhere. 

He looked up. It seemed to be coming from above, but it wasn't an acoustic sound; it was dry and clear, with no reverberation: like an incongruous overdub on an ambient soundtrack; a blip; a dropped-stitch in the fabric of this reality. This ‘scape is falling apart. Not that he had any reason to rejoice. The long, tedious nightmare may be over, but he’s still trapped in someone else’s head, and judging by the thoughts and emotions gradually infusing his Essence, not to mention the sudden surge in negative energy, he had a pretty good idea whose head he was in. 

The id was beset by emotions and compunctions some of which had plagued him before his ‘initiation’: the self-pity, remorse and furious self-loathing of a clinically depressed and ultimately self-destructive human being. But it was also the psyche of a deranged narcissist who acted upon those base impulses courtesy of his constant partner in crime. Not only that, but at that present moment, the psychosis was compounded by the crash of depleting amphetamines, and by the feel of his nervous system, he was a heavy user. A speed freak on a downer. All in all, this was a Soul devoid of empathy, ethic or hope at the end of its tether. Jamie realised why he’d felt so suicidal over the last ‘few days’: he had been channelling these feelings of despair. He was trapped in the subconscious of someone with nothing to live for and nothing to lose: a damaged, dangerous human being, but a human being, nonetheless. This psyche may be Sensitive, it may possess limited psychic abilities, he reasoned, but it’s no match for a ‘Güül. With this in mind, Jamie strode confidently out his cell, past the orderlies’ table, across the shiny, chessboard-tiled floor and tried the first exit door he came to. Sure enough, it opened easily, and when he stepped through, he was unsurprised to find himself in an entirely different reality on the other side.

He was standing at the foot of steep staircase in the hallway of what appeared to be a homely seaside inn, and judging by the framed watercolours of a coastal town hanging along the opposite wall, a shelf-full of varnished seashells, and the sound of gulls yodelling outside, it was situated right on the seafront. He took in the smell of porter and pipe smoke wafting in through the connecting doorway, the muffled rumble of men talking and laughing, the clink of glasses, the throb of a bassy jukebox playing Roy Orbison’s Dream Baby at a low volume, and concluded he was in a comforting memory of simpler, less traumatic times. But the incongruous sobs were still plainly audible over the merry hubbub of the bar; and once again, the sound appeared to be coming from above. Jamie slowly ascended the stairs one-step-at-a-time, listening intently as he climbed, “Barry? Where are you?” he called out, as he reached the first landing.

The sobs abruptly ceased.

The lights went out. The voices in the bar down below faded to silence. The jukebox ground to a tuneless halt. The gulls stopped squawking. The air smelled of cinnamon and sulphur.

<Who’s there?> a broken, childish voice cried in Jamie’s head.

“You know who I am, Barry. We've met at least twice before,” said Jamie, creeping past the guestroom doors toward a second staircase at the end of the darkened landing.

The voice harrumphed, <Oh, you... so he brought you back with him, did he? Sent my replacement to torture me before he consigns me to oblivion,> it half-laughed, half-wept, <is that what this is? Payback time?>

“He was routed by our combined forces -- he was propelled back to his host -- to you -- he must've dragged my Spirit back with him. I’ve been trapped, here, in your subconscious since midnight,” Jamie told him, in a cool, clear voice, as he slowly and furtively climbed the second staircase, “he had me locked in a timeless phantasm. I s’pose he planned to keep me on hold until he summoned the strength to perform an enforced possession. Fortunately, I managed to escape before...”

<So what?! Why should I care?!> the childish, cracked voice broke in, <You know what’s going to happen to me once he possesses you, don’t you? Soul Death! That’s what!!>

“Probably, if we don’t do something to stop him. But all is not lost. He’s taken quite a beating. He’s very weak, it’ll take him a while to summon the energy he needs to take me on... Together we can...”

Jamie was forced to stop halfway up when a crippling pang of hopelessness assailed his Essence and his head rang with an angst-filled howl, <Why should I help you? What’s the point?! No matter what I do I’m screwed!! I’ve killed a lot of people! Dozens! I’ve killed kids, man!! KIDS!! The cops are bound to catch me! That’s why I wanted to die a proper death while I was rid of him! I would be dead right now if he hadn't’ve come back, I was so close... so close...> As the voice faded to a disconsolate groan, a vivid montage of his recent memories immediately filled Jamie’s psyche and he saw the events of the last 48 hours from McKee’s POV: he saw a wall of broken mirrors and the dog-bone shrine; he saw Harkness bound, blindfolded and tied to a radiator; he saw a darkened roads lit with the beam of a motorbike headlight as it sped through the countryside. Finally, he witnessed an elderly woman in a wheelchair suffer the gruesome effects of a fatal shotgun wound to the chest; simultaneously, waves of guilt and remorse washed over him as McKee sniffled and mawkishly confessed, <I had to kill my mother. She was old and senile. I wanted to see her die and walk into The Light while I was free of him. I... I wanted to say goodbye properly as she died... and I did. The Light shined ‘n I waved to her before she Ascended, and she waved back. She even smiled and said: ‘thank you’... Then I came back here, to Brodir, to free my father’s Spirit from its death-haunt and... kill myself. That’s when he came back... Just as I put my father’s revolver in my mouth and hooked my thumbs round the trigger, I felt him fill my head again...>

“Here? You mean we’re there... here... in Brodir... now?” asked Jamie, looking around, a little confused.

<That was almost an hour ago. God knows where we are now... we could be anywhere, I can’t see or hear anything, he’s taken control of my senses,> the voice whinged, <and if you’re here that can only mean one thing -- he’s going to ingest me and infest you! It’s a done deal. I’m doomed -- literally facing a fate worse than death!>

“It needn't come to that, Barry,” said Jamie, as he climbed the remaining steps, “if he’s put you on hold and I’m free to wander, then he must be concentrating all his energy on manipulating your body. His focus is elsewhere -- we can take him on --”

The voice cut in again, <And then what? Even if you escape I’ll still be stuck with him. And I’ve heard the radio reports! They’re listing my crimes and calling me the Most Dangerous Man in Ireland! I’ll never get a fair trial. Then I’ll be stuck in prison with men who’ll want to kill me -- and he’ll still be in my head!>

“They don’t put men like you in prisons, Barry; they put them in psychiatric institutions and study them for future reference. Especially infamous killers as prolific as you,” said Jamie, creeping along the short corridor of the second floor, past the private rooms, headed for a short flight of wooden steps that led up to the attic, “y’know, we have specialists who can help you. Demonologists from all over the globe. If you work with us there’s a every chance we can find a way to get rid of him forever. You could live out the rest of your life free of his influence and die a natural death. Isn't that what you want? I mean, no matter what happens, anything is better than this, isn't it --”

The voice cut him off just as he reached out and touched the doorknob, <Don’t open the door,> it warned, in a low, ominous growl.

Jamie paused but kept his hand where it was, “You can’t hurt me, Barry. You can’t hide from me, either. I know everything. I’m looking into your memories as we speak. I see the murders. I see the Spirits of the children darkened by your shadow. I know the extent of your complicity: I’m aware of the things you instigated, the things he made you do and the things you did willingly, and I’ll be frank, I don’t much like what I see or how it makes me feel. But I’m shutting my mind to all of it for now, because at this point, the only thing that matters is getting rid of the thing that enabled it, and if you truly want to atone for your sins and die naturally, you’ll help me,” said Jamie, slowly turning the knob, waiting for an objection. None came. He pushed the door open and ventured into Barry’s inner sanctum: the resplendent, high-ceilinged, opulently decorated throne room of an ancient Egyptian Pharaoh. For this is Barry’s Happy Place, created to cater to his childhood fascination with Egyptology, a phantasmagorical, palatial playpen to keep him occupied while the demon takes the wheel.

The tall white marble walls were draped in golden tapestries embroidered with intricate hieroglyphs and attended by rows of colossal statues representing the dog-god Anubis; their human arms crossed on their chests, their black vulpine snouts turned toward the throne as if paying homage to the Boy King. It was very impressive, but at the moment the demon is too busy to provide the in-house entertainment and Barry is too despondent to use his imagination; hence there are no eunuchs to fan him, no attendants to  to order around, no slaves to abuse; just the incumbent emperor sitting silently in his golden chair, atop a dais in the shadows at the top of the room.

But this was no Tutankhamun. This was a pale-skinned, prepubescent Barry McKee clad in stately Pharaoh’s robes and regal headdress, his head hung in shame and sorrow, his face hidden behind a long, glossy teddy boy quiff. “You shouldn't have opened that door. He’ll know you’re here now,” he said, his childishly- petulant voice echoing around the cavernous chamber. “You don’t know how this works. We die, he eats our Souls and he moves on. A dog, a cockroach, anything will do... You can’t go head-to-head with him -- he’s made of negative energy. He’s indestructible. It’s hopeless.”

“I can’t talk about what I intend to do, but listen to me,” said Jamie, slowly treading the purple runner that led to the throne, “I need to take control of your body, Barry. If we put our heads together, I can...”

Before he could finish, the porcelain-white, tear soaked face peered through the veil of greasy tresses and snorted, “It’s easy for you! You've got nothin’ to lose! He wants you. My Soul will get eaten!”

Even though he loathed this man/boy with every atom of his being, in that moment, Jamie couldn't help but feel a little bit sorry for him. He climbed the steps and knelt before the throne, looked up at him and held out a hand, “You know what his plans are, Barry. If you die, I get possessed; then he’ll use my powers to wipe-out my people. He’ll use our political connections to cause a situation that could potentially lead to the destruction of the Real World. It’s in my best interest to keep you alive. Trust me.”

McKee smirked and scoffed, “He’ll swallow us whole.”

“It just might save your Soul, Barry.”

The would-be Boy King shrugged and reluctantly put out his hand to accept the offer and lay open his psyche -- but before they even touched -- catastrophe struck! A deafening

THUD!

An explosion! The palace disintegrated! Their avatars were instantly tossed aloft and spun like snowflakes in a blizzard strobed by flashing multicoloured lights -- for a fleeting second he saw the ceiling of a room through McKee’s dimming eyes... then the pitch black of total unconsciousness...

Everything went deathly still, deathly silent.

<“Barry...?”>

McKee was gone, his psyche had been effectively switched off, nothing but the body’s vital functions and they were giving cause for concern: the breathing was shallow, the pulse rate was extremely weak, the blood pressure dangerously low. There was only one possible explanation: he’d suffered a crushing blow to the head.

For Jamie, this was uncharted territory: If this a concussion, what happens to me? What if it’s something worse? What if it it’s a bullet? Is this it?! Possession Time?!

Whatever the circumstances, his head was very, very sore and he was getting very dizzy... ringing in his ears... it was getting harder to think... Then, in the middle-distance, he espied a spangling silver rectangle.

Ooh, please let that be what I hope it is...

...

3 minutes ago in the sanatorium, Carla and Dani were startled when Jamie’s body suddenly spasmed -- the pair sprang back from him as he shuddered and his head writhed from side-to-side -- his face clenched in an anguished grimace!

“What the fuck’sss happenin’?!” yelped Noel, rudely roused from his nap, quickly slinking off the bouncing bed and coiling onto the floor.

Carla put her hands on Jamie’s shoulders and held him down, “It seems he has suffered a shock to his system!”

Dani jumped back onto the bed and helped her, “Is he hurt?!” she asked, pushing down on his chest.

Carla put a finger on his throat and tapped into his vital functions, “His blood pressure is high, his heart is racing...” she nodded to herself as she reached a conclusion, “It could mean one of two things...”

“What two things?!” cried Dani.

“Either it is a reaction to a direct attack on his psyche, or he is suffering someone else’s pain. My instincts lean toward the latter...”

“So?! Why’re you so worried?! What does it mean?!” yapped Dani, getting annoyed.

“I have a feeling I know where he is. I just hope the attack wasn't fatal...”

25 minutes ago, Odin’s Inn, Brodir, Co. Wicklow: diminutive, blue-haired inn-keeper, Zindy Lindsay, and her ever-faithful, septuagenarian barman, Sammy O'Donnell, were out in the backyard squeezing the last box of assorted debris into the back of his already overloaded van. “Well, that’s the last of it for tonight, chile,” said Sammy, panting as he secured the door-handles with an oily-rag, “I’ll take it round to the scrapyard in the mornin’, see what auld Matt’ll gimme fer it.”

“Thanks, Sam, I don’t know what I’d do w'out you, ol' son,” said Zindy, in her mellifluous Lancashire brogue. “It’s sad, all the same, I’m sure this breaks your 'eart, 'avin’ to see the place you’ve worked in all yer life end up in this state,” she remarked, nodding toward the inn.

“Nuthin’ lasts forever, me darlin’,” Sammy sighed, resignedly, “you only have to look at the crumbling castles of great kings strewn around this isle to see that even the grandest of places eventually end up abandoned ‘n fall into wreck-‘n-ruin, why should a pokey wee burg like Brodir be any different? The place is dead and Halloween Night was the last nail in its coffin,” he grimly philosophised, his grizzled, ruddy face a vision of woe.

“Fook me but you can be a right morbid bastard sometimes, Sammy O'Donnell,” she chuckled, crossing her arms and shaking her head. “Cheer oop, will ya?! As soon as I get it fixed-up, I’m openin’ this place again,” she reached up, grabbed his silvery sideboards and hoisted his drooping jowls into a smile, “so you’ve still got a job, aintcha?!”

He lowered his eyes and kept things serious, “You've been a great boss, chile, ye’ve been a pleasure to work for, but we havetae be realistic here. You heard what Somerville said: you’re gonna lose your liquor licence; you could be banned from ever runnin’ a bar ever again, and when they catch the bol’ Barry and it all comes out about what he did, nobody’s wanna come to Brodir, let alone stay at the auld Inn...”

“Then we’ll turn the place into a House of Horror for ghouls ‘n gawkers We’ll do guided tours -- we can coach ‘em in from Arklow!” she crowed, cheekily, cupping her hands around her mouth and yelling like a carnival barker, “Roll-Up, Roll-UP for the Magical Murder Tour -- get your Barry McKee tee-shirts ‘ere! Spend a night of terror in Mad Barry’s bed!”

He looked at her askance, shook his head and tutted, “Now, that’s just bad taste, girlie.”

She apologised for the flippancy but refused to look on the black-side, “No, fook-‘em, Sammy!! -- I’m not movin’. This is me ‘ome. I own it, I love it, an’ I’m stayin’ put. I don’t need a liquor licence to run a fookin’ guesthouse!”

Tutting to himself, Sammy got out his keys and bade her goodnight, “Sleep on it. We’ll talk about it in the mornin’,” he advised, turning away, “lock the gates behind me, mind you. Bolt the backdoor and make sure them windows on the first floor are shut tight 'n fastened before ye turn in...” he lowered his voice and asked, doubtfully, “Unless y’ want me to stay, that is...?”

She crossed her arms and scolded him, “NO. I’ve already ‘ad Malky on the phone earlier-on tellin’ me to be careful! -- and I’ll tell you what I tol’ ‘im -- there’s no way that bastard would come back ‘ere tonight!”

“’Malky,’ is it,” mumbled Sammy, morosely, turning away, rattling his keys, “huh. I s’pose you 'n him are ‘an item’ now, are yez?”

“What’s this, Sammy -- you jealous?!” she teased, poking him in his gut.

He blushed, made a face and spluttered a disclaimer, “I just don’t want ye gettin’ into somethin’ that’ll cause ye more heartache, chile. I mean, you can certainly pick ‘em, can’t ye...?”

He was tactlessly referring to her imprisoned ‘better-half’, Raspo Canning, currently serving a 7 year sentence for a string of offences including GBH and possession with intent to supply, “Gawd, you don’t 'alf know how to kick a girl when she’s down, mister,” she said, with a wink and a crooked grin, “Malky’s just a friend. I told ya. I don’t need anybody. I can take care o’ meself.”

He was going to say: Aye, a friend who stays the night without payin', but thought better of it and repeated his previous warnings, adding, “and don’t answer the door, no matter what! If the gards come back, make sure they show ye ID through the letterbox before ye let ‘em in...”

“Look you -- fook off ‘ome!” she pushed him into the van, “I’ll be safe as ’ouses, you’ll see!”

“Don’t tempt fate, missy,” he said, pointedly, groaning and clutching his hip as he shifted his arse into the driver’s seat.

She kicked the rear right tyre, “Go on, gerroutta ’ere. See you in the mornin’, yer daft ol’ twat!”

After much pounding of clutch and tugging of choke, the engine eventually ignited on the 7th attempt and Sammy drove off, leaving the usual cloud of blue, sooty-smoke behind him; and as usual, she waited until it dissipated before crossing the yard to padlock the gate. As she walked back to the kitchen door, she pulled Malky’s charm out from under the collar of her tee-shirt and rolled the little, latticed silver bulb between her fingertips. It was strangely comforting. She’d put it on after the phonecall [See Part 18] and ever since she’d felt... different, sort of calmer. But was it her imagination or did it feel as if the silver was getting warmer? It was probably just the power of suggestion: all Malky’s talk about ghosts and demons and that... then, just as she reached the step, a shiver ran along her shoulders and a butterfly of apprehension took flight in her belly. She turned, walked back to the centre of the yard and looked into the darkness between the outhouses; she could've sworn she saw something move...

Probably just a cat...?

It suddenly occurred to her: there are no friendly felines on the roof of the old stable or lined along the walls. That’s a turn up. Not a solitary moggie to be seen. She invariably left a big plate of scraps at the backdoor last thing and there were always at least a few lurking in the shadows, waiting patiently for their supper, their eager eyes twinkling as they crept closer. It had been a ritual ever since she moved in. But not tonight, for some strange reason. Then something caught her ear: a rustling sound -- the stack of bin bags between the sheds? The little latticed bulb between her fingers was hot now. She heard it again. It was definitely coming from the gap between the sheds. Rats? Nah, too big and bustly to be a rat. She moved a little closer and looked into the darkness: no, there’s definitely somebody in there... Could be one of the punters who ate his stash and passed-out during the raid...? It could be one of the dealers hiding from the cops....? She tutted and gave herself a shake, Oh, fook this for a game of soldiers: “Oo’s there?!” she called out, as she edged toward an overfilled crate of empty vodka bottles to her right.

No response.

“Come out, I know yer in there...” she reached out and grabbed one of the bottles by the neck, carefully extracted it from the crate and hid it behind her back. “C’mon, c’mon, I can ‘ear you, y’ divvy... Come out!”

Sure enough, something stirred in the shadows, something just as black and glossy as the trashbags around it; a shape that seemed to slowly unfold until it stood erect at the end of the short passage between the sheds.

“’Ow long ‘ave you been hidin’ in there, you fookin’ nob-’ead?!” she jeered, tightening her grip on the bottle, her heart pounding.

The shadow got to its feet and walked toward her; it was a biker alright, in full leathers, wearing a helmet fitted with a very familiar mirrored visor.

Don’t tempt fate, missy.

She didn’t have to ask, but for some reason she did, “Barry?”

The figure didn’t answer and kept coming; she saw herself get closer in the visor, her face a vision of shock and awe. She smashed the bottle on the corner of the crate and brandished the broken neck, “Keep away from me, Baz, I swear, I’ll fookin’ cut yer...”

That’s when the shotgun barrel loomed out of the shadows.

Oh... shite.

A gauntleted hand slapped the makeshift weapon from her grasp, then tore the little silver amulet from around her throat and tossed it into the corner; a muffled, gruff voice growled, “Get inside.”

Zindy was baffled but defiant, “What the fook are you doin’ Baz?! This is fookin’ mental, this is...” she complained, as he roughly turned her around, grabbed her by the scruff-of-the-neck and unceremoniously manhandled her up the steps and through the backdoor. She was half his size, her feet hardly touched the ground, but despite the discomfort and indignity, she kept her nerve and kept needling as he frogmarched her through the kitchen, “they’ll be checking all yer old haunts -- they’re bound to come ‘ere. You’d be better-off gettin’ as far away as possible instead o' wastin' time settlin’ old scores...” He jostled her through the connecting door, into the unfurnished bar, pushed her into the centre of the empty floor and raised the shotgun. Contrary and fearless as ever, Zindy went on the offensive, “You were never one of us, Baz. You mighta hung out w’ us ‘n’ all, but we never liked you. We thought you were a creep. Raspo didn’t trust you. If ‘e’d ever found out what you were up to, ‘e’d’ve 'ad you skinned alive, son. And if you do anythin’ to me, you’ll be signin’ yer own death warrant -- in or out of prison.”

“I know Raspo a lot longer and a lot better than you do, Zara, and I know his habits,” McKee replied, coolly, pulling off his helmet to reveal the haggard, pallid face underneath and the long, greasy black hair, damp with sweat, hanging lank over his baggy, badly bloodshot, black eyes. “Where is it, Zara?” he asked, bluntly.

He was a poser and a sleaze, but even for Barry, this performance was a bit OTT. The raspy voice, the glaring eyes; it was all a bit melodramatic. She gave him a crooked look, “What are you on, Baz?”

He sighed and raised the shotgun in both hands as if he was going to bring the butt down on her head, “I’m in a dreadful hurry, I have a long journey ahead and I’m quite prepared to hurt you very badly if I have to,” he said, plainly, blank faced and unblinking. “First and foremost, I need funds. So where is it?”

She spelt it out for him by pulling out the empty pockets of her jeans, “I got nowt, dickhead. The cops confiscated all me takin’s after the raid.”

He stooped, looked her in the eye and said, “I’m not talking about your petty cash, Zara, I’m talking about Raspo’s loot. His swag. His stash. His little nest-egg for whenever he gets out of Mountjoy.”

She crossed her arms, shook her head and said, “I have no idea what you’re talkin’ --abounnnnggggh!” 

He’d grabbed her by the throat, “Your other half was quite the rogue, he did ‘jobs’ for some very heavy, very wealthy people, and they paid him handsomely for his services -- not to mention the little incidental perks he picked up along the way. And since he doesn’t trust banks or any of his partners in crime to look after it, it must be somewhere around here,” he stooped and snarled into her face, “so where is it?”

She crossed her arms and made a show of turning her head away as she replied in a patient voice, “I turned a blind-eye to ‘is extracurriculars, if you must know. We ‘ad an understanding: as long as he kept it off the premises and it didn’t involve other women or anythin’ sordid, I asked no questions ‘n let ‘im gerron w’ it. His business was none of my business, 'n vice-a-versa.”

McKee stood back, put a boot against her midriff and knocked her to the floor, then he stood over her, aimed the shotgun at her lower leg and said, “If you don’t tell me by the time I reach 1, you’ll lose a knee...

“5........ 4 ........ 3 ........”

that was as far as he got when something smashed into the back of his head. He shuddered for a second or two, dropped to his knees, moaned... then collapsed against the end of the green velveteen banquette.

Frozen in shock, still holding the cricket bat in both hands as if about to take another swipe, Sammy the barman loomed over his stricken victim and groaned remorsefully, “Ooh, jeezus Christ... D’ you think I hit him too hard...?”

“It sounded like you were crackin’ open a coconut!!” Zindy exclaimed brightly, quickly yanking the shotgun from McKee’s grasp before gingerly feeling his wrist to check his pulse, “But you aven’t killed ‘im, chook, ‘e’s still tickin’...” she stood up, put a foot against his head and turned it to the side: the thick back hair on his crown was glued into a concave dent in his skull and there was a patch of gore streaming down the wooden siding of the bench. “Hmm, ’e’s bleeding badly. I’d say ‘e ‘asn’t long to go if we don’t get him to t’ ‘ospital...?” she mused, as if they had a choice.

This only added to the old man’s anxiety - he dropped the bat like a hot potato and began pacing the floor and jabbering into his hand, “Aww shite, c’mon now, c’mon, I didn’t mean to kill ‘im! I just wanted to stun ‘im ... I mean, I thought ‘e was gonna shoot you... I mean, what else could I do?”

She patted his back reassuringly, “Calm down, chook, calm down, you did the right thing... I mean, you shoulda seen t’ look in ‘is eyes -- ‘e were off ‘is ‘ead -- if ‘e’d’ve seen ya ‘e’d’ve shot ya w'out a second thought!” She picked up the bat to check it for cracks and asked, “‘Ow come you came back, anyway?”

He pointed at the connecting door, “... the radio... the news... they said that yer-man-here was armed ‘n dangerous ‘n on the run in the area, so I came back to warn ye he might be headed this way.... I parked on the street ‘n I let meself in the side door ‘n I heard ‘im threatenin’ ye, so I crept in ‘n hid behind the bar.... lifted the auld cricket bat ‘n waited til his back was turned...” He gulped and took another look at the stricken psycho, “Aww, Jaysus... do you think he’s gonna be alright?” he pleaded, swaying on his heels, his face as white as his whiskers.

“I don’t give a flyin’ fook ‘bout that shower o’ shite -- it’s you I’m worried about, ol’ son,” she said grabbing his arm, “you need to sit down -- yer shakin’ like a leaf -- we don’t want you ‘avin’ fookin’ ‘eart attack on top of everythin’ else!” She put the gun against the busted jukebox, put Sammy in one of the remaining chairs and ran to the kitchen to fetch him a glass of water. As the tap gushed and thrummed into the big, empty stainless-steel sink she heard what she thought were two loud pops.  “Sammy -- was that you?” She shouted, quickly filling the glass and hurrying back, “Sammy?”

Sammy was lying supine on the floor by the overturned chair. McKee was propped-up on the end of the banquette, his face awash with blood, his daddy’s old service revolver in his hand. She cried out and ran to the body, “Sammy, are you alright?” It was another stupid question. The old man had taken two rounds to the chest at point blank range and by the looks of the rusty red holes in his jumper, one had almost certainty pierced his heart. There were to be no last words, no tearful farewells, just a wall-eyed, gormless, slack-jawed gape of bemusement. She threw down the glass, fell to her knees and cradled his head in her lap, “aww, Sammy, Sammy, Sammmeeeeee...” she sobbed, shedding real tears for the first time since she was a bairn.

Meanwhile, groaning and gasping with the effort, his pistol still pointed in her direction, McKee had gathered the strength to hoist his skinny arse onto the banquette. He reached behind his head, touched his wound then studied the gore on his gloved fingertips, “my head... He hurt my brain...” he gasped, astounded, as if it couldn't be true.

“You’re a fookin’ dirty rotten, stinkin’, shitbag-coont, Barry McKee!! What the fookin’ ‘ell did you ‘ave to go ‘n do that for?!” Zindy yelped, clasping the old man’s head to her breast.

Even if the head injury hadn't affected Barry’s aim, it had certainly seemed to have affected his judgement; the arch, ultra cool figure she met in the yard was now mewling like a dumbfounded fool, “He hurt me... bad... look...” he muttered, showing her his bloody fingertips.

“Aye -- ‘e stoved-yer-’ead-in! You should be dead! Why couldn't ye ‘ave done the right thing ‘n fookin’ DIED!!” she cried, surreptitiously stealing a glance at the shotgun leaning against the jukebox, wondering if she could roll across the floor and snatch it before he...

But by now McKee had gathered his wits, saw her intent and was already hobbling toward it. Keeping the pistol level, he snatched it up and said, “Get... his... keys!!”

“Get bent!” she fired back, “You’re nowt but scum, Barry McKee!”

He aimed the pistol and shot a round into the wall behind her -- a cloud of plaster-dust showered down on her shoulders. “GET... FUCKING... KEYS!!” he bellowed, through gore-soaked tresses.

Zindy swiped the dust from her shoulders, sneered and said, “Coont,” then apologised profusely to her dear deceased employee as she rifled through his pockets; but there was nothing to be found other than his wallet, a soiled handkerchief and half-a-bag of clove rock. “They’re not here! ‘E must've left 'em in the van...”

He grabbed her by the scruff, pulled her away, put the gun against her head and dragged her into the hall. He stood by the side door and they listened; sure-enough, they could feel the rumble of an engine in the street. They could also hear the sound of distant sirens on the other side of the bay. “Must go... now!” he said, dragging her out the door and shoving her into the little side street where the van sat idling at the kerb. He forced her into the driving seat and kept the revolver trained on her as he staggered around the front and climbed into the passenger side, Once he was comfortably ensconced, he put the gun to her head again and yelled “Drive!”

She shook her head violently, thumped her fists on the wheel, “Where?! Where the fook’re we goin’?!”

He waved the gun to indicate a westerly direction, “To the mountains... I know the Way...GO!”

She looked into his hooded, bloodshot eyes, “Mountains?! Look at t’ state o’ you. You’re fooked, Baz. You should be goin’ to t’ ‘ospital -- not a drive in the fookin’ country!” she said, in as kind a voice as she could muster.

He put the pistol to her temple and replied, drowsily, “NO! GO! Going to finish this... going back... back to where it began...”

...

8 minutes ago: at first there was nothing to see but inky-blackness. There was no heavenly light, no Pearly Gates, no St Peter, no choirs of harp-plucking angels perched on fluffy-white clouds, just complete darkness and the ominous sound of distant thunder. In other words, it didn’t feel good. He wasn't in pain, or anything like that, he just felt ill at ease and very hot. That’s when it occurred : Aww, jaysus, I must be in the other place! But how?! I’ve been a feckin’ saint all me feckin’ life! Mass every Friday as well as Sunday -- and I’m practically a virgin! -- then, all of a sudden, just as he began to lose hope, it felt as if someone or something had taken him by the arms and yanked him upwards at great speed -- after that he experienced a sensation akin to what he could only describe as feeling like being turned into jelly and squeezed through a small, shiny rectangular window into another place. It was still quite dark, but now there were sparkling stars all around him; a twinkling constellation of all shapes and sizes set in a black velvet firmament. When he finally turned full-circle, he found himself gazing into the eyes of a good looking lad in his 20s; an unshaven, shaven-headed fellow, dressed in white, glowing robes. 

“Are you an angel?” he asked, timidly.

Jamie looked down at what he was wearing and said, “No, there’re no such things as angels, I’m afraid. This is a hospital gown, not a shroud. My name’s Jamie.”

“Sammy, pleased to make your acquaintance...” Sammy looked down at his sweater and the bloody bullet holes, “Am I dead, Jamie? Are we, like... I mean, is this, like... hell?”

“Yes, you’re dead. And no, this isn't hell. There is no hell, either, thankfully, but if they were ever scouting for a location, this place would be a prime site,” Jamie shuddered, “no, we’re in the Void. The Wizard’s Rift. The Mirror World. An empty dimension between Life and Limbo accessible via mirrors-slash-portals, like these,” he said, in reference to the sparkling constellation, “I pulled you in through this one.” He indicated the shimmering, rounded rectangle behind them. Sure enough, Sammy recognised the inverted Guinness motif of the old mirror that hung behind the bar, one of the few breakables that survived the riot. They looked through it and saw Zindy crouched on the floor weeping over Sammy’s lifeless body, cradling his head in her lap while the injured McKee threatened her with a gun. If he hadn’t’ve been floating, Sammy would've fallen to his knees and said a prayer, but all he could do was press his face against the glass, watch and gasp, “Can’t we do anythin’ to help her?!”

“I s’pose I’d better explain,” said Jamie, putting it as quickly and as simply as he could, “my Spirit was trapped in Barry’s subconscious -- when you hit him with the bat, you damaged his brain -- he lost consciousness, I was freed and was able to escape through this mirror.” He pointed at the scene in the bar, “Barry is possessed by a Soul eating demon and your Spirit was about to be devoured by its negative energy, so I grabbed you before it reached you and pulled you in here... I’m terribly sorry,” he said, morosely, putting a placatory hand on Sammy’s shoulder.

“Sorry for what, laddie? Didn't you just save my Soul?” Sammy replied, flabbergasted, but grateful.

Frowning, Jamie shook his head and gloomily informed him, “You don’t understand, you’re a ghost now, my friend. A disembodied Spirit. You’ll have to haunt the inn until The Light shines again and you can Ascend to the Eternal Host. But in the meantime, you’ll be invisible, you won’t be able to interfere in the Real World. 

Sammy frowned.

“See, it sounds a bit bleak, doesn’t it? But the alternative was Soul Death -- an eternity of nothing -- so forgive me if I took matters into my own hands.”

It sounded quite confusing at first, but somehow, the more he thought about it, the more sense it made. Every revelation came with a vivid and instantaneous explanation, as if it was something he’d known all his life. When Jamie had finished, Sammy had only one question, “Why are you shiverin’ so, m’ lad? How come you’re feelin’ the cold?”

“I’m a Living Soul, Sammy; this place saps my psychic energy and that has a direct effect on my physicality -- plainly speaking, everything I endure out here, my body feels back in the Real World. You, on the other hand, are dead. You can survive a while longer; but I’d advise you to go to Limbo as soon as possible and wait-it-out until this blows-over.”

“Limbo...?” Sammy’s eyes darted left and right, “Is that like... Purgatory?”

“More like a busy airport departure lounge during an eternal baggage-handlers strike, from what I’ve heard. Whatever, it’s safer than here or the Real World, and there’ll be other Spirits there who can explain things a lot better than me.”

“But how do I get there?”

Jamie had another think, then looked up and shouted, “Bernie? Bernie Pritchard?! I know you can hear me, Brother Bernie! I’ve got a recently deceased here -- he needs access to Limbo!”

After a long pause, a spark flickered just above them and began moving along the darkness leaving a glowing trail behind it, like the sizzling flame of an acetylene torch slowly cutting a raggedy oval in a sheet of matt-black metal, eventually creating a shimmering, bright blue portal. “There you are, away you go!” said Jamie, pushing the old barman toward it.

Sammy didn’t want to leave him, “Can’t you come with me?”

“Only the dead can enter Limbo. I’ll have to go back.”

“Back? Back where?” asked Sammy, as Jamie moved back to the mirror, “surely you can’t go back into Barry’s brain?!”

“I tried going back the way I came, but that mirror must be broken, the portal is gone. So I’m afraid it’s the devil or the deep blue sea: stay out here and get sucked dry, or take my chances in a fractured skull...”

...

45 minutes ago, somewhere in Wicklow: Brooster watched vacantly as Malky slammed down the receiver, exited the callbox and fast-stepped down the steep verge back to the car, “No reply. She must be outside in the backyard or somethin’,” he panted, as he jumped in, released the handbrake and drove back onto the road. He turned on the radio to hear the news, but it was well past the hour and all he could find were country-&-western shows and late night phone-ins. “I hope Somerville ‘n his crew get there before we do, that’s all....” he mumbled.

Broo was only half-listening. He’d been in somewhat of a daze since they got to got to Co Dublin and the silhouette of the mountains filled the horizon. A strange, wondrous-yet-unnerving sensation had washed over him, his senses, natural and supernatural, seemed to heighten and strengthen; and then, when they reached Wicklow and drove into their shadow, he saw that the moon between the peaks was haloed with an eerie violet light that tinted the rolling mist a deep shade of lilac and turned the fields below into a purple patchwork quilt, simultaneously, the sensation intensified: it was as if the demon had infected the entire landscape and the old dog’s body was shoring up its defences in response. 

Sensing his disquiet, Malky glanced over his shoulder, “Is everything alright, Broo?” he asked, concerned.

No, everything is not alright. The feeling of trepidation was turning to mild panic. To add to this anxiety, the ghosts of little children were appearing at the side of the road, but this time they weren’t cheering him on. There was no uplifting effervescence in their Aspect, no brightly glowing haloes, no encouraging smiles, no chirpy voices in his head; just evanescent, bluish figures with stern, earnest faces pointing the way. Despite the brevity of the manifestations and the lack of direct communication, the message was abundantly clear: be quick but be careful, there’s danger ahead!

The Ivy House

12:45: Lady Beth’s scream of ecstasy resounded around the shadowy upper floors of the South Wing, up through the network of ebony rafters above the main stairwell and died in the dormant halls and wood-panelled passageways down below. Not so much a cry of passion as a screech of blessed release. “Ooooooh, I needed that...” she moaned, gently swaying from to-and-fro, arms behind her head, pink-cheeked and contented in the afterglow, her long, untrammelled chestnut hair strewn across her face. She swept back the errant tresses, reached down, yanked the gag out of her captive lover’s mouth and posed the inevitable question, in a wry, breathless whisper, “How was it for you, darling?”

“Will you let me go now?” he responded, flatly, his face a picture of disdain and disgust.

She smiled wickedly, “Don’t pretend you didn’t enjoy it, Guy, I know you did,” she tittered, tapping her temple with her finger, “there are no secrets in this house.”

He ignored the retort and squirmed between her naked thighs as he tried to shake her off, “Please, undo these straps and let me go, you’ve had your fun...”

“Hah! That wasn't fun, darling! That was letting off steam,” she replied, indifferently, standing up so that she towered over him, “just count yourself lucky I didn’t have my riding crop!” She stepped down off the bed, put on her gown, slipped into her slippers, stepped over the unconscious Xavier and went to the dressing table to reassemble her hair, “Oh, if only this night was over. This has got to be the longest...” Her voice trailed of when she happened to turn and glance out of the window, “.... w-what the fuck?!”

“What is it!” cried Goz, alarmed by her uncharacteristic show of unease.

“Lights... coming through the trees on the crest of the hill...from the direction of the forest...” she mumbled, distractedly, tightening the belt on her robe. As if to echo her feelings, the kennels down below duly erupted in a cacophony of frightened yips and plaintiff howls, “Whoever it is, they’re scaring the dogs...”

“Open these straps -- I wanna see!”

She took the pistol from the bedside locker and bolted for the door.

“Hey! Aren't you gonna free me first?!”

She spun on her heel and trotted back to the bed. Goz sighed with relief. Alas, she wasn't there to release him, “I still don’t trust you, Guy, sorry, for all I know this could be Rossington’s men come to take you back,” she said, regretfully, and stuffed the sock back into his mouth. Once it was secured, she smiled and stroked his shaven pate, “I need you to be nice and quiet until I sort this out. I’ll decide what to do with you as soon as everyone wakes up,” she whispered, sweetly, and gave him a little peck on the cheek.

After closing the door on another stifled tirade, she dashed down the corridor, ran down the short flight of steps to the next landing, through a concealed hatch in the panelling and down the secret spiral-staircase to the low-ceilinged passageway that led to the to an exit hatch in the east wing; sprinting down the hallway to the servants’ entrance, she threw open the outer door, lifted the hem of her gown and tiptoed down the iron staircase -- jumped over the sprawled body of the unconscious guard -- then dashed across the backyard and took up position behind the little unmanned gatelodge that serviced the east entrance. She peered around the corner, scanned the hill and discerned a dozen-or-so little-old-ladies - some with flashlights, some toting old fashioned lanterns - tottering down the pebble path that led to the gate. She relaxed and slumped against the slatted wooden siding to catch her breath. “Fucking witches. That’s all we bloody need,” she gasped,deliberately letting her head roll back so that it thumped the wood. Once she’d recovered, she straightened up, tightened the belt on her gown to hide her nakedness, emerged from her hiding place, and casually sauntered to the gate to greet them, holding the gun in both hands behind her back.

The coterie of bitter-faced, bewigged or soberly-hatted old ladies rattled the wrought iron gate with walking sticks, shoes, umbrellas and various items from their dog-eared handbags. She took in their scowling faces with a crooked smile and nodded knowingly. She was well aware that she was none too popular amongst the local witches. Despite her past attempts to reach out to them and include them in the coven’s activities, they still considered her to be nowt but a gold-digging trollop who managed to snag the Judge when he was going soft in the head. She ignored the blatant antipathy and addressed their leader through the curled bars in a no-nonsense but slightly-pissed-off-manner, “Can I help you, Ms Costello?”

Esmeralda Costello; a big, fat, ginger-wigged battleaxe girdled into a tight tweed suit, clutching what appeared to be a small, recently-disinterred treasure-chest to her sizeable bosom, stuck out her uppermost chin and chimed, “Aye. Ye can do yerself a favour ‘n open this feckin’ gate!”

Her cohort cackled loudly and mirthlessly at their sister’s curt rejoinder -- but they soon shut up when one of them glimpsed what Her Ladyship was holding behind her back! “Jeezus -- she’s gotta gun!” she yelled. They quickly retreated from the railings and regrouped behind their imposing leader.

Rolling her eyes, Lady Beth slipped the pistol into her pocket, re-tightened her belt, crossed her arms and started again, “First-things-first. How the hell did you get in?”

The haughty harridan pointed up the hill, “There’s a special tunnel under the east wall. The Judge had it ‘specially installed when they built this place,” she declared, in a sarky, sing-song voice, “put it there for emergencies, so-‘e-did. And believe me, my lady, this is a dire emergency!”

The others responded with a rowdy chorus of “Aye!”

“What ‘emergency?’” Her Ladyship asked, with an unconvincing shrug.

Ezzy was wise to her nemesis’ wiles and laid it on thick with a childish waggle of her head that made her ginger wig shimmy in its clips, “Things aren't quite right, are they, my lady? Yez’ve messed-up, haven’t yez? The whole household is spark-out-for-the-count, isn't it, my lady?”

Intrigued, Her Ladyship cocked her head, “... and what would you know about it?”

The feisty old dragon put the little treasure chest under one arm and tapped her temple with the stumpy index-finger of her free hand, “You know how we know, my lady. We miss nuthin’. We mightn't all be Sirens, some of us mightn't be the ‘Full-‘Güül’ -- but we’re still psychics and we’re still part of this coven -- we are still bound by an unbreakable spiritual connection! And at present, that connection is broken!” She held up the treasure chest, “Me grandmother predicted this state of affairs! 3 years ago when the demon burned down half of yer precious Ivy House ‘n killed half the Council ‘n tried to possess the Young Master! Remember that? We got you outta that mess too!! Well,she told us what would happen next -- and whaddya know -- it’s all come to pass! So don’t question our motives, my lady, just let us in so we can get about our business!!”

There followed a hubbub of agreement featuring a lot of ‘that’s rights’, ‘oh ayes’ and a few ‘you tell hers’.

“You mean... your grandmother’s ashes are in that box?” Her Ladyship enquired, a little bemused, a little appalled.

“No. She’s in the box. She’s been asleep for the last 3 years. She’s over 1000 years old, so-she-is, she has to sleep a lot. She shoulda stepped into The Light ages ago, but she felt duty-bound to stick around ‘n see this through!”

The crinkly, mottled crew folded their arms, nodded en masse and murmured a firm, “Mm hm.”

Lady Beth chewed her cheek and had a think about it. Finally, she confessed, “OK. Granted, everyone is unconscious. They dropped like flies on the stroke of midnight. But I can’t let you in. There’s a detective in the house, he’s enchanted, but if he woke up and saw something... untoward, there’d be too many questions.”

Ezzy’s dentures flashed, her plump cheeks bulged as she broke into a broad grin, “We know about Harkness. We saw him in the estate earlier-on tonight. He heard the demon's confession ‘n now he’s onto yez!” [See Part 18] Then she lowered her voice and intimated, menacingly, with narrowed, accusing eyes, “We know about the girl, too.” 

Her raddled retinue whispered as one, “Oh yes, indeed we do.”

Lady Beth flinched. “What girl?” she asked, a little shaken.

The bullish Ezzy saw her flinch and raised a painted eyebrow, “You know ‘what girl’ I mean. The one that’s supposed to be dead! The demonspawn! Wee Danielle Cochrane! Ye’ve been keepin’ her locked up somewhere,” she announced loudly, so that her cohort could hear her and provide vociferous affirmation.

Her Ladyship glanced back at the house and put a finger to her lips, “Ssshhh -- will you please keep your bloody voices down!”

Ezzy put her snout through the bars and snorted, “Hah! You can’t deny it, can ye?! We can feel her!” There then followed yet another collective murmur of concurrence interspersed with a few asides, “Aye, we can feel her,” said a timid old lady standing at the back; “Her aura is so strong we had to take off our amulets -- they got so hot they were burnin’ our chests,” vouchsafed another; “I can almost taste her!” said a toothless hag in hiking boots and a transparent windcheater, licking her lips as if the alleged ‘aroma’ was making her mouth water. 

Ezzy glanced at her watch “Look, time’s a-runnin’ out, my lady, are you gonna let us in so we can fix this, or are you gonna walk away ‘n let yer people die?” she asked, pointedly, her ginger wig shifting slightly sideways as she cocked her head.

“Die...?” Lady Beth almost gasped.

All: “Aye, die.”

What to do, what to do...? The witches were a disobliging bunch at the best of times, but they weren’t liars, and like the old bag said, they were always reliable in a crisis. She thought it over: well, goblin-girl is in the dungeon so they’ll be well away from the main house... Then again, the last time these old hags got hold of her they tried to ritually slaughter her...  And when that notion struck her, “Give me one second!” she said, and trotted back to the little gatelodge to fetch the key...

...

10 minutes ago, in Wicklow, on the road into Brodir: “Well, wouldja look at this,” Malky announced, looking in the rear-view mirror, “here comes the cavalry!”

The inside of the Metro suddenly came alight with glaring headlamps and flashing blue as various law & order vehicles rolled up behind them. The vehicle at the head of the convoy whooped its siren and Malky politely and quickly mounted the roadside verge to allow two garda vehicles and an unmarked car to hurtle by, “probably Somerville and his men on their way to the inn!” said Malky, relieved, “no ambulances, thanks be to gawd.”

As he watched the tail-lights disappear into the darkness up ahead, something else caught Broo’s eye – the unmistakable glimmer of ghostly children -- at least a dozen of them gathered by the decapitated ‘Welcome to Brodir’ arch! They ran toward the car waving, shaking their heads and pointing in the opposite direction! When the Metro passed through them – he felt the icy chill in his bones and heard their voices screaming in his head:

“He’s not here!” “He’s been ‘n’ gone!” “Go to the mountains -- go to the mountains -- to the Ginger Witches’ cottage!” “Quickly! Quick!” “The twins’ cottage!” “He’s gonna kill somebody!”

Broo reared up, barked hysterically and almost climbed over Malky to make him stop – Malky immediately slammed on the brakes and hollered, “Not now!! We’re almost there!! We can’t stop now?!”

But Broo continued to turn in a circle on the back seat barking and whimpering -- the little spectres had walked into the car and formed a circle around him, they were frantic, yelling over each other: “He’s gone to the witches’ cottage!” “Go back! Go back! Go get him!” “He’s weak but he’s dangerous!”

Then one voice spoke louder than the others: “Make sure to take him alive!”

Although Malky couldn't see or hear the ghosts and every inch of him yearned to floor the accelerator, go straight to Odin’s Inn and make sure Zindy was all right, he knew it was unwise ignore such a passionate outburst. And if he was honest, he  felt something in the air himself; a strange coolness. In any case, the cops would be there by now. She’d be in safe hands. He thumped the steering-wheel with the heels of his palms, rocked and roared, “OK! OK!! What?! What do we do!? Where do we go?!”

<The cottage on the hillside.>

A thought popped into his head: The Anderson place.  He thought about it. It suddenly clicked. Sammy’s story. The taped confession. That’s where it all began, not in Brodir...

Broo sensed Malky’s change of heart and stopped barking. Job done, the little blue ghosts of the Infant Host relented, wished him good luck, waved goodbye and vanished. Malky reversed the car back to the junction, “OK, I know where we have to go, but I’ve fergot how to get there – I just hope ye can provide directions!”

That wouldn't be a problem: the little Spirit Guides were out in force tonight...

Meanwhile: Jamie ‘awoke’ bleary-eyed in a white room with a familiar face looming over him. He tried to move, but once again, he was strapped down. He sighed, Oh, for fuck’s sake...

“He’s awake.”

... not again...

“Can I talk to 'im?” asked another voice, somewhere near the bed.

... Jesus H Christ...

“Not yet, he’ll be very drowsy...” Pause. “Ahem, Jamie? Jamie, are you with us...?” Dr Mondale asked, snapping his fingers inches from Jamie’s nose.

The last thing he remembered was the conversation with the barman in the Void, then projecting back through the mirror and into McKee’s subconscious ... back to here? The interminable phantasm?! Is he sticking to his original plan? What the hell... He looked past Mondale and yelled at the ceiling, “This won’t do any good and you know it! Barry’s brain is severely damaged. You can’t keep this up!”

Dr Mondale beheld him with a defeated look, shook his head, sighed and said, “No. He’s still angry and delusional. You won’t get any sense out of him, I’m afraid.”

The other man, a stranger in a designer brown leather bomber jacket, open-neck shirt and khaki chinos, the military chic topped-off with a buzz cut and the ruddy, pummelled face of an aging boxer, searched Jamie’s eyes for some sign of sentience.

“Give me a few minutes alone with him, detective, please, I’ll see if he remembers anything,” said Mondale, sitting down in the chair by the cot.

The man reluctantly complied. He gave Jamie a sour sideways-glance then traipsed off with his hands in his trouser pockets, whistling Please Release Me.

Jamie didn’t wait for the bedside chat to begin. Keeping his cool and his voice steady, he stared up into the glare of the light above the cot and informed the master illusionist, “You’re wasting precious energy. Spare me this charade.”

Mondale leaned in and asked in a concerned voice, “Jamie, do you remember anything about what happened earlier today?”

Jamie turned away, “There’s no point talking to me, I won’t listen. This isn't real.”

“Do you remember killing Nurse Masterson, Jamie?”

Now, that twist intrigued him. He turned back and looked the doctor/cipher in the eye, “No. The illusion fell apart, that’s all. I was -- am -- in Barry’s subconscious,” he looked up at the ceiling again, “I know everything now. It’s over. Your host is badly injured. The police are closing in on you. But if you want to continue with this silly little simulation, so be it. I can wait.”

Mondale made a note of Jamie’s response in his pad then cleared his throat and continued, “You strangled Nurse Masterson to death with your bare hands at around 11:45 this morning. It appears he delivered your medication without telling anyone. The orderlies were on their break. It only came to their attention when they returned and saw that the door was open. They pulled you off, but were too late to save him. You were in a rage, frothing at the mouth, incoherent, just like last time. I can only assume that he did something to trigger you and you suffered another of your infamous blackouts...”

Jamie chuckled, “Oh, that’s a neat twist. Another blackout. A murder. I’m banged to rights and I don’t remember a thing. Good one.”

“Did he say something to aggravate you, Jamie?” Mondale asked, softly, “I’ve spoken to Sister and she says that he could be quite impudent at times...? Was there something between you? Bad blood, perhaps? Was he teasing you...? Please, please tell me what you remember.”

Jamie couldn't help but laugh.

Mondale took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, “I’m glad you find it so amusing, Jamie. But it’s a dreadful tragedy for which I must take full responsibility. After all, it was my decision to free you from your restraints. You showed so much promise. You were responding to the treatment. Tranquil. Level. No manic episodes. No mood swings. I assumed we had everything under control...?” He paused once more to give Jamie time to respond; when it was clear he was talking to a brick wall, he sat back, clicked his pen, tucked it into the spine of the pad and heaved a weary sigh, “The rage... the anger... where does it come from Jamie? What triggers you...?”

Jamie was stone.

“If you won’t talk to me, then there’s nothing more I can do. The gentleman waiting outside is a detective from the Metropolitan Police. He’s the same detective who found you in the block of flats the night of the drugs bust. He’s as frustrated as I am. His team has been working on your case night & day for the last 6 months, trying to ascertain your true identity, all to no avail. This ‘incident’ complicates matters even further. When I leave this room, he will come in and charge you with murder, then tomorrow you will be transferred to a high security hospital for the criminally insane where they have more suitable facilities. In other words, you’re too dangerously ill for this place, Jamie. I’m so very sorry we couldn't help you.” He stood up, folded his specs and put them in the breast pocket of his jacket, “Goodbye Jamie. I hope the doctors that inherit your case can unlock those memories and get to the real you,” he said, glumly, then turned and walked away. The policeman re-entered and read the charges. He looked very disappointed, as if Jamie had let him down. Before he left, he shook his head and growled in a thick London accent, “I just 'ope Nurse Masterson is the first ‘n only, Jamie. I 'ope there ain't anymore victims out there that you’ve ‘forgotten about’, that’s all.” Jamie kept smiling and replied, “just make sure the papers call me the Absent-Minded Strangler.” The detective slammed the door on his way out. A few minutes later, the ubiquitous, shaven-headed orderlies arrived and wheeled him away.

“So, I throttled ghastly Gaston Masterson?! I’m a killer! Only a lobotomy can stop me now!” Jamie joked, as they pushed him through the brightly lit passages and swinging doors. As usual, his inflammatory remarks failed to evoke any reaction whatsoever; they never spoke, no matter what the occasion, not even to each other. He could say anything he liked and they’d just chew gum and exchange inscrutable glances. “Wow! Is this the executive suite? Nice! I really dig the minimalist approach of your interior designer!” he said, brightly, as they deposited him a small, unfurnished, white-walled holding cell, switched off the light and locked the door behind them.

Alone in the dark, strapped to a cot, a little surprised but quite unafraid.

He closed his eyes and concentrated as hard as he could. Eventually, after at least 10 minutes of projection, he finally located the dull pulse of McKee’s faltering heartbeat. And now that there were no other noises to distract him, he came to realise that the droning sound he’d mistakenly attributed to the hum of a distant vacuum cleaner, was in fact the whine of an overtaxed motor. He heard a woman’s voice holler: “Where are we goin’, Barry?!” “This is the middle of fookin’ nowhere?!” and “Pot holes!! Look out!! Be careful with that fookin’ gun, willya!” It didn’t take long to work it out: Barry/the demon and his hostage were on the move, but where? And what does he plan to do when he gets there...?

In sanatorium: as the moonbeams shone through the skylight windows of the dome, casting criss-crossing shadows across the four poster bed, Dani and Carla laid either side of Jamie, each holding a hand, both gazing into his half-opened eyes as they continued their restive, taciturn vigil. An hour had passed since his sudden spasm, and although he looked troubled, as if he was still experiencing some degree of discomfort, to their relief, his blood pressure and heart rate had stabilised; alas, there was nothing they could do but watch and wait. The room was quite cool, now, and since Noel the python had slunk off to the boiler house to “get a bit of heat,” there was nothing to distract them -- until the dogs started whingeing and howling outside.

Dani took it as another ill omen. “There they go again!! Somethin’ must be happenin’! We can’t just sit here and do nuthin’,” she whimpered, dabbing her beloved’s furrowed brow with a dampened flannel, “look at ‘im! He must be in pain -- he needs help!”

“There is nothing we can do, Danielle,” said Carla, sadly, and for the third time, she began to explain, “he is deeply enchanted, his Spirit is trapped...” when she was diverted by a commotion coming from the direction of the corridor -- footfalls and whispers, the short-sharp-squeaks of rubber soles dragging and swivelling on the polished tiles -- the pair looked toward the door, “Who’s that?” asked Dani, sitting up.

“I don’t know, but they are coming from the rear... from the servants’ entrance...” said Carla, just as the door to the room opened a crack and a stern-faced, hook-nosed elderly woman wearing a polka-dot headscarf jooked in then shouted over her shoulder, “Here they are, Ezzy! -- in here!” A few seconds later, a dozen-or-so sour-baked old biddies filed in through the door, stepped over Castle and gathered in the centre of the room. “What are you doing in here?! Who are you?” demanded Carla, letting go of Jamie’s hand and springing to her feet.

Dani answered her, “They’re witches, so-they-are! They’re the ones who tried to kill me in the forest that day when I went to the estate, and... y’know...” she couldn't bring herself to elaborate, but Carla understood, “How did you get in?” she asked, tartly, scanning the row of glowering, wizened visages, wondering if the encounter was likely to end in a physical altercation, because by the looks of them, it wouldn't be much of a match.

“Her Ladyship let us in. She’s gone back to the house to babysit Inspector Harkness,” said the last to enter, a larger more formidable woman in a ridiculous ginger wig carrying a small, mud-caked treasure chest. “She told us you were in the dungeon. But we knew ye’d changed again and slipped your chains. Doesn't make any difference how you look, you still stink of him, so we just followed our noses.”

“That’s the one who tried to stab me with a great big dagger!” yelped Dani, pointing an accusing finger.

Ezzy addressed Dani in a no-nonsense, schoolmarmy-voice, “There’s no cause for alarm, Miss Danielle, we’re not here to harm you, we’re here to help you get your precious Young Master back to the Land of the Woke,” said she, glancing at Jamie, “and free your nearest ‘n dearest from their enchantment,” she added, sourly, shooting the inert Castle a disdainful look. Placing the wooden chest on a stool by the dressing table, she asked a small, timid old lady standing right behind her for the key; everyone waited impatiently as the jittery crone rummaged in her handbag, constantly apologising profusely for the delay as she lifted out handfuls of balled handkerchiefs and half-full sweetie bags, eventually heaving a blessed sigh of relief when she finally found it and timorously offered it up. Ezzy gave her a disapproving shake of the head, snatched it away and went about unlocking the box.

“What do you know of an ‘enchantment’?” asked Carla, getting irritated, the shrivelled faces glowering in the half-light making her increasingly uneasy.

“Don’t youse worry. My grandmother will explain everything,” said Ezzy, lifting the lid.

“You mean you keep that nasty old witch with the broken neck is in that wee treasure chest?!” said Dani, shrinking back.

“This is her hibernation box. She made us bury her in the woods til she was needed,” Ezzy informed them, “We dug ‘er up tonight... and it has to be said, she’s not a pretty sight,” she reached inside and carefully pulled away a black silk cloth, “she has no tongue, her eyes’re failin’ an’ she’s as deaf as a post, but she’s still in her right mind [witch-speak for psychically-active] so she talks ‘n sees through me.” As she gently prodded the contents of the box, Ezzy’s voice softened to a lighter, more sympathetic tone, “c’mon granny, wake up -- we’re here - it’s time.”

Carla and Dani glanced at each other then watched in bemused amazement as a row of tiny, thin, gnarly, talon-like fingers curled over the edge of the box, followed by what looked like a tiny, shrivelled, shrunken-head swathed in a black-lace shawl and held in place with a little silver neck-brace. It rested its, hairy, warty chin on the rim betwixt the tiny, withered hands and slowly opened the pellucid membranes that passed for eyelids to reveal a  pair of tiny, misty-blue eyes.

“That’s the wee ol' witch who buried the demon all them years ago,” Dani whispered in Carla’s ear, “don’t let her size fool ya, she’s the worst one o’ the lot!”

Ezzy put a hand on top of her grandmother’s little head and carefully turned it toward Dani, “Here she is, granny. Remember her? She’s taken human form again, but she still has his aura. See -- it’s just like you predicted. She’s ready.”

“What? Ready for what?!” said Dani, clenching her fists, steeling herself for fight or flight.

“Tis time to serve your purpose, chile!” announced Ezzy, brightly-but-sarkily, “after all, you’re the Darkly Martyrs’ little Chosen One, arentcha? Their wee ‘Messiah’?”

Dani shrugged and admitted, “That’s what they said.”

“Aye. And even though it goes against everythin’ we stand for, we’re gonna haveta take up where them auld eejits left off. In other words, it’s time for you to do what they put you here to do,” Ezzy reached out, put a hand on her grandmother’s tiny, heavily lined brow and let her speak for herself; like a macabre ventriloquist act in reverse:

<“When me mother ‘n me buried the demon in Wicklow over a thousand years ago [See Part Three], we used the traditional method: ‘Put him in an enchanted receptacle, bury it deep in the ground far away from any living Soul in order to starve him of energy until his spark dims and dies’, that’s what it says in the ol’ book. That’s how you deal with the Purple Demon King. That’s why we call ourselves Justified -- cuz we follow the rules. Not the Martyrs’ way -- the men’s way: ‘usin’ his magic against him’! No good ever came from meddlin’ w’ the dark stuff. Anyway, no sooner had the Vikings left Wicklow, when the feckin’ English arrived -- there were widespread witch hunts ‘n our kind was forced to flee the area or take to the hills with the rebels. I went to Scotland and then Europe. Before I left, I entrusted a family of redheaded half-bloods called Anderson to keep an eye on things ‘n make sure the demon’s restin’ place was never disturbed. But 1000 years 'n several generations later, all was fergot ‘n the land was sold to a farmer who tore down the trees to make pasture. The bottle was unearthed ‘n broken. It wasn't a long enough time. His spark hadn't died and he was freed. So as soon as I saw the lilac sunset, I came back to Ireland and waited for his resurrection. I knew he’d come for the Lumbs as soon as he’d found a suitable host. But little did I know the men of the coven had already taken matters into their own hands -- 7000 years before! And now look where we are -- all cuz of secrets ‘n lies ‘n dabblin’ in the dark arts!”> She lowered her little eyes, <”Nevertheless, it’s no time to apportion blame or say I told you so. They did what they did without tellin’ us and now we have to live with it, or die. What I’m sayin’ is, we have to put our differences aside ‘n finish what the Martyrs started. That’s why we’re here tonight.”>

“Why is everybody asleep?” Dani asked, nervously, looking back-and-forth from the tiny witch to Ezzy, not sure who she should address.

<“You ‘n yer young pals uttered the demon’s name in a dreamscape, little sister -- it sent a shockwave through the ‘Sphere and into their psyches, a jolt powerful enough to knock ‘em all out -- the Martyrs included. The demon took advantage of the flux, cast a spell 'n enchanted their Spirits -- they’re suspended in a dream without end. All the demon has to do is possess the Young Master and he can take 'em all-out in one fell swoop.”>

“So, what do I do? Just tell me! I’ll do it!” Dani demanded, impatiently.

<“You’re half-Siren-half-demonspawn, only you have the mettle to enter his host’s psyche and wrench the Young Master’s Spirit from his grasp. We’ll take care of the rest.”>

“But we can’t bring him back, the mirror we used as a portal is broken?!” said Carla, pointing to the shards on the bedside table.

<“It’ll have to be a physical connection, naturally. She’ll have to fuse with him ‘n follow his train of thought.”>

The other witches crossed their arms, cocked their heads and nodded.

Carla looked at Dani and frowned as if she wasn't sure about something.

Dani was nonplussed, “What do I have to do...? Is it dangerous...? What is it?!”

Before Carla could impart the grisly details, a shrill voice cried out behind them, “Hey -- look ladies -- the big ball is startin’ to shine!” said one of the witches, drawing her companions’ attention to Jamie’s kingsized, antique crystal ball at the back of the room. It had indeed begun to glow in its ebony cradle, as if it was slowly being filled by a luminous, undulating, cloudy-blue liquid. “That’s a communication comin’ in from Limbo, that is. Only Limbo shines w’ that shade of blue,” said a stocky, manly-looking witch, assuredly, nudging the one beside her. The rest murmured a consensus. “I wonder who it is?” said the one in the see-through mac, and one-by-one they broke ranks to take a closer look. Sensing a familiar signature in their Essences, Dani and Carla joined them: whoever it was, it was one of their own.

The old women’s deeply-lined, jowly faces shone blue as the light brightened to its full extent and the great orb shimmered like a misty, aquamarine beacon. “Fancy ball, that,” commented one, with a hint of envy. “Aye, we aren't allowed to ‘ave ‘em, -- but the Young Master ‘ere gets to have one the size of a prize pumpkin!” mithered another. “Shhhush, will yez! -- somebody’s trying to get through! Look!” said the witch in the see-through mac. “It’s a woman!” said the witch behind her.

Carla and Dani pushed their way through for a ringside view as Electra Cochrane’s curved and elongated visage - like a gurning face in the back of a table-spoon - took shape in the bluish mists. The pair listened to the faint voice phase-in-and-out through waves of static-like interference - “probably residual negative energy -- she’s projecting through the Void,” offered Ezzy, coming to see for herself, carrying the box in her arms, her tiny wizened grandmother peering over the rim.

“It is my sister -- Danielle’s grandmother!” Carla explained. “Please be quiet, she is trying to communicate...”

The illuminated faces screwed up into distasteful glowers as the witches stood back, crossed their arms and made disapproving noises; evidently Ellie Cochrane’s reputation had gone before her.

“Carrie...? Is that you...? Can you hear me... it’s me, Ellie...?” she called out, her shout as faint as a whisper.

“Yes, Ellie, I can hear you,” Carla replied, crouching and putting her face close to the glass so that her sister could see her, “but you are cracking-up -- there is a lot of interference!”

“Did Danielle get back...? Is she whole again...?” Electra cried, through the hisses and pops.

Carla put out a hand and gently moved Dani toward the ball, “Yes, Ellie, she’s right here, and she’s safe. She looks... radiant.”

The rippling countenance broke into a twisted smile, the faint voice sighed with relief, “Oh thank the stars... it worked! At least one good thing has come out of all this!”

Despite the positive results of her late grandmother’s machinations, Dani wasn't the least bit pleased to see her. She scowled and countered her great-aunt’s assurances with a petulant aside, “If it wasn't for her, Jamie ‘n everybody else would be OK. She mighta got me back to normal again but what’s the point?!” she pointed toward the bed, “you ruined everything!!”

Electra’s distorted countenance mutated into an exaggerated grimace of regret, “I’m so sorry -- but I’m trying my best to make up for it, Danielle -- listen to me, I don’t have much time -- you must warn everyone -- we know where the demon is -- we know where he’s going and...”

Just then, the ethereal voice trailed off, the face dissolved and a stronger, more discernible image asserted itself in its place. When they saw who it was, the witches recoiled, made threatening gestures and hissed disdainfully, “Pritchard.”

His voice chittered below the eerie psychic-static like a crackly radio jabbering in an empty oil-drum, “Sorry to burst in like this ladies, but Ellie is wastin’ time, and time is runnin’ out,” his hollow-cheeked, ice-white face ballooned in the glass as his voice got louder, “lissen very carefully: we just had a new arrival here in Limbo: a barman from Wicklow -- the host killed ‘im -- he met Jamie in the Void! The host was there - in the inn -- but he’s mortally wounded. This barman smacked ‘im on the back of the head with a cricket bat, his brain is damaged..... You need to find some way of getting Jamie back or...” his voice became inaudible as the vision faded-out and a loud burst of static hissed through the ether.

The witches turned and looked at the old woman in the box, then nodded to each other with self-satisfied, gratified grins, as if the news was only to be expected.

The static subsided, the vision resurfaced; Carla put her face close to the glass and shouted into Pritchard’s distorted face, “Wait, you say Jamie is in the Void?!”

“Was in the Void..... gone back into the host’s head....” he replied, just before another screech of white noise drowned him out -- the ball flashed -- they were losing the connection -- Pritchard had to yell: “... trapped in a damaged brain... demon... hostage...” were the last words they heard before the mists began to recede, the vision dimmed to a glimmer and the crackly static fizzled to silence.

The tiny withered woman in the cakey treasure chest spoke through her daughter, <”Oh, we know exactly where he’s headed, isn't that right, ladies?”>

The witches smirked and nodded.

<“That’s right: the Anderson place. Back to where it began.”>

“Did he say there was a hostage?”

“You know what that means, don’t yez?” 

“Human sacrifice!”

“Oh jeezus... What if it’s a chile?” wondered the timid little witch who walked in Ezzy’s shadow.

This observation caused much consternation amongst the wrinkly coterie.

“Hol’ on just one minnit,” said the one in the transparent windcheater, and went back to the crystal ball, put her palms on the surface and closed her eyes to take in the vibes. After a few seconds she nodded and said, “Aye, I thought as much -- it’s the Infant Host wot’s causin’ the interference, not negative energy.The wee ghosts’re usin’ the Void to project into This World!”

That nugget inspired another appreciative murmur.

“That means the Familiar must be onto ‘im, too -- they’re guiding him!”

The rest tacitly concurred and looked to the little witch in the box for clarification.

She was quick to answer: <”If this is true, then we've no time to lose. This is what we've been preparing for, sisters. I hope I’ve trained you well. But beware -- The Demon King has prepared for this night, too. That hillside he’s headed to is where he buried the bodies of the children he killed, where he trapped their Souls - tis rife with untapped psychic energy! If he manages to perform a spell up there, it could unleash the power he needs to take the Young Master by force and finish off all of us, nevermind the sleepers! So think on. This isn't gonna be easy.”> Then Ezzy turned her grandmother’s head toward Dani, <”Tis your time to shine, chile. If you want to save yer precious Young Master, you must connect with him now!”>

“OK! OK! I’m ready, I’m ready! Just tell me what to do!” yelled Dani, sprinting on the spot, waving her arms in frustration.

Clearing her throat, Carla put a hand on her great-niece’s shoulder and asked, “What method are you suggesting we use...?”

The witches snorted, tutted, sighed, tsked and hissed as if it was the stupidest question they’d ever been asked. Ezzy broke the communication, put her hands on her hips and spoke for them all, “Method?! Why, the traditional method, of course!” she pushed her way through her compatriots, went to the bed, reached out and grabbed Jamie’s crotch, “via the only part of him that’s still awake!!”

Dani turned to Carla, “Do they mean what I think they mean...?”

Her great-aunt regarded her with a sympathetic frown and said, “It is strictly witchcraft, Danielle. It isn't personal...”

Half an hour ago, in Wicklow: as Malky negotiated the narrow, winding, pot-hole-strewn, unlit mountain roads, Broo moved from one side of the backseat to the other, barking at the driver’s side when they needed to take a right, then over to the passenger side to announce a turn to the left; when they needed to go straight ahead, he put his head between the seats and stared forward. There were little spectres at every turn, but their auras had become very dim and off-colour, like the blurry images of an old home-movie projected from far away. When Malky announced that he had his bearings and no further direction would be necessary, the Spirits got the message and immediately disappeared. They didn’t want to hang around any longer than they had to. Broo couldn't blame them.

“Startin’ to look familiar, eh boy?” said Malky, referring to the unfolding landscape.

Broo gazed out at the horizon and realised that, sure enough, it was identical to the tableau in his dream [See Part 10]: it’s the dead of night - a huge ivory moon is shining brightly above the mountaintops... But the colours were wrong. Everything had taken on a purplish hue; there was also that feeling of dread that dulled his natural senses and sent his supernatural gifts into overdrive: the same all-pervasive pall of terror he experienced when he saw McKee in Brodir during the night of the raid and the riot; the same sense of dread that permeated his system when they approached the hangar. There is bad magic here. He had a feeling that things were about to get extremely nasty indeed and couldn't help but let out a little whimper.

17 minutes later, they reached their destination. Malky pulled-up onto the muddy-hinterland between the road and the entrance to the lane that led up to the cottage. A network of tyre-tracks and the fluttering remnants of a broken police-tape on the (open) gate, were the only indication that the area had recently been a hive of police activity. But their attention was drawn to another kind of vehicle parked haphazardly on the roadside, namely: “Sammy’s ‘oul transit van,” said Malky, “an’ it looks as if it’s been abandoned....”

Broo leaned over the passenger seat to have a good look. It was that wretched old van, alright; the headlamps were off and the doors were wide open. He growled to express his apprehension.

“No, it doesn’t look good at all, does it,” agreed Malky, his own gut feelings giving him cause for concern. He reached across the dashboard, opened the glove-compartment and rifled through the contents; it was choc-full of the usual lady-driver knick-knacks: a hairbrush, a compact, a pack of hankies, an opened pack of Juicy Fruit containing two sticks of gum, a can of de-icer... finally, he sighed with relief when he found what he was looking for, “Oh, thank gawd for small mercies!” said he, holding up a miniature torch. His luck held –- it seemed to be working. Leaving the Metro’s headlamps on, they got out and cautiously approached the abandoned van. “It’s packed with stuff from the bar. Sammy musta been takin’ it to the dump...” murmured Malky, shining the little torch beam through the grimy rear windows, “did he get hijacked or somethin’...?” But when went around to the front, looked inside and discovered what appeared to be bloodstains on the passenger seat and a bloody handprint on the inside of the window -- a small, child-sized handprint at that -- he instantly sprang into action! “Right! Let’s go!” 

Without further ado, they took off across the muddy hinterland, through the open gate and into the foreboding shadows between the trees...

...

15 minutes ago: Now that he had access to two of Barry’s (failing) natural senses - hearing and smell - Jamie listened intently to the distant voices in the darkness and tried to ascertain where they were and what the demon was doing. The rumble of the engine had stopped and he smelled fresh air, so he assumed they were now on foot. The woman was yelling and screaming at McKee, but never in terror, in anger: a barrage of personal insults and curses peppered with intermittent groans of pain; by the sounds of it, she knew him well. A few minutes later, he smelled burning wood. Is he lighting a fire? If so, where? And why? There was one thing he could be sure of: there must be a glimmer of consciousness; the demon can’t create an illusion and control the body without a working psyche!

“Barry!” he called out, “I know you can hear me! -- fight him with all you’ve got -- he’s fully stretched and he’s getting weaker by the minute! Remember -- this is your last chance -- if you die, your Soul dies with you!”

A second or so later, the bright light of corridor shone on his face as the door burst open and a shadow filled the threshold. “Stop that shouting!” It was Sister: The hardfaced, middle-aged, cockney harpy who ran the ward with an iron fist in a rubber glove.

Jamie ignored her and continued yell, “Barry?! This is your last chance...”

“Will you please keep your voice down!” she half-whispered-half-yelled, as she stomped into the room, “it’s 2-in-the-friggin’-mornin’! The other patients are tryin’ to sleep!”

Jamie continued to ignore her and yelled even louder, “Take control, Barry! Fight --”

She slapped a cold, dry hand on his mouth, “If you don’t shut your yap, mister, I shall be forced to administer another tranquilliser -- an’ this time it’ll be a bleedin’ enema!”

The instant she touched him, Jamie felt a sudden shift in atmosphere; the link to Barry’s natural senses was immediately severed. All was quiet. Intrigued, he nodded to signal his consent. When she took the hand away, he inquired with a sneer, “Are you here to deliver a message, or keep me occupied while ‘The Demon King’ does his thing?... Or are you the devil himself, here to make a deal...?”

Still in shadow, she crossed her arms, looked at him for a while. Then she slowly walked back to the doorway, stepped out, looked up-and-down the corridor, stepped back inside, then quietly closed and locked the door. 

Hello darkness my old friend. 

“You may be psycho killer, but I have something to thank you for,” she confessed, her disembodied whisper getting ever closer, “you got rid of that cheeky runt, Masterson. He was the bane of my life, the cocky little bastard. Well, that’s what you get for not abidin’ by the rules, innit?! I dunno ‘ow many times I told ‘im: ‘You don’t go into a psycho’s cell alone’... unless he’s strapped down, that is.” She was close to his ear, her voice now low and husky, “What was it like, Jamie? How did it feel when you put your ‘ands round his flabby little windpipe ‘n squeezed n’ squeezed til ‘is face turned purple ‘n them beady li’l eyes bulged-outta ‘is spiky li’l ‘ead...? What was it like, Jamie? Tell me...” she whispered in his ear seductively, as she gently traced his inner thigh with her fingertips, “... gets me all ‘ot under the collar just thinkin’ about it...” her heavy bosom brushed his face as she reached up and turned on the little reading lamp embedded in the wall behind the cot.

Things were taking quite an unexpected turn. Jamie looked into space and enquired, “Is this how you’re going to do it? Seduce me?”

“This ain't seduction, babe -- it’s an act of Christian charity,” she replied, gaily, the dim lighting turning her impish smile into a rictus grin. Taking a wad of lint from her pocket and stuffing it roughly into his mouth, she leaned low and told him, “See, tomorra you’ll be transferred to an ‘igh security prison for the criminally insane, luvvie. And what with your volatile mental condition 'n the murder and that, they’ll never let you out. Life, in your case, will mean life. You’ll be institutionalised. And years from now, when yer sittin’ sad ‘n lonely in your padded cell, you’ll look back on this little fling and thank me, just you wait ‘n see,” she reached under his gown, put her fingers under the elasticised waistband of his underpants and slowly pulled them down, “cos from now on, luvvie, the only sexual contact you’re likely to get will come courtesy of convicted perverts ‘n mad faggots, so c’mon, join in the fun ‘n make the most of me...”

...

10 minutes ago: “What’s the problem, girlie?” grumbled Ezzy.

“She’s never done it before, by the looks of ‘er. What age is she anyway?” asked a particularly thin, particularly sullen-faced crone, looking Dani up and down.

“I’m 18,” said Dani, nervously crossing her legs at the ankles and clasping her crotch through the nightdress with both hands, like a shy soccer player facing a free kick.

“Aye, but you’ve been a big bloody goblin for most that time, 'aven’t ye? Yer wee brain is a lot younger than your body,” said Ezzy, thoughtfully, before adding a disclaimer, “well, I’m sorry for you, dearie, but it can’t be helped. If you want to save the day, you’ll get up there, get on 'im and do what needs to be done!”

Carla ushered Dani away from the crowd and back toward the bed, whispering encouragement as they went, “I have done it dozens of times, Danielle. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“But... what if it does mean something? What if it means everything?” Dani whispered, with a tear in her eye.

Carla stopped, knelt and gave her a hug, “You really do love him don’t you?” she asked, earnestly.

“I think so. He’s the nicest, bestest person I know. When he was in his coma ‘n I lived in the house, we discovered the Psychosphere together,” Dani replied with a sniff, the tear now coursing down her little pink cheek, “we learned how to read minds together. We dreamed together. He showed me the outside world through his memories...” 

Carla dried the tear with her cuff, then put her hands on her great-niece’s shoulders, looked her in the eye and paraphrased the oft iterated maxim in a stern, no-nonsense tone, “We are the Vondragüül, Danielle; we are not human. Flesh and blood mean nothing to us. This body is merely a shell. Unfortunately, in This World, coitus is the only way we can directly connect with a deeply enchanted psyche...” She paused, smiled and added in a more maternal tone, “Once the spell takes hold, you will forget where you are and what you are doing in the Real World, I promise you. Here -- this may afford you a little more privacy,” she reached up, tugged a silken cord on the canopy and the drapes fluttered down like gauzy-white clouds to form a translucent shroud around the bed.

“You know what to do, don’t you?” asked Carla, doubtfully.

“Well, yeah, course I do. I mean, I’ve seen what goes on in people’s heads -- they never stop thinkin’ about it...” Dani answered, bashfully.

Carla made a face, “Well, then...?”

Dani parted the curtain, looked at Jamie’s insensible body and baulked. It was true: she really did love him, but she never thought about doing it with him. All she wanted was to hold his hand, kiss and hug and go for long walks in the forest, that sort of thing. In fact, she thought doing it was quite yucky...

“C’mon, c’mon, youse two -- we haveta get things goin’!” yelled Ezzy, from the back of the room. She and the rest had shed their clothes and wigs and were standing with hands on their naked hips, shaking their wispy-white heads.

“Ewwww! Why have they taken all their clothes off?!” whimpered Dani, eyeing the saggy flesh with a mixture of revulsion and alarm.

“It’s traditional, nothing to worry about,” said Carla, helping her through the curtain and onto the bed, “good luck, Danielle. And remember, the host’s brain has been damaged, there is no way of telling how this has affected the demon; you will be entering uncharted territory, so keep your wits about you, but above all -- do not let your heart rule your head...”

15 minutes ago in Wicklow: stumbling along the treacherous dirt-path, the beam from the torch swooping from side to side lighting the way ahead, Broo felt the first wave of negative energy hit his system. His stomach lurched -- an icy shiver of anxiety ran through his skeleton -- a sure-sign that their man was close at hand and they were headed in the right direction. Suddenly, everything went completely dark. “Shite, the battery’s gone,” grumbled Malky, throwing the little torch into the bushes, “I can see fuck all, now -- you’ll have to guide me!” he said, grabbing Broo’s collar. On they stumbled, Broo fighting the oncoming bad vibrations to navigate the deep, muddy puddles and fallen branches, Malky by his side, getting raked by low hanging limbs, tripping and   slipping on soggy twigs and clumps of dampened leaves. After a hundred yards or so, they discovered that a light-source wouldn't be necessary: there was something flickering brightly beyond the overgrown hedgerows up-ahead. Broo made a show of sniffing the air. “Smell burnin’, do ya, ol’ son? Aye, I smell it too.” Looking above the trees and bushes, they saw that the starry-horizon to the east was obscured by a billowing bank of grey-white smoke. “He musta set light to the cottage!” gasped Malky. “Well, at least a big blaze like that will draw the attention of the cops!”

Fire!! whimpered Broo, why is it always fire?!

Just then they heard something that renewed their sense of urgency -- a female voice yelling in the distance – too far-off to discern what it was saying, but clearly coming from the rear of the property! The pair looked at each other and simultaneously reached the same, unspoken conclusion: Zindy! They’re in the Dog Cemetery! And with that, they threw caution to the wind and ran the rest of the way as fast as they could. They arrived at the gate just in time to witness the thatched roof implode, releasing a fountain of sparks into the night sky! The inside of the cottage was a raging inferno with tongues of flame lashing out of the broken windows, setting light to the hanging baskets and wooden furniture around the porch. Mercifully, the strong breeze was blowing eastward taking the smoke away from the grounds, but the heat was intense -- there was no way they could access the backyard via the usual route. They would have to do it the hard way: through the voluminous shrubbery bordering the other side of garden path. 

Malky held back the thick brush to clear the way, but the old dog seemed to be getting cold feet. “C’mon old son -- I thought you’d be champin’ at the bit!” coaxed Malky, nonplussed by the old dog’s sudden reluctance. “Do you wanna stay here? I mean, I can handle things from here on...?”

But Broo wasn't begrudging; he was hexed. The second they’d entered the garden, a sentinel spell hit him and knocked him for six; it was as if his flesh had turned to lead and his bones had turned to stone. He whimpered his apologies and laboriously staggered on. “It’s him, innit? McKee? He’s making you feel this way, ‘in ‘e?” said Malky, sympathetically, leaning down and patting the old dog’s head. “Well, he’s armed ‘n dangerous, so maybe takin’ things a wee bit slow isn't such a bad idea. As me da used to say: ‘Take yer time, but be quick about it’.” So, on they plodded, Malky holding back the spindly brush, Broo struggling through while the pernicious spell played merry hell with his central nervous system. Eventually, they found themselves in the bushes behind the old chicken run. They crept to the end of the coop and looked across the yard. The fire was at its hottest here, but it wasn't the searing heat that worried Malky, it was the illuminating flames: it’s lit-up like Times Square on New Year’s Eve! If McKee was indeed on the hill, he was bound to see them. And just as that thought crossed his mind, they heard Zindy’s voice scream out -- this time it was clearly audible, “Lemme go, ya fookin’ psycho!” They had no choice but to risk it. He whispered in Broo’s ear, “Right, lad, we’re gonna haveta make a quick dash for the shed on the other side. We’ll have a good view of the hill from there, so when I say three -- run as fast as ye can. OK?

“On a count of three... One... twoooo... threeee – go!”

Malky scuttled across the farmyard and took up position in the niche between a small wooden shed and the coal bunker. But Broo didn’t get far. Malky frantically beckoned and hissed ‘c’mon!’, but the old dog was frozen in the middle of the yard, shaking his head vigorously as if trying to dislodge a wasp from his ear.

The instant he reached the centre of the yard and felt the heat hit his pelt the debilitating numbness intensified to such a degree that it stopped-him-dead-in-his-tracks. In a repeat of his ordeal in the demon’s lair [See Part 15], all of his senses and sensibilities, both natural and supernatural, were thrown into a state of flux – his head resounded with scores of overlapping voices with contrasting tones and timbres – some bright and encouraging – some low and threatening; others were jeering and childishly shrill... all he could do was try to shake the feeling loose...

Then he felt compelled to look to his left...

Instead of a yard and a burning kitchen, he appeared to be on a narrow ledge on a sheer rock-face, gazing into a more formidable inferno: a lake of fire at the bottom of a huge, sheer-sided crater – like the vision he’d witnessed under the hatch in the hangar – complete with a pack of scaly, reptilian devil-dogs, snapping, snarling -- baying for his blood! Large, scaly, bat-like creatures rose from the leaping flames and took to the skies to circle overhead, screeching like ravening vultures -- the deeper voices between his ears increased in volume and resonance until they threatened to crack his skull...

Then the vision suddenly flickered. The voices suddenly ceased. The numbness eased. He blinked and he was back in the farmyard, staring at the cracked, blackened windows of a burning kitchen. The spell had been broken.

“C’mon!” Malky hissed for umpteenth time.

Bewildered and slightly singed, he tottered over and joined Malky between the sheds. “Hear that?” said Malky. Sure enough, now that his hearing was slowly returning to normal, Broo heard what sounded like someone singing. “It must be McKee! Sounds like he’s totally off-his-head!” Malky whispered, cupping his ear, “What is that he’s chantin’? A mantra, somethin’ like that...?”

Broo was too frazzled and discombobulated to make sense of anything at that moment. He gave Malky a shrug of the shoulders by way of a hangdog look.

“Well, whatever he’s up to, he’s otherwise occupied. Let’s get closer.” He grabbed the old dog’s collar and they made a loping-beeline for the first fence at the rear of the yard where they crouched for a few seconds before Malky slowly got up and peered over the pointed slats. He saw a moonlit silhouette pacing around the open grave under the naked boughs of the solitary tree atop the knoll, in the little dog cemetery. “Yeah, it’s him alright. He’s waving his arms about ‘n gesturing like he’s a shaman or somethin’...” whispered Malky, “can’t see Zindy, though - not from here, anyway... ” He quietly opened the second gate and they crept through the little herb-garden, along the narrow path between the withered shrubs that led to the cemetery gate. Malky crouched down and they watched through the wrought-iron bars.

McKee was standing by the tree, arms outstretched, head thrown back, chanting at the top of his voice. “What’s all that about, eh, boy? Is that some sort of black magic spell?” asked Malky, rhetorically. 

Broo was still none the wiser; all he knew was the mantra made the figure glow with a bright magenta halo and the soil beneath his pads buzz with energy, as if McKee was drawing power from deep within the knoll and absorbing it into his body...

...

2 minutes ago: Jamie was aghast. It never occurred to him that the demon would stoop so low. Then again, who am I kidding? He’s desperate! And it makes perfect sense -- he’s hit me with everything else -- what’s does a spot of female-on-male rape matter? Sort of demonic possession as STD, I s'pose...

Meanwhile, the shrewish medic had removed her tights, unbuttoned her tunic, and was presently, and somewhat awkwardly, trying to clamber onto the cot. Jamie watched her progress with a contemptuous scowl. “Don’t look so disgusted, darlin’, most of the men in ‘ere would give their right arms to be where you are now,” she whispered, sultrily, when she finally managed to get her leg over, “they fantasise about me, y’know. One of the orderlies told me. They’d love to be dominated by a strong woman 'oo knows what she’s doin’. You should count yourself luck....Oooooh, what do we 'ave 'ere?” He closed his eyes so he wouldn't have to look at her as she brightly exclaimed, “See! You wannit just as much as me!”

It was true, dammit. In spite of his repulsion and the indignity of his position, he appeared to be responding! This can’t be happening! He tried his best to wriggle away!

But the straps were tight and her hands were firm, “Easy, easy, take it easy, lover,” she sang, quietly, holding him steady while she mounted, “Just lie back, relax, an’ let me take over...”

...

5 minutes ago: It was a bit sore at first, but with Carla whispering instructions through the curtain, Dani persevered and finally got the hang of it. After that she was on her own. She kept her nightie on and tried her best to forget what was going on below the waist and concentrated hard on Jamie’s half-open-eyes. It wasn't long before she found her rhythm and felt the tingle of the Spiritual connection creep up from her loins and consume her entire being. She closed her eyes and entered Jamie’s psyche in a rush of flashing, swirling psychedelic lights, into what Carla called his ‘libido’.

“It is virtually dormant, Danielle, when a ‘Güül’s powers manifest, the sexual drive dissipates. There will only be forgotten feelings and old, suppressed memories, ignore them...” was the last thing Dani heard before her voice faded completely.

She’d never been here before. Like most telepaths, he kept these parts of his psyche blocked off from prying minds, so she didn’t know what to expect. She was a wee bit afraid, too. For one thing, it wasn't like visiting a proper memory or a dreamscape; she wasn't an invisible, uninvolved spectator watching scenes from someone’s memories unfold around her, instead she was an active participant in a series of sexual encounters from Jamie’s past, taking the place of girlfriends, groupies and one-night-stands he’d had in his life before they met. She found herself straddling him numerous times in various rooms in different locations; sometimes naked, sometimes half-naked, but always in the same position, and always with the same feeling. She soon realised the Jamie between her thighs wasn't the Jamie she’d idolised over the last 5 years. This was a thinner faced, shaggy-haired, listless, glassy-eyed version, not the strong-willed, level-headed person she’d come to know and love. These are the days when he did drugs. Because even though he seemed to be enjoying himself, she was well aware that he wasn't ‘all there’. He’s away in a world of his own. Worst thing was, his conscience was killing him:, throughout each encounter she could hear a hectoring voice droning in his head reminding him that he was nothing more than a despicable wretch unworthy of the passion these women lavished upon him, while other voices grumbled in the background, male and female, telling him to pull himself together and get his head straight. “If you don’t stop I’m leaving you!” “Look at yourself in the mirror and face the truth!” “You should be ashamed of yourself!” that sort of thing.Thus, slowly-but-surely, his shame and self-loathing infested her Essence and she began to feel as bad. She didn’t like this Jamie one little bit. He hates himself, she thought. It’s hard to love somebody who hates themselves... Then, just when it seemed the dispiriting pall would overwhelm her completely -- another intense thrill surged through her system -- she spasmed and involuntarily projected -- the cloying sentimentality quickly evaporated as she was thrust out of the zone and spun upwards via the darkened chambers of his dormant mind, through another swirling kaleidoscopic-funnel of flashing lights, and piped-out into the dark side of the Psychosphere.

Gloomy dark and deathly silence, here. Not a pleasant thought for miles.

She’d been here before, of course. The time when Pritchard tried to make a deal with demon [See Part 9]. It was pretty scary, but thankfully there was no time to take-in the vibes -- another surge -- the vortex accumulated around her again -- she was sent hurtling toward a luminous rip in the murkiness up-ahead. It could only be the entrance to the host’s psyche.

This is it, girlie. Gotta concentrate, gotta remember: this is to save Jamie... She took a deep breath and resumed rocking...

...

At that moment, Broo felt yet another fluctuation in the atmosphere -- the negative energy intensified -- the numbness surged again -- the deafening voices roared between his ears -- then, just when it became almost unbearable, the figure on the hill droned another refrain and the knoll settled down, the thrum of doom abated, the roaring choir dropped to a disquieted murmur. Whatever he was up to, it was causing an intermittent breach in his defences, hence the inconsistent sentinel spell. Or is it a sign of weakness? Broo sniffed the air and eventually detected another scent amidst the stench of smoke and sizzling timber: fresh blood! And sure-enough, now that they had an unfettered view of the knoll, it became clear that McKee was quite unsteady on his feet. That said, he was still toting a shotgun: direct confrontation was out of the question. In the meantime, Malky’s chief concern was for the safety of the hostage. He moved behind a bush and scanned the hilltop through dew-dripping fronds until he eventually spotted a second, much smaller figure behind the shambling silhouette. He ducked down and put his lips close to Broo’s ear, “She’s tied to the tree with a bag over her head,” he whispered, anxiously, “gawd knows what he’s gonna do with her!”

Broo had a pretty good idea, but he had no idea how they were going to stop it...

...

A few minutes ago, in the sanatorium: Once they were certain Dani had established the connection, the naked, wispy-headed witches formed a semicircle around the bed, linked hands and gazed up at the full moon through the skylight windows of the dome. Somewhat apprehensive and not entirely convinced that the witches could be trusted, Carla stood back and observed from a short distance away. Although she wasn't au fait with the more rudimentary aspects of witchcraft, what the ‘Güül called ‘the Old Ways’, nevertheless, she was versed enough to know that they were communicating with another entity, and since the Psychosphere was off-limits, the ghosts had fled to Limbo and everyone else was enchanted, there was only one body they could connect with. In that instant of realisation, she happened to glimpse movement out of the corner of her eye. Her attention was drawn to the little treasure chest sitting atop the stool by dressing table; the little ancient witch was beckoning her hither with a crook of her withered, hook-nailed, index-finger; Carla approached and carefully placed her hand on her shrunken head.

The gossamer-lidded milky-blue-eyes searched her face as a rasping voice crackled between her ears, <Carla, eh? Ellie Cochrane’s sister?  I knew your mother. She was one of the younguns we shipped-off to Europe about 1000 years ago, wasn't she?>

“Yes. She grew up to be a madwoman and a monster. When we were old enough we escaped her clutches and came here, to Uncle Ogden and the Ivy House,” Carla answered, flatly and succinctly, hoping to nip an extended conversation in the bud. She had more than a sneaking suspicion the old woman was already in full possession of the facts and this was a ploy to distract her from the main event. And of course, she was right: the shrivelled pixie proceeded to expound despite her obvious indifference.

<Aye, she was a right bastard, to be sure. Feisty isn't the word. Terrible temper. When I sailed to France sometime in the 1390s -- they sent me over to make sure that she was takin’ care of herself -- as if, I met up with her at the docks in Boulogne. Workin’ in a brothel, she was. Abused her Gift to seduce soldiers ‘n sailors, if my memory serves me right. She had a thing for men in uniform, didn’t she? Became beholden to the pleasures of the flesh. And a drunkard to boot, the silly bitch. They hadda time keepin’ tabs on her! Last I heard she moved to Grenoble and went to ground fer a coupla hundred years-or-so. Lived in a shack in the woods. Had a rare time of it during the Napoleonic Wars, if rumours are to be believed. Nevertheless, in the end, she served her purpose. She managed to have children, and that’s all that matters. That’s all the men wanted: Silver Sirens. Skips a generation you see. Your sister wasn't up to much, so I’m told, but you’re the Real McCoy. Your father was a Sensitive, see. Ellie’s was human. Makes a big difference. Bein’ part human gives you compassion, y’see. makes you emotional: quick to anger, envious, sentimental. They really thought you’d be the mother, but heigh-ho, they got what they wanted in the end, eh?> She looked toward the bed <They got their little messiah,> Then, apropos-of-nothing, she asked: <You’re a disciple of Ebben Blom, aren't ye, chile?>

“Yes, I am his pupil. You know that,” Carla all-but snapped, getting very irritated.

< ... I knew him before he changed sex, y’see: when he was a Viking Princess. Lovely lass, he was. Gifted, too. In fact, she was the daughter of the chieftain who was possessed by the demon, so she had vested interest in makin’ sure he never returned to make mischief ever again. When her family left and went back to Scandinavia, she stayed behind and joined the coven...>

Carla wasn't comfortable talking about the past and hurried the conversation along, “I know all this. Ebben told me. If you have something new to impart, please do so or...?”

The voice continued, <... then the Christian witch hunts began in earnest; we were well thought of up until then, but it didn’t take long for the natives to turn on us. Nobody was safe. Cat lovers, lesbians, senile auld women, auld widows w' warts -- anybody who dispensed herbal potions or medicinal remedies -- they rounded ‘em up, put them to trial by ordeal and burned them alive at the stake. Terrible times. The princess escaped back to her homeland. But just to keep in touch, she left a few Familiars behind. And they've proven very useful over the centuries. They've been our little eyes ‘n ears. They've also very proved quite effective for casting spells by proxy...>

Her suspicions now confirmed, Carla turned, beheld the witches again and asked, “They are casting a spell through Familiars? I thought the Council outlawed such activity in the middle-ages?”

The little wizened face broke into a toothless grin, <Since when do we ever do what the men tell us to...?>

10 minutes ago: The deeper McKee got into his rite, the more the knoll rumbled like a metaphysical volcano on the cusp of eruption. The soil beneath Broo’s paws veritably pulsated with wave-after-wave of negative energy. His body stiffened as the intense pressure increased to an unbearable level and threatened to crack his skull. Naturally, Malky was oblivious; he crouched and whispered in the old dog’s ear, “’E’s away with the faeries an’ ‘e’s lookin’ the other way. Ready to get closer?”

Broo could barely raise his head, but managed to take a step forward.

“At-a-boy. You first.” Malky quietly slid the rusty bolt and slowly opened the gate; then the pair snuck into the dog cemetery and hid behind the bushes lining the inside of the fence. It wasn't so easy for Broo. As passed through the gate, a powerful wave of negativity energy surged up through his legs and sawed through his nervous system like a slow-moving electric shock; simultaneously, he saw the halo around McKee blaze brightly -- the tree shone and crackled with can only be described as a web-like network of ethereal electricity -- it looked as if it was about to explode! To make matters worse, it seemed the climax of the ritual involved a human sacrifice! Malky gasped with horror when he saw the gleaming blade of a large hunting knife raised aloft in the madman’s gauntleted hand, “Holy shite! He’s gonna kill ‘er!” he exclaimed, a little too loudly.

The swaying silhouette heard him. Broo felt the crippling sensation abate; the knoll stopped trembling; the halo around McKee dimmed as he swung around and screamed with rage, “WHO’S THERE?!”

They took cover behind the first row of graves, but it was a hiding to nothing -- the shoddy monuments were too small and far apart to provide adequate coverage, and as if that wasn't bad enough, the fire behind them had flared for a moment and illuminated the entire hillside! For the first time they got a good look at McKee’s face. It was covered in blood; just as Broo suspected, he was wounded; probably a blow to the head.

The demented biker raised the shotgun and waved it in their general direction: “I can see you! I can see you! Come a little closer... so I can KILL YOU!” he yelled, sounding furiously unhinged, snarling like a feral dog and snorting like a furious bull. This wasn't going to be an easy negotiation. Malky ran out, ducked down behind one of the larger markers and called out in a mollifying tone, “Barry, Barry, take it easy, son... put down the gun, you’re not thinkin’ straight, now, c’mon...”

“You ... you... you and your fucking dog...” McKee muttered, presciently, pricking his leather-sheathed thigh with the tip of the knife as he swayed back-and-forth, the barrel of the shotgun swinging menacingly to-&-fro, “Come out, come out, wherever you are...”

Just then, the wind gathered strength and suddenly veered from a light easterly breeze to a strong south-westerly gale -– the smoke from the fire swirled up the hill engulfing the cemetery. Broo felt yet another dip in the demon’s power.

A familiar voice resounded around the hillsides, Malky?! Is that you?!”

“Shut up, bitch!” McKee shouted, swinging back toward her.

Malky’s took advantage of the incoming miasma and stood up to get a better look. She was indeed taped to the trunk of chestnut tree with a supermarket carrier bag over her head, but thankfully, she appeared to be unharmed. “Aye, it’s me, Zin! Are you OK, luv?” he shouted back, trying to sound as relaxed as possible.

The reply was as everything he’d come to expect from a woman as fearless and as feisty as Zindy, “Yeah -- so far!! Gawd knows what this fookin’ headcase is up to!!”

“I SAID SHUT UP!” yelled McKee, in a fit of frustration.

Typically, Zindy ignored him, “He’s got a fractured skull, Malk!! He’s not makin’ sense -- off ‘is fookin’ trolley -- totally doolally -- !”

McKee noisily cocked the gun and aimed it at her, “One more word, cunt, and so help me – I’ll blast you and your friends to KINGDOM COME!!”

Now that McKee’s back was turned, Malky took the chance to creep a little closer; he told Broo to stay put and scuttled through the shadows on the left side of the hill, calling out as he crept along to draw McKee’s attention away from Zindy, “Barry, c’mon now, don’t make things worse for yerself, son -- you’re badly injured, y’ need urgent medical attention...” But McKee wasn't listening. He appeared to be having a fit. He winced, reeled and made a high-pitched eeking sound, his gore-soaked face contorted with pain, as if someone had just buried a dagger in his mind and given it a sharp twist. Worse yet, his hands were shaking -- the twin-barrels were wobbling! Malky prayed that his trigger-finger wasn't suffering the same lack of control!

Meanwhile, now freed from the insidious torpor, Broo decided to steal around to the right; if he managed to get to the far side of the hill there was every chance he could attack McKee from the rear. There was one problem, though: it was a steep, rocky wilderness of high grass, dense nettle-bushes and spiny brambles, it would to be a hard slog, especially on three legs. But it was the only course of action open to him, so he pressed on, the urgency and nervous energy rendering him all-but immune to the prickles, scrapes and stings. When he reached the densest part of the vegetation, he stopped dead in his tracks.

His senses, both natural and supernatural, detected another presence on the hillside. Or should that be presences... It wasn't another sentinel spell, there were no bad vibrations, his sense of imminent danger was giving him no cause for concern. He emerged from a dense blackberry bush, looked up and saw hundreds of pairs of twinkling eyes looking back at him from the shadowy undergrowth up ahead, just below the brow of the hill. At first, he was alarmed -- is it another illusion -- a horde of devil-dogs?! But he soon realised that these creatures were his natural, not supernatural, enemy:

Cats! Dozens-upon-dozens of cats!!

And yet, just like the kittens he encountered at the vets [See Part 11], there was no animosity abroad; they were unsurprised and untroubled by his presence. In fact, he felt well disposed toward them, as if they were of a mind. Very strange. The twinkling constellation watched him for a few seconds then apparently lost interest and turned back toward the glowing figure on hill.

Curious, a little disconcerted, but determined to complete his mission, Broo resumed his trek. The cats didn’t stir from their perches as he passed; he had to work around them, like furry bollards on a treacherous obstacle course. He wondered: if they’re here to help, what is their role? They don’t look as if they’re about to attack... Then, just as he left them behind and reached the mossy rocks on the crest on the dark side of the knoll, they began to yowl like a horde of human babies -- a sustained, oscillating wail that made Broo’s ears ache -- inside and out!

Simultaneously, the figure on the hill threw back its head and screamed...

7 minutes ago: Dani’s Spirit penetrated the host’s subconscious in another blinding, mind-bending blaze of psychedelic pyrotechnics -- another spasm of pleasure ran through her -- only this time it was more like the stomach-lurching plunge of a big dipper car, as if she was plummeting from a great height... Then she stopped. The vortex receded and died; the multicoloured fireworks fizzled and vanished, it felt like she was slowly spinning in deep, starless, space...

Is this it? she thought, reaching out for something to cling to. But there was nothing there, not even a glimmer. If this was indeed the host’s subconscious, she wasn't picking up any thoughts or feelings. Is this meant to happen? Carla had warned her it was ‘uncharted territory’, but she didn’t expect there to be nothing. 

Is he dead or is he just unconscious or..? 

It was then she heard a strange sobbing sound: like a solitary child weeping somewhere down below. As she slowly descended to check it out, the darkness gave way to dark purple clouds lit by a violet moon. She found herself hovering above a desert landscape dominated by the ruins of a huge Egyptian palace that looked as if it’d just been struck by a devastating earthquake (she knew it was Egyptian because there were hieroglyphs and statues of dog men lying amidst the toppled columns and fallen arches). The sobbing child seemed to be somewhere under the rubble, so she drifted down and flew around until she located the source and set about clearing the debris. The rocks were quite light, which isn't unusual in a dreamscape -- especially in a busted skull -- she pulled them away without much effort, and eventually uncovered a dusty golden throne with a sobbing prepubescent Pharaoh cowering underneath.  

Of course, she knew who it was. His Essence was wholly familiar. My so-called friend. The man with the demon inside him. Well, the little boy version, anyway. She was also immediately aware of the current situation -- his short-term memory flooded her psyche and in a split second she knew what had happened to Jamie and what was going to happen to him if this snivelling git didn’t get his shit together! Without a second thought, she unceremoniously yanked him out of his hidey-hole, pinned his arms to the floor and straddled him, “You've gotta fight back, dickhead! Jamie’s Soul depends on it! You’re not a kid -- you’re a grown man! SO GROW UP!!” she screamed, into his frightened, tearstained face.

“I-I I can’t feel anything... I’m numb all over,” the would-be Boy King whinged, “all I can f-feel is him... I’m too weak to m-move...”

Dani put her hand on his forehead, “OK, you’re weak, but you must be semi-conscious or you wouldn't be talkin’ to me! You can fight back!”

But the boy was tearfully insistent, “I told you -- I haven’t got the energy... my head hurts so bad... if I go back I’ll die!”

She lifted her hand high and slapped him hard across the face, “Your Soul will die if he possesses Jamie! You have to take back control! Hey! Listen to me!”

Barry had inadvertently become preoccupied. He was looking through her, listening to something, “Can’t you hear that?” he gasped, awestruck.

She raised her hand to slap him again, “Cut the crap --” but stopped mid-swing when she heard it herself. What is that? It sounded like a thousand banshees wailing in the distance, getting louder and closer with each passing second. She didn’t know what to make of it. Meanwhile, her young captive’s demeanour had totally transformed. His teary eyes were now alight with a combination of relief and jubilation, “It’s the song of Bastet, the cat goddess!! The Pharaoh’s Protector! She’s come to save me!” he cried, excitedly, not a doubt in his mind.

Dani grabbed him by the collar of his robe and shook him until his head rocked on his shoulders, “It can’t be -- there are no gods -- this is your imagination, dummy!! You must be...” but the noise had gotten so loud it was impossible to ignore, and now that he’d mentioned it, it did indeed sound like a horde of cats wailing at the top of their lungs -- what’s more the sound was coming from outside and inside: psychically and acoustically -- there was no escaping it!

Just then, she felt his body begin to rise from the rubble -- taking her with him! She grabbed his shoulders and held on tight as they quickly levitated out of the ruined palace, travelled up through the night sky and ascended into the now tempestuous purple heavens.

“You see?! I can feel her power surging through me...” yelled the boy king, “Her song is lifting me up! Bastet will save my Soul...”

...

3 minutes ago: No matter how he fought, no matter how he tried to divert his thoughts, avert his eyes or even astrally project, Jamie couldn't escape the ugly ‘reality’ of his predicament. He squirmed and twisted his head way when she tried to force her tongue into his ear, but that was as far as his resistance went. He was completely at the mercy of his base reflexes! One thing was for sure: it wasn't just a psychic experience - it had to be happening to his physical being! -- and just as that insight occurred, a wailing sound began to fill the air, at the same time, the room began to glow with purplish light. He saw that they weren’t in a cell anymore -- the cot appeared to be floating upward in a thick, purplish mist.

He sighed with relief. At last. A breakthrough.

Sister’s hips ground to a halt. She went rigid and looked up. “What is that?!” she croaked, harkening to the unsettling howl.

He couldn't offer an opinion, of course, but he was pretty sure it had something to do with the dozen-or-so wizen-faced, wispy-headed, naked old ladies that had suddenly materialised around the cot, holding hands, gazing up at the violet moon and screeching like banshees...

A second later, a voice roared through the clouds like a loud roll of thunder:

“SHUT UP YOU BASTARDS!!”

followed by a loud BOOM!

...

2 minutes ago: now that McKee was distracted by the cats’ chorus, Broo took his chance and climbed over the last remaining rocks on the ridge of the knoll. He crept around to the back of the tree and began gnawing at the tape binding Zindy’s wrists. She flinched when she felt the cold-wetness of his nose brush her forearm, but soon realised what was going on, straightened-up and stretched-out to make it easier for him.

As he worked, Malky called out down below: “Lose the gun, Barry, you’re gonna kill somebody...”

Still holding the knife and the shotgun, but getting evermore frantic as the cats’ yowl reached an insufferable pitch, McKee squeezed his eyes shut and howled, “SHUT UP YOU BASTARDS!!”

There was a brief pause as his scream resounded around the hills

-- then the gun went off!

Broo recoiled from the almighty boom -- he heard the hiss of sap and the sound of splintering wood as the upper trunk took the brunt of the blast -- a thick branch broke away, fell and crashed to the ground -- missing him by a matter of inches!

“NO!” Malky’s voice echoed across the hills as he dashed up the last few yards to the pile of earth by the open grave. The shot didn’t appear to be intentional. He reckoned McKee was reeling from whatever was going on in his head and had inadvertently pulled the trigger; whatever, the round had missed Zindy by a quite a ways. He was very relieved to see that she was now loose and lying on her side amidst the wild grass at the foot of the tree, pulling the plastic bag off her head -- just in time to see him wave from his hiding place. He put a finger to his lips: shush. She acknowledged with a slow nod and tried to crawl out of harm’s way – but in that moment, McKee opened his eyes and saw her! He threw down the shotgun and pulled his daddy’s old service revolver from his belt, “Get... back... here... bitch... haven’t finished with you yet...” he grunted, looming over her, eyes aflame, blood-tainted snot streaming from his twitching nostrils, pistol in one hand, hunting knife in the other...

...

Meanwhile, in McKee’s head: the storm suddenly broke and Dani was bombarded with what felt like thousands of volts of electricity! Ultraviolet lightning bolts flashed through the purple clouds, zapping her from every angle! -- she screamed!

Still clamped between her thighs, still grinning like a moron, McKee put out his arms and goaded them on, “Sing, sing, sing, ye minions of Bastet!”

The deafening wail got even louder! The storm got even worse! The lightning bolts got even stronger and more painful! She put her hands over her ears and screamed again!

...  

3 minutes ago: “She’s stopped moving. What’s happening?” Carla asked the wizened old witch.

<She’s made the connection. Can’t you feel the crackle of negative energy in the air? She’s in the host’s psyche. This is the hardest part. The grown-up part.>

“What do you mean?”

<She has to be tough and level-headed. Keep her mind on the job. I just hope the demon is too weak to put up much of a fight or conjure any major distractions...> 

The witches raised the pitch. Dani suddenly screamed! 

“She’s in pain!” cried Carla, letting go of the old witch’s head and rushing toward the bed. But the withered, wailing circle stood their ground, kept their hands locked together and refused to let her through. She tried to look over their shoulders, but the room had darkened -- a strong draught was streaming in from the corridor setting the candles aflutter, all she could discern was a little shadow shuddering behind the net curtain. Despite her anxiety, she didn’t push it; she felt the vibrations; she knew where this was going and where she stood: this was for the greater good, whether she liked it or not. “You assured me she’d be safe,” she said, emotionlessly, putting her hand back on the little shrunken head.

<Does it matter that one sister loses her life to save the coven and achieve the ‘Prime Directive’?> the voice asked, with a hint of derision.

Dani screamed again. 

Carla chewed a nail and said, “But surely there’s another way...?”

Instead of answering the question the old witch responded with another, <The thing with ‘messiahs’ is, they usually have to sacrifice themselves for the salvation of others, don’t they?>

Torn between logic and familial loyalty, Carla vaguely protested, “But she is so young and beautiful...?”

The tiny shoulders shrugged, <Like you said yourself, m’ dear: ‘Tis strictly witchcraft. Tisn't personal...’>

...

A minute later, something weird happened. The thunderstorm eased off. The barrage of lightning bolts gradually ceased, she relaxed and sighed with relief... And as her Spirit settled down again, a familiar feeling slowly came over her. The same warm, welcoming feeling she got when she met her friend in the forest and he embraced her [See Part 3]: a buzz. They were floating in the purply-clouds, now, and although the thunderstorm seemed to have passed, the wailing hadn't stopped; it just seemed more bearable. It was certainly having a beneficial effect on the body between her knees. Barry wasn't a fresh-faced Boy King anymore, he had grown into an adult man clad in bikers’ leathers and boots: the pale, raven-haired, black-eyed man who smelled of chewing gum and gasoline. The way he looked when she met him in the forest that day; only this time he isn't wearing a mask. She could see everything. His partial recovery had also revived his psyche: All his memories, thoughts, emotions, fantasies and ambitions resurfaced as he regained semi-consciousness. In the blink of an eye she was privy to the demon’s foul deeds through the ages. She saw the countless succession of tyrannical kings, warlords, generals, senior advisors and religious zealots he had possessed and misguided -- men bent on power and riches, men driven to divide and conquer to further his aims. Everything Castle, Grandma Ellie and the others had told her about him was true. 

Then, just like Jamie, she saw the ghosts of dead children in his shadow. She heard their screams. She felt their fear. She felt his pleasure. It made her very angry indeed.

That anger was compounded when when she unravelled his memory of that fateful night of the 22nd  of October 1983. The night he changed her from a big green goblin back into a normal girl - by raping her in the forest. It was precisely the same scene that Grandma Ellie had shown her in the Fairyland dreamscape [See Part 18]: Through McKee’s mind’s eye she saw her father change into a similar monster and  murder the old men in the dining hall. Finally, she saw what happened at the flats: She saw her father maul Pritchard. She saw Barry shoot and kill her mother [See Part One]. Her own memories of that night had been wiped before she went into the hospital, she’d even forgotten what her mother looked like, but now, for the first time in 5 years, she saw Maisie Cochrane’s face . It looked just like her reflection in the Plexiglas door. They looked exactly alike. It was dead weird, and dead sad. And though it was hard to watch, she couldn't stop replaying her death over and over again in her mind, and the longer she looked into her mother’s frightened eyes, the angrier she got.

Just as she reached boiling point, Barry snapped out of his ecstatic trance and noticed her staring down at him. He grinned, reached up and cupped her cheeks in his gauntleted hands, “Oh Dani, how wonderful to see you,” he said, in that calm, beguiling voice of his.

“I hate you. You make me sick,” she replied, gimlet-eyed and unflinching.

He kept smiling but his eyes took on a regretful look when he said, “Don’t be like that, Dani. You’re on my side, remember? You are an extension of me. We belong together. Us against the world, and all that.”

No matter their avatars difference in size, in this realm, Dani was the more powerful psyche; after all, she’d just survived an almost lethal bombardment of negative energy, this guy was easy meat, wholly at her mercy. He couldn't lie. He couldn't charm her. He couldn't fool her. “I���m in your head. I see everything. I feel everything. I know everything. I know what you’ve done,” she told him, simmering with contained rage.

Barry stared for a moment, then his eyes flashed red: the demon had taken him over. He chuckled as he supplied the glib reply, “They’re only people, Danielle. Mankind. From little babies to little old ladies, no matter what age, no matter what gender, they’re just organic lifeforms: fodder for the Soul Machine. It doesn’t matter how they live their lives or how they die.” 

“It does when they’re little children. Their Souls will never Ascend.”

“But they’re free to wander the Multiverse forever -- isn't that better than joining the 'Eternal Host’?”

“They never had any say in the matter. They never got to grow up and live their lives.”

His tone softened as he reminded her, “Your family is no better. They have no love for this planet or its miserable inhabitants. They can’t wait to escape either. But they have to get rid of me first. That’s why Jamie’s ancestors created you. You’re not a messiah, Dani. You’re just a weapon. A tool. They’re using you to kill me. And then they’ll kill you.”

“You killed my mommy.”

He laughed and laughed as if it was the funniest joke he’d ever heard, “Really -- all the horrible things I’ve done, and that’s the one that sticks in your craw?!”

As he laughed, the uncanny cat-like screech became the frightened screams of his little victims -- their mournful, bewildered faces beseeched her through the veil of purple mist! At the same time she saw her mother reaching out to her, “It’s me, Dani, mommy. I’ve come to take you home, honey… I’ve come to take you away from this awful place and these horrible men…”  

She could contain herself no longer. She forgot all about Carla’s final warning and let her heart rule her head.

Barry soon stopped smiling when she put her hands around his throat, pressed her little thumbs into his windpipe and began squeezing the life out of him. The storm erupted again. The purple clouds around them rumbled with thunder and flashed with ultraviolet lightning as she screamed

“DIE!”

...

1 minute ago: just as the naked crones’ yowling reached an ear-splitting crescendo, Sister suddenly lurched as if she’d hiccuped. Then she burped loudly and started trembling, her teeth chattering as if she was either very cold or very scared; her eyes rolled back to the whites as some sort of feeling consumed her, whatever the cause, it clearly wasn't a contortion of ecstasy, more like the throes of a sudden seizure. Jamie watched with increasing horror and morbid fascination as the skin of her face and neck stretched back like softened rubber being pulled violently from behind until it webbed and ripped, came loose at the eye sockets and split at the nose -- the exposed skull cracking and splintering like a brittle plaster bust exploded from within, causing a fountain of blood, brain and bone fragments to rain down on his face in a crimson shower, as a larger, more formidable beast broke through the sloughed skin and steaming viscera

“Dani?!” he mumbled through a mouthful of gauze.

The little green goblin they’d kept locked up in the dungeon was now a full-sized monster, straddling him, saturated with gore, her teeth bared as she glared down at him, her bear-like claws wrapped around his throat! He looked up into her yellow, reptilian eyes and tried to connect telepathically <-- Dani -- Dani -- can’t you hear me?... what’s happening...? Why are you attacking me?!>

But the dreadful creature wasn't receiving, nor did it seem to recognise him; it was enraged, hellbent on doing him in! The grip his throat was tightening, the talons were piercing his windpipe -- her drooling jaws opened wide as she screamed 

“DIE!!”

BANG!

the scene suddenly transformed/transitioned -- the swirling purple clouds morphed into billowing drapes -- the narrow cot expanded to a spacious four-poster-bed! He was back in his room in the sanatorium surrounded by naked witches wailing at the top of their voices! The straps had disappeared -- the gag had vanished! But the hands on his throat were still squeezing, only now they were a lot smaller, a lot softer and a lot weaker.

The witches stopped wailing, lowered their heads and stood back.

Dani, a bloody hole in the centre of her forehead, suddenly stopped squeezing... then fell face-first on his shoulder. Stunned, he took her in his arms, sat up, looked through the fluttering drapes at the foot of the bed and saw Ogden Castle, the Lumb’s rotund butler, aiming a recently fired semi-automatic handgun. Jamie turned and looked up at the bullet-hole in the wall above the blood-spattered headboard: a through-and-through. She wouldn't be coming back. Not this time. There’s no way back from a bullet through the brain. Carla pushed through the witches and climbed onto the bed to embrace the pair, but it was a no more than gesture born of guilt. She’d seen her uncle awaken from his enchantment, assess the situation, then retrieve the pistol from under the bed; she’d watched him assume position and take aim. She did nothing to stop him.

Once he’d gathered his wits, Jamie glared at the trusty retainer and yelled, “Why?! Why did you have to kill her?!”

“Because she was about to kill you. The demon tricked her at the last minute, pulled the ol' bait-’n-switch,” Ezzy Costello offhandedly informed him, as she and her wrinkly band walked to the back of the room to get dressed.

Jamie was very angry and very confused. Carla had nothing to say and was avoiding eye-contact, no one seemed particularly upset, just resigned,“But what if her Soul is still locked in the McKee’s psyche -- the demon will devour her, won’t he?!” he demanded, trying his best to keep his voice down.

Wig-less and wearing nothing but her shift, Ezzy Costello  heaved a heavy sigh, stomped back to the dressing table, put a hand on her grandmother’s ancient head, closed her eyes and tersely translated, <“She is demonspawn. He cannot devour one of his own. We supplied the extra energy she needed to overcome his defences. It was our spell that awakened the host. We knew that once she saw the truth of what he is and what he’s done, she’d lose her temper. The demon took advantage at the last minute, goaded her on, and turned her on you. But it was a desperate move. One last roll of the dice. Fortunately for you, Mr Castle here woke up in time ‘n killed her, or you would've died in that dream.”> She moved her head along the edge of the box and addressed Carla, <“You told her not to let her heart rule her head? Well, that’s exactly what we were countin’ on. Because unlike the rest of us, that chile had a human side to her. You tend to forget about that, dontchez? Sure, she mighta been a Siren, she mighta been rife with the demon’s energy, but she inherited her mother’s compassion -- and her great-grandmother’s hot temper! Those elements when combined with her youth ‘n inexperience gave her the power to defeat him and save your precious Young Master... too bad she had to die in the process, but as they say, ‘all is fair in love 'n war’....>

“Whether we like it or not, this is - was - Dani’s destiny, sir,” offered Castle, gloomily, as he removed the cartridge from the pistol and made the gun safe. “Tis a terrible pity, to be sure, but my duty is to you, sir. Your safety is my No.1 priority.”

<”She laid down her life for for the cause, like all messiahs,”>  The old witch opined with a little chuckle, <”and like all Messiahs, I have a feelin’ she will be reborn.”>

“How do you know?!” snapped Jamie, insulted by her offhand tone.

<“Did you hear the roar of a Soul Death when she passed? No. Take it from me, her Soul is safe.”>

“What will happen to her?” asked Carla, sheepishly.

 <”Well, seein’ as she’s too old to join the Wee Ghosts and too toxic to Ascend to the Eternal Host, there’s only one thing the Powers That Be can do with her.”> She scratched her warty chin and asked, <”There was a woman there, wasn't there?”>

Jamie nodded, “Yes. The hostage.”

<”Well, let’s just hope she’s of child-bearing age...”>

“So... what about the demon, then?!” he said, closing Dani’s eyes, “or did she die in vain?”

The little witch looked up at Castle; her interpreter’s face took on a sneer as she answered, <”Well, that’s up to you menfolk. Thanks to us ‘n the chile, he’s all-but done. We've played our part: we enabled ‘n empowered your little messiah, we released yez from his spell. We finished what the Darkly Martyrs started. When they catch his host you can put your ‘demonologists’ to work on what’s left of ‘im,”> she turned back to Jamie, <”of course, that’s if his host survives whatever’s goin’ on in Wicklow. We wouldn't want ‘im dyin’ and the demon migratin’ to a another Soul, would we now...?”>

...

8 minutes ago in Wicklow: McKee appeared to be suffering a series of crippling paroxysms. Still brandishing the the pistol, he dropped the knife, grasped his throat and stumbled around on the spot, strangling himself! Malky was close enough to hear him squeak through his throttled glottis, “I’m... in control... no -- I’m in control!...I’m in control...” over-and-over. It was quite disconcerting, especially since the gun was still pointed at Zindy. Malky decided a diversionary tactic was in order and extracted a large stone from the dirt heap; then, just as he popped-up to throw it, McKee, still gripping his throat like a madman, swivelled 90° -- and pointed the pistol at him! Bastard must have eyes in the back of his bloody head! Malky ducked down again and called out, “Barry... this is bloody pointless, there’s nowhere to go now, son... ye’re very badly injured, you’re done in.... Put the down the gun and we’ll get you to a hosp --”

McKee let out another loud, incomprehensible exhortation of pain and the revolver went off – the bullet made a wheeeee-sound as it whizzed through the top of the mound, missing Malky’s crown by a whisker! He slid further down and kept close to the ground, “Barry!! Cut that out! The killin’ has got to stop - now!” he yelled.

Broo was hiding in the bushes behind the tree, waiting for an opportunity to pounce. McKee didn’t scare him now: the magenta halo had faded completely, the otherworldly electricity had vanished from the ether;  The cats’ caterwauling seemed to be doing the trick!

And just as that thought occurred, the wailing suddenly ceased.

In that same moment, McKee stopped strangling himself. He regrouped, stood firm and shook his head emphatically - his long black hair thrashing from side-to-side, sending a spray of blood into the air. Then he began giggling inanely and talking in a silly, slightly-slurred, happy-go-luck tone, “Hah! I’m back! Back in the Land of the Living! Yippeeeeee!” He clenched and unclenched his fist and stretched his arm as if making sure they were working properly, then he saw the gun in his other hand, frowned and said, “Now... what’s he been up to....?” He looked around as if he was viewing the scene for the first time, “Is this the Anderson Place?!” He looked down the hill at the burning cottage, nodding as if he’d just got the joke, “Course it is...  ooh, I see what’s going on here, I get the picture...” he waved the pistol in the air, “this is the big showdown, huh?I Back where it all began, very dramatic,” he chuckled, “cos looky-here -- all the key players’re gathered in the little dog cemetery for the grande finaleeeeeee!” He turned toward the mound, “the recovering alcoholic!” he turned toward Zindy, “the little blue-haired inn-keeper!.... but someone’s missing... hmmm....who can it be...” He looked from side-to-side, “Where’s that wretched mutt of yours, Calvert?! Where’s the star of the show?” he chided, looking behind the tree, “where’s the three-legged fleabag you drag around with you...” he eventually espied Broo’s eyes glinting in the undergrowth. “Ahh... there you are, you old rascal... tryin’ to creep on me, were ya, ehh? That’s the oldest trick in the booooOOF!!”

Zindy had snuck around the other side and kicked him square in the balls, and when he reflexively doubled-up to clutch his aching crotch, she expertly slammed her knee into his face, breaking his nose and knocking him back on his arse -- then she leapt on him, straddled him, picked up the discarded knife, took it in both hands and raised it high above her head, “This is for Sammy!!”

 -- a second before, the little ghosts’ words flashed through Broo’s mind and rang in his ears: ‘He must be taken alive!’ He duly sprang forth, took the back of her tee-shirt in his teeth and used all his strength to drag her off!

“BROO! What the fook! What’d ya do that for!” she screeched, as she struggled to her feet.

It might have been the right thing to do, but those few precious seconds had provided McKee with sufficient time to recover his senses and retrieve the gun. Broo barked!

“Watch out!” screamed Malky.

Bleary-eyed with tears from the blow to his face, McKee got up, raised the pistol and fired at the blurry figure in front of him.

Zindy yelped, stopped cold, dropped the knife, dropped to her knees and toppled onto her side. Broo smelled seared flesh and fresh blood -- she’s been hit!

“Jesus! NO!” cried Malky, as he leapt across the open grave and grabbed McKee by the shoulders -- but he landed too close to the edge -- the dampened soil gave way -- he lost his balance and fell backward -- the pair toppled into the muddy pit!

Broo heard the sounds of a struggle -- then the gun went off. Twice. The struggling stopped.

The night was still. 

The only sound was the crackling fire down below and the wind hissing through the hedgerows. Zindy wasn't dead, she was unconscious; the bullet had gone straight through her shoulder. Her body was in shock. Strange thing was, she was now glowing with a bluish light, not unlike the halos that lit the little ghosts of the Infant Host... and it was just as compulsively mesmerizing... But there was no time to stand and stare! -- the old dog snapped out of his reverie, galloped over to the grave and looked down.

It was too dark down there to see how they were placed, but it appeared that both men were also unconscious; and by the smell of it, at least one of them was losing a lot of blood!

Broo threw back his head and howled....

  To Be Continued...

Table of Contents

[paulhudd]

‘It’s only magic when you don’t know how it’s done’

SPINDLEFRECK: 21 Episodes available here.

[paulhudd]

Spindlefreck Book Two: Pt Two: Dream A Little Dream Of Me

Gilray Residence, Mount Merrion, Dublin

Saturday, 8th April 1989:

Paddy was appearing as an expert witness at a coroner’s court in Dundalk and wouldn't be back until late on Tuesday night, so over the next 36 hours Niamh planned to stay in bed and go on honeymoon with the Nevins. She took a slug of Night Nurse, drank a mug of Horlicks, laid on top of the duvet, turned out the lamp, closed her eyes and waited for sleep to come. 10 minutes later, she was still wide awake. 

No good. Too excited. Time for the last resort.

She rummaged in the back of her skimpies drawer and took out an old box of Tampons containing a little nugget of Moroccan hash and a pack of cigarette papers that Emil had left behind the previous year. She rolled a small joint with some of Paddy’s shag and smoked it on the back porch. She wasn't used to it, the high hit her hard, but it wasn't long before that sleepy feeling came over her and she succumbed to sweet slumber...

... she walked across the bridge of clouds that led down to the sundrenched beach and the closed Magritte door. “Oona!” she called, until the door slowly opened and a blinding light shone on her face. A warm, inviting voice shouted back: “Come in! We’re in the bedroom!” 

She walked in, passing through the blinding light into a narrow, darkened corridor. She felt cool tiles against the soles of her feet as she walked; she traced the velvety nap of flocked wallpaper with her fingertips as she made her way toward the brightly lit outline of a door up ahead. She gingerly turned the handle and entered, a little afraid of what she’d see.

Oona was in the midst of making love to her new husband in a nondescript, self-catering apartment in some unexceptional Spanish holiday resort. It was the middle of the day, but the curtains were pulled over an open window and Ni could hear children splashing about in the pool outside while Oona screamed and moaned in untrammelled, shameless delight, unmindful that half the complex could probably hear her. It was quite a sight to behold, but for Ni at least, not in the least bit arousing. Especially when Oona broke the fourth wall during a reverse cowgirl and addressed her phantom friend in her ‘outside-voice’: “Shall we go shoppin’ after, moy luvly?!”

Oblivious, Craigy groaned, “Anything, just don’t stop...!”

Oona giggled as she rocked, <don’t just sit there, join in...>

Ni baulked, No, I’m not in the mood for a metaphysical three-way just yet.

She was a little jealous at first, then it sunk in that this wasn't going to be a physical relationship. There would be no love affairs in the Real World. This was as real as it was going to get.

Oona read her mind and answered in her ‘inside voice’; that cool, intelligent, sexy voice that made Ni’s heart beat a little faster: <Don’t fret, my darling. Don’t forget, I can make you feel everything I feel and Craigy will be none the wiser. I can take us out of this room and up into the skies, just you and me in each other’s arms, both of us feeling what I feel now.>

The next thing she knew, she was soaring high amongst the clouds with her dream lover, naked and free, their limbs entwined, their lips locked in a passionate kiss, the thrill of ecstasy flowing through their bodies...

Two days later: The housemates sat in the conservatory to take their after-dinner coffee. As Paddy settled into his seat and took the newspaper from his briefcase, he espied a note he’d written in the margin above his crossword (a handy way to remember things), “Oh, the strangest thing - you’ll never guess who phoned me today.”

“James Rossington,” Ni replied, matter-of-factly, reading a Love and Rockets comic and munching on a Penguin.

Paddy raised his eyebrows and jooked over the rims of his nezzies, “By Jiminy! Spot on! What number am I thinking of?”

“Don’t call the Magic Circle just yet -- one of the clerks in the Dean’s office rang to tip-me-off. He’s offered me an internship, hasn’t he?” She looked up from her comic, “What do you think of that?” 

He shrugged, “I dunno... What should ‘I think of that’?”

“Well, look at it this way: a week ago I went to Kildare looking for wetlands and find this secluded village; then, when I get to the bog, I’m waylaid by two of Oliver Laphen’s men, and the next thing I know, Rossington -- Laphen’s doctor -- is offering me an internship?!” She raised her eyebrows and awaited his reply.

Paddy was surprised by her reaction, “He was perfectly charming when he spoke to me, no hint of anything untoward. He asked me to ask you if you were free for an interview in the morning...” Then he thought about it for a bit, then asked with furrowed brow, “You haven’t been making trouble again, have you? I’m not so worried for myself, but when it comes to Phil Somerville’s career...?”

“Honestly, Uncle Paddy -- I haven’t said anything to anyone or done anything to put either of you in the soup since you told me off,” she replied, emphatically, “I’m just saying it’s a bit suspicious, especially in light of what Scanlon ‘n Gorringe said about him.” She took another bite of her biscuit and ruminated as she chewed, “It makes you wonder why he’s suddenly become so interested in me...?”

“Paranoia is an interesting subject for a student of Criminal Psychology, wouldn't you agree?” he winked.

“I’m not being paranoid. C’mon! Rossington? What possible interest could he have in a 19 year old pipsqueak like me... unless he has an ulterior motive?”

“Then, why don’t you go along to the interview and find out?”

“Oh, I intend to. I wouldn't miss it for the world.”

 The next day: Where the suburbs meet open country, in the eastern outskirts of Dublin City, stood St Cedric’s Institution for the Criminally Insane (SCICI). It resembled an old redbrick Victorian hospital, but with thick iron bars bolted to every window and a huge disused front door, tastefully bricked-up so that it was in keeping with the foreboding façade. There was a new wing built onto the rear (donated by Ollie Laphen, naturally), but from the front it looked as bleakly Dickensian as it did back in the 1850s, especially when set against the murkiness of mizzly April skies. The perfect place for inveterate rapists, murderous perverts and prolific serial killers, thought Ni, as she pulled up to the tall, iron gates. Once the security guards had confirmed her appointment and searched her little Fiesta, she was waved through and drove along the long, tree-lined driveway, around to the visitors’ entrance in the new wing. 

With her hair slicked back and ponytailed, dressed in her grey ‘power-suit’ -- bolero jacket, tight-fitting trousers with patent leather ankle boots -- she looked sharp and professional as she passed through another security gate manned by two guards, one male, one female, who checked her bag, patted her down and ran a metal detector around her from head to toe; then the male guard escorted her through another heavy door into the the new reception area. 

It was a stylised, modern affair with tastefully minimalist decor furnished with white leather settees; the stark white walls were adorned with large, unframed abstract paintings lit by ceiling spotlights; and pride of place, behind the curved reception desk, was a huge blow-up of a photograph featuring a solemn-faced, sober-suited Dr James Rossington shaking hands with a smirking Richard Nixon, captioned by the legend: ‘THERE ARE NO MONSTERS, JUST MISGUIDED MEN WHO DO MONSTROUS THINGS.’ The message – you can sleep easy in the knowledge that Dr James Rossington has the ear of the Great and the Good and the Downright Nasty! – was writ large on that chiselled, mahogany gob of his. Twat, she thought, as she signed the register.

The young, good-looking, male receptionist told her to take a seat and made a phone call; a few minutes later a portly male-nurse in his mid-twenties, his hair bleached and streaked, his ruddy-cheeked, chubby face soured by a permanent sneer, arrived to escort her to Rossington’s office. He punched a number into a keypad that opened yet another heavy security door and led the way through an old fashioned, white-tiled hospital corridor - more like a cylindrical, low ceilinged subway tunnel - and entered the older part of the building. They walked under an ornate brass archway depicting a scene from The Sermon On The Mount, and arrived at the original reception area, now an empty, dimly-lit, marble-pillared lift lobby that smelled of floor polish and bleach, where they approached one of two shiny metal doors set into the rear wall. Throughout the little journey, the nurse kept looking over his shoulder and stealing glances at her, then turning his nose up and looking away, as if she was emitting an offensive odour. She returned each dirty look with bells on, resisting the temptation to call him out on it: What’s your problem fatso? He scowled as he pressed the button and the outer doors slid open; he glowered as he hauled the concertinaed inner gate aside, and grunted, “Get in.” Charming.

The elevator was one of those old iron cages in an open shaft that gave spectators a pretty good view of the passengers as they travelled upwards through a huge atrium. It was ringed by two Plexiglas-protected balconies, the lower of which was lined with around a dozen inmates/patients, dressed in pyjamas or tracksuits, who yelled obscenities, whistled, whooped and slapped their hands on the thick glass when they saw her. She fought the urge to raise her middle finger and let fly with a volley of curses and kept her cool. The chubby nurse was amused by her apparent discomfort. “You wouldn't believe it, but those eejits are outpatients – they can go home anytime they like.” He looked up, “The real bastards are on the upper floors. They’re the ones you have to watch out for. They know how to behave themselves.”

17 minutes later...

Niamh was serenity and poise personified: cross-legged, hands folded in her lap, head tilted to the left, looking haughtily efficient. Naturally, Rossington was immaculate in a pin-stripe suit, the salt & pepper hair tastefully coiffed, the dark, deep-set-eyes looking simultaneously cruel and kind: Gordon Gecko crossed with Warren Beatty dressed by Saville Row; quite dishy, if you like that sort of thing. He sat with his elbows on the desk, his fingers laced together, bejewelled wristwatch twinkling in the muted lamplight, nodding sagely, seemingly hanging on her every word. Of course, she wasn't fooled for a moment. The entire scene, from her interviewer’s transatlantic accent, to the Rembrandt lighting, was pure Hollywood. It was nine in the morning and the red velvet curtains were drawn against the daylight, otherwise, the office was entirely to her taste: A large bookcase filled with aged textbooks; a few Pre-Raphaelite paintings adding a dash of colour to the dark, wood panelled walls; a shuttered, blonde-wood Regency writing bureau set against the wall adjacent to the mahogany, leather-topped desk. It was all beautifully atmospheric. The sole incongruity was an iron bust of St Cedric -- the Lindisfarne monk, who, if her memory served her correctly, established several monasteries and churches in the dark ages -- embedded in the rear wall, giving the darker half of the room a distinctly shrine-like feel.

She told him the story of her journey to Bogmire and the encounter with Gorringe & Scanlon, but omitted any reference Oona, the wedding or the strange dreams, “... and I said to my uncle: ‘What possible interest could he have in a 19 year old pipsqueak like me?’” She looked him in the eye, “So, why am I here, Dr Rossington?”

This is brill! I feel like Lauren Bacall!

His brow furrowed, “I have to say I find your story fascinating, Miss Fitzgerald, but I’m afraid the offer of an internship comes as a favour to Mr Laphen, nothing more.” Despite his seeming confusion, Ni got the impression he wasn't being entirely honest. She watched him closely as he got up and went to the tray of bottles sitting atop the writing desk and poured himself a large brandy from a crystal decanter, “Can I get you something?”

Ni grimaced, looked at her watch and said, “It’s 9:25AM, doctor!”

He shrugged off the reproach, “I haven’t been keeping regular hours. I’ve been preparing a new book for publication and I’ve been working flat-out since last Tuesday. Deadlines, you see. By my body-clock it’s 11PM yesterday and the sun has long since set...” He snorted like a coke-fiend before necking the lot and pouring another. 

He looked at her in the mirror above the writing bureau and said, abruptly, “Your story doesn’t impress me, Miss Fitzgerald. You know why?”

Caught unawares at the strange change in his tone, Ni nevertheless stayed in character, “Do tell.”

“I know exactly what you’ve been up to.” He sauntered back to the desk, brandy glass in one hand, the other casually languishing in his trouser pocket, “At first I was concerned that you went to Bogmire because you knew something,” he said, with a sly chuckle, “but having met you, I can see you’re just a nosy little girl who wandered off the beaten path.” He was fishing; patronising her to get her to blurt out the truth.

She was undaunted, “What else would I be doing there?”

“I have people in the village who tell me you met with a woman who lives there and attended her wedding in Bogmire last Saturday... and you spent some time alone with the bride.” He sipped his brandy, raised a waxen eyebrow and awaited her reply.

“You have spies in Bogmire?” she asked, slightly offended.

“Let’s just say I have an ally on site who doesn’t like what’s been happening. They tell me you’ve been getting very close to Mrs Oona Nevin, née Umbert.”

Ni wanted to jiggle her legs and say -- Oh please go on, this is riveting! –- but had to feign indifference with a patient sigh as her host took up the Noir baton with gusto and monologued like a slightly camp matinee villain, “You see Mrs Nevin is a former patient of mine and I feel it my duty to keep tabs on her ever since I was... removed from her care. She suffered a psychological episode when she was young and it required many years of therapy to get her to where she is today -- therapy I provided. But I wasn't allowed to finish my treatment. She is very fragile and an emotional crisis could prove extremely dangerous.”

“We only talked...” she began to say, then quickly took umbrage, “Wha- waitaminnit-waitaminnit -- what has any of this got to with me?!”

Rossington stooped, put his drink on the desk, leaned in and said in an accusing, angry voice: “Don’t come in here telling me you just happened to drive into Bogmire on a wing and a prayer -- you’re working for them, aren't you?!”

The glower was as bloodcurdling as the accusation, and despite his sober suit, the man was obviously quite drunk. She thought it safest to eschew the cool blonde act and confess, “OK, look, I admit it! I wandered into Bogmire by accident -- I met a beautiful woman who invited me to her wedding -- then, when I check out the wetlands, I ran afoul of these two old geezers who were less than complimentary about you – and the next thing I know I get a job offer from you! I just wanna know what’s going on?!” 

He’d noticed her rub her palm furiously as she talked -- and all-but leapt over the desk! “Lemme see that!” he cried, taking her hand, opening it and examining the little heart-shaped rash, “Tell me this -- were you violently ill shortly after this encounter -- vomiting, diarrhoea, sweating, shivering?”

She nodded nervously, “Why, yes...?”

He immediately brightened, stood tall, put on a false-happy-face and shook her hand enthusiastically. He pulled her up onto her feet, hustled her towards the door and, despite her protests, bade her farewell, “Well congratulations, Ms Fitzgerald, you will be a much welcome, and may I say, very attractive addition to our team!” He opened the door and pushed her out, “Report to the front office tomorrow morning at 8AM sharp and I’ll have matron give you the official tour -- goodbye!”

The door closed behind her with a heavy clunk. She stood on the deep-pile scarlet carpet outside his office wondering what had just happened. Then she heard a loud groan from the room behind her. She stooped and peeked through the keyhole and saw Rossington furiously throttling the bust of St Cedric like a madman...

On the last Wednesday of each month, Detective Superintendent Philip Somerville came to dinner - or as he called it ‘Gourmet Night Chez Gilray’. Paddy and Phil had been firm friends since they met in NW Donegal overseeing a mass grave in ’85 [See book One Part Two], when the younger man was still a lowly local detective and Gilray had been drafted in to oversee the forensics. The Forgotten Dead of Donegal or the Mass Grave of the Disappeared, depending what paper you read, was international news at the time and the pair were often to be seen on the TV news together hosting press conferences on the progress of the investigation. Somerville had been promoted for his work on the case, but the new position required him to move to Dublin, so he, his wife Pat and their 2 year old daughter, Caitlin, stayed at Paddy’s for a couple of months while they house hunted. They became a little surrogate family for the old boy, he loved every minute of their stay, and secretly wiped away a sentimental tear when they finally moved out.

Big Phil was a strawberry-blonde 6ft 2 hulk with a flat nose (broken in childhood and never properly fixed) and bright blue eyes with eyelashes that fluttered like moth wings when he smiled. He had a kind face and could be disarmingly polite, but had a reputation for ruthless toughness when it came to dealing with the criminal fraternity. Along with Emil, 'Uncle’ Phil was Ni’s ideal man, and told him so on one occasion when she’d had too much vino and was making a point about men who weren’t totally useless, but she soon took it back when Somerville got down on one knee and pretended he would leave his wife and children for her, “Just say the word, Twinkle! We’ll elope in my squad car! With the sirens on!” Paddy laughed himself into a wheeze. She rolled her eyes and called them bastards. Nobody took her seriously.

On this particular Gourmet Night, Ni cooked her world-famous grilled Dover sole with pappardelle noodles in lemon butter sauce, which Paddy pronounced a ‘quiet triumph’, “considering the 5 hours of non-stop cursing, kicking of furniture and broken crockery that went into its creation.” After a long discussion on world affairs (i.e. local football matches, politics, and of course, bloody cars...), the conversation turned to the woman responsible for the bulge above their belt-lines. Big Phil was frank, “Ni, that was lovely, but I didn’t float up the Liffey on a lily pad. What’re you after, Twink? I can’t give you an advance on your babysittin’ money, cos that’s Pat’s department...?”

Paddy cut to the chase, “She’s thinking of taking an internship with your arch-nemesis, Dr James Rossington, and she wants you to tell me that it’s a ‘good idea’.”

“I am not -- I just wanna know more about him,” she said, plainly. She hadn't mentioned his odd behaviour or his allusions to a possible conspiracy at Pagham House. As far as she was concerned, this was her ‘case’.

Somerville took the napkin from his lap, patted the corners of his mouth and said in his ‘official’ voice, “SCICI is staffed with highly skilled professionals -- most of whom do all the work, I might add -- who have access to the latest technology in criminology. The Taoiseach himself has congratulated Dr Rossington for its ‘excellent work in the field of Psychopathological research’.”

Ni curled her lip, “That was very pat.”

“It’s my stock answer when anybody asks me about ‘im,” said Somerville, shrugging, “I’ve learned to keep me mouth shut as far as Dr Rossington’s concerned.”

Ni tapped her nose and urged him, “Just between us?”

Somerville sighed and admitted, “He’s not my kinda guy, you know that. I mean, how many times have I sat at this table and bitched about ‘im? But I can’t argue with the statistics, it’s just his Lust for Glory that I resent him for...”

“But he’s reasonably clean?” said Ni.

Paddy put a hand on his friend’s shoulder and said, “Before you go on, Philip, may I remind you her mother will kill me if she flunks this course. First she backs out of a law degree to enrol – now this!”

Ni’s temper darkened and the usual jumble of old gripes that only got an airing when she’d had too much to drink spilled forth, “No – she blames you for not enforcing Her Will!! She’s still trying to run my life!!”

“Easy, petal...”

Ni slapped the table with her hands and yelled, “No! Every time I wanna do something for myself she has to be consulted! Well, I’m nearly 20 now, so she can shove it! I’ll do what a want!!”

Paddy took the bottle of Burgundy off the table, “No more for you little Miss Firecracker! I warned you -- you won’t get any booze if you can’t handle it!”

“It’s got nothin’ to do with the wine, it’s her...” said Ni, fuming.

Somerville tapped the stem of his glass with his fork, “Hey-hey-hey, listen to yerselves - I’ve been comin’ here for nigh-on 4 years and this is the first time I’ve ever seen youse-two fight!”

The pair backed down and apologised to Somerville and then to each other. Ni slurped a strand of pasta and got the conversation back on track, “Look, I only have to go to SCICI for a couple of weeks til I get the measure of what’s going on -- then I’ll make an excuse and go back to uni. And if I do have to stay for the entire year – well, you heard Uncle Phil – the institute is doing sterling work, I’ll be rubbing shoulders with experts in my chosen field. Everyone’s happy.” She turned to ‘Uncle’ Phil, “So, is there any reason in your mind why I shouldn't take this internship?”

Somerville equivocated, “It sounds as if you’re asking for my permission...”

“She’s asking you because she thinks you’ll back her up,” said Paddy.

“No I’m not -- I just wanna know about Rossington. I wanted to know if he has any skeletons in his closet before I accept the job, that’s all,” she said.

Somerville gave in, leant in and lowered his voice, “Well, it’s funny you should mention the word closet, cos he’s secretly gay –- still a crime in this country, whatever your opinion of the law  -- and he has a fondness for young, tubby teenage boys,” he paused to clear his throat, “and just between us, he has a bit of a coke habit. But besides that, aye, he’s reasonably clean. That said, he’s got three of my most prolific murderers up there living in the lap of luxury, all in the name of research...” he took on the vexed expression of a beleaguered priest, head lowered, hands laced together, as if at prayer, “... like Barry McKee, for instance.”

“I’ve often wondered what he wants with McKee, the man’s little more than a vegetable,” said Paddy, slightly disgusted, “it’s rather ghoulish, if you ask me. The man should’ve been allowed to die long ago.” 

Phil agreed and commented in a bitter tone, “McKee’s his prize exhibit, his sideshow freak: Roll-up, roll-up, see Ireland’s Most Famous Serial Killer! all that sorta muck. As a matter of fact, he’s holding a press conference tomorrow to announce a new book he’s written about ‘im.”

Ni was grudgingly impressed, as much by Rossington’s cunning as his bravado, “From what I’ve heard, he’s under pressure to quit, but instead of disappearing under a rock, he’s drawing attention to himself.” She nodded and looked into space as she pictured the scene, “I reckon he’ll make a few insinuations during his speech to send a coded message to his enemies; veiled threats, that sort of thing.”

Big Phil looked at his friend, “Is this the same wee girl that used to read at the end of the table and the only sound you’d hear would be pages turning and the occasional ‘hah!’ when she heard something witty?”

“Oh, she’s unrecognisable!” Paddy bitched like an old queen, “on top of ruining her life, dressing like a floozy and clandestine dalliances with married women, she’s been watching a lot of Film Noir. She’s turning into the female Philip Marlowe.”

“Well, from one Philip to another - care to make a wager, sister?” offered Somerville.

Ni spat on her hand (Paddy grimaced, “if your grandmother saw that!”) “Ye’re on, brother! I’ll betcha he makes, shall we say, a few ‘peculiar allusions?’”

They shook hands. Somerville watched her collect the plates and take them to the sink, “Oy, Niamh Naive, you’re not at yourself, you know that?”

What did he say?!

She saw a flash of red and got the unholy urge to scream blue murder about hating that nickname and what did he mean by it! She even got as far as spinning on her heel and glaring at him!

“We haven’t agreed on an amount,” he said, passively, but he had seen the fire in her eyes, she could tell. You can’t bullshit the human lie-detector, but here goes - she laughed it off, “Sorry – ‘tampon time’ as Paddy calls it! I’m a wee bit spiky this week, heh-heh... would a tenner be OK?” 

He agreed and she went off to find her purse. Once she was out of earshot, Somerville turned to his friend, “Mood swings, change of image, eyes like two burnt holes in a blanket; y'know how my mind works, Paddy.”

Paddy nodded, “Don’t worry I’m keeping a close eye on her, and I haven’t seen any signs of substance abuse, just a lot of sleeping. Might be the after-effects of that fever she suffered a week ago.” He paused for reflection then said, “No, I think this little metamorphosis and spurt of activity may be more about ‘discovering herself’ than uncovering some grand conspiracy. She’s so head over heels for this Nevin woman, she’s not thinking straight. However, I’ve decided to let it run its course or I’ll never hear the end of it...”

After showing Somerville to the door, Paddy cornered her in the kitchen and gave her a piece of his mind – “This isn't on – you can’t get Phil involved in this little adventure of yours! For one thing, he only knows the half-of-it!”

“C’mon Paddy – what if I find some dirt on Rossington,” she protested. “Uncle Phil can open an investigation -- he’ll have Rossington exactly where he wants him!”

Paddy took off his nezzies to let her see he was serious, “You’re conniving and I don’t like it! It’s reckless and dangerous. And that little show of temper tonight -- it isn't like you at all. I’m this close to calling your mother, I mean it...”

She cuddled him, pinning his arms to his sides, “Paddy, it’s best not to fight it, go with it, you’ll be much happier in the long run!”

He gently pushed her off, held her arms and decried her lack of insight, “This is important, serious, grown up stuff that you should be discussing with her, not me...” The phone rang on the wall behind him, “-- and with any luck that’ll be her now!” He answered. His face fell. He thanked the caller for letting him know and hung-up. Before he could tell her what was going on, they heard Somerville’s car reverse back up the drive and the toot of a horn: they’d obviously both received the same call.

“Someone die?” she asked, half-joking.

Paddy’s demeanour changed, he had that disappointed-but-what-can-you-do look on his face he always got when duty called. “Aye, someone has indeed died,” he sighed, “a decapitated, mutilated body has washed-up on the beach at Sandymount, and no one else is available to put him back together again. I probably won’t be home til tomorrow, so lock all the doors and put on the burglar alarm before you go to bed. 

He gave her a last reproachful look, “And think long and hard about what I said. Whatever your feelings for her, your new ‘friend’ is a married woman, Niamh. The relationship is doomed from the start. You're asking for a broken heart...”

2 hours later: Half stoned, half asleep, lying on the sofa in the lounge, Ni was walking hand-in-hand with her dream lover on a deserted beach, silhouetted against the golden glow of a tropical sunset, when their metaphysical bliss was rudely interrupted by an intrusive tapping sound.

<Do you hear that?> said Oona.

“Someone’s at the door – my door!” said Ni.

Oona immediately broke the connection and Ni woke up in the Real World. She sat up on the couch and listened. Tap, tap, tap. Like the clicking of a key on glass. It seemed to be coming from the French windows at the back of the house. Shit. She’d forgotten to turn on the burglar alarm! She turned out all the lights, went to the kitchen, pulled a steak knife from the block, tiptoed to the sitting room, approached the curtains covering the windows and asked who it was. 

“It’s Rossington. Let me in!” a frantic voice hissed close to the glass. Her curiosity got the better of her and she looked out. Sure enough, it was the good doctor, clad in a jet-black licra jogging suit and matching hooded top, his lustrous hair hidden under a black beanie hat...

In the sitting room: Rossington paced the mat in front of the fireplace and chain-smoked as he tried to explain his predicament without losing his thread or his temper. Ni sat cross-legged on the couch munching popcorn, boggle-eyed, watching him walk to-and-fro, hanging on his every word. She’d planned to watch a tape of the 1946 version of The Big Sleep later that night, but the garbled, paranoiac rambling of a half-drunk neurotic faux-Freudian and (alleged) coke-fiend was just as compelling as Bogey/Marlowe and the LA underworld: “... they rang the office and told me to retract the offer of an internship -- they said they suspected you of spying and it wouldn't be in my best interest to take you on!”

“Who? Laphen? It was him who asked you for the favour in the first place?!”

“Not Laphen: Scanlon. Ollie’s off filming a movie in Europe for three months, then he’s off to Japan to tape a series of Guinness commercials. Gorringe went with him -- Scanlon’s been left to his own devices and I think he’s up to something.”

Ni couldn't help herself and spluttered, “This sounds like the plot of a bad pulp novel?!”

He stopped pacing and snarled, “It’s not a fucking joke, Niamh! Oona’s worth tens of billions! If they nurture her properly, it could be the biggest thing since splitting the atom – or it could blow up in their faces! That’s how big this is -- and how dangerous these people are!”

The accent is slipping, he’s really scared!

“In that case, let me call Uncle Phil...” she reached for the phone on the table beside the couch.

He waved his hands and cried out, “NO! Not Somerville! Jesus, no! I’m only telling you cos you’re up-to-your-neck-in-it-already and you need me! I need you! We need each other!!”

She put the receiver back on the cradle, “See that’s the thing with you James, I can’t tell if you’re acting or in the throes of some paranoid delusion due to alcohol and lack of sleep!”

He approached, looked down at her and said, “You don’t have that problem though, do you?” he said, bitterly. “You know it’s true. Oona’s in you. She knows your every thought. She can control you. She can make you feel sublime or make you walk under a bus. And they wouldn't care. You’re only important to them for as long as you’re important to her.”

“’Make me walk under a bus’...?” she repeated, appalled, “but how... Why would she...?”

He put up his hands in a consolatory gesture, “Look, your meeting wasn't kismet -- you were handpicked. Your uncle mentioned you at one of Ollie’s soirées and I jotted down your name. You were on a list of possible mentors: young women we secretly screened to act as a sort of conscience; a telepathic guide to teach her how to tell right from wrong, the ups-and-downs of the Real World. They must've decided you were the prime candidate.”

She was affronted, “What the -- nobody asked me!”

“Did you find an old map in an old book in your favourite bookshop?” he asked, lighting another cigarette.

She stopped chewing and gawped, “You mean they arranged that? It was a trap?! The fucking bastards!!”

“It was my idea and they used it. I knew you couldn't resist an adventure,” he said, somewhat proud that his little scheme had been so effective.

“You’re the biggest bastard of all!” she cried.

“Let me see the rash,” he asked. She hesitantly held out her hand; he took it and examined it closely, “She rubs a special oil into your skin – a minor irritant, completely harmless – like a concentrated nettle sting -- only it works over a longer time period and flares up when your hands sweat. The point is, while it’s there it’s a constant reminder, because she needs you to think of her. She needs to be on your mind.” He took a long drag on his cigarette and asked, “So, what method are you using – the open/closed door technique?”

“Uh huh...” She nodded distractedly, staring blankly, her head getting light, her vision beginning to blur – Oona was listening.

“Oh! Is she making contact?” he said, excitedly, recognising the tell-tale signs. He knelt by the sofa and looked up into Ni’s eyes, “Hi, Oona! It’s me, Doctor Jimmy! Tell them I’ve got your little girlfriend and we’re going to make a deal!” he yelled, his breath reeking of booze and garlic.

Ni kept eye contact and slowly retreated up onto the back of the sofa so that she towered over him. He looked up and tried to explain, “I was only – uhh!”

She’d kicked him square on his square jaw with the outside of her right foot, knocking him cold. He was sprawled across the mat like a huge, dead, 4-legged spider.

Oh God! She’d done some kickboxing in her time, but never against anyone without headgear. This could be murder!! She flew into a panic – she jumped down and tugged at his jerkin, “Oh dear God, are you alright?! – oh Jesus – please don’t be dead!!” She put an ear to his chest and listened. His heart was still beating, he was still breathing, she sighed with relief; but when she checked to make sure his neck wasn't broken, she felt something hard against her knee. There was something in the pocket of his hooded top. The remorse and anxiety evaporated immediately. She let his head drop with a dull thud and went to fetch the washing line from the laundry room...

When he awoke, he was tethered hand-‘n-foot to a kitchen chair. Niamh was sitting on a stool opposite, legs crossed, the Beretta 9mm dangling on her little finger, “Was this entirely necessary?” she asked, dispassionately.

“Personal protection – I have a permit. And you’ve no need to worry, it isn't you I need protecting from,” he groaned, rotating his jaw. He struggled in his washing line bonds, “This is insane! Let me out and we’ll talk like adults.”

This is great! If my heart wasn't pounding in my throat I’d be enjoying this!

“Look – come with me!” he cried, clutching at straws, “We’ll go to Bogmire and take her to SCICI! She’ll be safe there!”

She was so taken aback she almost fell off her seat, “Malpractice, kidnapping, false imprisonment  -- this isn't Chicago in the mid-20s -- you can’t get away with that sort of thing nowadays!” she laughed.

He wasn't scaring her, so he went for the kill, “Do you know why she needs a mentor? Because she’s a child. When she reached puberty and received her Gift, the psychological trauma wiped her memories -- she’s got the IQ and temperament of an 8 year old. And like any 8 year old, she’s capricious and prone to tantrums if she doesn’t get her way!”

Ni shook her head in disbelief, “She can’t be... We talk about serious things, most of it deep, meaningful stuff...?”

“Hah! You’re talking to yourself!” he sniggered. “She gets in your head and tells you what you want to hear in a voice you can relate to -- she makes you see what you want to see -- makes you feel what you want you to feel! She has total access to all your memories and dreams and can process the data in a millisecond, that’s if you ever stop yakking long enough to listen to what you’re/she’s saying!!”

Ni was absolutely stunned. And the more she thought about it, the more she realised it was true.

He ploughed on without a thought for her feelings, “You were violently ill – that means they gave you the potion! The potion opens the part of your mind that lets her in – that means she has access anytime, night or day, awake or asleep. She’s playing it cool so far -- probably because she’s preoccupied with her new husband -- but soon, you just wait and see, she’ll be like a second head.”

“Potion?! What potion?!” she cried, shaking with fear, raising the little gun.

He wrenched his head to the side, “Put that bloody thing down before somebody gets hurt!”

“Not until you tell me what’s up doc?” it wasn't meant as a joke, it was her customary hallo when Paddy came home from work, but she couldn't think of anything else to say.

He sighed and began at the beginning, “While I was at Pagham House in ‘83 to treat Laphen for yet another dose of the DTs and clean-him-up for a film role, I got talking to an elderly gardener about herbal remedies. He showed me this root and mentioned that it was an ingredient in a ‘Love Potion’. I laughed, as you would, but he told me that in ages past a homely woman who couldn't attract a mate would select an eligible bachelor and slip it into his drink. Her intended mate gets very sick, she nurses him back to health. Then, once he’s back on his feet, he finds that he’s fallen head-over-heels for her, and they live happily ever after! When I mentioned it to the housekeeper, that old bag Sparkes, she said: ‘it only works if the woman is a witch.’

“So I asked her, jokingly – ‘where do I find a witch who can do this?’ and her sour, toothless old face closed like a fist and she went off in one of her huffs, muttering under her breath about me being a ‘nobody’ and how I should ‘mind my own business’ – a total overreaction, which in my book means: no smoke without fire. So I asked around and learned from a gossipy neighbour [Dolly Crombie] that Mrs Sparkes believed her young niece to be a witch and kept her locked-up in an attic room at her house in the village!”

Ni frowned, “And... is Oona a witch?”

"Not in the traditional sense of the word. You see, in the late 18th century, Thaddeus Ravenhill, the 8th Duke of Roxborough -- a renowned biblical scholar, but with a taste for all things arcane -- traced a little Celtic tribe living in caves on the coast of Cornwall who were rumoured to periodically produce dark-haired little girls who matured into silver haired young women gifted with psychic powers. The men though, were a backward, uncivilised, dim-witted lot who made up for their lack of brain with brawn and a propensity for loyalty and industry, which the Duke quickly put to good use. They were housed in a specially built village on the outskirts of the estate, well away from the house. Roxborough watched and waited for a child to be born with the requisite attributes. When none came, he tried breeding one of his own.

“He was a very bad man. And bad men like to keep mementos and records of the bad things they do, but not always in the first place that comes to mind. I guessed that some of his more contentious artefacts might still be hidden somewhere around the house. The Roxboroughs removed everything pertaining to the 8th Duke when they used Pagham House as a sanctuary for various European aristocrats during WW1, but the library is practically intact – presumably they deemed it too costly and time consuming to hire a curator – there are thousands of unregistered books in there.

“So, with this in mind, I searched the shelves, and after a considerable amount of hunkering on kneelers and rolling around on ladders, I found what I was looking for: at the very top of the central bookcase, behind the cumbersome tomes that no one ever reads, was a hidden compartment containing a portfolio containing some handwritten texts and a diary; amongst them was a detailed account of his experiments, including his work on the Love Potion. The Duke’s notes contend that the potion can be used to open a normal human being’s mind to psychic interaction. The diary ends around the late 1790s –- just before he was executed -- so we’ll probably never know if his experiments were successful. What we do know is that Oona Umbert is the first telepath -- the first silver-haired girl -- in three generations. But I needed to find out how to initiate a telepathic connection. I had to know if what he believed about potion was true, so I had my people analyse it.

“The results came back – they’d never seen anything like it. it was mildly hallucinogenic but, despite some impurities, non-toxic. That’s all I needed to hear. I had one of the Redmen prepare the mixture and took it the day before. I was violently ill, but eventually the fever passed. Then I took Oona to the old infirmary in the East Wing, away from any interference, and asked her to read my mind. She did. It worked. Not only that, but it was more effective than I could ever have imagined! She wove me into her wildest dreams and showed me visions so real I felt as if I’d fallen through a wormhole into another dimension! It was mind-blowing in every sense of the word. But Oona was too infantile and inexperienced to control it. She had me on the edge of my seat, sometimes...” he winced and closed his eyes, “she’d lose patience or get angry and I’d get these skull-splitting headaches, terrible feelings of nausea, horrible nightmares -– I begged her to stop. She always pulled back, thank God, but it proved she was too immature to handle it. We did everything we could to reach her, to get her to see the world as it actually is, but she was stubborn. She needed someone her own age, someone she could look up to, to teach her right from wrong. ”  

“In other words, she needed a friend,” said Ni, impassively.

“And a husband. That was her one demand: ‘‘usband!’ And not one of the local louts, either; she wanted a specific type! Now, you’ve seen her, you know she’s 100% in the looks department, but finding a suitor that could also act as a father figure and enforcer, nevermind one that was prepared to live in the village, was gonna be tough. Luckily, Sergeant Marchant, the commanding officer of the local garda needed a new recruit, so we put our heads together and looked for an old-school-man-of-the-house-type, someone she’d look up to: the tall blonde prince charming she was always on about. We found just the man: a plod from Sligo who wanted a transfer to a quiet post after a recent run-in with the local Provos. After he was recruited, we engineered a meeting.”

“Well, if it’s any consolation,” said Ni, “my presence hasn’t interfered with her conjugal duties one iota. She likes to make me watch.”

Rossington snorted as if it was par for the course, “Yes, but once the honeymoon period is over and she gets bored or they have rows, lives may be at risk, and I won’t be there to put it right.” He looked up into her eyes, “In 1986, Herbie’s pals in the CIA brought in a ‘guinea pig’ -- a renegade soldier who’d been court-marshalled and sentenced to death -- in other words, expendable. They gave him the potion and asked her to get into his head. Oona did – but when she got in, his memories and fantasies were so horrific she reacted badly –- the man went insane! He was a twitching cabbage within the hour. They thought she was a freak – they wanted to cart her off there and then – if it wasn't for Ollie’s involvement, she’d be languishing in one of their ‘facilities’! That’s how dangerous she can be!”

By this time, Ni had given up on the femme fatale pose, she felt hollowed out and bitterly disappointed in herself. “We travelled through the stars... we sat on top of Everest... we swam under the sea and made love amongst dolphins...” she mused, looking off into the distance, “it was the most thrilling thing I’ve ever experienced... Now I feel like a prize chump.”

“Just remember this: she’s a child – she’s sly and manipulative, she uses her good looks to get what she wants, but she doesn’t have the education or common sense to compete with you in intellectual terms, so she utilises your sexual fantasies to construct your ideal lover and trust that lust will override reason.”

Ni lowered the gun, “Oh God, she’s in my head... what’s going to happen next...?”

Crisis over, Rossington sighed and slumped with relief, “I don’t know. They cut me out. Ollie ‘n Gorringe think the world of her, but Scanlon wants rid of her. He wants to sell her off to unscrupulous people who’ll use her for their own ends. That’s what I’m afraid of.”

She thought for a moment, fighting her natural instinct to play it safe, “But how...?” Suddenly, she sat bolt-upright as the hair on the nape of her neck tingled, her head buzzed: an urgent communication was on the way.

Oona spoke in her natural West Country twang, <Come ‘n get me, Niamh! Oi ‘eard what Dr Jimmy said an’ oi is scared! Please, please come 'n get me!!>

Again, Rossington saw Ni’s expression change and recognised the signs, “Don’t worry, Oona! Everything’s gonna be OK!”

<Oi don’t want ‘em to take oi away! Please, please come quick!!>

“OKOKOKOK! I get it, I get it!” yelled Ni, pulling at her hair and pacing the floor, “... let’s just say I was going to help you...?”

Ni put a note on the door of the fridge: PADDY, GONE CLUBBING - SEE YOU AT DAWN!! Ni, XXX

This is utter madness.

But by now everything was so surreal that to pull out now would be to miss out on the punch-line. She giggled with excitement as she pulled on black leggings and a dark blue polo-neck jersey, “might as well dress the part!” Uppermost in her mind were impure thoughts about finally having physical contact -– Oona in the flesh! And it was an adventure, no matter what Paddy once said: “You’re like an Enid Blyton heroine – only in my experience, snoopy middle-class gels who stick their noses into shady people’s businesses usually end up getting gang-raped in a disused farm house, killed, dismembered, and fed to the pigs.”

Rossington wanted to leave the way he came in. Ni insisted they leave via the front door, “I have to set the burglar alarm.” When she tried to put in the number, the alarm went off – Rossington bolted and hid behind a rose bush. She managed to get it to stop blaring, just as a black Peugeot hatchback pulled up outside the front gate and honked its horn, “Hellooooo – is this the Gilray residence?” a male voice shouted.

Rossington jumped out from behind the bush and made a beeline for the car, “Shut up Peter! I’m supposed to be incognito for fuck’s sake!!” he hissed, loudly.

“Oh! So sorrry! I’ve just been sitting outside in the dark for the last hour-and-a-half, listening to the same friggin’ Erasure tape over and over again!” shouted the voice, in a whiney, sing-song voice.

“Ssshhhh!”

The lights came on in an upstairs window of the house opposite.

Rossington jumped into the backseat and rolled onto the floor. Ni came down the drive, waved at the shadow in the window and shouted “Sorry Mrs G! Jumpy visitor!”

As she bounced into the passenger seat, Rossington grumbled from the back, “Why don’t the two of you just hire a bloody brass band and be done with it!”

The driver was a young, chubby blonde with a cheerful baby face. He shook her hand and introduced himself, “Peter Sinclair,” he said, looking around at the man on the floor in the back, “welcome to my world.”

“Just drive, Peter!” Rossington growled, “Get us the hell outta here before the neighbours call the cops!!”

The car jerked forward and stalled.

“For fuck’s sake!!”

Ni giggled.

Peter flapped his hands, “Stop shouting it only makes it worse -- you’re gettin’ me all flustered!” Once he got the engine restarted, he asked, “Where are we goin’ anyway?!”

“Bogmire,” Rossington whisper-shouted.

Peter looked over his shoulder, frowned and said, “Bogmire? Kildare? At this feckin’ time of night?!”

“We are going to collect Oona and this is the safest time!” Rossington yelled back.

“But she’s just married – they’ll be watching the house!” Peter protested.

“She knows how to get out without being seen. And they don’t know anything or I guarantee an SUV-full of goons would've intercepted us by now!”

Ni confessed to Peter: “You see, he keeps saying things like that and I can’t resist!”

He drove off and moaned, “Believe me, it wears a bit thin after the third or fourth nervous breakdown...”

2 hours later, after a lot of excruciating smalltalk about interior decor, fashion, and the lifestyles of Hollywood A-listers, they finally arrived at the perimeter of Laphen’s estate. They pulled up at a side road where Rossington knew they wouldn't be detected by any CCTV cameras. 10 minutes later, sure-enough, strolling along the road, silver hair flowing in the slight breeze, her pallid face tastefully made-up, dressed in a black lace gown and carrying a silver clutch bag, was none-other than Oona Nevin, née Umbert. “Now that is creepy,” said Peter, transfixed by the vision in widow’s weeds walking in the floodlight of the full-beam, “she looks like she just stepped out of a coffin...”

... And into my dreams... Ni undid her safety belt, ready to run into her lover’s arms -- at last a physical encounter! Then, just as she opened the door -- she felt Rossington put an arm around her throat and pull her back! She felt a sharp sting in her neck.... and slumped forward onto the dashboard, unconscious.

Rossington’s face appeared between the seats, grinning like a Cheshire cat..

“Well, well, it worked,” said Peter, slightly impressed, slightly disappointed.

Rossington patted his lover’s shoulder, “You were great, Peter, you really should think about a job on the stage.”

“I wasn't actin’, James! – my nerves are feckin’ wrecked! I only agreed to this cos you practically begged me!”

Oona climbed into the backseat and kissed Rossington on the cheek, “Oh, Dr Jimmy, ‘ee truly is a magician! You jast ‘ave to say it – and tis done!” She looked at her friend slumped in the front seat and tried to read her, “Aww, she’s down so deep oi can’t reach ‘er. Will she be all roight?”

“Just a sedative, she’ll be fine in the morning,” said Rossington, assuredly. He looked Oona in the eye, “I hope you appreciate all this, madam, it’s all for your benefit. Mr Scanlon does not have your best interests at heart, but once I have a word with him, he’ll soon see things my way.”

“Oi know, Dr Jim, oi is most grateful.”

“Right, well, we have 2 hours to get things done, so c’mon, Peter, chop-chop!” As they did a u-turn and drove back down the road, he reached under the front seat and retrieved a large walkie-talkie: “JR here. We have Oona -- and Miss Fitzgerald. Now, this is where we have to trust each other, so no ambushes in the middle of negotiations, no threats or abuse; I have a man on the outside waiting for my call -- any funny business and he goes straight to the Gardai with a list of Ollie’s crimes against humanity. Over.”

Scanlon’s voice sounded in the earpiece: “I’m a man of my word, doctor. Flash your headlights when you get to the front gate...”

St Cedric’s Institute for the Criminally Insane (SCICI):

The next day: She opened her eyes only to be dazzled by a glaring spotlight shining on her face. When she focussed, she saw that it wasn't a spotlight, it was the blazing bulb of an extendible angle-poise reading-lamp attached to a headboard. She was in bed in a white room.

A hospital room? How the...

Sitting on the edge of the cot, dressed in a dark blue Dior 3-piece-suit, white silk shirt and silver cufflinks, dark-blue knitted tie clipped with a silver pin tipped with a cluster of miniature white diamonds, was Dr James Rossington. He had an inner glow now: the silver flecked hair quaffed and shiny, the tan, healthy and vital. He smiled broadly, his deep-set, smiling eyes twinkling somewhere in the folds of his brow. “I’m back in the loop, my darling, all thanks to you,” he said, in a breathy James Mason half-whisper, “Scanlon made a deal. We’re home ‘n dry! This is A New Day! Chin-up, stand tall and greet it with a smile. Here, have some paracetamol. He handed her a small water-cooler cone half filled with water, and a tiny plastic cup containing two white capsules.

Ni was weak and dehydrated, and sure enough, suffering with a dreadful headache. She drank the water greedily -- but threw the paracetamol back in his face, screaming - “Why the fuck did you knock-me-out you fucking creep?!” She lashed out as best she could; he easily parried the feeble, slapping hands and talked her down, “It was a precautionary measure to ensure your safety!” He caught her wrist and pointed to her head, “If she didn’t like what she was hearing, Christ knows what she might have done! You were at risk! And I couldn't very well take you home, could I? So I brought you here, to SCICI, and had a nurse put you to bed. I called your uncle’s answering service and told them you turned up for work this morning and you were taken ill, but you were recovering in our sick bay. He called back half-an-hour ago. He was working all night; he didn’t even know you went out. He’s just happy that you’re safe ‘n well.”

She pulled the covers up to her chin, “You didn’t do anything else to me while I was under, did you...?”

Insulted, he stood up, arched an eyebrow, tugged at his cuffs and spoke in a no-messing, headmasterly tone, “I needed you as a bargaining chip, that’s all. Once Scanlon and I had settled our business, we took Oona home, came straight back here and put you to bed.”

Trying to keep her temper under control, she snarled, “Bargaining chip?! You’re taking a big, big risk, Rossington -- all I have to do is call DS Somerville and let him sort it out!”

He was quick to reassure her, “OK, so you were injected with a mild sedative and your feelings got hurt. Are you going to jeopardise this entire enterprise just to take me to task over that? I mean, this is ground-breaking, earth-shattering stuff we’re talking about...” he winked, salaciously, “And besides, you’re enjoying yourself, aren't you?”

“God, you’re glib,” she snarled.

“Yes, but I’m right.” His expression softened as his voice took on a more sympathetic tone, “Look, Oona promised us that as long as you’re there to guide her, she’ll restrict her telepathic activity to our experiments.”

“And what if I can’t sleep? What if all this upheaval makes me an an insomniac?!” she cried, exasperated and conflicted; her conscience telling her to find a way out, her instinct for adventure telling her to persevere and weather the storm.

“I can supply you with sleeping pills if you require them. I saw you smoke a joint last night, I can get you some medicinal marijuana...?”

“No. There’s enough crap floating around my system without throwing barbiturates or dope into the mix...” She turned away and asked quietly, “So... when can I see her?” she asked, a little shamefaced.

“Every hour of every day if you like.”

She turned back and sneered, “You know what I mean: face-to-face. In the flesh. I need to look her in the eye and ask her if she’s OK with all this. If I can’t trust the person in my head anymore, I can at least see how she really feels.”

He shook his head, “Niamh, a face-to-face meeting at this juncture would be counter-productive. This is a scientific experiment with implications that will change humankind forever, not a Dating Agency. Unfortunately, she is at that stage in her development where she relates to everything and everyone on a sexual level, that’s why she seduced you. But not to worry, your mutual attraction will eventually fade.”

“What you mean is: you want me to forget the ‘whirlwind romance’ and use my influence to brainwash her into your way of thinking?” she chided.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and groaned a patient sigh, “There are no text books on the subject, Niamh, no operator’s manual on how to handle something as extraordinary as this –- and I admit, most of the time I fly by the seat of my pants -- but if I fail Oona and this doesn’t work, she could seriously hurt someone or hurt herself. Then Scanlon will get his way. She’ll be sold to the highest bidder.”

“I suppose...” She grumbled.

He straightened up, rubbed his hands together and quietly rejoiced, “Good. We’d like you to tutor her and guide her through the vagaries of Modern Life, generally make yourself available. And look,” he reached into his inside pocket, took out his cheque book, licked a finger, flipped it open and scribbled with a gold-plated fountain pen; he ripped it off with a flourish and presented it to her with a dazzling smile, “... this should cover all the inconvenience –- and I’ve included an advance on your first month’s salary!”

It was more money than she’d ever seen in her life, but it wasn't enough to convince her that this was a good idea. She twiddled her thumbs, “It feels all wrong... there’s no way I can do this... Look at me,” she showed him the reflection of her wan, dark-eyed spoon-face in the curved chrome of a kidney-dish, “this is after a week - God knows what I’ll look like if I take any more of that ‘love potion’...” She was fudging. She desperately wanted it. It prolonged the experience and made the visions so vivid, so real, they were almost tangible. Oh yeah, I want it alright. She hated herself for it. She was a slave to her libido, and now she knew the whole truth, she realised it was the only thing they had in common. She felt dirty and guilty. She couldn't help it, the tears were on their way, “...but the Oona I met that Monday, she gave me warm vibes, she was very... she seemed so nice. Now you’re telling me she’s been stringing me along .... and I do what any sexist pig does: I objectify her!” She sobbed into the pillow, “Oh God... the one time in my life I don’t do the right thing and everything goes to shit...!”

He took a deep breath, counted to ten, patted her shoulder and affected his best bedside manner, “Listen to me. once she settles into married life and gets pregnant it will change everything, I can guarantee it. That’s her ultimate dream: to have a family. Now, that might be anathema to your right-on ideals, but in Oona’s case it’s imperative that she settles down and leads as ‘normal’ a life as possible, as soon as possible.”

“No pressure, then?”

“If you go with it, no. Technically, you don’t even have to do anything, just open the door when she needs a consultation.” He reached around to the stainless steel trolley by the bed and picked up a small cardboard dish containing a capped syringe and a phial of grey liquid.

“Oh God...” she whimpered.

“It won’t be so bad this time,” he chuckled, “most of the impurities have been removed, so no more dicky bellies or runny bottoms; I have nurses on standby night-and-day should you take an adverse reaction, but that’s highly unlikely, or you’d’ve been dead within an hour of swallowing that first cup of cocoa. They were taking a bit of a chance administering it orally, but I suppose a jab in the neck would've been a dead giveaway.”

“You are such fucking arsehole, James. You know that, don’t you?” she grumbled, as he rolled up her sleeve.

Later that week:

She phoned Paddy and told him she was now a willing participant in a SCICI drugs study and that she’d be staying at SCICI for the next week or so. He was surprised by her sudden volte face as regards the illustrious Dr Rossington, but took her assurances that nothing ‘nefarious’ was going on at face value. She’d never lied to him before, she shocked herself at how easy it was. Part of her wanted him to insist that she come home immediately, a part that was weakening with every passing hour. Her relationship with Oona went on as usual, the potion made everything as blissful as it had been at the start, only now her doubts were harshing the buzz. Thankfully, Oona was too taken with her new life to notice. So far...

One afternoon, while Ni was lying on the covers in her dressing gown, head propped up on the pillows reading the previous day’s Irish News, waiting for the next psychic communication, when she heard a voice in her head:

Niamh

She looked up. She knew wasn't Oona. It was a different feeling entirely. 

Niamh

It was strange voice, no more than a faint, crackly whisper, hard to tell if it was male or female. It must be a side effect of the potion. A telepathic flashback? Whatever, she shrugged it off and went back to the newspaper.

Niamh.

The lights flickered.

Close your eyes

“Who is this?” she asked, a little scared.

Close your eyes. 

The voice sounded sure and assertive, and despite an all-consuming feeling of anxiety, she did as it asked:

She was medieval peasant in the herbaceous garden of a lonely cottage, drawing water from a well. With one foot on the ground and one foot on the wall, she hauled on a thick, frayed rope with all her might. When the large, sloshing pail eventually emerged, she noticed something dark and slimy in the water. As the surface stilled, she saw that it was a strange looking creature: like a large, black mole dipped in oil, with webbed talons and a large, black chiselling-beak that looked very sharp indeed.

It kicked! The pail jumped out of her hands! The creature leapt out!

She caught it by its bill before it had a chance to snap at her - she trapped its body under her left arm, holding the beak tightly in her clenched fist! The creature was very strong indeed, it took all her strength to hold it - it thrashed and clawed at her as she fell to her knees and held it against the ground, its big, black eyes bulging in their orbits as it desperately tried to escape her clutches.

Just then, the strange, crackly voice whispered in her head:

<She’s lovely, isn't she? I call her a ‘Slimy, Blind, Chisel-Beaked, Web-Footed Corpse-Eater’, but she’ll eat anything, doesn’t have to be cadavers. It could be small animals, moles, worms, slugs... anything. In fact, this specimen has just awakened after 6 months of hibernation, so she’s particularly peckish and by the looks of things, she’s under the impression she just found breakfast!>

Niamh put her knee on its back, still gripping the bill for all she was worth.

<Hmmm... I’ve been told it’s like trying to hold-down a pitbull-terrier dipped in lard.>

Niamh’s wrists were weakening...

<Sorry, I really should get to the point, eh?

<Here’s the thing: Do you let go and hope that she doesn’t bite? I wouldn't recommend it. She’ll go all out to kill you; those little talons are designed for tunnelling and they’ll make short work of your torso. She is blind, but she smells your fear, and once she gets the scent of blood, it’ll send her into a feeding frenzy and she won’t stop until you’re dead. And I can assure you, you will feel a thing – they tend to go for the soft tissue first, so you’ll have to watch while she wends her way through your viscera to access the sweet meats further in... That’s if she hasn’t already pecked your eyes out... Slimy, Blind, Chisel-Beaked, Web-Footed-Corpse-Eaters consider mammals’ eyeballs a delicacy.>

She pressed the thing against the side of the well, took her hand off its beak and quickly grasped it tightly by the throat with both hands; it writhed and made a sound like a panicking magpie...

<You could take her to the village and get someone to help you - but this is 13th century Madrid, women are second class citizens - especially 20-year-old spinsters with a herb-garden and a flair for all-things medicinal. The women love you, you’re a nurse, a midwife and a reliable confidante, but the men are just waiting for an excuse to be rid of you, and this would be the perfect opportunity. They’ll say this little monster is a demon you summoned from hell, and indict you as an agent of Satan – and would you believe it - the Grand Inquisitor just rode into town - a surly, black-hearted man, famed for hunting witches...>

Sure enough, she heard the clip-clop of hooves on the road beyond the high hedgerows.

<It’s a poser, isn't it? I suppose you could wait until she wears herself out... but what if you weaken first? What if she plays possum?  What if you manage to fight her off but she maims you enough to cripple you or give you a deadly infection – there are over 50 thousand types of bacteria in every bite! These are the days of leeches and the 4 humours - there ain't no penicillin, darlin’!

<... Or do you – and this is always the most popular option -- do you simply wring her neck and kill her? No one will ever know. It’ll be just between the two of us.>

She tightened her grip...

<Oh, before you consign her to oblivion, did I mention that she is the last of her kind? You’ll be causing the extinction of a long-forgotten species. But – hey - do you really want to die for the sake of an ugly old thing like this?>

The ugly old thing was still squirming in her hands showing no signs of weakening, making an eerie mewling sound, its little muscles writhing and tensing, its webbed talons scrabbling at the air, trying to catch her forearms...

Snap.

<Now we’re in business.>

Snap.

Snap.

“Hey! You!”

Snapping fingers.

She snapped out of the daydream. 

She was standing at the full-length mirror in her room, her hands pressed against the glass, like a kid at a toy shop window. What the hell...

The snapping fingers belonged to Matthew Cromarty, the surly nurse who escorted her the day of the interview. “What are you doin’? Fallin’ in love with yer own reflection?” He had the ability to make every utterance sound like an insult. The unshaven, drink-ruddied jowls wobbled as he bobbled his head like a contrary teenage girl and waved a hand in front of Ni’s face, “Hello?! You do know where you are, don’t you?!” he said, in a sardonic, sing-song voice, as if he was talking to a senile patient.

She pretended she knew exactly what she was doing and snapped back, “What do you want, Matthew?”

He handed her a clipboard, “James wants you to sign this. It’s a secrecy form to stop you blabbin' to all-‘n’-sundry ‘bout what goes on under this roof.”

It was a standard NDA. She read it and gave the clipboard straight back, “I’m not signing anything until I speak to him. Where is he anyway?”

He held out pen, “Just sign the feckin’ form.”

She waved it away, “Take me to him now, please.”

“Well you can’t see ‘im!” Cromarty jeered, “He’s with Barry McKee. He gave strict orders that he’s not to be disturbed when he goes in there! And accordin’ to this,” he flipped the page, “only me, matron, two orderlies and...” his face fell, “... and N. Fitzgerald (intern)....” he looked at her as if she’d just broken wind, “...you?” He checked it again. “Why would he...?” He stamped his foot and slapped the clipboard against his thighs in a rage, “Who are you exactly?!”

She was beginning to wonder herself...

The next day: feeling very pleased himself at a job well done, Rossington reclined in his antique leather swivel chair, turned up the Rachmaninov CD with the remote control, put the brandy balloon to his lips and supped ---

“James...?”

--- and duly spat it all over himself! He leapt to his feet, “FUCK!! Shit! Don’t do that!!” he yelled, “Jesus H Christ Almighty you scared the absolute living shit out of me, you stupid bitch!” He quickly turned off the stereo and reached for a rectangular silver box on his desk, pulled a wad of paper handkerchiefs from it and began to dry his shirt, “Dammit - $280 worth of Cardin spattered with $900 cognac...FUCK!!”

Hands in the pockets of her white-flannel bathrobe, her usually vital rosy-red cheeks pallid, her long, uncombed hair mussed-up on one side, Ni cut a gloomy, forlorn figure as she trudged in. She sat on the edge of the big red leather couch and grabbed her ankles, assumed the foetal position and rocked to-and-fro, “James, it’s the dig in a month or so, and while I’m there I was wondering if you could set up a meeting with Oona? I promise -– it’s just a face-to-face, out-in-the-open conversation, no bodily contact. It’s important to establish trust.”

Rossington sprang to his feet again –- splashing brandy over his cuff -- this time he was too incensed to care, “What?! What are you talking about?” he said, his eyes boggling.

Here we go again. She was beginning to see why Peter, his ‘Flatmate’, was so jaded for one so young. “What’s the problem, James? I’ll be careful not to upset her or the project...?”

But Rossington wasn't concerned about a tryst, “What dig?!” he asked, dismayed.

“Our dig. The old bog. Laphen gave us permission,” she told him, confused, “Scanlon must've told you about it? It’s what brought me to Bogmire in the first place. I was looking for a site and bogs like the one on the Pagham estate are catnip to people like us -- it’s like an ancient, organic stew; a huge culture that has been left to moulder for thousands of years...”

“YEAH, yeah -- (Careful! – Temper! – Accent!) -- yes, yes, I don’t need a biology lecture! I know what a fucking bog is!” He thought about it then came around the desk and put a hand on her shoulder, “Listen, Niamh, can you get it called off?” he asked, as nicely as he could. 

“No! What? Why?” She pulled the hand from her shoulder, stood up and defiantly put her fists on her hips, “Listen buster, my uncle is suspicious enough as it is -- I’ve told him I’m doing some sort of ‘drugs-trial’ for you –- which is half-true -- but if I call off the dig he’ll suss that something’s up and he’ll call my bloody mother! And if that’s the case, you won’t have a mentor -- cos I’ll be on the next flight to Stockholm!”

He relented. The deep-set-eyes became pensive slits; he massaged his chin as he mulled and mumbled, “Scanlon didn’t mention it at the meeting, I wonder why...?” He paced one way –- frowned -- then paced back, “Bastard! He’s set me up again!” Then he smiled as a more agreeable notion occurred, “Maybe he doesn’t know about it...?” After much deliberation, he walked to the window, pulled back the curtain and stared out at the weeping willow in the little green at centre of the courtyard carpark. “What exactly do you do at these digs?”

Still slightly annoyed, she replied, “We won’t interfere with any naturally-occurring phenomena or wildlife. We use state-of-the-art equipment and we’re very careful to leave things as we found them...” Then the realisation struck her, “You’re worried about the bog, aren't you? The potion. Its bog water, isn't it?!”

“... apart from a few roots ‘n herbs, I suppose it is 90% ‘organic stew’, yes,” he admitted, slightly ashamed.

“And you’re worried we might spoil it?”

“An excavation could ruin the natural balance...” Rossington looked at her for a moment, as if deciding whether or not to let her into a secret. Finally, he locked the door to the office, went to the writing bureau, unlocked it and took out a buff A4 envelope. He removed the contents and spread them out on the desk, “These are photocopies of Roxborough’s diary. It’s written in a crude code and almost illegible, but I had an expert decipher it.” He pointed to a page with some rough drawings of a giant standing over a crowd of frightened peasants. “The locals believe the bog contains the remains of an ancient magus -- an ‘evil shaman’, ‘magician’, ‘sorcerer’ or whatever you want to call it -- whose body was interred there 5000 years ago. Legend has it that the peasants who executed him couldn't cremate the body, fearing that the smoke and ashes might pollute the air and kill them or their livestock; they couldn't bury him in a crypt or a mound because he’d be a highly desirable commodity for body snatchers and the tomb would have to be guarded day-and-night. So they consulted with other mystics who told them to weigh him down with a large rock and sink him in the deepest bog they could find. They supposedly put a spell on it to ‘contain his evil spirit’ and make it safe, but it’s reputation stuck, the legend endured. The local populace stayed clear and kept it a secret until 5000 years later when Roxborough visited Kildare and learned about it. It was his main reason for buying the land in the first place.” He showed her another entry, “He believed that the body’s presence in the bog created this miraculous ‘font of mystical power’, not realising that it contained a hallucinogen. He and his little coven drank it in their demonic rituals, completely unaware that they were totally off their heads. That’s where the coherent narrative ends. He consumed the stuff every day for almost 13 years. He must've been out of his mind by the time they hanged him.”

“So that stuff Scanlon said was true: Roxborough was a Satanist?” she asked, fascinated, looking through the pages.

“He saw the occult and its rituals as a legitimate branch of science. Trouble was, to raise hell he had to raise hell, and got up to all kinds of unsavoury mischief to gratify Old Nick’s thirst for depravity. It was a dreadful scandal. The family kept a lid on it. When the 9th Duke inherited the house he destroyed all trace of his father’s ‘evil work’ and the local dignitaries were only too happy to brush it under the carpet.”

Ni read as much as she could, “Shit -- he talks about having orgies with children?!”

“Hmm, it’s not light reading by-any-means. Suffice to say he was an ardent disciple of De Sade. There’s a signed copy of Justine in the library,”

She looked through the larger pages containing a dozen-or-so rudimentary pen & ink drawings of the wood and the wetlands. The last page featured a crude woodcut depicting a child emerging from the bog and sharing a loving embrace with a horned & hoofed devil. Behind them, standing on the bank, is a white-haired woman with her arms outstretched, as if bringing the two together. A shiver ran down her spine.

“But there’s another reason why I find it odd that Ollie should give you permission,” he said, as if still trying to work it out, “there could be other bodies.”

Ni stopped reading. “Other bodies?” she asked, a little shocked.

“There was once an orphanage on the estate that was destroyed by a fire in the 1920s. The locals believe the proprietors dumped the bodies of dead children in the bog. If it’s true, the discovery could cause a sensation and put the village’s privacy at risk.” He paused and thought about it, “Unless, for some reason, he wants them to be found...?”

Ni was quick to explain, “If we find anything untoward, then the site will be a crime scene and more than likely any forensics would be overseen by Uncle Paddy. He’ll be discreet, but he’ll have a lot of questions, ‘specially when children are involved.” She looked at him askance, “Which reminds me, why have you given me clearance to visit Barry McKee?”

Rossington sat down at his desk, cleared his throat and carefully considered his reply; eventually, he put his elbows on the desk, laced his fingers together and replied in an earnest voice, “I’m aware that your uncle and DS Somerville doubt my intentions as regards our Mr McKee, so to let you see that that I’ve nothing to hide -- that I’m trying to help him, not exploit him -- I’ve granted you 24 hour access to his room, and you will be privy to my manuscript before it’s dispatched for publication.”

“That’s pretty magnanimous of you,” she said, with a suspicious frown.

“I’ve nothing to fear, nothing to hide,” he said, without emotion.

After a sizeable pause, she shook her head, “James, I’ve only known you for a week and by the looks of things you’re an opportunist who exploits everybody you meet, and I can’t shake this horrible feeling that I’m just the latest in a long line of baffled patsies.”

He gave her a world-weary look, took a key from his pocket and set it on the desk, “Here, that opens the door to my private quarters. I’ll be away for the weekend, so you can make yourself at home. Have a bottle of wine, listen to some music, smoke a joint, watch videos, whatever you youngsters get up to nowadays...”

Paddy Gilray and Phil Somerville, both wearing sunglasses, sleeves rolled up to the elbow, shirts opened to the waist enjoying the Spring sunshine, were sitting in deckchairs either side of a beer-barrel table in Paddy’s back garden, sipping real ale and chewing the fat.

“How’s Ni getting on at SCICI?” Somerville asked.

“She’s losing weight. Pale and panda-eyed,” said Paddy, tutting. “She came home yesterday for a short visit to get some clothes and she nearly frightened the life out of me! Moody, too. Makes you wonder what they’re doing up there.” 

Somerville shook his head, “There’s nothing I can do, Paddy. After shootin' my mouth off about McKee last December, I’ve been warned to keep it shut ‘n keep away from the place or face disciplinary action.” He considered it for a moment, “I s’pose I could send Dermot Malone over there; he’s a right obnoxious wee bollox, he’ll rattle a few cages if nothing else?”

Paddy politely refused the offer, “No I don’t want anybody –- I mean it Phil -– nobody is to go near that place while she’s there or she’ll never trust us again.”

“What is it they’re giving her, anyway?”

Paddy lowered his voice and intimated, “Well according to a fellow who used to work for me -- he now heads SCICI’s toxicology department -- it’s just a mild hallucinogen, like magic mushrooms. It’s connected to some top secret research into anti-psychotic drugs, y’know the sort of thing.”

“So, what’re you gonna do, then? Phone Mairead and ask her advice?”

“Nah, she’s incommunicado, writing pot-boiler 435, or whatever. She left a number for emergencies, but I don’t know if this qualifies.” He took a sip and asked for some fatherly advice, “Is it just a teenage thing, Phil? Do you let them find their own way by learning from their mistakes? Guide them from a respectful distance? Intervene when you know for certain they’re headed for a fall...? I mean, how do you tackle it? ”

Ashen faced, staring into the middle-distance, Somerville groaned, “Oh jeez, Paddy, you’re describing the next 30 years of my life... and if my girls take after their mother, God help me...”

That weekend, in Rossington’s private quarters:

It was getting late, and aside from the snap, crackle & sizzle of burning logs and the metronomic tick-tock of the old grandmother clock, Rossington’s inner-sanctum was deathly-quiet. It was window-less and gloomy, but it wasn't in the least portentous. If what they say is true that rooms absorb the emotions and actions of its previous inhabitants to develop a particular ambience, then the scholars who studied here in years past must've been a very easy-going, sedentary lot. And like everything else in the old part of the institute, Rossington had decorated it with Victoriana: Creepy little dolls; a threadbare teddy bear with a missing eye; a framed poster for a late 19th Century hypnotist show, ‘Sandor the Mighty! Mystical Master of Men!’; and a huge mahogany fireplace laden with various antique bric-a-brac, dominated by an ornately framed oval mirror attached to the chimney breast. 

If I could sit in this room for rest of my life reading every book in that library and getting my meals by dumbwaiter, I’d be as happy as a pig in poo. Nothing to worry about. No one to entertain.

Ni had decided she wasn't in love anymore; at least, that what she was telling herself. Rossington’s description of their relationship (“You’re talking to yourself!”) had made everything, apart from their initial meeting, ring hollow. She couldn't trust her own mind anymore, nevermind her emotions. Oona was in total control of the situation: she couldn't read Oona’s thoughts, but her own psyche was an open book. She still 'sees’ her dream-lover on a daily basis, of course, only now she sees through the sexy, well-spoken, intelligent persona, to the silly, oversexed little girl using her subconscious as a playbox/props department. And like any child, she was demanding and self-centred, everything had to be on her terms at a time of her choosing. The worst of it was, there was no escape, that feeling of disassociation caused by the potion was her normality now; she couldn't do anything but sleep and doze, then sleep again, always at the Siren’s beck-and-call. It could come at any time, day or night. And every time Ni closed her eyes and tried to initiate a meeting to discuss their relationship, the Magritte door on the sundrenched beach remained firmly shut. Sometimes there’d be a sign hanging from the handle: Do Not Disturb.

How do I get out of this without hurting her?

She lay supine on the green, antique leather couch in her usual pose: unconsciously crossing her hands across her chest like a corpse, closing her eyes and projecting. She eventually dozed and walked down the bridge of clouds onto the beach: “Oona, we need to talk!” she shouted at the closed Magritte door.

Silence. The door remained shut.

“Oona!”

Silence.

“We need to talk!”

Suddenly, the door spoke: <Oi know what ‘ee’s been thinkin’! ‘Ee don’t want me anymore!> she screamed, in her ‘outdoor voice’ .

Ni instinctively covered her ears and yelled back, “Oona, if you can feel how I feel, then you should understand...”

<SHURRUP! >

Ni rocketed upwards through the summer clouds, through the atmosphere, through the stratosphere and into outer space, where she spun like a human frisbee in star-spangled darkness as Oona bitterly unloaded, <Oi know what ee’s gonna say before ‘ee says it, remember - so oi’ll answer the question ‘ee ‘aven’t asked yet: Arr, oi do luv ‘ee, I luv ‘ee wiv all moy heart! But ‘ee’s changed since that noight ‘ee came to Bogmoire w' Dr Jimmy. You’ve gone off me!>

“Oh, Oona, this has all landed in my lap and I’m finding it ultra-hard to adjust, I’m afraid of letting you down... “

<Liar – ur tryin’ to fink of ways to get rid of me!!>

“I’m not lying...!” she answered, unconvincingly.

<Ur brain says 'ee are!>

“You’re obviously being very selective in your approach, you’re seeing things out of context – everyone has their own inner voice debating life-changing decisions -- you’re only listening to one side of the argument!”

<Aaaaah! ‘Ee twist ‘n turn loike a slippery eel! Oi can’t take this...!> the voice dropped to a more reasonable pitch and growled: <Dr Jimmy is usin’ 'ee y’know. Oi know so much about all of ‘em – they’re up to all sorts! And if oi wanted to, oi could tell Craigy ‘n 'e’d ‘ave ‘em all arrested! Cos Dr Jimmy ‘n Scanlon reckon oi’m stoopid -- and now so do you! WELL – I hope youse’ll all be very ‘appy togevver!!>

“Oona...?”

She plummeted back to earth -- the bridge of clouds crumbled -- the sky darkened to grey -- a huge wave crashed on the beach and swept her out to sea -- she was sinking in a swirling whirlpool, then

silence. Darkness. She woke up.

She held her head in her hands, How the hell did I get into this? 

<... That’s the trouble when you can read minds -- you’re saddled with a lifetime of disappointment,> whispered that other voice in her head. <Think of all the millions of people she’d have to meet to find someone so utterly devoted to her, mind, body and Soul. She doesn’t want much, does she? Just perfect, unconditional love.>

Ni sat up: “Who is that...?”

No reply in any sense, and yet she had the strangest feeling there was someone in the room with her. She suddenly felt very clammy; at the same time the skin of her back tingled with wave upon wave of cold shivers... She sat up and looked around. Something caught her eye: The mirror above the fireplace was aglow, like the ethereal radiance of a TV screen that’s just been switched off in a darkened room. She got up and saw that it was slightly misty, there was condensation gathering on the glass.... and then, when she tried to write her name with her finger, she discovered that the mist was on the inside.

Curiouser and curiouser...

A sudden, peculiar thought struck her. She had an overwhelming urge to visit Barry McKee. So, putting on her dressing gown and slipping into her slippers, she made her way to the nurses’ station. She walked from the antiquated environs of the old block to the brightly lit sterility of the new wing. When she got there, she was met by a a particularly unwelcome sight.

Shit! Cromarty! Does he ever go home?!

The pudgy medico, feet up on the desk, briefly glanced up from his Hello! magazine and sighed, “James isn't back yet. He’s at a party at Mick Jagger’s house. Piss off. In fact, piss off, pack-up and go home. Bye.”

“He said I could see Barry McKee any time I liked, so, if you would,” she said, officiously, crossing her arms.

“At this time of night?!” he barked, grimacing, as if she’d asked him to jump off the roof.

“Yes. If it’s not too much trouble,” she said, calmly.

Maintaining eye-contact, the big galumph slapped the magazine down on the counter, wearily rolled his chair back and took a ledger from under the desk, “You have to sign in, that’s not a problem is it?” he said, sarcastically, in reference to their previous encounter. She signed on the line with a flourish and flashed him a wry smile, “You are such a treasure, Matthew. I’m sure your mother is very proud.”

“My mother died when I was 5. I was reared by my father who beat the livin’ shit outta me every day and gimme this as a memento,” he pointed to a small-but-deep scar on his upper-lip.

Well hush my mouth.

He led her along the corridor to the room, shuffling along in his trainers like an old lady. “I heard you met the wonderful Peter Sinclair?” the name was pronounced in an exaggerated, effeminate chime.

She had a pretty good idea why he was so jealous and wound him up, “Yes, we’ve met. He’s very nice, as a matter of fact. Very grounded person, considering what he has to put up with,” she opined in an upbeat tone, as they reached an outer door with an Authorised Personnel Only sign on it. Cromarty continued to bitch as he typed a code into a key pad on the wall, “His brother, Cillian, is a smack-head, you know. He lives in a pit of his own filth. And the two of them are from a well-to-do family of musicians ‘n actors -- that just goes to show ye how fucked up they are!! Peter’s not gettin' any younger and Cillian is always borrowing money. James’ll get tired of ‘em eventually and the ‘lovely Peter’ will end up back where he started – here, as a nurse,” he smiled, evilly, “and when he does scurry back w’ his tail between his legs, I’m gonna make his life a feckin’ misery.” He opened the door to McKee’s room, “You can tell him that from me.”

“Such heart-warming camaraderie amongst our male Florence Nightingales, so inspirational in this age of cynicism and... Oh!” She was abruptly silenced by the inglorious sight of SCICI’s Star Guest.

Barry McKee was laid out on a bed in the centre of a large, high-ceilinged, dimly lit room, his head slightly raised on a bolster so that his long black hair spread out across the white pillows like silver-streaked raven-wings; his face was gaunt and cadaverous, his head shaved into a tonsure and wired to three blipping monitors, his thin arm plumbed into a saline drip, a feeding tube inserted into his right nostril. Suspended from the ceiling above him was a rack equipped with six two-way-mirrors attached to cameras, all trained on that unshaven, expressionless face; his black, unblinking eyes open, as if gazing at his reflection in the mirror above him. She heard him slowly inhale and exhale, she saw the slow rise and fall of his chest, like a wild animal under heavy sedation. She’d once been on hand to witness a tiger having a tooth removed under anaesthetic, and it was just like this; no matter how sure she was of its unconscious state, she couldn't shake-off the fear that at any given moment it could burst into life and bite her head off.

“Pathetic, isn't he?” said Cromarty, curling a lip in distaste.

She shook her head, “Pathetic is in ill-used word. It means to engender sympathy. I don’t feel any sympathy for him. Not at all. Even so, is all this necessary?” she asked, looking around at the numerous mirrors and monitors.

“James’ orders,” Cromarty replied, “he wants every second of every day recorded. I don’t know why he needs all these mirrors, but he’s the boss. He must have his reasons.”

“Does he ever close his eyes?” she said, moving closer.

“He blinks every now and again but that’s it. Exciting, eh?” Cromarty made a show of checking the various dials, although it was obvious he hadn't a clue what any of them did.

“You can go, Matthew, I just want to sit with him for a while,” she said, getting impatient.

Cromarty cocked his head, curled a lip and defiantly crossed his arms, “Why? Wotcha gonna do, sing ‘im a lullaby?”

On the ‘by’ of the word lullaby, Ni saw Barry blink -- simultaneously, the lights flickered and two of the machines started bleeping and buzzing! Cromarty went into a tizzy, “what the feck have you done?!”

“Nothing -- nothing -- I haven’t moved...” she was about tell him about the blink, but decided not to. “It’s probably just a glitch in the grid, that’s all.” She went to the machines and hit the reset buttons. Cromarty was begrudgingly impressed. Then he looked down at McKee and said, “Well, I don’t know how you can stand to be alone with ‘im. Fucker gives me the creeps. To think what he did to them kids. Makes me sick...” he paused and added, “Y’know, they say he’s possessed by a demon.”

“So I’ve heard,” she said, rolling her eyes.

“Matron believes it. She won’t come in here without her crucifix or her rosary beads,” he said, as if there was no higher authority, “she says a prayer every time she has to touch ‘im.”

“Some experts diagnosed him with schizophrenia after the fact, they said he could've heard voices that led him to believe he was possessed, but that doesn’t mean...” She was too distracted by her escort’s utter disregard for human rights to finish the sentence. Cromarty was casually and repeatedly prodding Barry’s crotch with his index finger, “If he is actin’, he’s very good,” he edged-along the bed and flicked Barry’s nose, “see?”

Barry didn’t blink.

“Can I be alone with him please?!” she snarled, slapping the chubby hand away. “OW!” he yelped, scowling like a petulant child. She pointed at the door, “Out!”

“Cow,” he sniped, then flounced off, yelling over his shoulder, “I can’t wait til we start the auld shock treatment! Lookin’ forward to that, eh, Barry?! That’ll get things goin’, huh?!”

She waited until the door closed behind him, then brought a chair and set it beside the bed. It was the mirrors that interested her. Why would Rossington surround him with mirrors? And has it anything to do with the glowing mirror in the study...? She sat down, put her head as near to McKee’s without actually touching him, and looked up to see what he could see. The mirrors reflected his face from every possible angle; it was totally intrusive.

So, why should I care?

<Because you’re a decent human being and this is abuse,> said the androgynous, whispery-voice between her ears.

She flinched. “Oona... is that you...?” she whispered, looking up and around, as if she expected to see her ghost hovering over the bed.

<No. Oona is fast asleep. You see, that’s the thing with opening lines of communication, you never know who might tune into your channel. However, there’s no need to be alarmed, I come in peace.>

She wasn't alarmed, just scared to death! If this encounter was going to anything like the daydream she had the other day, it was sure to be highly unpleasant.

<It’s not me you need to be afraid of, Niamh. It’s her. And I can show you how to keep her out,> the voice reassured her, <I can close the door forever. All this madness will end... But first, I want to show you something, so I’m going to ask you to close your eyes. Will you do that for me? Close your eyes? Don’t worry, you won’t be in any danger...>

“Yes,OK...” she said, dreamily. And as soon as she did what the voice asked...

... she found herself in the woods, in the dead of night, in the dead of winter, under a colossal full moon. She knew where she was: in the woods at Laphen’s estate, still dressed for bed, she should’ve been freezing...

<You won’t feel the cold. You won’t feel anything. It’s a moonlit night, so you’ll be able to see where you’re going. Just keep walking forward until I tell you to stop.>

This was the most realistic dreamscape she’d ever experienced. No unearthly haze around the edge of the frame, no surreal incongruities like those that manifested in Oona’s fantasies, she felt as if she was actually there. 

And so, numb to the frigid, gnarly woodland-floor beneath her feet, she trudged through the trees, until she reached an open space and the shore of the water-logged bog. The frozen water sparkled in the moonlight, like a lake of frosted glass with occasional clumps of rime-stiffened reeds sprouting through the silvery surface.

<Keep walking. It’ll bear your weight.>

She stepped onto the ice and walked until the voice told her to stop.

<Now, have a good look around. Do you think you’ll remember this spot?>

Niamh turned around a few times and took in various landmarks – a branch shaped like jackdaw claws; a fallen tree trunk; a clump of spiky sphagnum-moss on a nearby rock that looked like a partially submerged hippo sporting a green Mohawk, and eventually said, “Yes, I’ve got my bearings.”

<Good.>

-- Suddenly, the ice cracked and she plunged into the icy, murky water –- it felt like unseen hands were hauling on the tails of her dressing gown -- pulling her down through the inky darkness of the water, through the slime underneath, through the layer of mud, until she penetrated the peat at the bottom!

<Don’t panic, it’ll soon be over...>

Everything was dark. Then, after a few moments of turning around, she discerned an unearthly glow up ahead. It illuminated what appeared to be a body: A bog mummy! The legends were half-right, at least... Then, as she got closer, she saw that it was in fact two mummies: a larger, older body holding a smaller body to its bosom; but the smaller body wasn't as decomposed –- the skeleton was creamy-white against the tanned hide of the other; the skull showed signs of acute trauma; whomever the child was, it had been bludgeoned to death...

Just as she was about to ask for an explanation, the voice announced, <You have company. Tell no one about this little dream, but remember it well...>

Within the blink of an eye she was back in the room, staring into those intense, unblinking, black eyes in the mirror.

“Good evening...” said a familiar voice from the back of the room, followed by the squeal of rubber-on-rubber as the door closed. She jumped up, “Oh, James! You gave me a start!” she gasped, still shaking from the weird experience.

“...or should I say good morning, it’s almost 2AM, after all,” said Rossington, throwing his overcoat over the back of a chair. As usual, he was dressed to kill in a black tuxedo and white bow-tie, a white scarf draped over his shoulders, his hair slicked back to give him that reptilian look he reserved for parties: like an old-school vampire. “Getting to know you, getting to know all about you...” he sang in a playful voice, as he danced out of the shadows and stood by the bed. “His eyes are very hypnotic, aren't they?” he said, stooping, looking at McKee’s face. “I spend hours just sitting here, staring into those bleary, expressionless eyes, wondering: what must he be thinking? Because as we all know, he can think. He thinks therefore, He Is.”

She sniffed, grimaced, and waved a hand in front of her face, “Pheeeeew, you’ve obviously been having a good time at His Majesty’s Request!”

“It was most convivial evening, thank you. Mick and I get on like a house on fire. I met him in LA back in the mid-seventies when he was still married to Bianca.” He turned to Ni and asked, “So, what brings you down here at this ungodly hour?”

“I dunno,” she replied, still a bit foggy, “I got a sudden impulse. I can’t describe it.” She was going to tell him about the mirror in the study, but thought better of it. 

He walked around to the other side of the bed, and asked, apropos of nothing, “Do you know what a Sensitive is, Niamh?”

“Do you mean in the [she made apostrophe-fingers] ‘psychic sense’? A person who receives messages from beyond the grave...?” she replied, unsure where this was going.

“Yes. There are folks who believe Barry was Sensitive, that he could speak to the dead, and the bodies of the children he killed were used in the execution of satanic rituals.” The booze had obviously loosened his tongue.

“I thought you’d banished all mention of demons as far as Barry is concerned?”

“Only because some of the staff is superstitious and frightened of him, and superstition and fear have no place when dealing with the mentally ill. No, I’m talking about legitimate scientific investigation into the ‘supernatural’. Barry had a penchant for magic, there’s a mountain of evidence that he indulged in, for the want of a better word, witchcraft.”

“Sounds a bit far-fetched if you ask me,” she scoffed.

“So was telepathy before we discovered Oona,” he said, with a wink and a smirk. “If I were to tell you I have witnessed ‘magic’ being performed, what would you think?” [See Book One Part 17]

“I’d say you were either duped or drunk.”

“Oh, I was pragmatic and sober, it was very unsettling,” he said, confidently, “there was no other explanation for what I saw. The strange thing was, it was shortly before Mr McKee’s capture and I believe he was involved in some capacity. I have evidence. Concrete evidence,” he touched Barry’s cheek, “I just need to know what it all means. That’s the reason I’m so interested in his survival; he’s the key to solving the mystery.”

She thought for a moment. Another notion occurred to her, “You want Oona to look into his mind, don’t you?” she said, confidently.

<Bingo.>

Looking as if he’d been rumbled, Rossington set aside the sangfroid in favour of a more humble approach, although in his current state, he couldn't help but make it sound sleazy, “Well... I thought you of all people would be interested to see into the psyche of a serial killer? I mean, we could give him the potion, Oona could read his mind, you could interpret and we might uncover all his dirty little secrets. It would be a sensation.”

She frowned and shook her head, “You know, if I didn’t know better I’d think you engineered my meeting with Oona just so that we could arrive at this moment.”

He scoffed and pretended to be surprised by the accusation, “The thought didn’t occur to me until I sat with him the other day...” he lied, “but think about it. It’s the perfect opportunity...”

She didn’t hear him, she was lost in a daze of conflicting emotions, “It’s as if I have no control of my life anymore... I just get swept along like driftwood...” she mumbled, in a voice comprised of  doubt, fear and incredulity.

<What does he care? You’re just a pawn.>

“What better way to unveil Oona’s talents to the world?!” Rossington broke into PT Barnum mode, raised his arms and announced, “We could make it a live event! We could televise it! We could ... umm, where are you going...?”

She was on her feet, headed for the door, “Home. The YWCA. A ditch. Anywhere but here....”

<You don’t have to explain just go!>

“Niamh, don’t go -- sleep on it –- then tomorrow we’ll sit down and talk-it-out, whaddya say...?” he pleaded, walking after her with outstretched arms.

<Don’t listen to him!>

She stopped at the door, squeezed her eyes shut, put her hands over her ears and screamed, “I’m not listening -- this is sick! He’s sick! You’re sick! The whole fucking thing is sick, sick, sick! I can’t believe I even considered getting involved!!”

<That’s it! Now walk out! >

“Niamh, listen to me! You’re still under the influence of the potion -- you can’t go back to your uncle like this!!”

<Tell him to go to hell.>

“Go to hell, James. I’m going home!”

Paddy kissed her brow on the doorstep, gave her a big hug and dried her tears. Then they went to the kitchen and he made her a big mug of Horlicks and grilled a few muffins.

“It feels so good to be home,” she said, trying to sound cheerful.

He saw the sorrow in her glazed eyes and told her she didn’t need to tell him anything. She nibbled, sipped and white-lied that the drug test ultimately didn’t agree with her, “After a while it’s s bit like being on a merry-go-round too long; you start feeling queasy and you just wanna get off. Speaking of which, I’ll probably be pretty ill over the next few days, but it’s just my system flushing. Take no notice." She quickly changed the subject, “What about that decapitated body they found on the beach?”

He informed her that (what was now known as) the Case of the Headless Body Builder had been solved, “They found the head in a microwave oven in the kitchen of a flat near the beach. The gard that discovered it passed out on the floor. It had been stuffed in sideways and cooked on full power for almost an hour. You should’ve seen the state of it. Lover’s tiff, in the end. They were both using steroids, which would explain the ferocity of the attack. You wouldn't think gay men would be capable of such barbarity.”

Following a considerable pause, she said, dolefully, “After this year’s dig, I’m going to stay with mum in Sweden.”

Paddy recoiled theatrically, blinked twice and raised his gingery-eyebrows, “Sweden? In the summer? With my sister? Your mother? Things must be bad!”

“Understatement of the century, Patrick.” She held her mug in both hands put her elbows on the table, looked over the rim and intimated in a low voice, “I’m gonna tell you something and I want you to hear me out before you express an opinion, OK? This is serious. I’m serious.”

Intrigued, Paddy put down his mug, “Sounds ominous, Twink, but I can’t promise anything until I hear what it is.”

“I think there are bog mummies in the bog on Laphen’s estate. I know exactly where they are. One of them is a child. It’s skull shows signs of acute trauma. The other is much, much older, but here’s the thing: the older one is holding the smaller, younger mummy in its arms.”

Paddy as dumbfounded, “Did you say you’ve seen these bodies?!”

She couldn't tell him that she was involved in psychic research and she suspected Barry McKee had showed her via mirrors; anyway, he’d never believe her. So she put down her mug, put her hands over her eyes and said, “I’m not gonna bullshit you, Paddy, that’s as much as I can tell you without sounding like a crank.”

Paddy frowned, “Ni, I’ve told you before, if we ever find anything contentious on one of our jaunts, I’m obliged to inform the authorities.”  

“Well, Sergeant Marchant of the local garda station lives in the village and seems sound enough – can’t you contact him and work things out?” she asked, almost begging, “a full-sized investigation would bring Bogmire to the attention of the world, and I’d like to avoid that. Couldn't you supervise the excavation under the auspices of an archaeological dig, remove the bodies for study and leave the village out of it?”

He recoiled, “Jesus, you’re not asking for much are you?! I mean, how did you find out about it? Did someone tell you?”

She looked into her cup, “Like I said, I can’t say. I just know, and I want you to dig deeper than usual to prove it.”

He was still very doubtful, “But if we don’t find anything, we’ll have disturbed the integrity of the site for nothing. It goes against everything we stand for.”

“You know I wouldn't do anything to jeopardise the dig unless it was important. Can’t you say you’ve had a tip-off or something?” She tilted her head and batted her eyelids, “Try, pleeeease...?”

He sat back and folded his arms, “Has this got anything to do with that woman? The Bride?”

There was a moment’s hesitation then she said “In a way, yes.”

They stared into each other’s eyes for a while. Then he said, “I had a long term relationship with a young lady when I was in my 20s and we almost made it to the altar but for the reappearance of one of her lovers at the 11th hour. She took off and left me without as much as a second thought because she wanted to chase a dream she once had, and you know, this fellow was a crass, low life up-to-his-neck in all sorts of wickedness with a mouth like a docker. But she loved him and there was nothing I could do. Nothing. I never talk about it, but it hit me at my very core. Did you know?”

“Mum told me,” Ni admitted, “it was one of her friends. ‘Dictionary definition of a flibbertigibbet’, she said.”

He nodded, “As I cancelled the catering and the honeymoon, I vowed – never again! And I’ve been as good as my word. But it’s been easy for me. I’m a very busy man, and fortunately or unfortunately, I’ve no time for anyone now, no matter how lonely I get.” He put a hand on her arm, “I just don’t want you to end up the same way.”

She got up and kissed his cheek, “Oh bless you Paddy, but I’m not lovelorn. If anything I’m in the process of trying to escape.”

He clucked his tongue and gave in, “OK, I promise you I will do all in power etc, etc. But you haven’t taken Emil into consideration, have you?”

She slumped and let her forehead land with a bump on the tabletop, “Gawd, Emil. I forgot about him...!”

“That makes a change! You’re usually counting the days!”

“Please, I can barely remember my name at the minute.”

“Well, he’ll be arriving soon -– you’d better have a good explanation or he’ll go 'apeshit’!”

Earlier that night, at Pagham House: Scanlon heard another scream and took to his heels, “Bloody woman!” he growled to himself. It came from the other end of the house, but there was no mistaking Mrs Sparkes’ trademark screech: manly but shrill. As he ran across the lobby toward the kitchens, Laphen’s current guest, a Saudi prince, hailed him from the balcony, “Scanlon – what is that screaming?! Are we under attack?! I never heard such a terrible noise!”

Scanlon stopped and bowed before answering, “My apologies, Your Highness -– it’s just the housekeeper, she’s probably seen a mouse.”

The Arab put his hands on his hips, “You know, Scanlon, we came here as Mr Laphen’s guests because the last time we stayed in Dublin our hotel room was ransacked and my wife’s jewellery was stolen,” he said, pointing in the general direction of  their rooms, “she was very, very upset, so Mr Laphen offered me his house for any future business I might have! He assured me that it was the safest house in Ireland!”

Scanlon tried to reassure him, “Everything is in hand, Your Highness, please go back to bed...”

But the prince hadn't finished and took the opportunity to complain about some other things that were bothering him, “These servants you employ are very uncouth –- they smell as if they need a good wash -– and they are serving our food?!” They heard another scream. “Now screams in the middle of the night! My wife is praying for her life with tears in her eyes! I am not happy.”

Scanlon tried to smile and sound confident, “I can assure you Your Highness that Mr Laphen is quite correct in his assertion that is the securest place in Ireland, staffed by local people who are diligent and above suspicion...” They heard a particularly bloodcurdling scream. “I’m very sorry Your Highness, but I need to see to this, she must be in some distress.”

The prince waved him away, “Go! But report back to me!”

“Yes Your Highness!” Scanlon walked off, scowling, muttering   fuckin’ towel-headed twat under his breath. He went to the kitchens: she wasn't there. He checked the rooms in the south wing, no sign. Then another screech -- “The study!” -- he ran back upstairs and found her on all-fours under the boss’ desk, cowering like a frightened child.

He approached the desk, stooped and peered in, “What the hell is the matter with you, woman?!” he cried.

“In the mirror - in the mirror!! E’s in the mirror! E’S IN THE MIRROR!”

Scanlon turned around, “Which mirror?!”

“The tall one! The one ‘is nibs got brought up frum the basement!!” she replied, pointing at the back of the room, “that one!”

“The cheval?” He walked over and stood before it, “There’s nothing there but my reflection and your ugly mug peeking out from under the desk!”

The old woman crept out and saw for herself, “’You mean, 'e’s gone...?”

“There was never anybody there!” Scanlon lit up a cigarette and took a deep drag, “You need to pull yourself together woman! The Prince is very upset!”

She got up, stood behind him and peeked at the mirror, “It were a wee laddie, tha’s all oi can tell ‘ee, cos his face wuz all burned black wiv these starin’ red oys -- starin’ rioght into my very Soul, they wuz! Oh sweet Jeezus, it musta been one the orphans ‘oo doied in the foire – oi’m sure of it!”

He pointed to the huge clown’s head (originally acquired from the entrance to a fairground attraction) on the wall behind the desk, “It’s probably been the reflection of that you saw! And look, the mirror’s steamed up -– that’s why it looked distorted!” He took the dust cloth from her apron and rubbed the glass. “That’s funny... The condensation seems to be on the inside...?”

“Tis is an evil sign, this is!!” she cried, getting evermore upset, “Tis the children comin’ back to take revenge!!”

In one swift movement, Scanlon turned and slapped her hard across the face.

She looked away, bowed her head and thanked him for it.

He grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her, “Now pull yourself together, you stupid auld bitch! This has got nothing to do with anything other than idiotic superstition! Concentrate on you duties! The Arab is complaining about the state of the maids. He says they stink!”

“Oi’ll attend to it first thing in the mornin’ sur.”

“Aye, see that you do.” Scanlon took a drag and blew the smoke in her face, “And tell that fuckin’ niece of yours I’m watchin' her. Just because that bastard Rossington is back on the scene doesn’t mean that she isn't likely to do something stupid.”

Mrs Sparkes didn’t answer, it wasn't her place.

Scanlon flicked his ash on the floor and pointed to her temple, “If you want to know why you’re seeing burned-up little boys in the mirror, it’s because she puts the notion in your head.”

Again, Mrs Sparkes said nothing and clenched her face tight so that he couldn't tell if she was crying, smiling or scowling.

“Pathetic,” he sneered. “Me da was right about you bastards; you’re up to all sorts of devilment. Sure – even the feckin animals and birds steer clear of this place!”

“Can oi go, sur?”

Scanlon waved her away, “Piss off. And tell those maids if they don’t come in smelling of roses, I will have them hosed-down in front of the house tomorrow morning to prove to that puffed-up camel-jockey that I’m a man of my word...”

That Wednesday’s Gourmet-Night: It was Paddy’s turn to cook, and as always, he made his own speciality: seafood and lager. He was at the sink in a butcher’s apron washing shells whilst Somerville and Ni sat at the table and talked. It was obvious they were relieved to have her home, but despite her assurances to the contrary, they weren’t convinced that Rossington had her best interests at heart. When Somerville pressed for details, she told him she’d signed a comprehensive NDA. She quickly changed the subject and teased Paddy, “You and your bloody oysters – it’s only an excuse to drink beer!”

“It was all that sea-air I inhaled during the Headless Body-Builder case, it got me juices flowing,” Paddy joked, mordantly.

“Well-done-to-us, another case closed!” said Somerville, raising his glass.

“Well, the head was well done. The torso - although well tenderised - was a tad on the rare side,” said Paddy, sardonically.

They both laughed. Niamh didn’t find it at all funny, “Do I have to remind you that you’re talking about somebody’s son, you ghouls!”

“Gallows humour, darling, it’s the only thing that keeps us lawmen sane!” said Paddy, tittering.

She turned to their guest, “Uncle Phil, about this week’s baby-sitting gig... well, listen, I know I promised...”

Perfectly aware of the impending rejection and intent on derailing it, Somerville put a hand on hers and interjected by expressing his heartfelt gratitude, “Oh, ye’re a lifesaver Twink – it’s just for a couple of hours while we put in an appearance at Pat’s friend’s birthday party. Won’t be late. She’s due any day now and this will be last time e ask before the birth...?”

She made a sour face and shook her head, “You’re an utter cad, Somerville.”

He batted his moth-wing eyelashes, “You know how much Cate and Cathy love Princess Twinkle...?”

She rapped the table with the handle of her knife and announced to the room, “That’s another thing: I think it’s about time to stop calling me Princess Twinkle or Twinkle, or Twink or – in Emil’s case – Li’l Twinkie. It’s a bit twee for someone who’s about to be 20, isn't it? I know I demanded that everyone call me by that name when I was 3, skipping about the place with a pair of wings clipped to my back, waving a magic wand, but I think the joke’s played out now.”

The men looked at each other across the table, reached out and linked hands. Paddy mock-sobbed and bit his knuckle, “Our wee girl’s grown up, Phil. She’s a woman now.”

Big Phil rubbed his eyes as if wiping away a tear, “I always knew that one day it would happen, but you’re never ready for it when the day finally arrives.”

Paddy sighed, “If that is your wish, princess, so be it.”

The men chuckled and resumed eating. She made a face, sipped her beer and watched the candle flame flicker for a few seconds, then Somerville said, “Oh – before I forget,” he stood up, pulled his wallet from his back pocket and gave her a tenner, “That’s for winning the Rossington bet: he did indeed make various bizarre references, such as -- ‘those that doubt me’ and ‘unseen forces trying to undermine the value of my research’ -- I got the distinct impression he was hinting at something. Well done, Ni. When you’re a qualified Criminal Psychologist, I for one will be availing myself of your services.”

She was chuffed, but had other things, quite literally, on her mind, “Well, thanks... It’s sort of ironic now since I’ve got to know him...”

Paddy slurped an oyster from its shell and looked up over his nezzies, “And...?”

“... he’s a very complicated man – probably because he has so many plates spinning at the one time he can’t remember which one needs tending to next.” She looked at Somerville, “I will say this -- the work he’s doing is important, Uncle Phil. I wouldn’t’ve been involved otherwise.”

Big Phil drummed his fingers on the table and said, “A little birdie tells me you were on the guest list to see Barry McKee.”

Paddy grinned, “Here we go – ‘Big Phil Somerville and his ubiquitous little birdies’.”

Ni took another sip and looked from one to the other, “He said it’s so I could give the two of you an honest report on his progress.”

“And, what is your report? Is Barry lookin’ well?” said Somerville, mordantly, “Playing tennis? Skiing? I betcha he’s a whiz at back-gammon!”

A little irked by his offhand attitude, she answered tersely, “What is there to say? He just lies there, surrounded by mirrors, machines and monitors.”

Paddy tutted, “Ni, you’re bristling.”

She forced a smile, “Yes, I am. Sorry. That’s Rossington for you; you get this perverse loyalty to him because you sense his vulnerability.”

Somerville changed tack, “I was just going to say that he seems to have taken quite a shine to you.”

<Tell ‘im to fuck off ‘n’ moind ‘is biz-nass!>

Oh God, not you, not now! 

“Yeah... honestly it was very instructive, and despite rumours, he does know what he’s talking about a lot of the time.....”

<Arr, it’s me, oo’d you expect... Emil? I know you’re lookin’ forward to seein’ Ee-meeeel! Oo’s this big lout then? Oh – wait – oi seen ‘im on the TV noos - Craigy talks bout ‘im all the toime – ‘e just solved the case of the ‘eadless queer boy, innee?! Detective Somerville!> the voice between her ears snickered. <He’s anovver of ur fantasies, innee? Princess Twinkle!> 

“So, what about Thursday night -- are you drivin’ or do you want me to pick you up?” asked Somerville.

<Where are we goin’? This is excoiting, innit?>

“Erm...

Fuck off Oona! I warned you what would happen if you did this!! 

No, I’ll drive...”

<Goin’ babysittin’, are we? Great!! I luv kiddies, me!>

Shut up!!

Paddy sensed her unease, “Is everything all right, Ni...?”

She was confounded. She couldn't go to the Somervilles with Oona in her head, the prospects for disaster were too numerous to consider! “... Umm, I dunno, I still feel a bit yucky, Uncle Phil...”

Somerville stubbornly went on as if he hadn't heard her, “I’ll lay-on some popcorn and the girls have got a video of the Wizard of Oz -- that’ll keep ‘em quiet if you wanna study or somethin’...?”

<That sounds very noice. Oi’ll be lookin’ forward to that!>

Ni sighed and reluctantly gave in, “Of course, I’d love to...”

 To Be Continued Next Month in Swamp Witch

[paulhudd]

Book Two, Part One: Love Potion No.9

Catch Up Here: Table of Contents  - click on title to access chapter

[paulhudd]

Spindlefreck: Pt.20: Seven Thousand Years to Midnight

2 November 1988

11:48PM GMT:

Electra Cochrane’s imagination: 

“Well -- say it -- get this over with!” yelped Pritchard, gritting his teeth and grimacing, as if he expected the world to explode at any second. Grasping the sleeve of his overcoat, Electra braced herself and screamed over the howling wind and rumbling thunder, “Please, Danielle, just do it!”

Dani, as always, was in two minds: the levitating spectre currently looming over her did scare her; she felt a woeful pang of dread in her belly she’d never felt before; but she also knew if she did what it asked, she wasn't likely to survive -- uttering that word could be tantamount to committing suicide! On the other hand, Pritchard said it would save Jamie...

“Say it,” chorused the mob of mutant fairytale creatures, gnashing their teeth and making threatening gestures.

She looked up at the hovering spectre, cocked her head and shouted, “Hey you up there! Whose side are you on, anyway? Are you, like, a goodie or a baddie?”

The shimmering wraith of Zomber Blist looked down on her with eyes of gleaming sapphire and replied, “There is no good or bad or right or wrong; there is only what will be. This your destiny! You must fulfil the Prophesy!” Then his voice deepened to a baleful roar, “SAY THE WORD.”

“Say it!” hissed the abominable throng.

Dani squeezed her eyes shut, crossed her fingers and took a deep breath...

An hour ago:

Jamie was getting desperate. He’d been in the so-called ‘Secure Unit’ for nearly a week now, and although he kept reminding himself that it was all a mirage and that the passing of time meant nothing when one’s consciousness is trapped in a phantasm, he was beginning to think the doctors were right and he really was suffering delusions induced by a rare form of amnesia.

There was nothing to suggest it was a dream. This ‘reality’ was flawless. The sights, the smells, the tastes and the feel of the place were just as you’d expect in a fully functioning psychiatric hospital. The staff and the other patients’ behaviour were consistent, their conversations vivid and unrehearsed, each incidence was entirely realised, each interaction was natural and unambiguous; nothing defied logic. If this was indeed a grand illusion designed to undermine his psychic defences and render him vulnerable to demonic possession, the demon had been meticulous and attended to every detail with painstaking care; or - and Jamie considered this the more likely explanation - his consciousness currently existed in a world created from someone else’s memories; and if so, whose? Who associated with the coven would've been incarcerated in a place like this? It was nothing like the unit in Belfast where Dani spent her last few years, and as far as he knew, the only other ‘Güül ever to be voluntarily carted off to the looney bin was Goz -- and that was a rock star rehab centre in LA.!

He was almost swayed, but the circumstantial evidence surrounding his ‘case’ added weight to his gut feelings: the fact that he had no papers, no ID and no one had come forward to identify him despite ‘numerous public appeals’, was too-convenient-by-half. Plus, he still had that telltale chill in his bones he associated with being trapped in the Void. There was nothing he could do but wait and see how things played-out. Trouble was, nothing was happening and it didn’t look like anything was going to happen anytime soon. If the demon had a plan, it was taking a long time to hatch, and if this was a dreamscape, he had all the time in the world.

If this is a dreamscape.

In the meantime, he’s played things nice and safe. He’s kept himself to himself and behaved impeccably. He’s mopped the floors in the corridors, scrubbed the communal toilets (a job bestowed upon him as a way to earn money to pay for cigarettes and chocolate -- he was stony broke, and since there was nothing to read but dog-eared war novels and yellowing sports magazines, it passed the time); he’s taken the occasional jibes and good-natured banter about his alleged past-behaviour with self-effacing good humour and engaged in idle smalltalk when the occasion arose. After a few days the nursing staff was satisfied that he no longer posed a threat to them or the other patients and curtailed the constant surveillance -- no more orderlies following him around watching his every move. He’s taken his ‘meds’ (which seemed to have no affect at all except make him hungry) without protest. The only people he had any meaningful interaction with were Porter the Porter and occasionally Mr Murphy, the genial, elderly Irish alcoholic. That said, Porter was a moronic psychopath and old Mr Murphy wasn't the font of paternal wisdom Jamie encountered that first day. The old man was one third of a tight little trio of elderly back-gammon and dominoes players who barely acknowledged the other patients, including Jamie; and if the pair did happen to bump into one another in the corridor, Jamie’s attempts at an intimate conversation were cheerfully and politely rebuffed, like old Mr Murphy had said his piece and wasn't interested in taking the relationship any further. 

Or is he waiting for me to prove something? Waiting for something to happen?

You see, Mr Murphy had all-but advised him to say the demon’s name. He thought it was the key to unlocking his memory: “If I were you I’d have to wonder why I’m afraid to put a name to the thing that scares me the most.” [See Part 19]

It was the only significant conversation he’d had thus far, but despite the old man’s apparent sincerity, Jamie couldn't bring himself to say it. He knew the power those syllables possessed -- especially in a metaphysical dimension -- but does Mr Murphy know? Is the old man a force for good?

Or is he the demon himself?

Whatever the existential circumstances, the lack of any stimulus whatsoever was driving him nuts. By Thursday morning he’d decided enough was enough; he had to do something break the deadlock. He had to see Mondale and arrange a consultation; preferably before the weekend. So, that afternoon after lunch, he’d approached the nurses’ station and talked to the hard-faced, middle-aged woman in the navy-blue pant-suit uniform whom everyone referred to as Sister. He tapped the thick, smudgy Perspex window and told her he felt much, much better and asked if she would be kind enough to arrange an appointment with Dr Mondale as soon as possible to discuss his ‘amnesia’.

Sitting at the counter on the other side of the glass, Sister replied without looking up from her work, “Dr Mondale has a private practise ‘n only attends this hospital on certain days,” she grunted, in her thick South London twang, “but I wouldn't hold me breath if I were you, luvvie; gettin’ an appointment with the ‘ead doctor can take weeks.”  

Jamie wasn't going to argue. Not just because she was a large, formidable woman and short-tempered with it, but a quarrel with her in particular could result in him losing his cool and blowing his chances altogether. He had to keep the boat steady and speak nicely. He gripped the outside ledge tightly to ease the tension and politely persisted, “OK then, if he does come in, will you at least ask if he’ll see me? Please?” he said, effecting the most earnest expression he could muster without looking too wet.

She clearly didn’t want to know but deigned to furnish him with an explanation. She stopped writing, pointed her biro at him and fixed him with a withering stare, “Look -- Mr Jameson-Lumb -- you’ve been here less than a week, ‘aven’t you? That’s not nearly enough time for us to make an initial assessment, let alone refer you back to the doctor!” she looked-him-up-and-down, “’specially after what you got up to! Wrecking the place?! Smashing-up mirrors and frightening the life out of the older patients?! Oh, no, no, no, you need to cool yer ‘eels and take fings slow for a while, then we’ll see,” she said, fanning him away like a bad smell. Then, just when he thought all was lost, a male nurse writing at the desk at the back of the office - a tubby, squat, spiky-haired 19-year-old peroxide-blonde with the pinched face of a sunburned urchin  - pushed off from his station on his swivel stool, trundled across the office floor, spun around and stopped just behind her so that he was looking up at Jamie from under her left armpit, “Mondale’s always ‘ere on a Froiday -” he began to say, in a thick Midlands drawl; but before he could finish the sentence, Sister cut him short with a curt: “Yes, thank you, Gaston!” Then she thought better of her tone, smiled affectedly and added with a playful snarl, “you’re such a helpful boy, arentcha?!” put a foot against the seat of the stool and sent him spinning across the floor, back to the desk. But the damage was done and Jamie was on her case.

“Friday? He comes every Friday?” he said, trying not to sound too excited, his nose all-but pressed against the glass.

“Not every Friday!” she barked, hooking a thumb over her shoulder, “Don’t pay no attention to young Nurse Masterson, he ain't been here long enough to know Dr Mondale’s routine,” she turned and added in an accusing voice, “in fact, I’m surprised he’s found the time to observe anybody’s comin’s-'n-goin’s what with his heavy schedule,” she jeered, “he’s on loan from another institution, see. He’s from Wolver'ampton. He’s not up to speed. ” She turned back, rolled her eyes and made a face.

“Well, I’ve been ‘ere for 8 weeks now ‘n ‘is green Bentley is always in its designated parking-space every Froiday...” muttered the disgruntled Wulfrunian.

She kept her eyes on Jamie, tilted her head and yelled, “Nurse Masterson! Go up to Geriatric, empty the bedpans, change the dressings and tap the drips, would you, dear?! Thank You!”

Appalled, the spiky-headed nurse pointed his pen at the clock on the wall above the desk, shook his head and protested, “Doreen did the rounds not ‘alf-an-hour ago!”

Her fists tightened until the knuckles whitened, the pained-smile intensified: “Thank you, Nurse Masterson!” she growled through gritted-teeth, in a low, don’t-mess-with-me-tone.

Gaston Masterson sighed exasperatedly, slapped his hands on the desk, laboriously hauled himself to his feet and trudged out of the inner door mumbling inaudible curses under his breath, his hands deep the sagging pockets of his baggy-blue flannels.

Jamie, wide-eyed and eager, asked again, “So... if he comes in tomorrow... will you ask him?”

She was very agitated now, but Jamie was too reasonable to be fobbed-off. After shuffling through some papers on the counter, she eventually capitulated with extreme reluctance, “Look, just to get you off my back, I’ll see what I can do -- but like I said -- don’t get your hopes up,” was as far as she would go. Jamie graciously accepted the reply and slowly and gracefully withdrew -- then, as soon as he was out of sight of the window -- he bolted down the adjacent corridor and grabbed Masterson by the sleeve of his tunic before he exited the security doors. Alarmed, the spiky-headed nurse shook off Jamie’s hand, shied-away and pointed to the sign on the wall: “No Patients Beyond This Point!” he recited, shakily, backing over the thick red line painted across the floor.

Jamie took a step backward and put his hands in the air, “Listen, dude, I’m OK, I’m fine, honestly, but this place is driving me crazy -- I need to see Mondale! Could you arrange it for me?"  he whispered, trying not to sound frantic or manic.

Shaking his head, Masterson turned away and walked toward the exit, “Look, I know your story ‘n I sympathise, but I can’t get involved. You heard the ol’ bat, and she’s doin’ my report, she’d just luv to ‘ave an excuse to fail me!” he said, glancing up the corridor, making sure the object of his disaffection wasn't listening.

Jamie heard the hesitation in his voice and pleaded with him, “I just need to talk to him for 5 minutes. It’s really important -- If there’s anything you can do, y’know, it would mean an awful lot to me...?”

Masterson paused to have a think about it, but eventually the little pinched urchin-face screwed up, “For Christ’s sake, can’t you get one of your visitors to do it? Or your solicitor?!” he whinged, turning back, taking his swipe-card from his back pocket as he approached the doors.

“I don’t get visitors and I haven’t been assigned legal counsel yet! I don’t have anyone...” Jamie whisper-shouted, in an impassioned voice.

The beleaguered nurse stopped again, sighed, tapped the swipe-card on his chin for a moment or two and contemplated the pros-&-cons, “If the ol’ bitch foinds out I’ll get a bollockin’, for sure... then again, I do fancy his secretary... I suppose it’d gimme an excuse to go upstairs ‘n chat-‘er-up...” he looked up the corridor again, grinned and nodded, “OK, mate, I’ll see what I can do,” he said, thoughtfully, chuckling to himself as he swiped the door and pushed his way through.

That was all Jamie needed: a ray of sunshine at the end of a long, dark, tedious tunnel; something to cling to. He punched the air and skipped up the corridor, giving Sister a wide smile as he passed the nurses’ station.

So now he can’t sleep. He’s lying atop the covers in his room-slash-cell smoking, staring at the ceiling going over the impending interview in his head, making sure he has an answer for any question and a plan of action for any twist in the discourse. The main thing is he has to be believed. He has to get out of here. No matter if it is Real Life or not.

If this world works on logic, then I’ll take it to its logical conclusion...

...

The next morning he was up at the crack of dawn, pacing his room, wondering if he should go to the canteen wait for Masterson to come down for his breakfast and ask him if he’d delivered the request. No. He’d have to continue playing things cool, any sign of impatience could be construed as impending mania. And what if the meeting doesn’t happen.... what then?

I’ll be in a straitjacket by Sunday.

But that afternoon after lunch, after hours of chain-smoking, nail-biting and constant clock-watching, just when he thought he could take the suspense no longer, he finally got what he’d been waiting for. The tinny PA ding-donged, the hospital radio muzak cut-out and Sister’s voice crackled in the speakers, “Would Mr Jameson-Lumb please report to the nurses’ station.”

He didn’t need telling twice; he pushed his mop-&-bucket into a corner and hurried to the smudgy window. Sister looked as if she had a bad taste in her mouth as she delivered the message: “Dr Mondale wants to see you at 3PM,” she sang, in a would-you-believe-it-voice at odds with her sour expression.

 Jamie smiled, “Thank you, Sister, I owe you one,” he replied, gratefully - after all, who else could have arranged it?

Her eyes narrowed with mistrust, “Oh, don’t thank me; I just took the call from upstairs. Funny. I’ve never known 'im to take an appointment as late as 3 on a Friday. Ever. He’s usually teeing-off by 1:30.”

“Aren't I the lucky boy, then?” he trilled, grinning from ear to ear.

She turned and beheld the back of Nurse Masterson’s spiky head as he scribbled away at his desk, and murmured, “Very lucky, very lucky indeed...”

At 2:55PM, the same two burly orderlies that had escorted him on his first day arrived to take him to his appointment. They took the elevator back upstairs and walked him through the dim, wood-panelled Edwardian labyrinth that led to Dr Mondale’s office; but this time they stayed back at the door and allowed Jamie to walk to the chair in the centre of the room unescorted; this time the room was in semi-darkness, the curtains on the eyebrow windows drawn against the last glimmer of dusk. The only source of light came from a reading lamp on Mondale’s huge mahogany desk, behind which he sat writing, his gold cufflinks glinting intermittently as his hand moved across the page. He eventually finished, closed the notebook and sat back in the chair so that his face disappeared into shadow until only his shoulders, upper-arms and the lower part of his face were lit. “Jamie. What can I do for you?” he inquired in a lukewarm tone, drumming the clip of his pen on the edge of the blotter.

Jamie immediately went into Job Interview Mode: legs neatly crossed, hands folded in his lap, back straight, sounding lucid and self-assured, “First of all, thank you for seeing me at such short notice, Dr Mondale, I know this wasn't on your schedule.”

Mondale held up a yellow notelet, “Yes, my secretary got an urgent request from the nurses’ office. Most unusual. They know I like to keep my Friday afternoons free,” he replied, tersely, screwing the note into a ball. “So? What is it you wanted to see me about? Have you remembered anything from your past? Something I can pass on to the authorities...?”

Jamie answered as earnestly as he could, “No, but... I feel so much better, sir -- in fact I’m completely stable. Feeling normal. My mind is clear. Whatever trouble I may have caused must have been a passing phase, and I am sorry. But I’m OK now. I don’t think there’s any need to detain me in the Secure Unit any longer. I’d like to arrange an appraisal as soon as possible... with a view to getting out...?” he was forced to curtail his carefully rehearsed entreaty when he saw the sceptical expression on Mondale’s face.

The shadow shook its head and chuckled mirthlessly, “Getting out? Really, Jamie. As I’m sure you’ve been told, it takes at least two weeks’ observation before we can make a definitive assessment of your condition. I mean, who knows what could trigger another episode? When all’s said and done, we know very little about you. And if I seem a little cynical, it’s because I’ve lost count of the men and women who've sat in that chair - people who've been in here a lot longer than you - telling me how they ‘feel normal’ and how they ‘see things clearly now’. If I took any of them at their word, the country would be overrun with homicidal psychopaths, maniacal sociopaths and dangerous schizophrenics.”

Jamie had anticipated this reply and countered with confidence and certainty, “My violent behaviour was an aberation brought on by fear and confusion following an extended coma, not malicious intent or psychosis, sir. I don’t have those feelings anymore. Whatever it was, I’ve got it out of my system. I’ve adjusted. I’m just a confused amnesiac searching for answers, you have nothing to fear from me.”

A golden tooth gleamed as Mondale grinned, “You state your case quite eloquently and convincingly, and rest assured we will do all in our power to help you find those answers, Jamie, but I must warn you: you mightn't like what we discover.” He sat forward so that lamp lit his heavily-lined face, took off his reading glasses and stared, “Remember, Jamie, you’re not just here because of your condition, you’re also here because the police are still investigating your case and the circumstantial evidence points to you being a drug dealer -- and an armed one, at that. For all we know you could be a murderer, too. You see our dilemma. We can’t take any chances.” He paused to let that last comment sink in, then added, “You are a walking conundrum that everyone wants to decipher, Jamie. Your circumstances won’t change until we get to the bottom of you.”

Jamie moved to Plan B: “In that case, I’d like to see a solicitor ASAP,” he asked, self-assuredly if a little impatiently, crossing his arms to hide his fists.

“Very well,” said Mondale, sitting forward, nodding magnanimously, taking a note, “I’ll make the necessary arrangements.”

“When?”

His face low and fully lit, Mondale looked over the rims of his readers, glared and grumbled as if he’d just been insulted, “As soon as my secretary gets around to it.” Then he regrouped, took off his specs, rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, sighed and confessed, “I’m very sorry. I’m a little cranky, Jamie. It’s been a long week.” He smoothed his thinning hair, sat back in his chair and spoke from the shadows again, “Look at it this way: you were found unconscious in a cold, grubby squat in a condemned block of flats in a council estate notorious for its high crime rate. Here, you are safe, you are warm, you have a roof over your head. You get three meals a day and a comfortable bed. I can assure you you will be assigned a solicitor as soon as we do our first assessment in 2 weeks time.”  

Getting increasingly frustrated, Jamie lost it for a second and snapped, “I need to talk to someone today! I can’t stick this place a minute longer!” he cried, punching his thigh.

The orderlies stirred.

Jamie immediately apologised, relaxed and resumed in a more reasonable tone, “I’m sorry, Dr Mondale, but the Secure Unit is driving me up the wall. There’s nothing to do down there besides my chores and look out of the window. No good books, the TV’s only on for 3 hours every night, the hospital radio plays gawd-awful muzak all day long, there’s nobody my age who isn't a complete nutcase.... I lie awake in my room every night listening to the pipes drip and the clock tick... if I’m not mad already, I’ll go mad from the boredom...”

After a moment’s thought, Mondale cleared his throat, lowered his voice and explained, “Routine is very important to our patients, some of them are deeply disturbed; we don’t like to over-stimulate them. But I may be able get you a transistor radio for your room...” He sat forward again, made another note, then laced his hands together on the desktop, looked Jamie in the eye and asked, “There is one thing you could do for me.”

Jamie was all ears.

“Tell me that you no longer think this world is an illusion.... that this is just a dream.”

Although he’d expected it, the bluntness of the key question startled him. He swallowed the dryness from his throat and carefully considered his answer, finally settling on: “I know this is the Real world.”

The hesitation hadn't gone unnoticed: “Ahh, but do you truly believe it?”

Here we go. “Yes. I mean, what else could it be?” Jamie touched the side of the chair, “it’s tangible. When I cut myself shaving, I bleed. When I bang my knee on the bedside locker, it hurts. This is reality. I mean, the alternative is a crazy world of witches, wizards and demons, isn't it? The fever dream of a coma victim?”

Mondale stared for a moment longer then shook his head, “No. I’m sorry. I don’t believe you.”

Of course you don’t -- you can see right through me! -- he screamed inside, but on the surface, Jamie was stoicism incarnate, nodding sagely as if the doctor’s doubts were wholly justified, “I know how it seems, sir, but my brain created a world so vivid, that when I awoke, I thought this was part of the dream. I couldn't trust my own eyes, let alone believe the people around me... I suppose that’s why I lashed out.”

Leaning forward on his elbows, Mondale asserted, “If you are telling me the truth, then a few more weeks’ observation shouldn't...” but before he could go any further, there was a loud knock at the door; simultaneously the console on his desk buzzed. Confused, he frowned, lifted the receiver, listened for a few seconds, then grumbled into the mouthpiece, “Yes, I know! He’s at the door now! How did he get in?! You should have called security!! Oooh, nevermind -- I’ll deal with him! Goodbye!!” he hung-up and told the orderlies to let whoever-it-was in.

Jamie turned and watched as a lanky, middle-aged man, with a slicked-back widow’s peak, wearing a long, dark grey trenchcoat with the lapels turned-up to obscure most of his long, lugubrious face, entered the room. Jamie recognised him straightaway -- his heart leapt -- but he resolved to keep his own counsel until he saw how it would play.

“What is the meaning of this?” blustered Mondale, “my secretary told you to wait in her office until I’d finished with this patient?!”

“It’s this patient I’ve come to see!” the intruder curtly informed him, taking out his wallet and flashing his ID. He brushed past the orderlies, came and stood beside Jamie and explained in a broad-but-officious Northern Irish brogue, “Detective Inspector Harkness, RUC CID. I need to take this man back to Belfast with me on a matter of some urgency,” then he took out his handcuffs and grabbed Jamie’s wrist.

Although a little scared and bewildered, Jamie was mostly relieved. As soon as the hand touched his wrist he experienced a warm tingle and a familiar shiver ripple through his Essence. At last: a breakthrough!

Meanwhile, insulted by Harkness’ offhand behaviour and utter disregard for procedure, Mondale lost his cool, “What the -- the authorities are obliged to go through  the proper channels, DI Harkness! You can’t just turn up at my practise and drag my patients off like common criminals!!” Getting to his feet, he pointed toward the door and yelled, “Now, get out!” He looked to the orderlies as if he expected them to forcibly eject the interloper. Harkness stood his ground, looked back at them and scowled. They looked at each other, shrugged an apology, but unanimously decided not to intervene.

“Right! That does it! I’m calling the Chief Constable!” barked Mondale, picking up the phone again.

While the doctor made the call, Harkness stooped, covered his mouth and whispered in Jamie’s ear, “It’s going to be alright. It’s me - Carla.”

“Carla...?” 

The Ivy House

23:05pm GMT: 

The shadows rippled as the candles fluttered as Lady Beth swept into the drawing room and headed straight for the vast array of liquor bottles on the long Queen Anne sideboard, grumbling about the trials and tribulations of the previous 48 hours, “Bloody Washington... then bastard Rossington... fucking wolf-men!! ...what the hell will it be next? - come home someday and find the rest of the house burning down and Godzilla stomping around the grounds?!!” She lifted a hefty tumbler, poured herself a very large malt and diluted it with a short scoot of seltzer, “Where is the maid?! Where is Fordham the footman?! -- this is the second time today I’ve arrived home to no reception,” she shouted, glancing over her shoulder.

Puffing and wheezing, Ogden Castle, the Lumb family’s corpulent butler, pulled-up-short in the doorway, leaned against the wall to catch his breath and explained in a series of short, breathless gasps, “Well...milady... the household staff is... indisposed at the minute, milady, the proliferation of negative energy is making everyone sick... And we... we... moved Master Jamie back to his room in the sanatorium... Carla’s with him now, milady... keeping an eye on him... alas,” he shook his head disconsolately, “... I’m sorry to say, it... it isn't lookin’ good for ‘im, milady, he’s deeply entranced... we might lose 'im altogether...”

Glass aloft as if about to propose a toast, Her Ladyship hitched up her tight skirt, flopped into the couch beside the fireplace, crossed her legs, threw back her head and exclaimed in a devil-may-care-voice, “Well, that’s one bloody consolation!” she crowed, “I’ll get control of the estate and there’ll be one less fruitcake at the dinner table!”

Still wheezing, Castle leaned against the back of the armchair opposite and tried to spell-it-out, “I don’t mean he’ll die, milady, it’s somethin’ worse than that... if Young Master Jamie succumbs, we’ll lose everything, the Psychosphere will be destroyed...”

She put up a hand, clicked her fingers and cut him dead, “Ah-ah-ah! Don’t wanna know, buddy-boy! I’ve had it with this bullshit!!” she said, taking a large swig before curtly elaborating, “if it doesn’t affect This World or this house -- I don’t want to hear about it!” She kicked off her shoes, pulled her feet up under her, reclined on a plump Persian cushion and closed her eyes.

Castle waited for a moment then sheepishly informed her, “It will affect everything if the Young Master becomes possessed, milady. The demon will...”

The eyes snapped open -- she cut him dead again: “AH-AH! What I tell you? Demons aren't of This World, Ogden,” she said, drawing loops in the air with her finger, “it’s all... psychic-telepathic-mystical-hocus-pocus in your heads -- it’s got nothing to do with me!”

“Please hear me out, milady, indulge me just this once. If the demon invades the Young Master’s psyche he will infect everything -- and I’m not talking about him transforming into monster like Master Gosling, or a goblin-thing like Miss Danielle -- I’m talking about him becoming a different person altogether --- a man possessed -- manipulated from inside by something with the guile to utilise the coven’s resources to achieve its diabolical ends! For instance, can you imagine what would happen if he had access to the White House?!”

Her Ladyship arched an eyebrow and smirked, “Really......? Do tell.”

“This isn't funny, Lizzy!” he hissed, giving her one of his sternest looks, “remember what happened when he got his claws into you!” [See Part 4]

Her cheeks reddened as her blood rose; she sat up, punched a cushion and shouted, “I’m not being fucking funny!!” She pointed in the direction of the sanatorium, “Maybe demonic possession is the best thing for that twerp! Maybe that’s what we need: a cut-throat, cold-blooded, conniving son-of-bitch who’ll beat the Washington crowd at their own game! It’ll save me having to do it, for one thing! Because I’m getting mighty sick of all this cloak and dagger malarkey, matey-boy, I can tell you that!” She took another sip and then pointed a finger at the despairing, perspiring butler, “As I told you this afternoon -- before I had to rush off and snatch Wolf-Boy from Rossington’s booby-hatch -- the Washington Witches want rid of us -- and by the looks of it SCICI is in on the hit! It was written all over Rossington’s smug perma-tanned mug!!” She took a breath and thought back to the encounter then intimated with an indignant gasp, “... would you believe his chauffeur pulled a gun on me?! A gun, Ogden!! [See Part 18] First they accost me at the airport [See Part 16]  -- then Rossington’s henchman pulls a gun on me! That’s how low they’re prepared to go! Sir Arnold must be spinning in his urn!”

Castle did indeed find these tidings deeply disquieting, but first things first: “Milady, if Master Jamie gets possessed the demon will have control of the Psychosphere and he will obliterate every ‘Güül on the planet -- our very Souls will be devoured by his dark energy, the coven will be wiped out within hours. The staff will die. I will die. There will be no organisation, legitimate or otherwise. No spells, no enchantments,” he gave her a sly look, “no longevity potions or reconstructive surgeons, Lizzy.... Nothing.”

She raised an eyebrow and cocked an eye: you’re on very thin ice, mister, don’t push it.

But Castle continued unabashed, “There’ll be no one left but Master Jamie: heir to the estate and the Judge’s fortune, possessed of a spirit bent on the destruction of everything on this planet. And you, of course. That’s if he chooses to let you live, which is highly unlikely, given that you’re the only one who knows what he’s up to...”

She shrugged, “Then kill him. No Jamie: no one to possess.”

“We need him, Lizzy. If the Washington Witches have indeed moved against us, we need him more than ever.”

The morbid diatribe inspired another explosion of angst. She almost spilled her drink when she punched the arm of the couch and yelled, “Jeeeeezus H. Christ! What do I have to do to get some peace and fucking quiet round here?!” jumping to her feet, she rounded the couch and began prodding him in his gargantuan gut, reminding him of her murderous caveat that afternoon, “I warned you about goblin-girl, didn’t I? I warned you to get rid of her before I got back...” she paused to take another sip............ then the poking and heckling resumed, “But no, you ignore a direct order because all you care about is your stupid Prophesy and your bloody ‘Prime Directive’! And now look where we are! You useless sack of shhh........ Ooh, hello Xavier, darling, didn’t see you there...”

The tall, dark, mute, shaven-headed, broad-shouldered figure of her redoubtable chauffeur filled the doorway, cap under arm, Ivan Cochrane’s scrapbook in one hand and the roll of photocopied hieroglyphs in the other. “Everything alright, Xav? Did you put our patient to bed?” Her Ladyship asked, in much sweeter, much softer tone.

The chauffeur looked to the butler to expound. Castle cleared his throat and officiously obliged, “Since Master Gosling has returned to his original form, I instructed Mr X to put ‘im in a room on the 2nd floor toward the back of the house and strap ‘im to the bed as a precaution, milady.” Castle brought the chauffeur in and took the scrapbook from his hand, “Ahh, so this is the notorious scrapbook, is it?” he asked, looking at the cover. Xavier stood behind him, reached over his shoulder and flipped through the pages of childish sketches and comic book clippings until he found the page edged with a series of doodles -&-squiggles; underlining a particular section with his long, dark index-finger, he then turned and pointed at the ornate Bavarian grandfather clock in the alcove adjacent to the inglenook: 11:09.

“Midnight? It ends at midnight?” said Castle, getting evermore perturbed.

Xavier stood back and nodded, solemnly.

“Oh shite...” murmured Castle, studying the notation. 

Her Ladyship coughed and interrupted, “Excuse me, but what the hell’s going on now...?”

Castle was too busy studying the ‘text’ to supply a comprehensive reply, “According to this... the spell woven by Gosling and Young Master Jamie is due to expire at midnight, milady, and...”

There followed a long pause while Castle continued to scan the lines.

She thumped his arm, “... And?!”

The punch barely registered and he went on reading, pausing only to glance at the pocket watch, “I dunno... the rest is gibberish as far as I can see...” he looked up at the chauffeur and asked his opinion; Xavier shrugged and shook his head. Castle nodded in agreement, “Aye, it’s not like anythin' I’ve seen before, either.” He turned to Her Ladyship, “The only recognisable figures are these numerals denoting the witching hour, milady. If we’re right, it means we've got less than an hour to sort this out...”

“’They’? Are you referring to those ‘beings’ buried under the house?” she asked, getting evermore irritated by his lack of focus.

“Aye, milady, it was the Martyrs all along...” he held up the roll of the hieroglyphs, “from this spell in the Boy King’s tomb to the one that turned Miss Danielle into that goblin-thing!” he showed her the page containing said spell and Ivan’s childish rendition of the monster his daughter eventually became.

Her Ladyship screwed-up her nose as if the sketch smelled as bad as it looked, “Worthy of the National Gallery,” she sneered, crossing her arms and looking at the floor, “answer me this: if these Dark-Martyrs-or-whatever-they’re-called have been buried under the house for over 7000 years, then how the hell did they carve the runes in King Tut’s tomb?”

Castle sighed and spoke impatiently, as if he was talking to a boorish child, “The Martyrs’ had a band of so-called ‘disciples’ -- a bunch of human would-be sorcerers in-and-around the Middle East during the 8th century BC -- it’s more-than-likely they put it there. Trouble is, the demon was in the area at the same time, so there’s also the possibility that he could've meddled with it! Whoever’s responsible, we’re caught in a trap,” he looked to Xavier, “you heard the demon’s ‘confession’, didn’t you, Mr X? ‘My enemies will soon be vanquished. The ducks are all sitting in a row. It’s just a case of shooting them down, one by one’, he said, remember?” [See Part 18] 

Xavier nodded deeply and sombrely. 

“Well, it looks like the shooting is due to begin sometime in the next three-quarters-of-an-hour!”

A strong draught blew through the room causing the candles to flicker, the shadows to sway and the fire to crackle with a sudden burst of flame.

All three looked down at the floor.

“Will all of you die?”

“Most assuredly, milady.”

“Even Xavier?”

“Uh-huh. Every Güül on the globe will perish within minutes, milady. There’ll be Soul death on a massive scale.”

“What do we do?”

Castle looked at the clock again (11:14), “I need to study this ‘text’, see if I can work it out before midnight. I should consult with the ancient mystics and the elders down in Namibia, get their take on it, but that’s impossible what with the Psychosphere rife with negative energy and the crystal balls too hot to handle...” Just then, the walkie-talkie cackled in his inside pocket, “That’ll be Gustafson at the gatelodge, milady -- if you’ll excuse me, the reception is better by the windows...” he walked to the back of the room and put the receiver to his ear.The news wasn't good: “Oh dear, oh dear.... Bear with me a moment, will you, Gusty....” he turned back, beheld her with a hapless frown and nervously passed it on, “You won’t believe this, but apparently Detective Inspector Harkness is here, milady -- and he’s on foot. Says his car broke down. Says he had to abandon it ‘n walk the rest of the way...” he squeezed his eyes shut and winced in anticipation of the inevitable explosion:

“Harkness?! HERE?! NOW?!” she screeched, glancing at the clock (11:15), “What in the name of holy fucking-fuck is that bastard doing here at this time of night?!”

“Says he’s on official police business, milady, ‘it can’t wait’, says he,” Castle gave her a brief summary of the nights’ events, including Harkness’ kidnapping [see part 18] and McKee’s subsequent rampage south of the border, “so... will you see him, milady?”

She was flabbergasted and aghast! It took her a good few seconds to collect her thoughts, “What the fuck has his kidnapping got to do with us...?”

“Well, McKee was the man who set fire to half the house 3 years ago, milady, he could've told him something; Harkness could've made a connection... I dunno. We won’t know anything unless you talk to him, milady,” suggested Castle, timidly.

She paced the floor in front of the fireplace -- gnashing her teeth, tearing at her hair -- speechless with rage and incomprehension!

“I hate to rush you but Gusty’s waiting, milady...?”

She threw up her hands, stomped a stockinged-foot and ranted, “You might as well tell them to bring him up -- but he can bloody wait a while! I need a bath -- and it’s gonna be a long-fucking-soak!” She slugged the rest of her drink, slammed the tumbler down on the sideboard, picked up her shoes and stormed out, “Will this day ever fucking end.....?” Then she stopped suddenly, had a second thought, swivelled on her heel, stomped back, took the half-full bottle of malt from the sideboard, clasped it to her breast and stomped out again, giving Castle one last scowl before she left.

Castle made sure the coast was clear before issuing Xavier with his orders, “Go upstairs, keep watch over Master Gosling and await further instructions,” he whispered, handing over his walkie-talkie, “I’ve got four men with rifles stationed in the basement watching young Dani,” he glanced toward the window, “Carla’s in the sanatorium keeping an eye on Master Jamie, so I’ll go over there ‘n send her over here to entertain Harkness.” He put the scrapbook and the roll of photocopies under his arm, “while I’m there, I’ll study the runes, see if I can make head-or-tail of this. If not, we might haveta take drastic measures...” he looked up into Xavier’s sorrowful, deep, dark eyes, “I trust you to know what to do, Mr X. Just keep it nice ‘n quiet, OK? We don’t want the Inspector hearin’ anything that might give him cause to seek a search warrant. Got a knife on ya?”

Xavier lowered his eyes and nodded, gravely.

Castle patted his arm, “Good man,” he said, taking a last look at the clock (11:19). Before they parted, he smiled a pained smile and shook Xavier's hand, “Best of luck Mr X. One way or another, brother, this’ll end at midnight...”

A few minutes ago, in the sanatorium, in Jamie’s room: Castle’s niece, Mme Carla Infanté, clad in jeans and a grey sweatshirt, her long, silver hair strewn across the shiny black satin pillow, idly runs a long, slender index-finger along the jawline of her slumbering muse and reflects. She studies the outline of his profile intently, and, not for the first time, wonders if she’s doing the right thing. After all, it’s been 30 years since she’d turned her back on This World to embrace the more cerebral side of witchcraft under the tutelage of Ebben Blom, the most powerful psychic alive. She’d divested herself of her mortal coil’s base desires to become a fully-fledged Silver Siren: emotionless, pragmatic, instincts honed, powers at their peak; a woman devoid of sentiment or doubt. Putting her faith in a callow boy was a retrograde step, was it not?

During her years in active service she’d taken many lovers, male and female, but purely for pleasure or exploitation. She’d also bedded a veritable rogue’s gallery of royals, generals, spies and heads of state on behalf of the coven; mortals who needed guidance or diversion on their iniquitous paths. She’d walked through the dark catacombs of warped psyches and emerged with her sanity intact. She knew how they ticked. She’d killed quite a few of them, too. She’d gazed without emotion into their beseeching, bewildered eyes as the last spark of life dimmed there and died. She felt nothing for the living or the dead...

...until she met Jamie, looked into his head, and saw something that changed her mind. [See Part 8]

Taking the mirror from his pillow, she looked into her own eyes and asked herself: is my unquestioning devotion clouding my judgement? Is he truly a ‘Messiah’? Or is she kidding herself? Is Uncle Ogden right: is she seeing something she wants to see because she’s smitten? Is it because she never had children and her devotion is a belated awakening of motherly instinct? Or perhaps I am just getting old?  She drew her fingernail across Jamie’s throat. If I was truly dutiful I would kill you before he takes you...

“Penny for them thoughts, ssssssssister!” hissed a voice, somewhere above her.

Startled, she immediately sprang to a sitting position and listened. She hadn't heard any doors opening or closing: this could be an incursion! Then a serpent’s head suddenly dropped down from the canopy, “scare you, did I, luvvie -- I am sssssorry,” it hissed as it coiled around the bedpost, its scales glinting like tiny wet cobbles in the candlelight.

Needless to say it was Noel, the late Judge’s 100 year-old foulmouthed, troublemaking, pet Burmese python [see part 10] and Carla was not pleased to see him, “What are you doing in here? Get out and leave us in peace!” she moaned, lying back, putting a hand to her brow and waving him away. Nobody had any time for Noel, least of all in the midst of a crisis.

“Is that a mirror on the pillow? I thought yezzz weren’t allowed to ‘ave mirrorssss after the last time?!” he asked, in that annoying, reedy, sneery voice of his.

“Go away Noel.” She looked up, “How did you get in here anyway?”

“Via the central heating duct, have to keep close to the pipes, ssssee, what with me bein’ cold-blooded ‘n all and it bein’ friggin’ freezin’ outsssssside!” he turned his head and tilted it in the direction of the rear wall. “I wanna know what’s goin’ on! Nobody elssse will tell me: Dresh ‘n Gebbit (the botanical gardeners) are in a right mood -- told me to fuck off, so-they-did!  The house is like a fuckin’ graveyard -- you should sssee the kitchen ssstaff -- missserable as sssssin, they are! Sat round the hearth wringing their hands ‘n hummin’ one of them stupid chantsss! It’s like a bloody morgue down there, so-tissssss!” He descended further and looked down on Jamie, “... I suppose it’s all down to coma-boy, again, is it? Him ‘n that lizzzzardy-girlie-thingummy you’ve got locked-up in the dungeon, innit? They’re both away with the faeries, ain’t they? It’s got to do with that demon, innit? He’s got into their headsssss, ain’t ‘e...?”

Carla tried being nice about it, “Noel, please, please leave, this is not a good time...”

But Noel was undeterred and explained as he slithered down, “I’m not psssssychic, me, y’ ssssee. I’m just a talkin’ snake, me -- I can’t read yer minds or follow yer mumbo jumbo -- but I’m a member of thissss-here household, oh yessss indeed, I’m not a ssservant or a guessst -- ‘n I have every right to know what’s afoot! Yesssss?!” he said, his tongue lashing.

Feigning interest, Carla propped her head up and stared into his beady eyes, “Hmmm, I was forgetting that. You’re really just a common Familiar, aren’t you?” she remarked, with a hint of intrigue in her tone.

Noel was affronted, “Familiar?! I’m a magic  sssnake, me! I’m the Eighth fuckin’ Wonder of this world, missssy: I can talk -- Familiars can’t talk, no sssssireeeee -- there’s only one of me!!” his voice lowered to a low, hissy growl, “... what are you gettin’ at, anyway?”

Carla sat up, “Magic snake or not, I could peer inside your little skull and see your thoughts. I wouldn't need the Psychosphere to do that, would I?  I could look directly into your memories -- uncover all your secrets! All I would have to do is touch you...” she said, mischievously, and began to crawl along the bed toward him, her eyes locked on his, a predatory smirk playing on her lips.

Still wound around the bedpost, Noel swung his head away, “Oi -- keep back -- I heard about you!! You’re one of them ice-queens, aintcha?! Asssssassssins, yez are! Don’t you dare lay a hand on me,” he cried, as he tried his best to uncoil and retreat, “get back, now, I mean it -- I’ll choke the life out of ya! I might be long in the tooth, but I can still ssssssqueeeeeze -- !”

Alas, Carla was too nimble for him -- in a flash -- she leapt forward, snatched him by the neck and pulled him to her. A long thumb was now pressed against his lower jaw forcing his head up so they were nose-to-snout, gazing into each other’s eyes, “Did you know that physical contact provides an instant connection with the nervous system of any living creature?” she asked, archly, grinning evilly, her teeth gleaming, “you are all mine, Mr Snake.”

Now stiff as a bishop’s crosier, Noel protested loudly in a high, panicked voice: “Fuck off! Lemme go! Help! HELP!! MURDER!!”

She put a finger on the top of his head and said, “I’m not going to kill you. But I could if I so desired. I’d just have to think it and that tiny stone of a heart of yours would stop beating...”

The old snake proceeded to bleat like a condemned coward on the steps of the guillotine, “Have mercssssy! I’m only a lowly, lonely snake with nuthin’ to do but slink round this miserable auld housssse day-in-day-out -- I’m harmlesssssssss, me!!”

“It won’t hurt. I just want to burrow into your mind for a few minutes...” she said, with an evil glint in her eye.

“Ohh no! Don’t, pleeeeeeeasssssssse...”

“Let ‘im go, Carrie,” said a voice to her right, “You know full-well he doesn’t have a Soul. You’d probably kill him.” Her uncle waddled into the chamber and closed the door behind him. “Also, he’s protected by Sir Arnold’s last will & testament. The old man was very specific: ‘no harm must befall my beloved Noel’.”

“Hear that?! -- I’m a protected sssspeciessss!! Ssssso --- lemme go, bitch!” hissed the snake, triumphantly.

Carla begrudgingly released him from her grasp. He fell from the canopy and landed in a coiled heap on the counterpane, hissing and cursing. “I was only trying to frighten him, uncle. He needs taking down a peg or two from time-to-time,” she explained, in a dull voice laden with ennui.

“He’s a right-royal-pain-in-the arse, there’s no doubt about that, my darlin’, but there are more important things to worry about than the capers of a meddlesome serpent,” said Castle, agreeably, before sharpening his tongue and addressing the python directly, “so fuck off back to the wee jungle with ye -- and stay outta trouble til this business is settled, OK?!”

Noel didn’t need telling twice and slithered away as fast as he could, stopping only to hurl a volley of obscene misogynistic expletives from a safe distance before disappearing into the darkness at the back of the room. Castle took a chair from beside the dressing table, brought it to the bed and informed her, “I’m taking over the vigil for a while, Carrie. You’re needed at the house: hostess duty,” he informed her, sitting down with a heavy sigh, “Detective Inspector Harkness has decided to pay us a visit and Her Ladyship insists on havin’ a bath before she talks to him. In the meantime, I need to study this,” he held up the scrapbook, “so you’ll haveta entertain him for a wee while until she’s ready.” He sat forward, looked down at Jamie and said, “it shouldn't take more than half-an-hour.”

“So, that is the infamous scrapbook?” she asked, wondering why he was avoiding her eyes.

“Tis indeed, my dear,” he said, putting a hand on Jamie’s shoulder and changing the subject, “how has he been? Any change?”

Carla looked at Jamie and shook her head sadly, “No, he hasn’t stirred, but his pulse and breathing are steady... although, his skin feels cold...” she said, then changed the subject back, “So, that is the book that contains the spell that cursed young Danielle?”

“Yep, this is the cause of all the recent trouble,” he said, opening the book on his lap and flipping through the pages while relating the story of Lady Beth’s visit to SCICI and Master Gosling’s unfortunate mutation. However, his explanation failed to mention the impending midnight deadline or his plans for the hapless victims should the worst come to the worst. Carla knew he was hiding something and gave him a sly look, paying particular attention to his pockets. “No need to worry, Carrie, I’ll take good care of him,” he muttered, without looking up from the page.

Still not entirely convinced, she nevertheless moved to the edge of the bed and began to undress, “What does Harkness want?” she asked, pulling off her sweatshirt and unbuttoning her jeans.

“Gawd only knows, chile. Probably something to do with this eejit McKee. That’s why I’m making meself scarce. I’m not in the mood to stand to attention ‘n keep quiet while he makes sarky innuendos.” He went on to tell her about  McKee’s most recent activities, “He’s on the run in Wicklow, and according to our Mr X, the Familiar and its master are presently in hot pursuit -- he clocked them at the border checkpoint an hour ago. If they can find him before the cops - contain him - and Jamie manages to hold-out that long, the demon could be forced back to the host and a calamity could be averted... but as I’ve told you before,” he glanced at Jamie and sighed, “he’s been stuck in the Void for a long time, Carrie, the Martyrs are risen, and we dunno what they’re up to. All things considered, you may prepare yourself for the worst.”

“Jamie will surprise you,” she replied, confidently. Now naked, her pale skin shimmering in the candlelight, Carla crossed the room to the walk-in wardrobe and perused the myriad outfits on the rail, eventually selecting a slinky, tight-fitting, black Lycra catsuit. “I’ve met Harkness before, have I not? He is one of Chief Superintendent Ogle’s men, is he not?”

“Aye, but Harkness has hadda vested interest in us way-before Ogle got involved. He had a longstanding feud with Bernie, he got so close [see part 2, part 4 and part 5] we hadda take drastic measures,” he put a finger to his forehead, “one of the auld witches in Donegal wiped him, but we don’t know how effective it was; so no mind games, please Carrie. It might trigger a memory. OK?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll play it safe,” she replied, wriggling into the flaccid limbs of the catsuit. “After all, I’m merely a visiting cousin who knows nothing.” She shimmied to straighten the seams, lowered the zip to display a little more cleavage and pinched her nipples until they protruded through the skin-tight cloth.

The big butler looked up from the book, saw what she was doing and advised, “By all-accounts he’s a cold fish, Carrie, you won’t distract him with t-&-a. He’s  seen it all before; he’s ex-Vice.”

“I know what I am doing. Just make sure you keep Jamie warm.” She went to the dressing table, dabbed her pulses with perfume and slipped into a precipitous pair of open-toed black pumps. Before leaving, she took a last look at Jamie and said, “Please don’t kill him, Uncle Oggy.”

“I’m just gonna sit here ‘n try ‘n figure this thing out....” Castle replied, distractedly, seemingly too engrossed in his work to look her in the eye.

She shot him a last mistrustful glance and went off to do her duty...

Archie was delivered from the gatelodge to the house in a spanking-new military jeep. The driver, a thunder-faced, heavy-set, shaven headed, beetle-browed hard man in generic fatigues, was giving nothing away despite his sardonic passenger’s incessant enquiries: “Did I spy torches shining across the fields tonight -- were yez combing the grounds for an intruder?” “Paparazzi, was it? A snooper?” “Were yez on night-manoeuvres?” Archie chimed, in the same loud, upbeat tone he used to chide suspects who’d invoked their right to silence. As they passed the uproarious kennels he asked, “Them ol’ hounds are howlin’ somethin’ shockin’ -- did something happen to upset ‘em?”

Unmoved, the driver kept his eyes on the road, his hands on the wheel and his lips firmly zipped.

“They have you well-trained anyway!” Archie tittered, slapping the outside of the door with his left hand. 

Not that there was much to titter about. He might have been bullish on the outside, but on the inside his guts were churning, his heart was pounding one-to-the-dozen, his fibre suddenly beset by another unwelcome twinge of direst déjà vu; the same all-encompassing thrum of dread that infested his bones the night of the attack on Pascal’s Pub [See part 2] not to mention his recent encounter on the estate: the very essence of Barry McKee. The air fairly reeked of him. Of it. But if the most recent Gardai reports were to be believed the bold Barry was currently running amok in Wicklow -- 200 miles south of the border. Tell that to my gut, though. The daunting feelings only intensified as the jeep approached the mansion on the hill. An all-too-familiar shiver ran up his spine and prickled the hair on the nape of his neck. By the time they reached the courtyard he was silent, suspicious and morosely circumspect.

The notorious ‘Silver Lady’, AKA Mme Carla Infanté, was waiting for him at the top of the marble staircase. Pallid and perfect as usual, clad in a figure-hugging, black catsuit, casually leaning against an ornate brass lamppost on the patio, smoking a long cigarette in a black holder with the slight breeze gently tousling her long, straight silver hair. She cut quite a figure. A sight for sore eyes and no mistake. Archie momentarily forgot his aches & angst and took-her-in as he slowly ascended the shallow steps, taking the time to smooth back his widow’s peak, tuck in his shirt, fasten the top button and straighten his tie. She looked even better up-close: the outfit accentuated her pale skin so that her face and cleavage became almost luminescent in the muted glow of the gaslight. Of course, Archie’s suspicious mind was working overtime: I wonder if this is for my benefit? An attempt to lower my guard, perhaps...?

Smiling delightedly, she received him with a long, slender, porcelain-white hand, “Good evening, Inspector, what a lovely surprise,” she said, graciously and sweetly, in that seductive, can’t-quite-place-it, Mediterranean purr of hers.

He meekly apologised for the lateness of the hour and gently shook the hand; it was soft and dry and ever-so-slightly slightly cool. “To tell you the truth, luv, I was expecting to be met by the ol’ family butler, y’know -- Mr Castle? Gone to bed, has he...?” Archie asked, as she led the way through the dark of the cavernous vestibule into the dimly lit main hall.

“Mr Castle is busy tending to the Young Master and Lady Beth is having a bath, Inspector, she will be down presently,” she replied, amiably, “in the meantime, I am afraid you will have to make do with my company. I hope you don’t mind...?” She paused at the cloakroom and offered to take his coat but Archie politely refused and confessed he found the house quite chilly, “I suppose this place is too big ‘n draughty to keep the heat,” he commented, looking up the at the high, arched ceiling.

“Our tribe is the hardy type, Inspector,” she explained, cheerfully, “we don’t feel the cold. Some of us rather enjoy it! (big surprise, thought Archie) But not to worry, there’s always a fire in the drawing room!” She invited him into the warm, candle-lit chamber where, sure-enough, a sizeable log fire was crackling in the grate. She offered him a seat on one of the long, leather couches adjacent to the fireplace and then went to the sideboard to fix the drinks. As he made himself comfortable, Archie remarked on the row outside, “The dogs are kicking up quite a racket, I must say. Something spook ‘em, huh?”

Carla shook her head, put her hands on her hips and playfully complained, “Oh, those silly mutts! There must be a fox wandering around the kennels; that usually starts them off. They’ll soon be quiet when they go out on the midnight patrol... Can I get you anything, Inspector...?” she gestured toward the array of bottles and decanters.

Archie smacked his lips and admitted, “Now you come to mention it, luv, after the day I’ve had, I could murder a cuppa tea.”

She laughed, “Yes, if what I hear is true you’ve had quite a time of it! Drugged?! Kidnapped?! Bound and gagged and strapped to a bomb?! I am surprised you are not tucked-up-in-bed sleeping-it-off!”

“Well, I wasn't ‘strapped’ to the bomb; the door to the flat was booby-trapped. But it just goes to show ye -- good news really does travel fast, doesn’t it?” he joked, with a cocked-eye, like: keepin’ tabs on me, are yez?

Unfazed, Carla confessed with a little chuckle, “We saw it on the late-night television news -- they said you were abducted by the same man that murdered those little girls and buried them in the forest. A madman with nothing to lose! You were lucky to escape with your life, no?”

Archie smiled and replied with a wee hint of flint, “Very lucky, very lucky indeed...”

She frowned and tutted, “Ghastly business, thank the stars you lived to tell the tale,” then, as if to bring the matter to a close, she clapped her hands and went to the interior phone, “now, what would you like, Inspector? Earl Grey? Green? Oolong?”

Archie didn’t want a fuss, “No, no, that’s alright, luv, I’ll make do with a glass of water,” he said, flapping his hands.

“It is no bother, there is always a maid on duty,” said Carla, punching the extension button; after placing the order she went back to the sideboard, “I think I will have a large brandy!” she exclaimed, uncorking a large crystal decanter and pouring a few fingers into a sizeable balloon, “Are you warm enough, Inspector? Shall I put another log on the fire for you?”

Harkness didn’t hear the question, he was unselfconsciously staring - not leering exactly -- but staring distractedly at the shapely, Lycra-sheathed backside currently wagging in his direction; he eventually commented in a voice dry and wistful, “The last time I saw that -- I’m sorry, I mean: the last time I saw you, you were climbing the steps of Purdysburn mental hospital, y’know, on the day Dani Cochrane died.”

The conversation had taken quite an unexpected turn, but Mme Infanté didn’t flinch, “Really? I don’t remember seeing you,” she replied, still smiling benignly as she crossed the room, put her balloon on the coffee table and went about lighting another cigarette. “It is hardly surprising, though. It was such a chaotic day. Everything is a blur. Poor Danielle,” she said, exhaling a cloud of smoke in a regretful sigh, picking up her drink, settling into the armchair opposite and crossing her long legs, “It was such shock to us all.”

Slipping into interview mode, Archie sat forward and clarified, “Sorry, you misunderstand me, Madame Infanté -- I didn’t see you ‘in person’, as-it-were, I saw you on film. Well, y’know -- video tape. The BBC sent me their unused footage, cos remember, that was the day Dani was supposed to be transferred to SCICI [See Part 9], there was a lotta public interest, there was a protest ‘n everything, and the local news crews were there to cover the story,” he did walking-fingers across the top of the coffee table as he described the scene, “it shows you: walking up the drive - passing through the mob of photographers and protesters - through the police cordon -- right by the security guys -- straight up the steps and through the front door without breaking your stride. And it has to be said, you were very striking in your snazzy little-black-dress,” Archie paused to take her in; from her perfectly pedicured toes to her shimmering décolletage and commented, “very striking indeed...” then his extended brow furrowed, he shook his head in mock-disbelief, “but here’s the thing, Madame Infanté: none of the people we talked to could describe you with any degree of accuracy. Even the clerks at the reception desk who signed-you-in have only a vague recollection of the encounter.” Archie sat back and insinuated with a wry smile, “You haveta wonder how come such beautiful woman didn’t make much of a an impression.”

She smiled, smoked and sipped, shrugged and laughed it off, “What can I say, Inspector? Maybe I simply slipped their minds?!”

Archie stroked his lantern jaw and murmured thoughtfully, “Hmmm.... ‘Slipped their minds’, you might have something there.... Cuz if you ask me there’s been an awful lot of minds slippin’ recently. For instance: the detective assigned to investigate Dani’s assault on her doctor -- the one who oversaw the signing of he papers, remember him...?”

Her gaze unwavering, her voice steady, she supplied the answer with a regretful frown, “Yes. Inspector Volt. He became very...” she turned, stared into the embers and scoured her mind to find the right word “... vexed.”

“Vexed?! You should hear him! He’s aff his friggin’ trolley! Makin’ all sorts of wild accusations, he-is!” Archie snorted, “The boss hadda put him on the sick for his own good!” He winked again, sat forward, tapped the tip of his nose with his finger, lowered his voice and confided, “I shouldn't say anythin’, but wait-til-ye-hear-this -- poor ol’ Jerry thinks you were sent by the Lumbs to mess with his head. He thinks you, like, mesmerised him. Whaddya think of that?!”

“Are you insinuating that I am in some way responsible for Mr Volt’s mental breakdown, Inspector Harkness?” she asked, blowing a plume of smoke in his direction.

Archie waved away the cloud  and snorted, “Naaah, don’t be silly now... You’re not a hypnotist, are you?”

She smiled that beautiful wide-mouthed, toothpaste-white-smile; her eyes twinkling as she replied in a warm, amused purr, “Is this an interrogation, Inspector? Do I need to call a lawyer?”

Archie tilted his head and feigned surprise, “Why, Madame Infanté? Have you something to hide?”

The smile faded but she remained unruffled and answered plainly, “I am unfamiliar with the laws of this country. If this conversation is pertinent to your investigation, I will need to consult with legal counsel. I would not wish to incriminate myself...” 

She paused to take a long sip of her drink and a long pull on her cigarette, but inside her heart was racing -- it was all she could do not to cry out in surprise! Not because she was shaken by his questions or caught in a lie -- but because she’d just glimpsed a telltale glint of something peculiar-yet-familiar in his eyes and the shock of realisation was almost too much to contain! Unfortunately, the situation was too delicate for any sudden gasps of amazement; she had to maintain the sangfroid façade a little while longer and choose her moment. 

Meanwhile, Archie, astute as ever, had noticed the slight change in her demeanour, but he was getting tired and there were bigger fish to fry: Her Ladyship, for one; that shifty butler for another. He relaxed, rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, adopted a lighter tone and confided in an intimate aside, “I’m sorry if I come across as a wee bit brusque, Madame Infanté, but, I have this terrible affliction, you see. It’s cost me three marriages, most of me mates and nearly put me outta my job. You know what my sickness is, miss?”

She shook her head and continued to stare into his eyes.

He took a deep breath, sighed and confessed, “I can see right through people. I’m a walkin’ lie- detector, I am. I can smell a rat in a matter of minutes, and although it’s a blessin’ in my line of work, it can also be a friggin’ curse. Cos I can’t switch if off. I’m a real pain-in-the-neck. I havetae get to the bottom of everybody I meet, and most people take exception when you pick ‘em apart to figure-out what makes ‘em tick. Especially people with somethin’ to hide.”

They gazed unblinkingly into each other’s eyes for a few moments as the fire crackled and the grandfather clock tick-tocked (11:39PM) in the darkened alcove behind him......... Then, all of a sudden, he began to feel slightly woozy; the heat of the fire, the candlelight and the heavy, smoky atmosphere seemed to conspire to make him drowsy...

Without breaking eye contact, Carla swirled her brandy and almost crooned, “You've been through hell today, Inspector Harkness. You haven’t eaten; your blood sugars are low; your reflexes are slow. It’s time to rest. Relax. Let go.........”

The words echoed around the inside of his skull like a chorus of overlapping whispers... and the longer he stared into her eyes, the more he seemed to lose focus. Was it his imagination or were her eyes changing colour? It was probably an optical illusion, but the irises seemed to sparkle like the glistening facets of spinning gemstones, each colour slowly fusing into the next; from gleaming emerald, to bright azure blue, to glimmering amethyst...

Now that her subject was slightly beguiled, Carla broke away to douse her cigarette in the large marble ashtray and subtly took control of the conversation, “Tell me Inspector, when you were abducted, how were you rendered unconscious?” she asked, nonchalantly.

“Hypodermic in the neck,” moaned Archie, letting his head roll back on his shoulders, closing his eyes and rubbing his throat, “gawd knows what the bastard put in it, but whatever it was, it put me out like a light... Next thing I know I’m blindfolded, bound ‘n gagged ‘n taped to an ol’ radiator in a smelly ol’ flat. Quite an evening, all told... It’s funny though...” he said, as he turned and looked up at the huge Art-Deco mirror above the mantelshelf.

“What is funny?”

“When Malky -- that’s the guy who got me out -- when he took off the blindfold... it was like I was in a scene from some ol’ daft auld horror movie. The room was flashing with the blue lights from the squad cars outside... 'n all you could see was shattered glass from the broken mirrors...” Archie half-whispered, dreamily.

Fascinated and enthused, Carla sat forward and begged him to go on, “Mirrors, you say?”

Archie nodded and dreamily elaborated, “Aye, that’s right, mirrors... dozens of ‘em. All shapes 'n sizes... all over the walls... But all broken, y’know, smashed...?” For a moment his mind was filled with distant memories; a flickering montage of inexplicable images and disembodied voices; i.e. the ‘talking mirrors’ in the pub in Donegal... McKee’s rasping voice whispering in his ear... Jamie’s voice in his head......... then one of the logs cracked loudly in the grate and snapped-him-out of his trance. He sat up, cleared his throat and looked around, “Ummm... where is Master Jamie, by the way?”

“He felt unwell and decided to have an early night. Please tell me more about your ordeal, Inspector, it is most enthralling,” Carla replied, finding it increasingly difficult to hide her excitement and keep her voice steady. Time was short, she needed to know something in particular and there was only one way of finding out for sure: physical contact. She needed to touch him, and soon. “Oh, it is hot here by the fire,” she puffed, fanning her face with her open hand, “you don’t mind if I join you,” she asked, putting her drink on the table, slipping out of her shoes and curling up on the opposite end of couch,

Archie was a wee bit wary but raised no objections and moved up. “I wonder where that tea is?” he murmured, looking at his watch (11:42).

“It will be here presently... but please, do go on.”

Now feeling a bit hot under the collar himself, Archie straightened his tie and politely demurred, “Now, now, I’ve said too much already, miss, I haven’t even been debriefed by the detectives in charge of the case yet.”

“Oh, please don’t stop, it is most exciting and unusual thing I have ever heard -- I promise I won’t tell anyone,” she pleaded, in a conspiratorial, kittenish-whisper, moving closer, “was there anything else other than mirrors...?”

For some reason Archie couldn't see the harm in indulging her with one last detail, “Well, there... there was this sorta shrine as well,” he shook his head, “well, when I say ‘shrine’ what I mean to say is it was a load of ol’ tat rigged-out to look like a shrine...” the thought of it made him shudder, “brrr -- very creepy, all-the-same, made my skin crawl, sent the ol’ proverbial shiver up me spine. Like I said, it was like somethin’ from one of them daft ol’ horror movies... like one of them video nasties me daughter watches... McKee must be outta his mind...”

She shifted even closer; he felt her hip against his thigh, “A shrine, you say?” she gasped, her eyes widening, her lips pursed into an o, “this is most fascinating! What sort of shrine? You think maybe McKee is a Satanist?”

“Not unless the devil is a dog,” Archie hazily replied.

“A dog?”

He turned, gazed into those twinkling eyes again and confided in a low whisper, “It was an old, rusty coat-rail with a skeleton suspended from it on wires, y’know? Like some sorta gruesome puppet. Malky said it was a whippet,” he suddenly remembered, “oh yeah, come to think of it, it had a nameplate on it, but it wasn't a name I’ve ever seen before... A strange word, it was. Burned into an auld piece of wood... What did it say? What was it now...?” he frowned as he tried to remember... 

... and then, just as it reached the tip of his tongue -- a long, slender finger planted itself firmly on his lips, “Don’t say the name, Inspector. Never say that word,” she warned, in a low, husky purr.

As soon as the fingertip made contact, Archie’s mind was delightfully blown. His head began to spin and swim as his cerebrum was filled with an ecstatic maelstrom of flashing colours, wonderful images and joyful thoughts. His eyes rolled back, his mouth fell open, his body slumped as he gave-himself-over to blissful, carefree abandon. Carla leaned close and whispered into his ear, “You might see right through people, Inspector, but I see into them.” She straddled him, held his face in her cool hands and pressed her brow against his so that they were nose-to nose, “You have something in your eye, Inspector, and I mean to get it out.”

Harkness lost consciousness as Carla projected. They didn’t hear the knock at the door or see Alice, the tiny, blonde-bobbed chambermaid, as she backed into the room, deposited the tea-tray on the sideboard and began pouring, all the while grumbling to herself about the lateness of the hour, her migraine and the horrible twinge in her guts. When she finally turned around to ask if their guest wanted milk & sugar, she almost dropped the pot! “Ooh! Shite! I am sorry... I’ll come back when you’re... finished, shall I? Erm, just ring the bell...” she stammered, as she slowly backed out of the room -- just in time to put a heel down on Lady Beth’s exposed big toe!

“Ooooow!” Her Ladyship howled, hopping mad, taking off the slipper to massage the offending appendage, “watch where you’re going, you silly little bitch!” she screeched. 

Fresh from her bath, her hair tied in a coiled topknot, dressed in a long, ivory silk dressing- gown and matching pyjamas, smelling of bathsalts and malt whiskey, she eventually recovered and finally noticed the exaggerated look of dismay on the gormless girl’s gob. “What the hell’s the matter with you anyway?!”

Alice pushed the door open a crack, indicated the odd coupling on the couch and whispered, “I think they’re at it, milady!”

Her Ladyship’s jaw dropped! “What the f---” Shoving the diminutive maid aside, she barged in and loudly demanded an explanation, “What in the name of all that is holy are you doing, woman?!” she yelled, hands on hips, her face puce with anger. There was no reaction: Carla’s legs remained clamped to her victim’s hips, her hands pressed against the side of his head, the tip of her nose pressed against his. It was apparent that Harkness was completely out to lunch, his eyes rolled back to the whites as if in the throes of mind-numbing-nirvana. “You can’t do this, you stupid cow -- he’s a cop -- he’s out-of-bounds! Get off him!!”

“She cannae hear you, milady. She’s gone inside ‘is 'ead, milady!” whispered Alice, tiptoeing up behind her.

“I know what she’s doing, pipsqueak -- she’s fucking things up -- that’s what she’s doing!” Her Ladyship strode across the room, lifted the seltzer syphon from the sideboard and took aim at the couch, “I’ll soon get her off!”

Alice jumped in the way and put up a hand to stop her, “NO, milady! You can’t interrupt a beguilin’ all-of-a-sudden! You could cause ‘im to ‘ave a seizure or somethin’ -- his brain could pop -- it could send ‘im totally doolally!” she cried, screwing a finger into her temple.

Her Ladyship slammed the seltzer down on the coffee table and ran to the door, “Where’s that bloody oaf, Castle! He was supposed to take care of Harkness, not her! CASTLE!! CASTLE!!” she shouted up the hall...

5 minutes before, across the courtyard in the sanatorium, Castle was still sitting by the bed scanning the incomprehensible squiggles in Ivan Cochrane’s scrapbook, occasionally glancing at Young Master Jamie with a despairing frown. He couldn't make head-nor-tail of the text, such-that-it-was. The only thing that made any sense was the notation of the chant, the tempo and the expiry time, the rest was incomprehensible. Shite, if Mr X can’t make-head-nor-tail-of it, what chance do I have? He looked down at the mirror on Jamie’s pillow and ruefully shook his head, if only they hadn't used mirrors to project... 

Bloody Mirror World... then he was struck by a sudden flash of inspiration. 

He picked up the mirror and held it against the edge of the page so that the lines of indecipherable doodles were reflected in the glass; his eyes widened with surprise and delight! “Of course! It makes sense that the men who created Mirror World would devise a text you can only read by reflection!”

He looked at his watch, “11:55.” No time to call for help! Then he had another notion, turned and gazed into the darkness at the bottom of the room, “Noel? Are you still there?”

“...............erm................. .............No....?”

“Come-on-out, I won’t be mad, I promise. I need you to do me a big favour...”

The snoopy snake slid out from his hiding place, slithered through the woolly sheepskin mat at the foot of the bed and onto the bed, “I wasn't listenin’, y’know! I was just takin’ a nap in the laundry basssket!”

“Nevermind that -- how’s your singing voice?”

“Carla?” whispered Jamie, slightly relieved, but mostly confused.

“Ssshhh, let me do the talking,” Harkness/Carla(?) whispered back.

Mondale finished his call, put his elbows on the desk, laced his fingers together and addressed his uninvited guest in a clipped, condescending tone, “The Chief Inspector has no knowledge of this and says you have no jurisdiction here. In fact, he’s so outraged by your behaviour he’s phoning your superior officer right now to demand an explanation. I’m afraid I will have to ask you to leave.”

“I don’t care if he calls the Queen herself, I’m not goin’ anywhere without this man,” the detective replied, calmly and assuredly.

Mondale stood up, leaned over his desk and pointed at the door, “Do I have to call security and have you physically removed?”

This time Harkness didn’t reply; he simply reached into his coat, produced his gun and levelled it at the indignant shrink.

Jamie couldn't believe what he was seeing -- he heard a commotion behind them and one of the orderlies mutter “fuckin’ ‘ell!”

Naturally, Mondale’s composure was seriously compromised; he sat down slowly and deliberately, straightened his tie, cleared his throat and made with his best bedside manner, “Now, now, there’s no need for that, Inspector... think of the consequences of your actions... We need to sit down and talk this over man-to-man... Please, put that gun away,” he reasoned, holding out his hands in a consolatory gesture.

Without further ado, Harkness cocked the trigger, took aim and shot Mondale in the centre of his forehead -- his brow instantly disintegrating in an explosion of blood, bone fragments and brain matter -- his upper body juddering for a second before flopping face-first onto the desktop, an outstretched arm swiping the lamp onto the floor where it smashed on the hard, polished boards, plunging the room into complete darkness. Jamie heard the orderlies dash out of the door and slam it behind them. 

Shocked and bewildered, shaking his head in disbelief, he slowly got to his feet, “What the... what the fuck did you do that for...?” he muttered, in a bewildered whisper,

“Throwing a spanner in the works,” said Harkness; then the voice changed to Carla’s as she explained in a warm, reassuring tone, “none of this is real, Jamie. Your astral form is trapped in the Void, your consciousness trapped in this phantasm fashioned from Harkness’ memories. That’s how I got here -- through his psyche -- he’s at the Ivy House now! I’m physically connected to him.”

Before Jamie had a chance to ask any more questions or think things through, the alarm blared outside in the corridor. Although this was the breakthrough he’d been waiting for, the world around him still sounded and felt all-too-real. This could be a trap. On the other hand, he still had that chill in his bones, and the touch of her hand made him feel warm: it feels right. But he had to be sure, “I’ve been here for almost a week...?”

“Surely I don’t have to remind you that the natural laws of time and space do not apply in an abstract dimension,” Carla impatiently explained, “the demon performed a ritual using multiple mirrors to invade the Void and then used Harkness’ psyche to trap your consciousness. He’s trying to break your spirit so that he might possess you!” her voice cracked as she cried, “Come, Jamie, please -- we must be quick! I can’t stay here for long -- Harkness’ psyche is too delicate, the demon is too powerful -- and I have no insulation!” She drew his attention to a dim violet aura now visible around his entire body, “if not for that protective shield, you would have perished out here hours ago!”

“Then who’s protecting me?” Jamie asked, examining his glowing hands.

“We are,” announced a gruff but unmistakeable voice in the darkness behind them. 

“Mr Murphy?!” said Jamie.

“Yes. I’m Merfi from the Darkly Woods,” said the voice.

Jamie: “Oh, I get it -- you’re that Merfi -- you’re one of the Martyrs.”

Carla: “The Martyrs? You did this? You trapped Jamie here?”

The alarm bell suddenly stopped ringing; the temperature dropped to freezing; the floor disappeared, they were now hovering in a vacuum. They were indeed in the Void.

“We created this dreamscape to hide the boy and to keep him occupied while we formulated a plan of action -- but your foolish incursion has put paid to that! Now we’re utterly exposed and it’s almost midnight!” The voice lowered to a threatening growl, “We have to hurry! He’s coming for you, boy, and it won’t be like last time, oh no!”

“What do you mean?” asked Jamie.

“He was weak the last time he petitioned you, his powers were at low ebb [See Part 5]. Now he is omnipotent! There’ll be no need for bargaining -- no deals! He’s free of his host and he’s amassed enough energy to take possession of your Soul by force!”

Carla replied: “But how do we know you and your cohorts are not his allies? How do we know you are not complicit in his plan?”

Merfi’s voice sounded in their heads, <I haven’t time to explain -- suffice to say we’re in a life or death situation. Listen!>

They became aware of a distant sound -- akin to the booming-rumble of a huge bowling ball rolling along the floor of an empty ballroom -- they felt a malevolent energy fill the ether -- as if something wicked was headed their way and it was getting closer with every passing second!

<Project! NOW!> the voice cried.

“How can we trust you?!” yelled Carla.

“How can I trust anybody?!” yelled Jamie.

The pair felt a presence come between them and take their hands, <Shut your gobs ‘n LEAP!!>

Their astral forms were duly sucked up and out of the Void like 3 luminous leaves swirling in a metaphysical vortex, and yet they weren’t funnelled toward the small glowing aperture from whence Jamie had come, but to a much larger circular portal above -- there followed a blinding flash of ultraviolet light -- and then they felt themselves falling through the night sky, down through the papery foliage of treetops, down through rubbery twigs and branches, until they landed with a dull, painless thud on a soft, daisy-covered grassy-knoll. They lay on their backs and took a moment to recover, and saw that the huge glowing circular portal was now a crooked full moon set in a dark, deep purple firmament. One thing was for certain: they were no longer in Harkness’ subconscious or the Void, but in a different dimension entirely. They appeared to be at the entrance to a wood, but there was something a little off about it; everything looked artificial and cartoonishly-childlike, like an animated world constructed from the pages of a kiddie’s pop-up picture book. 

It was all very familiar if the expression on Carla’s face was anything to go by. She had reverted to her own avatar, but it was apparent her time in the Void had severely sapped her reserves, her Aspect so weak she was almost transparent; Jamie could barely make her out as she walked to the centre of the glade, looked around and nodded.

Still dressed in blue-striped pyjamas and slippers, but holding a long blackthorn staff, Merfi twirled the tip of his long silver beard around his finger and asked her, “You know this place?”

She beheld the misshapen moon with a wry smile and said, “Oh yes. I know it well. This is Fairyland, it was the first dreamscape my sister created for us when we were children. It was our happy place, we would come here when times were hard.”

“This is Electra’s imagination? Is that good or bad?” asked Jamie, a little alarmed. He’d heard a lot about Carla’s sister over the past few years and none of it was good.

“Oh, it’s bad, dear boy -- you only have to look at that sky!” said Merfi, pointing his staff at the swirling, purple clouds and cupping his ear in reference to the grumble of distant thunder, “whatever it was before, this dreamscape is now infested with his energy!”

“I know one thing for sure: Electra is here! I sense her Essence in the ether!” snarled Carla, clenching her fists, “I knew it! I knew in my Soul she did not step into the light and Ascend when she died -- she came here: a ghost haunting her own imagination!” She angrily kicked a cartoon toadstool out of the grass as the implications sank in, “I was right!! She’s been in league with him all along! She lured Dani here knowing Jamie would come after her!” She had another thought, “Little Red Riding Hood... the Big Bad Wolf... This is why Gosling morphed into a wolf-man...”

“Goz is a wolf-man...?” gasped Jamie, getting evermore confused.

Carla gave him a brief summary of Gosling’s recent misadventures then apprised him of the situation as it stood, “When both of you performed the ritual in front of a mirror, the magic you created became unstable in the Void; the demon trapped you, but Gosling must have made it through -- or was allowed through, we don’t know -- the point is he must have become taken on the guise of the character, then the warped spell must have rebounded and pulled him back, causing his earthly body to  temporarily mutate. That is how dangerous it is.” She gnashed her teeth and pointed an accusing finger at the ancient mage, “This all began with your hellish ‘Messiah Spell’! You and your confederates caused this catastrophe!”

“We carefully devised a ritual to create a being capable of destroying the demon, not aid-‘n-abet him, we went to a lot of trouble to ensure its efficacy,” said Merfi, taking in the tidings, nodding sagely, “so the spell was performed twice and rebounded in the Void, eh? Well, we didn’t account for that eventuality...” he turned to Carla, “... and you say your sister has lured the demonspawn here? That accounts for the rum grumble in me belly...” he groaned, “she must be around here somewhere, too...”

“Dani’s here? Where?!” asked Jamie.

Carla was already running along the little pathway into the darkened forest, shouting, “Follow me!”

Merfi watched them disappear into the trees as the moon clouded over and the picture-book landscape darkened. Once they were out of sight, he rapped his blackthorn staff on the ground 3 times and 3 figures in glowing hessian robes duly materialised behind him, their arms crossed, their cowled heads bowed. Without looking over his shoulder, he led them along the path, “The Witching Hour is upon us, my brothers. It’s time to finish what we started 7000 years ago...”

5 minutes ago, in the Real World, Lady Beth was just about to call the sanatorium and give Castle an earful when Alice suddenly cried out, “Oh milady! Look! Madame Carla!!”

The typically poised and proper Silver Siren had lost consciousness mid-mind-meld and was now sprawled in an undignified heap next to the still insensible Harkness, legs splayed wide, head resting on his shoulder. 

“What the hell happened?” Her Ladyship snapped, slamming down the receiver and striding back to the couch.

“I dunno, milady! She sort-of-groaned, threw 'er 'ead to the side and rolled offa 'im!” whinged the dismayed chambermaid, keeping well back, biting her nails, standing cross-legged and writhing on the spot as if she badly needed a pee.

Lady Beth raised an eyebrow, “So she’s broken the connection, has she?! Then we can wake her up, can’t we?!” she said, smiling wickedly, rolling up her sleeves and raising her hand to administer a good, hard smack, “I’ve been waiting for this for quite some time...”

Again, Alice intervened by physically inserting herself between the intended victim and her would-be assailant, only this time the entreaties that accompanied the impertinence were verging on the hysterical and somewhat shrill, “It won’t do any good, milady! -- she’s entranced, so-she-is!” Alice grabbed the collar of her mistress’ robe, “Can’t you feel it?! This is the night of the demon, so-tis! This is all his doin’, so-tis! She’s doomed, so-she-is! We’re all doomed! He’ll kill us all, he-will!!”

“ENOUGH!” the infuriated virago got to slap a face after all. Upon impact, Alice’s mouth instantly snapped shut. She clasped a tiny hand to her livid cheek and whimpered with quivering lip as she watched Her Ladyship tighten the belt on her gown and march back to the phone, “Right! Where’s that fucking butler...” she grumbled, punching the button marked ‘sanatorium’...

...

3 minutes before, Castle was reciting the text reflected in the little mirror and tapping out the requisite beat on Jamie’s tablas whilst Noel intoned the chant. Well, he tried: “Fuck it! I can’t do this!” the churlish serpent cried, breaking-off for the umpteenth time, “it sounds friggin’ ssstupid -- I can’t get the hang of it!”

The big butler stopped drumming and erupted in a fit of frustration, “NOEL! FUCK!! Keep going!! Jeezus Christ!!” he yelled, “We nearly had it there!”

“Fuck you, fatssso, I’m going back to the laundry bassssket,” Noel hissed, putting his snout in the air and turning away in a show of defiance.

Castle pleaded with him as if he was begging for his life, which, in a way, he was, “Please, Noel, all ye have to do is keep doing what you’re doing -- it’s working! -- ‘member it’s just a chant, it doesn’t have to sound good! But whatever you do -- once you’ve got it -- don’t stop!”

Noel thought about it.

“C’mon, you’ll have a ball tellin’ everyone how you saved them from extinction -- you might even enjoy it!”

“I very much doubt it...” Somewhat mollified but still muttering about the indignity, the snarky snake reluctantly returned to his place, “How’s this supposed to help coma-boy, anyway?” he asked, nodding at the slumbering Young Master.

Castle checked the digital clock on the bedside locker: 11:57. “I’ll explain later, we’re running outta time -- now come on! After me...” Castle had just begun to intone the chant to get things going again, when the internal phone buzzed in the hall. He ignored it and carried on.

“Aren't you gonna answer that?” asked Noel, “It’s probably Lady Bitch gaspin’ for a snort, innit? You know what she’s like if she doesn’t get her nightcap.”

Castle assured him that nothing was more important than what they were doing right now and resumed tapping on the tablas and intoning the backward words...

“STOP!!”

She had just uttered the first syllable of the dreaded word when she was abruptly interrupted by a distant cry. 

“Dani! DON’T!!”

She looked toward the edge of the forest -- “Jamie?!!” She squealed, jumping up-and-down with delight upon seeing her beloved Young Master’s glowing avatar run out of the trees, closely followed by the rather faded form of her Great Aunt Carla! “Don’t say it, Danielle -- it is a trap!” she shouted, as they pushed their way through the mob of fearsome fairytale folk.

The hovering spectre was not at all amused by this untimely intrusion and ordered his motley militia to waylay and silence the interlopers forthwith. The hideous fairyland creatures obediently closed in -- Carla and Jamie were immediately besieged by two of the 3 Bears and 4 diabolical dwarves, their mouths stifled with foul tasting apples supplied by Snow White’s wicked stepmother. Once they were captive and mute, Blist turned his attention back to Dani. “Say the word, little girl or I’ll have their Souls torn apart.”

“I’m not sayin’ a bloody thing until you let ‘em go!” Dani yelled, stamping her foot, putting her nose in the air and defiantly crossing her arms.

Blist snapped his fingers.

“SAY THE WORD!” the grisly rabble roared and hissed, as they jostled and threatened the captive pair with bared fangs, oversized kitchen knives and lumpen spiky-cudgels.

But before Dani could tell them to eff-off another, older voice cried out “Pack it in, Zomber Blist!” and an old man in stripy pyjamas and slippers brandishing what looked like a knobbly wizard’s staff emerged from the wood, giving-out as he marched through the throng, “You always were a bit of a maverick, weren’t you, Blist? Well, the game’s up! I’m afraid we've lost the day.”

The glistering Martyr begged to differ, “All the more reason to complete the spell! We've nothing to lose now, have we?! She MUST say the word!”

“No, Blist! It’ll only hasten the inevitable!” another voice cried out.

Attired in the same glowing hessian robes as the hovering wraith, the remaining Martyrs emerged from the darkness betwixt the trees and approached their comrades. Jamie recognised two of them (Nedi and Bezeel) as Merfi’s backgammon buddies; the other, a short, slender man with very feminine features (Zöch) was his ‘case worker’ Dr Sloss; come to think of it, the hawk-faced spectre of Zomber Blist bore an uncanny resemblance to the intimidating orderly who threatened him in the Special Unit on his first day. [See Part 19]

“Look here, my brothers -- our old friend Blist has taken matters into his own hands -- again!” Merfi announced, sardonically, “Maybe you can talk some sense into him!”

But his fellow wizards were just as unhappy with their predicament and immediately surrounded their beleaguered elder brother to air their grievances; one in particular seemed to be taking it very badly, “We've been out-played!! He’s has all of us right where he wants us! It’s checkmate, my brothers!!” whinged the tubby Welsh necromancer known as Parswald Nedi. Arms aloft, he pleaded with his aggrieved colleagues, “I say we split-up and take our chances elsewhere!” 

“We can’t hide from him, you fool,” Merfi dolefully informed him, pointing his staff at Jamie, “once he takes possession of the boy’s Soul he’ll have the means destroy The Psychosphere from within. There’ll be no hiding place for anyone, least of all the 5 of us.” He shook his head and sighed, “There is nothing left to do but make peace with our consciences and prepare for the bitter end.”

Nedi refused to believe it was over; he fell to his knees and beseeched the churning, incandescent heavens, “Then the Powers That Be must intervene! After all, they broke the natural laws by creating a Familiar to track down his earthly host! [See Part 6] They won’t let it end like this!!”

“The Powers That Be have long since forsaken us! We were entrusted with the means to destroy him, and we failed, miserably,” said the long haired, androgynous Assyrian mystic known to the Psychic World as Prince Molton Zöch.

“Yes, they empowered a crippled dog to do our work, that’s how much faith they have in us,” said the tall, hollow-faced, French alchemist known as Bezeel.  

“I knew this would happen!” cried Nedi, getting evermore anxious, “we shouldn't have meddled -- we shouldn't have deviated from the Prophesy!”

“Oh, shut your soppy pie-hole, you craven Welsh jellyfish!” sneered Blist, ”We knew what we were doing when we agreed to this! ” Now that the jig was up, he eschewed the evil wizard act, came down to earth and ordered the creatures to release Jamie and Carla.

Dani immediately ran to her beloved Young Master and threw her arms around his waist, “I thought you were gonna die out in the Void! They wouldn't let me go after you! But I knew you’d come and save me!!”

“I’m happy to see you too, Dani-girl, but I’m just as helpless as you,” replied Jamie, stroking her head, gazing up into the tumultuous skies, “this is one nightmare I’ll be happy to wake up from.”

Dani looked up at him and asked, “Will we wake up?”

Jamie looked to the Martyrs for a glimmer of hope, “Is there a way out of here?”

Nedi slapped his forehead and pointed at the trio of Living Souls, “Listen to these fools! They haven’t a clue!” he shouted, angrily, pointing an accusing finger at Blist, “and you said it was foolproof!”

“There were unforeseen circumstances!” countered the cadaverous wizard, glaring at the craven spectre of Pritchard, “I wasn't to know the last Judge would fall prey to senility and entrust the execution of the ritual to this self-serving dullard!”

Pritchard stood behind the grimacing figure of Electra and tried to look inconspicuous.

Noticing him for the first time, Jamie jeered, “I might have known you’d have something to do with this, Bernie!”

The shady ghost shrugged, threw up its arms and yelled back, “I just followed the instructions as written -- I only did what was required of me!!” 

“Oh yeah? Does that include collaborating with the enemy?!” Jamie replied.

“Hah! Jamie’s right -- you’re to blame for everything!” Dani chided, and informed the wizards of her nemesis’ past indiscretions, “He tried to kill us! He used me to make a deal with the demon!” [See Part 9].

“Can you blame me?! He had me locked in a death-haunt! Any one of you would've done the same!” Pritchard protested.

Tutting and shaking his head, Zomber Blist sombrely informed his brothers, “I discovered this dreamscape a few a few hours ago while you were taking care of the boy. I overheard the girl’s grandmother relating her story,” he fixed Electra with a gimlet-eye, “she made a deal with the demon. She lured the demonspawn to this dimension knowing the boy would come after her!”

“I didn’t know it would come to this -- all I wanted was for little Dani to be a normal little girl again!” cried Electra, trying to hide behind Pritchard.

Despite having guessed as much, Carla was no less furious with her late sister! She stormed up to the cringing ghost of Dani’s golden-haired grandmother and yelled in her grimacing face, “Look at what you’ve done Ellie! After all this time, after all we've been through -- you haven’t changed one iota! And now your selfishness will destroy us all!”

“Ivan begged me to do it! His wee girl was a goblin -- what was I to do?!” Electra screeched, sobbing into her shawl.

“Bloody women!” shouted Nedi, scornfully, “I knew they’d screw-things-up! They ruin everything!!”

Carla wasn't going to stand for that! “I am a Justified Siren! have spent two lifetimes defending the coven -- I have eschewed all fleshly pleasure to pursue a Life in the Mind and expand my consciousness,” she said, giving Pritchard a cold stare, before putting a translucent hand on her ward’s shoulder and attesting, “I have explored Jamie’s psyche and I say he is the true Messiah! He is the key to defeating him. All is not yet lost.”

“He’s not the Messiah,” Blist snorted, derisively, pointing a long, glittering fingernail at Dani, “she’s the Messiah.”

“Dani?” Carla, Electra. Pritchard and Jamie gasped in unison.

“Me...?” muttered Dani, screwing up her face as if  it was the craziest thing she’d ever heard.

Merfi nodded and grimly explicated, “It had to be a Silver Siren. A female.The demon doesn’t possess women, he prefers alpha-males blinded by greed and ambition. The Messiah had to be a strong, defiant woman with a will that can’t be broken.”

“That sounds like our Dani, alright,” said Jamie.

“Me...? Really...?” muttered Dani, still trying to take it in.

“Your father was just a vessel, you are the fruit of his enchanted seed,” Bezeel explained, turning toward Carla, “your esteemed Young Master may have inherited his grandfather’s advanced psychic abilities and strength of character, but he is no Messiah.” He looked Dani up-and-down and regretfully sighed, “This waif had all the talents required, until her father turned her into a monster,” he then turned and glared at Electra, “and her grandmother brought her to the forest and offered her to the demon!”

By now, Electra was almost hysterical: “How many times do I have to tell you, I did it for --”

“Silence!” bellowed Blist, cutting her off, “You've said and done enough!” He explained to his comrades, “Once he was in the forest, he must have sensed our presence and conspired to exploit the energy we had amassed. He buried the bones of slain children in the soil by the brook, using the energy from their trapped Souls to tap into our resources in order to take control of the ‘Sphere and engineer this trap.”

During the ensuing discussion it emerged that the ‘Martyrs’ trial and interment 7000 years ago was the beginning of a top-secret operation devised to exterminate the demon once-and-for-all. When arrested for the crime of creating the Void, by way of a plea-bargain, the indicted wizards told the Grand Council that they had the wherewithal to formulate a spell that could produce the Messiah cited in The Prophesy: a wunderkind impervious to his dark magic and endowed with a psyche powerful enough to destroy him in any realm. The problem was, it would take up to at least 5000 years for the stars to align and the right conditions to arise; hence a mock trial was staged and the ‘Martyrs’ were buried in a state of extended hibernation, all the while amassing the energy required to aid in the final battle. In the meantime, it was imperative that the demon, his confederates and his spies believed in their guilt, and that meant lying to the rank and file. Everyone involved with the coven -- from the true-blood Güül to the half-blood witches -- had no idea what was going on, literally under their noses; only the Judge and a few elder members of the Grand Council were party to the truth. In keeping with the text of the Prophesy, the coven then arranged for a band of the Martyrs’ so-called ‘disciples’ -- a group of human ‘magicians’ in league with the demon and versed in the grimoire, but possessed of no real psychic ability -- to inscribe runes for what they thought was the Martyr’s curse in a secret chamber in Tutankhamen’s tomb.  

Alas, as always, fate conspired to thwart their designs: “1200 years ago, the Vikings invade and the demon finally arrives in Wicklow. An old witch manages to pry him from his dying host him and trap him in a bottle [See Part 3] -- but instead of taking it straight to the Grand Council -- she buries him under a chestnut tree!” cried Nedi, shaking his head as if he still couldn't take it in.

Bezeel: “The holding spell she used wasn't strong enough to contain him. No matter how deep she buried him, his Essence could be felt in the ether; he may have been very weak and relatively harmless, but he was still an existential threat.”

Merfi: “The incumbent Judge called an emergency meeting of the Grand Council and questioned the tribal leaders.”

Zöch: “Despite a thorough interrogation, the witches never uttered a word.”

Bezeel: “There was nothing to do but continue with our plan.”

Merfi: “After that, came Christianity and the witch-hunts. The coven was decimated. In the knowledge that one day in the distant future a child would be born endowed with the powers to destroy him, a few pure-blood infants were transported to wealthy relatives in Southern Europe, well out of harm’s way.” He turned to the Infanté sisters, “You are the descendants of those children,” he turned toward Dani, “ and this little girl is that child.”

Electra and Carla (now almost transparent) looked at each other, then looked at Dani and shook their heads in disbelief.

Blist: “Unfortunately, her father was a dreamer just like his mother. When we inculcated him with the spell on the table mountain, his mind kept wandering, his head filled with imaginary creatures, like the monstrosity he sketched on the same page as the transcription!”

Merfi: “When you joined him in the incantation, his imagination transformed you into an approximation of that atrocious illustration!” [See Part 1]

“I’m still an ugly green goblin, if that’s what you mean. I only look like a normal person in my imagination,” said Dani, sadly, looking at her little Red Riding Hood avatar.

“And if all that isn't damning enough, he implores her grandmother to make a deal with the demon,” said Blist, addressing the others while scowling at Electra, “she was corrupted and became bait for this trap.”

“And we fell for it!” bawled Nedi, clenching his fists and whining like a child. “7000 years buried in a deep hole... 7000 years of sleeping and waiting with no contact with the outside world -- just to be rudely awakened and wiped from existence!”

“I blame the witches! They ruin everything! They should have been wiped from existence aeons ago!” said Bezeel, crossing his arms and putting his long nose in the air.

“These aren't witches -- they’re fully-developed Sirens! There’s no excuse! Face the facts, brothers -- we put our faith in a bunch of selfish, undisciplined amateurs!” shouted Zöch.

The conversation soon deteriorated into a squabble as the wizards shouted over one-another, arguing the finer points of their machinations like a cluster of irascible dons. Finally, Merfi raised his staff and gently waved them down, “There’s nothing to be gained by reproaching each other, my brothers,” he said, drawing their attention to the escalating electrical storm, “he is here and we are undone”

Sure enough, there followed a deafening crack of thunder -- the ground beneath their feet shook with the tremors of an earthquake -- the foliage around them sloped and billowed as powerful crosswinds racked the fairytale forest! A jagged bolt of ultraviolet-lightning struck a tall pine tree, instantly setting it ablaze! As it fell into the centre of the clearing, the evil creatures immediately dispersed and fled back into the woods, squealing and roaring with fright! All, that is, except one: a rather dishevelled and dejected looking Big Bad Wolf remained behind, its head lowered, its straggly, bushy tail hanging limp between its legs.

“Goz?” said Jamie, incredulously.

The goofy-looking, picture-book wolf nodded.

“Yeah! He was here earlier! We watched ‘im disappear in a puff of smoke!” shouted Dani, holding Jamie’s arm tightly.

“Aye, that’s one you need to talk to! He came to me lookin’ for the scrapbook!” yelled Pritchard, gratefully shifting the blame, “he cast the spell through a mirror -- he’s the one who kicked this off -- not me!”

They watched impassively as the wretched wolf sheepishly shuffled toward them, turning the brim of its battered top hat in its paws, explaining in a broken voice, “That’s right. It’s true. I’m only a half-blood, I’m not a telepath; I used the spell to open a portal in a mirror and searched for Dani’s signature in the ‘Sphere. I wanted revenge on Jamie... but somehow I ended up here, in this dreamscape, looking like this,” he looked at Dani, “when I heard the two of you talking, I realised what was happening and tried to intervene. Next thing I wake up in the Real World and I look like a werewolf! I can’t go back now. Not that there’s much point, since it looks like we’re all going to die anyway...”

Something occurred to Jamie; he cocked his head and asked Merfi, “You told me to say the word when we were in the ‘hospital’.”

The elderly sorcerer nodded, “A simple, subtle case of reverse psychology, my lad: it was the one way of ensuring you wouldn't say it. We know how sensible you are. But it’s all academic now. Like this pathetic creature says, we are about to die. And you are about to be possessed...”

That gloomy remark was punctuated by an especially loud crack of thunder -- another bolt of lightning flashed down from the heavens and struck the smouldering hollow that used to be Little Red Riding Hood’s granny’s cottage, the resultant explosion casting the smoky-debris high into the air! They stood well back and watched in awestruck silence as a huge vortex surged up from the fiery crater, spinning the miasma of smoke, ashes, cinders and incinerated timber so fast that the disparate fragments seemed to bind, meld and solidify, until they formed a hulking, fiery, monstrous figure at least 50 feet tall! When the vortex abated and smoke cleared they saw what it was -- the gargantuan figure of a barrel-chested lumberjack wielding a huge, flaming axe!

“This is it my friends,” cried Merfi, “only a miracle can save us now...”

Just like the fat butler predicted, Noel had become completely consumed by the sound of his own voice and the rolling rhythm of the tablas. He was now locked into the seductive sonic vibration, his body rigid, his head erect, his eyes staring straight ahead; chanting the compulsive drone, over and over again, without hesitation or deviation. 

For his part, Castle was nearing the end of the text; the ritual was almost complete -- when Jamie suddenly began to writhe on the bed, his breathing quickening, as if he was extremely stressed or in pain!

As the he digital clock on the bedside locker counted down the last minute before midnight, Castle began to intone the last refrain...

...

Crosswinds assailed them from all sides, harrying them into the centre of the clearing where they were utterly exposed and wholly powerless in the shadow of the fuming, coal-black, smokestack lumberjack. They were well-aware of the fact that it was an unnecessary piece of theatre: the demon sardonically defining the situation with a visual metaphor; you are just a swarm insignificant insects to be swatted from existence. And just as Merfi predicted, their nemesis had nothing to impart before the execution. There was no acerbic monologue, no vainglorious gloating, no deals: just a killing joke.

The surge of dark energy was too much for Carla, her avatar vanished completely -- they heard her scream Jamie’s name as she faded from view. A gust of unearthly wind separated the Young Master from the rest: the others were about to be consigned to oblivion; Jamie was to about to be possessed.

Then, just as he was steeling himself for the struggle ahead, he felt something infiltrate his Essence -- a sound began to fill his head -- “Listen!” he shouted to the others, cupping his ear, drawing their attention to the pulse of a drumbeat under the howling wind and the rumble of thunder, “can’t you hear that?”

The Martyrs and ghosts could hear nothing but the roar of the storm. Nevertheless, the demon clearly heard it -- the giant lumberjack reeled and swayed on its smouldering heels -- the wind died to a breeze -- the thunderstorm abruptly ceased...

“It’s the spell! Somebody’s casting the spell!” yelled Jamie.

“I hear it!” screamed Dani.

“So can I!” shouted Goz.

“Then go with it! Join Hands!! Form a circle and turn in step with the rhythm!!” shouted Merfi, suddenly energised --  seizing the moment and rallying his brothers, “We will protect you!!” 

The Martyrs demeanour changed entirely; they became calm, sombre and resolute -- even Nedi straightened up and joined his brothers as they stood to attention like well-drilled soldiers. Merfi advised to Pritchard and Electra to make themselves scarce, “If you want to save your Souls, go to Limbo -- the portal is open -- now -- while he’s preoccupied!”

“But what about Dani?!” screamed Electra.

“She will fare better without you here to distract her! Now -- GO!” Merfi yelled in reply, pointing to a large crack the ground. Pritchard grabbed his hapless accomplice and dragged her into the portal.

Meanwhile, Jamie, Dani and Gosling felt compelled to do what the ancient mage asked; they joined hands and began twirling in a circle as if they were about to break into a chorus of a-ring-a-ring-o’-roses. They soon found a rhythm -- in fact, the beat was all they could feel -- the droning chant was all they could hear as the magic slowly infused their Essences and took their psyches for a spin! Merfi gestured with his staff and the Martyrs obediently formed a tight circle around them.

This activity seemed to be causing the demon some difficulty -- the spell seemed to be weakening him. That said, the woodcutters axe was still raised above its head -- time was of the essence!

Merfi looked left and right and gave the order, “Alright lads, nice and steady, after me....”

The Martyrs raised their arms, closed their eyes and began intoning a mantra that provided a harmony for the disembodied ethereal chant; the resultant chord then became a multitude of eerie, unearthly voices, all fighting to attain the requisite key -- the underlying beat became the steady boom of a kettledrum...

The trio of living Souls in the inner-circle twirled faster and faster as Merfi held his staff in both hands and pointed it at the sky, “That’s it, lads, this is it...”

Then the drums abruptly stopped!

“That’s the sign. Here it comes... keep her lit, lads, keep her lit...”    

...

A minute ago, in the sanatorium, Castle had reached the end of the text and discovered the final word was missing, and quite rightly so. Judging by the preceding verse, it could only be one thing.

“Oh shite...” he muttered to himself, and immediately stopped drumming.

Noel’s head wobbled as he was rudely snapped-out-of his trance, “Wha... what’s goin’ on... Hey! Why did you sssssstop?!” he hissed.

But Castle couldn't answer. He was crouching beside the bed with a hand on the restless Young Master’s chest, whispering into his ear:

“You haveta say his name. Say it now.”

The digital clock on the bedside locker counted down the final seconds to midnight...

...

Jamie heard the whisper.

He looked at his twirling companions. They’d heard it too.

<Do it,> thought Goz, squeezing his eyes shut.

<Say it,> thought Dani, squeezing his hand tight.

“All of you say it! YOU ARE AS ONE!!” yelled Merfi -- just as a thin, steady beam of ultraviolet light shot from the tip of staff and struck the smouldering colossus in the centre of its huge barrel-chest! 

10...

9...

8...

7...

Jamie looked at his companions’ grimacing faces, “Ready?!”

They nodded...

5...

“With me -- after 3...”

“3...

“2...

“Hey, you! Oy you! Wake up, ye fat fool!”

The obese butler had collapsed on the stroke of midnight, tumbled off the bed, and was now lying prostrate on the floor; arms outstretched, his head turned to the side. Noel slithered onto his stupendous spare tyre and yelled into his ear, “Oy! Wakey-wakey, fatso -- come on now, ye eejit -- this isn't fun anymore...”

...

As the chimes of midnight sounded throughout the house, there was a sudden change in atmosphere: an ominous, all-pervasive sense of inertia descended, but Lady Beth was to irate and anxious to sense it. 

“... C’mon, c’mon, answer the fucking phone, Oggy, don’t make me come over there...” she muttered, tapping the hook-switch to get a fresh line. Suddenly, there was a dull thud behind her; she turned to find Alice lying unconscious on the floor! “What the hell is up with you people...!” she began to bawl when she was suddenly interrupted by a loud bang outside followed by the whine of a revving engine! She ran to the window and pulled back the curtain: one of the jeeps had crashed into a low wall in the courtyard, the driver slumped over the wheel, his foot pressing on the accelerator. Cursing under her breath, she dragged the unconscious chambermaid across the room, threw her into one of the armchairs, went back to the phone and rang all the extensions on the console: the gatelodge, the kitchen, the servant’s quarters, the basement -- but no one was picking up! Then, just as she was about to go out to the door and shout, there was a sudden cry from the couch --

“Jamie!” screamed Carla, her eyes wide with fear, waking with a start.

“Oh, you’re with us, are you?! Maybe you can tell me what’s going on!” said Lady Beth, pointing at Harkness and Alice, “the entire house is out for the count!”

Dazed from the sudden disconnection, Carla pulled herself into a sitting position, messaged her temples with her long fingers and took a moment to readjust -- a glance at the grandfather clock soon sharpened her senses: “Midnight?! I must go to Jamie at once!” she said, springing to her feet and bolting for the door -- Her Ladyship ran after her and caught her by the arm, “Oh no you don’t, madam -- you’re going to tell me what we’re gonna do with Harkness...” she stopped yapping when they heard a distance voice, “... who the hell is that?” she asked.

Carla shook off the grabbing hand and rushed down the hall, “Please, My Lady, stay here with the Inspector -- I must go to Jamie!” And off she ran, leaving Her Ladyship gazing up into the darkness at the top of the main staircase . The distant voice seemed to be shouting for help. It could only be “Gosling!” Then she remembered that Xavier had strapped him to a bed in a room at the back of the house. She shrugged and said to herself, “Well, he’s not going anywhere...” 

She returned to the drawing room and beheld the unconscious Harkness. How the hell am I going to explain the situation when he wakes up? If he wakes up. After an moment’s thought, she went to the huge Pre-Raphaelite master in the alcove at the back of the room and sprung a hidden catch in its decorous frame; the painting opened-out like a large cupboard door to reveal the façade of a solid-brass, Victorian safe set into the wall. She spun the combination, opened the heavy door, reached into a hidden compartment under the false bottom and removed the Judge’s old revolver...

...

3...

2...

1.

Guy Gosling awoke to find himself in an ornate, tastefully furnished, candlelit chamber. It could only be the Ivy House. He was in bed; more precisely he was strapped to the bed, unable to move his arms and legs. He looked down at his body -- he was normal again! -- no coarse hair covering his skin; no canine paws. Thank Christ, he thought, sighing with relief. It was a bit of an indignity all the same. Well, at least I’m not in SCICI. Then he looked to his left: the Lumb’s big Middle Eastern chauffeur was lying unconscious on the floor beside the bed with a khanjar clenched in his right fist -- as if he was about to use it when something struck him down!

Was he about to kill me? If so, then who or what knocked him out...?

Then he realised. He remembered reeling with Jamie and Dani in the spinning circle -- the chanting wizards -- the gigantic lumberjack --- The word! 

WE SAID THE WORD!!

“Help! Anybody there?! Help! Somebody -- HELP!!”

3...

2...

1.

Dani awoke to find she was still in the dungeon, still sitting in the old torture chair, still muzzled and shackled. But the chains that bound her were loose now; her hands and feet slipped easily out of the manacles and leg irons. Pulling off the loose-fitting muzzle, she went to the thick Plexiglas wall to look out into the the basement. The quartet of guards with machine guns -- the goons Castle told to shoot her if she metamorphosed -- were unconscious and scattered across the old stone floor. Dresh, the lanky gardener, was lying by an overturned stool at the foot of the steps, his head propped up against the lower part of the wall, his long, bare legs splayed wide. It was as if they’d all been doused with sleeping gas! 

She went to the corner of the cell, fetched a lantern and lit it with a box of matches hidden in the bottom of her dresser drawer, then went back to look at her reflection in the glass. She was normal! More precisely, she wasn't an ugly, green, goblin-creature anymore -- she was a petite 18 year-old, her skin as white as ivory, her hair long and silvery! 

“I look... beautiful...” she gasped, with shock and delight, touching her cheek.

But how?

The last thing she remembered was dancing in a circle with Goz and Jamie... the singing wizards -- then saying the dreaded word...

“We said the word!!” 

She thought it over, “But if I’m OK... then what happened to Jamie?!” 

Beset with sudden anxiety, she  began pounding the the glass with her tiny fists, “Hey! You out there!! Wake up!! Lemme out -- I gotta go ‘n see Jamie!!”

3...

2...

1.

Jamie awoke to find himself in a brightly lit, sparsely furnished white room. He was in bed. Sister was standing to his left, looking down on him with a you’ve-been-a-bad boy what-are-we-going-to-with-you-look on her face; the two orderlies that escorted him earlier were stationed by the door; Mondale was sitting in a chair to his right, leaning close, staring into his eyes, “Jamie... are you with us.... hello....?”

He tried to move and found to his horror he was bound by restrains! “You --you strapped me to the bed?!” he hoarsely cried.

 Ignoring the outburst,  Mondale addressed him in a, warm, placatory tone, “Feeling a bit woozy, are we? Not to worry, old chap, the tranquillizer will soon wear off.”

“I’m... still in the hospital?! What the fuck?!” Jamie groaned.

“Now, there’s no need for that kind of language, young man!” said Sister, wagging her finger in his face, patently grateful to have something to nag him about, “You’re bein’ restrained cos you ‘ad another violent episode! You told the doctor you’d have him killed!!”

“Yes, thank you Sister that will be all. I’ll page you if I need further assistance,” said Mondale, sniffily, clearly peeved by her insensitive attitude. He waited until she’d gone then told the orderlies to wait outside the door. Once they were alone, he patted Jamie’s shoulder reassuringly, “I must apologise for ever doubting you, Jamie,” he confided, earnestly, in a sympathetic tone, “I must confess, I didn’t believe you at first, but today I witnessed the change come over you. I saw you suffer those hallucinations first hand. I saw the fear and confusion in your eyes as the paroxysm took hold...”

“Stop it!!” Jamie was having none of it! He used all his strength to voice his opinion as loudly and as forcefully as he could, “This isn't real! This is a dreamscape built from Harkness’ memories... the Martyrs created this!”

“Oh dear,” said Mondale, wearily, massaging his greying eyebrows, “this is precisely the sort of thing you were shouting while in the throes of delirium....”

Jamie shook his head emphatically and protested just as vehemently, “No, no, no you don’t -- don’t try to twist this! I’m trapped in a dreamscape -- you are just a figure from Harkness’ past!”

Mondale checked his notepad, “Yes, you mentioned the name ‘Harkness’ several times during the attack.”

“I didn’t suffer an attack! This is a phantasm! The Martyrs are behind this!”

“The martyrs?”

“The Darkly Martyrs -- the wizards buried under the Ivy House!!” shouted Jamie, struggling under the restraints.

“Wizards?”

“Yes wizards!! And don’t patronise me --- I’m not crazy -- it won’t work! I’m not fooled anymore!”

Smiling benignly, Mondale explained, “Jamie, please listen to me: during our session today, when I told you I couldn't arrange a solicitor until you’d been assessed, you took the news rather badly. You became hysterical and threatened me. You threatened to have me shot.”

“But you were shot! Harkness shot you in the head... I mean Carla shot you in the dream... I mean -- you aren't real!!”

Mondale waited for him to calm down and went on, “The orderlies had to restrain you while I called for a medic to administer a tranquilliser. I take it, then, you don’t remember anything?”

Jamie refused to believe a word of it, “This is utter bullshit!  Ask ‘Mr Murphy’ -- or should I say Merfi of the Darkly Woods!” Jamie lifted his head and shouted at the door, “Hey! Merfi! Merfi get in here! You can stop this now! Enough is enough!”

One of the orderlies put his head around the door and asked if everything was OK. Mondale impatiently waved him away and continued, “I know how hard this must be for you, Jamie. Amnesia is a frightening condition, especially when its compounded by feelings of paranoia. But don’t worry,” He gave Jamie a paternal pat on the arm, “now that I’ve seen it for myself, I can assure you I will do my utmost to see that you’re properly looked after.” He frowned as he delivered the ‘bad news’, “Unfortunately, you will have to be separated from general population for a while, and as soon as we’re sure it’s safe, we’ll remove those restraints, in the meantime, I’m prescribing a course of sedatives to level your mood and relax you; then, when you’re stable, we’ll work on a way to keep these episodes under control...” he said, and brought the little tête-à-tête to a close, “I am sorry it had to come to this, Jamie,” he said, sadly, looking at the restraints, “I’ll come back and see you after the weekend, when you’ve had time to... settle.” 

But Jamie had stopped listening minutes ago; so despondent he didn’t even notice Mondale leave the room. He just stared at the ceiling and frantically tried to figure out what had happened. The last thing he remembered was spinning in a circle with Goz and Dani... the Martyrs chanting... then they heard the voice in his head telling him to say the word -- wait a minute --

“We said the word!”

So how come he’s back in the hospital? -- back in Harkness’ subconscious? -- back in the Martyr’s dreamscape? There’s no chill in his bones now, it doesn’t feel like he’s still in the Void. Am I back in a timeless dimension? And if so, how long is  this set to last?! Wave after wave of despair washed over him -- could this get any worse?! 

As if to answer that unuttered question, there was a sharp rat-tat-tat on the door, and the spiky headed, tubby figure of Nurse Gaston Masterson entered, carrying a small plastic tray laden with various pill boxes and a paper cup half-filled with water. He didn’t look too happy.

“Well, thank you very much!” he chimed, in a high, scathing voice, looking down at Jamie with hand on hip and a disbelieving shake of the head, “I’ve got a big-black-mark on report card cuz of you! Mondale’s secretary ratted-me-out! So not only 'ave I blown my chances with ‘er, I’ve got Sister and Mondale breathin' down me neck! Open wide, please,” he said, tersely, and placed a pair of pink capsules on Jamie’s tongue and continued his acerbic harangue, “’Oh, I’m absolutely fine ‘n I need to see Dr Mondale urgently, can you arrange it for me?’ -- And look where it got ya! -- stuck in Isolation -- strapped to the bed on 24 hour suicide watch! What the ‘ell were you thinkin’?!!”

Jamie closed his mouth and refused to be drawn.

His wilful silence only made Masterson madder, “I got you that appointment in good faith, matey! I trusted you -- and what do you do?! You go mental ‘n threaten to shoot the ‘ead doctor!!” he nagged, putting the glass of water to Jamie’s lips.

Jamie sipped the water, swallowed the pills and said nothing.

The disgruntled Wulfrunian’s flushed little urchin face clenched into a sneer as he stooped and informed his taciturn patient in a harsh, half-whisper, “Well, you’ve had it now, mister. You’ll never get outta here. If you thought a week in the Secure Unit was bad -- wait’ll you’ve been in ‘ere for a few years!”

Jamie’s eyes widened: years?!

Now he’d finally got a reaction, Masterson laid it on thick, “Oh yeah, cuz I’ve seen your file. You’re Category-A, now: ‘dangerous’ and ‘unstable’, ‘prone to violent outbursts’ -- ‘Possibly homicidal’! Not only that, but yer ‘omeless and a ‘person of interest’ to the law. And this ain't gaol, y’know -- there’s no parole ‘ere! You 'aveta convince a board of specialists ‘n magistrates that you’re no longer a danger to the public, and yeah, that can take years! -- in some cases, a lifetime!!”

Jamie’s heart sank to the pit of his stomach.

Putting the cup back on the tray, Masterson, stood back, smiled evilly and winked, “Still, you gotta look on the broightsoide of loife, dontcha, mate? I’m going off-duty in ‘alf-an-hour,” he trilled, turning away, “I’m gonna ‘ave a few bevvies with me mates, and later on, we’re goin’ to a club in town; gonna get absolutely bladdered and dance till dawn.” He paused at the door to give a little parting wave and bid him a tart farewell, “Have a nice time staring at the walls, coma-boy...”

15 minutes ago: still barefoot, stopping along the way for a second to switch off  the engine of the crashed jeep, Carla sprinted across the courtyard, ran up the steps to the door of the sanatorium, dashed up the corridor and burst into Jamie’s room; she rushed to the bed, put a hand on his head and checked his vital signs. She sighed with relief. There didn’t seem to be any change in his condition; he seemed comfortable; his breathing and heart-rate were steady; his skin was warm to the touch. Satisfied he wasn't in any immediate danger, she went to tend to her unconscious uncle. Shooing Noel off his humongous belly, she cradled his head in her lap and felt his jugular to check his pulse, “How long has he been out?!”

“Not long. We wuz castin’ a spell then 'e stopped drummin’, leaned over ‘n whispered somethin’ in coma-boy’s ear -- then he just passed out! Just like that! Whumph!”

“You cast a spell?” she asked, putting a pillow under her uncle’s head.

“Aye. He took it from that-there tatty ol’ book. He used the wee mirror to read them squigglesssss round the edges,” hissed the indifferent serpent, nodding toward the open scrapbook on the bed, “Sounded like complete gibberish, if you assssk me...”

Carla nodded to herself as she came to understand what had happened, “So... he recast the spell using the mirror to reverse the text...?”  

“I did the chantin’! He couldn’t’ve done it without me!” chirruped Noel.

“And what did he whisper to Jamie?”

Noel had a wee think, “Hmmmmmmm. It wuz somethin’ like, ‘say the word’; then, just as the clock struck 12, he hit the deck like a big sack o’ spudsssss!”

Carla reeled for a moment as she reached a conclusion, “He must have told Jamie to say the demon’s name. That could be why everyone is unconscious -- the shock to their psyches was too much to bear. Perhaps I was spared because I was still in Harkness’ psyche when it happened...?”  She returned to the bed, looked under the pillows and searched the creases in the sheets, “Where is the mirror?”

Noel wound around one of the bedposts and looked down, “I dunno. Oggy had it in his hand the last time I sssssaw it.”

She knelt beside her uncle’s body and used all her strength to turn him onto his side for a moment while she groped underneath the rolls of flab. She soon found what she was looking for. She let the body fall back, put a hand to her mouth and gasped as if in pain.

Noel loomed over her and cocked his head, “What’s up w’ ye, lassssie?! Ol’ Oggy’s not dead, is he?!”

“No... It’s Jamie...” she replied, holding up a shard of broken glass, her voice cracked with dread, “The mirror is broken... Jamie has no way back!”

To be continued in Devil-Dogs, Hellcats and Cowgirls

Table of Contents

[paulhudd]

Spindlefreck: Pt.22: No Grand Finale, No Last Goodbye

November 3rd 1988:

blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip...

Malky awoke to find he was lying on a hospital bed. There were numerous wires attached to the back of his left hand, various tubes plugged into his right arm and an oxygen mask over his face. He felt numb and nauseous. Tired and trampled. His chest felt sore. He could’t open his eyes.

There were people talking nearby, and they were talking about him:

 A man’s voice: “... he’s not a gard he’s ex-RUC, and he’s lucky to be alive. If they hadn’t’ve been there, it’s quite likely he would've died before the ambulance got there. In fact, he did die for 97 seconds. He took a bullet in his thigh that nicked the femoral artery, as a result he lost a lot of blood and went into shock, and that’s when he had the heart attack...”

A woman’s voice exclaimed excitedly: “Waitaminnit – is this the same guy they were talkin’ about on the news?! Is this the fella who got shot when he went after that nutcase who’d been killin’ the wee girls?!”

The man hushed her and replied, “I haven’t heard the news yet, but aye, this is indeed another unfortunate victim of that incident, but we’re tryin’ to keep it quiet so keep your voice down.”

The woman whispered: “Two bullets, massive blood-loss followed by a heart-attack? He’s a very lucky boy.”

“If I was him I’d give up chasing criminals and take up a career as a professional gambler,” the man chuckled.

“Oh, aye, he’s jammier than a sackful of rabbits’ paws, that’s to be sure, but he didn’t haveta put himself in that predicament, did he? - goin’ after an armed lunatic with only a dog fer company?”

The man’s voice came closer, “Well, he’s a bit of a hero, all-told. So-much-so, that the officer attending the scene brought him here in a police-car, carried him into casualty wrapped in a blanket and stayed until he came out of surgery.” Malky felt a cool hand on his brow, “Hmmm, his temperature is a bit on the high side. Keep an eye on his blood pressure, will you? Page me immediately if there’s any change in his condition. And whatever you do, sister, don’t let any detectives or reporters in here.”

The woman pretended to be offended by his underestimation of her powers of discretion and bantered him light-heartedly, “I’ll put the word out amongst the staff, then – ‘no dicks or hacks for our Mr Calvert!’”

Malky was quietly reeling, and not just because he was drowsy from the anaesthetic and in a great deal of pain; the events of the night before were coming back to him, backwards: the crack of McKee’s pistol... the muddy grave... the screeching cats... Zindy getting shot...!

Zindy got shot!

blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... 

He opened his eyes and tried to sit-up – a sharp pain shot through his shoulder-blades - he let out a low groan; the blips of cardiograph increased to a solid scream and one of the other machines began to emit a piercing whine.

“Uh-oh! He’s awake!” The doctor returned to the bedside and gently eased him back to his original position, “Easy, easy there, Mr Calvert, try to stay calm.... nurse, give him a jab, there...”

The doctor -- a tall, thin, bespectacled, balding, sexagenarian wearing an open white coat over a careworn, Harris-tweed three-piece suit -- examined his eyes and informed him in a soothing Wicklow brogue, “Easy now, I need you to try and relax and not to exert yourself in any way...”

Malky gasped and asked in a strained voice, “... is Zindy... still alive...?”

“Nobody’s been killed, don’t you worry, now -- there’ll be plenty of time to catch up later. The most important thing for you is to get some rest. Your body has taken quite a pounding -- these first few hours are crucial for your eventual recovery...”

He felt the bedclothes being pulled back, then a sting in his left thigh. Seconds later, a blissful numbness enveloped him and the darkness descended again...

Malky doesn’t remember dying. He doesn’t remember his astral form leaving his earthly body and standing in a billowing cloud of white mist under a huge ray of blinding light and thinking to himself this is like every movie or comedy sketch he’d ever seen about people dying and going to heaven. He doesn’t remember looking down at himself as he stood by the bed watching the doctor and his frantic assistants fussing around him as the monitors screamed. 

He doesn’t remember the swirling mists parting and a solitary figure emerge to greet him: a middle-aged, bespectacled man, dressed in his Sunday Best suit, hair slicked back, his hands deep in the pockets of his luxuriant black mohair overcoat.

“Welcome to my world, Malky,” said the spectre.

Malky recognised him immediately, “Bernie bloody Pritchard,” he said, with a contemptuous sneer, “I thought you were dead.” 

The cruel lips widened into a devilish smile, “I am. So are you,” he said, looking over Malky’s shoulder at the body on the bed.

Malky sighed resignedly, his shoulders slumping, “Ah, well, it was good while it lasted. At least I died saving someone’s life...”

“Oh, you’ll be revived, son,” Pritchard interrupted assuredly, “this-here’s only temporary. A near death experience, as they say.”

Malky looked up into The Light and an all-consuming yearning came over him, every fibre of his being was desperate to ascend, “I dunno what it is, but I don’t want to go back, I want to go up so badly...” he murmured, regretfully.

Pritchard chuckled, “You will eventually, just not today. No, I thought I’d call and say hello while you’re on my side of the fence, y’know. I like to keep up with old friends.”

“You’re no friend o’ mine, Pritchard,” snapped Malky, stepping back, looking him up and down, “you were always a sleekit get, up to all sorts of badness.You wouldn't be comin’ here to see me unless it was bad news or you were up to no good.”

The dapper spectre shrugged, “I wanted to congratulate you on catching our Mr McKee. You did both worlds a greater service than you can ever imagine. Thanks to you, the dead can rest in peace again. Well, thanks to the old dog, if we’re honest. He did most of the work, didn’t he, Malky?”

“Is that it then? Is that what you came to say?” said Malky, irritated, wondering if this was heaven or the other place. I mean, where else would Bernie be?

Pritchard ignored him and continued, “Oh, you’ll go on denyin’ it. You’ll put it down to intuition and happy-happenstance, but deep down you’ll know the truth. You were guided by Faeries. That’s what we call the Infant Host: Faeries. The ghosts of little children. They guided the dog and you followed. Isn't that right, Malky?”

When Malky didn’t respond, he got to the point, “You see, I’m a very special ghost. And here, in the space betwixt life and death, I have the run of the place. In your world I can’t be seen or heard and I can’t touch anything, but I can watch. And I’ll be watching you Malky. Your life is gonna get very interesting from now on, so I’ll be keepin’ an eye on you.”

“Interesting? In what way?” asked Malky, gimlet-eyed.

But Pritchard refused to expound, “Looks like our little tête-à-tête is at an end, Malky, they've just saved you,” he said, nodding toward the bed.

The machines in the theatre stopped bleeping. The assistants looked relaxed and relieved; one of them was congratulating the doctor as she mopped his brow with a paper towel. The blinding light dimmed; the mists thickened; Malky felt himself being drawn back into his body, the warmth of reanimation surging through his Essence as his Soul returned to his earthly flesh and bones.

But Malky was still stuck on Pritchard’s previous remarks, “What do you mean about ‘interesting’ -- what do you mean you’ll be ‘watching me’ -- what are you talkin’ about?!” shouted Malky, his voice growing faint as he faded from view.

“Be seein’ you Malky,” the spectre shouted, laughing as the mist proliferated and swallowed him up, “give my regards to Archie...”

The Ivy House; 09:30AM: Archie Harkness was rudely roused from a deep sleep by the rasping sound of curtains being noisily swished asunder and a beam of blinding sunlight hitting his face. What the hell... He was in strange bed in a strange, high-ceilinged room, with a strange, straight-backed, middle-aged man in a black frockcoat, striped waistcoat and white gloves standing over him.

“Jeezus fuck! Where am I?” Archie spluttered, jumping into a sitting position, kicking the bedclothes away, frantically looking left and right.

The strange man spoke with an educated, Irish accent and addressed him in a formal, if somewhat contemptuous manner, “Good morning, sir,” he said, with a slight sneer, "you’re in the Ivy House. Mr Castle instructed me to inform you that breakfast will be served in the Morning Room at 10 o'clock.”

Archie, totally mystified, slack-jawed and befuddled, looked down and was shocked to see he was wearing a pair of starchy, standard-issue white cotton pyjamas, “What happened to my clothes?!” shrinking back, a multitude of possibilities racing through his mind.

Fordham cleared his throat and explained, “Apparently you were in the drawing room chatting to Mme Infanté when you fell asleep on the couch by the fire. You were quite... unconscious. We couldn't wake you. Mme Infanté put it down to the stress of your ordeal yesterday. Considering your condition and the lateness of the hour, Lady Beth thought it best that we move you to this room and let you sleep it off,” he pointed toward the pile of neatly folded clothes on an armchair by the window, “we took the liberty of undressing you, laundering and pressing your clothes.” He put his nose in the air again and produced the tattered remains of Archie’s white shirt (Primark: £2.99!), “Unfortunately, your shirt did not survive the cycle. So we've replaced it.” He indicated a gleaming white shirt hanging on a coat hook behind the door, “We have dozens of them. Sir Arnold, may his Soul rest in peace, was about your size and wont to wear a fresh shirt every day. We have quite a supply.”

“Uh... thanks... I think...?” Archie replied, mistily, still a wee bit dazed, but before he could make any further enquiries, Fordham, holding the shirt between his finger and thumb as if it was large sheet of soiled toilet paper, opened a door at the opposite end of the room, turned on the inner-light and announced, somewhat pointedly, “a fully-stocked en suite with a shower-room, sir. Hot water. Fresh towels. New toothbrush. Feel free to use them,” then flounced out and closed the door behind him.

Archie was scratching his scalp with both hands, utterly flummoxed. What the fuck? He searched his mind but the last thing he could remember was coming into the house and ‘chatting’ to the Infanté woman. He couldn't recall what was said exactly, but they were talking about his kidnapping. He remembered feeling very tired, and then, nothing...

except a weird dream.

He’d dreamed about the mental hospital in London, the one he committed himself to after the ‘Donegal Incident’ to ‘sort his head out’ once and for all; the one he went to without telling anyone, not even his ex-wives. It was very vivid, but it wasn't a memory: it wasn't a replay of something that actually happened, it was more like he was a casual observer, seeing things from someone else’s perspective... Very strange. Then again, look where he is: The Ivy House. A place where nothing makes sense and everybody seems to get into your head... One thing was for sure: he felt the same way he did when he was admitted to the hospital in the first place. The feeling that nothing is real. But he can’t think like this. That’s what scuppered him the first time. He can’t go making wild allegations based on outrageous suspicions. He has to be on his game. Professional. Play it cool. He got up and went to the en suite to splash a few handfuls of cold water on his face. He leaned on the sink and took a long look at his dripping countenance in the mirrored doors of the bathroom cabinet. His widow’s peak was slept-into a cockscomb, the unshaven, lugubrious, lantern-jawed mug looked old and worn out, his eyes bloodshot and laden with heavy baggage. I look like shite. He was just about to turn away and reach for the hand-towel on the rail -- when he caught a glimpse of someone looking over his shoulder! He gasped, swivelled on his heel and looked behind him. There was no one there, of course, but the image, fleeting as it might’ve been, was firmly imprinted on his mind: a bespectacled, shadowy figure in a black overcoat with a knowing smirk on its face...

“Bernie bloody Pritchard...?” Archie gasped, as he gripped the edge of the sink for support, put a hand on his thudding heart and cursed his overactive imagination...

Meanwhile, two stories below, in the House of Rest, for the second time in as many days, the new Master of the House reclines in a pew by the aisle listening to a quartet of cowled Güül musicians, playing instruments not unlike a cello and lyre accompanied by a duo of tablas-players, evoke the intoxicating, funereal strains of the old laments, while slowly twirling threads of yellowish-smoke spiral up from the ornate silver incense burners positioned either side of the proscenium, filling the air with the heady scent of primrose and cinnamon, a fragrance traditionally associated with the death of a female child. Throughout the vigil, his eyes remain locked on the plain small pinewood box on the bier, as he meditates on the short lives and untimely deaths of little Danielle Cochrane (18½). 

But for all the trappings of grief and respect for the dead, there was no heart in this. It was theatre, not a genuine memorial; a way to thank the deceased for their service to the cause, not to mourn. It was beautiful, but cold. Intimate, but impersonal.

To say he was disillusioned would be the understatement of the millennium. After the previous night’s events, he was pulled in so many directions it felt as if his Soul was being torn apart. It didn’t feel right. He didn’t feel right. It was as if he couldn't trust his mind anymore. So many illusions, so many realities. He tore his eyes away from the casket and took a look around at the rows of myriad bronzes, sculptures and portraits of his forbearers next to their funeral urns; statuary celebrating a succession of magi and Judges reaching back thousands of years. His gaze eventually alighted on the newest addition to gallery, the bust of his late grandfather, Sir Arnold. What the fuck was that all that about? he silently enquired of the proud chinned, eyeless stone. How do I fit into this grand scheme of things? Because, to be honest, gramps, I feel like don’t like I belong at all. I mean, how do you live in a world where life isn't sacred, everybody lies and you can’t trust your own mind? Dani’s dead... and it’s just business as usual. Nobody cares.

Then again, if he was being entirely honest with himself, he had to admit what bothered him most was his own lack of remorse. Dani’s death hasn’t hit him the way it should. After all, they’d discovered the Psychosphere together, he’d showed her the outside world through his memories -- well, a heavily sanitised version, anyway -- she was a friend and a comrade in arms, an innocent kid drawn into all this through no fault of her own. Whatever the circumstances, she was as real to him as a sister. Her loss should mean more to him than a little niggle of regret?

His train of thought was abruptly derailed by the sound of the outer door opening and closing followed by the unmistakeable shuffle of familiar footsteps. “What is it Oggy? I told you I didn’t want to be disturbed,” he said, tersely, without looking round.

“Her Ladyship sent me, Master Jamie, sir. She wants you to come up for breakfast,” Castle murmured in the shadows. “The policeman, Detective Inspector Harkness will be there ‘n she wants to ‘show a united front’, sir, y’know, like, things are... as she puts it: ‘proceeding as normal’ ‘n all that...”

“Well, she can go and take a running jump. I told all of you: I don’t want to see or talk to anyone until I figure out how I feel about this.”

After a sizeable pause, he heard Castle take a few steps closer, There was an audible sigh. “You shouldn't dwell on it sir. Everything has worked out for the best.”

Jamie folded his arms and grumbled, “’The best’? Dani’s dead! You shot her through the head! And now everybody’s back to work as if nothing’s happened. Again.”

The sloppy footsteps shuffled a little closer and the morbidly obese form of Ogden Castle eventually loomed in the semi-darkness, head bowed, hands folded across his humongous gut, “May I, sir,” he asked. Jamie rolled his eyes, slid up the bench and made room for the butler’s gargantuan arse. When he eventually managed to squeeze in and make himself comfortable, Castle turned and whispered in Jamie’s ear, “I think you ought to know -- the host is still alive. But his brain is severely damaged. Virtually a vegetable. Ergo, the demon is trapped in a mindless head. Totally impotent. Utterly powerless. We can deal with him now. Rest assured, Dani did not die in vain.” 

Jamie didn’t react.

Seeing that his words were having little effect, Castle took a deep breath and addressed a few home truths, “I know it seems bad. Her death is especially sad cuz she’d morphed back into a sweet little girl again ‘n looked for-all-the-world like a normal, human chile - but she was a tickin’ time-bomb. You know that better than anyone, sir. The term may sound a wee bit heartless to youse younguns, but there is no better description: she was indeed ‘demonspawn’. There’s no cure for that curse. She was half-maid, half-monster, a danger to herself and others. You saw the beast inside her. It almost killed you.” He was unequivocal in his conclusion, “She wasn't meant for this world, Jamie. You kept your distance cuz deep down you knew that her death was inevitable. We couldn't keep her locked-up in a dungeon forever.”

“Doesn't make me feel any better, Oggy,” Jamie harrumphed, but it was somewhat muted rebuke. He hated himself for it, but he was weakening. He just wanted someone to tell him that his conscience was clear.

Castle knew he wanted to be coaxed, so he carried on in a more upbeat, inspirational tone, “Then there’s the bright side. The old witch told ye, didn’t she? She said: ‘she will be reborn’. And now that the ol’ crystal balls’re workin’ again, I asked Nᴉxau ‘n Derek down in Namibia to look into the firmament and, sure enough -- Miss Danielle still has a signature, faint though it may be.”

Jamie was suddenly very interested, “Oh, and what does that mean?”

“Her Soul must've migrated. The hostage at the scene -- the woman -- she was shot durin’ the fight with McKee, but it was only a flesh wound, she survived. She’s in her late-thirties, fit-&-healthy...”

Jamie raised an eyebrow, “...’of child-bearing age?’”

Castle smiled broadly and nodded, “So there’s every chance we will meet little Danielle again one day,” he said, leaning in, “and this time she’ll be free of his badness. She’ll be perfect.”

Jamie sat back and grumbled, “She’ll still be one of us though: a cold-hearted, cold-blooded, cold-fish who can’t even squeeze out a tear for a sweet little kid...” he said, lowering his head.

Castle put a hand on his shoulder, “Come upstairs for breakfast, sir. I mean to say, you haven’t eaten anything for almost 2 days...”

Jamie had to admit he was starving and reluctantly gave in, but with reservations, “I still don’t know how I feel about this, Oggy. I mean, literally: I don’t know how to feel.”

“We are Vondragüül, Jamie. We’re not human. We know the secrets of life and death,” said Castle, gravely. “We don’t share the same fears. You just haven’t lived long enough to develop a callous.”

Jamie uncrossed his arms, turned toward him, and intimated in a conflicted half-whisper, “When I was locked in Harkness’ subconscious, I experienced a world that made much more sense than this, y’know? It was a cold and lonely, hopeless place, but it felt so real, so scary, so... so vivid. You’ll say I was channelling Harkness’ experiences and emotions, but I dunno... what if that reality is real and this is just a fantasy I disappear into when reality gets too much for me?”

Castle smiled broadly as he explained, “Your mind has been prey to the most powerful psychics in the Realm, Jamie: The Darkly Martyrs and the demon. They've had many a millennia to perfect their powers of illusion. Uh-huh?”

Jamie nodded, not entirely convinced.

Castle nudged him again, “And you handled it very well. They put you through hell and you still won the day.”

“What do you think happened to the Martyrs?”

“Gawd knows. They did what they had to do and their plan was reasonably successful. They’re still buried beneath this house, but there’s no sign of life, no residual energy. They could be dead, I dunno...” said Castle, with a shrug of his big shoulders. 

Jamie’s stomach squeaked.

“I’ll tell cook to put on some extra sausages. I know how y’ like yer sausages...” said Castle, gasping as he squeezed out of the pew and beat a hasty retreat before Jamie changed his mind.

He quietly closed the huge ebony doors behind him and trotted down the darkened, torch-lit, catacomb-like corridor and laboriously climbed the steep, wrought-iron spiral-staircase back up to the first floor. He emerged from a concealed doorway in a wall panel at the back of the house, then through the arches, across the chequered floored corridor and down to the main entrance hall. When he stopped at the base of the main staircase to mop his brow, he glanced up and espied their reluctant guest, Guy Gosling, dressed in some of Jamie’s old clothes, closely followed by Xavier, the Lumb’s tall, imposing, Middle Eastern chauffeur, on their way down. He stood to attention and waited by the bottom step as if he was about to bestow a warm ‘good morning’ to an overnight guest, but as soon as Gosling was within reach -- he seized him by the collar of his borrowed shirt and unceremoniously dragged him into the alcove adjacent to the stairs.

“Lissen to me, gobshite! You’re in enough trouble as it is, so I want no nonsense outta ye this mornin’!” He hissed into Goz’s face. “There’ll be a peeler joinin’ yez fer breakfast -- so no snarky comments or loaded remarks -- don’t try to take control of the conversation, let Her Ladyship do all the talkin’! And no sniping at Jamie. Right?!”

Goz reeled, shocked by the butler’s aggressive attitude, “Huh! He started it!”

“Aye, but you took yer revenge to a ridiculous extreme! You've put us in trouble with the Council! There’ll be repercussions,” Castle prodded Goz’s temple with his index finger, “So, keep it light ‘n friendly or I’ll give ye a headache the like of which ye’ve never ‘ad!”

Goz was at once shocked, angry and aghast, complaining in a transatlantic falsetto “What the f -- ! You’re freakin’ kidding me! If anyone should be shouting the odds it should be me!” he bitterly complained, doing his best to push Castle away, “That fucking bitch more-or-less raped me last night!” he cried, pointing in the direction of the morning room.

“Keep yer voice down!” Castle slapped a hand on the upstart’s gob and pushed him further into the corner. While Xavier stood in front and kept watch, the big butler marked Goz’s card once-and-for-all: “This is the Ivy House, me bucko. You’re no big noise here,” he snarled, his jowly mug pink close and puce with contained rage, “we have scullions that’re more psychically adept than you! So long as you’re under this roof, you’re beholden to me, son. Got it?!”

Goz’s eyes glared, but he eventually acquiesced.

The big butler relented and took his hand away, “Good.”

“Fucking liberty,” Goz huffed under his breath, straightening his collar, smoothing his creases,“kidnapped...thrown into the trunk of a limo... strapped to a fucking bed... attempted-fucking-murder... rape! ... Your hospitality leaves a lot to be desired, fat man...”

Before Castle could give him a clip around the ear, Xavier tapped his shoulder and drew his attention to the lone figure traversing the balcony directly above. “Here comes Harkness. Time to get in character,” he growled, waving a finger in Goz’s face, “you’re an actor, so play the quiet, polite guest.” He patted his arse in the direction of the passageway to their left, “Now, go on ‘n get yer breakfast.”

Still cursing under his breath, Goz made his way across the hall and disappeared into the darkness of the passageway. Castle turned to the big chauffeur, “You too, Mr X. I’ll take it from here.” As Xavier walked off to get his own breakfast, Castle regained his composure and resumed his place at the foot of the staircase. 

“Good morning sir, I hope this day finds you well-rested and refreshed?” he enquired, in a bright-&-breezy voice.

Archie had undergone quite a remarkable transformation: Showered, shaved, suited and shod, overcoat casually slung over his shoulder, clean white shirt shimmering in the shafts of morning light pouring in through the huge, stain-glass windows in the east wall, he cocked his head as he descended the last few steps and tried to catch a glimpse of the young man before he disappeared from view, “Hmmm... who was that?” he asked, with a hint of suspicion.

“Master Guy Gosling, sir,” Castle replied, “friend of the family. He’ll be joining you for breakfast. May I take your coat, sir?” Archie was about to refuse the offer, then shrugged and handed it over. Castle took it, draped it over his arm, and led the way, “Her Ladyship is already at the table. Master Jamie and Mme Infanté will be joining you shortly.”

“I... erm... the footman said I was talking to Mme Infanté when I passed out...?” said Archie, looking in the direction of the drawing room.

“That’s right sir. Small wonder after the stress of yesterday’s events. Mme Carla said you looked thoroughly exhausted ‘n had trouble keepin’ your eyes open. I’m very glad to see that you’ve made a full recovery,” he said, as if it was all in a day’s work. But Archie didn’t trust the big butler any further than he could throw him, and with good reason. It was Castle who guided Donny Ogle’s decisions on the Cochrane case [See Part 17]; it was Castle who attended Danielle Cochrane’s victim’s autopsy and made the pathologist falsify the report. Archie couldn't let the moment go without puttin’ the wind up the ol’ bugger, “Eh, I’ll want to speak to you later, Mr Castle.”

Castle paused at the door of the Morning Room and cocked an ear, “I’m sorry, sir, what did you say?”

Archie stepped closer and looked him in the eye and delivered what he thought would be the coup de gras, “Concerning the late Danielle Cochrane. The changes made to her victim’s forensics report. I have a few questions.”

Castle smiled, “Really, sir? Well, if I can be of any help...?”

“Chief Inspector Ogle seems to think so...” said Archie, archly.

“Oh, Her Ladyship has already spoken to Chief Superintendent Ogle. She telephoned him earlier this morning to tell ‘im you were here,” Castle informed him, unaffected, “I’m sure she’ll explain everything over breakfast.”

That took the wind out of Archie’s sails. By the looks of that smirk on the big butler’s mug, Ogle is on the warpath. I mean, gawd knows what they think. He’d fallen off the radar without telling anyone; not only that, but this was after he’d just been drugged and kidnapped by a madman! They were probably up all night looking for him. Shite. It was a very discomfited and much meeker Archie Harkness that entered the Morning Room.

Sitting at the head of the table, dressed in a flowing, cream silk blouse, jodhpurs and riding boots, her long, chestnut hair plaited into ponytail, Lady Beth tore herself away from the newspaper she was perusing and peered over the rim of her spectacles like a prim headmistress, “Good morning, Detective Inspector!” she trilled in a mock-cheerful voice without smiling, “My, you’re looking a lot better than you did last night.”

“Umm yeah... thanks for puttin’ me up ‘n washin’ me clothes ‘n that...” muttered Archie, getting more apathetic by the minute.

“You’ll have to excuse my attire. I’ve been out for a ride and I didn’t have time to change,” she explained, whimsically, “I like to ride first thing every morning, it blows away the cobwebs,” she said, stealing a glance at the shaven-headed boy at the other end of the table. He scowled back. She smirked, “Most invigorating!”

“I’m not sure I’ve had the pleasure,” said Archie, as Fordham seated him in the first chair on her right. She went back to her paper and casually flicked a wrist in the lad’s general direction, “This is Guy Gosling, he’s a... close friend of the family. He’s staying with us while he recuperates from a recent... illness,” she grumbled, somewhat dismissively, then added with a contemptuous sniff, “I’m sure you’ve heard of him... he’s quite famous, apparently.”

Seemingly oblivious to her little show of disinterest, Gosling stood up and offered his hand. Stretching across the table, Archie scrutinised the young man’s face as if examining an abstract painting, “Waitaminnit,” he suddenly exclaimed, snapping his finger. “I do know you!”

Gosling shook Archie’s hand, sat back in his seat, and awaited the inevitable revelation with a forced smile.

“You’re a pop-star! My wee Natalie has a picture of you on her bedroom wall!” said Archie, still standing.

Lady Beth tutted and tsked and noisily turned a page.

“Well, I'm more of an actor these days,” said Gosling, politely but impatiently, as Marta, the elderly teasmaid put a dish in front of him, “I was a singer. Jamie and I formed the band when we were at school.”

“Of course!” said Archie, sitting down, picturing Natalie’s face when he tells her about this. “Is that why you came here, Mr Gosling? To see Jamie?”

Goz splashed some milk on his muesli, looked at Her Ladyship and grunted, “Something like that.”

Archie looked toward the door, “Where is Jamie by-the-way...?”

Sighing impatiently, Lady Beth replied, “He’s not been well. Up all night with a dreadful migraine. He’ll be with us presently.” She nodded toward the teasmaid standing by the tea trolley, “Tea or coffee, Detective Inspector?”

“Coffee, please. I suppose you want to know why I’m here...” But before Archie could utter another syllable, Lady Beth chimed in without looking up, “I’ve spoken to our old friend Donald Ogle. He is most anxious to see you. I told him I’d have you ring him as soon as possible. He says he has no idea why you are here and apologised profusely for the intrusion.”

Archie was on the back foot again. As the maid set a cup of coffee and a small jug of cream in front of him, he straightened his tie and tried to explain, “Well, I’m sorry to have intruded, but I came here because the man who kidnapped me...”

Again, Lady Beth cut him off with another newsflash, “Oh. You’ll be pleased to know that they've caught him.... ummm... can’t recall his name...?”

"What?! They caught ‘im?” cried Archie, so surprised he forgot to stop pouring the cream and now his cup was overflowing. He caught-himself-on and began mopping the saucer with his napkin, “Sorry, did I hear you right? Did you say they caught Barry McKee?!”

She looked up and snapped her fingers, “McKee! That’s the name! The child killer. The one you were after. Ghastly business. Donald told me a mutual friend of yours -- an old colleague, he said -- was involved in the capture...”

“Malky...? Malky Calvert? ...How...” said Archie, gaping with incredulity, a pencil-moustache of brown foam coating his upper-lip.

“Ummm... can’t recall the name...” she looked over her shoulder.

Castle waddled forward, stood to attention and supplied the information, “Yes, the man in question is Malcolm Calvert, milady.” He looked at Archie and explained, “It was on the wireless first thing this morning, sir. Caught McKee in the Wicklow hills, he did.”

Archie’s lantern-jaw sagged as he gasped, “Malky...? Malky caught him?”

Lady Beth continued to expound in a carefree manner, “Hmmm. They say he was very seriously injured in the affray, ”

“How badly? Is he OK?!”

Castle excused himself and chipped in, “Got shot in the leg, lost a lot of blood, sir. Apparently he died on the operating table but was mercifully revived,”

Her Ladyship, examined her nails and added, “The McKee fellow suffered a severe blow to the head, isn't that right Castle...”

Again the fat butler took up the narrative in a flat, officious tone, “He’s in a coma, sir. They say he’s almost brain-dead: in a ‘vegetative state’. Unlikely he’ll ever recover.”

“Good thing too,” Her Ladyship concluded, taking a cigarette from a silver case and holding up to her lips. Castle produced an expensive looking, gold lighter from his inside pocket and lit her up.

Archie was knocked for six. It looked like there was no chance of ever questioning McKee! And what about poor Malky! ... Waitaminnit. The tape! He still had the taped confession! He checked his pockets -- but there was no sign of it! His wallet and ID were there but nothing else. Castle brought him his coat and he searched that, too. Nothing. He looked at them, eyes narrowed with suspicion, “Eh, yez didn’t happen find a tape amongst my belongings, did yez?”

Ever apathetic, Her Ladyship puffed a plume of smoke into the air and blithely answered the question with a question, “Tape? You mean a video tape? Sticky tape? Police tape..?”

“No, I mean an audio tape,” said Archie through gritted teeth, trying to keep his voice down, “a standard-size, TDK C60 cassette.” He eyed their faces for signs of complicity, “I’m pretty-damn-sure it was in my pocket when I got here last night.”

Her Ladyship looked over shoulder at Castle, “Well?”

Castle addressed Archie directly and succinctly, “We didn’t remove anything from your coat, sir, and I supervised the men that stripped you ‘n got you ready for bed. I set everything we found in your trouser-pockets on top of the dresser in your room. I don’t remember seeing any tape, sir. I’m sorry.”

No -- I’m sorry! Bloody sorry I ever came to this fucking house! Archie gave him a cockeyed, accusing look as he patted down the coat, just in case the tape had managed to find its way through one of the many rips in the lining. “Could it have slipped down the back of the couch in the drawing room?” he asked, getting evermore exasperated.

The butler shrugged, “It’s possible, sir... I’ll have someone check,” he said, and went to the internal phone on the wall by the door.

Archie was sure he remembered putting it in his pocket before he left the car. But he couldn't remember having it when he arrived at the house. Shite... Wait! What if I dropped it when I climbed the tree to watch the grounds?! [See Part 19]

A minute or so later, Castle replaced the receiver and returned to the table, “I’m very sorry, sir, the housemaids had a good look, but there’s no sign of a cassette tape in, around, or under the couch.”

Gosling looked up from his muesli, “Was it a mix-tape, Inspector? Y’know, a compilation of your favourite tracks?” he asked, pretending to be concerned. Castle scowled, but Archie was too busy inwardly panicking to notice any non-verbal exchanges. This day wasn't going well at all. “Look, milady I... I gotta get goin’... They’ll be wondering what happened to me...” he said, getting to his feet and pulling on his coat, “Can somebody give me a lift to my car?”

“Aren't you going to finish your breakfast?” she trilled, clearly pleased to see the back of him.

“No, I’ve lost my appetite,” said Archie, strutting toward the door.

Lady Beth turned to Castle, “Have Xavier take him in the Rolls.”

“Yes milady,” said Castle, returning to the interior phone.

Jamie was coming in just as Archie as going out, “Oh, hello there, Mr Harkness... going so soon?”

Archie paused, looked back into the room, shook his head and said, sullenly , “I’ve been here too long already, son,” and marched out.

Once Harkness’ footsteps had faded into the distance, Jamie turned and looked around the table, “What did you do to him?”

Lady Beth shrugged, “Nothing, he’s just a little upset because he lost something.”

Jamie walked around her and sat in the chair opposite Harkness’ place, “Oh. I don’t suppose you had anything to do with it?”

“Not me. Can’t speak for the staff, though,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at the butler. Castle coughed and explained, “McKee has been caught, sir. The case is more-or-less closed. A weird confession from an obvious madman will only confuse matters, sir.”

“What makes you think Harkness won’t come back here with a warrant to search this place?” Jamie asked, as he calmly poured himself a large helping of Frosties.

Lady Beth: “His commanding officer won’t allow it. I warned him. No more investigations. Anyway, Harkness’ recollections of the tapes will be spotty to say the least.”

“Carla wiped him, sir,” said Castle, “selectively, just the contentious stuff. Perfectly safe.”

Jamie shook his head, “All the same, he seems pretty angry. I was trapped in his subconscious, remember, I know how he thinks ‘n feels. I know the type of man he is. He won’t let this go, with-or-without his superior’s blessing.”

Lady Beth remained sanguine, “It doesn’t matter now. Danielle’s dead. McKee’s virtually dead. Everything has settled rather nicely.”

Goz finished his last mouthful of cereal and let the spoon clatter in the dish, “Business as usual then. Deception and subterfuge. Who cares who gets caught in the cogs as long as the coven keeps its secrets,” he scoffed, in a sarcastic, sing-song tone.

His outburst inspired a round of dirty looks.

“You’re looking quite chipper despite all the aggro you caused,” said Jamie, contemptuously, looking him up and down.

Goz shrugged-off the jibe and went about buttering a slice of toast, “You started it, JJ.  I was driven to it. You made me piss myself on live TV. You have effectively ruined my career. You've only yourself to blame.”

“You lied to me all my life!”

“You mean I looked after you all my life!”

“By lying to me?!”

“You’re a pair of cretinous assholes,” said Lady Beth, in a bored voice, “the only good thing to come out of all this is getting rid of goblin-girl.”

Everyone -- including Marta, the teasmaid -- looked at Her Ladyship and glowered.

“Well! I’m only stating what you’re all thinking. She’s better-off dead!” she protested.

The scowls intensified.

Castle begged her indulgence, “It is not done to speak ill of the deceased while their remains are still lyin’ in state, milady. ‘Specially a bairn.”

She waved away the polite admonition, “Don’t lecture me, Ogden -- you’re the one that shot her! Anyway, she was 18 -- she was a young woman!” she turned her attention to Jamie in an effort to shift attention away from herself, “if it wasn't for you we’d’ve gotten rid of her years ago!”

“She died trying to save Jamie, poor thing,” said Goz, loudly crunching the crust.

Jamie turned in his chair and pointed an accusing finger, “She wouldn't have been in that position in the first place if you hadn't cast that spell, you bastard!”

Lady Beth put up her hand and banged the table with the handle of her butter-knife like a judge’s gavel, “There’ll be no recriminations or accusations until we've carried out a thorough interrogation,” she said, looking at Gosling.

“Oh, wasn't that what you were doing last night? Felt like it...” sneered Goz, chewing with his mouth open.

Lady Beth gave out a loud ‘Hah!’ and said, “You didn’t enjoy it? So what? I did.”

Coughing loudly, Castle asked for permission to speak and informed her, “I’ve already looked into his head, milady. I know what he was up to.”

“What?!” snapped Goz, dropping his toast. “I thought the ‘Sphere was still outta bounds?!”

“I put my hand on yer mouth in the hall, remember? Direct connection. Got everything in a split second,” said Castle, with an evil smile, tapping his nose with his index finger. “I know all yer little secrets.”

Goz was furious! He jumped to his feet, threw down his napkin and gave out, “This is an utter fucking outrage!” He pushed his chair back and walked toward the door, “I’m going! Get me a car! Better yet -- get me a fucking chopper! I wanna get away from here ASAP!”

“Sit down and shut up, Wolf Boy. Nobody is going anywhere for the foreseeable future,” said Lady Beth with authority, folding her hands in her lap, adopting an almost regal pose.

“You can’t keep me here!! What are you gonna do? Throw me in the dungeon like Dani?! I’m an internationally famous celebrity! The world will come looking for me!” 

Silence. Goz looked from her to Castle. 

Their expressions were solemn and resolute. 

He duly stomped back to the chair and flopped down, crossed his arms and whined under his breath about the indignity of it all.

But Jamie had to agree, “He’s got a point, though. If it’s peace ‘n quiet you want, you’d be better off letting him go...” He was interrupted by the buzz of the internal phone. While Castle answered it, Her Ladyship laid down the law, “Until we know what Rossington and the Washington coven are up to, nobody goes anywhere...” she paused to allow Castle to whisper the message in her ear. She looked up at him with a mixture of apoplectic anger and anxiety, “He’s fucking WHAT?!”

Whatever it was, it had rendered Her Ladyship wide-eyed and speechless, so Castle thought it best to address the room, “Dr Rossington called a press conference this mornin’ and intimated that Mr Gosling was forcibly taken from his care by milady. There’s a crowd of reporters gatherin’ at the front gate as we speak. Our friends in the RUC tell us there’s a lot more on the way.”

“See!” said Goz, smugly, adopting a triumphant posture.

“Rossington is fucking accusing me of kidnapping him?!” yelled Lady Beth, holding her butter knife like a chiv and pointing it at Goz.

“No, milady. The Press Office wuz very clear about that,” vouchsafed Castle, “they said he spoke in general terms and avoided using the actual word. But the gist of it was there, milady.”

“Fucking liberty...” she grumbled. “You see! He’s done this deliberately! He wants us under siege! He’s playing us!”

Jamie shook his head, “You’re overreacting, surely. So -- he has a few men inoculated against telepathic incursion -- they’re no match for us.”

She banged the table with her fist, “Haven’t you been listening, fuckwad?! The Washington mob is in on it! They have unlimited resources! Fuck knows what they've got up their sleeves...” Then, looking toward the door, her voice dipped and softened to a sarcastic purr, “Oooh. Look what the cat dragged in. Madame Infanté. So honoured that you’ve deigned to grace us with your presence.”

Wearing a white cashmere cowl-neck sweater, tight black ski pants and black suede booties, her hair up in a bun, Carla cut a very formidable figure. She ignored Her Ladyship’s entendre and took the seat at the bottom of the table opposite Gosling. “I met Inspector Harkness on his way out. He seemed most troubled,” she told them in a bored voice, as Marta poured her a tall glass of grapefruit juice, “When I asked him how he was, he mumbled something about a ‘tape’ and stormed off without saying goodbye.”

Lady Beth rolled her eyes and looked away, “Never mind that idiot, we've dealt with him -- we've moved on to Rossington now!”

Carla took a sip and nodded, “Oh yes, I saw him on the television in the gymnasium. He was standing at the gates of SCICI reading a statement.” She glanced in Her Ladyship’s direction and added, “He insinuated that you’d virtually kidnapped him.” She nodded toward the man in question, who slipped into lothario-mode as he reached across the table to take her hand, “Guy Gosling, at your service, Madame...” But Carla refused, sat back, stared into his eyes, and continued to sip. Nonplussed, he stretched-away the embarrassment with a loud yawn before flopping into his seat again. “I’ve been in Rossington’s mind [See Part 9],” she said, “he loves to be in the limelight. He will relish this for the moment, but he is not working for the Washington coven. I would know.”

Castle leaned forward, “If I may, milady, Carrie’s right. It’s unlikely the Washington coven would've had anything to do with this. It’s not their style: too high-profile. They wouldn't have anythin’ to do with an eejit like Rossington. We can cross him off the list.”

“That maybe, Ogden, but the barbarians are at the gate demanding a response and we have to oblige or there’ll be telephoto lens and helicopter cameras trained on this place 24 hours a day until we do,” she said, taking a long drag on her cigarette.

“You can’t engage, milady, you’ll be giving him exactly what he wants!” countered Castle, somewhat perplexed.

“I’m not going to talk to them, Ogden,” she said, pointing at Gosling: “He is.”

Goz jumped to his feet, “I fucking am not! If anyone’s got any explaining to do -- it’s YOU!”

“Siddown ‘n shut-up, ye skitterish weasel, ye...” growled Castle, infuriated, “you got us into this...”

Her Ladyship slapped his arm, “Quiet! I’ll deal with this.” She put her elbows on the table, leaned forward and turned her attention back to Goz. “You are gonna go out there and tell them you called me from SCICI and begged me to come and get you. You’ll tell them that being cooped-up in a nut house full of serial killers and perverts was freaking you out and you’d made a terrible mistake by going there in the first place......”

Jamie had a flashback.

At the mention of ‘a nut house full of serial killers and perverts’, just for an instant, the room faded to a blur and he was transported back to a padded cell, his hands wrapped around a male nurse’s throat, squeezing and squeezing, a feeling a blissful of exhilaration surging through his being as he gazed into his victim’s bulging eyes and listened to the last gasp of air rattle in his throat...

“What the hell...!” muttered Archie, when the limo reached the end of the drive. There was a huge crowd of reporters, cameramen and teenage girls standing outside the gate -- the narrow road beyond the entrance was choked with transport of every description -- from taxis to Live-to-air TV vans and several police cars. Once they were through the gate, Archie asked the big brown skinned chauffeur to stop so he could talk to the young constable unwinding a reel of cordon-tape across the expansive gateway. “What’s goin’ on?” he asked, flashing his ID.

The lad leaned on the door, tipped his cap and pointed at the house, “They've got wind that yer man Goz Gosling is up at the house, sir! They took ‘im from a mental hospital down south ‘n brought him here last night -- once his fans found out they've inundated the place -- been arriving all mornin, so-they-have!”

Archie looked back at the house, “Jeezus! Nut house? He seemed OK to me!”

“You've met ‘im?!” cried the lad, gripping the edge of the glass, wide-eyed, his face as avid as the school girls gathered around the gate, “what’s he like?!” then he caught-himself-on and lowered his voice, “I mean... did you talk to ‘im, sir? Do ye know what’s goin’ on, like?”

A little vexed by the lad’s momentary lack of composure, Harkness replied with jag of reproach in his tone, “He wasn't sayin’ much, that’s for sure,” He looked around the inside of the cabin, wondering if he was currently sitting in the car in question. Then something suddenly occurred, “The mental hospital he was taken from... it wasn't SCICI, was it?”

“That’s right, sir! He checked-in the other day,″  he lad exclaimed, pleased to be of help, “big news, so-it-was. He peed his pants on live TV, see. Said he was goin’ there to sort himself out -- everybody’s been talkin’ about it!”

Archie thanked him and told the big chauffeur to drive on. The crowd parted to let them through, reporters getting as close to the window as they could, little girls’ faces pressed against the glass; who’d want to be famous, he mused, as he watched them fall over each other to get a better look. When they saw it was no one of importance they backed off and let the limo through. Once the car got onto the road, Archie knocked the inner screen; Xavier wound it down. “Ahem, did you hear that?” said Archie, a spike of irony in his tone, “Said ‘e was a patient at that psychiatric hospital -- SCICI. The place where they keep all the high-risk psychos. Must've been in some state if he signed himself in there, eh?! I mean, pissing his pants on live TV...? I wonder what Lady Beth wants with him, eh?”

Again, the big chauffeur nodded politely and kept his eyes on the road.

“It’s a good job you can’t talk or I’d be askin’ you a lotta questions right now...”

When they reached the copse from where Archie had spied on the grounds the night before, he told the driver to pull over. “I’ll walk the rest of the way, big lad, if y’ don’t mind. Need time to think.” Xavier did as he was bid and slowed to a halt. Archie got out, walked around and tapped on his window. It wound down and the dark-skinned driver looked up at him with his sorrowful, deep-brown eyes. “Um, if the tape I ‘lost’ should turn up in the Ivy House, get 'em to ring me straightaway,” he said, with a strong hint of innuendo in his tone tantamount to an accusation, “It contains vital information pertinent to a murder case. It’s imperative that I get it back.” He took out his wallet and gave the driver a card, “You got that?”

Xavier gave him a look that said: I’m mute, not deaf, took the card, rolled-up the window and drove on. A few seconds later, just as Archie was about to walk into the trees, another car came along, pulled-up and took the limo’s place on the side of the road. It was an unmarked cop car: there was a radio cackling away on the dashboard, and although the occupants were mere silhouettes, Archie twigged who it was at once and groaned under his breath as he inwardly cringed, “Fucking Finch 'n O’Hara. oh gawd, wait-til-ye-hear this load o’ bollocks...”

The two men exited their car, one medium height and reasonably slim, the other large in all directions, buttoned their coats against the brisk easterly breeze and casually ambled toward him, grinning like a pair of Cheshire cats, “Well now, well now, well now, if it isn't DI Archie Harkness, the Incredible Vanishing Dick!” sang Finch, tittering like a chile. His corpulent companion, DS Winston - ‘Winnie the Pig’ - O’Hara, sporting a blue sticking-plaster across his porcine snout, his eyes puffy and slightly blackened, knew better than to join in the fun, though his jowls and beer-gut were wobbling with barely contained hilarity. They stopped snorting and adopted a more dignified stance when the Rolls drove by again on its way back to the house. Hands deep in his pockets, Finch walked onto the road and watched it disappear around the corner, “We've had men looking fer you all night, Archie,” he said, “they checked all the hospitals, the after-hours bars, the morgue, everywhere... And there you were up in the Ivy House, livin’ the high-life with Lady Beth,” he nudged his partner, “Did she show you a good time...?” He snickered, “did you tickle her fancy?”

O’Hara put his hand over his mouth and stifled another giggle.

Archie ignored the facile banter and walked into the copse to find the tree he’d climbed the night before. Once he’d located it, he began searching through the bank of fallen autumn leaves and long grass covering the roots. Finch was bemused, he stopped snickering and asked Archie what he was doing. When Archie told him, his mood changed entirely: “WHAT?! How the fuck did you lose it!!” he yelled, rushing forward.

“I had it in my pocket. It mighta fell out when I climbed down one of those branches up there,” said Archie, pointing without looking.

“Is this the tape Malky got?!”

“yeah.”

“What was on it?!”

“A sorta confession,” replied Archie, distractedly.

“A sorta confession?!”

“... more like the ravin’s of a demented lunatic...”

“What the f... Wait! You had it in the car -- maybe it’s still in the player?!” reasoned Finch, so wracked with frustration and contained rage at Archie’s laissez-faire attitude he began pacing on the spot, fists clenched at his sides.

But Archie remained infuriatingly cool, “Nah, I definitely put it in my pocket,” he muttered, pawing aside another swathe of leaves and plunging his hands into the dew-sodden long grass underneath.

“Archie -- we need that effin’ tape! It was found on our patch! We can use it to take the McKee case off the Gardai!!”

Archie stopped searching, rested his elbows on his knee, looked up at Finch and shook his head in disbelief, “Those kids he buried in the forest were killed down south. He operated from down there. They caught him down there. This is their case. You've no chance, son.”

After a moment’s thought, Finch spat, backed-off a little and sullenly relented, “Aye, well, I was talkin’ to yer old mate, DS Phil Somerville, early-on this mornin’. Needless to say, he’s of the same opinion. But I’m not lettin’ this go. We still want McKee for a string of offences, too -- i.e. Dessie Calvert’s murder, that poor guy in the maisonette -- not to mention what he did to you -- a taped confession woulda been our our ace-in-the-hole!���

“Whaddya gonna do, Ian? The man’s in a coma he’ll never wake-up-from. He can’t answer questions or go on trial.”

Finch looked away and snarled, “Lucky bastard, he is... I wanted him to rot in the Maze. Our lads’d make his life a quare misery...”

Archie stood up, dusted down his trousers and commiserated, “I understand how ye feel, we all wanted to get him for Dessie. But fate is a fickle mistress... as I’ve just come to realise. I just hope it doesn’t get out that we lost a vital piece of evidence, that all.”

Finch called O’Hara and the three immediately started searching the scrub, “Curse you, Archie Harkness! How could you lose it! I mean -- what the fuck were ye doin’ up there in the first place?!” snarled Finch.

“Spyin’ on the Lumbs before I made my grand entrance,” said Archie, scratching his head, looking up at his perch.

“You and the fucking Lumbs! -- I thought you’d gave-up on all that shite! They’ll have you thrown outta the force at this rate! What’s the tape got to with them, anyway?!”

“He mentioned... well, he didn’t so much mention ‘em by name, but he gave the impression that he ...” Archie suddenly found that his memory was failing him, the recollection gradually slipping from his mind like sand through his fingers -- a thought occurred -- then it was gone. “I know he admitted to Dessie’s murder.. ‘n he confessed to murdering the children ‘n burying them in the forest...” Archie reached another mental block, “... he believed he was possessed by a demon...” For a man who prided himself on his powers of recall, Archie was at a loss, “That’s why I need it... cuz it’s gettin’ harder ‘n harder to remember...”

“Well then, ye’d better get back to the station and write-it-up before ye ferget the whole thing altogether!” shouted Finch, pointing toward the road.

Finch called a maintenance crew and they eventually got Malky’s Viva started. By the time they’d finished, Archie looked as unkempt as usual. The tape wasn't in the car, of course, he looked everywhere; under the seats, under the mats: nothing. When he eventually reached the station, he made straight for Ogle’s office to get a bollocking for his sleepover at the Lumbs. He'd rehearsed the conversation in his head on the way there, he had answers for everything. He strode through the corridors, ignoring the mixture of bemused and amused faces he passed, and concentrated on his excuses. When he got there, he paused to take a deep breath before rapping the door. 

“Come in, Archie.”

Archie rolled his eyes, here we go, and entered to find his superior unusually calm and collected, studiously writing at his desk. “I told you to be discreet. I warned you not to get too close,” he said, plainly and quietly, without looking up from his work. 

This wasn't what Archie had expected. No shouting match? No threats of suspension? He took a chair from the back of the room and put it opposite the desk, sat down and began to explain, “I went there because I had what I thought was solid evidence...” 

Ogle cut him off, “You fucked up, Archie. When Her Ladyship phoned me to tell me where you were, she made me an offer I couldn't refuse. She said she wouldn't sue us for harassment or defamation if I closed the case once-and-for-all and thought about early retirement. So that’s what I’m doing now,” he held his hands over the page on the blotter as if warming them over a fire, “I’m drafting the letter. I’ve had enough. I’m out.”

Shocked, Archie began to say, “Donny, I don’t know...” 

Ogle interrupted him again, “She knew all about our ‘little arrangement’. She said you spilled the beans before you passed out,” he announced, finally putting down his pen, looking up, leaning forward, keen to see Archie’s response. 

Archie took a moment, sat back, shook his head and scoured his memory one last time, but it was a pointless task resulting in nothing but a stinking headache.  “I... I can’t remember, Donny... I can honestly say, I can’t remember anything. Like a memory gap. Missing time. They musta put somethin’ in in my drink...”

“Ach! It isn't a drug, Archie,” Ogle scoffed, as if explaining an evident truth to a backward child, “it’s witchcraft. You know it. I know it. What they did to you, they did to me. Mind control, psychics, telepathy, whatever you wanna call it. Of course you don’t remember anythin’, that’s how they operate. But we’d never prove it. Accusin’ Lady Elizabeth Lumb of bein’ part of a coven? We’d sound like a pair of lunatics. They’d lock us up.”

But Archie didn’t want to be convinced, “It’s sophisticated drug... a hallucinogen... makes you suggestible... makes you forget things...”

“Stop it Archie,” Ogle shook his head, “Forget them. Take my advice ‘n see this experience as a sign to move on before they lose patience ‘n get you sacked... Or worse,” he added, ominously, frowning, making sure Archie knew he was wholly serious. “I’m tellin’ ye for yer own good, son. Look at what they’re capable of. Stay away before you literally lose your mind.”

Archie sullenly kept his counsel.

“The thing about you is, Archie, you’re married to yer job,” said Ogle, with a disapproving shake of the head. “Ye’ve been through three wives, drivin’ ‘em crazy with these wee crusades of yours that take up most of your spare time. Well, this is one wee crusade that’s gonna end in tears or a funeral. They’re untouchable, Archie, let it go.”

Archie maintained a dignified silence.

Ogle sighed, swivelled his chair and gazed out of the window at Cave Hill in the distance, basking in the winter yellow of the midday sun, “As for me, I’m going to live out the rest of my days at our summer house in Spain. I want to see my grand-kids grow up. I want them to remember me as a dedicated police officer who served with honour, not some cranky auld eejit spoutin’ conspiracy theories.

“Most of all, I want some peace of mind in my old age...” 

Dr James Rossington’s office, SCICI:

RTE Lunchtime News: “... we were making progress, Mr Gosling seemed to be responding to my therapy, when persons, whom I shall not name, came to SCICI on the pretext of visiting him -- summarily whisked him away while he was in a semi-conscious state -- without his or my permission...”

Reporter: Dr Rossington -- Lady Elizabeth Lumb called here late last night -- are you saying she abducted him?!”

Rossington (turning away):  “That is all I have to say...”

Anchor: “That was head of SCICI, Dr James Rossington earlier this morning...”

Gorringe, the boss’ driver, was an imposing man: broad shoulders, serious horse-face and a pleasant smile that belied the intensity in his eyes . He was in no mood to listen to flannel and didn’t have to raise his voice to let Rossington know it. He reached across the desk and hit the mute on the remote control, “How does this 'elp matters, Jimmy?” he asked, “you’re drawin’ attention to something we need to keep quiet. What good does it do to 'ave a mob of journos all over it?”  

The good doctor shifted uncomfortably in his luxuriant swivel chair, “They were bound to find out -- they've been out there for the last few days,” he said, pointing at the silent screen. “They saw Lady Beth enter and leave. It doesn’t take a brain surgeon to work out that her visit had something to do with his sudden departure.... I just thought I’d be open and honest from the outset and give them our side of the story...” He suddenly came to his senses, eschewed the deference and found his spine. He settled back in his seat and took on a more dignified tone, “Anyway -- what has it got to do with you, Gorringe?! You’re a chauffeur, a minder, just like my man, Magowan. You’re an employee. I don’t answer to you.”

The big man replied in his customary low, growly, cockney brogue, “As you well know, Jimmy, I’ve been the old man’s right-‘and-man for the past 30-odd years. I was lookin’ after ‘im when you was still modellin’ gents briefs fer mail-order catalogues, so don’t try pullin’ rank on me, son. I know ‘ow ‘e’ll feel abaht this. ‘E won’t be ‘appy.”

Rossington lifted the blue trim-phone on his desk, “I’ll call him. He’ll take my side. You’ll see. He hates them as much as I do...”

But Gorringe reached out and pressed his finger on the hookswitch, “That won’t be necessary, Jimmy. I’ve already spoken to ‘im ‘n ‘e told me to tell you to forget it. And by ‘it’ ‘e means the entire operation.”

Rossington’s tan faded to pale beige, his mouth dropped open, “He’s... closing SCICI...?” he muttered, putting a hand on his chest..

“No, not the institute, you berk, just operation Mind Child,” Gorringe made to turn, "aaah,” he groaned, rubbing his aching thigh [See Part 16], “so no more pokin’-arahnd in the Lumbs’ backyard, and no more aggravation. 'E wants you to concentrate on the original project.”

Rossington was aghast, he rocked in his chair and vigorously shook his head, “Oh, no, no -- it’s too fucking dangerous! Remember what happened last time?!” he said, rubbing his eyes as if to keep the thought at bay, "that was the reason we approached the Lumbs in the first place: she’s too unpredictable...”

Still moaning with pain, Gorringe slowly got to his feet and put his weight on his sturdy rosewood cane, “It’s up to you, Jimmy. If we wanna keep our customers ‘appy, you’ve got to plough-on, my son. Any’ow, from what I’ve ‘eard she’s gettin’ stronger every day.”

“It’s no good having the ability if you don’t have the personality to handle it,” said Rossington, frowning, looking off into the distance as he contemplated the vastness of the task ahead. In the end, he lowered his eyes and said, “It’s no good. I can’t do anything with her. I’ve tried to teach her right from wrong, but she doesn’t listen. I tried prescribing sedatives, but she won’t take them. She can’t control herself. She displays sociopathic tendencies. The old man spoiled her -- he literally let her get away with murder.”

“She’s young, Jimmy, she’ll grow aht of it, you’ll see,” said Gorringe, putting his cap under his arm and limping toward the door, “cuz we've been keepin’ a close on eye on ‘er. I saw ‘er the other day, s’-a-matter-of-fact. Beautiful gal.”

Rossington shook his head and responded in his ‘professional’ voice, “Well, between the two of us, I’m the qualified psychiatrist and I say she’s a total nut job.”

“She needs a man in her life, that’s all. Somebody oo’ll keep ‘er in line.” Gorringe grinned and opened the door, “I’ll see myself out.”

As soon as he was alone, Rossington immediately eschewed the calm, cool exterior, leapt to his feet and walked to the back of the room, to the blank-eyed bust of St Cedric attached to the rear wall, leapt into the air and shook his fists at it, letting fly a volley of curses, “Fucking Lumbs... That Gosling bastard... Damn them all to h --” The tantrum suddenly ceased when he happened to glance at the silent TV screen opposite his desk. The news had moved on to an extended biographical feature about the man who’d been killing kids; there was a photo of a dark haired fellow wearing full-leathers, sitting on a motorbike with his helmet under his arm. He ran to his desk, lifted the remote and un-muted the sound:

“... had links to various bikers’ gangs across Europe. Some members of the Wicklow chapter he was affiliated to were arrested in a raid on a pub in Brodir on Halloween night [See Part 14]. Those we've spoken to say McKee was a casual acquaintance, not really ‘one of the lads’...”

It’s him! The biker who left the scrapbook at the front gate! He’d seen the CCTV footage, there was no doubt in his mind: it was the same man! He sat down again, reclined and thought it over. McKee must have something to do with the Lumbs. Then something else caught his eye: footage of a weird shrine made from a coat-rail and dog bones in a room full of broken mirrors. Broken mirrors. Gosling used a mirror when he cast the spell! He un-muted the sound again, “... the discovery of various artefacts associated with black magic has led detectives to believe that McKee was a devotee of the occult. One RUC officer told us that although they are approaching their investigation with an open mind, it’s possible that he was practising witchcraft and that maybe the children were killed as part of some sort of Sacrificial Rite...”

Rossington thought for a moment, then went back to the bust on the rear wall, stroked its cold, iron beard and said, “There’s something bigger at work here, Cedric, old man, and I mean to get to the bottom of it.”

After meditating for a minute or two, he went back to his desk, sat down, picked up the phone and pressed the intercom button: “Siobhan? Get me the minister for the Department of Justice, please...”

blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip..

“Malky?                     Malky?                        Malky... are you there...?”

“Zindy...?” he asked, thumbing crumbs of sleep from his eyelids.

She was perched on the edge of the bed, scruffy as usual; blue-hair, blue jeans, black leather jacket, her little pallid features marred by a few scratches and a healing split-lip, but all things considered, she looked fine. Malky smiled back and took her in, “You’re... OK...?”

She carefully pulled her jacket down to the elbows, pulled back the neck of her tee-shirt and showed him the bandage packed around her shoulder, “Straight through the soft part, nicked the bone on the way through. Bit painful, but no major damage. They sent me ‘ome yesterday.” She looked up at the clock, “They called me a couple of hours ago when you woke up, but you were too out-of-it to know what was goin’ on, so I stuck around.”

Malky frowned, “Why? How long have I been out?”

Zindy looked at her watch, “’Bout 36 hours, give or take.”

“36 hours?!” The cardiograph blipped a little faster and a little louder.

“Easy chook!” Zindy jumped off the bed and took his hand to calm him down.

An older nurse who happened to be passing came in to see if everything was alright. Zindy lied and told her that Malky just needed a glass of water and went to the cooler to fetch it. The nurse gave the machines a cursory once-over and put a hand on Malky’s forehead then took his pulse. When Zindy came back, she told her in a cold voice, “Try ‘n’ keep the conversation light, miss, or we’ll have to ask you to leave,” she put the thermometer back into her breast pocket and marched out the door.

Zindy handed him the little polystyrene cup and whispered, “You gotta cool it, chook, keep it down. They only lettuz stay on the condition that I don’t get you all excited.”

“You’re OK though...?” he asked again, relaxing a little.

“You know me. ‘Ard as nails, I am. I just wish I’d had the jump on ‘im before he killed Sammy,” she replied with a sigh.

“Sammy...?” he asked, “the barman?”

“Aye. Barry shot ‘im before ‘e whisked me off to the mountains. Poor ol’ Soul.” She looked up as if she could see the sky, “Died in me arms, ‘e did.”

Malky frowned, “I’m very sorry to hear that... I didn’t know him that well, but he seemed a nice old bloke...” After a respectful pause, he asked, “Tell me... is McKee still alive?”

She half-heartedly brought him up-to-date, “Oh aye, wouldn't you know it - the bastard had the temerity to survive. Sammy gave him a whack on the back of ‘ead with the ol’ cricket bat, he has a fractured skull and brain damage, he broke his leg fallin’ into the grave -– but miraculously he’s still alive. In a coma. They don’t reckon much to ‘im comin’ out of it.” She looked into space and dwelt upon the more bizarre aspect of the ordeal, “It was the weirdest experience I’ve ever ‘ad in me life. And them cats, the ones that drove Barry mad... Where the heck did they come from...? Thank God Broo was there...”

“And what about Broo? Is he alright?” asked Malky, steering her away from the subject.

“Somerville took ‘im to the police station til I got out. I fetched him this mornin’ ‘n took ‘im back to the inn... ‘E saved my life ‘e did. He’s one in a million dog...” She lowered her head, “I thought I’d lost you, y’know. I passed out after I was shot, but when I came to, I saw Broo standin’ by the open grave, howlin’... I guessed what‘d happened, so I crawled to the edge, looked down and saw both of you wrapped round each other -- both unconscious –- the way Broo was goin’ on, I was sure he’d killed you! Thank God Somerville arrived a coupla minutes later, or you woulda been a goner...” She paused again. “Oh yeah,” she said, suddenly remembering, “I found this in the yard.” It was the little locket. “Barry tore it off me neck and threw it away when he jumped me.”

“Didn't bring you much luck, did it?”

“Well, it got very hot before'and. Like it was warning me of the danger,” she said, tentatively, as if she thought Malky might shed some light.

"I’m just glad you’re alive,” Malky replied, squeezing her hand, effectively closing the conversation. 

In the silence that followed, she nervously fingered the little silver bud and regarded him with a strange look he’d never seen before. For the first time since he’d known her, the elfin features were vexed, her cheeks flushed as she displayed an expression comprised of kindness, hopefulness, fear of rejection with the tiniest flicker of regret. Whatever she was about to say, she’d rehearsed it and it came straight from the heart:

“I want you to move into the inn when you get out. I think the sea air will do you good and it’ll be secluded... I don’t think that pokey little flat of yours is a suitable place for poor old Broo, nevermind a man recoverin’ from your injuries -- but don’t go thinkin’ it’s cuz Sammy’s gone and I don’t wanna be on my own, or feel that I’m pressurising you into it or anythin’ like that -- I just think we’re well-suited, and what’s the point of both of us sittin’ frettin’ on our own after all we've been through together...?”

Malky, heartened, flattered and quietly relieved, put a hand on her shoulder and spared her any further embarrassment, “Aye. ‘Course I will. I’d love to - but are ye sure yer thinkin’ straight?”

“No, I mean it. I think it’d be the best for both of us.”

He smiled, “Then yes. I am honoured to accept.”

Careful not to tug the tubes out of his hand, she carefully lifted his left arm and moved up the bed so that she was lying beside him, then pulled the arm around her so that her head nestled on his naked shoulder. Malky put his head against hers and they stared at the ceiling for a while. This feels right. Despite the myriad aches & pains, the bullet-holes, and the knowledge that he was embarking on a change of life, for the first time in a very long time, Malky felt contented and optimistic. But that could've been the morphine.

They drifted into separate reveries for 5 minutes or so, until one of the younger, cheekier nurses came to the door. Zindy jumped up and made herself respectable. The nurse looked as if she wanted a favour. She had something behind her back, “Hi there, I know you’re not to get excited Mr Malcolm, but I was wonderin’... me wee niece gave me this-here-paper and asked me if you’d sign it for her...?” she handed him a folded tabloid and a blue Bic.

On the front page, there was a large reproduction of the notorious photograph of Malky & Broo in the open-top MG, the old dog wearing sunglasses, Malky waving and grinning like a loon. Malky was sorely exasperated, “Ach, fer gawds-sake - they’re not still usin’ that stupid ol’ picture of us, are they!” The headline read:

‘ONE MAN AND HIS DOG FACE MADMAN IN THE MEADOW:

How Malcolm Calvert And His Three-Legged German-Shepherd Brought A Multiple Murderer To Justice!’

Zindy chuckled, “Well, there’ll be plenty of photographers lookin’ to take some new snaps – there’s been a constant stream of reporters callin’ at the inn – there’s a few ‘em outside the hospital now! You’re big news – Mr ‘Psychic Detective’!”

blip-blip-blip-blip-blip-blip-blip-blip-blip-blip-blip-blip-blip

“‘Psychic Detective’! They’re not callin’ me that, are they?”

blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip..

Zindy fired back, “Well, don’t look at me –- I send the hacks a-packing, I do!”

blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip..

As the blips grew more rapid and increased in volume, the young nurse became anxious, she glanced at the door, worried that sister would hear and intervene, “Calm down, calm down Mr Calvert, I’m very sorry – I didn’t think this would upset you so!”

Malky took a deep breath, composed himself, signed the paper and handed it back, “It’s not your fault nurse, you weren’t to know - but for me this is just a taste of things to come. Every journo from Derry to Cork will follow that angle and I’ll be a bloody laughing-stock... From now on, it’ll be ‘Malky Calvert: Ghostbuster’ or some stupid auld shite like that!”

Zindy continued to giggle and told him to give-over, “Och, stop bein’ a big Moanin’-Minnie! You’re alive, arentcha? And you’re an ‘ero! Enjoy the moment!”

The young nurse frowned and asked, “Why, isn't it so, then, Mr Calvert? Didn't you have help from the Spirit World? One of the men from the RUC said that you ‘have visions’?!”

Malky harrumphed, “Oh, I can guess which RUC man told them that!”

The nurse was very disappointed, “So... there was no divine intervention? Youse weren’t guided by voices?”

Malky was too grumpy to worry about crushing the nurse’s expectations, “Look, sister, the only miracle here is coincidence, luv. The only voices were in McKee’s ‘ead.”

The nurse walked away, somewhat deflated and chastened.

Zindy put her fists on her hips and shook her head, “That was a bit harsh, weren't it? And we both know there’s more to it than that. There’s Broo for one thing. You said yerself that ‘he sees things’. There’s definitely somethin’ spooky about ‘im...”

Later that evening, Archie Harkness came to see him. Looking his usual self: miserable and dishevelled, toting a bunch of motorway service station flowers and a supermarket carrier bag full of police files, he turned on the bedside lamp, plonked himself in the chair by the bed, put the bag between his legs, and looked Malky from head to toe, “Bloody hell. The wounded soldier, eh?” he said, depositing the flowers in a bedpan on a trolley behind him.

“Aye. And I’m not outta danger yet, so no wind ups Archie...” said Malky, weakly.

Archie was effusive in his praise, “I’m not winding ye up, son. Yer a hero! I’m proud of ye. You showed ‘em all. Oh yeah! Has Phil Somerville been to see you yet?”

“No. I wish he would, though. I wanna thank ‘im for savin’ me life.”

“Phil’s a very busy man. But I’m sure he’ll get around to it eventually. In fact, I’m meeting up with him in Dublin later-on to discuss the McKee case. I’ll tell ‘im yer eternally grateful.” Archie pulled a folder from the carrier bag, “I’m here to deliver this in person. It’s a written summary of what I can remember of that taped confession McKee sent to you. I hadda dig deep to write the report, to be honest, most of it has slipped my mind. It’s probably inadmissible, but I wanted to visit you anyway, so...”

Malky cocked an eye, “Why not just give ‘im a copy of the tape?”

Harkness looked at the floor and braced himself for a mouthful, “I... I lost it. I went to the Ivy House to question the Lumbs... I lost it somewhere along the way.”

“You lost the friggin’ tape?!” Malky almost shouted.

blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip..

Archie rubbed his temples with his fingertips, “Don’t start, Malky, I’ve already had it in the neck from everybody else. I wrote down what I can remember. They’ll probably interview you about it, too.”

“What...? Whaddya mean... I can’t remember half of what he said either, just the overall picture that it sounded like the gibberish of ravin’ lunatic.” He relaxed and took solace in the positive aspects, “It doesn’t matter anyway. The bottom line ‘ere is we caught Dessie’s killer. We got justice for them poor kids.”

Archie couldn't let it go, “Aye, but Malky, it was a key piece of evidence tyin’ him to the Lumbs! When SOCO searched his van they found photos of the Ivy House taken from the trees surrounding the perimeter -- he was stakin’ the place out...”

“Oh fer gawd’s sake Archie, you and the bloody Lumbs, give it a rest, willya,” Malky croaked. Then he thought for moment and said, “It’s funny you should mention them, though. When I was out of it I had this stupid dream that I’d died and I was standin’ looking down at my body, in the operatin’ theatre, just like you see in them auld movies on TV, and you’ll never guess who met me on the other side: their head of security, your ol’ nemesis: Bernie Pritchard. Whaddya think of that?”

Archie remembered the fleeting glimpse of a shadowy figure in the bathroom mirror and blanched. He was going to tell Malky about it and laugh it off, but quickly changed his mind and changed the subject, "Donny Ogle’s takin’ early retirement.”

Malky was very surprised, “Really? I thought Donny was a career copper, in it for the promotions, big dinners, y’know, rubbin’ shoulders with the powers that be, an’ all that. What happened?”

“He... I dunno. I think he’s a wee bit disillusioned. Change of priorities. There’s a lot of things weighin’ on his mind.”

“I’m not surprised havin’ to look after you. I’m sure you drive ‘im round the twist with all this Ivy House business.”

“Ach, you know what I’m like, Malky, a dog with a bone...” After a pause to scratch his head, Archie asked in a teasing tone, “Speakin’ of dogs, it’s funny how your adventure began when you adopted Dessie’s dog....”

Malky turned back and sighed, “Enough, Archie. It’s over. I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“He’s just a dog.”

“Aye, He’s just a dog.”

“So yer not a ‘psychic’?” Archie bantered, in reference to the previous morning’s headlines.

“Don’t you start. I’ve been gettin’ that sorta shite all day ‘n it annoys the hell outta me. I just got lucky,” Malky grumbled. “No, I’m gonna get away from all that shite after this. Zindy’s asked me to move into the inn with her and I accepted her offer.”

Archie sat back, gaped in wonder, slapped his knees and crowed, “Well, well, well. Malky Calvert! You jammy bastard! You get sober -- catch a serial killer -- survive a massive heart attack -- and you get the girl!”

“That’s what bothers me. It’s just too perfect an ending.... Things never go right for me,” said Malky, mournfully.

“Gawd, you’re a miserable sod.”

“Look who’s talkin’!”

“Well, however it is, it sure beats bein’ alone, rottin’ away in that wee flat in Forestpine, drinkin’ yerself to death, doesn’t it? I mean, we’d all like to live beside the seaside...”

Odin’s Inn, Brodir: Brooster was quite enjoying his stay, so far. He’d warmed to Zindy... well, he was very impressed by her tenacity and the way she handled herself during the kidnapping, he liked the way she gave the press short shrift and didn’t suffer fools gladly, but she still had a lot of irritating habits, not least her taste in television programmes -- she insisted on watching soap operas and comedies when he wanted to watch David Attenborough or documentaries; also, her dedication to housework made Mrs Mercer look like a slob. She was forever dusting and cleaning – she couldn't sit still for 5 minutes without polishing something. Then there was the constant vacuuming – the hoover was old and emitted a terrible whining noise that made Broo’s back teeth sore. Fortunately, she made up for it by taking him for long walks along the strand. He loved those walks. The town still looked awful, dead and decrepit, but the atmosphere felt lighter and more agreeable: the aura of doom had lifted, so spiritually at least, Brodir was a different place. 

Zindy still had that weird halo about her, as if lit by an inner glow. Broo didn’t know what to make of it, but suspected it had something to do with their encounter with McKee. All he knew was it wasn't malign in its nature: No bad vibes, in fact, he found it quite soothing. She was wont to sit on the seawall and sketch in her sketch-pad while he secretly and psychically conversed with the little ghosts of drowned children on the seashore. Because Broo was a bit of a hero in the Spirit World now, all the little spectres wanted to hear the story of his adventure, and he never got tired of telling it. They would gather on the rocks below the wall and he’d open his mind to let them explore his memories.

Sometimes, Zindy let him out on his own at night and he’d explore the squalid, crumbling back alleys of Brodir, nosing-around in the debris and chasing the occasional rat. Meanwhile, up on the yard walls and the parapet of the old, burned-out picture house, the cats watched impassively, and although they never made any effort to interact, both sides viewed each other with mutual respect.

But one thing was remarkably different from before. There was a new ghost haunting the inn. McKee’s father was gone, but Sammy O'Donnell, the old barman, had taken his place; invisible and intangible, only Broo could see and hear him. He was a bit of a bore, all told, but at least he was company. He liked to watch Zindy from a distance. He was afraid that if he got too close, she would feel his presence and it would spook her, but even if he was to be nought but an interested observer, he still felt part of her life. His biggest worry was that she’d sell-up and move on. After all, Brodir was a ghost town now, full of nothing but bad memories. There was no reason for her stay.

Then one afternoon, while Zindy was away visiting Malky at the hospital, a stranger called. 

Broo and Sammy were in the sitting room watching an old western (Zindy always left the TV on to keep Broo company when she was away), when they heard a knock at the side door. This was most unusual. There had been reporters in the first few weeks, but they gave up when they knew they weren’t going to get anything from Zindy. Intrigued, Broo walked down the hall and looked through the frosted glass. It appeared to be the blurred silhouette of a very large man.

“<Are ye there, boy?>” said a hopeful voice.

Broo couldn't answer, of course, but the voice, which seemed to have a pleasant local accent, sounded in his head as well as his ears. This was what he’d been waiting for! He barked in response. 

“<That’s good. I’m going to let myself in, OK? There is no need for alarm. I’m a friend.>”

Broo wasn't perturbed at all, quite the contrary, he knew who it was. It’s one of the Vondragüül. The race of people the Powers That Be told him about through the little ghost in the cemetery. They mentioned a fat man in a butler’s uniform. He must be here to ‘take over’ now that McKee/the Demon has been neutralised [See Part 17].

There was no sound of a key in the lock, but the latch duly clicked open and the stranger stepped in. It was indeed a huge, obese man in a butler’s uniform wearing a shiny black bowler hat, a thick black coat and white dress gloves. He entered, took off the hat to reveal a shiny bald head, and closed the door quietly behind him.

He smelled like no one Broo had ever met. Below the rich scent of cologne and hair oil, he could smell the foetid flesh on aged bones; years of slowly decaying offal under vast folds of skin. He was very, very old.

“I waited until the wee woman went out. I need to talk to you,” he said, pulling off the gloves and putting them in the bowler hat..

Sammy put his head around the sitting-room door, “Who is it?” he asked, still under the impression that whoever it was wouldn't see or hear him.

“Hello, Mr O'Donnell, how are you, sir? Terribly sorry to hear of your untimely death,” the stranger offered, apologetically, “I only hope you get to step into The Light before long.”

“Erm... thank you... eh, how is it that you know my name and you can see me ‘n nobody else can...?” asked Sammy, timidly edging round the doorframe.

The big butler smiled, tugged his earlobe and explained, “I ‘ave whatcha-may-call second sight. I come from a family of witches who lived in these parts over a thousand years ago. When the demon came to Ireland with the Vikings, they landed here, in ‘Brodir’, as they called it, and he used ‘em to smoke us out. They killed most of us. He became so powerful we had no choice but to flee. Now, after all these years, the area is finally free o’ his badness ‘n we can come back. All thanks to this old boy.”

He turned to the old dog, bent down, patted his head, looked him in the eye and spoke in an earnest tone, “We want to thank you for all you’ve done. I’m sorry we couldn't help you, but since you were under the auspices of the Powers That Be, we thought it best not to interfere and let things take their natural course. I s’pose you’ve been advised of our part in all this?”

Broo ruffed an affirmative.

“My name is Ogden Castle, I’m the butler in the Ivy House. Everyone who works there is part of our coven. Since time immemorial it has been our solemn duty to hunt down the demon and destroy him, but we had a few, um, shall we say, ‘hiccups’ along the way. But it doesn’t really matter. You got him in the end. And alive, at that. Well done, old son.”

They went to sitting room where Castle, easily filling the little 2-seater couch on his own, explained everything; from the diabolical twists and turns of the Demon’s machinations to Sammy’s current predicament, “... and that’s why Jamie pulled you into the Mirror World. The demon’s dark energy would've devoured you before you got the chance to walk into The Light. That’s why you’re stuck here until somebody else dies on the premises, I’m sorry to say.”

Sammy was sorely disappointed and a little scared, “So it’s here or Limbo until somebody else croaks -- is that what yer tellin’ me?!”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“What if Zindy decides to move -- what if this place is abandoned like everythin’ else is this town?! I could be stuck here forever!” he cried, panicking.

“There’s nothin’ we can do about that I’ afraid... I’m so sorry.” Then Castle’s posture changed. He lowered his voice, sat forward, beckoned Broo and intimated in a low. serious voice, “Look, I can’t stay here too long, there’s still a lot of negative energy in the air, so listen closely. This is very important. OK?”

Broo woofed.

“The wee woman who was taken by the demon -- the one who owns this place -- is gonna get pregnant. We don’t know when, but we know it will happen at some stage in the next few years. It’ll be a wee girl. And she’ll be a very special baby.”

Well that explains the weird halo, thought Broo.

Castle answered if he’d spoken aloud, “Exactly, she’ll be one of us. She’s the key to what will happen next for our race now that the demon has all-but kicked-it.

“So look after her. If anyone comes a-callin’ askin’ about her -- from this world or the next -- let me know.” Castle touched his temple, “<Reach out to me. Just think of my name and I’ll hear you. But it’s important that no one knows. She has to grow up and find her own path, OK.>”

Broo ruffed an affirmative.

“Zindy’s gonna have a baby..?” asked Sammy, mistily.

“Aye. So keep yer wits about ye. ”

Having said his piece, the big butler made to leave, “I know I can trust you,” he said, pausing in the doorway to take one last look at the old dog, “cuz you’re one of us, too, auld chap. You’re part of our world now...”

Ogden Castle left the Inn and crossed the concourse, down to the cobbled litter-strewn seafront where the Lumbs’ Range Rover was waiting at the opposite kerb. He paused in the middle of the road to take in the sea air and look around at the little seaside town he knew as a child, 1000 years ago. No people buzzing around, no market stalls lining the promenade, no boats tied up in the docks; just a row of boarded up buildings where the fishermen’s cottages used to be and the rusted remains of a bandstand on the promenade. He raised his head, closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Alongside the seaside odours and sense of decay, he sensed the ancient evil. It still polluted the atmosphere and assailed his Essence, made him feel nauseous. He promptly got back into the car, “Well, that’s that, Mr X. Our future’s in the hands, or should I say paws, of a three legged dog,” he muttered, strapping himself into the passenger seat with some difficulty.

Hearing the doubt in Castle’s voice, Xavier drove off and silently asked, <He caught the demon. Surely he is trustworthy?>

“I know the old dog is dependable. He has minor psychic powers. He can converse with the ghosts and the Infant Host, and he’s canny, sure enough... But he has a companion, and that’s what bothers me.”

<A ghost?>

“The barman McKee killed.” 

<You think this ghost might be susceptible to the influence of mischievous spirits?> thought Xavier.

“Aye, I do: Master Bernard; our Mr Pritchard, for one. He’s been released from his death haunt and he’s free to wander again. I feel his presence in the Ivy House. I dunno what he’s up to, but you can bet it’ll be no good...”

<And the demon?>

“That’s the next order of business, Mr X,” said Castle, eyeing the line of cats watching from the parapet of the derelict cinema as they passed, “how do we get to 'im before they pull the plug and he migrates to his next host...?”

The Ivy House Sanatorium: After a short, perfunctory funeral, Carla got ready to move back to Sweden where she would be a debriefed and take a long sleep to replenish her depleted energy. To look at her, you wouldn't think she’d just lost a niece. Her expression was inscrutable. Emotionless. She placed a rose on the coffin before it disappeared into the fire, but that was the extent of her involvement.

She didn’t need to pack. She left what clothes she had in Jamie’s wardrobe, saying that most of them would be out of fashion by the time she emerged from hibernation. Jamie laid on the bed and watched her don a pair of jeans, a careworn cardigan over a plain cotton tee-shirt, and an old pair of trainers; things that wouldn't draw too much attention when she eventually slipped out of the grounds via the service entrance. She still looked stunning. She threw a few belongings into large bag and slung over it her shoulder. When she’d finished, she cocked a hip and stood cross armed in the doorway to bid him farewell.

They didn’t need to speak. The Psychosphere might be infected, telepathy was off-limits, but they could read each other’s minds by sight alone. And although their relationship was purely platonic, he felt something beyond affection for her and thought he should express it in words while he still had the chance.

“Sleep well,” he said agreeably, propping his head on his right hand, “I’m sure I’ll see you again someday. They’re bound to need you when all this American shit kicks off.”

She smiled. “There is no ‘they’. There is only ‘we’.”

Jamie shrugged, “I’m one of you, true. I can’t deny it. Doesn't mean I have to join in.”

She looked at him for quite a while, then said, “You are the new Master. You've proven you have the mettle to assume the mantle. You will settle into the role. Eventually.”

“I don’t want it. I’m not a general. If it wasn't for the lockdown, you wouldn't see me for dust.”

“It must be you. Lady Beth is not one of us. Her psychic powers are artificially enhanced and minimal. Uncle Ogden is too old and unhealthy. Xavier is ancient and wise, but he is not a leader. Only you have the necessary qualifications.”

Jamie sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and said, “What if I was to say I need you here as my advisor? You could sleep down in the catacombs...?”

Carla shook her head, “My duty to the coven comes first. I need to be at my best when the call comes, and that means going back to Sweden, consulting with Ebben, re-energizing. It is the only place I can rest in peace.”

He looked at the floor and sighed heavily, “How come if we’re such cold-hearted bastards we can still have feelings for each other?”

“Copulation was once necessary for procreation,” she explained in a matter-of-fact voice. “Until relatively recently, before we developed the potions that gave us immortality, we had to bear children to continue the bloodline. Deep down, our material bodies are still beholden to those primal urges and you have yet to fully shed the human appetites of youth.”

Jamie shook his head and grumbled, “Spoken like a true Ice Queen.”

“We prefer Silver Siren.”

“Whatever.”

“Would a goodbye kiss make any difference?” she joked.

Jamie scowled, “Don’t patronise me, Carla.”

“Indulge me.” She walked to the bed, stooped, took his cheeks in her ivory white hands, the long, straight hair swinging forward, encircling his face like a silver veil, and delicately pressed her lips against his.

For an instance his head was filled with an image of her standing atop a bloody heap of splayed corpses: the bodies of the countless men and women she’d slain in her long life as a Güül assassin. He smelled the blood. He felt their pain. He felt the desolation, the detachment, the coldness, the hollowness of her Soul.

She stepped back and broke the connection.

 “None of these people are human,” she said, almost regretfully, “they are Vondragüül. My own kind, executed before they betrayed us or used their powers to iniquitous ends. Thanks to the Psychosphere, we can usually sense if one of us is thinking of ‘going rogue’, but there are those of us with exceptional powers who can erect impenetrable blocks to escape detection, so, a Real World intervention is in order. A physical confrontation. My powers must be at their peak. To get close to them, my blocks must be just as intricate and impenetrable as theirs. It takes years of training to develop these skills. Years.” She stooped again and looked him in the eye, “So, yes, you are right. I am the most ruthless of assassins. The best. I have been trained to be detached. Cold. Hollow... Heartless.

“Therefore I’m incapable of ever loving you the way you want to be loved.”

Despite the flatness of her tone, Jamie was certain he sensed a little spark of doubt in her Aspect, if only the faintest glimmer. “I’m a great believer in redemption, and I don’t give up easy,” he replied, staring up into her sparkling, multicoloured eyes.

She shook her head, “Someday I shall return, of that you can be sure. And when I do, we’ll see if you feel the same way,” she said, turning, walking toward the door.

“Oh, I will. I’ve never been so sure of anything before in my life.”

“Then you won’t mind waiting a few more years,” she said, without looking back, “remember, we live forever...”

Odin’s Inn, 17th December 1988: Three weeks later, on a drizzly, cold winter’s evening, Malky came home. It was almost Christmas. Somerville, who’d insisted on driving him in his roomy Audi, helped him out of the car into the blustery, briny air of Brodir. Zindy ran out as soon as they pulled up, throwing her arms around him and screaming his name. It was all very undignified. Broo watched from the doorway, and although he was thrilled to have his partner back, he had the good sense not to jump all over him. He made do with sniffing his cuffs and licking his hands; by the looks of him, the man had suffered enough. Walking with the aid of crutches, looking gaunt, ashen and weak, his breath smelling of hunger, his eyes sunken and dark. Broo wheezed an empathetic whimper. Malky understood.

Zindy had festooned the inn with gaudy decorations; foam-rubber snowmen, inflatable Santas, novelty reindeer, and a host of scented candles that made Broo’s eyes water. There was a tall fir-tree covered in flashing lights and coloured baubles in the corner, and a huge Welcome Home Malky banner draped over the bar. Zindy looked quite feminine for a change – she was even wearing a skirt and a brand new sweater. The glow around her was stronger. It seemed to brighten when she was happy. Broo found it quite comforting. She’d done her best to put a ring of tinsel around his collar, but he didn’t like it one bit and made it plain by not keeping still while she worked on it. “Oh, you’re an old killjoy, you are!” she scolded, waving a finger, “Grin ‘n’ wear it, grumpy! It’s only a wee festive touch to make him smile!” He quit his restlessness and reluctantly complied.

Malky instinctively knew that Broo didn’t like it, but it was funny. He looked the old dog in the eye, patted his head, winked and croaked, “Nice to see you’ve entered into the spirit of the season.”

Somerville walked into the centre of the floor, looked around and complimented his hostess on her hard work, “The place is lookin’ lovely, Zindy. If you don’t mind me sayin’, it’s a quare sight better than it was a couple of months ago...”

Zindy did indeed mind him saying and reminded him that she didn’t want to be reminded.

Malky was about to say, ‘It’s good to be home,’ but he couldn't make so bold. Over the last several days his innate pessimism had reasserted itself and refused to let him believe that this might be his ‘happy ever after’.

He stood by the bar, gazing at the row of sparkling optics and assortment of multi-coloured bottles on the upper shelves and shook his head: 3 months ago I woulda thought that this was paradise – fallin’ in with a woman who owns a bar! Three days before, he’d had a visit from a very discomfited Mrs Mercer (“This is me first time in the Free State an’ I’m shakin’ like a leaf! The ticket inspector on the train was the first Fenian I’ve spoke to since 1973!”), and after passing on the good news that Her Roy had forgiven him for the misappropriation and subsequent confiscation of his beloved MG, she told him that not everyone was pleased about his recent triumphs. There were elements on the estate who resented the fact that he’d been spending so much time in the south and working so closely with the garda, “But ye don’t have to worry, My Roy’s mates will make sure that nobody gives ye any trouble.” Great, thought Malky, more saddened than annoyed. He told her it didn’t matter and informed her of his plans to move Wicklow. Mrs Mercer was slightly shocked, but took comfort in the fact that his ‘live-in-lover’ was a ‘nice English girl’ not a ‘papish spud-muncher’. She then asked if he wanted her to pack-up his things and have them delivered to his new address, and that’s when the enormity of his situation struck him: he was going to be out of his comfort zone and taking a giant step into the unknown. He was, in essence, starting over again miles from home with someone he barely knew; whither a pang of paranoia due to morphine withdrawal or a congenital fear of commitment, for a minute, he actually contemplated telling her that it was only a temporary arrangement and he’d probably be home in the New Year. So, as a compromise, he asked her to send down a few things to tide-him-over and he’d ‘see how it went’. 

He looked down at the old dog and inwardly cowered.

Broo returned his stare with worried eyes. He was well-aware of his partner’s misgivings, but there was no way to reassure him of Zindy’s feelings. That was up to her. And, after sitting through her numerous soap-operas and romantic movies, he’d learned that inference in affairs of the heart invariably resulted in trouble for all parties concerned: They’ll have to work it out for themselves.

Sammy’s ghost, standing cross-armed behind the bar, watching proceedings with a sceptical expression, remarked, “Yer mate doesn’t look too happy, does he? He looks as if he’d rather be anywhere else than here!”

Broo growled to shut him up. The ghost shrugged, “I’m just sayin’ – it could be worse - he could be a walkin’ colander like me!” he said, pointing to the gory bullet-holes in his apron.

Meanwhile, the conversation twixt the diminutive blue-haired landlady and the king-sized DS continued, “Look, Zindy, I’m gonna recommend that you get yer licence back, I’m gonna have a word with...”

Zindy shook her head and interjected before he could go any further, “Don’t bother Mr Superintendent, I’ve decided that I’m gonna turn this place into a guest house or a B&B. No more rowdies or Heavy Metal parties for me. This town is due for a revival and I hope to be ready for business when things pick-up.”

“Hooray!” shouted Sammy, punching the air with both hands.

During the chat, Zindy noticed Malky's forced smile and sensed his discomfort, so in an effort to cheer him up, she went to the side of the bar and pulled away the cloth covering the broken jukebox - only it wasn't broken anymore - the hole in the glass was covered by a Yuletide wreath and the lights were on. She pushed a 10 pence piece into the slot, pressed a button; they heard a click and the needle clunking down onto a crackly 45:

 Sweeeeeeet dream baby

Sweeeeeeet dream baby

Sweeeeeeet dream baby

... how long must I dream...

 Broo’s heart almost burst out of his chest.

A week before, he’d been saddened to hear reports of the Big O’s death on the news and there had been a raft of retrospectives; alas, the little speaker in the portable TV couldn't do justice to the great man’s oeuvre - but this was like having him in the room! It wasn't long before he threw his head back and howled along.

Somerville was amazed, “Wowee, that auld dog sure loves Orbison!”

Zindy crossed her arms and joined the men to watch the performance, “I found in the record section of a charity shop in Wicklow Town – I couldn't resist it! He’s so stern and pompous most of the time, I thought it’d be nice for him to let his hair down.”

The three - including Sammy -- laughed for while then watched him enjoy himself.  Zindy made some tea and on her way back, put it on again. And again! And each time the needle dropped, the old dog had no choice but to repeat the performance; the laughter grew louder each time. Broo began to think she was taking the Mick.

Sammy’s ghost was holding his sides, laughing like a drain.

They sat in a corner booth, drank the tea and discussed the ubiquitous Barry McKee, “Oh, there’s some brain activity, according to the auld EEG, but that’s all,” said Somerville. He thought about his next statement carefully before saying, “Look Malky, I know you hate talkin’ about the weird stuff that went on, but I have to tell youse about this.

“The day after McKee was apprehended, I sent a coupla my men over to the auld people’s rest-home to talk to witnesses about the shooting of his mother, y’know, to take a few statements from some of the auld dears and have a last look round before we sent in the crime-scene-clean-up lads to clear the room. Anyway, the two guys were talking to some of the staff and they told them that ever since that night of the shootin’, the residents in the rooms either side of Mrs McKee’s heard things during the night – singing 'n talking – just like she used to do when she was alive. ‘Course, my men took it all with a pinch of salt, but when they checked-out her room, they said it was stone-cold – and during the search - get this – they said there was a rockin’ chair beside the bed and it started rockin’ of its own accord. They ran outta there like pair of frightened lassies! Whaddya think of that?”

Malky didn’t comment.

Broo was intrigued and wanted to hear more.

But Zindy was keen to keep the conversation light, “Ach, there’s got to be a rational explanation, it’s probably been a draught...?”

Somerville looked down at the table and scratched his head, “Well, it certainly spooked my men. I guess it’s just another wee mystery...”

“What’re you gettin’ at, Phil?” asked Malky, his eyes narrowing.

“You and Archie Harkness: Pragmatic men confounded by inexplicable events. Somethin’ has yez tied up in knots, hasn’t it?” said Somerville, with a wry smile. “Cuz I’ve been in this game long enough to know when somebody‘s holdin’ somethin’ back, Malky. The same with Archie. His report on the confession tape reads like the script of a horror film, the bits he can remember, anyway... and your version is just as vague.” He paused for a moment, then asked in a cordial tone, “I mean, why you, Malky? This all started when you discovered them bodies in the middle of nowhere... How did you know they’d be there?”

They stared into each other’s eyes for a while.

“Oh, take the night off will ya!” scolded Zindy, waving her hand between them to break the spell, “He’s been through everything 100 times! Leave ‘im be!”

Unmoved, Malky asked, “So, what about McKee? Are they gonna switch off the machines or what?”

Somerville looked away, rubbed the nape of his thick neck and said, “He’s bein’ moved.”

“What...?” said Malky, stunned.

Broo’s ears pricked up.

“To where?” asked Zindy, horrified.

“SCICI: St Cedric’s Institute for the Criminally Insane,” Somerville told them, in a morose, regretful, almost angry voice, “the governor there, Dr James Rossington, offered to put him up. SCICI has the facilities, it’s all ‘state-of-the art’ an’ all that. He talked to right people in the government ‘n got permission from the highest authority. I don’t like it anymore than you do, but there’s nuthin’ I can do about it.”

“This is...How... Why...” Malky couldn't think of anything to say.

Somerville went on, “See, I don’t like this Dr Rossington. He’s a glory hound. Never happier than when the cameras are flashing round him. And he has some real head cases in there -- some real psychos. He interviews 'em and writes books about ‘em. Getting McKee’ll be a major coup for ‘im. He’ll keep him alive like a sideshow freak, you can put money on it. He’ll do lecture tours. He’ll be on TV. McKee will be a goldmine for ‘im.”

Malky finally found his voice, “But... he... he’s a vegetable? I thought they’d give ‘im so long then they’d pull the plug?”

“Like I said, there’s some brain activity. It’s minimal, but it’s enough for the board to stay the execution, as it were. They’re only too glad to let Rossington take ‘im off their hands.”

“Well, I hope he fookin’ dies, the fookin’ bastard,” said Zindy, pouring herself a brandy.

Broo wagged his tail, heartened by this news. If McKee was being kept alive it would give Castle and his comrades time to deal with him!

Malky turned, saw the tail wagging and shouted at the old dog,“Why does that make you so happy? He almost killed me!”

Broo barked back in protest.

Flummoxed by the outburst, Zindy and Somerville looked at Malky, then looked at Broo, then turned back to Malky. “What was that all about?” said Zindy, with an incredulous look on her face.

Embarrassed, Malky passed it off as a joke, “Oh, it’s just a wee thing we have...” he chuckled, “I tell you what, put that ol’ Roy Orbison song on again.”

When the clock chimed 2AM, Somerville looked at his watch, “Is that the time?! I better get goin’!” He got to his feet and shook their hands, “It’s been a pleasure workin’ with yez. I’m just relieved that this has all reached what we call a ‘satisfactory conclusion’ and yez survived yer ordeal. That’s the most important thing. You've lived to tell the tale.”

Once again, Malky thanked him for saving his life and warmly shook his hand, “Maybe when I’m better we can take a boat out ‘n go fishing in the bay?”

“I’d like that, Malcolm.” Somerville said, sincerely.

“Oh, before you go -” Zindy handed him an instamatic and asked him to take a photo of them, “this moment should be captured for posterity!”

The trio gathered at the Christmas tree, Zindy in her new sweater, Broo with tinsel around his collar, standing either side of a frail, wounded Malky Calvert, and Sammy’s ghost standing behind them,grinning like a blood-stained, toothless St Nicolas.

blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip..

In the hospital, in the sterile dimness of the ICU, in a private room at the end of an anonymous corridor, a bank of machines and monitors of every shape and size bleep and blip around the heavily bandaged head of the lifeless body on the cot, it's wide, unseeing eyes staring up into space, as if transfixed by something utterly fascinating in the darkness beyond the lamplight. 

This man should be dead. It is an act of God and medical science that he is not. But the spark of life still burns somewhere in his damaged brain, confounding their prognosis. Part of him just won’t give up the ghost.

There’s the creak of a doorknob and for a brief moment the room brightens as a shard of light from the corridor cuts through the dark. Dr James Rossington enters and closes the door gently behind him. He approaches, stands by the bed and beholds the lifeless body from head to toe. He grins, reaches out, locates the body’s  scrotum, grabs it, and looks into those staring eyes as he twists and squeezes. Then, with one final wrench, he stops and chuckles, “Dead to the world.” 

He goes to the top of the bed, puts his hands on his knees, stoops and whispers in the body’s ear, “You’re mine, now Barry. I’ve made all the arrangements. You’re coming back to my place. I’m going to do everything in my power to keep you alive, because you’re the missing link. The Cochrane girl. The scrapbook. Gosling’s spell. The mirrors. The Lumbs...

“You are the key, Mr McKee, and I mean to find what’s on your mind...”

blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip..

End of Book One...

[paulhudd]

SPINDLEFRECK: 21 novella-length episodes available here: Table of Contents

‘Witches, warlocks, necromancers… and that’s just the kitchen staff.’

[paulhudd]

Seven Thousand Years to Midnight  the latest episode of #Spindlefreck is  now available; 

Catch up here Spindlefreck Table of Contents

[paulhudd]

Spindlefreck Book Two: Pt.Five: Hooray for Hollywood

[Story so far: Malky and Brooster have been hired by veteran Irish comedian and international movie star, Oliver Laphen (or Ollie Laffin, as he was known in his 1930s hey-day) to investigate the activities of an alleged ‘poltergeist’ at Pagham House, his stately home in Kildare (Malky was reluctant, but Zindy was insistent: the money is needed to pay for the refurbishing of Odin’s Inn). Once they get there, Broo quickly discovers that there is nothing to see -- literally -- the house and its grounds are devoid of atmosphere: no ghosts, no echoes of the past -- no wildlife! In other words, it existed in a spiritual vacuum. Then there’s the arrival of Laphen’s grandson, Kris, visiting from America; he has a dark aura about him that renders Broo’s extrasensory powers inoperable and saps his strength, but most disturbing of all, his psychic link with Malky is broken; there’s nothing he can do until they leave. Laphen turns out to be an elderly, misanthropic inebriate, and as they sit down to dinner, he tries to provoke his visiting grandson with a spiteful harangue designed to embarrass and humiliate; but Kris, a young, laid-back Californian, doesn’t take the bait and laughs-off every slur...]  

 Slouched, sloshed, sloppy and louche, Laphen reclined in his throne-like, red-velvet-lined, high-backed dining-chair with (what Malky assumed was) the Laphen coat of arms embroidered on the velvet-headrest (two rampant pigs wearing little bowler hats supporting a four-leaf shamrock emblazoned with the the motto Laphen All the Way to the Bank). Still unshaven, he had nonetheless been scrubbed-up (probably by Herbie), his receding hair backcombed, slicked-down and darkened with oil. Typically, he was dressed to distress -- a turquoise smoking-jacket two sizes too big, canary-yellow Bermuda shorts, knee-length green-&-white striped rugby socks and a pair of well-worn purple flip-flops; it was an ensemble that lent credence to his reputation as the worst dressed man in Hollywood. Wine-glass in one hand, bulbous cheroot in the other, the pale light from an ornate candelabra casting a shadow across his face making his trademark dimpled-grin look positively demonic, he held court like an odious goblin king, drinking himself stupid and mercilessly goading his young grandson, while Herbie, eating at the other end of the table, stared straight ahead and pretended he wasn't listening. Up until now, Laphen’s intended target seemed utterly immune to every jibe. Kris ate heartily and slowly, deflecting the brickbats without losing it and sticking his fork in his grandfather’s eye; a course of action, in Malky’s opinion, that would be entirely permissible in the circumstances.

“... then you were in that pop group, what was it called, Satan’s Pooves?” Laphen sneered, looking for something to crack Kris’ resolve.

“Ha-ha-ha-hah, Lucifer’s Hooves,” Kris corrected him, tittering, turning to Malky and explaining with unshakable chirpiness, “it was a garage-band I formed in high school,” he joked, “we never got outta the garage!”

“Then there was the time you tried to start your own magazine...?” said Laphen, trying desperately to touch a nerve.

“It was a hobby! I was 10!” Kris snorted.

Laphen got all Noel Coward with a little bit of Gielgud thrown in for good measure, “What I’m getting at is this, Kristof: you’re not a renaissance man, you’re an interminable amateur -- a dilettante, a poseur – you flit from one thing to another, looking for something to get you noticed– and when it doesn’t work you move on to the next thing. You don’t care what medium you exploit to achieve your goal: celebrity. That’s Art for Fame’s Sake. That’s profane.” He sat back and continued in his usual, sarcastic tone, “This is where you and I differ, boy. I got famous cos I have Talent. When I do something I give it my all – no matter what piece of shit they put me in - I shine cos I’m true to meself and my craft. That’s how I knew I would always succeed in everything I did: because I have the unshakeable self-belief that only God-given Talent provides. That’s why I can’t take you or your silly movie seriously. It’s just the latest in a long line of look-at-me projects designed to propel you into the limelight. Pass the parmesan mill, would you...”

Kris passed the mill and snorted with laughter, explaining, “That’s what those teenage years are for, gramps, trial and error and making career choices. I’m going to be director. I’ve already made a successful documentary for a for a Film School assignment. In fact it won an award -- an award presented to me by Clint Eastwood who said I was an ‘outstanding young talent with a very bright future’... More pasta...?”

Malky looked up from his bolognese and grinned through a mouthful of meatballs. You tell him, boy.

Then, after a few seconds’ pause came the poisonous riposte aimed squarely below the belt: “Your mother made a documentary too, didn’t she? What was it called, now...? Oh yes, Annie Bell Does Bel Air! I’m pretty sure it was a documentary, it looked real enough...?”

Ouch. Malky’s grin vanished. He’d heard about Kris’ mother’s fall from grace and it was quite an unsavoury story. What a bastard! Quare Geg my arse. If I was 8-years-old sitting in the pictures laughing my head off and you told me I’d be sitting at the great man’s table 40-odd years later hating him with every fibre of my being, I’d’ve said you were mad. And yet, here I am, trying to decide what kind of murder would cause him the most pain...

This thought failed to reach Broo’s brain. He lay in a darkened corner –- as far away as he could get from the grandson -- ate his liver and kidneys and did his best to ignore the noise pollution at the other end of the room. The grandson had insisted on candlelight: “this house wasn't built with electricity in mind, dudes!” and the magnolian-gloom of the candelabras undulated with each ripple of the flames, making the chandeliers glisten like stars in the darkness high above the table, giving everything a dream-like quality. But aside from the boy’s debilitating aura and the all-too-human tension created by Laphen’s incessant needling, there was no real atmosphere here. They’d seen most of the house by now, and it was the same no matter where they went: nothing. Every noise was explicable; every shadow accounted for; the ambiance static and uncommonly hollow.

“Everythin’ all right, Mr Calvert?” asked Herbie, rousing Malky from his daydream.

“This is the best bolognese sauce I’ve ever tasted!” said Malky, with a what-the-hell-am-I-doing here look. 

“Fanks very much, Mr Calvert. It’s jas somefink I rassle-ap in an ‘urry,” said the big man, shaking his head, with a what-can-you-do-it’s-always-like-this-shrug of his shoulders. Clad in a sober charcoal two-piece suit and regimental tie, Herbie maintained a dignified silence despite of the slew of bile coming from the top of the table. Occasionally though, Malky glimpsed little cracks in the façade; he’d roll his eyes skyward or shake his head slightly when something particularly hurtful was said, but by-and-large, he was inscrutable. Poor sod. Malky was well aware that Laphen’s jibes were meant for the old retainer as much as the boy: every time Ollie takes a shot at Kris, it’s Herbie who takes the bullet.

Laphen’s tirade went on, “... Is it any wonder your mother turned out to be such a dead loss when she wuz reared by a woman the tabloids dubbed ‘The Worst Mother in Hollywood’?! Stupid bloody Danish cow. No, sorry, that’s an insult to cattle –- they nurture their calves -- they don’t let them play beside unsupervised swimming pools. Shoes, now. She knows about shoes. Beyond that, she has the IQ of a dog turd.”

Kris came straight back and trilled, “Grandma? Grandma is so-oo happy these days. She’s busy with her charities, she’s in love with a younger man who thinks the world of her and, you-know-what?” he turned and winked at Herbie, “he never beats-on-her, or locks her in her room, or throws her clothes out of the window...”

“I wish I’d thrown her out of the window,” grumbled Laphen.

“Didn't you throw No.3 out of a window?”

“That was No.4. And it wasn't a window, it was a moving car.” 

“I stand corrected.”

“Funnily enough, so does she.”

Malky yawned noisily. Herbie continued to stare into the middle distance.  

“... So, your mother is still sober is she?” Laphen asked, feigning concern.

“Oh yes, you’ll be simply thrilled to learn your darling little Annelise is straight ‘n sober and of sound mind – she’s been running a woman’s shelter in the Valley for a couple of years now. We’re all very proud of her. She told me to pass on her regards...” he looked up as if trying to remember, “No, wait - her exact words were: ‘tell that vile old goat to hurry-up and die!’”

Malky had to stifle a laugh.

Laphen bristled, “Aye, well, you can tell that cheeky bitch she won’t get a brown penny from me when I do pop me clogs! I disinherited her when she was done for hooerin’! Anyway, sober or not – at heart she’ll always be a ditzy f**k up who bounces from one crisis to another with her knickers round her ankles!”

Herbie put down his cutlery, dabbed the corners of his mouth, cleared his throat and made sure they knew he was ready to step in. Malky gazed longingly at the decanter of brandy on the table, and for the first time in three years, entertained thoughts of jumping off the wagon and jumping into a refreshing pool of blissful oblivion... until Broo, intuitively aware of what Malky was thinking, let out a little growl to say knock it off!

Kris watched the old man pour another glass and asked in an earnest tone, “How many bottles have you had today, gramps?”

“F**k off,” grunted Laphen. “I’m very rich, very successful, I’ve worked very hard all my life and I’ve earned the right to do whatever-the-f**k-I-like.”

“Even if it kills you?” Kris replied; then after a split-second’s thought, he retracted, “Waitaminnit - open another bottle! Go on - drink up! I’ll get another case from the cellar!”

Laphen sipped his drink, sucked on his cheroot and snickered defiantly.

Suddenly, Kris turned to his right and asked in a haughty voice laced with suspicion, “Forgive me for asking, Mr Calvert, but what exactly is it you do?”

Broo snorted, Oh, this’ll be good. What do you do, Malcolm?

Malky didn’t have time to reply – Laphen was in like a shot, “I told you! He’s a plumber! He’s here to mend the boiler, OK?! Leave him alone.”

Kris winked at Malky, turned back to Laphen and said, “... and since when does the Mighty Oliver Laphen invite humble tradesmen - and their dogs - to join him for dinner? I mean, you make your lawyers eat in the kitchen with the staff -- so what gives?!” He turned back to Malky and spoke in his normal, friendly voice, “I don’t wish to cause offence to you or your dog, Mr Calvert, but when it comes to the hoi polloi -- and their pets -- my grandfather isn't known for his hospitality...?”

Again, before Malky could reply, Laphen sat forward, snapped his fingers repeatedly and took back the conversation, “Hey! Hey! Hey! Nevermind him -- tell me, boy -- who’s this backer ye’ve got? Who’s the eejit daft enough to invest their cash in yer silly wee horror picture?” He smiled smugly and winked at Malky as if to say – wait til you hear this! 

Again, Malky was about to say something when Kris took the words right out of his mouth, “Oh, stop acting like a total asshole, Ollie, you’re not funny.” And yet, despite this spirited response, Malky noticed the boy flinch when the movie was mentioned. And so had Laphen. He laughed, threw back his head, blew a smoke-ring into the air and let it drift above his head like a wispy-white halo, “Asshole or not, I didn’t get to sit in the big chair without bein’ thorough. So c’mon now, who’s your Generous Benefactor?”

Putting his elbows on the table and hunching his shoulders, Kris sipped his water, looked down at his empty plate and said “I’ll tell you when you’re sober.”  

Alas, the old man was intent; he sat forward in his seat, put his elbows on the table, rested his chin on his hands and enquired in faux-earnest voice, “Och, c’mon laddie, If you want to film here you’ll have to tell me sometime.” He turned and informed his faithful retainer, “See Herbie, he wants my permission to bring a feckin film-crew through here! He wants me to let a bunch of arse-scratchin’ techies to tramp on my polished floors in their hobnail boots, stub their fags out on my Persian rugs and knock lumps outta my Queen Anne furniture with their equipment –- not to mention drivin’ their trucks and trailers all over my award-winning lawns!!”

Herbie continued to stare ahead.

Kris, sounding a wee bit stressed, assured him, “The crew will be very discreet and I will take personal responsibility for any...”

“So, who’s the backer?”

Kris looked him in the eye, “Are you going to let us to film here?”

“We’ll see. Depends who I’m dealing with,” said Laphen, taking a long drag on his cigar, looking very pleased with himself that he had Kris on the back foot. “So tell me, who is it?”

After a long pause and a drink of water, Kris answered in a weak voice, “Guy Gosling...”

“Guy Gosling?! The silly twat who pissed himself on live TV?!”  Laphen cried, banging both fists on the table and bouncing on his cushion like a tickled imp, “You’re f**king shittin’ me!”

The boy’s voice cracked as he yelled back, “See – I knew how you’d react! You’re such a predictable old shit, Ollie!”

“He’s using’ you to revive his career! No wonder he agreed to it -- nobody with any sense will touch him!”

Kris was losing it now, his freckled cheeks aflame, “You don’t know what you’re talking about - he’s still got a lotta respect in Hollywood!”

It didn’t matter what he said, Laphen was on a roll, “Let me see now...” he sat back, tilted his head and made a show of caressing his brow, as if trawling his memory for the appropriate anecdote. “Aye - that’s right, I made a movie with him 7 or 8 years ago. Some god-awful-big-budget-science-fiction-bollox where I played an intergalactic priest who gives him the Last Rites in the final scene. I was just there to add a bit of gravitas – 3 million for half-a-day’s work, I think it was...?” he looked to Herbie for confirmation.

Still staring into space, Herbie perfunctorily supplied the information, “A million a day for free days. And a cut of the box-office. And a car. Can’t ‘member which one. Maserati, I fink.”

“Hear that? 3 million and a classic sports-car to add to my collection, all for 3 days work,” Laphen turned to Malky, “it was only supposed to be one day but it became 3 when Gosling kept us all hanging around while he meticulously explored all the various ways he might kick-the-bucket! He was ditherin’-on about death-throes and whether or not he should close his eyes... By day three I just wanted throttle him: ‘DIE YOU F**ER!! DIE!!’ Cuz he’s one of those Method Actors, ain't he? I hate Method Actors.” He turned to Kris, “especially Method Actors who get famous overnight and keep you waiting on-set for hours -- then -- when they finally haul their skinny arses outta their trailer, they proceed to tell the director how to do his job!” Laphen paused then resumed in a more sober tone, “Well, what goes around comes around. He ain't got a friend in the industry now, no matter what you’ve heard.”

“He’s learned from his mistakes!” yelled Kris, desperately, “He’s committed to the project! It’s been 2 years since the pissing incident! He deserves a second chance!”

“He wants a comeback vehicle!” Laphen cried.

“The publicity will be good for us – it’ll create a buzz!”

“Aye - like flies round shite!” Laphen cracked. “Lissen, the knives are out for ‘im! The press will stitch-ye-up whether the movie is good or not! You shoulda went with a total unknown ye stupid wee shite, at least ye would've had half-a-chance!”

Herbie was watching them intently now. Broo shrank back when he saw the aura around the boy surge and almost obscure him when he screamed “F**K YOU!” and banged his fist on the table.

It only made Laphen cackle louder.

At last, Herbie cleared his throat loudly and said, “Gentlemen, please.” That seemed to do the trick. They relented, backed down and grumbled into their drinks. There was a minute of silence until Kris once again turned his attention to their guest. Nodding toward Brooster sitting in the corner, he enquired, “Does your dog usually accompany you when you mend a boiler, Mr Calvert?”

Again, before Malky could answer, Laphen’s shit-eating grin disappeared, “I told you to leave him alone!” he snapped, “it’s none of yer business!” 

“Did I miss a meeting?” Kris asked Herbie, “a plumber with a three-legged dog? Doesn't this seem kinda weird to you...?”

That’s it. Malky slammed down his cutlery, stood up and gave out, “Right! I’ve had enough o’ this shite – we’re outta here!”

Herbie reached out, “Wait Mr Calvert, please...”

But Malky was resolute, “Sorry Herbie, but this isn't on! When I agreed to come here I didn’t expect to have to listen quietly while this pissed-up oul’ fart abuses his grandkid!” He took the cheque from his back pocket and slapped it down on the table, “Ye can keep yer money, Mr Laphen! Enjoy what’s left of your life!”

“Sit down, Mr Calvert!” yelled Laphen.

Malky expressed himself by presenting his middle finger as he walked to the door, “C’mon Broo. We’re leavin’.”

“I’ll double your fee!” Laphen shouted, pointing at the cheque on the table.

Malky stopped and sniggered derisively, “You can’t buy me! This isn't worth the aggravation!” Shite. I hope Zindy’ll understand...

Befuddled, Kris’ head swivelled from side-to-side as he looked from one to the other, “Whaddya mean: ’You’ll double his fee’? What’s going on here? Plumbers are a dime a dozen... What is he, some kinda super-plumber...?”

“I AM NOTA F**KING PLUMBER!” yelled Malky, shaking his fists.

Suddenly, Brooster barked loudly: QUIET!!

The fracas abruptly ceased. The men turned to see the old dog growling in the corner, eyes glistening like sparkling orbs in the shadows.

“What’s the m-matter with ‘im?” Laphen stammered in a shaky voice, as he looked up into the darkness. “Does h-he s-see s-somethin’...?”

Malky put a finger to his lips, “Shhh! He hears somethin’.”

“What the hell is going on here, people?!” shouted Kris.

 “Shut up and lissen!” Laphen hissed.

Ears pricked, eyes wide, paying no attention to the rest of the room, Broo hobbled around in a circle looking upward, straining to hear. The voices were confused and shrill, like children arguing... only this time they weren’t in his head; the sounds were audible, not telepathic.

“Hear that?!” whispered Malky.

Herbie heard it too, “It sounds like kids... kids shrieking...?”

Kris cocked an ear for a moment, then murmured, “Hey... yeah!”

Laphen stared at the ceiling, “It-it’s comin’ from the room above... The t-Trophy Room...” he croaked, the rim of his glass clicking against his dentures.

Herbie took out his walkie-talkie and summoned security.

...

... at that very moment (18:50 EST), approximately 3400 miles away, at a gas station on the outskirts of Harrisburg, Pennsylvania: What is that smell? Emil’s eyes were stinging and streaming.

A youthful voice called-out, “Sir! Hey - whoa! Excuse me – sir – c’mon, man, what’re you doin’?”

Then, in a moment of clarity, his senses emerged from the murky darkness of his trance. He froze. Where am I? His head remained steady as his eyes swivelled left and right. It was daylight. He looked around: pumps, bags of charcoal, bundles of sticks, Pepsi machine..? A gas station?! A teenage clerk in an Exxon overall was approaching on his left, waving his hands emphatically, “Hey, hey, hey, man -- stop squeezin’ the trigger, man, puh-lease - you’re creating a super-crazy-dangerous situation here, dude...”

“Wha --” Emil’s eyes looked down.

Christ, you gotta be f**king kidding me...

He was still dressed in his bedtime attire; still going through the motions at the behest of an interior puppeteer – but, more terrifyingly – the Volvo’s tank was so full the gasoline was splashing-out over his sandals, forming a large puddle around his feet. The clerk made a grab for the pump gun, “Sir – gimme that, puh-leeeese!”

Emil felt the thing within him surge and take control again -- his hand relaxed and relinquished the grip on the trigger as his outer-voice said, “Sorry. Needed to fill ‘er up, kid... Got lost in my thoughts for a minute...”

The young clerk (now at his wit’s end) tiptoed over the puddle of petrol, took the gun back on the pump and whinged, “You gotta be more careful, mister! I’ll have to wash-it-all-down now! Jeez-us H... this is, like, totally bogus, dude! I mean it’s f**king Sunday -– it’s supposed to be the day of rest...”

Just then -- Emil felt the power ebb again – for some reason the puppeteer’s grip slackened -- he concentrated with every fibre of his being -- his hands shot up, grabbed the boy by the collar and pinned him to the side of the car, his real voice yelling haltingly into the boy’s face: “WHERE... AM... I?!”

Now scared out of his wits, the hapless clerk couldn't supply a coherent reply, “Hey man, easy -- ch-chill...don’t lose it, yeah?!”

Emil tightened his grip and almost screamed in the boys face, “Listen, kid – report me! Call the cops! I’m sick! I’m dangerous! They need to stop me before I go too far...!”

Alas, the words were no sooner out of his mouth when the fleeting bout of sentience ebbed and that goddawful taste filled his mouth. His hands let go of the clerk’s collar, stood back, dusted him down and said in a calm, clear voice, “Just kidding.” He reached into his dressing-gown pocket and took out his buckskin wallet, “Do you take American Express...?”

...

Meanwhile, back in Pagham House: There was a crackling sound: “*What’s your position Herb, over.*”

Herbie whispered into the walkie-talkie, “... we’re on the landing in the west wing - the intruder-stroke-intruders are in the Trophy Room; repeat, intruder-stroke-intruders are in the 1st floor Trophy Room, over.”

“*Copy. On our way. Over.*”

But Herbie didn’t want to wait. He slowly opened the door and turned on the lights. There were a series of rapid flashes as the ‘Trophy Room’ was lit to reveal yet another museum exhibit, this time devoted to the numerous awards, honorary doctorates and keys to the city Laphen had accrued over the years. The man himself crept across the threshold brandishing a baseball bat, “If there’s somebody there – I swear I’ll feckin kill ye! I’ll take yer feckin’ head off, I will! C’mon out!” Herbie took him by the shoulders and told him to keep back.

The squeaky voices continued to gabble and shriek; due to the room’s natural echo, it was hard to tell where they were coming from. Malky was intrigued, but unafraid; judging by the old dog’s subdued reaction, he knew that it was nothing to worry about. Behind them, Kris continued to express his confusion, “Somebody please tell me what’s going on...?”

Brooster left them standing at the door and made for a large glass case containing various silver statuettes in the far corner. He barked twice. Herbie and Malky approached to find what turned out to be an upturned fire-bucket; the screeches were coming from inside.“What the hell...?” said Herbie. He bent down and lifted the bucket – the voices instantly got louder. Malky looked over the big chauffeur’s shoulder and saw a cassette recorder lying face-down on the floor. “It’s a bloody tape!” Herbie exclaimed, angrily, “We've been ‘ad!”

Laphen, still shaking with fear, still brandishing the baseball bat, joined them and gaped at the offending object, “What the...” Herbie picked it up and pressed the stop button. The room fell deathly silent for a few seconds, and then the old man gasped, “Who would...” He stopped when he heard laughter behind him. They turned to see Kris, back against the doorjamb, clutching his sides in a fit of the giggles, “You should see your face, Gramps!”

Laphen was agape, “You... you set this up...?”

“... You were so spooked!!” sniggered Kris.

They heard boots on the stairs; Herbie heaved a loud, world-weary-sigh and raised the walkie-talkie to his lips, “Stand-down, stand-down, false alarm, repeat, false alarm! Over.” The communication was punctuated by a collective groan of disappointment from the hall.

Kris was wiping tears of mirth from his eyes, “I GOTCHA! Ah gotcha you goo-ood!”  

The Quare Geg failed to see the funny side: “Y’ wee BASTARD!!” Laphen lashed out at Kris, swung the bat and missed – Herbie grabbed the waistband of his shorts, pulled him backward -- then, just like a slapstick gag from one of his movies -- Ollie spun like a dervish on the stretched elastic, his little-bare-legs kicking-out until one of his flip-flops flew off and toppled an ornate vase -- the baseball bat hitting a display case and shattering the glass. “Lemme at him! I’LL F**KING’ KILL ‘IM! JUST YOU W --” 

He suddenly seized up, the bat fell from his hands and clattered on the parquet; he fell back into Herbie’s arms, his eyes popping out of his head, the air escaping his lungs like a slowly deflating balloon.

Kris chuckled, “Awww, c’mon gramps, you can do way better than that...”

Malky went to help; Herbie’s face was a picture of helpless-consternation, “’E can’t breeve! I think ‘e might be ‘avin’ an ‘eart-attack!!” They took him to an antique chaise-lounge beside a huge Native American totem pole on the other side of the room. “He’s hyperventilating! Get a paper bag!” cried Malky.

“He’s faking, dudes!” said Kris, exasperated, no longer laughing.

Without saying anything, Herbie pushed him out of the way and ran out of the room. Kris shouted after him, “He’s faking, Uncle Herb?!! He’s acting!”

Unconcerned, Broo sauntered over to the corner and had a lie down. Oh, a minute ago you were all for strangling him – now you want to save his life. Human beings, I don’t know...

Malky used the first-aid he learned during his time in the police, “Easy, Ollie, take it easy... take deep, deep breaths and fill your lungs, hold for a count of 5, then exhale slowly through yer nose...” Laphen’s eyes were wet and fearful, he was shaking like a leaf, but he tried his best to do what was asked of him.

Broo yawned: He’ll live: the heartbeat is strong for a man of his years, no murmurs. He’ll live.

Herbie arrived back with a plastic carrier bag, “Will this do?!”

Malky took the bag from him, twisted the neck to create a makeshift mask and put it over the old man’s nose and mouth, “This’ll make it easier – breathe-out into the bag, then breathe in...” his ministrations appeared to be having the desired effect; Laphen’s pulse was slowing, the colour was returning to his cheeks. Kris stopped pacing and grabbed Herbie’s arm, “See, he’s gonna be fine - he’s just tryin’ to get me back...!” Herbie took the boy by the shoulders and gave him a shake, “Kris, I ‘aven’t time fer no bollocks - this is fer real! Make y’self useful -– go to ‘is stahdy 'n call the doctor!”

“Rossington...” the old man hissed.

Herbie knelt and looked at him with a doubtful frown, “Surely you want yer physician, boss?”

Laphen glared and growled, “I want Rossington!”

Herbie looked up at Kris, “’E wants Rossington. There’s a button for ‘im on the phone on ‘is desk.”

“Rossington...?” Kris complained loudly, with a sour face. Herbie gave him a serious look and he reluctantly obeyed. As soon as he left the room, Laphen smiled, closed his eyes and passed out. Malky checked his pulse one last time and took the bag away. “He’s sleeping it off. It’ll be OK to move him. Is he on any medication for asthma or any other respiratory illnesses?”

“’E ain't asthmatic or nuthin’. Dr Rossington gives ‘im these ‘vitamin’ shots that perk ‘im up.”

“Why? What does Rossington specialise in?” asked Malky, as if he didn’t know.

“’E’s the boss’ shrink, ‘as been for years. ‘Aven’t you ‘eard of ‘im?”

Malky and Brooster knew exactly who Rossington was and what he did.

It’s a small world, isn't it...

2 days ago, 100 miles north in The Ivy House, Downpatrick:

Roused from his meditation by the roar of a revving engine, Jamie Jameson Lumb, the young master of the house and the new leader of the coven, arrived at the Oriel window at the end of the main landing just in time to glimpse a motorbike zoom down the drive on its way to the main gate. The rider was dressed in leathers and a black helmet, a sight that sent shiver down Jamie’s spine; even if the rider was a lot shorter than Barry McKee, it was still a discomfiting reminder of the events of 2 years before. Who the hell was that? Nobody was allowed in-or-out of the estate since McKee’s capture 2 years ago, but as far as Jamie was concerned, the danger hadn't passed. McKee had been in a coma for the past couple of years, but it was cold comfort: he could die at any moment and the demon would migrate to another host. Then there was the release of dark energy in Kildare following the exhumation of an ancient mage -- probably an ancient ‘Güül who dabbled in the dark arts -- and in spite of the fact that the local witches had declared the area reasonably safe, Jamie still sensed that the danger hadn't passed. Maybe it was the responsibility of his position; maybe being holed-up in the house for so long without any contact with the outside world had made him paranoid. Whatever the reason the rules had been broken, and there was only one person who could've invited the biker in: “Goz, you arsehole,” he muttered.

After searching most of the house, he eventually bumped into Fordham the footman who’d taken up the butling duties now that Oggy had gone down for a Big sleep. Fordham was carrying a Martini on a silver tray, “I suppose that’s for our guest?” Jamie asked. Fordham nodded and rolled his eyes, “he’s in the pool, sir.” Jamie took the tray from him, “Don’t worry, I’ll see he gets it.”

Guy ‘Goz’ Gosling  was floating naked on a lilo in the indoor pool, reading a loosely bound sheaf of papers that looked suspiciously like a script. “Who was that?” Jamie called out, as he walked along the edge of the pool, his voice echoing around the tiles.

Goz answered matter-of-factly, without looking up from page, “A guy I met in LA, if you must know. A director. He wants me to star in a little horror film he’s making here in Ireland,” he said, cool as a cucumber, slowly turning in the water.

“Oh Yeah? And how did he get in?” asked Jamie, carelessly putting the tray down on the poolside table, irritated by his former band-mate’s blasé attitude and patronising tone. It was what he’d come to expect. Goz had been restless for some time, but up to now he’d been willing to live under the rules of the extended lockdown. “Nobody can come in unless you clear it with me or Oggy. I’m surprised that security opened the gate,” said Jamie, bristling.

“I told them he was an old friend. I told them I was expecting him,” said Goz, unaffected.

Jamie nodded knowingly, “You told them you’d cleared it with me, didn’t you?” he sneered.          

“Well, I thought you were studying in the library or meditating in your room or something and I didn’t want to disturb you,” said Goz, blithely, still perusing the pages.

“For all you know he could be working for one of our enemies!” Jamie snapped, sounding a wee bit shrill.

“Don’t be so melodramatic, JJ,” chuckled Goz, talking as if consoling a difficult child, “I met him at a screening of a documentary he made a few years ago. I was very impressed. both by him and the film. He was only 21, full of vitality and enthusiasm. I told him to keep in touch, ‘maybe we might work together some day’. I didn’t get any bad vibes, not at all. He’s a like little red-headed puppy: eager to please.” He flipped another page and said, “Remember, I’ve been at this game a lot longer than you, JJ. I can spot a wrong-un a mile away.” This was Goz’s signature tune: he was never done reminding Jamie that except for his pedigree and nascent superior powers, he was still a novice.

Jamie ignored the comment and moved on, “What’s his name?”

Goz let out a heavy sigh, “Kris Katz. Believe it or not, he’s the grandson of that drunken old coot Oliver Laphen... the miserable little bastard... I made a movie with him a few years ago... f**king nightmare... Anyway, Kris called me from LA and told me he’d be in Ireland scouting for locations and if I was interested he’d deliver the script by hand...” Goz turned a page, “... and after perusing it, I’ve decided to take him up on the offer. I’ve even agreed to put some money behind it. A small independent movie is just the ticket to restart my acting career. I can’t afford to turn it down.”

“You know nothing about him. He could be in cahoots with the tabloids,” said Jamie crossing his arms and shaking his head, “worse -- he could've been sent here by the Washington coven to case the place and see what we’re up to!”

Goz finally looked up from the script and laughed, “Look, he’s harmless! And it’s not as if I’m leaving the country -- we’ll be making the movie here!”

Jamie shook his head, “Oggy needs to know about this. You’ll have to wait until he wakes and discuss it with him.”

Getting a little more animated, Goz splashed the water with his fist and shook his head emphatically, “Look -- Oggy is hibernating, he won’t wake for at least another year and we start shooting in the summer! And I’m not a f**king prisoner, remember?! I’ve stayed here voluntarily! But enough time has passed -- 2 years to be exact, and that’s a long time in show business. It’s been a great place to hide from the world until the outrage over that... situation -- a situation that you caused by-the-way -- died down. But I’m not hiding anymore.” He sighed, relaxed and went back to the script, “I’m doing this whether you -- or Oggy -- like it or not.”

“We’ll see...” Jamie muttered under his breath, and walked away.

...

2 days later at Pagham House: “... See, I saw a tabloid story about gramp’s suspected ‘poltergeist’ at the airport, so I thought I’d have a little fun with it,” Kris explained as they crossed the landing, “we used to do it all the time, y’know, tryin’ to out-punk each other; each stunt more vicious than the last, but we always made-it-up afterwards. I didn’t think he’d get in such a state...” He paused when they heard a distant buzzing sound outside, “Uh-huh, here comes the ‘good doctor’,” muttered Kris, gloomily. They walked to a porthole-shaped oriel window at the end of the landing and watched twin beams slice through the low lying clouds. The buzzing became a rumble as the doctor’s chopper hovered for a moment before descending and disappearing behind a row of billowing pines; a few seconds later, a slim, middle-aged man dressed in cricket-whites carrying a tastefully weathered Gladstone bag, ran along the path that bordered the tennis courts, across the car park and sprinted up the marble steps at the front of the house; a few seconds later he bounded up the stairs toward them – all without breaking his stride, breaking a sweat, or gasping for breath. He held out a hand, Malky straightened up and reached out to shake it, but much to his embarrassment, Rossington blanked him and went straight to Kris, “Kristof! What a pleasant surprise! Long-time-no-see-and-all-that!”

The tanned, manicured hand hung in the air, unshaken. Kris, desperately trying to express his disdain but too polite to be rude, hesitated before managing a feeble tug on his nemesis’ fingers. Rossington grasped the flaccid appendage and jerked it up-and-down with gusto, “Over for a little visit, eh? Having fun, are we?”

The boy looked at his hand as if it’d been spat on and said nothing.

“I hear you’ve literally been up to your old tricks again!” said the good doctor, tutting thrice and shaking his head.

Malky had seen the good doctor on TV, but never in the flesh. Nevertheless, he didn’t like what he’d seen, and after meeting the man in the flesh hadn't changed his opinion; what you saw was you got: the man was too smooth to be true. That’s an oddly non-specific ‘posh’ English accent, thought Malky: Cary Grant with a dash of Ray Milland; and although the tone was upbeat and cordial, each bon mot was primed with a jagged shard of spite. “You might look 15, my dear, but you’re a 22 year old adult now.”

“23.” Kris grunted.

“23! Even more reason to find a nice girl, settle down and do something worthwhile... You don’t want to end up like your mother, now, do you...?” He’d been stealing glances at Malky until he couldn't contain his curiosity a moment longer; he turned away from Kris and asked, “Sorry, but do I know you? You look vaguely familiar...?”

Malky was about to reply when Rossington cut-him-off, “NO–NO–NO, don’t tell me!!” he cried, putting a hand his brow and snapping his fingers as he scoured his memory, “I never forget a face -- I’ve written books on how not to forget a face! Now, where have I seen you before...?”

Herbie opened Laphen’s door and hissed, “Shhh!”

Rossington backed-up toward the door, staring at Malky’s face and racking his brains... “I know you... I do know you...” Before entering the room, he stopped trying to remember and whispered to Kris, “Oh, if I don’t see you later - give my regards to your mother, won’t you? It’s so gratifying to know she’s finally found her niche at long last.”

Crimson cheeked, bright blue-eyes narrowed to livid slits, the boy clenched his fists and muttered a litany of barely audible obscenities as the door closed. Malky was careful not to laugh: that’s the same expression the young Ollie Laffin used to pull after James Finlayson tanned his backside: hurt and angry, but ultimately sad. What happened to that wee guy?

The boy took a deep breath and tried to keep his voice down, “...as you can probably tell, I cannot stand Rossington. He’s like... anathema to me. He’s like Kris-kryptonite in Gucci, dude!” What followed sounded like he’d researched his subject with a detective’s eye for detail. “He’s the self-proclaimed ‘Shrink to the Stars!’ - You mighta seen him on TV. He heads-up an institute for psychos... umm... what’s it called...? ”

“SCICI,” said Malky, “St Cedric’s Institute for the Criminally Insane.”

Kris nodded emphatically, “Yeah, that’s right! It’s like puttin’ a cobra in charge of a nest of vipers!”

The door opened. Herbie looked out, scowled and shook his head. Kris lowered his voice to a whisper, “The truth is he’s Jimmy Ross from New Jersey, a former male-model and wannabe actor who went to night school, got a degree in psychiatry and reinvented himself as the suave, debonair Dr James Rossington we know and loathe today.”

The pair retired to a pair of Queen Anne armchairs in an arched recess adjacent to Laphen’s bedroom door. Broo kept well back and listened from a distance. “In the summer of ‘70 when I was like 2 years old, my mom – Annelise Katz, née Laphen – scored some smack from a dude in downtown LA and left me strapped in a car-seat outside a motel in the middle of a heatwave – I was almost poached, dudes – by some miracle somebody saw me and called the cops and they broke in. They went up to the motel-room and found mom had OD-ed – her third in as many years. My dad was serving year-2 of a 15-year prison sentence for fraud, Grandma was outta town and outta her mind on booze ‘n’ ‘ludes, so they called Gramps who went totally postal and flew back from Rome to sort things out. He was desperate to get mom help, for my sake as much as hers, so he put the word around that he’d do anything to get her straight. Someone gave him Rossington’s card. See, Jimmy’d devised a method of reprogramming drug addicts with an uncompromisingly tough regime: torture and mind control, basically – but with some New Age horseshit thrown in to make it look progressive. The literature was all this, like, flowery bullshit about ‘rebirth’ etc, but the kids were treated like laboratory rats -- two guys died and a girl committed suicide, that’s not taking into account the mental scars of those who actually made it through.” Kris sighed, “Anyway, he promised gramps he would have mom detoxed and straightened-out within 6 months, so Ollie cut him a cheque.”

“And did Rossington’s treatment work?” asked Malky.

“Oh yeah.  6 months later, just as promised, there’s Annelise Katz, clean and sober, made-over, looking hale and healthy and weeping to Barbara Walters about her drugs hell and her ‘resurrection’, hailing Gentleman Jim as her Personal Saviour! She relapsed 18 months later, mind you, but it was good while it lasted.”

“Where was Ollie when all this wuz goin’ on?”

The boy became melancholy, his tone heavy with ennui, “He was on a world tour with his one-man-show for most of it, but he’d given up on mom when she relapsed. Rossington told him she was incurable and the only course of action was left open to him was to cut all her finances and hopefully the desolation would drive her to do something about it herself. It did. It drove her to prostitution. So gramps washed his hands of her – I was all that mattered now. He got temporary custody of me.

“Anyhow, in the 80s Rossington’s rich and famous, but he yearns for something money can’t buy: a Serious Reputation. See, Jimmy wants Nobel Prizes not Daytime Emmys! He wants to be fêted by The Elite – i.e. the very people who call him a charlatan and a con man. He was a bit of a joke, so when gramps moved here permanently in ‘82, Jimmy tagged along, all-the-while plotting his next move. He met up with an old colleague who worked at St Cedric’s mental hospital in Dublin which specialised in cases involving extreme cases of aberrant behaviour and violence. Jimmy saw an opportunity: he wanted to turn St Cedric’s into an institute specialising in the psychology of the criminally insane -- a hi-tech facility where patients would be analysed by a team of crack academics from all over the world with the research going towards ‘a better understanding of psychopathic behaviour’ -- and sell a lot of books. so gramps called-in a few favours and made it happen. Jimmy’s all set! Unfortunately, the location sucks – Ireland -- a country known for its  blood thirsty violence is, relatively speaking, serial-killer-free, so he has to import his cases from abroad. Do you know there are serial killers, rapists, child molesters, cannibals from all over the world passing through that place?”

“Aye, I’ve heard all about all about it,” said Malky, “In fact, didn’t your mate Gosling check-in there after that ‘incident’?”

“Yeah, like I said, ‘Shrink to the Stars’...” Then he took a deep breath, looked down and shamefacedly admitted, “Look... I know who you are, Mr Calvert. I know what you’ve been through ‘n I know what you do, but I was so intent on getting one over on the old man, I held back. I’m sorry. It’s like we met under false pretences and I wanna clear the air.”

“Uh-huh,” grunted Malky, grumpily. He was beginning to like the boy and now he felt slightly betrayed. Because if he lied so easily, who knows what he was capable of? Malky looked the boy in the eye and asked, “I have to ask you this, Kris: do you have anything to do with what’s been goin’ on in this house?”

Kris put up his hands and vehemently protested his innocence, “Hey now -- the first time I knew anything about this business was a coupla days ago when I saw that report in The Enquirer!!”

“... I mean, you make horror movies,” Malky asserted, “ye’ve got access to allsortsa props and special effects ‘n that. For all I know you ‘n Herbie -– maybe even Rossington -– could be in cahoots to put poor ol’ Oliver round the twist!”

Good God, I was wondering when you’d say that... Broo grumbled.

Just then, the door to Laphen’s room opened and Herbie emerged to give them the latest, “’is vitals is lookin’ good, blahd presha’s OK, no permanent damage, thank gawd...” Herbie clipped the boy around the ear, “You wuz lacky this time, boy! I ‘ope you take this as a lesson! No mowah practical jokes!”

...

Precisely 3 minutes ago (18:47 EST), approximately 3200 miles away, in a roadside ditch on the outskirts of Harrisburg, PA: Emil eyes slowly opened and he found himself staring into a silvery mosaic of inert smithereens. It didn’t take him long to realise he was gazing into a smashed windscreen. I’m still in the Volvo. But his head was squashed against the compressed ceiling -- the car was upside down! He tried to move -- that’s when a blazing pain ran through his entire body. If he could catch his breath he’d scream.

He heard crackling radios and excitable male voices: “Hey! He moved! He’s alive!” “Hey! Guys! He’s alive!” “He’s alive?” “For real? Shit!”

Then an older voice shouted, “We can’t wait for the ambulance!! There’s full tank of gasoline leakin’ into the grass! We gotta move him now!” Emil moved his eyes to the right and saw a fresh faced young fireman kneeling on the long grass, ear close to the ground, helmet off, talking through the upside-down passenger-side window, “I can see you’s in a lotta pain, sir, but we have a very volatile situation here... so keep still, don’t try to move, OK? I’ll be right back!”

Oh, I’ll keep still, kid... cos if I as much as blink it’ll hurt like hell, and I’d rather die than feel that pain again, so please, please don’t move me...

The excruciating pain seemed to radiate from below his waist -- his legs were splayed and trapped between the steering-wheel and the driver’s seat, his torso was between the seats, in a very awkward and painful position. His left arm was trapped beneath him, his right jammed under the buckled steering column. Oh God, the pain... bring back the darkness... bring back the numbness... Then he felt a hand under his armpit, another groping under him looking for the other other armpit, another took hold of his ankles... the pain was unbearable. An older man’s voice purred close to his ear, “Easy... easy there, sir, I got you...”

No! If you try to pull me out I’ll come apart like scarecrow... the pain, the pain... I’m begging you...

The soothing voice in his ear implored him, “Brace you-self, suh, we gonna do our best to get ya outta there as quick as possible...”

An impatient voice yapped, “C’mon, let’s go, guys, let’s do dis ‘n get the hell outta here!”

Emil felt arms around his midriff. Oh no. Oh God no...

Christ...

“I got ‘im! You got ‘im?”

Kill

“I got ‘im.”

me

“OK. After 3, swing ‘im out.”

now!!

“One... Two... and Three -”

AAAAAAHHHHH!!!

He was hauled from behind and twisted from below – then his body began to move backwards – something was stopping him: “the handbrake is stuck up his ass– we gotta lift him offa it!” The humiliation, the pain, the utter helplessness.... Somehow they repositioned him and hoisted him up again -- his left hip nudging-in the cigarette lighter – again the pain flared to an unbearable degree as he began to move backwards through the passenger-side window – simultaneously, he heard the tibia in his left leg make a crunching sound as it was unceremoniously yanked from under the steering-wheel... the pain became unbearable... then, at last, the shock kicked in... the pain became cold insensibility... he was being put onto a stretcher; he saw faces looking down, fuzzy unfocussed faces... a few seconds later he heard the young fireman’s voice call out, “Hey, his papers are all over the inside of the car... his passport – everything!!”  Emil heard one of the men carrying him yell, “DONNY – get the f**k outta there now!!”

That’s when the cigarette-lighter popped on the dash.

There was a huge fireball – Emil and his rescuers were thrown clear, but the young fireman wasn't so lucky. Emil’s rescuers abandoned him on the bank and went to the aid of their fallen comrade lying on the smouldering gorse, fully conscious, screaming, his body ablaze...

Then Emil got that familiar feeling of dread infest his bones, that familiar, bitter taste in his mouth, that acrid stench in his nostrils.... Somewhere in his head a little girl’s voice -- presumably the voice of his interior puppeteer -- spoke huffily: <Well, you’re damaged goods now, Emil – you’re no use to me at all. You’re gonna be confined to bed for a long time. I just hope every second of every day is as painful as this,> Emil screamed as a shock of pain tore through his pelvis. He began to lose consciousness, but managed a defiant smile before a much different, more welcoming, darkness descended.

<You can smile all you like, Emil. But I’ll be back... I’ve got all the time in the world...>

While Herbie waited for Rossington to finish, Kris volunteered to act as tour-guide and escort Brooster and Malky around the East Wing, the only area of the house they hadn't visited yet. “It’s the creepiest part! And it’s just gone midnight, dudes - this’ll be a gas!”

Broo whimpered, yippee, we get to listen to this idiot for the next 3 hours...

Before they embarked on their quest, Herbie had to fetch the keys from the safe in the study. As he handed them over, he had a ‘little word in Kris’ ‘shell-like’. There was a lot of finger wagging from the big man and a lot of shy nods from Kris. Despite his card being marked, their guide returned as ebullient as ever, “We’ll take the scenic route through the hidden passageway to the old chapel! It’s really cool!”

“Hidden passageway?” asked Malky, intrigued.

“Oh yeah – the old Duke and his disciples had to prepare for every eventuality! The place is riddled with ‘em!”

Kris chittered incessantly about the salacious activities of the 8th Duke of Roxborough -- the same story Malky heard from Herbie --  as he led them through the shadowy hallways of the East Wing. Eventually, “Here we are!” he announced brightly. He opened a hidden door in the panelling of a long, narrow corridor, revealing a dark passage way. He stooped, made an ugly face and raised the candelabra, “Abandon hope all ye who enter here... ” he said in a croaky voice “Follow me... if ye dare!” Malky, stooped and squeezed through the little hatch. Kris noticed the old dog dragging his feet, “C’mon Broostie,” he trilled, slapping his thigh and beckoning him hither.

If he calls me Broostie again, I’ll sink my teeth into his testes and hang on until he passes out, aura or no aura.

Almost crawling, they made their way along the low ceilinged tunnel for a hundred yards or so until they arrived at another door. “Here it is!” Kris whispered, turning a key in the lock. They squeezed through and found themselves on a small balcony overlooking what appeared to be the interior of a Christian church. Kris held the candelabra high above his head and led the way down a cast-iron spiral staircase, “Nowadays this is referred to as the chapel cos it looks like a chapel -- but it ain't no chapel -- no siree!”

Malky readily descended the wrought-iron steps, but Broo held back and observed from above. Kris wasn't talking now, he was leaning on a marble pillar in the nave, watching Malky look around with a big soppy grin on his face, like a hider watching a seeker get warm then cold, then warm...warmer...

Malky had been admiring what he assumed was uniform religious statuary in the alcoves, when it suddenly struck him that the busts and figurines were somewhat less than holy, “this-here is Pagan stuff made to look Christian,” he cried, “It’s all fawns, demons ‘n naked nymphs!!”

Kris was elated, “Right! Keep looking, dude!”

Malky borrowed the candelabra and held it aloft so that it illuminated the stone carvings atop the marble pillars; at first glance it looked like your standard host of cherubim and seraphim, however, closer inspection revealed it to be a representation of a horde of little winged sprites and faeries; the painted altarpiece wasn't a depiction of the Immaculate Conception, but an intricate painting of a strange naked Lady-of-the-lake type emerging from a swamp carrying the body of a dead child; the figure depicted in the stained glass window above the narthex wasn't Jehovah in his heavenly kingdom, rather a white-bearded, horned & tailed, cloven-hoofed Satan reclining on a throne made of human skulls.

“I wasn't expecting this at all...?” muttered Malky, fascinated and unsettled. He looked up at the old dog watching from above and wondered if he sensed anything untoward, but by the looks of him there was still no cause for alarm.

Kris looked left and right and lowered his voice, “Erm, to be frank, the film I’m making is based on the true story of Roxborough’s life. I’ve had to change the names and locations, but it’s loosely based on actual events, most of which I’ve hadda tone-down to get an R certificate! I have to be discrete, y’know, The Roxborough family are still a big noise in English society and they don’t like to be reminded of their lurid family history. They’d sue the ass-off-me if they thought I was exploiting the legend.”

They went through another door at the rear of the ‘chapel’ and entered a corridor lined by a row of white doors; Kris unlocked them one by one, “These were Thaddeus’ ‘private’ rooms’ where he indulged in his little perversions. But by the time gramps bought the house, the Roxboroughs had removed anything ‘incriminating’,” he said, looking a little disappointed. “Gramps stores his antiques in here now, y’know, stuff he’s bought on the spur of the moment, or gifts he’s received from different countries over the last 70 years: lots of ugly vases, objets-d’art ‘n shit that’re too big to have in the house.” The ‘White Rooms’ were now crammed with shrouded lumps of varying shapes and sizes. Broo kept back and waited until Malky and Kris moved onto the next door before inspecting the last. He sniffed around and checked under the sheets, but the evil deeds alleged to have been perpetrated here had left no trace; each room was the same: devoid of any spiritual presence or echoes of the past.

Just as Kris locked up and made to turn back, Malky noticed a wooden staircase up ahead, “Where does that lead to?” he asked.

Kris frowned, “Oh, the old infirmary.” He made a face, “Haven’t you seen it yet? The front door is on the outside of the house.”

“It was locked and Herbie didn’t have the key,” Malky replied, wondering why the boy seemed so uncomfortable.

Reluctantly climbing the stairs, Jamie filled them in on the infirmary’s history, “It was converted during Victorian times.The 10th Duke was wounded in some African war and set it up so he and his officer pals could convalesce in the luxury he was accustomed to. Nowadays, the villagers use it as a sick bay. They don’t believe in modern medicine for the most part, but when one of them gets really sick or injured they’ll bring them here and call a proper doctor.” He stopped at the little door and shivered, “Dude, I hate hospitals to the point of nausea. I don’t really wanna go in there unless it’s absolutely necessary. “

Broo looked at Malky. This time Malky didn’t need telepathy to guess what the old dog was thinking. “Aye, we’d really like to have a look. Would you mind?”

Kris sighed, produced the key and reluctantly unlocked the door. When it opened and a poof of fusty air escaped, he recoiled and held his nose, “yeeesh – I hate that smell, dudes...”

It was just as Malky had pictured it: a large, bare room with a dozen cots, six either side; the top of the room was dominated by two ancient cast-iron radiators under the shuttered windows; the pipes along the wall behind the beds were green with corrosion. There was a treatment room at the back stocked with basic medical supplies, the high shelves lined with large, empty specimen jars. Broo smelled formaldehyde and wondered what was once kept in those jars. But creepy jars aside, as far as Broo was concerned, like everywhere else, it was psychically barren.

“Anything?” asked Kris, looking from Malky to the old dog.

“Nope. If there was, he wouldn't be long in lettin’ us know.”

Kris was very impressed, if a little disappointed, “Oh, that’s good, I suppose... hey, what’s he doing now?” He’d noticed Broo pawing a door to the side of the last bed on the left.

I hear something -- and this time it’s not a tape recorder! My fur is standing on end! Open the bloody door!

“It’s the door of the bathroom,” said Kris, as he tried various keys in the lock. Once he’d found the right one, he turned the handle but the door wouldn't budge. “Gimme a hand, will ya, the wood must be swollen and sealed it shut.” Malky obliged and they pushed until the door let out a loud groan and swung inwards. Broo crept in and looked around. It felt quite damp compared to the rest of the secret rooms, which would explain the swollen door. 

For some reason, he was drawn to a full-length cheval mirror adjacent to the bath. As he hobbled towards it, he saw that the image therein was something other than his own approaching reflection. In fact there was no reflection at all, it was more like looking into a long, tall, oval fish tank filled with murky water thick with web-like weeds, the strands of which formed a net; a net filled with the inert bodies of small children, like snagged marionettes in the cloudy depths of a stagnant pool...

At that very moment an antiquated bar of soap that’d been sitting on the edge of a shelf above the bath fell into the empty tub with a loud THUD! “What the hell was that?!” cried Kris, turning on the light – blinding brightness – the old dog reeled! He turned and barked loudly! “Oh Shit! Sorry!” Kris instinctively tugged the string and made it dark again. Of course, when Broo turned back, the image had vanished. He found himself looking into his own bewildered eyes twinkling in the dusty, smutty glass.

“Well, whatever it was, it’s gone now,” said Malky.

“What do you think he saw?” asked Kris, rattled.

“Dunno,” said Malky, turning the light back on, “is there anythin’ special about this mirror? It looks a bit out of place, a bit grand for a hospital bathroom?”

“I have no idea... I’m never in here,” said Kris, looking genuinely confounded.

“... it looks as old as the house,” said Malky, examining the frame.

Shivering and shuffling his feet, Kris was getting impatient, “Erm... if that’s it, dudes, I’d really like to get the hell outta here...”

 As they made their way back to the West Wing, they were distracted by the sound of chopping-rotors and twin beams shining through the huge, stained-glass windows as the doctor’s helicopter took off. They heard the front door close, the jingle of keys and then the steel-tipped heels of Herbie’s Oxford-brogues clicking as they crossed the main hall into the lobby. As the lights receded and the rotors buzzed-off into the distance, Kris thought for a moment and then said, “Y’know... there was something that happened when I was last here... but I’m not sure if it’s relevant.”

Now he tells us...

Malky shrugged, “Well, we’re at a loss, so anythin’ you can tell us would be better than chasin’ round this place like headless chickens.”

“I’d like to show you something,” said Kris, enigmatically, “but we’ll have to go to the old pavilion to see it.”

“Alright lads?” Herbie called, standing in the shadows of the lobby looking up, “The old man’s OK, fanks-be to you, Mr Calvert - it wuz a panic attack an’ you did all the right fings.”

“Oh, thank f**k,” said Kris, sighing with relief.

As they descended the staircase, Malky asked Herbie about the mirror in the infirmary bathroom. “The ahsekeeper, Mrs Sparkes, ‘ad it moved there coupla years ago,” he said, in a doubtful tone, “she was in the boss’ study late one night ‘n she said she seen a little lad watchin’ ‘er in that mirror. Screamed the house dahn. Scanlon ‘ad to give ‘er a slap to shut-her-up.”

In spite of the big chauffeur’s doubts, Broo was sure this information was significant -- it sounded eerily similar to what he’d just experienced -- but for now, he could nothing but keep it to himself and see how things developed.

“Is the power on in the pavilion?” Kris asked Herbie.

Herbie tutted, “Ach, c’mon Kris, my son, no matter what the old man says we don’t expectcha to sleep aht there tonight!”

“No,” Kris chuckled, “I wanna use the screening room to show Mr Calvert some video I shot last time I was here...”

They took a leisurely stroll through the grounds to the pavilion and Malky pretended to listen as Kris nattered away about film making. Broo continued to lag behind, too debilitated by the boy’s aura to take in his surroundings.The misty halo had become murkier the further they got from the house. Broo had to move back another 6 feet to keep out of range. When Kris asked about the old dog keeping his distance, Malky told him he was just slow: “past it” he said. Broo responded with a sharp bark. Bloody cheek. It was quite a mild night, there was no breeze, the moon was bright enough to illuminate the darker corners, but the complete silence was unnatural and unsettling. Even Kris commented on it: “... listen, you could hear a pin drop out here. It’s eerie, isn't it? Complete silence. Not even the hoot of an owl or a breeze to rustle the trees.” A moment later, as they made their way down to the walkway that ran alongside the croquet lawn, they heard the clump of boots coming in the opposite direction. It turned out to be Charlie Noble, the incumbent head of security, who informed them he’d just unlocked the pavilion and switched on the power. He asked after Laphen’s health and as Kris gave him the latest, Malky gave him the once-over. He was a stocky man of medium height with dreadful skin that made his face look like a bag of lumpy pastry. He had a northern accent – Antrim Town, to be exact -- and like Herbie, he was ex-army.

“I hear you had a bit of trouble on Friday night?” said Malky.

Charlie looked to the boy for guidance; Kris nodded, “It’s OK, he’s got Herbie’s permission.”

“You mean the night the big clock got pushed over? ‘A bit of trouble’ is about right, aye,” said Charlie, spinning a large key-ring on his index-finger like a six-shooter. “The boss was in a right state. He hit the panic button ‘n I raced up here as fast as I could -– but when I got to the door -- the swipe-card wouldnae work and the friggin’ master key wouldnae turn in the lock! I hadda climb in through a winda  -- when I found ‘im he was under the stairs shakin’ like a leaf! ‘Poltergeist!’ says he, pointing at the big grandfather clock lyin’ in the hall! It’d fallen off the wall! A big thing like that! I wuz flummoxed.”

“What do you think of this fella Scanlon?” asked Malky, still suspicious that this might’ve been an inside job; i.e. a disgruntled ex-employee with access to the house, maybe.

“Scanlon...?” thrown by the question, Noble bowed his head, scratched it and said, “Well, Scanlon was one of me best mates – ex-RAF, all-round good egg, so-he-was...” Then, suddenly aware that he was in the presence of the boss’ grandson, changed his tone, giving the impression that he’d revised his opinion, “Then again... he was a like law onto himself, had the run of the place, thought he was indispensable. Took things for granted. He worked here long before Mr Laphen bought the place, see. But... stealing from the boss ‘n that. Big shock that was...” Looking uncomfortable in his skin, he looked at Kris with an expression that said ‘can I go now?’ They let him get back to his rounds and continued on their way.

Once Noble was out of earshot, “See?” whispered Kris, “nobody believes Scanlon is guilty.”

“Hmmm, that maybe,” said Malky, doubtfully,”but he’s still the prime suspect.”

 After passing through another archway and following a well-lit path lined with neatly trimmed shrubbery, they eventually came upon a white building set back behind a little copse approximately 200 yards from the house. From the outside, it looked more like a large clapboard house than a sports pavilion. Malky asked why all the windows were blocked-off. “To keep out the light. Gramps had it converted into a little cinema so he could screen movies,” said Kris, unlocking the door. “He  got prints of all his old comedy shorts and he shows them to visitors.” He turned on the lights, “Wait til you see inside, it’s a feast for the eyes!”

They emerged from the vestibule and stepped into art-deco-heaven. It was just like a miniature version of the Picture-Palaces built during The Depression era that Malky had visited as a child: welcoming, sumptuous and tastefully plush. Emerald green deep-pile carpets, and huge, signed prints of silent movie stars’ publicity pictures lining the walls (Louise Brooks, Douglas Fairbanks, Mary Pickford, Chaplin, Keaton and, of course, the man himself – technically not a silent star - but whose comic oeuvre owed so much the pioneering comedians of that era), furnished with armchairs a pair of white leather Hoffman Kubus sofas facing each other in a  b/w 20s-style cocktail bar/café. After a quick tour, Kris took them through a projection-booth into a back-room filled with various pieces of complicated-looking electronic apparatus connected by sheaves of multicoloured cables; the lower back wall was lined with racks of film canisters of varying shapes and sizes. Kris took a cassette from a rack of video tapes, brought it into the booth and pushed it into the player. “Gramps always made his own home-movies, so when video became popular he bought all of this state-of-the-art equipment – he has to have all the latest gizmos.”

While Kris worked in the projection booth, Malky went to the theatre and made himself comfortable. Brooster slunk under a chair in the far corner (15 feet away, but still within sight of the screen) and tried to stay awake.

“It’s a tape of the exhumation of the mummies,” Kris shouted from the projection booth, “I was in Dublin when it happened, so I drove back ASAP and fetched the video camera to shoot some footage.” The screen lit up and a bright blizzard of static flickered on Malky’s face; a few seconds later an image suddenly appeared. It was a shaky film of a woodland scene, presumably the woodland surrounding the bog; a few seconds later Kris’ recorded voice sounded in the theatre’s speakers:

“It’s Thursday July 20th 19-and-89, I’m at my grandfather’s house in Ireland in the marshlands on the outskirts of the estate, and I’m on my way to film a very significant ‘n strange event -- probably historic --”

What followed was a kind of home movie taken a day after the discovery of the mummies, accompanied by a typically breathless running commentary from Kris. It showed lots of people milling around the swamp; forensics people, gards, villagers and the press, had gathered to watch the bodies being removed. “I was staying here while Ollie ‘n Herb were in Japan,” Kris explained, talking over his voice-over as he joined Malky in the theatre, “I was writing the script at the time and I went to Dublin to do research when I heard about it. I was so hyped I hadda hightail back here to film it.”

When it came to close-ups of the experts, Malky recognised a few of the faces from news reports, but one in particular was more familiar than the others, “That’s Paddy Gilray, he’s a top forensics guy from Dublin. Big Phil Somerville 'n him are good friends. Dunno who the guy with ‘im is, though.”

“Emil something. I tried to talk to him afterwards, but he told me to f**k off,” said Kris, looking a wee bit hurt. “Somebody told me he’s another forensics guy from Canada. He flies over every summer and they do these archaeological digs.”

Just then, the voice-over took a strange turn; the commentary broke off mid-sentence and the sound of Kris vomiting filled the room; the film suddenly stopped and Kris pointed at the blank screen, “When they moved the bodies there was this unholy stink like nothin’ I ever smelled before -- that’s why I threw up! I hadda stop filming and get the hell outta there!” He made a sour face, “It wasn't swamp gas – cuz I’ve smelled swamp gas – it was more like this thick, sickening miasma that made it hard to breathe, Ugggh!” he said, grimacing, “And it wasn't just me! Look, everybody is retching or puking -- even some the guys wearing surgical masks!” He used a remote to rewind the tape and freeze-framed a wide shot of the bog. He indicated a coterie of Bogmire residents standing on the opposite side, “Now look at the villagers -- they’re are fine with it, like they’re used to it. And that’s not all,,.” He sat forward, lowered his voice and spoke in a sombre tone, “There was, like, this strange kinda purple mist hanging over everything. You could see it as plain as day -- in fact most people commented on it -- but it doesn’t show up on the tape. And I checked the camera -- it’s not technical fault.” Kris shook his head, “Anyway, I couldn't get the stench out of my nostrils or the taste outta my mouth. It got into my clothes -- I dumped them as soon as I got back to the house -- but I could smell it for days after. In fact, I smelled it until I left...” He turned to Malky, “I swear to God, I smelled it when I walked into the house today. 2 years later and it’s still there. That’s 24 months and several gallons of Sparky’s wood-polish and gramps’ cigars -- and it’s still there!”

Malky shook his head, “I didn’t smell anythin’.”

“That’s what’s so weird, I’m the only one who does,” said Jamie, looking genuinely perplexed.

Broo knew the smell the boy as talking about. It was that faint, acrid odour he smelled during their little stop in the village, but it wasn't pronounced enough to give him much cause for concern, now he wasn't so sure. How could a natural smell hang in the air for so long without dissipating?

And what of the vision of the children in the bathroom mirror? Children drowned in a stagnant pool: the bog? Is it something to do with the little girl found in the ancient one’s arms? Is she now a ghost reaching out to him via the Mirror World?

So many questions...

...

The night before, in the Ivy House Library: under the light of a reading lamp, Jamie sat at a desk and scanned the attendance log of his grandfather’s long-since defunct ‘naughty-hellfire’ type club, an association that allowed renowned dignitaries and celebrities to indulge their wildest, wickedest sexual fantasies in complete anonymity. Working on a hunch, he was looking for one name in particular in the thick, yellowing pages, and although all entries were in code, his grandfather had kept a separate log to record the members real names; all Jamie had to do was find the name the to fit the code. After an hour of searching and deciphering, his finger eventually alighted on the moniker he’d been looking for:

“Oliver Laphen.”

According to the log, Laphen’s last attendance was in June 1968. Jamie wondered if it was an amicable parting of the ways, or was he kicked out? If his reputation for hell-raising was an issue, expulsion was a distinct possibility. And if he was ex-communicated, did he hold a grudge? Jamie went to the sliding steps and rolled to the central bookcase; he climbed to the top rung and took a row of three glued-together, hollowed-out tomes from the top shelf, revealing a safe concealed in the wall behind. He turned the dial on the combination lock using the numbers written on the back of his hand, opened it and removed a heavy ledger. 

It contained highly compromising information of every member of the club, probably in order to blackmail any black-balled ex-members tempted to spill the beans to the authorities or the press. Predictably, Laphen had an abundance of black marks against his name, everything from securities fraud to wife beating. Then, to Jamie’s surprise, he discovered that his grandfather had added a heavily underlined note pertaining to Laphen’s purchase of Pagham House: ‘Witches -- Observe!’ it screamed from the page. The Judge was clearly expressing his alarm and wanted the Witches of Kildare to keep an eye on things. And now we know why. 

Oggy talked about Pagham House before he went down for his sleep. He said it’s a mansion built to the exact specifications of the Ivy House by the Duke of Roxborough: a wannabe wizard with no psychic abilities whatsoever, who tried to create magic using standard methods: sex and human sacrifice. It was also home to the swamp where the mummy of an ancient mage was discovered 2 years ago. And now Laphen’s grandson turns up and offers Goz -- the only one of us who could be tempted to break ranks -- a part in a film he’s shooting in Ireland? It was all too much of a coincidence. 

He slammed the book shut, crossed his arms and sat back. Shite. This could be the first major crisis he’s faced since taking up the mantle of Master, and there was no Ogden Castle around to guide him... 

...

After screening a few of Ollie’s old ‘Laffin Boy!’ shorts to lighten the mood, Malky and Kris sat in the little cinema’s cocktail bar/café and made use of the fully functioning, antique coffee machine. They took a sofa each, sprawled-out on the white leather and talked about Film Noir for the next hour or so. When the conversation moved on to personal matters, Kris chatted openly about his relationship with “Jolly Ollie!” It wasn't bitchy in the least, for the most part he spoke in glowing terms. Nevertheless, he was still bewildered and exasperated by what he called, ‘The Purge’.”

“Whatever his reasons, I predict old Ollie will be battling a few ‘unfair dismissal’ law-suits over the next coupla years,” Malky opined .

“Any potential litigants will have to go to the end of the queue,” said Kris, “gramp’s life has been one long lawsuit, and he’s got the best lawyers money can buy.” He nimbly flipped over the back of the sofa and trotted over to the counter for a refill. Malky had to shout to be heard above the loud gurgle of a sputtering nozzle, “I can honestly say I’ve never met anyone like him in my life! If I wuz you, I’d stay well away!”

“Everybody else does keep away, I’m the only one of the family that bothers,” he said, coming back to the sofa and flopping down, “I think our little spats are a sorta communication on a deep level. Like, I can’t explain it, but it kinda opens things up –- things you can’t talk about ‘man-to-man’ can come out in one of our shouting-matches.” Kris sat up, raised his mug at the life-size picture of the man himself in his heyday hanging behind the bar, and said, “No matter what he’s done, he’s still a genius. He’s a hard act to follow. All I can do is learn from his mistakes.” Kris smiled at the youthful, dimpled face, “When I look at him now I know I’m looking at myself in 60 years time, cos that’s probably what I’ll look like if I live that long. But I won’t end my days like him, alone in a mansion miles away from his family, abandoned by his estranged kids. My grandfather is nothing if not a walking cautionary tale.”

Malky was very impressed by this young man. His mother is a drug-addict, his father is a crooked businessman, his grandfather is an arrogant arsehole, and yet, he’s a realistic, intelligent, talented, well-rounded good kid. He raised his mug to salute his new best friend, “I hope my chile grows up to be as bright and as thoughtful as you are, son.”

“You’re gonna to be a father?!” Kris asked, excitedly.

“8 weeks from yesterday,” said Malky, smiling, but sounding a wee bit daunted.

Kris jumped to his feet and vigorously shook Malky’s hand. “That’s awesome! Congratulations, dude!”

“I never thought of the future til I heard the words, ‘I’m late’," joked Malky. He took a moment to think, then asked, “So, what do you think’s goin’ on in Pagham House, Kris?”

Kris answered straightaway as if he was expecting the question: “I have absolutely no idea. I mean, that grandfather clock -- besides the fact that I wasn't here at the time, there’s no way I could've pushed that over, let alone a scrawny old guy like Ollie. You’d need a tractor to move it!”

Malky shrugged and sighed, “Well, that’s us. There’s nuthin’ more we can do. As far as we’re concerned, the house is uncontaminated by evil spirits. I’ll just have to tell Ollie we've come up empty. If I was him, I’d leave it to the police.”

Kris looked at the old dog sitting in the corner and asked, “U-huh, I wonder what Broo makes of it all?”

“I dunno,” Malky answered, sleepily, looking over his shoulder, “like I said before, if there was anythin’ ‘supernatural’ he’d’ve let us know by now...”

But Broo didn’t know how to communicate what he was seeing. Because when the pair sat together, the boy’s aura, more opaque than ever, spread to envelope Malky. When the boy went to the coffee bar to get a refill, part of it stayed with Malky. They were both shrouded in that swirling mist that psychically shut Broo out and rendered him physically weak...

Oh God, I hope this doesn’t last. I hope it disappears once we leave this woe-begotten place...

...

Two hours later, sitting in the bar of Odin’s Inn in Brodir, the ghost of Sammy O'Donnell, the inn’s deceased barman, was sitting in the darkened bar listening to the distant sound of waves crashing on the rocks. He was very bored. Thank God the old dog’s back tomorrow, at least I’d somebody to talk to, he thought to himself. We could be watchin’ TV right now... his thoughts were interrupted by a far cry: <Samuel... Samuel... Samuel O'Donnell...>

“What’s that?” Sammy said aloud, though nobody could hear him, “well, up til now.”

<Samuel... Samuel...> a little voice cried in his head. He wasn't imagining it. It’s a thought, he thought, like the way the old dog talks me.

<Samuel... Samuel... Samuel O'Donnell...> It seemed to be a child’s voice calling his name...“Samuel O'Donnell...” He went to one of the windows and looked out. <Samuel... Samuel... Samuel O'Donnell... Samuel O'Donnell...>

Beyond the concourse, across the main road, standing atop the old sea wall, he saw the sparkling spectre of a small child. It was hard to tell if it was a boy or a girl, the clinging white dress could just as well be a nightshirt; the hair was wet and hung around its face and shoulders like seaweed: the ghost of a wee drowner, no doubt.

<Wave if you can hear me!> the little ghost yelled.

Sammy raised his hand and waved a feeble wave.

<I’ve been sent by the Powers That Be to warn you!>

“Warn me?” said Sammy, perturbed.

<Aye. From tomorrow forth your haunt will become infected!> cried the little spectre, <You’ll haveta get yerself to The In-Between until the danger passes!>

Even though he’d never heard the phrase ‘The In-Between’ before, Sammy could guess what it meant: “Limbo?! Why? I bloody hate Limbo!! It’s full of martyrs 'n murderers 'n all kinds of religious headcases!”

Talking quickly, as if he there was a time limit on his manifestation, the little spectre informed him: <You've no choice! The innkeeper is set to return from an infected place -- he’ll bring the darkness back with him! It’s a Soul-eating disease, no spirit is safe, not even us ghosts – so it’s in your best interests to bide-awhile in the In-Between until the danger passes and the house is pronounced safe.>

<But what is it...!> Sammy had so many questions, but the little spectre had begun to fade. He watched helplessly as the sparkle dimmed to a glow, then a glimmer. “NO! Wait, don’t go...!” he cried out, but the ghost had gone.

He sat down again and mulled over the message: innkeeper? They must mean Malky. But what does ‘bringing The Darkness back with him’ mean? For the first time since he died, Sammy O'Donnell was scared. If there was something wicked coming – something so dangerous that it’s fatal to Immortal Souls – how could he be sure it wouldn't pose a risk to The Living?

And what about an unborn baby?!

He couldn't – he wouldn't abandon Zindy!

To Be Continued...

[paulhudd]

Spindlefreck Book Two: Pt. One: Love Potion No.9

ALL FOOL’S DAY,

Saturday, 1st April 1989:

 “I don’t have to sell my Soul,

He’s already in me --”

Niamh turned off the stereo, slowed her mud-spattered little blue Fiesta to a stop, leaned out of the window and flipped-up her clip-on shades to see if her eyes could be believed.

“Wow!” and again, with a little gasp of awe, “.....Wow.”

She closed her eyes and drank in the atmosphere: the symphony of scents from the vast array of Spring flowers bursting from every available receptacle on every available surface, mixed with the evocative smell of peat smoke, horse dung and a faint trace of simmering stew transported her to another time. “What is this: Brigadoon?” she said to herself, delightedly, taking a quick look at the antique ordinance survey map on the passenger seat. Hmm, no note of a village, just a wood and a bog. But this place must be at least 100 years older than the map? Well, it was a hand drawn map after all, maybe Mr Amateur Victorian Cartographer just didn’t think the place was worth mentioning...? She noticed that a tiny little roundabout in the centre of the village-square was bedecked with a floral clock depicting, of all things, the flag of St George, and there was a little painted plain wood sign in the middle inscribed with the word: “’Bogmire’?” She looked at the AA map once again just to make sure it wasn't there. Nada. “I guess this place must still be a secret.”

Whatever its pedigree, Bogmire certainly was a sight for sore eyes after mile-upon-mile of scrabbly brush, and fallow fields and bumpy roads that were little more than dirt-tracks lined with leafless, spiny hedges and spindly dead trees, under a grey, dishwater sky. Then the sun cracks the clouds and you find a place like this: a cluster of immaculately whitewashed thatched cottages with black gloss front doors, all with a well-kept flower garden at the front or at the side; hanging baskets, ornamental pots and antique beer barrels lining the little pavements. But despite the variety and vibrancy of the flora, there was very little sign of life and almost no sign of the 20th century, save for a sun-bleached Coca Cola sign in the little latticed window of a beautiful Victorian-style general store-cum-post-office called the Peppermint Poke, the only shop, which was apparently closed for lunch. She needed directions, so after taking a few photos, she pulled up on little siding adjacent to the pub, The Black Water Rat; on second thought maybe the word pub is too grand a term, it looked more like an auld shebeen complete with rickety chimney and a still at the back; they’re making and selling their own booze? What kind of place is this?! Unfortunately, it seemed to be the only place open, so she donned her white baseball cap, said a silent prayer and ventured inside.

She pushed the door and came upon a narrow flight of wooden steps that curved down into the semi-darkness of the saloon. Thankfully, it was bereft of clientèle, but she was too gobsmacked to notice. She’d been in a shebeen before, but not like this. As Olde Worlde as you can get. At the far end, in the shadows by the inglenook, she saw someone – probably a barmaid - wiping-down a gnarly hardwood table, “Hello...?” she called out, as she slowly descended the stairs.

A female voice shouted back, “Hiya - take a pew - oi’ll be wiv ee in a sec, just wanna finish-up ‘ere!”

Niamh couldn't sit down – she was experiencing sensory overload - she was lost in wonderment, gazing at the rough oak beams laden with tinkling, hanging pots that looked as old as the village itself; the huge slate fireplace complete with bubbling cauldron simmering over a rough peat fire. She marvelled at the assortment of dust-covered, oddly-shaped bottles and the rows of magnificent Toby-jugs lining the shelves above the bar; the aged, worn tables and chairs. There were no modern beer-pumps, optics or liquor bottles to spoil the view, just a row of barrels and various large jars containing what she assumed was cider or wine. As her amazement increased, there was no hyperbole too clichéd, no truism too trite, “It’s... it’s like... I stepped back in time! Like I went through a time-warp! Is this a theme park funded by the Trust? This is so, sooooo coooooool...” She suddenly felt entirely out of place – the blue hooded sweatshirt, baggy-jeans, and pink-trimmed sneakers looked garish in this setting; and when she saw what the barmaid was wearing, she felt like an utter frump!

[she was going through an Indie phase, lots of silly hats and casual wear that looked three-sized too big; (Uncle)Paddy looked up from his paper that morning as she poured her muesli, and asked: “How much did it cost to look like a ten year old boy wearing his older brother’s cast-offs?” – “I’m not telling you,” she replied. “Why are you wearing glasses?” - “It makes me look smart.” - “You are smart!” - “Yes, but sans specs I look like a dumb blonde, apparently” - “People that say things like that aren't your friend.” - “That’s why his testicles had a brief interaction with my right knee.” - “Talking of balls, Ni, are you wearing flares....?” – “See you at teatime!” - “When? 1971?!”]

A vision in black lace emerged from the shadows tucking a dish cloth into the belt of her pinny, smiled and said, brightly, “Welcome to Bogmoire, moy dear!”

It was almost inevitable that she would be dressed like a wench from the 19th century: shoulder length, crimped silvery-blonde hair, full-length, low-cut, black-lace dress with precipitous neckline leaving little to the imagination: Stevie Nicks circa ’76 with a hint of Morticia Addams and a big dollop of Vampirella on top = Goth! Fashion-snobbery aside, she wore it very well and it made her look so pale that her unblemished skin seemed to glow in the half-light from the little row of street level windows. Her bright grey eyes were perfectly made-up, just a dash of eye-liner and dusky shadow, her lips full and painted with crimson lipstick...  She was very, very beautiful in the true sense of the word.

Niamh was thunderstruck.

She literally went weak at the knee. Her heart literally skipped a beat. She literally stared for a good few seconds before blurting out yet another gushing banality, “- this place is amazing, it even smells like the 19th century!” she said, taking off her cap and holding it in front of her like a shy, excited schoolboy.

Her hostess crossed her arms over her ivory-white cleavage, looked around and screwed-up her dainty little nose in distaste, “It pongs loike this cuz it’s fulla clapped-out junk layered w’ 200 year of groime 'n poipe-smoke, moy luv, not to mention the stink of our lunch-toime cloientelle. They come marchin’ in ‘ere at noon ev'ry day with thur mucky boots and thur stinky poipes, loike a bunch of starvin’ walruses clappin’ their flippers and ‘onkin’ for stew! Stew, stew, stew! Bloody creeps...” Then she narrowed an eye and asked with a sly wink, “Jast-a-mo-mant – what age is ee, gurlie?”

“... I’ll be 20 in a few weeks, as a matter of fact,” Niamh informed her, proudly, but had to ask, “Excuse me, but your accent -- are you a student from England?”

“Wot? Stoo-dant? Me? Oi’m as thick as ol’ pigshit, oi am! Oi can’t even read proper!” She laughed uproariously, revealing a beautiful set of gleaming white teeth, “’stoo-dant’... did you ever ‘ear the loike...?” She lifted a huge tray of empty glasses to the bar and began unloading them onto the wooden drainer. 

Niamh thought she’d offended her and tried to make amends, “I’m sorry, but truly, you sound exactly like someone from South West England, like Devon or Cornwall, if you don’t mind me saying...?”

She carried on with her work and laughed, “’Ee might ‘ave summat there. When we goes to town they’ll make remarks loike (whiney voice) - ’You sounds loike a yokel’ ‘Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!’ or ‘Pieces of eight! Pieces of eight!’ Oi do ‘ate it, though. Oi’d love to talk proper... loike you,” she said, walking behind the bar.

“I think your accent is wonderfully.... refreshing!” Niamh lied. If she was honest, up until this precise moment she’d always associated the accent with pirates, Bavarian inn-keepers in Hammer Horror films, Fred West and The Archers; then again, if she was being really honest she’d say it sounded dumb and horrible. But no, when in doubt, apply some soft soap with a light flannel, “I think it suits you, it’s very... musical.”

“I fink it sounds fuggin’ dumb ‘n ‘orrible (Huh?!). But we don’t see enough of outsoide folk to talk any diff’rent cos we is a protected communi’y. We is totally self-sufficient, see. We live very frugally, that means all our clothes is cast-offs, all our possessions is second-‘and, and we work the land for food.”

Niamh was utterly enchanted, “Oh, it’s like a commune? How fascinating!”

“We can’t come and go as we please, we’s to get permission to go to town, but we can see ooever we loike and marry ooever we loike,” she said, rather pointedly, “only catch is, they ‘ave to come an’ live ‘ere, an' livin’ amongst theseuns will droive normal folk crackers, cuz they is so vulgar ‘n’ ugly ‘n stoooooopid!” She cocked her head, “Where’s ee from then, gurlie?”

“Born in Cork – dad died the year I was born, so lived there til I was 8 then mum remarried and moved to Sweden, but I was going to an English boarding school at the time, so it didn’t really affect me until summer hols, which I spent between Stockholm and Dublin. Right now I’m studying at Trinity, so I’m living with my uncle in the Fair City until I get my degree.”

It was the barmaid’s turn to stare, and if her wandering gaze was anything to go by, she appeared to be undressing Niamh with her eyes, “Do ex-cuse oi, bat if you don’t moind oi saying, ur very pretty, apart from them specs. You should take ‘em off an’ let ur ‘air down. And them clothes is so frumpy – they ‘oides ur figure!”

Ever the pedant, Niamh was champing at the bit to tell her that she normally wore contacts and kept her hair down and this change in image was an expensive necessity to trap the right sort of mate, not because she thought it looked great.... although she did think she looked great (and it costs a lot to look great these days. Paddy’s question resounded in her subconscious: “How much did it cost to look like a ten year old boy wearing his older brother’s cast-offs..?”) And yet, she was so beguiled by her beautiful new acquaintance that she didn’t even protest her companion’s next suggestion.

“Get ‘ee a low cut dress! If ‘ee got good tits – flaunt ‘em! ‘Ee’ll make a mint in tips.”

Niamh frowned, “Tips?” 

The barmaid stopped rinsing tankards and gave her a sideward glance, “Arr. ‘Aven’t ee come for the jab?”

“Jab...?”

“Aye. Moy jab. Barmaid? Oi’m leaving at t’end of week, moy luv – gonna be gettin’ married -- ol’ Snadgrass needs a new barmaid!”

“Oh... JOB! – no, no, sorry, no – just passing through – I’m Niamh Fitzgerald, or Ni – most people call me Ni – I’m a psychology student, part-time intrepid explorer and intrepid Bog-Trotter! That’s what we call ourselves, our merry little band of swamp-things: The Happy Bog-Trotters – naturally, we’re using the term ironically - reclaiming it from our English oppressors, you could say...”

Christ almighty - you’re rambling, you silly bitch, the woman hasn’t a clue what you’re on about! Shut up and shake her hand! The barmaid dried her lily whites on a tea-towel and shook Ni’s slightly sweaty paw. Again, just pressing flesh sent waves of excitement through her body; she was all goosebumps and hair-standing-up-on-the-nape-of-her-neck, her throat so dry it made her breathing sound laboured: Oh God, no, no-oo... not Love at First Sight?! Please Lord – no, no, no, not again... Alas, this creature was so becoming, her smile so warm and inviting....But then of course, there was that voice: the sound that marred the vision; like a kazoo in a chamber orchestra, “Oi’m Oona Umbert soon to be Nevin!” she said, reaching up and taking a modest engagement ring from a shelf by the sink, putting it on and, showing it to her. “Very pleased to meet ee, Niamh Fitzgerald, or Neeeee! – but if 'ee’re not ‘ere for the jab, what brings ‘ee to a dump loike Bogmoire, moy luv?”

Ni was 12 again, back in school trying to explain her bizarre hobbies to Citra, the beautiful Malaysian girl she had a crush on in lower 6th (two sugary love letters slipped under her pillow, but nothing transpired other than a cold shoulder and a feeling of utter desolation that ruined that year’s summer break in Monaghan digging for Iron Age pottery); she blushed, lowered her head, put her hands in the tummy-pockets of her hooded top, shuffled her feet and explained in a more subdued manner, “You see, every summer my uncle and his friend from Canada take a team of enthusiastic students –- including me, of course -- and we do a bit of amateur archaeology in the wetlands of Ireland, i.e. bogs and marshes. We’re always on the lookout for virgin territory, and last Friday, I was in my favourite second-hand bookshop and I happened to be glancing through some dusty old textbooks on local history – when I came across this old, hand-drawn ordinance survey map someone had been using as a bookmark - it was like kismet - I was looking for a site and here was a gift from the Gods! I bought the book – which was actually on Irish flora - and went to the library to check the map’s authenticity against modern, state-of-the-art satellite maps, and I discovered this region of S. Kildare isn't mentioned, so I thought I’d come down and see for myself!” She grinned inanely, “erm, I take it there is a bog near here...?”

Oona wrinkled her little nose, snorted and said, “I ain't got a clue wot ee’s talkin’ bout, gurlee? Ammater-arky-ography? Wha’s that?”

Is she being deliberately obtuse?

She took a second look at her and returned to her original hypothesis that it must be a trust-funded theme-village peopled by struggling thespians for the education and amusement of passing tourists; because if she isn't acting, she is a very dumb belle indeed! Nevertheless, she answered politely, with a bemused smile, “’Amateur Archaeology’ -- It’s digging for ancient relics in your spare time.”

Oona raised her arms, did a little twirl to indicate the entire area and chimed sarcastically, “Oh well, ee’ve cum to roight place, moy luv! There’s plenty of relics roun’ ‘ere - and ‘ee won’t need no shovel neever!” She cupped her ear and frowned, “In fa-a-act... oi thinks oi ‘ears one of ‘em comin’ now...”

They heard the nails-down-the-blackboard-screech of rubber-less brake-pads on metal rims coming from the street above: someone had just pulled-up on a push-bike. “It’s ol’ face-ache back from ‘is lunch – did ee ever ‘ear the loik? A publican oo goes ‘ome for lunch? Oi mean, what does that say ‘bout ‘is fare? That’s ‘Arry Snadgrass, for ee. Twat.” Oona retrieved her washcloth and began wiping the bar, “I’d bess look loively, don wanna give ‘im cause to carp, cuz ‘e luvs to carp...”

Harold Snodgrass, a short, stout, bespectacled, plain-faced man in his mid-50s, trouser-cuffs tucked into his frayed Argyle socks, mud-spattered red anorak with the hood tied so tightly around his pale, freckled face that it resembled the pulsating head on a ripe boil, entered carrying an antiquated boneshaker fitted with a weather-beaten A-Team saddle bag. Gasping with exertion, he rolled it down the flight of steps and leaned it against the bar, “It’s startin’ to spit! Oona, ‘ave ee taken ‘em tableclaths in?” he asked, in the same yokel/Irish twang as his barmaid.

Oona kept polishing the glasses, and replied in a hoity-toity-tone, “Oi ‘ave gathered the tablecloths in, arr. ‘Ee wuz talkin’ to me whoile oi was foldin’ ‘em earlier, remember? But ‘ee wuz probably too busy pervin’ at moy tits to no’ice wot oi wuz doin’!”

Snodgrass sneered and grimaced to exaggerate his denial, “No, oi did not see what ‘ee was doin’, Oona Umbert, cos moy oys is always screwed-toight-shut from the earache of ‘avin’ to listen to the soun’ of ‘ee voice first thing in the fuggin’ marnin’... Oh!” He’d spotted Niamh; his voice went from belligerent boss to genial host, “hmm, hello my dear...!” He loosened the hood and pulled it back, unleashing a mop – not quite an afro, but voluminous nevertheless -- of carrot-red hair. Niamh had to pinch her skin through her tummy pocket and picture a dead puppy to keep a straight face. He arched a salacious eyebrow, rolled up the sleeves of his anorak and sashayed across the floor towards her. Oona, however, did not find the discourse at-all-amusing and was watching intently as if she knew what was coming and was waiting for the right moment to pounce.

He rubbed his right hand on the seat of his pants and offered it up, “‘Arry Snadgrass at your service, moy luv: landlord, restaurateur, spirit merchant and bon-viveur... Ahem, is that your li’l Fiesta outsoide?” He shook her hand and looked up to indicate the street, “Cuz that’ll come in ‘andy, that will -- oi’ll be needin’ someone wiv traaaaansport...” He stepped back, looked her up and down and licked his lips, “Well that’s formali’ies done wiv, all’s left for oi to say is -- when can ee start, moy luv?”

Delighted to be able to disappoint him, Oona finally ran out from behind the bar and stood between them, put her hands on her hips, towered over him and nyah-nyahed like a cheeky little girl, “Hah! Sorry, Mr Casanover Snadgrass, she ain't ‘ere for the jab, she’s moy chum frum Cork! You’ll ‘aveta ’oire a man after all, cos there ain’t no gurlie in ‘er roight moind gonna stand behoind that there bar an’ put ap wiv ‘ee droolin’ like an ‘orny mongrel all day!” She put her nose in the air, “Now, we’s a-goin’ outsoide for a fag -- whoy don’t ‘ee spend the toime countin’ ur lunchtoime takings - which oi earnt on me own w’ no ‘elp from ee, moind you!” As she hitched up her skirt and bustled past, he curled a lip and chimed after her like a 5 year old, “It be rainin’, Miss Smar’y-Knickers! Your stoopit ‘air will get all frizzy – then ‘ee’ll go croyin-aff ‘ome to use ‘ee’s la-di-da ‘crimpers’ – an’ oi won’t see ee for at least an hour!!” Oona turned on her heel and shouted, “Hah! If ur shit’ole ‘ad modurn electrici’y oi could bring me crimpers ‘ere, but ‘ees only got gas, see – ur livin’ in olden toimes, ‘Arry Snadgrass – loike everybody else roun’ ‘ere! Yez wanna get up w’ the 20th century loike the rest of us!”

“Well -- ‘ee ain't gettin’ moy big 20th century umbreller!” He ran to the hat-stand under the stairs and extracted a 4 ft tall green & yellow golfing-umbrella from the rack, clutched it to his chest and flicked two-fingers with his free hand, “Go on then -- go out an’ ‘ave ur fag!”

Whilst Ni banged her head on the antiquated cigarette machine to stop the convulsions, Oona returned the Vs with both hands and blew a loud raspberry, “We-don’t-need-no-umber-eller-smarty-arse-cos-we’s-gonna be-sattin’-in-‘er-car – ain’t we? So stick that in ur poipe an’ puff on it!!”

Ni’s giggles stuck in her throat, “What?!”

Oona hadn't heard and was already behind the bar fetching a glitter-encrusted clutch-bag from the shelf under the till. She grabbed Ni by the arm and dragged her up the little flight of steps and out the door. Snodgrass ran after them brandishing the brolly like a pike (more for his own protection than as an offensive weapon), and shouted from the upstairs doorway, “Oi’ll be glad to be rid-of-’ee, Oona Umbert! If it weren’t fer yer Aun’ie Ella, oi’da sacked ‘ee years since! And ‘ee’s uselass cook too – that’s whoy oi eat a’ ‘ome! Ur stew tastes like burnin’ tyres ‘n’ gives oi the squits!!” He addressed the disinterested third party, “Hey – gurlie, dunnee let ‘er cook for ‘ee – ‘ee’ll be sick as a badger!”

Oona shouted without looking back, “C’mon Ni, the reek of desperation, is turning moy stomach,” She leaned close and whispered in Niamh’s ear, “Oh, I’m so glad to get out of there, my dear, all that testosterone with nowhere to go - it’s a frightful bore, is it not?”

That aside wiped the smile clean off Ni’s face: Wait-a-gawd-durn-tootin’ minute there, madam. Isn't that ‘reeking of desperation’ bit, my line? Didn't I use it in my sign-off speech when I dumped Useless Fleshy Appendage No.4...? The words: ‘all that testosterone with nowhere to go’ were definitely lifted from a recent dinner-table-debate she’d had with Paddy about Gaelic football, wherein she posited that the game was created to allow men to work off their anxieties and aggression by rolling around in the mud and kicking the shit out of each other; and yet here were her home grown homilies delivered in the manner of an in-joke amongst intimates; a very personal in-joke with a perfect stranger?!

Her consternation didn’t fizzle on Oona one iota, she was much too self-obsessed, “C’mon – moy ‘air’s gonna be like candy-floss if we stay out ‘ere much longer!” As she waited for Niamh to open the door, she jooked inside enthused like a child at a toy store window, “Oh beezer! A cassette player! Aw, this is brilly-ant!” When they got in, Oona produced a packet of Majors from her sparkly handbag and offered one to Ni, who politely refused. Normally, she didn’t allow smoking in the car, but it was raining, and she was too intrigued by what she’d just heard to refuse. How can a perfect stranger quote my on words back at me? Although the words April Fool were uppermost in her mind. no one she knew would have the resources nevermind the time or the inclination to set her up like this. She asked Oona to wind down her window as nicely as she could, and settled behind the wheel. She felt obliged to put on her safety-belt: I think I might need it. Her companion wasn't nearly so circumspect, she reclined the seat and made herself very comfortable, “moind if I use your loighter moy luv?”

“Loiter? How do you mean...” Ni found it hard to concentrate when she looked into those almost colourless eyes. Staring again! Snap out of it, bitch! “Sure -- I forgot I had a lighter!” 

Oona, a sly smile playing across her lips, depressed the little knob with a long white, carefully manicured finger. She espied the shoebox full of compilation cassettes perched between the seats, “Do you ‘ave any David Bowie? Or T.Rex? OH! Got any Scott Walker?! I Love Scott! Me and Kris used to listen to ‘im while we watched old silent filums!” She seemed very pleased to have remembered this, almost like an amnesiac finally achieving total recall.

“Umm... I have heard of those people, but they’re considered a bit old hat these days,” Niamh said, rather weakly, “I like new music - y’know, Indie - The Smiths, Pixies, Throwing Muses, and the Stone Roses and the Happy Mondays -- the whole Madchester scene?”

“Madchester? Oi’ve never ‘eard of it. Is it in Ireland or England...?”

“It’s not a place – well it is a place – it’s more a ‘state of mind’... well mindlessness... um...”

The lighter popped. Thank God.

Oona placed the cigarette between her pursed lips, leaned in and closed her eyes like a lover puckering up for a kiss.

Ni’s heart beat faster as she looked at the charcoal eyelids against the pale of her skin, the ruby-red-lips... by Jupiter, she’s beautiful...

The beautiful grey eyes opened. She smiled and said ahem.

Wakey-wakey - she wants you to light-her-up, dummy!

“OH!” Ni quickly extracted the red-hot date-stamp from its little hole and tried her best to rest it on the tip of the Major, but her hand was trembling so much she kept pushing it away. Then Oona grasped her wrist firmly and held the hand steady, then looked up into Ni’s eyes as she performed a series of tiny puffs until the cigarette tip reddened and a little ball of smoke popped out her mouth then quickly disappeared, like a little ghost being sucked into a vortex. Her mouth widened and a tiny smoke-ring drifted up, over Ni’s head like a halo and wafted out of the window. She let go of Ni’s wrist and smiled. “You OK, moy luv?”

Ni snapped out of her little trance and blushed. She shoved the cassette into the slot, and for some insane reason, effected her pathetic attempt at a Mancunian accent, “Um, you wanna know about Madchester, do ya, la - here! This is ‘ere t’Stone Roses...!” Oh gawd, I sound like a total moron!

As soon as the first few bars of I Wanna Be Adored sounded in the Fiesta’s little speakers, Snodgrass’ carrot topped noggin jooked out of a rickety upstairs window and yelled, “Turn that racket off! Youse is scarin’ off moy customers!!”

Oona leaned out of the window, looked up-and-down the street and pretended to speak to Ni, “Oooo, ‘ow did you foind a parkin’ space in this mad rush, Niamh?!” Then she looked up at the window and yelled, “there ain't’ no customers for moiles, ‘ee twot! SO!!” She turned the stereo up full blast

“... I DON’T NEED TO SELL MY SOUL

HE’S ALREADY IN ME...”

He flicked the Vs and shut the window with a loud bang.

Ni stopped the tape, “No, sorry, we can’t do that - runs down the battery and I don’t fancy my chances of getting a jump-start in this place. No one has a car round here and I haven’t seen a service station for miles.”

Oona blew a plume of smoke out of the window and explained in a pissed off voice, “Arr, ‘ee be roight there. Everybody roun’ ‘ere cycles or walks or uses an ‘orse ‘n cart...”

Just then, an old woman in her 70s peeked around the side of the Peppermint Poke; it was clear she wanted to cross the square unnoticed, so Niamh kept her ‘passenger’ distracted, “um, Harry’s a character, isn't he...?”

Oona looked up at the window and sneered, “Bastard-bogey-faced-bugger, more loike. ‘Is woife doied two year ago an’ e’s been a randy sod ever since. Gawd only knows wot she ‘ad to put up wiv!”

The old woman tiptoed across the square and disappeared into an alley between the pub and a row of cottages.

“... E finks ‘e’s gonna pull in more pun’ers wiv a ‘buxum barmaid’, huh?! Oi mean, ‘e actually put that in the advertoisement in a newsagent’s in town! ‘Buxum barmaid needed’! Did you ever ‘ear the loike?!”

Ni was outraged, “God, he sounds positively Neanderthal!”

“If that means ‘‘orny shortarsed twot’, then yar! That’s whoy he loikes me to wear this ‘ere koind of dress see,” She put her hands on her hips, thrust out her considerable, porcelain-white cleavage, “there’s loads o’ single men roun’ this district and ‘e wants them to keep ‘em comin’ back - cos I tell ee this – t’ain’t the ale tha brings ‘em ‘ere!!”  She blew another plume of smoke out of the window and sighed.

She doth protest too much, think oi. “Have you had any candidates?” Maybe a moonlighting stripper or a down-at-heel lap dancer...

“We've ‘ad two so far and ‘e tried it on w’ boaf of ‘em – oi tol’ ‘im to face-facts: there ain’t no young gurl gonna stand behind that bar with you pervin’ ’n’ rubbin’ yerself up against them all noight!”

Ni, a lapsed Catholic, committed feminist and pro-choice campaigner, had heard enough. She was this close to going in there and telling him what for! “Jesus! That’s sexual harassment – you don’t have to put up with that – you can take him to a tribunal!” She was about to say this is the 20th century, but it didn’t seem appropriate somehow.

Oona tittered at what she perceived to be downright prudery, “’E never troys it on wif me, though! I can ‘andle meself!” she honked the horn and put her head out of the window and yelled in the direction of the pub: “‘E wouldn’t DARE troy it on wiv me cos Aun’ie Ella would break ‘is arms, so-she-would, and ‘E KNOWS IT!”

“Who is your aunt? A local councillor or something?”

“Missus Ella Sparkes. She’s ‘ousekeeper at Big ‘Ouse and she’s sorta the ‘ead of the Elders in our church, although, we ain’t s’posed to ‘ave ‘a leader. Look,” she pointed around the cottages and the little shop, “no church, see? We believe that God is everywhere, so every Sunday everyone takes it in turn to ‘ost the service at their ‘ouse. The rest o’ the week people’s supposed to pray at 'ome.”

“Do you live with her?”

“Yar - in a cottage down that li’l lane,” she indicated a narrow siding behind the pub that disappeared behind a high, well trimmed hedge. “Oi’s an orphan, see. Moy mom took off after I wuz born and she’s dead now –- doied of pneumonia whoilst livin’ on the streets, they tol’ me -- and moy dad died of old age when oi was 4, so ‘is sister, me Aun’ee Ella -- she wuz widowed when she was 25 an’ ur twins ran away when they was four’een -- took me in. T’ain’t too bad though. I mostly ‘ave the ‘ouse to meself cuz Aun’ee’s so busy wiv workin’ at the Big ‘Ouse.” 

“Who lives in the Big House?” asked Ni, distractedly, still entranced.

“Can’t say, sorry,” she replied. regretfully. “Oi’d get into a lotta trouble if oi told ‘ee. It’s a BIG secret.” Then, apropos of nothing, she smiled, sidled up, beckoned Ni near, and whispered in her ear, “Isn't this nice, though? Isn't this kismet? Us meeting like this, out of the blue?”

It was a completely different voice, more adult, more refined with no detectable accent or dialect, or for that matter, irony; also, the words were vaguely familiar: “it’s so pleasant to talk to someone my own age, Ni, you don’t know how much this means to me,” she took a long draw on her cigarette and instead of turning away and blowing it out the window, this time she exhaled the smoke slowly through her nostrils, whilst leaning forward and looking into the younger girl’s eyes. As the foggy coils unfurled and enveloped their faces, the following words popped into Niamh’s head: 

<I know how it feels to feel different. I know what it’s like to feel lonely. I know what’s missing in your life and I want to help you, heal you, hold you, kiss you...>

If her eyes had been open, she would've seen that Oona’s lips weren’t moving, but Ni’s eyes were closed and her own lips were in transit awaiting contact... Then, perhaps fortunately, a wisp of smoke caught the back of her throat - she quickly turned away and coughed and spluttered out of her window. Oona patted her back and tittered, “Dear-o-dear o-dearie-me, you alroight thur, moy luv, ‘ee ain't gonna be sick, is 'ee...?” 

Ni pulled the water-bottle from the pocket in her door and took a drink; when she looked, Oona was smiling mischievously as if she’d orchestrated the entire episode. She knows I like her so she’s playing-up; hmm, let’s throw her a curve-ball and see how she likes it! “And what about your fiancé, is he from round here too?”

She was very offended, “NO! ‘E most certainly is not!” she cried, cringing as if she’d bitten into something bitter.

Bullseye.

“The very oy-dear! UGH!” She tossed her cigarette out of the window, spat into the gutter, sat back and crossed her arms, “’E’s a respectable gard from Sligo! I wouldn't make do wiv any of the shoite we get roun’ ‘ere! Perish the fought! Nah, oi got meself a tall ‘andsome man-in-uniform!” The good mood returned as she waxed lyrical about her intended, “‘E wuz loike moy knoight in shoinin’ armour! ‘E came to into the bar with Sergeant Marchant -- he’s the local policeman, he’s married to a woman in the village -- he introduced ‘im to everybody, cuz e’s gonna be his new constable at the station. Oh, 'e wuz gorgeous! Tall dark ‘n ‘andsome wiv these blue eyes that’ll melt your ‘eart... quoiet 'n strong. I fell for ‘im roight away! It was luv at first soight!!”

I know how he felt... “What’s his name?”

“Craigy. Craig Nevin. 'E proposed after 2 weeks! ‘E said ‘e never met anybody loike me before! Oi said ‘me neither’! The only boy oi ever ‘ad any feelin’s for wuz Kris, but that wuz a long time ago, an’ ‘e don’t visit ‘ere now'days,” she said, looking out of the window, as if the memory still hurt.

“Was Kris your childhood sweetheart?”

She seemed slightly embarrassed and didn’t directly answer the question, “Kris is the big boss’ gran’son from ‘Mericar. Used to come every summer. ‘E went to a school to learn ‘ow to make filums and now ‘e lives in Los Angeles: ‘LA’. Oi ‘aven’t 'eard frum ‘im since. Have ‘ee ever been to ‘Mericar?”

Desperately fighting the urge to correct every mispronunciation in real time, Ni replied as if she was talking to one of the Somerville girls (both under the age of 5), “Not yet. But if I did go, I wouldn't want to go to Disneyland or the Statue of Liberty -- I’d want to walk in the path of the native tribes and see those fantastic rock formations, like the Grand Canyon!”

Oona joyfully disagreed, “I wish I could go to ‘Mericar -- but I would wanna see Disneyland ’n’ the Statue of Liberty – and the malls! Kris used to talk about these ‘malls’ full o' every sorta shop 'ee can imagine – and cinemas – and swimmin’ pools! Can you 'magine that?! A swimmin’ pool in a shoppin' centre?! ... I wish we coulda went there for our ‘oneymoon.”

“Where are you going for your honeymoon?”

“Costa Del Sol – long weekend! It’s gonna be lush,” she chirruped, before looking out of the window and slumping in her seat, “... oh shoite, ‘ere ‘e comes again...”

Snodgrass was standing in the little doorway of the pub, shaking a mop like a ceremonial spear, “Hey, Miss Lazy-Arse Umbert! FLOOR!” he yelled. He’d removed his muck-spattered anorak to reveal a plucked purple tanktop over a buttoned-up orange shirt, though his trouser cuffs were still stuffed into his socks. “Oi’m not payin’ ‘ee a single penny this Froiday til ‘ee do ALL ‘ee chores - an’ oi shall be deducting monies for toime wasted from ‘ee wages as well, so there!!” He licked an imaginary pencil and pretended to write on his hand, “Lemme see... ’Saturday – 10 minutes ab-sense!’ Minus sixpence!!”

Oona took Niamh’s wrist and glanced at her pink Swatch then shouted out of the window, “It’s only just gone 2 -– so this ‘ere’s me tea break! ‘Ee shall just ‘ave to wait, ‘Arold!”

He harrumphed, threw down the mop and stormed back inside.

“Stoopid ol’ bugger, but oi’d be’’er not push at, Aun’ie‘ll kill me if oi don’t pull me weight, so...” - she suddenly had a brainwave - “oy! Tell ee what – aun’ee’s workin’ tonoight! Whoy not meet me back ‘ere at 6 o’clock an’ we can go to ours! Oi’ll tell ee all about Moy Loife In The Land O’ Ginger Twots, eh?”

Niamh pulled a face, “Um... sounds delightful, but my uncle will be expecting me home for dinner, and he’s doing his famous Duck Surprise tonight, he’ll go mad if I call this late and cancel...?”

Oona reached out and took her left hand again, his time rubbing her thumb gently on the centre of Ni’s palm as her big grey eyes seemed to cloud over and sparkle like moonlit silica; the voice changed yet again, “Please come back, Niamh Fitzgerald, I think we’ll be great friends, you and I. Can’t you feel a connection?”

Dazed and strangely becalmed, mouth as dry as a desert, breath baited, Ni gave her a bobble-headed nod and sleepily acquiesced, “Yeah... Why not? I can call Uncle Paddy and tell him what happened. He’ll be so over the moon that we've got a site for the summer he won’t mind... and more duck for him, too, I suppose...”

“Oh joy!” Oona was so excited she kissed Ni’s cheek and hugged her tight, squishing the glasses against her eyes and causing the clip-on shades to snap off, but she’d got her own way and that was all that mattered. “Oi’ll see ‘ee in the bar at 6, then!” she trilled, jumping out and slamming the door behind her. She made a run for the pub, then stopped at the entrance to turn and blow a kiss...

Ni could've sworn the invisible smacker flew from the open hand and hit her squarely in the lips; whatever, it made her grin like a moron. She even took off her glasses so Oona’s lasting impression would be the Real Ni. Why? Because she’s so beautiful.... So... absolutely, ravishingly, old fashioned, BEAUTIFUL........... and I can’t get the fucking car to start! Can’t see!! She waved again, put her glasses back on and fumbled the first ignition, then over-compensated on the second attempt -- the car lurched forward and stalled. Oona found it all very amusing and watched for a full minute before giving a last wave and thankfully going inside. 

Ni took a deep breath and started over. The third time was indeed lucky and the engine burst into life. She sighed with relief and sped away without looking back... 

What the hell was that?! Where am I? Who am I....?

She drove in the direction of the trees, but the shower was so heavy it proved impossible to go any faster than 15 KPH. She just wanted to see the bog, do a few tests and go home now. Over the last 2 or 3 years, she’d been lucky, no matter where she went she was met by nice, accommodating people who’d invariably invite her in and chat about local history and share folk stories, and she supposed Bogmire was no different, but Oona Umbert was like something from another planet. She was an enigma wrapped up in a riddle. Was it an act? Are they having a joke at her expense? 

Or was she a ghost? If I do a u-turn, will the village still be there?

Kismet.

Oona Umbert.

And the more she thought about her, the more she got annoyed by some of the stupid things she said... I do like her, though. But she shouldn't like her – she’s the antithesis of everything I stand for -- so if it wasn't a meeting of minds, then it was an entirely physical impulse, and careless lust has no place in this Brave New world she envisaged. It wasn't wise to let your emotions rule your thinking. And although she’d had little flings with other girls while she was at school, she hadn't dipped her toes in those waters for at least 2 years. No, it was a base instinct – to be negated with a dose of Germaine Greer and a cold shower. Then again... She was confounded with the dilemma that has beset man & womankind since the dawn of time: what do you do when your hormones say go but your moral code says whoa? 

Then there were the weird coincidences: either she’s been spying on me or she plucked phrases from my head. Is it a con trick? Who’d want to trick me? And what about tonight? Is it a date? Is she coming on to me or is it a girlie-night-out thing... And where the hell am I?

The road was getting very muddy, the hedges more fulsome and unruly; the overhanging trees more robust, but no less daunting. All of a sudden she felt very young and vulnerable. She slowed to a crawl, crouched on the edge of her seat and peered over the steering-wheel, watching and waiting for someone to jump out; gone was her customary joie-de-vivre, gone was the pioneering spirit of the intrepid explorer; on came the sense of doubt that comes with knowing that you’re a woman alone in the wilderness and you could disappear never to be seen again.

And Paddy doesn’t know I’m here - Only the ditzy barmaid knows!

Oh God, what if the car breaks down?! What if these Redmen are as barbaric as Oona says? Oh please don’t let this go all Deliverance or Southern Comfort on me! She knew a lot about most things – she had a high IQ and was reading by the age of 2; she was a bookworm, a University Challenge contestant the year before and went to a pub quiz once a week – but the internal workings of the combustion engine remained a mystery to her and the smell of engine oil turned her stomach...

Ooow... scratchy, scratchy... itchy-itchy...

The palm of her left hand was itching where Oona’s thumb had rubbed it; there was no redness, but it stung like hell. What the hell did she do to me? The rain was drumming on the roof now. Her dander was on the way up...... Screw this for a game of soldiers, I’m gonna turn back and go home! But the lane was too narrow to do a u-turn; it was either onward or inward or put it in reverse and knacker the engine. To add to her woes, the shower had turned into a deluge and looking through the windscreen was like trying to see through a translucent slab of melting ice – even with the wipers on at full tilt! Christ, what if I get stuck in the mud...?!

Then, in the blink of an eye – daylight. The rain receded and stopped. The windscreen cleared.  Sunshine. It’s turned out nice again. She’d crossed the weather front into a green and pleasant land: blue skies, verdant fields and untrammelled forestation, all without any navigation whatsoever.

Now for someone with no sense of direction, that was pretty neat... She’d reached her destination, and ever the optimist, had decided to take it as a good omen: the sun came out for her, it’s almost as if Mother Nature is saying, ‘Come and see!’

She consulted the antique map; then she scanned the wood and the contour of the hill beyond: this is deffa-tootly the spot; the presentation might be a bit rough and it doesn’t mention the village, but otherwise it’s totally accurate. There was a busted-down, rusted-up KEEP OUT sign in the long grass behind a low, dry-stone-wall that supposedly acted as a perimeter, but it was plain to see the site hadn't been tended to or visited in years.

Do they forgive their trespassers – or see them off with a pitchfork?

“Ach, to hell with it, it’ll just act dumb and twinkle like I always do...”

As soon as she got out of the car, she knew she was in the right place. It possessed the same timeless ambience as the little village, only shot through with something more primal. She was excited again. She took off her trainers, put on her wellingtons and then it was on with the camera, the little haversack containing the sample kit, the binoculars and the tool bag. Thus laden, she crossed the road, climbed up on the dry-stone-wall and looked around. She listened for a few moments – her head full of images of strange bald children playing banjos and sniggering hillbillies hiding in the trees. One thing above all was very noticeable: it was deathly quiet. No bird song. Not even the caw of a crow. Creepy, but here goes....

She took a deep breath then jumped into the long grass - landing with a satisfying squelch...

 As expected, the air in the wood was moist and fragrant with pine, but there was also an indefinable smell alongside the usual scents, and it wasn't at all pleasant. After a while, as she trudged further in, through the pine-needle carpet of the forest floor, it got quite hard to stomach, and for once in her life she felt nauseous doing the thing she loved. After another half-mile of stomping through dense, undergrowth, the ground started to get very soft, and she eventually came upon a tract of open ground that surrounded the bog itself. It was completely water logged, but it looked magnificent! Can’t wait until Emil sees this!!

[Emil Labatt, a Canadian forensic scientist from Toronto, was the de-facto joint leader of the Bog-Trotters and Ni’s childhood hero: as old as Paddy (51), but the precise opposite in everything bar their love of mud. He was a political activist in the 60s when he was student and he was at Woodstock; he calls himself the Jim Morrison of forensic scientists! She has a poster of The Doors in her room.]

30 minutes later: She sang to herself in a jokey baritone as she worked:

“Mud, mud, glorious mud,

                   Nothing quite like it for cooling the blood.

                                        So follow me, follow, down to the hollow

                                                           And there let us wallow in glorious mud!”

She trudged back and forth through the rushes, taking samples from deep down in the mire with an extendible rod and then carefully decanting them into test-tubes. She had to wear a surgical mask steeped in TCP to kill the stench: if it wasn't for that ‘orrible pong I’d be even happier. Then, just as she uncapped the camera and strode into the edge to take a few more photographs of the various plant life strewn across the surface of the water, when –

“Hey! YOU! What are you doing there?!”

The harsh whisper came from the trees a few feet behind her; she was so startled she almost fell backward into the bog. She picked up her little haversack and held it front of her like a pathetic shield/white flag, turned her face away and cried, “DON’T SHOOT!”

“Ssshhhh!”

A man in his 60s, dressed in khakis and camouflage-gear, boots and helmet, carrying what looked like some sort of assault rifle, emerged from the wood. As he got closer, she saw that the weapon was in fact a paintball gun. “Well, who are you and what are you doing?” The accent was more or less non-specific English with a hint of Irish. Ni quickly explained and added nervously that she had played paintball before and she didn’t fancy being pelted at close range.

“This isn't a game Miss Fitzgerald - this is all-out-warfare... huh?”

They heard a crunching sound to their right.

“Okey-dokey.... ! I hear you...” the man whispered and started to back up.

“Fee-if-foe-fum... ‘ere cum the Brit wiv a Tommy gun!” the second voice cried.

“DUCK!” hollered the first man, jumping into a shallow ditch behind a fallen tree trunk. She wanted to run, but because she’d been standing in the one position for so long, her wellies were stuck fast - and before she had time to yell PLEASE DON’T! -- the foliage round her became a 3D Jackson Pollock installation, her yellow sweatshirt was a Stone Roses record sleeve, and her camera and her kit were dripping with sticky rainbow-gloop! If that wasn't bad enough, the man in the trough took advantage of the distraction - jumped up and returned fire! The second man leapt behind a tree and Niamh suffered a second attack – this time from behind!

“STOPPIT-STOPPIT-STOPPIT!” she screamed repeatedly.

The men eventually shouted ‘truce’, emerged from their hiding places and approached. Ni, utterly slathered and still rooted to the spot like a melting novelty candle, pulled down her mask, took off her spattered specs so she could see them and yelled, “YOU STUPID BASTARDS! LOOK AT THE FUCKING STATE OF ME! My camera’s ruined!! My clothes are ruined... AAAAAAAAArrrrrrrrrgggggh!!”

(“How much did it cost to look as if you’re wearing your older brother’s cast-offs..?)

“800 QUID THIS LOT COST ME! I repeat: AAAAAAAAArrrrrrrrrgggggh!!”

She refused to get back into her own car or get undressed in front of them and demanded that they take her somewhere where she could get cleaned up. They were very respectful and extremely apologetic, and not in the least bit frightening. The first man, Horace Scanlon, a 6ft-tall, balding man, slim but toting a sizeable spare tyre, was a local groundskeeper; Herbie Gorringe, a taller, more broad-shouldered, horse-faced man with a US army buzz-cut, was a chauffeur from East London; but, just like Oona, they wouldn't or couldn't say who they worked for, and considering the circumstances, she didn’t feel she could insist. 

“We’ll take you to the ol’ ‘unting lodge, there’s showahs and ‘ot-wa’er. Then, when you is all scrubbed-up, shiny-'n-new, we’ll bring you back to yer car and show you the way ‘ome. ‘Ow-would-that be?” offered Herbie, in his adorable cockernee twang. 

She looked from one to the other, “How do I know I’ll be safe?”

Scanlon smiled and opened his eyes wide, “You don’t.”

Gorringe shook his head, “Don’t lissen to ‘im. ‘E’s only teasin’. You can trust us,” he said, in a warm, sensitive voice.

Intrigued and mollified by Herbie’s assurances, she decided to go with them. Curiosity is killing this cat. They wrapped her in an old fire-blanket and made her sit on a plastic sheet in the back of their Land Rover. She felt like she was on an adventure now, and in the spirit of adventure, she played detective: “How the Dickens did I get here?” she moaned, “one minute I’m taking photos of swampland... the next I’m in the back of an SUV being spirited-off to a cabin in the woods by a couple of very gracious, yet highly suspicious ex-military types.”

Scanlon looked over his shoulder, “Ex- military? And how do you arrive at that conclusion, miss?”

“Both of you are wearing regimental rings, and to be honest, those generic militia outfits fit you too well,” she replied, feeling rather pleased with herself.

The men looked at each other and smiled as if they were sharing a private joke. Eventually Scanlon said, “I’m ex-RAF. Herbie here is ex-army.”

Herbie’s smiling eyes looked at her in the rear-view-mirror, “And jus fer the record – we ain't suspicious, darlin’, just mildly curious. See, the minnit you drove into Bogmire our security lads spotted you via our li’l network of concealed CCTV cameras. They thought you’d taken a wrong turn 'n went into the village to get directions, but when ya didn’t turn back and drive out again, proverbial alarm bells started ringin’.”

Bloody hell! A network of concealed CCTV cameras?! Who the hell do these guys work for?! “Oh, so you decided to give me a reception I’d never forget! The paintball massacre wasn't an accident at all -- was it?!”

The pair looked at each other and smiled, but didn’t answer the question. Instead, Scanlon turned and peered between the seats so that he could look her in the eye. She frowned and was just about to tell him where to go when he said, “May I see your left hand please? (She scowled) Indulge me. I won’t bite, I promise.”

She’d been wearing rubber gloves during the paint-ball incident and her hands were clean, so she did as he asked. He looked at the palm, “Itchy, is it?”

She nodded, “Why, what is it?”

“Depends. If it goes red and in the shape of a heart, she loves you. If it’s a red cross, she’s got it in for you!”

Herbie glanced over his shoulder, “What is it ‘Orace? Cross or an ‘eart?”

“It’s too early to tell, Herb. But you know our Oona: as changeable as the weather,” which proved quite prescient, as the rain had begun to thunder on the roof again...

The Hunting Lodge was a cut above your average Cabin in the Woods. The luxurious interior was a wood-panelled, testosterone infused, antiquated wonderland for gentlemen of a bloodthirsty disposition and a love for all things ANIMAL. The wood-panelled walls were covered with sepia toned portraits of British army officers in pith helmets, smoking pipes and propping up the carcasses of various endangered species including a dead Zulu warrior in full battle dress; the booty of African safaris, deep-sea fishing expeditions and Alaskan hunting parties, stuffed and mounted and displayed for the edification of barbarians! If ever there was a place designed to offend all her tender sensibilities, it was here: unnecessary, vainglorious recreational slaughter that serves no purpose other than the gratification of the male ego. “Ghouls!” she muttered. On the other hand, her hosts weren’t directly responsible and couldn't be more courteous, she didn’t feel she had the right to complain; so as they passed through the ‘trophy room’ she blinkered her eyes and made do with grumbling something about hunting for anything but food being abhorrent, which brought to mind something else that had been bothering her, “If you don’t mind me saying, this is a strange place to have a hunting lodge. When I was out on the water I didn’t hear any birds in the wood, not even a crow – so, what do they hunt?”

Scanlon happily explained, “Oh, there was plenty of game here right up until the 1920s, that’s why the decor is so antiquated. There hasn’t been a hunting party in these rooms since 1929. Anyway, the boss just shoots clay pigeons. He hates this place, but it’s too valuable to demolish, so Herbert and I have appropriated it. We come down here every now and then to get a bit of peace and quiet.” He showed her to the locker room and gave her fresh towels and a red tracksuit still in its plastic packing, “That’s one of the boss’, he has dozens of them – it might be a bit snug, but it’s better than nothing. I’ll leave you to it and make some drinks. What would you like? No tea or coffee, I’m afraid, but we have cocoa... or something stronger, maybe?”

She gave him an ironic frown, “Drinking and driving, Mr Scanlon? Cocoa will be fine, thank you very much.”

He smirked, “Enjoy your shower.”

The bath house was quite chilly -- in fact -- it looked like the chill-out room of an Edwardian opium den, all white tiles, satin cushions, leather chaise-lounges and tasselled poufs. The plumbing was very early 20th century and the ‘showers’ were little more than sprinklers, but once the water started flowing and the steam warmed the air, it became very pleasant indeed: like standing naked in a hot downpour. She dried off in the locker room and changed into the red tracksuit. It was very tight round the bum, the leggings only reached half-way down her calves and the sleeves only covered half of her forearms – gawd, their boss must be awfully small -- but it didn’t look too bad. There was a little monogram embroidered on the right breast: an ornate O.L. (...?) No hair-dryer though! She went to the den to sit by the fire and join her hosts in a hot drink, and, no doubt, an interrogation...

Perched on the edge of the big granite hearth, steaming mug of cocoa beside her, Niamh worked tirelessly at the tats in her hair with a woefully inadequate vent brush, “Jeez this is so...Arrgh! OOOW! YOU BASTARD!” she screamed as she dislodged yet another wad of tresses and goo from her scalp. She showed it to her hosts, “Look at that!” before tossing it onto the fire, where it hissed and sizzled on the logs. She pointed a finger, “Those paintballs weren’t standard issue – they were designed to saturate, not to spatter. That wasn't me getting ‘caught in the crossfire’ out there -- that was a deliberate ambush to destroy my camera and ruin my equipment! Wasn't it?!”

Unruffled, the pair sipped their tots and smiled inscrutably. Looking casual yet dapper in their regimental ties, pressed slacks and sensible cardigans, they reclined at either end of a green, antique leather couch, drinking Irish coffee from solid glass mugs and smoking expensive cigars like two retired colonels enjoying a night away from their wives; although, by the looks of them (and the lack of any wedding bands or ring-finger tan-lines) they were either confirmed bachelors, divorcees or widowers.

“Well, I shall be sending you a bill, you can count on that!” she sniffed, and resumed brushing.

Herbie was as genial as ever, “Was the watah ‘ot enough, my darlin’?”

“Well aside from my hair, as you can see, I’m now gloop free – no thanks to you two. But I wouldn't get too close – this tracksuit is likely to explode at any moment -- your boss must be a very small man.” She indicated the monogram on the breast pocket: “O.L.?”

So began her little interrogation.

There was a rumble of thunder in the distance. The men looked up; Herbie shook his head, stroked his chin and subtly changed the subject, “Oh ‘ell, indeed - it sounds like its gonna be pissin’ cats-‘n’-dogs again...”

She ignored the attempt at distraction and continued to probe, “Hmm. What’s the O for... Oswald, Ogden, Oliver, Orville...?”

“She’ll never guess, Herbert. She’s too young,” said Scanlon.

She begged to differ, “You’re talking to a girl who lives with a man who still listens to 20s’ Jazz on a wind-up gramophone! Oberon, Oscar... is it Oscar?!”

They smiled their inscrutable smiles.

“He must be loaded, huh? What is he? Oil tycoon? Merchant banker? Pop star? Is he in the Rolling Stones?”

Scanlon replied in a never-you-mind voice, “He’s a very successful business man, and he is also an intensely private man whose golden rules are: ‘No Trespassers Under Any Circumstances!’ and ‘Careless Talk Costs Jobs!’”

The men reclined again, sipped, puffed, and smiled the smile. After a minute of watching her tackle a particularly stubborn tat, Herbie asked, “Niamh, ‘owja find aht abaht this place?”

Uh-oh.

She could've fobbed them off with a lie, but in this case she thought it prudent to be honest, especially since she needed their boss’ permission to explore the bog. She told them about the club and finding the old ordinance survey map in the second-hand bookshop; she told them that the club’s president, her uncle, was a renowned pathologist: (in other words: Don’t even think about abducting me! I will be missed!)

Scanlon smiled brightly, raised his mug and said, “Ahh, Paddy Gilray, why didn’t you say?!”

She was gobsmacked, “You... you know Uncle Paddy?”

“Well, I’ve met him on a few occasions, very nice man,” Herbie nodded appreciatively and growled the way men do when they’re thinking fondly of another man; she was used to it; everybody loved Paddy, he was like a big-grown-up Edwardian Pooh Bear with book smarts, you’d have to be a total misanthrope not to be charmed, “very witty... dresses like an ol’ fashioned dandy, dun ‘e, wot wiv the Irish tartan and the gaudy waistcoats. Lavs classic cars, too – ‘e came up ‘ere in a beautifully restored cream 1955 Zephyr...”

Suddenly, Scanlon scowled and tersely interjected, “Does paddy know you’re here, Niamh?”

The jag of seriousness in the question caught her unawares, “No... No, No. like I said, I found the map in a bookshop and it’s a surprise... but you say Uncle Paddy’s been here before...?”

Scanlon nodded, “The first time was a strictly confidential, unofficial function in honour of Ronald Reagan during his Irish visit in 1984. Ronnie and the boss go back as far as the 1940s.”

“I didn’t know about any of this...?”

Herbie nodded, “’E wuz sworn to secrecy. We all were.”

Scanlon winked, “Paddy has enjoyed the boss’ hospitality on several occasions, m’ dear. Paddy and the boss are classic car buffs – they go to auctions together!”

She wasn't so cocky now: he never told any of us about that! I’m pretty sure Emil doesn’t know either or he would've teased him about it! How has he managed to keep it a secret for so long?

Meanwhile, her hosts were more interested in her activities on the estate: “so, you’ve been tawkin’ to our Oona, ‘ave ya?” asked Herbie, cradling his hot-tot in his lap.

Yet again, she was at a loss. She didn’t want to get Oona into trouble, but they seemed to know her every move, so, “Um, I asked her for directions...?”

Herbie made a face, “That’s awright! Why so nervous, treacle? You’d think you ‘ad been up to summink the way ya reacted!”

Scanlon winked – not a very appetising sight – and teased, “Probably a bit dazed after meeting our Oona.” He clucked his tongue, “She’s a bit of a one-off, isn't she Miss Fitzgerald?”

Herbie: “She’s the ‘ahse-keeper’s niece. She used to run-arahnd the estate when she wuz small – into everything she wuz – we ‘ad to watch her like ‘awks!”

Scanlon concurred with a sombre nod and covered his eyes to hide his ennui, “Then she reached puberty ... deary, deary me...” The men looked at each other, shook their heads, rolled their eyes and heaved world-weary sighs.

Niamh felt compelled to say something positive, “Well, she was very nice... very helpful, although, she does seem a bit... uncomplicated? I hope she isn't in any trouble...?”

“She is trouble – especially when she’s bein’ helpful! That’s why things get complicated!” Scanlon exclaimed, “She’s as crafty as get-out and she can turn on the charm whenever she likes – but she can turn on you just as quick. Asked you to meet her for a spot of dinner, did she?”

She looked at the palm of her left hand (it was itchy but there was still nothing there) “Yes... I told her I’d see her at 6...”

Scanlon shook his head,“I’d advise against it; for one thing her cooking is abominable, and for another she...”

Herbie, definitely the more relaxed of the two, put a hand on his colleague’s arm to interrupt, “’Orace, the poor gal’s lived all her life in a place full of ugly nutters oo’ve been brought-up to fink they’re a notch below pond-scum on the Food Chain. The only reason she ain't done a moonlight flit is cos she’s at the mercy of ‘er Auntie Ella! I fink she’s entitled to reach aht to someone ‘er own age. There ain't anovver young gal wivvin 20 miles of this place.”

Niamh liked Herbert Gorringe, he’s stalwart man like Uncle Phil: big solid and reliable; so she popped the big question to him, “Will you have a word with your boss about letting us explore the bog?”

She’d asked the wrong man; this time Herbie was the unwilling one, “I dunno, petal. The boss is unlikely to let anybody go nosin’ around in his backyard, especially since it’s unspoilt countryside wiv a protected community.” He looked to his companion, “Wot d’ya fink, ‘Orace - you’ve lived ‘ere awl your life?!”

Scanlon shrugged, “Well, besides the fact that that the bog hasn’t been touched for at least 200 years, there’s a village full of idiots who think it contains the slumbering spawn of Satan.”

For the first time she saw a crack in the façade. There was a tiny flicker of irritation in Gorringe’s eyes. The village, Oona and the bog seemed to be a bone of contention betwixt the pair. Niamh, on the other hand, was overjoyed and clapped her hands with glee, “Really?! If it’s a no-go area in an estate that’s hundreds of years old -- we've hit the mother lode! Thank God for superstitious peasantry!”

Herbie wasn't happy. “We shouldn't mess wiv their beliefs, ‘Orace, you know that.”

Time to be creative: “Yeah, but if they don’t go near the place, then it stands to reason that we could do the excavation without their knowing....?”

Did anyone see Niamh Fitzgerald: champion of the oppressed? Avenger of the underdog? She was here a minute ago....?

The men knew she was conflicted and relished the opportunity to turn the screws, “Didn't I see a Greenpeace badge on your jacket?” asked Scanlon, with a mischievous wink.

Herbie: “Tree-’ugger, eh? I dunno why Paddy didn’t just come to us in the first place?”

Niamh: “It told you it’s a surprise - he’s none-the-woiser.”

Herbie: “Did you say, ‘woiser’?”

Scanlon: “See, you spend 10 minutes in her company and already she’s under your skin.”

Niamh baulked, thumbing the itchy patch on her palm, “Erm, she says she’s getting married to a policeman, so there can’t be that much wrong with her....? Unless she’s lying of course...”

“Aye, well that is true,” said Scanlon, “Craigy Nevin, from Sligo – nice lad. Bit dim and a bit full-of-himself, but a solid man. Local cop.” He nudged Herbie, “She calls him her knight in shining armour and he thinks he’s got himself a little princess – cos she is looker, no doubt about that – but as my dad used to say: ‘the deadliest plants have the most beautiful blooms’...”

“’Orace, she’s jas a li’l girl in a woman’s body.”

“And what a body.”

“Funny, most people are only interested in 'er mind, 'Orace!”

They laughed as if sharing another private joke. Ni drank her cocoa and looked from one to the other, unsure where this was going. 

Scanlon looked Niamh in the eye and asked, “How did it feel when she touched you?”

“Well, I felt something... a tingle. And... this is going to sound a bit mad, but she knew things about me that only someone really close to me would know. It is kind of creepy.”

Scanlon: “Curiouser and curiouser?”

Herbie was keen to play-it-down “She has charisma – ya see it all the time in LA. Blondes like ‘er are a dime a dozen in ‘Ollywood. Porn stars an’ ookers most of ‘em – that’s not to put her dahn -- it’s jast the way she likes to dress. Most of the chumps roun’ ‘ere dress like dossers, that’s why she stands aht.”

“How come a pagan Cornish tribe wound up living in Ireland, anyway?” Ni asked, yawning.

Scanlon sat back and settled himself to spin a yarn, but before he could say once upon a time, Herbie gave him a gentle nudge, “’Orace, you know the boss don’t like this sorta tawk, so keep it short ‘n’ sweet, mate.”

The groundskeeper took issue in a semi-serious, patronising manner, “Herbert, this young lady belongs to one of the most celebrated families in Ireland: the Gilrays. Her grandfather is a high court judge; her mother is an award winning novelist; her uncle is a famous pathologist; her great aunt was married to one of the Kennedys! She knows that these people are a protected community, she isn't going to blab about it to the papers or write a scandalous article in some grubby magazine, are you m’ dear?”

Wow, he seems to know lot about me!

Niamh ignored the thought: this was too important. She shook her head and answered emphatically, “No, our interests are purely scientific!”

Again, Gorringe looked at Scanlon and gave him a look that read: tread carefully. Scanlon took another sip of his tot, then compromised, “I’ll give you the ‘sanitised version’, the one I used to recite to guests when I still worked for the Roxboroughs – the English family that owned this place before the present proprietor.

“See, 200 years ago the 8th Duke of Roxborough – a disaffected minor aristocrat by the name of Thaddeus Arthur Ravenhill -- scion of the wealthiest family in England who once had aspirations to be Archbishop of Canterbury -- founded his own little sect and came to Ireland to find a remote plot of land to build his new church. Strangely, he opted for a piece of real estate that had been shunned by farmers and crofters for thousands of years because the locals believed the soil to be tainted by Satan himself. The house is rumoured to be built on an Iron Age burial mound and the bog is said to be the last resting place of an ancient wizard. When he heard this, the Duke was enthralled -- he brought a tribe of diligent, if somewhat dim, Cornish peasants with him –- one of the last pagan tribes of England -- who built the house and landscaped the estate. They were a godless people, but the Duke supposedly converted them to Christianity – his form of Christianity, that is. He had a chapel built into the house and performed services there every day before work started. The Redmen, as he called them, became his disciples and did his bidding. But at night, it was rumoured that the Duke was practising some sort of black magic. Strange, drug-fuelled rituals were performed that turned him from the path of righteousness and onto the road to hell. There were stories of all sorts. Orgies. Black masses. Human sacrifices. He was tried and found guilty of blasphemy by a Rebel Army court-martial in 1799, and executed forthwith. The Roxborough family paid a substantial sum to keep a lid on it all and promised to look after the Redmen. They've been here ever since. Like a dirty little secret.”

Now this was getting interesting – but Herbie was still determined to change the subject and tersely interrupted, “Are ya studying Archaeology at uni, Niamh?”

“No, that’s just a hobby...” Uh oh, I know what’s coming next...

“So what are you studying?” asked Scanlon.

Here’s the thing... her chosen field might sound a mite controversial to those involved in activities of a criminal nature (actually she met a man who asked if she had to join the Gardai to complete the course!); also, in light of the fact that she’s already under suspicion, it might convince them that she had ulterior motives after all. In the end she ‘kept it light’ and blurted it out as if it was as everyday as chemistry, “I’m doing Criminal Psychology. Can you believe it? It’s the first time a course has been run at Trinity and I’m in my second year – mum went mad, of course – I was supposed to do law or medicine, but when I heard about it I simply had to enrol. My tutor is a priest who used to work in the prison system! I’m really into murder and stuff -- I suppose it’s cuz mummy writes crime novels and Uncle Paddy’s a pathologist. It must be in my genes!" 

She needn't have worried; rather than arousing suspicion or inspiring a lot of awkward questions – they seemed to have heard of it!

“Criminal Psychology! Would you believe it!”  said Scanlon, tapping his friend’s knee, “Did you hear that, Herbert – talk about serendipity!”

“’There are no coincidences! Only serendipity...’” growled Herbie, in a thick German accent. They laughed.  

Friends again; they’re back on script. Nevertheless, she found their laughter strangely infectious and giggled along, “You must be the only people I’ve ever met who've heard of it.”

Scanlon sat back and intimated with a hint of intrigue, “Well, to be honest, a friend of ours runs an institute: SCICI -- St Cedric’s Institute for the Criminally Insane. Have you heard of it?”

She immediately stopped laughing. This was a decidedly unexpected turn of events, “You know Rossington?” She forgot herself for a moment and almost sneered, however, the tone of her voice was enough to curtail the hilarity and raise eyebrows. 

“Not a fan, eh?” said Herbie, peering over the rim of his mug.

Is he smiling or...

“Doesn't sound like a fan, Herbert,” said Scanlon, sighing despairingly.

Dr James Rossington was a pet hate (although it was his foundation that funded the course, but that didn’t mean she had to like him). In her opinion, he gave Criminal Psychology a bad name, and despite her promise to herself that she wouldn't get bolshie or snide, she resorted to type and opined, “Well, on the plus side he’s suave, debonair, effusive and charming, but on the other, he’s a huckster, a shyster and a charlatan! -- look at his latest wheeze! Acquiring the worst serial killer in Irish history and turning him into a sideshow! A friend of the family -- namely Detective Superintendent Philip Somerville (doesn’t hurt to drop a few choice names in a situation like this) -- thinks he may have purchased his doctorate off the back of a lorry!” she cocked her head and curled a lip, “So, no, since you ask: ‘not a fan’.”

Scanlon frowned, “’His latest wheeze?’ I take it you’re referring to that comatose child-killer?”

Niamh clicked her finger and pointed, “Exactly! Barry McKee! He’s got that monster and is in the process of exploiting him!”

Herbie’s eyes narrowed, “An’ you an’ Paddy Gilray an’ DS Somerville, this is the verdict of you all, is it?”

“Ahem, yes?!” There was no stopping her now, she was astride her high horse, sword of truth in hand, brandishing her hairbrush like a conductor’s baton when emphasising salient points, “The general consensus at Gardai HQ is he’s a freak show impresario, not a serious psychiatrist...” She was slowly running out of steam, and the expressions on their faces hadn't changed; they just stared impassively. She stumbled on,  “... he’s only interested in headline-grabbing cases... Like McKee... and that Austrian guy who ate his boyfriend...? And that man from Scotland who kept heads in his fridge...?”  She was getting very tired. She raised her eyebrows, c’mon help me out here....

The men glowered.

Gulp.

Their nostrils flared as if they were about to unleash a volley of expletives beginning with the letter F! Instead they exploded into gales of maniacal laughter. When they’d finished coughing and wheezing, they high-fived and Scanlon said, “See, Herbie – out of the mouths of babes! I told you we had nuthin’ to worry about!”

“Aht o' the mouths of babes!” Herbie cried.

“So... you two think he’s a charlatan too...?” she asked, foggily.

Scanlon nodded, “We do. But unfortunately, he was an unwelcome fixture in our lives.”

Niamh was nodding, her eyes were closing...

Herbie was more diplomatic, “E was the boss’ shrink at one time and ‘e cured one o' the family of drug addiction, so ‘e was a bit of a Golden Boy as far as the ol' man wuz concerned.”

Niamh nodded more deeply...

Scanlon was frank, “It was the boss who put up the money and convinced the board at St Cedric’s to give him the job. It was a thank you for years of selfless service and a steady supply of prescription narcotics...”

“Zzz............................. hic!” Niamh was passing out.

“I think we've said enough, ‘Orace.”

“I think you’re right, Herbert.”

Niamh was fast asleep.

Herbie got up and peeked into her mug. “All gone?” asked Scanlon.

“Yup. All gawn. No dregs.”

“Works a treat doesn’t it?” 

Gorringe took a little bottle from his cardigan pocket, “It does exactly what it says on the tin, ‘Orace!” he quipped, pointing to the skull & cross bones on the label...

06:25 GMT, Bogmire: in the bar of the Black Water Rat

Oona was sitting on a barstool, drumming her long, scarlet fingernails on the counter. She was all made-up, wearing her fancy going-out-clothes.

“She won’t be back! Mr Scanlon will‘ve told ‘er to go ‘n keep away from ‘ee!” said Harry Snodgrass, watching her from the other end of the bar,

“Shurrup, ’Arry,” Oona growled, in her don’t-e-mess-with-me-voice. The funny thing was, she seemed more nervous than angry.

Snodgrass prattled on, “Oi’m jast troyin’ to be koind, moy dear – ‘dunnee get ee ‘opes-up’, says oi -- and now look! She’s stood 'ee up!”

He was right, though. Niamh didn’t come back. Instead, much to his surprise, one of the boss’ big cars pulled up, tooted the horn, and miss la-di-da Oona Umbert flounced out without a by-your-leave. No nyah-nyahs, no sticking-out her tongue or blowing raspberries. Harry was worried. He liked it better when she was stroppy and mouthy, at least you know where you are with her...

Later that night, Dolly Crombie, a crabbit, tweedy oul’ spinster who liked nothing better but to stir things up (hence her nickname Dolly Mixer), was sitting over a half o’ porter on one side of the inglenook, waiting for a sizeable crowd to accumulate around the fire before shouting to the landlord in the manner of a town crier, “Did I see Oona Umbert go off in the big car at teatime... Oi wunner whoy? Would it have summat to do with the gurlie ‘oo came ‘ere today? The one I saw ‘er wiv in a car at 2 o’clock this af’ernoon?”

There was a collective gasp and all the Redmen’s eyes and pipes swung towards Harry Snodgrass, currently cleaning glasses behind the bar. “Oona tol’ oi to keep it quoiet, folks, y’know what ‘er is loike. But the gurlie was gone wivvin 10 minutes – ‘er wuz only askin’ directions!”

Dolly had an answer for that, “Funny, from where oi was standin’ it looked like they wuz kissin’.”

The crowd murmured discontentedly.

Snodgrass stomped his foot, “Dolly! Ee’ve been spoyin’ again aven’t ee – sneakin’ ‘bout like Mata Hari doin’ Ella Sparkes’ dirty work! Cos Oona knows, y’know – she thinks 'ee’s funny or ee’d be dead ‘n’ buried long ago!” He looked at the rest of his customers, “She’s been as good as gold since she got engaged -- she’s all excoited about ‘er weddin’ - an’ ‘ee all know it to be so - or we would be diggin’ us some graves!”

Lots of yarrs and tha’s roights from the discomfited clientèle.

But Dolly held the trump card. She casually sipped her porter and said: “If she’s dun nuffink wrong, ‘Arry Snadgrass, then ‘ow come she’s been fetched up to the Big ‘Ouse in a big car? Makes ‘ee think.” She addressed her gingery audience, “Dunnit make ee think?”

This time all eyes and pipes swung toward Sergeant Marchant, presently playing dominoes with Zebedee Cox in the opposite inglenook. Marchant was a tall, paunchy, middle-aged man with a bushy moustache and a bright red nose who was in charge of the local constabulary and a colleague of the groom-to-be, but more importantly, he ‘liaised’ with the house and was always first with the gossip. Like the landlord, he waved away any talk of impropriety, “Hush-it-now, Dolly, accordin’ to Charlie at the security gates that was just a silly wee girl who took a wrong turn. She won’t be back.”

“She’s not gonna back outta the weddin’, is she?” a woman at the back asked, trepidatiously.

This comment inspired a loud grumble from the ranks and a few gasps of disbelief. The word unthinkable was mentioned.

Zebedee looked up from his tiles and fixed Marchant with pleading eyes and a hopeless shake of the head, “Oh gawd ‘elp us all if she don’t get married, Sergeant. Our lives won’t be worth livin’.”

“Oh, but can ye imagine life w'out her...” mused another, in a fanciful tone.

This comment roused a lot of ahhs ‘n’ oohs and looking off into space with dreamy smiles; those who’d had a few finally voiced their feelings: “Arr, the peace and quoiet...” -- “No more watchin’ everything you say!” – “No more of ‘er awful singin’!” -- “No more of her fuggin’ stew!” – “Aww, won’t loife be sweet!”

“Oi ‘ate to disappoint ‘ee, folks,” Dolly Crombie lied, shouting over the outbreak of bucolic whimsy and what ifs, “but oi saw Oona blow her a kiss from the doorstep and the gurlie smiled an’ blushed like a smitten lover! I’d say they’re gonna meet up at the Big ‘Ouse fer a romantic tryst!”

Uproar! The Redmen were grunting and puffing madly on their briars; the wives were tutting and hissing. Marchant was forced to yell over the commotion, “Look – she was just a wee girl scouting for somewhere to dig – she’s an amateur archaeologist.”

“’Oo goes diggin’ in a bog?” asked Snodgrass, speaking for them all.

Marchant sighed, set down his tiles and patiently explained, “Archaeologists are scientists – they dig up old stuff from generations ago – sometimes thousands of years ago. They clean 'em up and put them in museums so that people can look at them and say ‘oh lookee-here, a broken pot from the Iron Age’ and take a moment to wonder at how far we've come 'n reflect on our mortality. Alright?”

Dolly Crombie snickered, “So-oo, if everyfin’s rosy in the garden, wot’s Mr Scanlon want wiv Oona at this toime of noight?”

The Redmen puffed and grumbled another bassy “Arr...”

Marchant buried his face in his hands for a moment then gave in; he wasn't a man for keeping secrets, especially when passing them on makes for an easier life: “If you must know, it’s not Mr Scanlon she’s goin’ to see. It’s his nibs. He wants to give her his blessing.”

The room resounded with relieved sighs, “Ahh... ‘Is Nibs...” They knew if anyone could control the capricious Oona Umbert, it was 'Is Nibs.

“OK? Now can I get back to me dominoes?!” yelled Marchant, knocking the table.

The crowd were buoyant again. Even Dolly Crombie was somewhat pacified... if a little disappointed...

Pagham House: “Come in and sit down, my dear.”

Scanlon brought an antique leather chair from the corner and put it in front of the big Victorian desk. Oona gingerly approached. She hadn't been in the Big House for 8 years. She’d been in the kitchen, sure, but not in the actual house, like when she was a kiddie. In those days the study was strictly off-limits; not even Kris was allowed to play in here, and yet here she is, and there’s ‘Is Nibs, dressed in his evening attire: red track suit bottoms, green velvet smoking jacket and purple tasselled cap, eating a large bowl of rice pudding with a silver dessert spoon. 

She’d never been summoned for ‘a tête-à-tête’ before. She didn’t know what a tête-à-tête’ was. She sat down, pulled her shawl tight around her shoulders and clutched her spangly handbag to her chest. “You wanted to see oi, sur...?” she asked, nervously.

For a former slapstick comedian and celebrated movie actor, Oliver Laphen was a dry, humourless man. The dimpled, pudgy face that made him his fortune now looked sullen and jowly in repose. It was unsettling, as if he was always angry. He swallowed a mouthful of pudding and mopped his lips with his napkin, “There’s no need to be afraid, Oona. This isn't a bollockin’. We have some good news,” he announced, brightly.

Oona’s face transformed: her eyes widened, her mouth formed a perfect crimson O as the realisation of what was in store hit her. She forgot where she was and screeched with delight: “Really?!” She shook her handbag and suppressed the urge to jump up and dance -- meanwhile, Laphen’s bowl rattled on the desk; the complete set of Victorian ceramic clowns trembled on the mantelpiece; the frames of the glass doors on the bookcase buzzed and shook; Scanlon looked decidedly uncomfortable as his wattle quivered from the vibration.

Laphen immediately put down his spoon, stood up, leaned over the desk and wagged a stubby finger, “Hey now, hey now – calm down, calm down! That’s part of the deal, my darlin’, we have to learn how to control ourselves or we can’t proceed apace, eh? Besides, there’s about a half-a-million quid’s worth of antique glassware in here!”

Now remember what Dr Jimmy said: Deep Breaths before any stressful conversations, she told herself; this wasn't an argument or a fight, but she reckoned it counted as stressful, so she went through the drill: she sat up straight, stuck out her chest, took the deep breath then exhaled slowly and loudly to show that she’d taken in what he’d taught her. The involuntary surge of energy subsided and the room seemed to settle. Scanlon sighed with relief.

Finally she cleared her throat and put on her poshest voice, “She’s luvverly, sur, I took to ‘er straightaway. Thank you very much, sur.”

The old man sat down again and slurped the dregs from the bowl, “It took a lot of doin’, but we got there in the end.”

“Oi is so grateful to youse for all youse’ve done...”

He held up the bowl, “That’ll be all.” Scanlon promptly took it and left the room, carefully closing the door behind him. Once they were alone, Laphen got up, came around. leaned his arse against the edge of his desk, reached out and gently took her hand. He nodded towards the door, “Have your auntie and Mr Scanlon been looking after you?”

Oona put on her serious face, “Yes sur, oi got no complaints, sur. Moy loife seems to be on the up-‘n-up!”

He smiled, “Do you ever wonder why, Oona? Why I’ve devoted so much time and energy on this little venture?

“I s'posed it’s cos you is a koind-‘earted man, sur. Aun’ee says you’re a philanderer.”

“Philanthropist!” he chuckled, scratching his ear.

The ivory-white brow wrinkled as she tried to recall, “No... oi’m pretty sure it was philanderer, sur...?”

He rolled his eyes and made a face, and for a few seconds he was that cheeky Irish schoolboy/feckless urchin character from 40 years before, “That bloody aunt of yours!”

Oona chuckled, “Oh - ‘ee’s so funny when ‘ee does that sur!”

He winked, “Let me tell you, my darlin’, this face, this rubbery, be-dimpled fizzog has made me millions over the years. I’ve rubbed shoulders with the great 'n the good, but when it comes down to it, I love to make people laugh - and it’s always nice to know I’ve still got it!” He patted her hand as he got back on track, “No, there’s a very good reason why I might be interested. C’mere here...” He walked her to a tall cheval-mirror at the back of the room, “Look at you! You’re a raving beauty and you have the Gift, Oona.” He took her hands and looked up into her grey eyes, “Are you trying to you read me right now?”

Shocked, she looked way and covered her mouth. Dr Jimmy was very strict about not going into people’s heads unless she had permission. It was rule No.1!

“Are you?” he insisted. – “I won’t be angry, honestly. Go on. Try.”

She squeezed his hand, closed her eyes and concentrated hard, but all she was she saw was a huge NO ENTRY sign.

He leaned close, smiled and whispered, “Ya can’t, can ya?”

She gazed into his bright blue eyes and muttered, “No. No, I can’t...” Her face transformed yet again, this time it was a gape of amazement as the truth sank in, “You... you’re one of... us?”

He put a finger to his lips, “Shhh, now! I’m not a thoroughbred like you, but thanks to my mother’s genes I’m Sensitive and thanks to my father’s genes I had the sense to run away and make something of myself. When I’d made enough money, I bought this house and came back. But that’s just between you-’n-me, my darlin’, OK?”

“Oi won’t breeve a wurd sur, you can be sure of it,” she said, crossing her heart.

“I know you won’t, Oona, I know you can keep a secret.” He looked at her in the mirror again and said, wistfully, “You remind me so much of a little girl who lived in the orphanage.”

“Did she die in the fire?”

“Yes. She died before she could become what you are, Oona. This is her mirror. It was one of the few things that survived the blaze. I had it restored when I returned,” he explained, regretfully, “we all thought she was gonna wake up one morning, tall, beautiful with silver hair, just like you...” He got lost in a sad thought for a moment, then led her back to the chair and sat her down again, knelt at her feet like a suitor and clasped her hands, “But I need to know – and this is very important, Oona -- so you must be 100% honest with me, don’t worry about upsetting me. Eh?”

“Very well, sur....? I’ll answer truthfully. What is it?” She began to feel nervous again.

“Do you resent us for lockin' you up or any of the treatment you received during your readjustment? Are you harbourin' a grudge? Is there anyone who abused you or made you feel angry durin' that time?” he asked, with concern.

She had a think about it and finally answered, “Aun’ie tol’ me I was locked up cos oi was too dangerous to be amongst ordinary folk. Oi can’t 'member much about that bit, see, cos oi was hearin' the voices by then, oi was seein’ things, oi couldn't unnerstand what was goin’ on.... But no, sur, nobody hurt me. Oi don���t 'ate nobody.”

He stood up and put a hand on her shoulder, “I need to know, my darlin’, because you’re about to become part of someone else’s life, and any hidden anger, any baggage, might affect that relationship. So now’s the time to speak up.”

“No sur, I’m as happy as can be!” she said, but one thing was bothering her, “but what about Dr Jimmy, sur? Isn't ‘e gonna wanna see oi before we do this?”

Laphen smiled and shook his head, “Don’t you worry about Dr Jimmy, his work is done. He’s taught you all he can and now it’s time for you to stand on your own two feet. You understand, don’t you?”

She nodded, “Yes sur.”

He stroked the back of her hand, “Good. Now, Niamh Fitzgerald is a very intelligent, forward-thinking young lady from a wealthy background; but best of all, she has a good heart. So pay attention to her - listen and learn! And, this is most important -- tread very softly -- alright? Your Gift is a privilege, not a god-given right, so respect her privacy and do not open the door unless you’re invited. Is that clear, Oona?”

She put her right hand on her left breast and took an oath, “Oi swear oi won’t disappoint you, sur!” 

“Listen to me Oona – you must settle down, now. All that hard work in the past few years, all the pain of the transformation – it’s all been leading to this moment: you now have a mentor and a husband. Ye’re all set!

“You can get married this Saturday without a care in the world. Unfortunately, I can’t attend in person, but I’ll be there in spirit; and of course, I’ll be providing all the spirits...”

 07:02 GMT, Sunday April 2, 1989.

Mount Merrion, Dublin: The residence of Dr Patrick Gilray:

There was a light rap on the bathroom door. “... Ni? Are you in there?”

She was dressed for bed - although she doesn’t remember going to bed, just waking up in a spinning room with a lurching tummy. So now she’s holding onto the toilet bowl like a shipwreck survivor clinging to a rubber-ring, feeling like hell and wishing she was dead. 

“Come in Paddy.... it isn't locked...” she croaked.

His head popped around the door, “Look, I’m off to the golf course, sweetie, I’ll ring later...” then he saw her, “Oh, dear God in heaven, what have we here!” He put down his clubs, ran to her side, carefully lifted her head and put a hand on her brow, “Jeezus! You’re on fire! He picked her up and carried her like a babe in arms to her room and put her to bed,“What did you eat last night?”

“It can’t be food poisoning - I didn’t eat anything all day and I had a light supper when I got home,” she mumbled.

“Where did you go?” he asked, checking her eyes.

“Um... Kildare,” she replied, unsure whether she should divulge any more information, but she was too ill to think of a convincing story.

“Kildare? What were you doing in Kildare?”

“It was meant to be a surprise... I was scouting for locations for the Bog-Trotters’ summer dig and I found this really great place... but I think I might’ve picked-up a bug along the way...”

Paddy stuck a thermometer under her tongue and mused, “During my stint doing volunteer work in Botswana during my second year, I nursed a fellow with malaria, and he looked a lot like you do now.”

“Was he OK?”

“No, he died, God bless him. Fortunately for you, I’m a man who learns by his mistakes, so you’re in safe hands...” he joked. “And what happened at this place you discovered?”

She put up a hand to stop him, “Please, not now Paddy, I’m too sick to explain myself...”

Talking of hands, she was reminded to look at her left palm: there was now a little ruddy heart that didn’t itch anymore. She didn’t know whether to be ecstatic or afraid, so she threw up again....

 26 hours later...

Paddy arrived home to find all the housework done, all the glassware in the lobby polished, the floors swept and waxed, and all the laundry hanging on the line, billowing in the brisk April breeze. Niamh was now cooking dinner; well, at that precise moment she was dancing with the Magi-Mop to some noodly-beep Acid House track on the radio. She was so into the groove that she didn’t hear him come in, put his briefcase on the table, or see him drape his tweed jacket over a chair. He leaned against the kitchen table and watched with a bemused smile, “Feeling better, Twinkle?” The sudden interjection didn’t make her jump - instead she spun on her heel - deftly swung the mop handle up - placed the tip under his little goateed chin and purred, “If this was a katana your head would be rolling across the tiles, chummy.”  

“Very impressive, ‘Mrs Peel’. Is this down to too much caffeine... or do I have to test your urine...?”

She playfully poked him in his sizeable tummy with the mop-handle, then broke into a summary of her day with nary a pause for breath nor a notion of how manic she sounded, “Iwokeupfeelinglikethis!I swear, I’veneverfeltsoaliveandit’snotcuzI’vebeendrinkingordruggingoroverstimulating, if-you-must-know – I’m just a bundle of energy – I jogged – I jogged 8 miles today - andthenIcamebackdidallthehouseworkincludingtheironing! What about that, huh? Huh?”

“Jesus Mary and Joseph will you ever slow down and listen to yourself!” he said, slightly alarmed, taking her hands and holding them tight, “You’re trembling. I can feel the tension. You have to clam down.”

She was about to argue when he gave her his no-messing-look that he only ever used when he was deadly serious and reason took hold. She was talking too fast. She was a bundle of nerves. “Yeah, you’re right, I can’t sit still – but I feel so good...”

“Look – before you say or do anything else, please sit down!” Paddy pulled out a chair. She sat and waited impatiently while he examined her eyes, “You don’t show any obvious sign of intoxication or toxicity, so I’m guessing this is your body’s way of resetting itself after that frightful ague and the Big Sleep.”

“Ague? Big Sleep? I was in bed for, what...” she glanced at the clock on the cooker, “8 hours?”

“This is the 3rd of April, Twinkle. You've lost a day.”

She pulled a face, “Fsshht!! Are you telling me I was out for... 26 hours?!”

Paddy found this highly amusing and explained, “Oh you were out of it, alright,” he tittered, “you were delirious! You were that poor little girl in The Exorcist – tossing ‘n turning, swearing in your sleep, kicking off the sheets, running hot-and-cold – sweating so much I had to fetch an icepack and put it on your neck – that inspired another volley of abuse – you called me a ‘fat dickless bastard’ on that occasion, if I remember rightly. Then you started shivering so much I had to get extra blankets – which you promptly threw-up-on! And what did I get for my troubles? I was told to fuck off and drop dead, just the sort of thing you want to hear when you’re wiping vomit off your niece’s headboard.”

“Oh, Paddy, I wondered why there were so many sheets in the laundry basket –- and here’s me gadding about like an eejit without a care in the world – you deserve an explanation...”

Paddy threw up his arms and beat a retreat, “Ah-ah, food first, dear! I need sustenance! I’m fit to drop...”

They ate dinner in relative silence. Paddy was exhausted. Niamh couldn't stop thinking about Oona. She absentmindedly massaged the little heart in the centre of her palm and daydreamed. When they retired to the sitting room to have coffee and chat, she began by asking about one thing that had been bugging her above all else, “Paddy, why didn’t you tell me you met Ronald Reagan in ‘84?”

For once in his life, Paddy was at a loss for words. He put down his crossword and carefully considered his reply, “Well, to be honest, Twinkle, it was a very hush-hush affair. We were sworn to secrecy by big bad men in black suits and sunglasses who talked to their cufflinks.”

She raised an eyebrow, “It was 5 years ago. I thought you might’ve mentioned it by now.”

“Exactly, it was such a non-event I’d forgotten all about it. You know I’m not impressed by status or celebrity.”

He was being evasive and she knew it. “Don’t get me wrong Uncle Patrick, I love-you-to-little-bits ‘n all -- but I also know when you’re hiding something, and I should warn you before you dig yourself deeper -- I’m apprised of the fact that you’ve been a regular visitor ever since.” She crossed her arms, cocked an eye and put on a posh English voice, “Expound, you scoundrel!”

“There’s no big cover-up - I forgot about meeting Reagan, not the visits. But nothing about the affair is indelibly etched on my memory. If he’d wound up on my slab with an interesting wound, then of course I’d be attentiveness incarnate, but otherwise...”

He was still avoiding the question, so as a quid-pro-quo, she related the events of the 1st, from finding the village to her sojourn in the hunting lodge. However, she didn’t mention Oona in great detail, just that she’d got directions from a beautiful barmaid who was getting married on Saturday.

“... I woke up on a chaise-lounge, the storm was over, we got back in the Land Rover and Messrs Gorringe & Scanlon dropped me off at my car. I followed them back to the main road and they watched til I was outta sight,” she hooked a thumb in the direction of the laundry room, “they put all my gear in a bin-liner and gave me a blank cheque for the damage – very generous.” She pulled the cheque from the back pocket of her Levis and slapped it down on the coffee table.

Paddy gave her a sideways look, “But... you didn’t feel as if you’d been interfered with, or anything untoward had occurred whilst you were unconscious?”

“NO! You know me Paddy, if I had any worries on that score I’d go straight to Uncle Phil!”

Paddy picked up the cheque, “Hmmm... Herbert Gorringe.” He thought hard and eventually found a face to fit the name, “Oh yes, I remember him now! Herbie! Big, ex-army man. He’s Ollie’s driver...Oh dear...” Paddy winced as the cat escaped the bag, skipped across the room, and jumped onto his niece’s lap. 

“OLLIE, is it? OL?! OLLIE LAPHEN? That’s who owns the land?! The Quare Geg himself?!”

As Ni brayed with mocking laughter, Paddy shook out his paper and harrumphed, “I s’pose you young right-on-lefties think it’s a bit rich that I, Dr Patrick Gilray, lifelong-liberal, man of the people and fighter of the good fight, would be seen dead hobnobbing with the likes of right-wing US Presidents and their ‘warmongering entourage’, not to mention our insalubrious host – but I don’t care, because I’ll I’ll freely admit – for the first time in my life I was selfish! I did something for Patrick Ignatius Gilray! Pagham House was a place I’d always wanted to visit, so I relaxed my standards and let my hair down.”

“Hmm, and you didn’t know about the village or the bog?”

“No, I always enter via the front entrance. No one mentioned a protected community or I would've remembered it... but he did take us out and show us his garage – or should I say hangar! Oh, but the cars, Twinkle. Those beautiful cars! He has a fleet of multicoloured, maddeningly-magnificent American cars...” He stared into space and drifted off into a merry reverie for a few seconds, then remembered something - put on his cross-face and gave out - “By-the-way, you shouldn't have mentioned anything about our opinion of Dr James Rossington! Americans are rather sensitive and litigious lot when it comes to their reputations, and if he heard about it, he could make a lot of trouble for us... what is it?” He couldn't fail but notice she was preoccupied with a sudden flash of inspiration.

She jumped to her feet and sprinted on the spot, her knees almost connecting with her chin, “I just remembered -- I’ve still got the samples I took – they were bagged ‘n’ sealed and put away before I got gunked!” and off she zipped to the laundry room and the bin-liner full of ruined clothes and equipment. She used the old wooden tongs to extract the little leather case from the gloopy contents and set it on a sheet of newspaper atop the tumble-drier; she carefully opened the clip, took out the little nest of test-tubes and examined them. Shit.

She took them back to the sitting room, tight-lipped, sporting her poker-face. “Excellent!” said Paddy, cleaning his nezzies on his silk handkerchief, “this’ll give us an idea of the kind of bacteria we’re dealing with... What’s the matter now?”

“There is no matter now!” She stood by him, stooped and held the little nest of glassware up to the light, “See? Empty! The bastards must've taken them out, rinsed them and put them back while I was asleep!” She shot her uncle a sideward look, “Paddy, what kind of company are you keeping?!”

The grizzled dandy was stumped, “Hmm. It is a bit over-the-top, isn't it? I think I’ll give them ring tomorrow and see what they have to say for themselves.” 

She looked off into space and mused, “Y’know, I hate to say it, but the more I think about it, frankly, I could've caught something from the bog itself. There was an awful stench. I mean, a truly sickening smell... eeeuggh, like nothing I’ve ever come across in wetlands before. Remember when we found that rotting stag in Offaly – the one that had been lying in a trough for days in the middle of summer? Well it was worse than that!” She sniffed the skin on her forearms – y’know, it’s like it’s followed me home. I woke up this morning and I could taste it in my mouth. Do you think it could be some kind of swamp fever?”

“Leptospirosis? Well, running hot ‘n’ cold, vomiting and diarrhoea are the classic symptoms, and that fever certainly was a corker, but the bacteria needs a 4 to 5 day incubation period -- unless it’s some new fast-acting strain of the disease peculiar to Ireland and you’re the first ever victim. It could be a reaction to some form of natural gas created by the chemicals in the bog,” he held the test-tubes up to the light again, “we could go on surmising forever, but without hard evidence, we’re whistling Dixie.”

She held up her hands, “Well, it’s either that or they slipped me a mickey. Which do you think is more likely?”

“I think you should lay off the Film Noir and stick to Renoir...”

That night, before turning out the light, she examined the heart-shaped rash in the centre of her palm and thought about Oona. She set her alarm, turned off the lamp, got comfortable, and mulled over the last 48 hours; and as she snuggled into the arms of Morpheus, she experienced that weird little spasm where your legs suddenly decide you’re riding a bicycle or running from danger - only instead awaking with a start, she seemed to stay in that in-between zone...

That was when she first rendezvoused with Oona.

They met on a bridge made of clouds that spanned two mountain peaks overlooking a strange, silver citadel in the sky. They held hands and flew off together to do whatever they liked, wherever they liked, whenever they liked. But the dreams they frequented weren’t prone to random silliness or surreal delusion, they weren’t fantasies wrought from her subconscious; they were proper interactions, albeit set in fantastical locations. They’d talk for hours and hours, time wasn't a consideration. In truth, Ni did all the talking; there was so much Oona wanted to learn about the world that she hung on Ni’s every word, nodding appreciatively when she heard something she agreed with, asking intelligent questions when she didn’t understand. They sat on the Great Wall of China and Ni poured-her-heart-out about the crushes she had at school; they swam in the ocean at Goa while she bitched about all five ex-boyfriends and listed their numerous shortcomings with forensic attention to detail; they went moon-walking in the Sea Of Tranquillity while she lectured on animal rights, industrial farming and the inexorable rise of Global Capitalism... Eventually she’d talk herself out and they’d sit silent, looking into each other’s eyes... then closer... they would be just about to kiss when... 

... the fucking alarm would sound and it would all fade and disappear! She’d stare up at the blank, white ceiling feeling utterly bereft. 

She started taking naps in the afternoon. On Wednesday night, she cried because she just couldn't sleep. By Thursday she was looking for ways to wear herself out: she went jogging; she bought herbal remedies, anything to prolong those wonderful dreams...

Paddy wasn't aware that she’d been skipping classes to indulge these fantasies. He’d come home in the evening and she’d be making dinner, as chirpy as a sandboy.

“Are you in love?” he asked.

“What make you think I might be in love?” she chuckled, stirring a pot of spaghetti sauce.

“It’s not another Star Wars geek, is it? Or one of those longhaired New Romantic types who dresses like a vaudevillian gypsy?”

She ignored him and enquired, “Did you ring Pagham House and talk to them? Did you ask about the bog? What’d they say?”

“They asked me to come down on Saturday to discuss it – Ollie’s got a 1933 Daimler and wants to show her off to someone in the know: i.e.: me. I humbly accepted his invitation, and before you ask – no, you can’t come – they asked specifically that I attend on my own.”

“And... you think you’ll be OK?” she asked, with a concerned frown.

“Why shouldn't I be OK? I’ve met the man -- he’s been nothing but a perfect gentleman!” he protested.

She took his hand, “C’mere, I want you to see this,” and took him to the sitting room.

Being unfamiliar with Laphen’s back catalogue (they preferred Laurel & Hardy, Keaton and the Marx Bros), she’d hired a few videos to get a sense of Ollie’s oeuvre. Video No.1 was a compilation of three 20 minute Max Sennett produced Laffin’ Boy comedy shorts from the early 1930s. It was all slapstick and gurning as far as she could see; ‘I got caught-up in the energy of it and smiled a lot, but there were no belly-laughs’ -- she wrote in her notes -- ‘typical male-oriented humour: loads of nubile starlets dressed as schoolgirls - the depression era Benny Hill! 4-out-of 10!’ Video No.2 was a very dark Film Noir from the early 50s called Who Rang, My Lady? where he played a demonic bellboy blackmailing a high society dame played by Lana Turner. Ni loved that one. The box said it ‘marked his transition from broad comic to character actor’. It was such a great performance he was nominated for an academy award. ‘He should have won! Brilliant turn as a conniving little weasel – but the undercurrent of vulnerability makes you feel sorry for him! - 9-out-of 10!’  

Then she watched the third and final tape: Oliver Unmasked a subtitled documentary made by a quartet of French film-school students in 1973 wherein Laphen, by then a small, red-headed codger in his early 60s holidaying at a friend’s house while he attended the Cannes film festival, talked about his contribution to cinema. It is very low budget affair: there are no clips, just grainy trailers and stills from each film, and yet, this was the only serious, in-depth, academic study of the man and his art to be had. 

At first, he’s pictured relaxing by the pool dressed in a horrible yellow string vest and orange shorts, pontificating on the fall of silent cinema with wry digs at his old rivals and swipes at his sworn enemies; there are some slurred words, so he’s obviously had a few, but he is amiable and knowledgeable throughout, answering all the questions in French as if it was a second language. Then - 43 minutes in - the interviewer asks if his Irish heritage has had any bearing on his work ethic -- Ollie suddenly explodes, yelling in a mixture of French and English, the gist of which – expletives deleted - translates as: “How can you ask me that? Haven’t you done your research? What are you a bunch of hacks? This is an ambush! Get out of my house!!” and trashes most of the crew’s equipment (the last few seconds were culled from the AD’s handheld 16mm) before chasing them off with a shotgun.

Ni hit the pause button. “This is your pal?” she pointed at the chilling freeze-frame of a psychotic, pint-sized madman in mid-snarl aiming a deadly weapon at a young, hapless female PA: “He looks like a complete and utter psychopath!!”

“Och, that film was made years ago, during his hell-raising days,” Paddy tittered, "he’s mellowed a lot since then. I find him witty and charming, and I may say, quite intelligent company. And, of course, he has the cars... those beautiful, breathtaking cars...”

That Saturday morning: She came down at 07:00AM to find Paddy in his usual place: sitting at the kitchen table in his paisley-patterned silk dressing-gown and salmon-red PJs. He dunked his soldier, kept his eyes on his newspaper and without looking up, said, “I take it you want me to drop you off at the village so you can attend that barmaid’s wedding.”

“Brilliant, Holmes, what gave me away?”

“The big hat (she was wearing her baggy jammies with a big blue felt hat) and the fact that you’ve talked about nothing else for the last 4 days: Oona this, Oona that, Oona said this, Oona said that.” It was true, she’d been talking nonstop about her new best friend, although, she kept it to the funny accent and her amazing looks – she hadn't mentioned the wonderful dreams, just that she liked her, she felt a little sorry for her, and wouldn't it be nice to get some photos of a Bogmire wedding? Paddy raised an eyebrow, “Just so long as you don’t suddenly get up and do something disruptive when they ask if there is ‘anyone who knows of any just impediment’... etc, etc...”

Ni immediately snapped back: “I’m not in love with her!”

Oh God! You absolute div! He was joking!

Paddy peered at her over the rims of his specs and gave her a sly grin, “Methinks you doth protest too much!”

She laughed it off and needlessly over-explained, “I mean she’s just a bright new friend, and you know how you are when you first meet someone who makes an impression on you?........ like Oliver Laphen, for instance?”

Since she’d been daft enough to put the notion into his head, Paddy teased her with it, “I don’t have an all-consuming crush on Ollie Laphen. And the more I think about it, she’s dominated your entire week - you’ve been mooning around, you haven’t been studying, and worst of all you’ve been shopping.” He gave her a bemused frown, “Proper shopping – i.e. change of image shopping: crop-tops, short skirts and tight jeans? Aren't they a bit.... showy for someone trying to shed a dumb blonde image?”

“They’re for the summer! Umm, I thought I’d go in a new direction...?”

Paddy shrugged, went back to his paper and shook his head, “I suppose you’ve been gassing for hours on the phone...”

“I can’t ring her - they don’t have phones, remember, it’s against their religion.”

Paddy was puzzled, “Then that 10 minute conversation you had last Saturday must've made quite an impression!”

She thought for a moment, then replied, “Look, I felt a connection, y’know? I can’t describe it... I just want to see her one last time before she becomes a downtrodden housewife...”

It was a warm, sunny day and Paddy opted for the 1954 white convertible Sunbeam-Talbot which he used for Sunday drives in the country. It was the pride and joy of his English collection, “The open top is a considerable advantage for the taking of candid photographs.” Niamh, wearing a full-length, low cut, turquoise chiffon summer dress and blue-suede platform boots, sat in the passenger seat holding onto her bippity-boppity hat (she’d been babysitting for the Somervilles and taped their old Bowie LPs) for dear life as her white satin scarf streamed-out behind her in the wind. The hat was quite a find: blue felt with a big floppy brim which she wore with her hair down and clipped with a white carnation. Paddy said it gave her 'a very Anouska Hemple-look’. She had no idea who this woman was, but she reckoned she must've been quite a looker if the whoops, wolf-whistles and gratuitous honks were anything to go by; truckers, white van drivers and various travelling sales reps in company cars couldn't pass without expressing their appreciation, but instead of spouting her usual volley of proto-feminist rhetoric peppered with a few choice swears, she waved at every tattooed cretin and lairy dickhead with a smile as bright as the skies above. Paddy gave her a disapproving look, “Who are you and what’ve you done with Niamh Fitzgerald?”

“Och, Paddy,” she trilled, “let me be a stranger just for one day...”

When they reached Bogmire, Paddy’s misgivings vanished as his jaw dropped. He took off his goggles and gawped, “How come I’ve never seen this place before?! This is tremendous! This is....” he sat up on the back of his seat, threw his head back and drank in the atmosphere, “.... breathtaking, quite arousing  -- I must get out my Pentax!”

Ni tished-away his double entendres, got out, looked around and bemoaned the shiny, metallic blots on the landscape: “It’s such a pity there are so many cars parked here today -- you should’ve seen it when I rolled-in on Monday – it was like going through a time warp.”

“Smile, Time-Travel-Girl!” Paddy perched on the back of his seat and lined up a shot. She posed beside a wooden beer-barrel bursting with plump tulips. While he snapped away, she sniffed the air, “Y’know, I can still smell that stink amidst the flowers. Maybe that’s why they’re so keen on horticulture – they’re trying to mask the whiff.”

Paddy inhaled deeply and disagreed, “Oh, all I can smell is Spring flowers. I think it’s just your imagination,” he glanced at his watch and bounced down again, “Right, running late, Twinkle -- save me a slice of wedding cake – and above all - DON’T get pished and start a row!”

There he goes: Toad of Toad Hall - off to meet the gun-toting weasels of Pagham House with nothing to defend himself but a Georgian meerschaum... she turned and looked at the old shebeen... while I get to go to the Ugly-Bug Ball.

Just as she straightened her dress, tidied her scarf and got ready to make an entrance, an elderly couple exited the premises; the old woman was in a terrible state, sobbing uncontrollably and holding on to her husband for dear life. Ni said hallo, but the old man wasn't feeling polite; he glowered and said loudly, “Don’t go in there if you’re a God-fearin’ Christian, chile -- it’s a holy mockery!” he barked loudly so that those inside might hear him. “May the Lord have mercy on their Souls...” the old woman squeaked. They went got into a silver Mazda and drove off. A few seconds later another middle aged couple emerged complaining of more-or-less the same thing: Blasphemy!

I have to see this!

She peeked through one of the little street-level windows; the place was packed to the rafters with Redmen -- literally: there were ugly carrot-topped boys sitting on the crossbeams overlooking the room. The congregation were lined along plain, hardwood benches, seemingly dressed for a beggars’ banquet: all plucked jumpers, oil-stained shirts, threadbare suits and dog-eared footwear. Across the centre aisle, it couldn't have been more of a contrast. The visitors were sitting in velvet lined dining chairs (probably borrowed from the Hunting Lodge) togged-out in traditional wedding attire: posh frocks, heels, hats and tuxes. She took advantage of the uproar and tiptoed down the little flight of steps and stood in the shadows by the antiquated cigarette machine.

The atmosphere was thick with conflict. As the bride and groom took their vows, a woman -- presumably the groom’s mother – heckled in a voice wracked by hiccuping-sobs, “It’s profane! This is a mockery! How can they say such things?!” and if Oona’s description of her aunt/guardian was accurate, the object of their disaffection was none-other-than Mrs Ella Sparkes, dressed in a ragged white robe topped off with an ill-fitting ginger wig, presently standing atop a beer crate, pronouncing the contentious text from a well-thumbed, handwritten ledger propped up on a rickety, plywood lectern. It was apparent she ruled her flock with a rod of iron and they were attentive to every arched eyebrow, sideways look and cockeyed squint. But when she turned towards the visitors, she was all humble smiles and indulgent nods – even when the heckling got very hostile; paradoxically, the more appalled the guests were, the louder the shouts of fank ee koindly from the Redmen.

For example:

Guest: “Boo! This is a travesty! Shame on you!”

Redman: “Thank ee sur!”

Guest: “Shut-the-fuck-up bumpkin boy!”

Redman: “Very kind of ee sur!”

Etc, etc until the guests couldn't bear it anymore and either sulked or stormed off. When hostility reached fever pitch, Mrs Sparkes smiled at the visitors, revealing the worst set of dentures anyone had ever seen and the antagonists soon backed down. Ni wasn't in the least bit squeamish, but by Zeus, those choppers are repulsive.

Then she got what she came for: a look at the Lady of the Hour.

From the back, Oona was wearing what looked like a long, figure-hugging black-lace dress with a long ragged train, torn laddered fishnets, scuffed six-inch black-suede mules and a black veil riddled with cigarette burn-holes; then, as Ni’s eyes adjusted to the dimness, she saw that the dress itself was an intricate patchwork of various rags cut-to-size, dyed black and woven into a made-to-measure whole; it was a quite a feat of needlework and must have taken weeks of finger-numbing toil to create. The groom was spared this ritual and was dressed in a morning suit like any other poor sap on his wedding day. Just like Oona said, he was a tall, slender blonde - what she failed to mention was the permanent frown and air of impatience - particularly when he had to respond to the following: “Do you, Craig Nevin of Sligo take onto you this woman, Oona Umbert, in ‘oly matrimony and swear to do roight by her and stray ye not from the paff of roighteousness ‘n’ fidelity, lest ye be impaled on a pole then roasted on a spit o’er the fires of hell as the goblins of Satan stick thy peeling flesh wiv toastin’-forks and torment ee for all eternity, forever and ever?’”

There was a loud “AMEN” from the locals.

“Not there! Only at the end of a prayer!” Mrs Sparkes thumped the lectern with a meaty fist and scolded them, “How many times do I have to tell yez?” Then she singled-out one particular offender in their midst, “Billy Kipps – I see ‘ee! Don’t ee dare sup ale whoilst oi’m doin’ the Lord’s wurk!”

A little old man at the back went bright red and tried to hide behind the woman in front of him.

Ni was beginning to see why the groom’s party were so upset.

Mrs Sparkes turned back and glared at Craigy, “....WELL?!”

Craigy snapped to attention, “What?”

“Do ye swear?!”

“Um... sometimes, if I’m angry or I hurt meself...?  

“DO YOU SWEAR TO BE FAITHFUL TO HER?!”

Craigy jumped, “I DO! I do!” He shrank a little, as if his life had suddenly flashed before his eyes. He looked at Oona and groaned, “... I do?”

This exchange was accompanied by a hubbub of discontent from the groom’s side.

Mrs Sparkes turned to her niece, and in a tone dripping with scorn and doubt, she read, “’An’ will YOU, Oona Umbert of this-’ere parash – will ee do roight by ur man, obey ‘im an’ honour 'im an’ not even look at another man – or woman – or beast of the field for that ma’’er .............. As long as ye both shall live‘?!”

In a split second, the demure vision under the veil became a spoilt little girl – she shook her corsage of withered black orchids and stomped her high heels on the slate floor, “Oi do! Oi do! Oi do! Come on Auntie Eller, give over – people’s gettin’ restlass – we wants to get ur dinnur ‘n’ drinks ‘n’ get dancin’!!”

There were a few arrs and c’mons from the more rowdy Redmen. The children started slow-clapping.

The glowering inferno erupted at this show of contempt. “SHURRUP!”  The hubbub immediately ceased. Ella raised her hand as if to slap her insubordinate niece across the chops, “Don’t ee get all uppity w’ me, Oona Umbert! ‘Ee wanted this-‘ere big do wiv all the trimmins -- so grin-‘n’-bear-it-‘n’-show some respect, ‘ee SILLY BITCH!”

That was the last straw for the majority on the groom’s side, “I’m outta here!” “Let’s go before they sacrifice a chicken!” “They’re barbarians!” “Did you ever hear such shite!” Several people, some weeping inconsolably -- including most of the groom’s immediate family - brushed past on their way out the door, and just as Ni moved out to let them pass, a voice screeched, “NI! Ni! Ni!!”

Oona broke away from the wedding party, hitched up her skirts and came trotting down the ‘aisle’ on her 4 inch heels. Ni didn’t know where to look as she lifted her veil – there was a blur of scarlet lipstick and ash-grey eye-shadow - and threw her arms around her! Ni’s head popped over her shoulder and she was forced to look at the rest of the room while her new best friend made too much of a fuss. That was enough for the best man; he shook his head, handed the groom the rings, slapped his back and said “Good luck, mate,” and joined the exodus.

Meanwhile, the bride ignored the insulting remarks of the departing in-laws-to-be and looked at Niamh’s left hand - upon seeing the heart-shaped rash, she cried, shrilly, “You are still thinkin’ ‘bout me! You DO care!! This is the best day of moy loife!!” she cried, squeezing Ni so tight she squished the floppy brim of the big hat against her ears as she sobbed on her shoulder.

Ni looked around and saw the mildly vexed faces getting evermore concerned. She heard their whispered fears: ‘Oh Jesus, are those tears of joy or sorrow?’ ‘Are they gonna runaway together?’ ‘Oh gawd, please let them get married!’ ‘Our lives won’t be worth living’.

Ella Sparkes, on the other hand, was cross-armed and crossly aloof in her slapdash pulpit. Eyes narrowed, nodding knowingly as if it all was to be expected. This was proof, if proof be needed, of her niece’s innate fickleness. Sitting in the front row, Dolly Crombie smirked and said, “I tol youse so! She’ll never go through wiv it!” The groom himself was pacing, talking to himself, beating his hips with his fists, like a man at the end of his tether. The square outside came alive to the sound of slamming doors and revving engines; once they were gone, the pub was deathly quiet.

Oona broke the clinch and quickly dropped her veil. She stood up straight and took a deep breath. Everyone looked scared. The young boys on the rafters looked positively terrified -- even Ella Sparkes began to look worried. Their fear was infectious – Ni’s eyes widened as she wondered what was coming next – then Craigy lost it and shattered the hush, “Oona - this has gone far enough – get back here and finish this fucking pantomime so we can get outta here and I can get outta this friggin’ monkey suit!”

This exclamation was greeted with a collective gasp of awe.

They needn't have worried. She gave Ni a sly wink and spoke clearly and resolutely, “Comin’ moy luv...”

There were whoops of relieved delight and ecstatic cheers from the congregation. Harry Snodgrass (filling in for the bride’s father in an ill-fitting 1937 tuxedo which made him look like a bespectacled Edward G Robinson in a fright wig) covered his mouth and squawked, “Well-said, Craigy – you showed ‘er oo’s boss!!” The locals guffawed like snaffling hogs – Craigy was a man to be reckoned with! Hooray for the Alpha Male! Oona whispered to Ni in her ‘other’ voice, <wait here, I’ll just go and get married and then we can have a nice little tête-à-tête in private, OK? She turned, picked up her patchwork train and walked back to what remained of the wedding party (two bridesmaids in their late 40s wearing black armbands over white cotton nighties).

The wedding was back on!

“Shurrup, all of you!” shouted Mrs Sparkes.

Silence.

“Roight. ‘Be there any man or woman ‘ere oo ‘as any objection to this pairin’ may they speak now or forever ‘old their peace’...?”

The entire congregation, including Craigy’s colleagues, turned and stared at Niamh. She began to edge back into the shadows.

“EXCUSE ME!” Auntie Ella bellowed.

All eyes swung back.

Ella pointed at certain members of the congregation and made I’ll see you later gestures, then put on her reading glasses and returned to the text: “Roight than, oi now pronounce ee man and woife. Ah-men.”

Silence.

“Now!”

“AMEN!”

She turned back to Craigy, “You may punch the broide. That was a joke – kiss the broide Now drink ur fill, go forth an' multi-ploy...” She shouted to the guests, “THAT MEANS YE CAN GET PISSED ‘n FUCK OFF!!”

The entire congregation were on their feet cheering, the boys in the rafters opened-up a feather pillow and shook it over the kissing couple as a quartet of musicians playing strange, homemade instruments started-up a bawdy folk song about bums and jugs and rutting farmyard animals. The last of the groom’s party exited at this point.

While the Redmen and their homely wives swigged poteen and dined on sausage rolls and broth, the two friends went out to the well-kept back garden and sat on a beautiful swing-seat swathed in beautiful flowers and vines. The bride’s cigarette-burn-veil was detached from her pillbox-hat and reattached to the back so that it hid the silver-blonde bun and made her look years older; like Kim Novak in Vertigo. Her make-up was perfect Film Noir vamp, her skin so white it was almost translucent. It was like talking to a ghost.

“You don’t look very happy,” said Ni.

Oona closed her eyes, lowered her head and said, “If ee’da come any later, oi don’t fink I’d ‘ave gone through wiv it. I couldn't sleep last noight finkin’ about us. I wuz worried ‘ee might get bored wiv me and I’d never see ‘ee again. I was standing there thinkin’ bout runnin’ away, I wuz. I’da ‘itched up me skirts and left ‘im there at the altar if ee ‘adn’t come.”

Halfway through her third flute of Cristal, Ni was in a giggly mood, “What are you blithering about – you hardly know me!” she said, throwing her head back as the swing swayed.

“I know ‘ee better than anyone else in the whole-wide-world Niamh Fitzgerald,” said Oona, solemnly. She took off Ni’s bippity-boppity hat and held it so that it hid their faces from any onlookers. Once they were nose to nose, she looked into Ni’s eyes and said in that ‘other’ voice, the seductive purr that cut out all the background noise and made you shiver with anticipation:

<Do you believe in love at first sight, Niamh? Do you think that two people can make an instant connection?>

Ni was transfixed again, she answered in a daze, “Yes, I’ve often experienced what I thought was love at first sight, but after a few days I was proved wrong... still, I do, I do believe. I believe people can make an instant connection.” As a matter of fact, she’d realise later that the question came from a tutorial she’d had the previous day about Hindley and Brady; and there was more verbatim to come, as her own thoughts, things she’d never uttered aloud or written down were recited back to her in a warm, low whisper.

<I know your father was a poet who died when you were only a year old and you wish you could've known him personally, but then again he was an inveterate alcoholic, so maybe it’s best to know him through his work. You love Paddy but you worry that you’ve turned him into a surrogate dad/ father figure and it’s stopping him looking for a lasting relationship with a woman. I know you love your mother but you hate your step-father and the country they chose to live in; I know your experience of boys your own age is limited to your relatives’ and friends’ brothers; I know you’ve been suspicious of the opposite sex ever since your heart was broken on Valentine’s Day 1987 by your childhood sweetheart - the brother of your best friend.

You told me all those things in our dreams.>

Ni was confused but rapt, “Our dreams.....?”

<We've spent every sleeping moment together. But there can be so much more. You just have to let me in.>

Lost in those smoky-grey-sky eyes, Niamh grasped that Oona -- the intelligent, sexy Oona -- wasn't joking, “...Are you saying that... it wasn't a fantasy? You have the same dreams I do...?...what?”

Oona laughed, “They are moy dreams, silly-boots. I brought ee into my dreams to let you see how fings could be if we wuz togevver.”

The truth hit her like a sledgehammer; Ni recoiled slightly and clutched her breast as she gasped, “Telepathy?! I thought I was having, you know.... fantasies? How is this possible...This is incredible...?”

.......and I don’t know if I like it....

Again, Oona spoke without speaking in that beautiful voice: <From now on, we’ll be able to see each other whenever we like,> then aloud, “Just let me in - that’s all ya gotta do!”<All it takes is a thought: think of an opening door or a window...>

Tipsy from drinking on an empty stomach and lost in those silvery, sparkly, eyes while the intoxicating fragrance of flowers filled her senses, Niamh was putty in her hands. After all, this was an actual Dream Lover and it was everything she’d hoped for and more.

Ach, to hell with it!

Ni chuckled, blithely cast aside her inhibitions, closed her eyes and pictured the renowned Magritte painting of an opening door on an empty beach. Then, without any help from her imagination, Oona, still clad in her ragged wedding dress, suddenly appeared on the threshold. She entered, gently closed the door behind her and approached...

She feels a surge of pleasure as the psychic penetration releases a torrent of endorphins that shoot through her body, through her heart, right out to the tips of her fingers and toes... her head spins, her lips part... This is the best..... Thing..... I’ve..... Ever felt..... In my life... the champagne flute slips from her tingling fingers and falls onto the grass... her head reels, her arms fall limp...

“OONAR!!”

Ni’s eyes snapped open and she found herself gazing into Oona’s eyes  -- they were virtually glowing with a strange, violet light. She blinked, the eerie light disappeared.

“Look lively, gurlie – it’s toime fer ee broidal daaance!” Harry Snodgrass shouted again.

Still hidden behind the brim of the big felt hat, they rested their heads on each other’s brows for a second and giggled like naughty kids.

Did that just happen? Did you just.... get inside my head? Ni asked without speaking. 

Oona smiled, lowered the hat and let rip with in her ‘normal’ voice, “Oh, go to ‘ell, ‘Arry Snadgrass, ‘ee mangy currrrr! ‘Ee spoil everythin you do!”

Collar asunder, shirt opened to the waist, chomping on a greasy drumstick, Snodgrass, slumped on the doorjamb and growled in a pervy voice, “Was you two kissin’? ........ Can I watch?”

“No we wuz not – ‘ee got a filfy moind ‘Arry Snadgrass! And now that oi am a respectable married woman an’ oi don work for ‘ee no more - oi can do what oi always wanted – I’ll skelp ye wiv ur own belt!” Oona jumped up and chased him back inside and left her secret lover swinging in the noonday sun, staring up at the wispy whiteness of the scattered cloud against the bright blue of the ether...

Ether...? Am I high? Is any of this real?

That’s the problem when your dream lover can make you part of anything her imagination might manufacture: You can’t believe your own mind. The swing had slowed to a stop, but her head was still flying - until -

DA-DA!

she was startled by a loud, rousing C major from the direction of the bar.

The bridal dance -- got to see the bridal dance...

She staggered down the little path and back into the bar. The locals were slowly clapping their hands and stamping their feet as the smiling major chord became a gloomy minor that in turn became a hypnotic, rhythmic drone; then a second man playing a strange instrument that appeared to consist of two pieces of twine tied across a small wooden box began plucking furiously – emitting a sound not unlike frantic, pizzicato violins – while another man slowly provided the percussion banging a 6ft pole covered in bottle-tops on the wooden floor of snug – and so began a weird, skiffle-style folk dance that required the bride and groom to spin on the spot like dervishes, while the rhythm increased in tempo, until they reeled in a stupefied daze; then the frantic, monochordal reel suddenly ceased - the spinning pair suddenly stopped and grasped each other to stop themselves falling; while they reeled from the dizziness, they were required to drink a flagon of wine; the rhythm started up again – getting very fast before stopping mid-bar – this time the bride and groom weren’t so steady on their feet and had to hug each other all the more tightly to keep their balance. The seconds handed each of them another flagon of wine “DRINK! DRINK! DRINK!” – the crowd chanted: the pair were required to drink the lot in one go! The reel started up again – they spun again; this time the seconds were on-hand to catch them - DRINK! DRINK! DRINK! -  more wine -- more spinning. When the reel stopped yet again, they were too dizzy to stand and the groom threw-up into a ceremonial bucket. The happy couple were poleaxed. The seconds threw them over their shoulders, carried them upstairs, took them outside and deposited them in a dray lined with fresh hay and dark flowers. The locals cheered and whistled as they were carted off down the dirt lane rickshaw-style by two Redmen, to their new home. Craigy’s bemused colleagues half-heartedly clapped in bemusement and shook their heads in disbelief. Ni asked a woman wearing a shower cap with a carnation pinned to the side, “Are they coming back?”

The crone laughed and replied, “No! It’s bad for’une to leave ur broidal bed before midnoight!!”

“Oh.” She felt completely deflated, like she was at the greatest party of her life and suddenly the lights had come up. She looked at her little gold watch: 4:32; she had another half-hour to kill before Paddy came to collect her. She was getting grumpy (“You’re a horrible daytime drinker – you either you get crabby and snappy or fall asleep!” Paddy had remarked, after one Yuletide lunchtime snifter that ended with her missing her stop and waking up 20 miles down the line; Paddy had to get up in the middle of the night to fetch her).

She queued for a piece of wedding cake and took the time to look around the faces. Mrs Sparkes sat at the top of the top table, flanked by two elderly, auburn-wigged women, all watching her intently as if they expected her to do something outrageous. Niamh gave them a cocky grin: I know you’re talking about me but I’m too pissed to care – so ya-boo-sucks-to-you with bed knobs and broomsticks on!

Mrs Sparkes returned the sour smile then grumbled out of the side of her mouth to the one on the left (the old lady who’d been skulking about the square that Monday) - then to the one on the right (hard to know if it was a weightlifter in drag or a very butch lady with broad shoulders) – then all three looked at Niamh and effected milk-curdling smiles. She grinned, Go to hell....

Just then, she was intercepted by a stocky man with a well-clipped moustache and a sweet, rarefied rustic Irish brogue, “Hello there, I’m Sergeant Marchant of the local garda, Craigy’s boss. Can I ask, are you a friend of Oona’s?”

She broke off a knob of icing and nibbled, “Um, sort of. I met her on Monday (and my heart stood still) and she invited me along.” She looked him up-and-down; he looked like an outsider, but seemed very conversant with the locals, and like the locals, he’d been watching her all day, only in his case, it was in the way that a playground supervisor keeps an eye on a disruptive child. “Do ‘ee live locally, Sergeant Marchant?” she chuckled.

“I live in the village, aye.” Marchant hooked his thumbs under his red braces and nodded toward a tall, top-heavy 50-ish redhead in an uncomfortable-looking hessian smock hand-jiving to the bizarre band’s version of Abba’s Waterloo, “I married Madge 12 years ago. I hadda go through all this meself. It’s a bit strange at first but I love it here, the people are comical, but they are the salt of the...” he lowered his voice and leaned in, “listen would you..... would you mind moving to the women’s area?” He indicated the dozen-or-so disgruntled womenfolk staring daggers at her from a corner at the bottom of the room; then he averted his eyes and pointed at her cleavage, “Too much goin’ on below the chin, darlin’. Ye’re causin’ a bit of a stir,” he nodded toward a large crowd of Redmen gathered at one table ogling her like the dirty mac brigade.

He’d gone too far and pushed one of her buttons: the burgeoning chip on her shoulder combined with alcohol is a combustible enough compound – add sugar to the mix and ka-boom: Suffragette City! Wham bam - thank you Mr Man! and let’s start off with an obligatory: “How dare you! What is this – the middle ages?!” she stood tall and looked him in the eye, “It’s almost the 21st century and Woman has moved on!” then a run through the family credentials, “... I’ll have you know I’m the step-daughter of a Swedish civil-rights lawyer and my grandfather is a judge...” blah-blah-blah and finished with the mandatory: “I know my rights and that suggestion is downright offensive! I mean – a woman’s enclosure? This is Segregation! Sexual apartheid! Why don’t you just put them in cages and be done with it!”

Dismayed at her reaction, Marchant put up his hands and implored her not to be silly – WRONG! She saw the hands as offensive weapons and his entreaties of ‘now, now, calm down’ as extremely patronising, nevermind insulting. So she shouted about the police brutality she suffered whilst picketing a hare-coursing meet (which was actually the RUC, but hey, she was on a roll) and impugned the reputation of the local constabulary. By this time the dance had finished and the jivers were returning to their pews -- but Ni was too incandescent to notice the hush, “It’s like the woman’s movement never happened! I’ve seen ‘n’ heard things in this village that make my blood boil ‘n my skin crawl! These people make cavemen look sophisticated...!”

Those last few words reverberated around the room like a klaxon in an empty church. The people of Bogmire  stood still and stared without showing any emotion.

“Oh shite...” said Marchant, closing his eyes and putting a hand on his brow.

Suddenly, Mrs Sparkes stood up and said, “What do we do when we is insulted or offended?”

Ni watched as every Redman and woman fell to their knees, put their hands behind their backs, put their foreheads on the sawdust and feather-covered-floor and droned en-masse:

“We take the blame,

We bear the shame,

We beg for mercy,

In His name.”

One of the younger gards who clearly wasn't in on it, laughed uproariously, pointed at Niamh and said, “Is she their Queen or somethin’? All hail the dumb blonde!!”

Ni was about to give him what for when Marchant excused himself, went to the lad and cuffed his ear. As the prostrate horde continued to drone their mantra, he explained to the uninitiated, “They’re Supplicants.They’re atoning for the sins of their former leader! If you insult them - instead of being consumed with anger - they remember why they’re here and what they've dedicated their life to, and they prove it by doing things like this! Which reminds me...” He left the boy rubbing his lug, came back to Ni and whispered, “You’d better tell them they can get up now. The wife will kill me if we make her do this much longer...”

“What? Oh!” Ni looked around at the backs around her and was just about to say please stand up when she suddenly experienced the sensation of being penetrated! An unseen tongue forced its way into her mouth! She heard a man moan “Oooooooona” in her ear! In an effort to fight off her invisible assailant, she clasped her crotch and staggered sideways into a tray of ugly looking sausage rolls, catapulting them into the air and over the backs of Auntie Ella’s prostrate entourage; then she did a little dance on the spot, her limbs crossing over each other as she fended off a pair of unseen hands kneading her buttocks, she thrashed her head from side-to-side moaning and groaning...

She heard Oona’s ‘other voice’ laughing between her ears: <Just a little demonstration of what we can do!>

Finally, she froze in a kind of mid-pirouette, her chiffon summer dress pulled up around her thighs, hemline gaping, hair over her face. She looked like she’d been playing an x-rated game of Twister in a tumble drier.

Craigy’s friends and colleagues were goggle-eyed. The Supplicants droned on. She immediately adjusted her clothes and tried to make herself look small.

The paroxysm had lasted for all of 8.1 seconds and the feelings were gone as soon as they came, but the display was enough to make her look completely crazy. Nothing else to do but pretend you’re in pain; she clasped her tummy, “Oooh, I’ve never had such a bout of cramp in all my life - followed by a hot flush, too!! Hahahaha -- maybe it’s the menopause!” she laughed, blushing and flapping her hands, edging toward the little flight of steps that led up to the front door, “We-ell – it’s been lovely, but I must be going....”

Marchant was getting antsy, “Please, please miss - tell them they can get up...!”

She stopped in her tracks, “SHIT! Sorry!! You can get up now, please, don’t do this on my account, it’s so not cool...” ‘So not cool’, listen to me - I sound like a total airhead...

The chant stopped. The dishevelled congregation clambered to their feet, dusted-off the feathers and sawdust, thanked her earnestly for her grace & mercy and resumed the festivities as if nothing had happened. Ni lip-read Mrs Sparkes’ aside to her confederates as they plucked bits of sausage roll from each other’s cardigans: “She’s trouble.”

Mercifully, a familiar horn honked outside. She bolted up the steps, sprinted across the square, leapt into the backseat without opening the door and yelled, “Drive!”

“Shotgun wedding?” asked Paddy, casually, looking over his shoulder.

“If looks could kill – yes!”

Once they were at a safe distance, she climbed into the front and realised she’d left the hat behind, “Bollocks!!”

“No, couldn't possibly. I had a beeeautiful seafood lunch,” Paddy quipped.

“My hat - I forgot my bloody hat! I had to trawl through three flea markets and 23 antique clothes stores to find that hat! They’ll probably eat it...!”

<I have your blessed bippity-boppity hat – relax! I’m taking it – and you - on honeymoon! We’re flying to the Costa del Sol tonight and I’m going to wear it to the airport!>

Oona?! It’s daytime.... Am I awake?

<Ssh, don’t give the game away – it’s our secret! Sorry, Craigy’s just come in – I’ve got to go! See you in our dreams...>

Meanwhile, Paddy was talking about his visit to Pagham House, “...Then we sat on the veranda and had cream tea and scones and we discussed archaeology... But there was one thing that kept nagging at me and it... Ni, are you listening?”

Niamh wasn't listening, she was on autopilot, “Absolutely spiffing, darling. Couldn't be better!” and pushed the button to close the roof. “I think I’ll sleep now.”

“You are drunk!! What did I tell you – I hope you didn’t make a show of yourself and start a fight.... and where is my slice of wedding cake?!”

Without mentioning Oona’s virtual reality bedroom antics and the intermittent psychic communiqués, she told him about the wedding, and concluded, “These people are nuts, right? They've been cut off from civilisation for so long they don’t know what’s going on...Yeah?”

Paddy was infuriatingly philosophical and did his usual Q&A routine, “Do you feel threatened by them? (“They’re a bunch of misogynists, but their leader is an old woman who keeps them in line, so, no.”) Do they show signs of disaffection or coercion? (“... No.”) Are they happy? (“On the whole, they seem so.”) Well then, Twinkle, look at it this way – the men are subservient, ineffectual grunts and the women, despite knowing their place, appear to run the show. Sounds to me like you’ve found the fully-functioning matriarchal society you always dreamed of!”

But his niece’s arms remained defiantly crossed, “You’re thinking of my mother in her ‘60s heyday. My ideal society is egalitarian - which means neither sex having the upper-hand. That place... it’s all flowers and light on the outside, but inside it’s all darkness, corruption and sexist posturing... kinda kinky and icky... Some fucking garda sergeant asked me really personal questions, so I called him all the names under the sun and ranted about police brutality...”

Paddy rested his head on the wheel and groaned, “God save us from Ms Lunchtime O’Booze!”

She reclined, put her head on the armrest, closed her eyes and said without thinking, “Button it, Butcher Boy.”

Oops.... Where did that come from?!

“That was uncalled for!” he said, genuinely hurt. He hated the nickname; his brother Gerald coined it and they never got on.

She got up, put a hand on his shoulder, and wholeheartedly apologised, “Oh God, I’m so sorry... that just slipped out. My mind isn't my own - you’re right, the Cristal was flowing courtesy of the Laphen House and I heartily imbibed. But I needed anaesthetic, Patrick, these bumpkins are hard work.” She quickly moved on, “Tell me about your afternoon.”

Paddy harrumphed, but reluctantly continued, “Well, he took me for a walk after tea – and you’re right – there are no animals on that estate. No dogs, no horses, no squirrels, no hares – just a few birds and bees. Ollie jokes and says they keep away because they know how much he hates them. There’s only the kitchen cat as far as I can see, and he must surely get all his meals from the cook, because he certainly isn't getting fat on the indigenous rodent population. Most odd...?”

“See – told you: he’s up to something. Maybe they've been dumping chemicals in the bog and it’s killed them all off?”

“Well, the end of my story is the bit you’ll be interested in: when we’d finished eating, that Scanlon fellow came to tidy-away the crockery. Laphen told him to summon Herbie, the chauffeur, and right-then-and-there, he proceeded to excoriate them both in no uncertain terms – ‘tore them a second anus’  -- I think is an approximation of the colloquial term. The men send their apologies and hope they can make-it-up to you when we come back in July.”

For fleeting moment, the excitement overwhelmed her doubts and fears. She bounced in her seat, “He’s given us permission?! That’s great!!”

He pulled a folded sheet of paper from his inside pocket, “He was good enough to sign a permit. He’ll be away filming this summer and this is to ensure that none of his security people obstruct us while he’s gone.”

She read it and enthused, “I can’t wait to tell Emil!”

Paddy shook his head emphatically,“No, Twink! Don’t mention any of this to Emil! If he knows that we’ll be working on the country estate of a renowned right-winger like Jolly Ollie – he’ll go all Che Guevara and put the entire venture in jeopardy! Remember that time in Killarney when the gards wouldn't let us cross that field......Twink...? Ni? Niamh...?”

..... Ni was dozing....... his voice became a murmur, the rumble of the motor became a pacifying drone as the undulations of the road rocked her into a catnap....... and into the Dreamscape.

She walked across the mountain pass on the bridge of clouds, down to the beach. The door was ajar. The skies around it were dark, but there was light coming from whatever lay within, so she approached and called out, Oona? She crossed the threshold..........

She found herself in the hallway of a house, “I’m in the kitchen,” a voice called out. It was Oona’s grown up, her inside voice. Ni loved that voice. It was so soothing, almost intoxicating... She entered a bright, sunny kitchen, and contrary to her expectations, it was a sunlit modern fitted-affair with a breakfast bar, a tall metallic fridge and a restored Aga.

Oona was leaning against the counter wearing a pink, faded David Cassidy tee-shirt and a washed-out denim miniskirt. She was sparkling and beaming, “You were expecting a hovel with no running water?”

“No...” Ni had a second thought, “Yes.”

“’Yes’, because I know what you’re thinking. You know you can’t lie to me, and why should you want to? What terrible secrets do you harbour, Niamh Fitzgerald?”

“None. Mum always says I’m an open book. Paddy is always saying I talk when I should listen.”

“Exactly! You’re as honest as the day is long!”

“Not if you count fibs and white lies.”

“I don’t.” Oona ran a finger across the marble counter-top, “This is where we were when I made that little connection today,” she chuckled, “he was doing me right here and I was thinking of you. On my wedding day! How mad is that?”

“I thought I was having a fit!”  said Ni, too fascinated by her surroundings to complain. She tried to open a drawer, but her fingers passed through the handle.

“See. You can’t touch anything, You’re a ghost in this world. Try it now.”

This time she felt the handle; the drawer slid open; she put her hands inside and touched the cold steel of the cutlery.

Oona smiled, “See. I can make it real for you, I can make you feel what I feel.” Her attitude changed, she looked at the floor and said, “I know it was a bit naughty to catch you unawares today, but it’s only a demonstration of the things that I -- we -- can do.”  

“And you’re taking me on honeymoon with you?” Ni asked, still trying to take it in.

Oona looked up, winked and said, “Didn't someone once say: ‘travel broadens the mind’...?” 

She gave Ni a little wave goodbye. The scene bleached-out to white. The connection was broken. She was awake and Oona was gone. She was back in the car, sober and slightly scared; because there was another, smaller, more urgent voice crying out from her subconscious: 

“Can you live with Oona Umbert living in your head?”

To Be Continued Next Month in Dream a Little Dream of Me

[paulhudd]

Spindlefreck: Pt.19: The Soul Destroying Secret Curse of Tutankhamun’s Tomb

Ireland, 7000 years ago:

At midday, in the depths of the ancient forest the ‘Güül called home, in the shade of the huge enchanted tree, the prisoners who would come to be known as the Darkly Martyrs -- a quintet of disgraced wizards, sorcerers and mystics dressed in plain hessian shirts -- were marched up the steps and into the dock to face the court. It was hate at first sight as far as the public gallery was concerned and the respectful silence was broken by a cacophony of whistles, catcalls, jeers and a few well-aimed rotten eggs and mouldy tomatoes. In the centre of the dais, with the black robed and cowled Grand Council seated either side of him, the presiding Judge rattled his gavel, called the proceedings to order, and warned the missile throwers to stay their hands or they’d be forcibly ejected. Once the crowd had settled down, he cleared his throat, adjusted his robe, smoothed his long silver beard, gripped the lectern, and in a voice as dry and as brittle as tinder, solemnly addressed the dock:

“Blist! Merfi! Zöch! Bezeel and Nedi! You stand before this court having been convicted of wilfully utilising dark magic for your own ends thereby committing Crimes against Nature. Transgressions punishable by death...”

A large section of the crowd cheered the word ‘death’.

The Judge fetched them a reproachful glower, then continued, “... and although it is the unanimous verdict of this court that you are guilty of these crimes, we cannot execute you.”

The crowd registered their disappointment with a loud awww and a few disgruntled whispers about social inequality, ‘one rule for wizards and another for the rest of us!’

The Judge ignored the groans and went on, “If we killed you and allowed your spirits to Ascend, we have no guarantee that you will walk into The Light. Due to the knowledge and power you have accumulated in your long lives, your ghosts would prove as formidable a force as your living flesh, and we are not prepared to take that chance. No. The only way we can keep the Earth safe and maintain the integrity of this Reality is to hex your Souls and contain you indefinitely. Therefore, you will be cursed and buried alive for as long as the Natural World survives, your Immortal Souls henceforth bound to this realm until The End of Days.”

The crowd weren’t at all pleased with this outcome, they were looking forward to an execution, and so it seemed were most of the prisoners! Merfi, a hermetic wizard from the Darkly Woods and the oldest and most respected of the five, stepped forward and cried, “Have mercy, my brothers! Kill us and let us step into The Light -- let us Ascend -- no ‘Güül wants to be a disembodied spirit shacked to this realm!”

The crowd erupted with a fresh round of jeers, whistles and heckles. The Judge hammered the lectern with his gavel and demanded “Silence!” then answered Merfi’s plea, “No, I cannot take you at your word, you’ve told too many lies already. You have shown yourselves to be most unscrupulous, deceitful and downright slippery.” He turned to the others, “Do any of the rest of you wish to make a final entreaty?”

The tall, imposing French alchemist known as Bezeel stepped forward, looked along the line of cowled accusers and beseeched them, “We are innocent, my brothers! We did what we did in pursuit of the demon! We made mistakes, yes -- but our endeavours were for the benefit of the coven! We planned to use his dark magic against him!!”

The judge leaned forward and with eyes ablaze, pointedly replied, “Then how do you explain the Rift -- the monstrosity you kept hidden, the greatest abomination in supernatural history?”

An appreciative hubbub rippled through the crowd. The rows of cowled Councilmen nodded as one.

A tubby old eccentric necromancer from Wales known to most as Parswald Nedi, piped up in a girlish whine, “It was a simple spell derived from ancient runes used in good faith! We didn’t know he’d corrupted them! We did not intend to cause a schism, my brothers! T’was an honest mistake!!”

The Judge shook his head firmly, and acidly denied him, “Then why didn’t you come to us straightaway and alert us to the situation, dear brother?! No, you continued your nefarious experiments in secret without a thought for their impact on the Material World. For instance, when we issued the warrant for your arrest, you went on the run -- and most of you used the Void to avoid capture!”

The crowd merrily applauded the Judge’s righteous rejoinder.

A fourth man, an asexual Assyrian mystic who travelled under the title of Prince Molton Zöch, justified the collusion with a contemptuous aside, “We knew the penalty for our crimes -- you can’t blame us for trying to escape -- any one of you would've done the same!”

The crowd reacted with another volley of abuse.

The Judge once again called for silence, this time adding another warning: “This is not entertainment! This is a respectable court of law!! Any further interruptions and the culprits will spend a day in the stocks!”

The crowd were duly chastened.

He then turned his attention to the wizard who hadn't yet spoken; a tall, silver haired but youthful, arrogant but brilliant sorcerer from Persia called Zomber Blist. “Have you nothing to say for yourself, brother?” the Judge asked, “you proved the hardest man to track down -- it’s taken us 10 years to catch you and bring you to justice!”

It was apparent that the poker-faced Persian had resigned himself to his fate; he nonchalantly examined his fingernails and casually replied, “As I learned long ago, my lord, there is no point wasting one’s breath on deaf ears and closed minds.”

“Better a closed mind than a warped mind, mate,” the Judge grumbled under his breath and then returned to his closing remarks, “The five of you meddled in matters you knew could disrupt the metaphysical status quo. By creating the ‘Mirror World’, or ‘the Void’: the infamous ‘Wizard’s Rift’, you have violated the Laws of Nature the Vondragüül are sworn to uphold. What’s more, you have made us vulnerable by providing our enemies with a new avenue of attack! -- for portals work both ways, as well you know, and you’ve created a gateway to anywhere in the Multiverse -- simply by accessing a common looking glass!” He looked to the public gallery, and included them in his solemn reminder, “Just as The Prophesy predicted, we stand at the dawn of a new age, my beloved sisters and brothers; one where magic must be kept hidden at all cost. Rites must be performed away from prying eyes; no more human sacrifices, no more exhibitions for the amusement of the locals at festival times. No more moonlight orgies or creating Familiars! Human beings are becoming more enlightened. They’re asking questions of each other, philosophising, applying logic, studying the Natural World. Long-held beliefs are becoming the stuff of myth and legend! What’s worse is they’re writing it down -- keeping records! We must not give them anything supernatural to latch onto, something that could divert their thinking and affect the natural progress of human civilisation! It goes against the central purpose of our mission!” 

The crowd grumbled but dutifully nodded. The new laws were cramping their style; midnight orgies and human sacrifice were ancient traditions that everyone enjoyed, including the general public. 

The Judge turned back to the wizards, hectoring them like a disappointed father lecturing his wayward sons, “Wise men can be blind to what’s going on under their very noses. They’re so wrapped up in their intrigues they can’t see the wood for the trees. You did the devil’s work the day you created the Void, and you knew it. You weren’t bumbling, callow apprentices who’d stumbled upon an untested spell; you were perfectly aware of the risks of infection when you embarked upon this insalubrious enterprise.” His eyes narrowed, his voice deepened as he spoke  from the heart, “One only has to look upon your tainted auras to see the extent of his influence. He could've beguiled you or cursed you -- you could be unwitting dupes or willing disciples -- dead or alive. Who knows what iniquitous thoughts he may have planted in the back of your brilliant minds?!” He paused, straightened his back, then continued in a low, officious, tone, “You will be cursed and taken to a place deep in the forest where you will be wrapped in treated muslin and interred in unmarked graves at least 3 fathoms deep and 18 feet apart.” He banged the gavel three times, bowed his head and announced, “The rite will now begin.”

The Council obediently bowed their heads, closed their eyes and began to intone the enchantment.

Save for Blist, the occupants of the dock frantically and loudly protested!

The crowd sat back, crossed their legs and enjoyed their screams for mercy in satisfied silence: it mightn't be as exciting as an execution, but it’s better than nothing!

As the chant grew louder, a pair of solemn-faced African drummers sitting either side of the dais began rolling out a steady rhythm; after a few bars, the Judge stood up, threw back his head, opened his arms -- the capacious sleeves of his robe unfurled like white angel-wings as he raised his hands to the sky - and began singing harmony in a higher octave, his voice soaring over the Council’s morbid drone; simultaneously, the magicians clasped their hands to their heads and groaned in agony as the curse took hold and they began to lose control of their minds...!

Then the Council abruptly stopped chanting! The drummers abruptly stopped drumming! Closing his eyes and slowly clenching his hands into fists, the Judge’s voice dropped to a grumbling bass as he slowly and solemnly intoned the closing words that completed the incantation.

The crowd gasped as a strong breeze suddenly rushed through the forest, rustling the foliage and parting the treetops to allow blinding rays of high noon sunshine to pour through the upper branches and throw a dazzling spotlight on the cowering convicted. A shower of dry leaves spilled down from the tree and swirled in a little whirlpool in the space between the dais and the dock. A few seconds later, the breeze relented, the foliage stopped rustling and the sunlight dimmed; the Martyrs’ purplish auras likewise faded to barely-perceptible pale-lilac halos. As the flurry of leaves stopped twirling in the air and gently floated to the ground, so the wizards’ heads drooped; their arms dropped limply to their sides. They were now hexed and insensible.

Spell cast, the Judge lowered his hands, opened his eyes and announced in a morose, defeated tone, “This session is adjourned. Take the prisoners down.”

Now completely docile and utterly mindless, the five were herded from the dock without much difficulty. The guards used the butts of their spears to usher them along as the crowd erupted yet again with another chorus of boos and hisses; some ignored the Judge’s previous warning and pelted them with rotten vegetables; some shouted ‘Traitors!’ some shouted ‘Demonspawn!’ others yelled ‘Evil Witches!’

However animated they might have been, the majority of the crowd still weren’t entirely happy with the sentence. They wanted executions, and not just to satisfy their bloodlust. To the average Güül, simply cursing and burying rogue wizards endowed with such expertise and power seemed a tad lenient, if not entirely injudicious. Five of the most dangerous men in the Universe buried a matter of yards from their front door?! It was a subdued and gloomy crowd that wandered home to dwell upon its reservations.

A few days later...

Early one morning, just as the cock crowed, the old Judge was awakened by one of his bodyguards shouting through his chamber window, advising him that there was a delegation there to see him. The Judge looked out and observed a group of disgruntled early-risers -- farmers, goatherds, shepherds and the like -- gathered around the doorstep of his cottage. Intrigued, he went out and received them at once without a thought for propriety. His long silver beard mussed and askew, his oversized nightshirt fluttering in the breeze, he stood barefoot on a huge exposed root of the enchanted tree and asked them to state their business. 

A fretful shepherd tapped the earth with his staff and said, “We feel a slight tremor, my lord. We fear it might be coming from the Martyrs’ graves, so-we-do!”

The others nodded in a agreement and said ‘aye’.

The Judge jumped down, fell to his knees, put an ear to the ground and listened closely; after a few seconds’ meditation, he said, “Hmmm. It’s them, alright, I recognise the energy,” he looked up at the concerned faces, “... but don’t be afeared, my dear brothers -- tis far too faint to do us any injury. Completely safe, believe me!” he trilled, cheerfully.

But the delegation was unconvinced by his jolly reassurance and continued to probe:  “Do you reckon they could be tryin’ to burrow out of their grave, Judge? Are they after revenge, is that what it is?!” asked a tremulous, ruddy-faced pig farmer.

The Judge met each query with a patient smile and a succinct explanation, “Listen to me brothers, they are utterly entranced and immobilized; this is simply their energy building up in the ground because it has nowhere to go.”

“Well, it’s makin’ my sheep very jumpy! They don’t like it, my lord,” the fretful shepherd protested, “and we were always told to watch the animals, cos they’e always the first to know!” 

“It’s absolutely safe, my brothers, it won’t get any worse,” insisted the Judge, still smiling, “and the animals will get used to it, you see if they don’t!”

“But will it infect the grass or the oats? Will it sour the milk?!” asked a worried goatherd.

“No, I keep telling you, this is nought but a gentle tickle on the soles -- feel it!!” he tittered, looking down at his wriggling toes.

Word got round. The denizens of the forest were waking up and coming out to see what the fuss was about and within minutes the crowd doubled in size. It was plain to see by their worried faces that everyone had qualms about the Martyrs’ sentence, and this was the perfect forum to voice their nagging concerns:

“How can we hibernate with their dark magic seeping through the earth?” -- “What if someone inadvertently undoes the curse and releases them?!” -- “What if they astrally project?!” 

The questions came thick and fast, but the Judge kept his head and maintained his jolly demeanour; finally, he climbed back onto the root, waved them down and told them once-and-for-all, “Listen to your wise Master, my sisters and brothers; let me assuage your fears. We in the Grand Council have been devising curses such as this for many thousands of years -- and I can assure you, the hex is too  powerful and complex to be unravelled by anyone other than it’s creators. The so-called Darkly Martyrs’ power is contained, they are locked in permanent stasis! And this tremor -- more of a little tingle,in my opinion -- is merely your highly-attuned supernatural senses alerting you to the presence of dark magic -- but it is as harmless as the morning mist! Look here,” he put his hand under the collar of his nightshirt, pulled out his little silver amulet and held it up, “Feel your charms! Eh? Are they not cool?” he said, rubbing the tiny pomander betwixt his bony thumb and forefinger.

The crowd dutifully followed suit, pulled out their amulets, fingered the little silver bud and eventually nodded an affirmative.

“You see?! What more proof do you need?” the Judge cried, “if this leakage was in any way virulent our amulets would be too hot to handle! There is no danger, believe me, I give you my word: -- The Martyrs are completely enchanted, they will sleep in the earth until the end of This World!”

The crowd weren’t entirely placated, but reluctantly took him at his word. They shuffled back to their tree houses, huts and shacks still grumbling about the stay of execution. “Shoulda killed ’em!” a dissenting voice loudly remarked, within the Judge’s hearing; the old man harrumphed about them being a "shower of morbid bastards” and went back indoors to get dressed and have his porridge. The guard stood outside the little chamber window and shouted in, “Pay no mind to ‘em, they’ll come ‘round, my lord. It’s just going to take some getting used to.”

The Judge’s head popped out, his beard flipped over the sill; he called the soldier hither and whispered, “I can’t blame them, brother -- they can tell I’m not entirely convinced myself. And they don’t have to read my mind either, it’s written all over my face!”

“Well then... maybe we should dig ‘em up and kill ‘em, my lord? What harm could it do?” offered the guard, with a couldn't-care-less-shrug.

The Judge dismissed the notion out of hand, “Didn't you hear me when I passed sentence? It’s much too risky! They’re more dangerous dead than alive...” He shook his head, regrouped and pooh-poohed his silly misgivings, “No, don’t listen to me, it’s alright. I’m just being overanxious and pernickety. The spell is unbreakable. The leakage is unfortunate, but completely harmless...” the head disappeared back inside.

“So... why do you still sound so unsure, my lord?” the guard enquired.

The Judge couldn't answer him truthfully so he pretended he hadn't heard and stole into the kitchen to splash some cold water on his face - then stopped in his tracks: There’s the trouble right there! he thought to himself, looking at the old oval mirror hanging above the washbowl. He cupped his hands, dipped them in the cool water and splashed some on his face, then gazed at his dripping reflection and reflected on the facts he couldn't divulge to the crowd, the unspoken fear he and the Grand Council shared: that the Martyrs’ adventures might inspire younger magicians to turn their talents away from their purpose and devote themselves to the demon’s work. Ambitious adolescents trying to make a name for themselves by creating mischievous spells is one thing, but a lifelong fascination with the dark stuff can lead to distraction and infiltration, and if the Dark Scholars’ grimoire was ever uncovered by an unwitting disciple and the demon gained access to the Void -- there was no telling what might happen! The entire psychic community would be in deadly peril! Worse still, the 5 could be freed to wreak a cataclysmic revenge on the coven’s descendants!  His descendants. Once upon a time, the chances of that happening were infinitesimal, the demon was firmly ensconced in the Middle East and would be for some considerable time. But the creation of the Rift had completely levelled the field, “Every mirror is now a potential portal,” he muttered, touching the glass, looking into his own, sorrowful eyes. 

There was one consolation: the Martyrs’ grimoire stated that only a complete glass could be utilised, so the Judge issued a Council Order that every witch’s mirror must henceforth be crack’d. They kept one intact in a remote village on the coast of NW Donegal just in case they needed access at some point in the future, but from that day forward, all magicians & witches were forbidden to own, make or purchase a looking-glass that wasn't in some way flawed . 

The new rules did nothing to defuse the doubts of the rank & file. No one felt entirely safe inside their heads anymore.

From then on, a quiet jitteriness descended on the forest and psychic activity dropped to an all time low. The forest-dwellers began to avoid certain areas at certain times of the day and stuck with their own people. Most stayed indoors after nightfall and no one went for walks on their own. Children spooked each other with tall tales of vengeful ghosts haunting the rocks at the foot of the table mountain. Someone claimed they saw the glowing, purple spectre of a Martyr hovering by the old disused well. The old Judge turned a deaf ear to the rumours, safe in the knowledge that those that weren’t entirely fictitious, were the product of overactive imaginations; but even if their fears were irrational, they still cast a shadow, and some folk began to move away to fresher, less gloomy pastures: ‘better safe than sorry’, they’d say. Tensions reached a peak when the ancient enchanted tree began to die. Its magical powers diminished causing rotten branches to fall from the precipitous upper reaches, cracking heads, breaking bones and wrecking homes. Most saw it as vindication of their fears and reservations, indicative of the malaise that had infested the forest since the Martyrs’ controversial interment, a sure sign that their way of life was not set to last. As a result, the population dwindled as the centuries passed, and generation after generation, Master after Master, Judge after Judge watched with sadness as the tree slowly succumbed to petrifaction and became but a monument to their glorious past.

5 thousand years later, an ill wind blew across the land. Telepathic communications from the Mediterranean and Western Europe had been rife with warnings about a new global threat: the combination of Empire and Religion: control over body and mind -- indoctrination as the route to absolute power -- and now the menace had finally arrived at their door. 

As is the tradition when any new ideology inserts itself into the popular consciousness, there has to be someone to blame for the decadence once enjoyed by the recently converted, and sure enough, a Roman slave-turned-Christian-missionary called Patrick turned up and proceeded to foment fear and unrest with talk of Original Sin, devil-worshipping witches and an afterlife of everlasting torment in the eternal flames of hell! One midsummer dawn he led a bloodthirsty mob into ‘Witches Wood’ in order to ‘exorcise’ the enchanted tree and round up as many forest-dwellers as they could find. Then they cut down the tree and used the timber to fuel a series of what came to be known as ‘the holy cleansing fires’... only a few Güül survived.

The burnings marked the beginning of a brutal reign of terror: the era of Trial by Ordeal. Witches were hunted down and made to suffer days of physical torture then death by immolation; all in the name of their One True God, the Virgin Mother and their son, the Holy Saviour.

According to The Prophesy, the Güül Messiah wasn't due to arrive for another 1000 years; in the meantime they had a stark choice: assimilation or incineration.

So began the Secret Life...

By the early Middle-Ages, the remaining Güül had insinuated themselves into English society and eventually amassed enough wealth & status to purchase the land that included the forest. In those days, if you knew what you were looking for, the Martyrs’ resting place was easy to find; the ground was bare, bereft of vegetation, no birds nested in the surrounding trees, the soil too polluted to produce anything other than a freakish, multicoloured fungi, and so a series of castles, great halls and stately manors were built on the Martyrs’ graves. The last of these, a huge Georgian mansion known as the Ivy House, built by ‘the first’ Sir Arnold Lumb in the the last years of the 18th century, is still home to the Lumb family and their staff. They are the remaining descendants of that forest-dwelling coven: the Sirens of the Vondragüül...

The Ivy House

July 1924:

Main Kitchen: Dressed for dinner, in full white-tie-&-tail, carrying a small calfskin-leather briefcase, Pritchard strode into the mêlée, cutting & weaving and ducking & diving his way through the busy bodies as they ran around the long, heaving kitchen table, putting the finishing touches to the gargantuan centre-piece (Pritchard insisted on an Egyptian theme, complete with a huge Sphinx and three specially iced cakes in the shape of the Pyramids at Giza; he wanted to give Carter a night he would remember). He narrowly avoided getting a scalding hot shower when he almost ran into one of the cooks carrying a cauldron of consommé; he had to jump sideways to avoid a heavily laden trolley on its way to the dumb waiter, shouting “XAVIER!!” over the uproar, “who’s seen Xavier?! Eh, eh?” He called to the scullery maids, whisking cream at the top of the table, “You two -- have you seen Xavier?” They made sour faces and pointed to the tradesman’s entrance, to a card school sitting on the flight of stone steps leading down to the darkened yard. Pritchard stood in the doorway, casting a long shadow over the game; the usual crowd: stable hands, gardeners, drivers and bodyguards , strained to see who was blocking their light. Xavier was easy to spot; the big chauffeur’s bald headed and broad shouldered silhouette dwarfed the rest of the pack. Pritchard crooked a beckoning finger in his direction. Xavier nodded and thought, <Be right with you, sir.>

“No. Now. I have to be back upstairs in time for for the main course.”

There was a disgruntled murmur amongst the players and quite a few muted curses. They’d all worked for Bernie Pritchard at sometime in their long careers and they all had an axe to grind, but he didn’t care about them or their petty feelings, and they knew it; to him they were feebleminded half-bloods and lazy mongrels with no discernible skills beyond their current vocations, if they’d suffered the sharp edge of his tongue on certain occasions, they probably deserved it. Xavier, though, was a different proposition entirely. Like everyone else, Pritchard was quietly in awe of Sir Arnold’s illustrious driver. The 7ft tall, mighty ancient African had the respect of everyone in the coven, and Pritchard had always felt woefully inadequate in his presence, ever since he was a child and the big man was his part-time bodyguard. Xavier saw right through him. He was one of the old guard, one the Ancient Elders, the ones who can live for centuries on minimum hibernation and never wither or look any older; he’d seen it all and done it all, and he’d encountered ambitious young upstarts like his current Master’s grandson many thousands of times before. He had no more respect for Young Master Bernard now than when he was a 5 year old tearaway who always sulked until he got his own way. Pritchard’s only consolation was the knowledge that, despite his thousands of years of experience and the things he’d seen and endured, Xavier had chosen a life of servitude over ambition, something Pritchard couldn't comprehend and secretly despised him for.

That’s why Xavier refuses to kowtow to Pritchard’s unreasonable demands. He refuses to applaud his little successes. He refuses to wash his flashy new cars. He takes his sweet time when he’s called. Pritchard swallowed his pride and asked politely, “Please, Xavier; before I’m missed.”

The shiny headed silhouette slowly and reluctantly rose to its feet, silently excused itself from the game and laboriously climbed the steps one at a time. Barefoot, clad in a white singlet and grey jodhpurs, loose braces dangling over his hips, a white towel slung over his shoulder, he paused a few steps from the top so that he could look up into Pritchard’s eyes, <What can I do for you, Master Bernard?>

“I’ve got it!!” whispered Pritchard, holding up the briefcase, backing up into the kitchen, putting a finger to his lips, “but we can’t talk here -- somewhere quiet. I don’t want any of those snoopy lassies hearing something juicy and starting rumours,” he said, eyeing the gossipy whiskers conspiring at the top of the table. He pointed to the connecting door, “We’ll go to the House of Rest.”

They went through the old stone archway and down a short, wrought-iron staircase into the labyrinth of low-ceilinged, slate-floored passageways that eventually led to the lower chambers of the South Wing and the door to what was referred to as ‘the chaplaincy’, although it bore no real resemblance to a Christian church besides the design. It’s been years since it last saw a funeral, the rows of urns lining the tiers of shelves around the room hadn't increased in number since the mid-19th century; now they had the longevity potions and proficient plastic surgeons, nobody had to die anymore.

Pritchard struck a match and lit a lantern at the back of the room, the brightening flame slowly illuminating the full-length paintings of his deceased ancient forefathers lining the upper-walls. He looked up at their dignified, unsmiling faces and grinned triumphantly: Boy, are you gonna be proud of me now! They sat side-by-side in the last row of pews and Pritchard put briefcase on his lap, flipped the brass clasps and opened it, “I got these a couple of minutes ago -- straight from Carnarvon’s sweaty mitts -- I couldn't wait to see let you see them!” he said, excitedly, removing a large buff envelope containing a block of 8x4 photographs, “These are the first images from inside the tomb, the ones I told you about; they’re well-lit, high-resolution close-ups of the cartouche, see?” He held one up to the light, “See the runes midst the hieroglyphics?! Eh, eh? What do you think of these?!”

Xavier nodded appreciatively as he appraised the detailed images of the old stone carvings. After a minute of close examination and deliberation, he delivered an equivocal verdict, <They are indeed Güül runes, of that there is no doubt. It appears to include text and symbols for an incantation. Hmmm. But it needs to be decrypted and analysed by our scientists and expert sorcerers before we can make a determination as to their authenticity. That said, whomever is responsible is very gifted scribe; they have gone to a lot of trouble to present us with a tantalising mystery...>

“Decrypted?! Mystery?! What?! You mean they’re in code -- what are you saying?!” spluttered Pritchard, wholly aggrieved at the driver’s caginess and lack of enthusiasm.

<The demon was at large in Egypt at the time of the Boy King. Nothing from that era can be taken on face value.>

Pritchard didn’t want to hear this, “Aye, but, I mean, no -- I mean come on!! It’s The Prophesy?! It all fits ... Everything in the scripture points to this: the Boy King, the discovery of a tomb in the 20th century... Of course it’s the fucking final chapter of the Prophesy! It has to be! What else could it be?!”

Xavier looked past his former charge’s fit of pique and calmly replied, <I was not in Egypt when Tutankhamun died; none of us were. The demon was too powerful; we had to keep our distance. Like most Güül, I went north, out of range. But there were many charlatans in the Pharaohs’ court during that era, humans who dabbled in the demon’s magic. It is possible that he could have beguiled one of them and had them carve these runes before they sealed the Boy King’s tomb.> Xavier raised an eyebrow and asked: <Didn't they teach you this in Junior Temple School?>

Pritchard snapped back, “Listen matey, if I was you I wouldn't go around claiming to be the world’s greatest authority on Güül history when I can’t even recall where I was born, nevermind how ‘n when I got the tongue ripped outta me gob!”

Still stony faced and unblinking, Xavier replied, <It is true that my memory is not what it was. I have been tortured many times then resurrected by our physicians. Each near-fatal experience damages the brain; large chunks of memory are lost from my psyche. It also gives one a fresh perspective on the Life in the Mind. That’s why I chose the life I’ve lived, Master Bernard. I have indeed ‘done it all.’ I have indeed ‘seen it all’. I’ve been a slave for 2 thirds of my Earthly existence because not having to think for myself gives me more time to dwell on higher things. ‘One day at a time’, as cook would say. These days I like to play cards with my friends, I like to hear the laughter of the children in the kitchen; I like to listen to the gentle purr of the limousine as I drive the Master around this beautiful countryside,> he handed back the prints, <I do not like to be coerced.> 

Pritchard saw the glint of malice in those dark eyes and was duly chastened; he apologised by breaking into a scattergun-excuse, just like the scheming child Xavier used to babysit, “Look, Mr X, cut me some slack -- this isn't one of my ‘schemes’! It might seem like I’m hustling you, but it’s just cos I’ve spent a small fortune on this and I’m under a lot of pressure to come up with the goods! If this-here is the bona-fide missing chapter of the Prophesy, I’ll be a hero! Golden! The old man will be proud, I’ll be promoted in the Temple -- the coven will get its long-awaited final revelation! You can see why I’m a wee bit anxious ‘n impatient, can’t you?!” He held out the prints and begged him, “I can’t afford to fly to the Middle East for a powwow with ancient mystics, and since the crystal balls are out of bounds, there’s no way of reaching the Elders in Southern Africa. But a man like you with your connections, you could transmit these images straight into their psyches in an instant. They could be working on it in a matter of minutes... Please take a closer look.”

Xavier took the photographs back and took a second look and reconsidered. <They are very intriguing... Do you know any ancient ‘Güül, Master Bernard?>

“I didn’t pay much attention in Writing Class, but I know The Prophesy off-by-heart and the penultimate chapter says that the final revelation will be found in the tomb of a ‘Boy King’! And look -- there it is!”

Xavier couldn't entirely disagree; it was too much of a coincidence to dismiss out of hand. But he had every reason to cynical. It had been so long since the last revelation that the Prophesy had for the most part been consigned to the fiction section, written-off as an anachronistic compendium of riddles & parables inscribed by a bored Güül sorcerer during the 2nd Epoch. If this was indeed the final revelation, it would validate the previous verses -- the repercussions could be momentous -- everyone in the psychic community could be affected, for better or worse. 

Twitching on tenterhooks, Pritchard watched the chauffeur flip through the prints, and had to ask, “I may be jumpin’ the gun, ol’ son... but  now you’ve had a good look at them... I mean, are you gettin’ anything from them... are you, I dunno... getting, like, a niggle in the pit of your gut that tells you it’s the genuine article...?”

Xavier’s face gave nothing away, his thoughts were just as flat, <No. It is too early to determine anything other than a few words.> He nodded, <I will consult with the other Elders, but be warned: it could take many years to decipher. You will have to be patient.>

“We haven’t got that long!! I need this translated well-before the end of the century!! The old man will go down for one more hibernation and then he’s...” Pritchard paused when he saw his companion’s eyes narrow with scorn, “Don’t give me that look, I’m just being realistic! If the penultimate story of the Prophesy is on the money, then Sir Arnold is to be the last of the Old Masters and his death signals the End of Days!”

Xavier nodded, <His brain may be deteriorating, yes, but he is still a wise man. One of the wisest Masters I’ve ever served...>

“Yes, I admire your loyalty, but you of all people know how this works. He will have to name his successor, and you can’t blame me for making sure my name is at the top of the list!” Pritchard tapped a finger on the sheaf of prints, and consoled him with a pleasant thought, “just think, Mr X: this discovery will be his legacy! If this is genuine, we’ll complete The Prophesy! What a way to send him off, eh, eh?!”

Xavier repeated his warning, adding, <complicated spells can cause chaos across the realms if mistranslated or misinterpreted. We must be rigorous in our endeavours. We will not present you with our findings until every detail has been scrutinised and every nuance has been thoroughly explored.>

Pritchard patted his back, “Yeah, yeah, but most importantly I need to know if they’re the real deal... ideally before the old man goes down for his hibernation. I want to tuck-him-in with a smile on his face...”

They heard the distant bong of the dinner-gong sounding in the entrance hall above.

“Bugger -- gotta go!” Pritchard placed the briefcase on the big driver’s lap, jumped to his feet and vigorously shook his hand, “I’ve hired 4 body builders and dressed-them-up as Egyptian slaves to carry the centre piece and I wanna see the look on Carter’s face when they bring it in! It’s gonna get a big laugh and a standing ovation!” then he got serious for a second, and said, “Consult with everyone you have to -- but start tonight!”

Xavier spent a moment in the half-light and examined the photographs again; then he gazed up at the full-length portraits of the old Judges for a moment, then his gaze dropped to the old slate floor. He dwelt for a while on the infamous case of the 5 sleepers, 3 fathoms below, and wondered, is this what the coven has been waiting for? Or is it what they have been waiting for?

From that night on Xavier became wholly consumed with those ancient runes. If this was going to be done, it would be done properly! Once he was 100% certain they were as Master Bernard said, ‘the real deal’ - i.e. carved by a scribe versed in Güül calligraphy - he mentally transmitted the images to his fellow elders around the globe and asked for a second opinion. The feedback was overwhelmingly positive and inspired him to throw himself into the task; no more card schools, no more idle chatter, no more daydreaming. So, just like a man mentally poring over a cryptic crossword clue, or spending hours silently mulling over a tricky chess move, he went about his daily chores and worked the riddle around-and-around in his mind; rereading it, reading it backwards; shuffling the symbols, spinning every nuance, mixing in the text of the surrounding hieroglyphics to replace missing words, he searched for the hidden key that would unlock the code and give up the last passages of The Prophesy. His enthusiasm became infectious. He opened his research to any interested psyche and consequently drew many followers from all over the psychic community. Very soon there was a network of telepathic acolytes mentally poring over every connotation, turning every combination. By the late-1920s, there were Güül scholars from four continents working on the text.

Pritchard was a fully-fledged policeman by then, the Judge’s ‘inside man’ in the new regime’s security force. He wore a dark grey captain’s uniform and worked incognito, only visiting the Ivy House on special business, using Temple membership as an alibi. It was on one such occasion, whilst attending to paperwork in the Judge’s study, that Xavier, dressed in full chauffeur’s uniform, his cap under his arm, knocked the door, clicked his heels and informed him, <I have consulted with every Elder and scholar on the planet and we have at last come to a consensus,> he thought, holding up the calfskin briefcase, <the results are in here.>

Stunned but excited, Pritchard ran around the desk, brought the big man in, closed the door behind him and made a fuss, “So soon -- blimey, that was quick! -- I’d resigned myself to another 10 years at least...!” he chittered, as he escorted his guest to a huge leather armchair by the fireplace, “You've decoded it, you say...?” He asked, nervously, hovering, bracing himself for the verdict.

Xavier’s expression gave nothing away, <Many minds make short work. You were lucky you found these when you did. 30 years from now would've been too late.>

“Why... what do they say?”

Xavier announced the findings: <The text is grammatically perfect, the style of lettering is the type used by Güül sorcerers around that time. As for the incantation, on the surface, it seems perfectly innocuous ...>

“Xavier. Just tell me they’re the real deal,” Pritchard asked, wearily, twitching with suspense.

Xavier opened the briefcase, <It would appear so.>

“YE-ESSS!!” exclaimed Pritchard, jumping and punching the air.

Somewhat peeved by the Young Master’s unseemly display, Xavier went on, <They predict the rise of oppressive fascist regimes, the rise of communism, and warn of another war during which (humans) will create weapons with the power to destroy everything that exists on this planet. It talks of an uneasy peace between East and West...>

Pritchard hurried him along, “And the spell itself -- what’s it for?”

The big Chauffeur paused for a second and then answered, <... it is an orgiastic ritual formulated for the propagation of the Güül Messiah. Only when he is born can the Prophesy be fulfilled.>

He’d almost forgotten about that bit. The Güül Messiah. The 'Chosen One’ who would one day defeat the demon and deliver them from this world and into the next. The euphoria soon wore off as the implications became apparent., “Oh... bollox.... It isn't a silly myth then... The Prophesy is true...? Ssshite...it’s on us...” He put a hand to his brow and slowly lowered himself into the armchair opposite the big chauffeur, “ What the hell do we do....?”

Looking grim and perturbed, Xavier took some pages from the briefcase, handed them to Pritchard and explained, <The next war is our first priority. You must convene the Grand Council; the covens need to prepare themselves. Only when peace-time comes can we can turn our attention to the ritual,> he removed a few more pages and handed them over, <I have transcribed everything; but I must stress: under no circumstances are you to intone the incantation aloud until the night it is performed.>

“I wouldn't worry about that, old man; it’s all Greek to me!” Pritchard chuckled, scanning the series of overlapping loops, figure-8s, triangles and rectangles.

Xavier: <If the Council agrees to its implementation, I will supervise the rite. But it is crucial that we follow these precise directions. Our meteorologists must keep us informed of changes in weather conditions; the astronomers must keep us informed of the cycles of the moon and the planets... then there is the music. The incantation will take much practise, we’ll need to train a band of drummers... choir rehearsal ....>

Sensing his disquiet, Pritchard rapped the desk, “Well....? What is it now, man? What’s got you so worried, eh?”

The big driver looked down and confessed, <... Now that I’ve read the full transcript, I feel that... how you say: a ‘niggle in the pit of my gut’. I have shared my reservations with the scientists, but they disagreed; since there were no obvious dangers or unstable elements involved, they are inclined to err on the side of caution, arguing that the conditions are perfect and if it is done at all, it must be done this century, we’ll never get this chance again. They recommend that you advise the Grand Council to sanction its implementation... But, I am sorry, I can’t ignore my ‘niggle’.>

“Well, we can’t afford to ignore The Prophesy, either! We’re talking about the next stage of our evolution! The Messiah versus the demon, then our ultimate salvation!” said Captain Pritchard, in a patronising tone, sitting forward, waving the relevant pages at the doubtful driver. “It all fits, Mr X! ‘It is written’, as they say! This is the missing chapter -- and I got it!” He smiled wistfully to himself as he skimmed the summary, “So, that’s it then, is it? There’s gonna be another world war and then we make a baby?”

Irked by his former ward’s careless attitude, Xavier shook his head and warned, <It is not so simple. The mother must be a thoroughbred Siren. The father must be an aristocrat from a particular region in France...>

Pritchard glibly interjected, “That’s easy -- we’ll use Electra, she’s French -- it’ll save getting a translator.”

Xavier was appalled: <Electra? She’s unstable, Master Bernard! She is a dreamer, not an active participant! She imbibes. We can’t be sure she will look after him properly...?>

“All we have to do is adopt the baby as soon as it’s born,” Pritchard replied, with a haughty shrug of the shoulders.

Xavier shook his head again, <No. The instruction forbids our interference: it must be allowed to live its life unaware of its circumstances; it must find its own path to our door.>

“Then I’ll keep a close watch on them from a distance!” Pritchard was getting exasperated by his companion’s constant negativity and told him so, “Stop whingeing, will you? It’ll all be hunky dory! And don’t worry about our Ellie, she’s married now, she’s settled down, she can’t behave too badly...” The reassurances hadn't smoothed the furrow on the chauffeur’s troubled brow. He sighed impatiently and asked in a weary voice, “What’s the matter now?”

<Impregnating a fully-fledged Siren in the forest during an untested rite is inviting danger, Master Bernard. If this (spell) is a trap set by the demon, it could unleash forces we cannot control.> Xavier reached down and tapped a fingernail on the wooden floor, <One tends to forget that this house is built on the graves of the Darkly Martyrs; their energy is still rife in the soil. If this spell was fashioned by one of his unwitting disciples, and we perform it in the woods as directed, an unforeseen release of negative energy could potentially free their spirits. The central bone of contention amongst sorcerers, mystics and scientists: will the spell create a ‘Messiah’ destined to deliver us, or regenerate monsters with the power to destroy us?>

Pritchard threw up his hands, “You said the majority of experts were erring on the side of caution, well, I’m willing to take their advice over the qualms of a humble chauffeur, if you’ll pardon my candour -- and anyway -- look here!” He jumped up, went to the big bay window and yanked the drawstring that opened the curtains to let the last gleam of daylight flood the room, “Look at that sunset, there’s nary a glimmer of violet in the sky, not even a hint of lilac in the corona! Ergo -- he’s weak! -- it’s gonna take a long, long time for him to be any problem. The Namibians told the old man so!”

<He is weak, they said, because he has been imprisoned for at least a thousand years and his powers are at their lowest ebb. At present he is probably infesting insects and animals, building his strength, biding his time, waiting for the right human host to cross his path. But he is on our soil -- on our doorstep [See Part 3] -- he will strike some day, mark my words; he has all the apparatus he needs to wage a psychic war. Never underestimate the demon, Master Bernard. I’ve heard it said so many times before: all he needs is a Sensitive host with an impressionable mind.>

Pritchard gave him a dead-eyed stare and told him in a flat, petulant voice, “I’ll call an emergency meeting of the Council, tell them what it says and what the scientists advise. Thank you, Xavier. That will be all.”

The chauffeur immediately stood to attention, dutifully bowed and left the room feeling twice as anxious as when he arrived.

Of course, the Grand Council voted to implement the spell. They were all old men long past their prime and keen to make their mark before they expired. The years passed, and just as the text foretold, the world succumbed to fascist dictators and red tyrants, and sure enough in 1939 war was declared. Güül undercover agents were effective and thwarted the Reich’s experiments with sorcery and ‘black’ magic, hence the covens emerged undiscovered and relatively unscathed. Sir Arnold went down for his last hibernation and slept through it, thus, with no Judge to answer to, Pritchard’s iniquitous covert businesses boomed during hostilities -- black marketeering proved highly profitable to man whose official job it was to collar racketeers; he enjoyed himself immensely and made a fortune into the bargain. But at night, he’d dutifully study the text of the final revelation, consult weather maps and astronomers’ charts to determine the exact date and time of the ritual. Then, a few years after the war was over, on a night forecast to meet the runes’ stringent conditions, the hand-picked participants gathered in the forest and performed the ceremony to the letter. Although still hesitant and wary, Xavier was on hand to ensure there were no deviations from the scripture, but it was a nerve-shredding experience for all involved. As the rite rolled toward its climax, he, along with many others, closed his eyes and braced himself for a sudden explosion of negative energy, in the event, it passed-off without incident or catastrophe. There were no obvious side-effects, no sudden influx of dark energy; the Martyrs’ spirits didn’t rise from the grave and wreak revenge; no change in the natural order, no off-colour auras, just a huge sigh of relief when the lovers reached a crescendo and the world was still in one piece.

Then nothing for years.

The child, Ivan, was little more than a mongrel; he showed no sign of being The One. Then one fateful day he inadvertently intoned a spell he heard on the table mountain that turned his infant daughter into a monstrous goblin [See part one] and Xavier’s deepest fears were at last realised.

The niggle in his gut was ‘on the money’. The runes were a curse after all. The spell was indeed the last revelation of The Prophesy, but it had been manipulated by the demon. It was evident that he’d influenced the scribe and written himself into the Grand Scheme. And today, 50-odd years from the discovery of those runes in the Boy King’s tomb, as far as the Güül are concerned, it truly is the End of Days. Their defences are crumbling, telepathic communication is impossible, the demon roams the Spirit World. and the coven is indeed in deadly peril.

The youngsters are turning into monsters; you only have to look in the trunk to see the consequences of our folly, mused Xavier, keeping to a steady 80mph as they headed North East toward the border, preparing himself for even worse to come.

Lady Beth lazily rapped a bejewelled knuckle on the glass partition, her bored voice whispered breathily through the crackly intercom, “Prepare another shot of chloral hydrate, if you would, Xav. Mr Gosling is restless again and we’re almost at the border; can’t have him leaping out of the trunk and biting a customs officer, can we darling?”

Xavier obeyed his mistress’ voice and once again pulled over onto the hard shoulder, fetched the desired potion from the glove-box, filled a syringe with the required amount and walked around to the rear of the car to give their reluctant passenger the needle. He looked along the road and waited for one last truck to pass before opening the trunk. He pulled away the blankets to reveal the hirsute, hog-tied wolf-thing that was once Guy Gosling, snarling and spitting through his gag, writhing, clearly in some discomfort. It is true what the mistress said: he looks like a wolf-man, thought Xavier, shaking his head disapprovingly, as he jabbed the needle into its rump, never in all my years of walking this earth have I seen anything like this.

Gosling’s gleaming eyes widened, his long, sharp canines bit into the gag as he howled a muffled ‘noooooo’. Xavier waited for his body to go limp before covering him up and slamming down the lid.

Never in all my years... 

2nd November 1988

Coast of NW Donegal

Pascal’s Pub; 10:55PM GMT

“Bernie!”

In an empty, dusty upstairs guestroom, standing in a beam of lilac-moonlight, dressed in a long, flowing black greatcoat, its ghoulish countenance hidden under the wide brim of a black felt fedora, the translucent spectre of Bernie Pritchard watched a familiar face form in the rippling mists of the wardrobe mirror.

“Why, if it isn't little old Electra Cochrane. Long, long time, no see, hmm?” said the phantom, in a dull voice devoid of humour. “I knew a few old acquaintances would call when the cleaner replaced this mirror. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”

His aura exuded malice, she could tell he wasn’t happy to see her, but time was too short to waste quarrelling; the Void was sucking her dry! She pressed her fingers against the inside of the misty glass and implored him, <I can free you from your haunt -- but you have to come with me NOW!> her tiny voice cried, as if yelling from the foot of a mountain.

“Why -- what’s wrong -- what do you want from me?” the spectre grumbled, suspiciously.

There was a short pause, then the rippling visage returned and the voice came back, <It’s all falling apart! We need your help -- come with me -- what have you go to lose?!>

Hmmm. What did he have to lose? He had been cursed to haunt this remote, empty tavern for a long, long time now, and the nightly re-enactment of his death by machete was beginning to wear a bit thin to say the least [See part two]. Most of all he’d come to despise the deceased Landlord’s repertoire of portentous laments and mawkish dirges dedicated to the spirits of the women he’d slain; rendered in his inimitable sob-cracked falsetto, the maudlin recital usually lasted from 11 at night to 6 in the morning, and Pritchard hated every minute. In fact, it was getting harder to bear than the bloody re-enactments! Then again, he didn’t trust his former confederate one bit; she had a tendency to be more trouble than she was worth. The spectre turned back to the mirror. “Are you dead?” it asked, bluntly.

The tiny voice yelled, <Yes. That’s why I don’t have much time... C’mon Bernie -- come inside!!>

“Why are you still here? Why didn’t you Ascend?”

<..................I stayed back... to help Danielle!!>

The spectre rocked on its heels cackled, then sneered, “I knew it -- I friggin’ knew it! You can’t even be trusted to die right! You couldn't let it lie, could ya?!”

<It doesn’t matter why I did it, we need you! Come on -- cross over now! We can’t stay here much longer!>

He was taken aback -- “We? You mean to tell me Dani’s with you?! But how the f---”

She interrupted, <I trapped her in my imagination! But she’s not a bit happy about it! She’s struggling and the Void is sapping me -- this needs to happen now!>

Dani certainly was struggling and she certainly wasn't happy. The Void, or the Mirror World or the Wizard’s Rift, or Mirrorland -- whatever the dickheads call it this week -- was her idea of hell! -- In fact, if she remembered rightly -- she died the last time she came in here [See part 9]!  She might be half-demonspawn and immune to the traces of dark energy drifting through the ether, but she had the feeling that someone was looking over her shoulder, and when you don’t have a shoulder to look over, it can be pretty disconcerting. It’s hard to concentrate on anything while that crazy old bat is screaming through a mirror! She was just building up the energy to yank her metaphysical hand from her grandmother’s grasp, when an even stranger feeling crept over her. Her Essence quivered with a familiar shiver -- a semi--pleasant shiver that didn’t give her the creeps: traces of another living Soul in the vicinity! But its Aspect was troubled. It was weak and fading. <There’s somebody out there who needs help! Let go of me, ye ol’ witch, I have to go and see...!> she cried.

Alas, Electra kept her grip, but it wasn't going to hold for much longer! She used what energy she had left to surge as hard as she could -- her ghostly, outstretched hand reached out of the mirror, into the room, and beckoned him hither.

Pritchard turned and looked out of the door, into the inky darkness beyond the top of the stairs and listened: McGill had begun his one man show; the first verse of the first dirge was drifting up from downstairs and in approximately an hour’s time, he’s due to be chopped to pieces. What’ll it be? The usual haunt or the Great Unknown? He turned back, took her hand in his gloved fist, and said, “Let’s go.”

Meanwhile: <Let go, y ‘oul witch -- there’s someone in here and I know them...> screamed Dani, fighting for all she was worth -- when she was suddenly silenced and momentarily dazzled by a flash of ultraviolet light as her grandmother hauled a dark amorphous shape through the little rectangle and into the grainy, grey-black soupiness of the Void. It quivered like jelly for a few seconds then duly solidified and morphed into an unmistakeable figure: the dead man who just won’t lie down. When she saw who it was, Dani made her objections plain! <Oh gawd no, I’m not going anywhere with that bastard, missus -- not in a million years! He tried to sell me to a laboratory! He used me to make a deal with demon so that he could get Jamie! He’s the worst person I’ve ever met in my life!> said Dani, looking the apparition up-and-down.

Pritchard was too preoccupied with his surroundings to heed the heckling, he'd taken in the ambience and decided he didn’t like it, <We have to get out of here fast -- where’s your portal?!>

Electra pointed up at a glimmering, rippling blue circle above them. <Follow me!> She said, and braced herself for projection -- Dani jerked her back -- <Wait! Hold on a minute!! I feel a presence -- we have to help them --!> Her voice was drowned out by a loud rumbling, like the sound of a big, heavy bowling ball rolling slowly but steadily along an empty ballroom floor. Something was coming at them from somewhere -- they could feel its negative vibrations in their Essences!

Pritchard grabbed Dani’s other hand and cried: “Do it Ellie -- do it now!”

Dani didn’t have time to think let alone fight back -- before she knew what was happening they’d wrapped themselves around her and spun her like a top, twirling her upwards and out through the moon-shaped puddle in the sky -- there was another flash and they popped through the wobbly purple moon of the Fairytale Land dreamscape, and back down into the picture book woodland landscape. But this time things aren't so idyllic. There are no cartoon owls hooting in the woods. No cutesy squirrels scurrying up branches. No fluffy bees buzzing around the rose bushes. Little Red Riding Hood’s granny’s little tumbledown cottage has unfortunately tumbled down: the demonic woodcutter has chopped it to pieces and burned the debris in a huge bonfire: all that remains is a smoking crater filled with simmering cinders. That said, there was no sign of the demon himself, just the residual crackle of negative energy and the stultifying pall of dread he usually leaves in his wake. Electra and Pritchard stood by the smoky hole and took stock of the situation.

The spectre turned in a circle and commented, dryly, “So this is your imagination, eh? It’s not very imaginative, is it? Looks like it came from the mind of a disturbed child! Downright scary, if you ask me!”

Electra looked into the smoking crater explained, “It might look infantile, but its simplicity was its strength. This was my special place. Nobody knew about it. No matter how bad things got in the Real World, I was always safe here. It’s a dreamscape within a dreamscape within a dream, impossible to find...?” she stopped when they heard a distant yell that got louder as it got closer -- then Dani fell from a tree and landed with a bump in a bush, sending a flurry of cartoon leaves into the air! She staggered around in a daze for a moment or two, but as soon as she got her bearings, she approached them, rolled up the sleeves of her red hoodie and shook an angry fist, “That was a really shitty thing to do, you bastards! You had no right to drag me back -- he’s out there and you just don’t care, you’re more interested in savin’ your own Souls!” She pointed a finger at the spectre, “Cuz you know who’s out there, dontcha -- I recognised the signature ‘n so do you -- it’s Jamie! We've left him out there alone in the Void! We should’ve went lookin’ for him!”

Unmoved, Pritchard nodded and bemoaned their lot without a hint of genuine regret, “She’s right, I fear. The instant I came through the mirror I sensed his presence in the ether; he’s my brother, after all. But I also sensed the demon, and he’s takin’ no prisoners today -- that ball of negative energy comin’ for us would have devoured us in the blink of an eye!” The shadow stooped a little and spoke to Dani, “There’s a full moon. He’s omnipotent. He’s not going to let anybody get in his way including you -- he has Jamie where he wants him, and he intends to migrate before midnight.”

“Why midnight?” asked Electra.

“That’s when the spell expires. See, it releases a wave of negative energy that gives the demon the power to escape his human host, enter the ‘Sphere and make an enforced migration -- but he has to possess Jamie tonight, before that energy dries up, or he’ll be forced to return to his host.” He looked at their faces and chuckled, “Don’t get your hopes up, ladies, remember: it’s Young Master Jamie versus the most diabolically-devious, most powerful psyche in the Multiverse...” Then he sighed theatrically and said in a sympathetic voice, with a little hint of schadenfreude, “I’m afraid he’s punching well above his weight.”

“If he possesses the Young Master... then what?” gasped Electra.

“Then? He’ll harness his superior telepathic abilities to infect the entire psychic community. There’ll be nothing. No dreamscapes, no Psychosphere. No Life in the Mind. He’ll locate ‘n eat the Soul of of every last Güül; then he and Jamie will take over the family business, and you know what that means...”

“No. What does that mean?” Dani chimed, distrustfully.

“With our organisation’s resources and political connections?” said Pritchard, “It would be the end of the world as we know it; sure, that’s the demon’s ultimate objective: The Destruction of life on this planet.” He stood up, looked up at the badly drawn pentagram-shaped stars and spoke with the confidence of someone with all the answers, “It all hinges on your anointed Chosen One. This is Jamie’s destiny. This is his fight. Be possessed or be destroyed; he must sacrifice his Soul to save our race...” The spectre turned to Electra, “well done, Ellie, you set the wheels in motion by luring him into the Void.”

“She did what?!” grumbled Dani, crossing her arms, getting angry.

Shocked and baffled, Electra shook her head and tried to explain, “I didn’t mean to do it... I mean,I didn’t lure that boy. He must have come after Danielle,” she muttered as she slowly came to her senses and realised what she’d done, “... he must've got trapped on the way through...”

“All part of the demon’s plan, you silly bitch! You didn’t double-cross him -- he triple-crossed you!” snickered Pritchard.

“I knew you were up to somethin’,” yelled Dani, “You just wanted me here so Jamie would come after me!”

Electra shook her head and held out her arms in a plaintiff gesture of surrender, “I meant to save you! I did all this to put you back the way nature intended -- I didn’t know the boy would come after you! That’s why I chose the night of the attack, I thought no one would dare come in here while he was on the offensive...” She turned to her former pimp, pusher and partner in crime, “Bernie -- tell her! Tell her I wouldn't do anything to put her danger, tell her how much I love her!”

The spectre shrugged and snorted, “What good will it do, woman? -- Look at her -- you’ve handed the demon her beloved Young Master on a big silver platter! She hates you! And to be honest, I don’t blame her.”

Electra was tearfully confused, “Why does none of this bother you?! Why are you revelling in our despair?! Don’t you care what happens to Danielle?!”

His voice lowered to a grumble as he beheld the little red riding-hooded, blonde-haired avatar, “See this one, here? She’s caused me nothing but effin’ trouble! Ever since she was born she’s been a royal pain in the arse, just like her idiot father and her feckless grandmother before her --  she won’t do as she’s told, she can’t keep her claws to herself -- she’s a dim-witted dreamer who doesn’t know a wand from a willow twig!” Then he tilted his head so that his face was illuminated by the bright purple moon; it was a patchwork of scars and stitched skin, the nose was missing, there was nothing between his glowing eyes save a dark, egg-shaped hole. He saw Dani flinch and sneered, “Aye, looks painful, doesn’t it, chile?” his eyes blazed with hatred as he told her, “Your father did this to me. He had the strength of a dozen men, but he wasn't invincible. He wasn't bulletproof. And when he died, I saw his Soul eaten by the same dark energy that’d mutated him. And when they kill you this time, oh little Danielle, just like your father, you too will be consumed by the demon’s power.”

Electra was aghast to hear such talk - was he trying to scare her? But Dani wasn't at all insulted or unsettled; she winced and waved away the words as if he’d just belched them in her face, “Blow it out your arse, Pritchard,” she chandered, dismissively, “this is all your bloody fault -- you caused this disaster. If it wasn't for you and her and your stupid schemes, everybody woulda lived happy ever after!”

“You can’t be happy ever after if you don’t exist, and that’s what will happen if the demon manages to take up residence in Jamie,” he replied, in the same carefree manner, “but there’s no point crying or fighting it -- according to the last chapter of The Prophesy this is how it’s meant to be. This is the last stand,” he winked and added, tantalisingly, “... well baby, it’s your time to shine.”

“Oooh yeah....?” she asked, suspiciously.  

He nodded and said, “You can save us all from Soul Death and oblivion. You can save your beloved Jamie Jameson-Lumb from possession. All it takes is one word.”

Dani closed her eyes, groaned, stamped a foot and cried, “Not this shite again!”

“Is that right...?” Electra asked, “She has to say his name...?”

Pritchard shushed her and kept up the pressure; he pointed at the smoky crater and argued, “Why do you think he tried to stop you from saying it? Don’t fight it! It’s your destiny, Dani. It’s why you’re here. It’s why you exist.”

Dani cocked her head and enquired in a thoughtful tone, “How can I be sure that if I say it it’ll save Jamie?”

“If you believe the final verse of The Prophesy, as we all do, and you believe that Jamie is our Messiah -- then this is the Final Confrontation. Good versus evil -- and it’s a foregone conclusion that evil will prevail. But the demon didn’t reckon on you, Dani. When you were mutated instead of your father, it threw a spanner in the works, and ever since he’s been saddled with a silly little girl who is too fickle to follow orders. A little girl who’s outlived her usefulness, but refuses to die. That’s why you’re Jamie’s only chance. You’re the only one with the power to save him and send the demon back to his host. All you have to do is say his name and break the spell.”

Electra was about to ask another question when something relevant and perturbing suddenly struck her. After a moment’s dithering, she timidly put up a hand, gave him a feeble wave and hesitantly informed him, “Umm... you know, Bernie -- I reversed the spell -- and, ahh ... mirrors were used during the rituals... does that matter...?”

She jumped back and cowered as he suddenly lurched forward -- eyes ablaze, gloved hands balled into fists -- and bellowed, “What the hell are you talking about woman?!”

She cowered, gulped and explained, “...the ‘Sphere is teeming with negative energy... I suppose the Void was their only means of entry ... I wasn't to know they’d both cast the spell with mirrors...”

“They BOTH USED MIRRORS?! There were TWO RITUALS?! And then YOU REVERSED THE SPELL?!” wailed Pritchard, unable to comprehend the extent of the woman’s stupidity nevermind the enormity of the catastrophe!

Electra backed up slowly, speaking quietly, “Yes, I reversed the spell so... so that it would have the opposite effect... so that it would turn her back into a little girl... Like I said, I double crossed him...?”

He was finding it difficult to keep his composure, and asked again in strained staccato falsetto, “But - they - both - performed - the ritual - with... MIRRORS?!”

“... Yes...is that... really... bad?” stammered Electra.

Pritchard was about to explode again when he realised, “Wait a minute  -- Jamie and who else?!”

Electra nervously replied, “Well, there was the Big Bad Wolf...”

“Who?! Who was the Big Bad Wolf?!” he cried.

Dani gleefully piped up, “It was your old pal -- Goz!!”

“Gosling was here?!” he bawled, looking from one to the other.

Dani cheerfully supplied the relevant information, “Oh aye. First of all he was a cowardly, cartoon-y wolf, then he turned into a real nasty werewolf, ‘n then he staggered about for a bit, howled in agony and disappeared in a puff of purple smoke! He didn’t look too healthy, if ye ask me!”

“... and he told her not to say the word,” added Electra.

“Not to say the word...?” Pritchard repeated, then went into in a series conniptions comprised of utter despair, seething anger and outright frustration -- he stomped his feet, shook his fists and cursed through gnashing yellow teeth, “That two-faced, vainglorious, treacherous, self-serving bastard!! I knew I couldn't trust that big streak o’ piss not to fuck things up -- I should never have let him talk me into it...!”

Oh-ho! So he has got something to do with this, after all. Dani and Electra crossed their arms, tapped their toes, raised an eyebrow and nodded: tell us more.

He reluctantly and grumpily expounded, “You’re not the only one who’s contacted me via that mirror recently, Ellie. Young Master Gosling showed up a while ago with a special request. He said there had been an incident, Jamie had manipulated him by an act of puppetry and made a fool of him on live TV; he’d been humiliated and he wanted to get revenge [see part 10]. He wanted to use the spell Ivan heard on the table mountain; all he required was the whereabouts of Ivan’s scrapbook. I told him Dr Rossington had it.”

The women scowled.

Pritchard was unrepentant, “I never thought he’d actually go through with it. OK, I thought he would turn Jamie into a talking baboon or something -- but it sounds like he was out to play the hero, for reasons known only to himself. Another glory hunter is my guess. Alas, he didn’t figure one mirror into his equations, nevermind two. Sounds like he’s in a lot of pain...” he muttered, wistfully, as if the notion brought him a sliver of solace.

“Why, what affect would the Void have on the spell?” asked Electra, innocently.

He was so astounded by her ignorance he could barely contain himself, he waved his arms and spluttered a patronising tirade, “It fucks-everything-up!! It’s like a huge, metaphysical washing machine! It makes magic unstable -- it spins, it unravels, it warps and inverts! That’s why you should never cast a spell with a looking glass in the room; it’s far too dangerous -- a spell like this could cause chaos across the Multiverse!”

“So... if she says the word now... what effect will it have?"

“Effect?! A reversed spell filtered through two mirrors during simultaneous rituals?! The possibilities are fucking endless!  It could change her back to a little blonde bitch or it could turn her into a bigger, uglier monster, it could turn her into giant aspidistra -- or it could cause an explosion that tears apart the entire Spirit World! There’s no way of knowing now!”

“But you wanted me to say it. What did you think would happen?” asked Dani, still cross-armed, still tapping her toe, still wary.

He shook his head and turned away, “It doesn’t matter now...”

She caught on immediately, “It would have turned me into a monster again, wouldn't it? I would've died in a hail of bullets, wouldn't I? My Soul woulda been eaten!!”

He nodded, “Uh-huh, but you would have saved Jamie and the Psychosphere,” he said, this time with regret, “What’s the use. It’s all academic now. You can’t say it. You could obliterate us all.”

Dani suddenly had a thought; she gave them a cockeyed look, cocked her head, put a hand on her hip and said, “This is a double-bluff  isn't it? And yer man Goz is in on it! You don’t want to help Jamie -- you want him to die...?” just as she said the word ‘die’, a black cloud blotted out the moon and a bolt of forked-lightning flashed across the sky -- a crack of thunder shook the glade -- the earth quaked beneath feet! The darkened dreamscape trembled, trees began rustling in the shadowy cartoon forest as the atmosphere thickened with encroaching menace! They heard stomping, heavy footfalls and the crunch of twigs in the bushes all around them accompanied by the sound of wheezing and sniggering!

“What’s going on here -- are there any other characters in the story?!” asked Pritchard, as his head jerked left & right.

“No, just a woodsman, a wolf and us,” replied Electra, getting frantic, “I don’t know who it could be...!”

“Well they don’t look too friendly to me,” said Dani, as a pair of red glowing eyes appeared in the darkness amidst the trees to their right; simultaneously, another pair appeared on their left, then straight-ahead, then another, higher, further-apart pair appeared up amidst the treetops on the opposite side... soon they were surrounded by a  ring of fiery eyeballs of all sizes, shapes, shades and heights; and as the cloud slipped away from the purple moon and the landscape brightened, they saw of what they were up against:

“They’re characters from the other fairytales ... giants, ogres, bears and wolves, but they’re mutations -- they look feral!” cried Electra. But that wasn't all; the cast included evil versions of the heroes and friendlier types: the Seven Dwarves were now a septuplet of evil little trolls drooling and licking their lips like they hadn't eaten in weeks! The mice that pulled Cinderella’s pumpkin coach had become vicious-looking giant rats with lashing, scaly tails! The Three Little Pigs were hook-tusked boars brandishing carving knives and meat cleavers!

Unimpressed, Dani scoffed at her companions’ faint-heartedness and merrily called across the glade, “What’s the problem, playmates? Get lost on your way to the Halloween Parade?”

Every creature, from psychopathic elves, to angry Wicked Stepmothers, to a very ferocious looking Three Bears, took a step forward, singled her out, and hissed as one: “Say the word! Say the word! SAY HIS NAME!”

Dani put her hands over her ears, squeezed her eyes shut and screamed at the Purple moon...

“AAAAAARGH!”

...

Outside, in Real World, the flesh & blood Danielle Cochrane, the green, scaly creature the staff had dubbed Goblin-Girl, presently sleeping behind the bars of the Ivy House dungeon, snoring quietly, her muzzle dripping with dribble -- suddenly grunts in her dream! The guards jump to their feet, raise their rifles and brace themselves for a sudden transformation -- then she licks her lips with her long, reptilian tongue, grunts and returns to her slumbers -- the men sigh with relief, sit down and resume the vigil.

It was shaping up to be a long, long night.

They decided to move Jamie from the basement to his room in the sanatorium; there was no need to keep the dreamers in such close proximity now, and if anything did happen and Dani mutated into something they couldn't control, then at least the Young Master would be safely out of harm’s way. He was taken by stretcher and carefully deposited on the 4-poster in his room in the sanatorium where Carla propped his head up on a heap of cushions and pillows and set the little mirror next to his face. Ogden Castle, the Lumb’s rotund family butler, knocked on the door and entered the Young Master’s chamber, only to find to find his niece gazing distractedly into the little mirror -- he walked up behind her and squeezed her shoulder, “Don’t be getting any ideas, Carrie. Silver Siren or not, you would’t last 5 minutes in there now. By rights I should have smashed it once we knew it was a trap.”

“But we need it -- it’s his way back,” she said, setting it back on the pillow.

“It’s also the demon’s way out,” said Castle, sitting on the ottoman, shaking his head forlornly, jaded by the evening’s events and the seemingly insurmountable odds facing them. “I’ve just been down in the kitchen talking to the staff, trying to put their minds at ease... as if that were possible. The amulets are red hot, boiling in the pot.  Everyone is expecting the worst, and I can’t blame ‘em after hearin’ that ‘confession’ [See part 18]. We watched the television news while I was there. The host is called Barry McKee. He shot and killed a man on the estate tonight, so that accounts for the Soul Death and the timing of the activity. He also tried to kill that policeman, Harkness, tied him up in a room and rigged the door with a booby-trap bomb. The police got him out and defused the device, but It all goes to prove that the demon has forsaken him and he’s out of control. That means the demon must migrate tonight or he’ll be forced to return to the body of killer on the run, and that doesn’t bode well for his future. In other words, he’ll pull out all the stops to get what he wants...” Castle looked at the floor, “and there’s no telling what the Martyrs’ role is in all this, or if they’re part of it, or whose side they’re on....All-in-all, the odds are stacked against us.”

“Jamie won’t let us down. I know it,” said Carla, assuredly, running a finger across the Young Master’s untroubled brow.

“Listen to what I’m tryin’ to tell you, Carrie. I hate to say it, but if he does survive, it’s unlikely that he’ll return as the man he was before. I can’t speak for Miss Danielle’s predicament, but his psyche can only last a few hours in there before everything just shuts down or...”

“... He dies?”

Castle pointed to his temple, “... he becomes a man possessed.”

Jamie woke up in a strange bed. A single bed. A hospital bed...?

What’s this? A dream? An illusion?

Or is it the Real World...?

He sat up and looked around. Sparsely furnished room. Tiled walls. The smell of disinfectant. Voices outside the door: lots of bright ‘good mornings’ and ‘how are you todays’ accompanied by the intermittent chirping of rubber soles on polished floors; doctors and nurses. It is a hospital. Has the family brought him to one of their ‘clinics’? Has he been in another coma?  His body seemed to be unaffected. He didn’t feel ill, just a little fuzzy-headed... and cold; a peculiar, disconcerting chill in the marrow of his bones...?

Then it came to him: I’m still in the Void. This is an illusion.

There was a knock at the door, and a scruffy, longhaired, bearded man in his mid-to-late 30s, wearing blue striped-pyjamas and filthy trainers, edged into the room on tiptoe, like a crab on its hind legs, keeping his back to the wall and his beady eyes glued to the crack in the door. He called over his shoulder as he kept watch, “Here she comes, JJ, here she comes! Stand by for lift-off!” He turned and crept toward the bed, like a mad-eyed, overacting mime playing a prowler, whilst whispering so rapidly Jamie had trouble understanding him: “Remember what I tol’ ye, right?! Remember what we agreed last night! All sensible and straight-faced! You wuz stir-crazy, right?! Keep yer cool, say you’re sorry ‘n tell ‘em you’ll be a good boy, got it? -- you wuz stir-crazy, right?!” he babbled, in a thick, Northern Eastern English accent, probably a Geordie.

Jamie crossed his arms, sighed and asked in a bored voice, “Who are you and where am I?”

The beardo flew into an exaggerated fit of frustration, slapping his brow, pulling at his pyjama top and flapping his elbows like he was doing The Chicken, “Oh fer fuck’s sake, JJ -- don’t start this shit again!” he hissed, “not today, bonny lad!! I thought you ‘n me was tight, right?!” He leaned on the headboard so that he loomed over Jamie and stared down at him. He looked quite mad. Jamie backed up and pulled the covers up to his neck, “Please go away.”

The beardo thumped the bed with his fist, “You gorra snap outta this, right? No more crazy spiel about witches and demons, right?! This is your last chance before they --”

A harsh female voice cut him off, “Mr Cummins!”

The freak immediately jumped back from the bed, pulled himself together and tried to act natural. 

“You were warned about coming in here!!” The voice lowered to a reproachful growl, “Go down to the canteen and get your breakfast! Now!”

He scratched his chin through his beard and muttered, “... Just came in to borrow a magazine, doc... sorry... see ya later, JJ...” and slouched out.

The owner of the fearsome voice -- a chunky, frumpy, stern-faced, short-haired, copper-headed 30-something in an oversized cream turtleneck-sweater, denim miniskirt, hooped white tights and pink running shoes -- shook her head disapprovingly as she closed the door behind him, “Thank God we’ll be rid of you in a couple of days...” she mumbled under her breath as she approached the bed. She spoke in an educated, patronising middle-class English accent that made her sound more like a dominatrix than a doctor. There was no stethoscope, no white coat, just a clipboard and pen. “Now!” she said, and sat down on the chair by the bed, crossed her legs tightly, put her clipboard on her knee and donned a pair of large, thick reading glasses that magnified and intensified her cold, green eyes, then politely, albeit frostily, enquired, “how are we feeling today, Jamie?”

Here we go: playtime! “We feel fine,” he replied, smiling, sitting up, eager to see how the plot would develop.

The enlarged, unblinking green eyes narrowed; that wasn't what she wanted to hear. “Hmmm... Do you feel frustrated? Angry? Are you thinking about harming yourself...?” she asked, looking down at her clipboard, clicking her pen, ready to tick the appropriate box.

Jamie continued to smile and shook his head as he answered, “I’m not fooled by any of this, you know. I can still feel the chill in my bones. I know I’m still in the Void. You can ask me or tell me anything you like, but I know what this is. It’s an interactive dream, isn't it?”

She made a face, and asked with an affected, disinterested shrug, “So... you don’t remember yesterday?”

“Umm... it was a big hit for the Beatles?” replied Jamie, vaguely.

Again, it was obvious she wasn't getting the responses she expected or needed. She sat back, crossed her arms, and spoke in a dull, disbelieving monotone, “Soooo. It’s going to be this way today, is it Jamie? We’re back to this again, are we?”

He made a face, shook his head, put up his hands, shrugged and said, “Why, what way would you like it to be? How am I supposed to be? I have no clue unless you tell me.”

“I’ll tell you what it means!” she said, angrily, counting-off a list on her fingers, “CT scans, extensive psychotherapy, hypnotherapy, you’ve been tested for everything from schizophrenia to epilepsy! Your cognitive abilities are fine. You have no trouble understanding and interacting; you have empathy; you know right from wrong; you can hold an intelligent conversation when it suits you. As far as we can see, aside from a possible borderline personality disorder, there’s nothing wrong with you! So why do you do this?!”

“As I said, I have no idea what you’re talking about or why I’m here,” he said, tittering under his hand, “This is very good, though, I have to confess... her reactions are priceless...”

She was at a loss. She slouched in her chair and with defeated look on her face. Then she regrouped, sat forward, took off her specs, and implored him in a softer tone, “Listen to me, JJ, after what happened yesterday it’s very likely you will be put in the Secure Unit. You don’t want that, do you? I don’t know what you hope to achieve, but I implore you -- cut out this crazy act now, before it’s too late.”

Jamie remained unmoved, “Hmm, using the term ‘crazy’...” he read her name tag, “Dr Sloss? As I far as I know it’s taboo these days, bit like ‘midget’ or ‘retarded’ or ‘senile’, isn’t it?” he chided, cheekily, giving her a sly look, “not very professional, Dr Sloss...?”

Her eyes narrowed to twinkling slits! She held the pen as if she was going to stab him in the throat with it! Shaking with rage, she whisper-screamed, “What are you?! You have no feelings... there’s no remorse -- you’re stuck in this stupid routine?!”

“What routine?”

“THIS FUCKING CHARADE!!” she cried, indignantly, waving the clipboard.

Jamie coolly and cheerfully replied, “I couldn't have put it better myself, doc,” then, in an act of defiance, he lurched forward and snatched the clipboard out of her hand, “let me see, now, what exactly have you been saying about me...?”

She leapt to her feet -- snatched it back -- whacked him across the forehead with it and shouted, “Never, ever, ever do that!”

Ouch. He certainly felt that. If this was a dream it was remarkably interactive and vivid. But he still wasn't fooled. He rubbed his brow, kept smiling and continued to upset her applecart, “Very unprofessional, Dr Sloss.”

She was incandescent and utterly unrepentant, “If you make a complaint I think the board will be very lenient -- and after all I’ve been through, including yesterday’s incident -- no jury in the land would convict me if I put a pillow over your face right now and finished the job!”

“Yesterday! Yesterday! What happened yesterday?” he yawned.

Jamie had achieved meltdown. She couldn't take it anymore. She shook her head with disbelief for almost a minute before slapping her knees and throwing in the towel, “That’s it! I’m done!!” Then she stood up and shouted out: “BOYS -- he’s ready!”

The door opened and a pair of tall, stocky, cross-armed, suede-headed, taciturn orderlies dressed in white vests and matching trousers, stepped into the room. He gave them a little wave and asked, “And where am I going exactly?”

“Stop pretending like you don’t know,” she said, fetching a dressing gown from a hook on the back of the door and throwing it onto the bed.

“Do either of you two know?” he asked the taciturn orderlies.

They scowled but remained silent.

“Today is the ‘Day of Judgement’, if you want put a name to it,” said Dr Sloss, proudly, putting the clipboard under her arm. “We've done all we can. It’s up to Dr Mondale now. He has the last word.”

Jamie leapt out of bed, “That sounds utterly delightful. Maybe he can tell me why I’m here?” he sang, getting up, putting on the gown and slipping his feet into a pair of unlaced, dog-eared white sneakers he assumed were his.

As he belted his gown, she looked him up and down, said ‘bastard’ under her breath, then pushed past the orderlies and stormed off without a fond farewell or a go to hell. The heavies closed in, took an arm each, then marched him out and down the busy corridor. Jamie took the harassment with good humour, “Is this about what happened yesterday? Am I under arrest? Did I kill somebody? Steal their pills?” he chatted, as they harried him along, “hey, dude! Don’t I get a wheelchair?” he quipped to a passing geriatric -- the old man recoiled in abject terror, as if he’d been accosted by the devil himself! And he wasn't the only one; the further along he went, the more he it became apparent that he wasn't at all popular; everyone, staff and patients alike, beheld him like he was an infamous murderer, or, dare he think it: a psychopath? By the time they reached the elevator, he was starting to feel somewhat paranoid. The mirrored wall at the back of the car was broken; it looked like someone had hit it with a blunt object, “Oh, seven years bad luck, right there! Hope we don’t get stuck between floors, lads!” he bantered, running a finger along the haphazard mosaic of cracks and splinters.

The taciturn orderlies glared, accusingly.

“Huh?! You’re not going to tell me I did this?!” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Their sullen faces and baleful silence said: yes.

“Looks like I’ve been a very naughty boy!” he trilled.

The bell rang. They shoved him out onto the 3rd floor and rushed him down a small flight of steps into another corridor; carpeted with red runners, the walls oak-panelled and festooned with Victorian landscapes, it was a lot quieter than the wards; the only staff  here were secretaries and filing clerks, sitting at antique desks in old, tastefully decorated, French-polished offices. The trio arrived at another, shorter passageway rife with the reassuring aroma of pipe-smoke and peppermint; no sounds other than the distant clickety-clack and whirr of a busy electric typewriter. They went to a panelled door marked with a shiny brass plate that read: Mondale M.D., PhD; Doctor of Psychiatry. One of the orderlies knocked. A second later, a male voice said, “Come in” and they walked Jamie into a long, large high-ceilinged room and sat him down on a chair in the middle of the floor facing a large desk, then backed-up and assumed position either side of the door. “Very ‘Cuckoo’s Nest’ this, isn't it?” he joked, squinting at the silhouette behind the desk whilst shielding his eyes from the startling rays of the morning sun pouring in through the twin eyebrow-windows behind him. From what he could see, Dr Mondale was the academic-type: late-50s, plain suited, balding, greying, clean-shaven, wearing horn-rimmed reading spectacles and an untroubled air of authority. After writing in his notes, he put his elbows on the desk, entwined his fingers and addressed his bemused guest in a light, well-cultivated, educated English accent. “Well, Mr Jameson-Lumb, we meet for the 5th and final time,” he said, in a polite, light and reassuringly placid tone.

“I’m sure we do,” replied Jamie, brightly, still smiling, still shielding his eyes. “Hey this is a bit like The Prisoner - I must be No.6! You must be No.2!” Jamie laughed and shook his fist, “I am not a number! I am a free man!”

Mondale failed to see the joke and went on, “Ahem, your case worker, Dr Sloss, tells me that despite intense mental therapy you haven’t deviated from your original story. Is that right?”

“My original story?”

Mondale looked down at his notes, “Your insistence that this is all a dream; ‘a situation created by a supernatural entity in order to weaken your resolve and cause you to succumb to demonic possession’. You still hold that view, do you?”

Jamie thought about it for all of a second, “Hmmm, well, I don’t remember saying it, but that sounds about right... so I suppose the answer would have to be: yes. Yes I do.”

“... You believe you belong to a coven of witches bent on killing this ‘demon’ and saving the universe, is that right?”

“Sounds a bit mad when you put plainly like that... but... yeah?”

The doctor lifted his pen, wrote a note, and said, “You seem a lot more relaxed today.”

“I’ve nothing to be uptight about. I’m just watching this play out. Waiting for the punchline.”

The doctor looked up, “And yesterday’s... incident? Have you anything to say about the way you behaved? Aren't you sorry for things you did?”

Jamie thought about the frightened old man in the wheelchair, the look of disgust on the faces of the people he passed and mused, “Umm, I’m not too clear on the details, but does it have something to do with the broken mirror in the lift?”

Mondale frowned and informed him, “Not just that mirror. You broke every available mirror on the ward -- you went on a rampage and terrified vulnerable patients, especially the geriatrics -- one poor man had a heart attack and almost died, luckily the defibrillator was on hand.” Mondale went back to his notes and iterated various allegations, “you insulted then assaulted members of staff -- you upended a dinner-trolley in the hallway and threw the plates against the wall... you were eventually tackled to the floor, sedated and restrained...” Mondale looked up, frowned and asked with a shake of the head, You don’t remember any of this?”

Though loath to give this charade any credence, Jamie had to applaud the audacity and the authenticity of the illusion; everything felt so real and logical! Plus his curiosity was piqued; he was keen to know where this was going. He sat back in the chair, crossed his legs and asked the doctor to cut to the chase and tell him why he was hospitalized in the first place.

“Aah, you don’t remember... again.” said the doctor, unsurprised and just a little exasperated; he pulled another page from the pile, skimmed it and summarised, “... 7 weeks ago you were discovered in a derelict squat in North London, you had overdosed on a cocktail of drugs... you were in a coma for almost a week.... You were a John Doe... No National Insurance details. No medical card. When you awoke, you were stable, fine, but delusional. The police brought you here because they didn’t know what to do with you. Now we don’t know what to do with you. You are a very peculiar, very vexing case, Mr Jameson-Lumb.”

“Wait, wait, slow down a minute, doc: I overdosed?” Jamie laughed, disdainfully, “Well, that’s one thing I don’t believe -- I haven’t touched drugs for 5 years, and I’m not inclined to try them again,” he scoffed, shaking his head.

The doctor peered over his horn-rims and said, “Then look at your arms and explain the marks to me.”

Jamie duly rolled up his sleeves -- and sure enough, there was a network of track-marks, scabs and fresh scars all over his arms! He opened his gown and unbuttoned his pyjama top -- there were signs of drug abuse all over his lower torso! “What the f --- I’ve never injected anything in my life!”

Mondale shook his head and begged to differ, “There was a mixture of cannabis, alcohol, heroin and cocaine in your system. There were several bottles and bags of said substances lying around the room where they found you. At some time in the near future the police will be formally charging you with possession with intent to supply.” He went back to his notes, “You've given the authorities the name James ‘Jamie’ Jameson-Lumb, but the police can’t find anyone of that name on the electoral register, here or in Ulster. They've put your face on posters, made a plea for information on nationwide television, but so far no one has come forward to identify you. You say you have family in... (consults notes)... Downpatrick, but most of the people you’ve cited don’t exist and the ones that do have never heard of you,” he raised his eyebrows, “what do you say now?”

Jamie smirked and touched his temple, “Oh, this is very good -- give me an identity crisis, present me with a Catch 22: do I stick to my guns or go along with this charade and walk out of here a free man who may or may not be insane...very good, very good!” Then he had a thought and chuckled, “Even your name - ‘Mondale’ - is an anagram of ‘La Demon’! Come on doc. You know who I am. You know what this is. Just get it over with.”

Mondale rolled his eyes, sighed and said, “So, for the record, despite everything I’ve told you, you can’t remember anything?”

Jamie continued to smile and shake his head, “It’s all bollocks, ‘doctor’. We both know that. I’m not falling for it. You can’t break me like this.”

“Break you? We’re all trying put you back together again! You’re clean, you’re sober, you’re reasonably healthy, you have no obvious infirmities or abnormalities (back to his notes) -- in fact Dr Sloss intimates that in her personal opinion you’re ‘a narcissist acting-up to get attention’...?” he turned sideways in his swivel chair, rested his arm on the desk and closely observed Jamie’s reaction to the accusation.

The sun disappeared behind a cloud and the room darkened to shadow. Jamie stopped squinting and looked at things from Mondale’s point of view, and for a fleeting instant, he felt doubtful and dismayed -- like, what if this was true? Then he shook the notion out of his head and doubled-down on his previous position, “Save your breath, doc. Like the notes say, I’m at the mercy of an entity that seeks to possess my Soul and this is his way of getting into my head. End of story. This is just an illusion.”

One of the orderlies couldn't contain himself and muttered “arsehole” under his breath. The doctor stared and cleared his throat by way of a reprimand. Then he swivelled back, sat forward, leaned on the the desk and tried a different tack, “Let me put this to you, then, Jamie,” he said, setting the notes aside, holding his pen in both hands and adopting a more genial tone: we’re all friends here: let’s not beat about the bush, “is this a ruse to avoid prosecution? Are you afraid we’ll hand you over to the authorities? Because it’s been almost 2 months now -- you’re clean and sober -- if they charge you, you’ll get a suspended sentence! It’s 1988! We don’t throw sick, vulnerable people in prison anymore! You’ll be assigned a social worker. They’ll find you accommodation and a job. You’ll be integrated back into society...?”

Jamie kept smiling, shrugging and insisting, “I’m entranced on the floor of the basement in the Ivy House and my Soul is trapped between worlds.”

The doctor groaned and tried again, “Look at it this way, what’s more likely, eh? The world you’re living in now or a world of witches, goblins, ghosts and demons?”

It was a good question, one that put Jamie on the proverbial back heel. He had to think about it for a good few seconds before his common sense kicked-in again and he confidently replied, “Nope. Not falling for it. I know where I am.”

The doctor wearily drummed his fingernails on the edge of the desk for a moment-or-so, then gloomily concluded, “Well, I’m very sorry we haven’t been able to change your mind, Jamie.” He took a sheet of paper from a tray on his right, stretched his arm to shorten his cuff and began writing, “Due to your volatility and recent violent behaviour, I’m afraid we can’t risk letting you back into the general population, I have no doubt you would be a danger to yourself and those around you. Though it saddens me greatly, I have no choice but to commit you to our Secure Unit until such time as you’re no longer deemed a danger to yourself and the general public...”

Jamie made some aww-shucks noises, threw up his arms and said, “Hey-ho! Whatever. I’m hungry. Do they serve breakfast in bed?”

Mondale looked up, and for the first time showed signs of losing his patience, “I’m disappointed you’re taking this so lightly, Mr Jameson-Lumb. We did our best for you. It pains us that we haven’t been able to help you. Most of all, I hate to deprive a man of his liberty for the sake of his sanity. It’s the hardest, most heartbreaking part of the job.”

“You’ll get over it,” said Jamie.

“Goodbye, Mr Jameson-Lumb - if that is your real name. I hope that one day we will discover the nature of your illness... or maybe you will come to your senses...”

“Oh, I’m sure I will, doctor. I am sure I will,” said Jamie, winking.

Mondale shook his head sadly and said, “Take Mr Jameson-Lumb to the Secure Unit. Thank you.”

The orderlies were very rough with him on the way back to his room, but Jamie wasn’t bothered. Convinced this was a sham wrought by the demon, he continued to take the jostling in good humour while looking around him and studying the environs for flaws in the virtual reality: little blips and inconsistencies in the fabric of existence that might give the game away. But just like before, every detail was perfectly rendered, right down to the smell of stewed tea wafting up from the geriatric ward; the sound of radios playing disparate music in each room they passed; the cobwebbed cracks in the ceiling high above them; the oscillating whine of a lawnmower outside. A group of male patients wearing dressing gowns and tracksuits pointed and laughed when they saw him coming, “There he is, fellas -- hide your mirrors!!” cracked the head of the pack; another asked the beleaguered orderlies why the nut-job wasn't wearing a straitjacket. Amongst them was Cummins, the fast-talking, weirdo-beardo who, for some reason, seemed to have a stake in Jamie’s situation. He broke away from the jeering mob and jogged backwards in front of the escort, “Well?! Well?! How did it go, dude?!” he asked, nodding vigorously and expectantly, the fronds of his ‘tache caked with egg.

One of the orderlies told him to piss off.

Cummins ignored the advice and kept-up, his mad, cat-like eyes trained on Jamie as he jabbered, “What didja tell Mondale?! Didja tell him like I said?! Stir crazy?! Didja?! Are we awright?!”

Jamie looked through him, “You’re just a figment of someone else’s imagination, my bearded friend -- disappear!” he sang, wiggling his fingers like a hack magician.

Cummins slowed his backward tracks then stood aside to allow the trio to turn into Jamie’s room, “You stupid mad fucker, JJ!” he shouted from the doorway, getting angrier as the news sunk in, “Fuckin’ idiot! Al ya hadda do was act normal for once and tell ‘em you went sir-crazy, right!! That’s all you hadda do!! But now you’re fuck-en dooooomed, pal. They’ll never let you outta here now! They’ll sling you in the looney-bin ‘n throw away the key!”

One of the orderlies pushed Cummins out and closed the door; the other fetched a holdall from under the bed, opened it and began filling it with clothes from the wardrobe and the bedside locker. Once he was packed, they grabbed him again and ushered him up the corridor into another, smaller elevator which took them down to the ground floor, to a hallway with a heavily-fortified blank white door that looked more like a hatch, labelled with a plainly-lettered plaque that said ‘Secure Unit’. There was a sign on the wall that read, ‘Authorised Personnel Only No Visitors Except By Appointment’. The windows opposite the entrance were caged and barred. It looked quite daunting. “Is this where you put the real headcases?!” he half-joked, as one of them pressed a chrome-plated button on the door; they looked up at a little security camera attached to wall above the entrance -- there was a loud buzzing noise -- they pushed it open and shoved him inside. He was taken through a dormant, unattended metal detector and into a long, bright, starkly-white hallway, then through a connecting door to a small room containing a reception desk and a few office chairs. A stout security guard sitting in front of a bank of small b/w CCTV monitors swivelled on his stool, greeted them with a slap of his bulbous thighs, grinned knowingly, and said, “So! This is the infamous ‘Dream Boy’ -- AKA JJ Lumb, is it, eh? We've been expecting you, JJ. Your reputation goes before you, as you’ll soon find out...” He pressed a button that sounded another buzzer; a steel security door clicked open to the left of the desk, Jamie was taken through and handed over to another security guard who promptly marched him to the Head Nurse’s office for a debriefing. She was a formidable, well upholstered matron-type who gave him a stern lecture on how to ‘behave like a civilised human being’ and presented him with a laminated page containing a list of house rules and a timetable for the administration of his daily medication. Jamie maintained his smiling, semi-detached façade throughout, but the longer ‘the charade’ went on, the harder it was to believe that it wasn't all it seemed. 

These people weren’t drawn from his subconscious; they weren’t faces and names appropriated from his memories to fill out the cast. It wasn't like returning from Oz and waking up in Kansas to find yourself surrounded by recognisable acquaintances that played characters in your dream; it was all new to him. All of it. And it was utterly believable.

Doubt began to gnaw at his conscience.

Once the head nurse had finished with him, a grumpy, monosyllabic male nurse gave him a brief tour of the unit, pointing out the amenities and various places of interest, “This is the dayroom,” he said, as they paused for a second to look into a large room with an unplugged TV attached to the wall. There were a few morose-looking middle-aged male patients sitting around tables drawing, reading or writing, playing dominoes or chess, and some elderly men reclining in dog-eared armchairs, staring out of the windows at the bloom-less stems of a small flower garden shrivelled by the midwinter frost. He was then taken through a maze of high-ceilinged hallways populated by similarly detached, blank-faced, dull-eyed men of all ages dressed in uniform grey boiler suits, pyjamas or outdated casual wear. The more sane-looking types sitting in little cliques in various corners seemed to know who he was and began whispering conspiratorially as he passed. The security guard wasn't lying: his reputation had gone before him, and by the looks of things, it wasn't up to much.

Eventually, they arrived at an annex that housed the living quarters of long-term, high-risk residents and entered an unadorned hallway with a row of 6 white, metal doors on one side, each equipped with a heavy lock and a large peephole. As he unlocked No.5, the nurse pointed out a bathroom with adjacent toilet on the opposite side and informed him he’d have to report to the supplies cupboard to get his quota of toilet paper. Jamie’s room was small, plain, narrow and windowless, equipped with a small sink, a bedside locker, a plastic chair and a small dresser. Before leaving, the nurse gave him another, less formal, lecture: “We don’t want any trouble, OK lad?” he said, because he and his colleagues “didn’t suffer fools gladly”; they wouldn't stand for any ‘aggro’ of any kind! “It mightn't be a prison, but we ‘ave got solitary confinement and shock treatment, so think on before you decide to smash the place up or cause a scene!” And with that, off he stalked to let Jamie ‘get unpacked and acclimatised’. As his footsteps disappeared into the distance, a small, chubby, shaven-headed, middle-aged, buckle-faced porter pulling a trolley laden with crumpled bedsheets stopped at the door, leaned in, and advised in a conspiratorial, chirpy-cockney whisper, “I heard all that, boy. And he’s right, y’know. This ain't prison. There’s no luxury here. We only ‘ave one telly ‘n it’s in the day room, and it only shows BBC2. No wirelesses or nuthin’ like that; alls we got is ‘ospital radio piped-in through the tannoy ‘tween 6 ‘n 6, and it’s all easy-listening stuff, classical mostly; nothing that might wind-anybody-up (it was presently playing a rather tinny, lo-fi version of Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring). No newspapers, no library, neither - just a box of tatty old paperbacks ‘n borin’ magazines donated by a local charity. We does our little jobs all day ‘n then we ‘ave our dinner ‘n then it’s a mad scramble for the Day Room to get the best seats for the cricket ‘ighlights ‘n One Man and ‘is Dog. They don’t let us see the news in case somethin’ comes up about one of us. Then it’s suppertime; and then it’s time for bed.”

“Sounds bracing,” said Jamie, brightly, opening his holdall and examining his ‘things’.

The porter stayed at the door and whistled while he watched Jamie unpack. After half-a-minute of a convoluted improvisation on the melody of Can’t Buy Me Love, apropos of nothing, he commented, “I heard ‘em talkin’ bout you in the canteen, when I was doin’ the bins, like. I 'ear all the gossip up there. I 'ear all about you, y’know.”

Without looking up from his work, Jamie replied as if talking to a child, “Do you indeed? And what, pray, did you hear?”

The porter answered with another question, “You know Chris Cummins, dontcha?” he asked, in an I know something you don’t know, voice.

Jamie shook out a pair of jeans, and replied as he read the label, “If you’re referring to the mad-eyed Charlie Manson clone that snuck into in my room earlier this morning -- yes, I have had the dubious pleasure. He looks a bit... wild. Not my type at all.”

“Wild? He’s absolutely fuckin’ furious, mate! He’s due to get out on Thursday an’ ‘e wuz countin’ on you gettin’ out today! Boy, was he ever wrong!”

“Why? Why is he so interested in whether I got out or not?”

“Cuz he believed ya when you promised ‘im that once yez wuz on the outside you’d 'ook-him-up with yer 'igh-class ‘pals’ and ‘e would ‘ave the time of ‘is life! ‘They 'ave tasty gear’, you told ‘im, all nice ‘n upmarket ‘n sophisticated -- ‘no more ‘havin’ to deal with scummy toe-rags in slummy tower blocks!’ -- you said. Cummins was bankin’ on it! We all knew you wuz full of shit, but ‘e wouldn't lissen, the stupid git, ‘n now he ‘as nowhere else to go!” The porter chortled wheezily and shook his head, “Alls you ‘ad to do was act sane for one day, bullshit ‘em ‘n say you went stir crazy, ‘n everythin’ woulda been OK ------ but you couldn't do it!” His  face broke into a gaping smile; he had several teeth missing at the front which made him look like a tickled, gap-toothed Humpty Dumpty. “We all knew you couldn't do it! I tell ya, I almost bust a gut laughin’ when we ‘eard that you blew it! We 'ad bets on it and everything! Heh heh, Cummins is beside hisself -- he’s gonna be potless, ‘omeless, low 'n dry!”

Unworried, Jamie studied the socks and opined, “The man seems like a total basket case, I’d never make friends with someone like him... besides, apparently I’m clean, aren’t I? There’s no way...” he pulled a double-take, “... Wait -- did you say you were an inmate?”

He nodded, “Long term patient, mate. Name’s Phil Porter. I work in the kitchens and the laundry. You’re fit ‘n ‘ealthy ‘n you seem quite with-it so you’ll probably be a cleaner. All the new lads start with a brush and a mop ‘n bucket.”

“Your name’s Porter and you’re a porter?” Jamie asked, still in detective mode, giving him a sideways look, scanning his eyes for any sign of duplicity, “that’s a bit on the nose, isn't it?”

He leaned his chubby, heavily-tattooed forearms on the handles of the trolley and chuckled, “I know! Porter the porter! Did you ever? On the outside I was a plumber.”

“What are you in for?” Jamie asked, a shiver running down his spine.

Porter the porter shrugged and explained in a matter-of-fact tone with just a smidgen of remorse, “I butchered my wife and 'er sister with a JML steak knife 12 years ago last September. I don’t ‘member it at all... but they ‘ave the photos of the crime scene, see, and my fingerprints over everythin’, so I took them at their word. Alls I 'member is we 'adda blazin’ row ‘n I 'ad a black out. Next thing I know is I’m in the back of a black-maria covered in claret, cuffed and on me way to the cop shop! The lawyers ‘n doctors say I’m a schizo so the beak found me guilty ‘by reason of diminished responsibility’; y’know ‘insanity’. They put me in this-‘ere hospital and threw away the key, cuz as far as I can see, there’s no way I’ll ever get out. Like I said, it’s not like proper chokey. There ain't no parole.” He looked at his feet and confessed, “I gotta take a lotta pills, see. They stop the black-outs ‘n keep me from punchin’ the wall. They don’t ‘alf slow me down, though. I used to be as skinny as a rake with a full 'ead o’ hair, I did. Not now,” he laughed, slapping a little drum roll on the top of his shaved head with his hands.

Someone shouted down the corridor, the voice getting louder as it got closer, “Oi, Porter! Get your fat arse back to the laundry room -- they’re waitin’ on those sheets!”

Porter the porter said see ya later and shoved off; a tall, slim, hawkish-faced 40-something orderly, his short, blonde hair slicked back so that his ears looked positively Vulcan, replaced him in the doorway. He exuded the same air of menace as his colleagues, but he wasn't the silent type; he casually leaned on the jamb, crossed his arms, sniffed the air as if he smelled something bad and announced. “JJ Lumb, the Cloud Cuckoo Land Kid. The Great Pretender! I’ve heard a lot about you, my son, and none of it’s good,”  and then came the obligatory warning, “I don’t know what your game is, sunshine, but we have people in here who really need help so we haven’t time for time-wasting toe-rags who wanna be the centre of attention. We have some dangerous men down here, vicious, psychotic murderers some of them, but they’re sensitive, quiet types, they have to be approached with caution and treated tenderly cos they snap easily. One wrong word and they’ll kill you without thinking about it.”

Exasperated by the constant hostility, Jamie looked up at the ceiling and addressed his supposed supreme antagonist, “So this is how you’re going to do it, huh? Good old-fashioned physical and mental torture?”

The orderly was not at all impressed by this exhibition; he took a step closer, and in a sudden movement, reached out -- grabbed Jamie by the throat, forced his arm up his back and pushed him against the headboard! As they stared into each other’s eyes, he half-whispered in a no-more-bullshit voice, “That airy-fairy shit won’t wash with me, sunshine. I’m a very fond of Dr Sloss. She’s a nice lady ‘n you drove her half-‘round-the-twist with your bollocks! Not only that, but my Auntie Ethel ‘appens to be in the geriatric ward, and you traumatised the old girl yesterday! So listen ‘ere. There ain't gonna be no winding up the other patients with talk of curses ‘n demons. No grandstanding, neither -- and no heckling the staff! I don’t care what the fuck’s going on in that burned out shell of a skull -- just keep it to yerself! Got it?!”

Oh, I’ve got it alright: we’re going all the way with this, Jamie thought. “Will that be all, sir?” he asked, in an untroubled tone.

Unnerved by his composure, the orderly reluctantly let him go, “Since you’re fit ‘n able for duties, we've assigned you a work detail,” he imparted, in a more moderate, but no less threatening, tone. He smiled like a predatory reptile, “You’re going to be a cleaning lady, JJ. At 2pm sharp today you will go to the janitor’s cupboard to collect your brush, mop and bucket. And make sure you wear a pair of shoes that don’t squeak; it drives ‘em mental. We wouldn't want one of the sickos attacking you while you was scrubbing a toilet, would we?” He swivelled on his heel and left; Jamie could hear him slapping the walls with his palms as he strode along the hallway.

Jamie clutched his throat. That felt real. His bad breath; the smell of antiperspirant. I couldn't breathe! It all feels so real. It’s all logical, plausible and tactile....... and it’s getting fucking heavy. Illusion or not, the immediate future looked pretty bleak. It’s a dream, it doesn’t adhere to the natural laws of time and space -- it could go on forever! Then again, if this is real life, then I have the rest of it to figure out what happened... Time to take stock, Jamie. He looked at the small pile of clothes; they were his alright, old tee-shirts and jeans he would have worn before he moved into the Ivy House. The stuff he wore when he shared a flat with Goz.

Goz.

And he recalled that Goz had also invoked the spell -- could he be in a similar predicament? Then he looked around and wondered, could this scenario be constructed from Goz’s memories? He was no stranger to rehab, after all? And Goz is the sort of person to throw a tantrum if he doesn’t get his way. What if this scenario has been lifted from Goz’s experiences woven around a narrative created by the demon?

And yet, Mondale’s words echoed in his head: ‘What’s more likely -- the world you’re living in now, or a world of witches, goblins, ghosts and demons?’

Well, there’s a quick and easy answer to that, and it’s the here-and-now. Whatever the underlying intention or the nature of this reality, for the time being at least, it was a world of hurt he’d have to get used to. But how long can it go on? How long until he sees another doctor or someone in authority? How long before he cracks and the demon shows his hand? Was the life he’d experienced in the Ivy House just the delusional wish-dream of a burned-out junkie, or was he eventually going to wake up in the dungeon surrounded by Carla, Castle and a circle of chanting servants? He couldn't hear any chanting. There wasn't anything metaphysical about his situation save the interminable chill in his bones... Wait a minute: mirrors!

Why did he start smashing mirrors the day before he was due to be released? He went to the mirror above the small sink and looked into it. It was his reflection alright; except for bags under his eyes, the standard-issue pyjamas and a darkening 3 o'clock shadow, he didn’t look any different than usual. Then he thought, what if... He put his hand against the glass, closed his eyes and concentrated hard... but it stayed rigid and unyielding; it didn’t mist-up or liquefy into a horizontal pool creating a portal into another dimension, it felt flat and cold: Real. Then he noticed the tiny hairline-cracks around the covered bolts in each corner. In other words, technically it was crack’d -- like all the mirrors in the Ivy House -- protected against infiltration. Maybe another mirror would tell a different tale? He went to the door and looked along the corridor, made sure there was no one around, then stole to the bathroom to examine the mirror in there. It was the same: a solid sheet of glass, only this time there was a sizeable crack in the bottom left corner. Coincidence?

“HEY YOU!” He jumped back -- startled by a woman shouting from the doorway -- “What are you doing in here?!” she yelled.

It was one of the nurses; a small but hulking, broad-shouldered woman with a pinched face and ruddy cheeks. Jamie backed away, “Nothing, ma’am, I was just looking around, it’s my first day...”

“Huh?! Nothing? ‘Nothing’ you say?!” she prodded his chest with an accusing finger, “You were gonna smash that mirror weren’t you?! You have a thing about mirrors, don’t you?!” she said, as she took him by the arm and yanked him toward the door, “we can’t have every Tom, Dick and Harry traipsing in-and-out of here when they feel like it -- 55% of accidents happen in the bathroom, you know, and it’s the preferred place for suicide!”

“I’m not suicidal, I’m just mystified... confused...” said Jamie, stumbling along.

“Confused?! This is a bathroom! You must've seen a bathroom before?!”

“Well then, maybe I wanted to have a bath?”

“No one is allowed in here without clearing it with us first,” she pointed to a sign on the outside of the door that said: ‘Patients must get key from office’. “It’s unlocked because Mr Murphy was just about to use it!”

“Hello there,” said a small, thin, snow-bearded, elderly Irishman wearing a white towelling bathrobe and yellow flip-flops, giving Jamie a feeble wave from the doorway whilst looking at the floor shamefacedly as she continued her now-familiar harangue. By the sounds of it, they’d obviously had a staff meeting and unanimously agreed to mark his card at every opportunity. They were all on edge, eager to say their tuppence-worth and throw their weight around.

“... We won’t stand for any of your fantastical nonsense here! You’re not gonna start smashing mirrors or attacking members of staff, here, got it?! Now, get yourself on-down to the dayroom and socialise -- you’re gonna be in here a long time, you’ll have to make friends -- just don’t annoy anybody or do anything stupid! OK?!”

Jamie stomped back to his room and flopped onto the bed. He stared at the ceiling for a while, going over it again. If what they say is true and I’m deluded amnesiac John Doe with no past, then the ‘this is all a dream scenario’ still makes sense. I’m a non-person, no one’s heard of me. I’m the hole in the plot. He had to hold onto those thoughts. He had to ignore his doubts and feelings of desperation and frustration and concentrate on keeping himself focussed. Sooner or later something is bound to give. I just hope it isn't me.

He was just getting dressed for a visit to the dayroom, when there was a quiet knock at the door. It was old Mr Murphy, still in his bathrobe and flip-flops, but unaccompanied. He’d obviously had his bath, his white beard was fluffy, the scent of Pears soap and baby powder filled the air, “Hello again,” he said, timidly, a look of regret around his silver-browed, baggy, crinkly eyes. Jamie immediately jumped to his feet, pulled the chair from beside the bed and invited him in.

“I’m sorry about that wee to-do with Nurse Singer, son. I only left the bathroom door open for a second while I went back to my room to fetch my towels...” he said, pulling his dressing gown tight around his shoulders. He sounded like an old Irish actor, his vowels were beautifully rounded, his brogue a joy to the ear; but Jamie was still wary of every stranger and observed his every move with a sceptical, unblinking eye. “It’s not your fault, sir. I shouldn't have been in there, I suppose,” he said, sitting on the edge of the bed.

The old man looked over his shoulder to make sure there was no one in the corridor, then turned back and said, “If they accuse you of being a troublemaker, son, well then, we’re all troublemakers -- everyone in here has had a bad day, times when we've thrown a bit of a wobbler, kicked up a fuss and done something silly, or else we wouldn't be in here, would we?” he pointed at Jamie’s forehead, “It’s just your brain’s way of coping. It can be quite terrifying when you have gaps in your memory.”

“Do you think that’s what’s wrong with me then, amnesia?” Jamie asked, with an indulgent smile.

Mr Murphy shrugged and said, “I’m an alcoholic, dear boy, I don’t have to imagine, memory loss goes with the territory. It’s like when you wake after an extended binge and you’re in a strange room and no idea how you got there. It’s horrifying...” then he intimated, “One of the nurses, one of the few who believe you’re sick, reckons you created this fantasy because you can’t cope with Reality.”

“Do you believe me?”

The old man stroked his beard, looked into Jamie’s eyes, thought about it and said, “I don’t know. If you are ‘acting-up’, as they say, you’re very good at it. You seem sincere. I think that’s what they find most infuriating.”

“If you’ll excuse the question, Mr Murphy, but what are you in for?”

The old man looked away and fidgeted with the belt of his robe and explained, “I couldn't cope after my wife’s death. I tried to kill myself. So I drank a bottle of brandy and I took a lot of pills - her pills - I came-to the next day in this hospital, in the geriatric ward upstairs.”

“Really? Then why did they put you down here in the Secure Unit?”

“Like I said, I wanted to die. I got so frustrated and angry about still being alive and not being able to go out and get a drink...... I got hysterical ‘n lashed out at an orderly during lunchtime. I stuck a fork in his eye when he tried to calm me down. They strapped-me-up and brought me down here.  It’s where they put mild-mannered psychopaths and patients who have to be heavily medicated or constantly watched. It’s a strict regime, it has to be. I’ve been here a couple of years and I still get days when I can’t cope with the guilt and the pain....” then he looked up and said, “... we all have our personal demons, don’t we, Jamie?”

It wasn't such an odd thing to say considering the tenor of the conversation, but in his current state of mind, Jamie took it as a sign and pushed the metaphor, “What do your demons tell you, Mr Murphy?” he asked, watching the old man closely.

Mr Murphy held up his hands in a defensive gesture and chuckled, “It’s just a figure of speech, dear boy.”

“But delivered with a nudge and a wink. I take it you know that in my case, the demon is all too real.”

He stroked his silvery beard and commented, “Well now, if I’ve got it right, you believe a demon has created this world you find yourself in,” he grinned, looking around the room, “if that’s true, what part do I play in your illusion?”

“I honestly don’t know, Mr Murphy. I can’t trust anything or anyone at the moment.”

“Do you think I’m one of the demon’s minions?”

“I have no idea. He could be you, for all I know.”

“I could be a demon?!” The old man laughed, “Then, who am I? Old Nick, Beelzebub -- Satan -- the Devil himself?”

Jamie scratched his head but found it hard to give a satisfactory reply, “Yes, and no...I dunno -- please, Mr Murphy, I don’t mean to be rude, but it’s very complicated...”

The old man understood, but pushed for a definitive answer, “I just want to know my name...?”

Jamie was slightly taken aback, “Your name...?”

“Yes. If I’m the demon -- what’s my name? Is it a name one might know, say, from  literature or legend ?”

“Ummm... I can’t say...”

“You can’t say? So...I’m a ‘metaphorical demon’, then?”

“No... He has a definite name. I just can’t say it.”

“Why? Can’t you remember it?”

“No, of course I remember...”

“Is it a curse word? -- because I’ve heard them all, dear boy,” old Mr Murphy chuckled, “I’m not a prude by any stretch of the imagination!”

This was very chewy. Jamie looked deep into the old man’s watery, grey eyes and pondered: is he the perpetrator of this charade? “Why do you want me to say its name?” he asked, in a tone laced with mistrust.

Mr Murphy shrugged as if he couldn't see a problem and said, “I suppose putting a name to it might give up the key to your condition. For all I know, you could have belonged to one of those diabolical, devil worshipping cults and you might believe they've cursed you or put a spell on you or something; in that case, the name of the demon might be wholly pertinent, it could lead to your true identity...?”

Jamie refused to be drawn, “Please, Mr Murphy, if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not say it.”

“Because it would make it real? Or because it would make no sense? What’s in a name, after all?”

Because saying it might destroy our inner-world and leave me open to demonic possession, thought Jamie, but maybe you already know that. He was slowly coming to the conclusion that this exchange might be part of a trick to demoralise him while he was beset by doubt. He’d had the bad cops; was it the good cop’s turn?

Mr Murphy winked, and said, “I’ve given you something to think about, haven’t I, dear boy?”

“I’ve had a lot to think about since I woke up this morning, Mr Murphy. If I believe the doctors, I’m a nobody, a junkie-John-Doe with some sort of intermittent amnesia, prone to violent outbursts. If I trust my conscience and my memory, I’m exactly who I think I am, and this is all an interactive mirage.”

“You make it sound like you’d rather live in a fantasy-land with dreadful devils, goblins and evil forces trying to gain possession of your Soul than live in a world where such things are pure whimsy? I mean, who wants to live in a world like that?”

“It’s my world, Mr Murphy, The Real World.”

“I’m beginning to see why you are the bane of the psychiatric world!” tittered Mr Murphy, getting to his feet with a groan and a gasp, massaging his hips as he straightened-up and stretched his back. When Jamie put a hand out to help him, the old man grasped his wrist, pulled him near and whispered a friendly warning in his ear, “Don’t waste your time in a dream world, here, in a mental hospital, in a little cell with no window. Think about the rest of your life. Once they see you’ve reformed, you’ll be out of here and free to think what you like. I may not be a psychiatrist or a psychologist or a brain surgeon come to that, but if I were you I’d have to wonder why I'm afraid to put a name to the thing that scares me the most.”

And off he went, plodding slowly down the hallway, his flip-flops slapping the soles of his feet with every step.

The name, thought Jamie, his mind awhirl with conspiracy-theories and unanswerable questions: Was that a direct communication? Or is he just a nice old man dispensing friendly advice? If so, is he supposed to say the name? Is that what this is about? 

...

“Say the name, say his name, say the name, say the name, say his name...”

“Can’t you make them go away?” Dani asked Electra, as they slowly backed-up.

Her frightened, golden haired grandmother shook her head and said, “No... He must have hexed this entire dreamscape, taken control of the characters! He’s warped them and made them monsters! That’s the only conclusion!”

“Somebody’s taken control, but it’s not him, this isn't the demon’s work,” said Pritchard, pensively but assuredly, “he can’t be in two places at once. His time is running out, he won’t have the energy to pull off something like this and take care of Jamie. No, this is something else entirely, it’s not the same kind of energy... but it’s still potentially fatal, even to ghosts.”

“Oh my God -- Soul Death!” screeched Electra.

“Really?” said Dani, getting evermore anxious.

The creatures closed in forcing the trio toward the edge of the smoky crater, the constellation of glowing eyes drawing ever closer, their fangs and talons glistening in the moonlight as they hissed their monotonous anthem, “Say the name, say his name etc...” over and over and over again.  Once the trio could back up no further, the creatures stopped chanting and formed a circle around them.

The biggest giant put his spiky mace against his shoulder, threw his head back and then suddenly lunged forward and bellowed “SAY HIS NAME!!” so loud it blew the red hood off  Dani’s head!

The mutant fairy-tale-folk took a step closer: “Say his name!”

She grimaced, looked up at Pritchard and said, “Just so ya know, bozo -- we’re screwed either way. If I don’t say it they’ll tear us apart. If I do say it, it could rip this universe apart. What do I do, smart guy?”

“We could try reasoning with them -- maybe they don’t know the spell was reversed?” suggested Electra.

“Could work,” said Pritchard, stepping forward, addressing the giant, “It appears there’s been a bit of a mix up -- the spell has been reversed and filtered through the Void -- it’s an unknown quantity -- there’s no telling what it will do!”

“Ho, ho, ho,” the giant laughed -- then scowled and rumbled, “We’ll know if she says it!”

The myriad fantastic creatures chuckled and cackled appreciatively. The three evil little boars flashed their knives and snorted with delight. Then they all chanted “Say it!” again.

Dani’s patience had worn to a thread. She was bloody sick and tired of this! She held her breath and started counting to ten.

“Dani, no -- you can’t -- there must be some way out of this!” cried Pritchard, flapping his hands.

“There’s nothing else she can do, like she said herself, they’ll tear us apart anyway!” cried Electra, tearing at her hair.

“We’re the Vondragüül, Ellie, we can still have a life after death, but this energy...” Pritchard stopped when he realised something. “wait a minute, I know this energy. I recognise this feeling... don’t you?”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s the same feeling you get when you’re in the forest -- the real forest, not this thing -- the buzz you get from the ground...”

“You mean the...” said Electra, looking down.

“Yes, it’s the only answer... It’s just like Xavier warned me when we deciphered the original runes -- he’s harnessed their power and freed them from the spell that bound them to earth...”

“What are youse two talkin’ about,” asked Dani, nonplussed.

“The Darkly Martyrs. The wizards who created the Void. This is their doing, not his!”

And slowly but surely, the circle of animals, fairies, witches, giants and ogres parted to allow a lone figure to pass through; a thin, swarthy-skinned, sharp faced man dressed in a long, hessian shirt, wearing the silver amulet of the Vondragüül.

“Is that one of them?” asked Dani.

Before Pritchard could answer, the ethereal wizard spoke for himself, “I am Zomber Blist. I am here to ensure that the girl speaks his name,” he intoned, in a deep, solemn tone, “no matter how it was cast or what circumstances now prevail, it is written. The Prophesy must be fulfilled.”

“The Prophesy must be fulfilled,” intoned the horde, in a low, awed, whisper.

Pritchard tried to reason with him, “But, c’mon, Mr Blist -- it was cast in two separate places, through 2 separate mirrors then reversed by an incompetent witch?! It’s anybody’s guess what will happen, and OK, you have every right to be angry with the coven -- but it’s been 7000 years -- do you really want to be scratched from existence for the sake of revenge?”

The imposing figure of the resurrected Dark Scholar, his eyes glowing with violet light, white smoke pouring from his mouth, levitated and announced in a loud, amplified voice, “It is written. The spell is cast. She will say the name.”

“She will say the name,” echoed the terrifying horde, now so close that the hapless trio could smell their rancid breath.

“You’ll have to say it,” muttered Pritchard, stooping and whispering in Dani’s ear, “at least there’s a chance things might be OK; think of it as a game of cosmic Russian Roulette...”

...

Meanwhile, in the Real World, at the Irish border, a black limo and a Mini Metro pulled up on opposite sides of the road at the customs & security checkpoint. As the officials spoke to Lady Beth and checked their papers, Xavier gazed across the lanes at the little car and its singular occupants. A man and his dog, seemingly in somewhat of a hurry. Xavier nodded to himself: The Familiar and his Master. The ones charged with finding the host.

Ears pricked, twitching with anticipation, Brooster stared back at the dark skinned man’s twinkling eyes beneath the peak of the chauffeur’s cap; He felt as if he should know him. He had a strong aura that didn’t make his pelt stand-on-end. His expression said: I know what you are, where you’re going and why.

Broo whimpered: Will we catch him?

But Xavier’s gaze was momentarily diverted; the gards had finished with them and were waving the limo on. He gave Broo a firm nod as they drove off.

Was that a yes? thought Broo. Was that man one of the witches The Powers That Be had mentioned? The ones who were supposed to take care of the demon once the host had been captured?

There hadn't been much conversation on the journey so far. Malky was still meditating on the contents of the taped ‘confession’ as they hurtled down the motorway at a steady 80 mph and he was keeping his thoughts to himself. His emotions ran the gamut, a blend of sadness, regret and anger and those silly recriminations that hindsight provides: It’s all my fault! This would never have happened if I’d gone on that holiday instead of going to Bangor with me mates! But he didn’t dwell on the supernatural aspect; he didn’t want to know about demons and ghosts. All he knew was McKee had lost what was left of his mind and was now a desperate, dangerous man on a murderous mission. The source of the madness was moot.

Broo on the other hand, reclining on the backseat, trying his best to conserve his energy, was wholly focussed on the supernatural aspect; he worried the garda might kill McKee or he might to kill himself, and that would never do – the order from the Spirit World was unequivocal – the host must be taken alive! The demon must not be allowed to migrate!

Malky stopped at an all-night garage just outside Dundrum to refuel the Metro and call Zindy from the payphone to warn her to keep her doors locked and call the cops. The phone rang for a long time until the operator interrupted and told him that there ‘didn’t seem to be anyone at that number’. Panic! Malky asked her if she could connect him to Gardai HQ, but she didn’t have a ‘Free-State directory’. He decided to wait; it wouldn't be long until they were over the border and he could contact them directly from the first Telecom Éireann callbox he came across. He ran back to the Metro and quickly got back on the road.

17 minutes later, and here they are at the border checkpoint waiting for a pair of young gards to finish searching the lorry in front. "Finally!” sighed Malky, when they waved it off and at last approached the car; even then he wasn't happy, “Oh gawd, I hope they don’t ask for my licence or insurance or somethin’...” he groaned, as he turned on the interior light and wound-down his window. As it turned out, no identification was necessary; as soon as they saw the scruffy man and his three-legged German Shepherd, they knew exactly who they were. One of them leaned on the roof, and exclaimed, “Youse-two are the talk-o’-the-town down here, so-yez-are! Everybody in the force is talkin’ about that psychic guy with the 3-legged dog -- yez’re feckin’ legends, so-yez-are!”

Malky was pleasantly surprised to find they didn’t appear to be taking the piss and informed them in an officious tone, “I need yez to radio ahead and get Detective Superintendent Somerville -- tell him that Barry McKee’s on the loose in Wicklow and he’s likely to be headed for Brodir - !”

The other gard politely interrupted, “Sorry, did you say Wicklow? There’s been a murder down there this evenin’, so-there-has! Have yez not been listening to the radio?” 

Malky explained that the car wasn't his and the radio seemed to be programmed to receive only N Irish and English stations.

The first gard leaned close and said, “Apparently, at about 10 o'clock tonight, some bloke broke into an old folk’s home and shot ‘n’ killed an auld woman and wounded a couple o’ the staff! Terrible stuff!”

Unsurprised, Malky nodded sagely and sighed, “It wasn't Golden-Slumber Meadows, by any chance, was it?”

The gards gaped and nodded, astonished by his powers of deduction.

He looked over his shoulder and explained to Broo, “Sounds like our man is clearin’ the decks. It mightn't be long until they catch him now,” He turned back to the gards, “That was the old folk’s home where McKee’s mother lived,” he told them, “you’ll have to get on to Somerville immediately and tell him to go to Brodir ASAP -- that’s where he’s headed next!”

The gards  promised to contact the detectives in Wicklow without delay and allowed them to drive on. Malky wasn't sure that he liked being referred to as ‘that psychic guy’, but at least on this side of the border they were taking him seriously. He looked at Broo in the rear-view mirror and opined, "If Barry’s been-‘n’-killed his ma, then he must be on the rampage -- he must want to go all out in a blaze of glory. This is definitely end-game...

Broo silently concurred; there certainly was something in the air tonight and it was getting stronger the closer they got to their destination. There were little ghosts standing along the road every few miles, probably victims of traffic accidents and diseases. but this time they didn’t wave or call out or warn him of danger to come, they just frowned and watched the car pass, unsmiling, looking troubled and uncertain... 

...

Sitting high in an elm tree on the edge of the forest, Archie Harkness had been watching the Ivy House for a while now. He’d planned on a timely confrontation after the events at Forestpine, but when his useless Viva’s knackered engine finally gave out, he was forced to walk the last 2 miles. As he strode along the country road that ran along the northern perimeter of the Lumbs’ compound, he heard the unmistakeable crackle of walkie-talkies and glimpsed torches flashing across the fields: why are there armed guards patrolling the grounds? Curiosity piqued, he went to the opposite side of the road, climbed the tree and spied. The security team eventually finished their patrol, but the compound still resounded with raised voices; the dogs were barking and howling, there was a general sense of unrest about the place. “In my experience, it’s always better to call at a bad time.” Archie said to himself, and was just about to descend from his perch, when a black Rolls zoomed up the road and pulled up at the main gates. “Hmmm. Lady Beth’s limo if I’m not mistaken; she must've been out of town.” He looked at his watch: 11:21. “Och, I’ll give her 10 minutes or so to get settled in, and then An Inspector Calls...”

...

Xavier parked in the courtyard and opened the door for Her Ladyship; Castle was waddling down the steps to greet her, “So pleased to see you back, milady, but why didn’t you take the plane?”

She explained about Rossington and the ritual, then punched him in the arm, “Why didn’t you tell me what could happen! I thought I was hallucinating! We could've been mauled!!”

Castle was bereft, “S-sorry milady? Is this about Master Gosling...?”

She shoved him around to the back of the car, “Go on -- look in the trunk and see for yourself!”

Xavier joined them at the rear of the car and opened the lid. Castle pulled the sheet aside, then looked up at them and asked with a frown, “Was this entirely necessary. milady?”

“What?”

“Hog-tying, gagging and drugging Master Gosling, milady?”

Her Ladyship pushed him out of the way to see what he was talking about, only to find that their once-lupine captive was now smooth-skinned, butt-naked and bereft of claws or fangs! “Well, he didn’t look like that an hour ago when Xav gave him a shot!” she barked, fists on hips.

Castle looked to Xavier to explain, but without telepathy, it was impossible to communicate a detailed account. Instead, the chauffeur pointed at the wing mirror of the limo and nodded.

“This happened because of  the Void?” asked Castle, intrigued.

Xavier then pointed at the ground.

Castle understood and agreed, “Yes, their spirits have risen, we think the spell set them free...” Then he caught the big driver’s gist. He looked at Gosling and asked, “Is it your the opinion that they’re responsible for this?”

Xavier nodded again and pointed in the direction of the table mountain.

“It was their spell all along?”

Xavier nodded yet again.

Lady Beth snapped her fingers impatiently, “C’mon, c’mon, tell me what’s going on!”

Castle rubbed the back of his neck and said, “Well to put it in layman’s terms, milady, the bodies of ancient wizards buried under the house, umm, their spirits have risen and they've entered the Void. It was their spell Master Gosling was performing at SCICI - the same spell Ivan wrote in his scrapbook, the same spell that turned Dani into a monster -- but it must've got reversed in the Mirror World and rebounded back on him, temporarily mutating him, that’s all I can think of... Carla and I knew there was something iffy about using a mirror, the mirrors twist everything...”

“Nevermind the magic lesson, will he change again?” she snapped, stepping aside to let Xavier untie the hapless Gosling.

Castle’s jowls wobbled as he shook his head firmly, “I wish I had an answer, but I just don’t know, milady, this like all-out psychic warfare on a biblical scale -- this is unprecedented in the annals of Güül - !”

She shut-him-up by grabbing his lapels and shaking him, “Just tell me how it affects the Real World -- my world!!”

Castle lowered his eyes and confessed, “Master Jamie used the same spell to try and reach Miss Danielle and now he’s stranded in the Void, in another coma, if you like. But this time he’s up against the demon and the Darkly Martyrs too.” He pointed at the ground, “We don’t know what they’re doin’ or whose side they’re on, but on this evidence,” he paused as Xavier  hoisted  Gosling out of the trunk and threw him over his shoulder, “... it could turn Master Jamie into something ten times worse than Master Gosling or Miss Danielle...”

   To be continued in Seven Thousand Years to Midnight

Table of Contents

[paulhudd]

Spindlefreck: Pt.18: Witches, Bitches, Vamps and Creeps

2nd November 1988

Electra Cochrane’s Imagination;

Little Red Riding Hood’s Grandmother’s Cottage

           “So, lemme get this straight... you just stood there watching... while he raped me?!” yelled Dani, cross-armed and red-faced with exasperation.

The golden-haired old lady who claimed to be Electra Cochrane, her late grandmother, looked down at the crystal ball and shrugged, nonchalantly, “It wasn't like that... it isn't like that. The flesh means nothing to us. You must know that by now,” said she, running her fingertips along the curve of the glass.

In the silence that followed, the constant, distant chant grew louder, the drumbeat became like a steady, thudding heartbeat, a strong gust of wind blew through the woods and rattled the skewed wooden frame of the little, latticed window. The sky darkened to a deep shade of purple as the gathering storm clouds above the cartoonish woodland dreamscape slowly crowded out the full moon.

Dani had so many questions she didn’t know where to start, “What... how...? Where was my daddy when all this was going on?!”

“Look into the glass,” said the old lady. The mists within the glowing orb proliferated then parted to reveal the ghastly scene; Dani saw her father lying unconscious on the grass. “The demon rendered Ivan senseless until it was done. He had no idea what happened... He woke up... and the demon told him he had his child back, but he was now accursed. And lo-and-behold, you slowly morphed into a little girl again, right before our eyes. Your father was overjoyed. The demon had honoured his part of the bargain. When the time was right, he said, a time of his choosing, Ivan would transform into the monster. It was the last time I saw you together. The last time I saw Ivan alive.”

Dani wasn't taking this well at all. She squirmed, crossed her legs tightly and tugged at the hem of her skirt as she viewed the unsavoury tableau. The image of her middle-aged grandmother standing in the darkened woods, holding a lantern while a long-haired man in a motorcycle jacket and leather trousers -- her so-called friend -- sexually assaulted her! -- well, the big, drooling, ugly, bottle-green goblin version of her, anyway -- was no sight for sane eyes! “Make it change!” she yelped, turning away.

The mists thickened again and the scene seamlessly morphed; this time she saw a group of old men in cowled black robes sitting around a long table, eating dinner and drinking wine; she recognised one of them as her late godfather, the illustrious Sir Arnold Lumb, seated at the head of the table, looking aristocratic and aloof. Electra nodded, “Ivan transformed during next meeting of the Temple elders. The demon wanted to make sure he killed as many of them as possible. You see, up until you changed into that... thing, Ivan was besotted with the Judge and the old fogies up at the Ivy House. He was beholden to their ways, he was keen to learn their secrets; but in the end, thank the stars, he loved you more than them or their stupid Temple, or you wouldn't be alive today.” The old woman grumbled as she recalled her second son’s short life, “Of course, Bernie’s men killed him that night. After all those years of keeping him away from them, trying to give him a normal upbringing, they took over and ruined everything. Destroyed everyone in my life, they did. It all changed when you changed, Danielle. Ivan came to me and begged me to help. I didn’t know that making a deal with the demon would mean losing him. And, I admit it, when the switch occurred, and Ivan destroyed them, it went some way to easing my grief. They got what they deserved. Bastards. It was almost worth losing a son just to see them suffer.”

Suspicious of the old woman’s intentions and somewhat dismayed by her hard-hearted attitude, Dani took a sceptical tack: like, who is the enemy here, anyway? “Sounds like they were right about you!!” she jeered, bitterly, looking the old woman up and down, “You should hear the way they talk about you! They say you were junkie and you worked for Bernie Pritchard -- they call you his ‘moll’ ‘n say you were a right ol’ slut!”

Smiling patiently, the old woman nodded and replied, “Tis true, I suppose. I was never a ‘goody-two-shoes’ like your sainted aunt Carla. I wasn't interested in competing or honing my powers to fight in one of their stupid ‘secret wars’. Eeeuggh, hanging around a bunch of dusty wrinklies who stink of hair oil and fusty eau de cologne... When we first arrived in Ireland and eventually got to the Ivy House, I’d already decided I didn’t want to live the life of a Siren -- I just wanted a banal, boring existence like the untroubled folk I saw on the journey: the people in Paris with their fine clothes and jewels, the wives who didn’t have to do anything but dress well and look pretty for their rich husbands. And I liked Bernie. He made sure I lived as simple a life as possible, even if it meant entertaining his ‘guests’. I always had my imagination, you see, and when you’re a vivid as I am and you’ve been through everything I’ve been through, you don’t need anything but peace and quiet and a creative mind to be contented. But living a normal life on the outside means no hibernation, no magic. I found it difficult to grow old gracefully.... but, c’est la vie ...”

Dani made a face, “You sound just like Auntie Carla.”

“You remind me of her,” Electra replied, rhetorically.

Dani didn’t know whether it was a compliment or not and said nothing.

Electra smiled, looked around the childish, fairytale tumbledown-cottage and explained in a fretful tone, “We used to live in a little place something like this, hidden away in a forest in Grenoble, more than 100 years ago. A little shack, deep in the woods, it was, but much less homely and a lot dirtier.” She put a hand on the crystal ball and the mists rearranged to reveal her earliest memories: the moss-covered hut, and the scowling, stick-thin, mad-haired hag that was Dani’s great-grandmother, brandishing a heavy ladle, chasing her first born into the trees. “Momma was a different kind of monster, as I’m sure you’ve been told. She was crazy and angry when she wasn't sleeping off a hangover. She used to thrash me with a switch if I annoyed her, which was often. She made me sleep with renegade soldiers when I was a lot younger than 12 years old. She once grabbed my arm and put my hand in the soup when the pot was bubbling over the fire. On the other hand, Carrie -- or Carlotta -- or ‘Carla’ -- or whatever she calls herself now -- was stronger because she was more like her than me. She had her fortitude. Feistier. Fit for her. As soon as she was old enough to know better, she stood up to her and refused to do anything she was told unless it suited her. She had her fair share of hidings, but I was broken down and compliant, I did what I was told. Carrie’s defiance only made life more difficult for me. I counted the days to my hibernations when I could drift into the ‘Sphere, create another world for myself and let them get on with it. Then one night, during a battle in the forest and our mother was too drunk to wake, Carrie woke me and made me run away with her, saying momma wouldn't come after us while there were cannonballs splintering trees! She told me she’d been in touch with Uncle Oggy via momma’s crystal ball and he’d told her to come to Ireland as soon as we could and he’d look after us. He’d given up on his sister years ago. He knew what she was capable of.  ‘Uncle Oggy says she’s killed before -- so come with me now before she kills one of us!’ said she. I was too tired and scared to put up much of an argument. Anyway, we stole away that night, headed for the west coast and a boat bound for Ireland.

“We walked for miles and miles; we hid in the back of filthy wagons; we crawled through ditches; we had to sleep in roadside bushes; we were attacked so often we had to take it in turns to sleep and keep watch.... it was a fucking nightmare... I just plodded along and drifted into my imagination. I escaped into my dreamscapes to shut out the Real World....” She looked up at her sullen granddaughter, “Have you explored my dreamscapes -- have you ridden on the cosmic roller coaster? Sailed on the Martian crystal ships? Visited the underwater ballrooms of Atlantis?”

“Alice took me,” Dani replied, grumpily.

She smirked, nodded and opined in a cynical tone, “Ahh, Alice, the silly little chambermaid. I introduced her to my dreams when I stayed at the house. What do you think of our little Alice then?”

Dani’s lip curled, “Not much. I suppose you two set this up between yez!”

“No, I haven’t seen or spoken to Alice in years. She and I were best friends out here for a while... but she likes to stay young, she hibernates often to keep her looks, so we lost touch; and anyway, I moved on and made new friends, more mature friends. She likes to run with a young crowd. Little bimbo. You see, even though she was a lowly chambermaid, she still looked down her nose at me; she called me a ‘French Tart’ behind my back. So when we went on a dream together, I never told her I was providing the entertainment. She just assumed I was too far gone to have such an imagination. I suppose it pleased me to have one over on her, getting my own back for my own amusement.”

Dani snorted, “She hates the fogies in the Ivy House too, so-she-does. They drive us up the friggin’ wall with their boring old twaddle and their stupid rules... gits.”

“Exactly. You see, Carrie and I were very beautiful when we were young. Beautiful Sirens are too useful to waste on housework and menial tasks. I was a strawberry blonde, with very long legs; they used me to bedazzle and seduce prospective members of the Temple, men of wealth and status useful to the cause.” She primped her hair with her long thin fingers as the mists in the glowing orb parted to reveal a young woman fitting the above description, dressed in a silk dressing gown, reclining on a velvet chaise lounge, eyes closed in repose, smoking a long, thin cigarette, “We became a pair of ‘Pritchard’s Bitches’; I ‘worked’ in one of his Purple Pleasure Rooms. I didn’t get physical, mind you. I was so adept at telepathy I’d just touch their brows and send them into their sickest fantasy, smoke some opium and disappear into my own little reverie, heh, heh...” She snickered, “Afterwards, they had to wonder why their pants were so dry, why the room was so tidy! The sadists were confounded by the lack of bruises or welts on my back; no split lips; no blood; no black eyes. Carrie ran away. She hated it, but I l didn’t mind it at all. Then, after the First World War, I was allowed to quit. I got married, and even if it was to an utter chump, I got what I always wanted: a normal life away from the Ivy House and the scheming Vondragüül.

“One day, Bernie came to me with another of his silly proposals. Some archaeologist had uncovered Tutankhamen’s tomb, apparently, and there were runes engraved on a cartouche amidst the hieroglyphics with specific instructions on how to create a ‘Güül messiah. Bernie was over the moon. He was always trying to impress the Judge and he thought this discovery would prove he was his rightful successor. He wanted me to be part of the ritual and bear the child. Why not, thought I -- especially if it was going to be someone special they’d all admire. I had no interest in their plot, I was hoping for a little girl. But despite many years of planning, waiting for exactly the right conditions -- during which I had your Uncle Jacob and parted from his useless father --  Bernie’s spell-casting efforts proved wide of the mark! [see part one] Ivan wasn't born as Sensitive as us. He wasn't as they say, ‘the Full ‘Güül’. It was clear from the outset that he’d never be a fully fledged Siren, just one of the rank-and-file. As far as I could see, he was more human than anything else -- which pleased me no end! You should have seen their faces!! Heh, heh. Bernie still clung to the vain hope that Ivan’s powers would manifest later in life, but thankfully, he showed no promise; in fact, he was a troubled child.” Electra sighed, ruefully, “He didn’t trust anybody, least of all ‘Uncle’ Bernie. Then, after years of strife, he settled down and got married to Maisie, your mother. They tried again to get through to him, but he just wasn't having it.” She smiled, benignly, “Then you were born. The little girl I never had. It was the best thing that ever happened to all of us... Until they began interfering again and you moved to Forestpine and that bloody tower...”  Electra frowned, “I knew something was wrong. There was a tingle in my Essence that told me something significant and ominous had come to pass. I couldn’t find your signature in the Psychosphere!” The frown became a sorrowful grimace as she recalled the day of the fire, “Your metamorphosis ignited the air, you see -- energy surged up from the ground and enfolded the tower in a sheet of flame. I thought you were dead.” The grimace became a scowl, “They lied. They told me you’d died. They even had a funeral! Jacob, Maisie and I wept for days!” she winked a twinkling eye, “But it’s hard to keep a secret in the ‘Sphere, as you well know. It wasn't long until I found out you were still alive. I knew something terrible had happened to you, but I didn’t know you’d morphed...”

“... Into a big, bog-ugly goblin!” snapped Dani.

The old woman hid her face behind her hand and looked away, “Ooh, I couldn't bear to see you like that, Danielle. I used to spy on you in the woods on the nights when Ivan took you for your walks. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. My sweet wee golden girl... Then he came to me and admitted everything. He told me about the spell that turned you into what you were. Bernie’s messiah-making project was a trap set long ago by the demon. He’d followed the Temple’s advice and done everything he could to keep you alive, hoping for a cure... but nothing had changed and time was running out. The Judge was getting too senile to know what-was-what, so Lady Beth gave the order that you were to be ‘put out of your misery for the coven’s sake’.

“Ivan was desperate to save you; he asked me to go to the dark side of the ‘Sphere, the place where the demon’s host’s psyche resides... He wanted to make a deal.

“So, I sat before my dressing room mirror and entered The Devil’s Rift, and then on into the dark side of the ‘Sphere. I was safe. The demon had been expecting me. He knew why I was there.  He explained that it was Ivan who was supposed to turn into a monster, not you. He said he could fix everything, all I had to do was contact him the next time you he took you for a walk in the woods and... well, you know the rest.” She looked up and smiled, her spangled, emerald irises twinkling with compassion, “I did it for you, Danielle. You were too precious a jewel to lose...”

Dani shivered. The story seemed entirely reasonable, but one thing bothered her above all else; she cocked her head and asked, “Why didn’t you tell me all this years ago, when I was normal? When they took me in? -- You could've saved me from the mess I’m in! You could've come and seen me, at least!”

“That was part of the deal. Once you were returned to your natural state I was to keep my distance, and stay out of your life.” She straightened her back, wiped the wistful smile from her lips and continued in a low, morose voice, “I daren’t disobey him. While I was in the dark side of the ‘Sphere, I felt his power; I knew he was capable of anything. He could wipe my mind in an instant... destroy my inner-world... devour my Soul with a single thought....”

She stopped when they noticed a hush had descended. The constant pulsebeat of distant drums faded, the chanting became muted --- suddenly a huge boom rocked the little cottage -- as if a low-flying supersonic plane had roared overhead! Dani shuddered and croaked, “I’ve heard that noise before!”

The old lady nodded and looked up at the ceiling as if it was about to fall in, “Another Soul Death. What is he doing...?”

Then it went very quiet, just the hooting of cartoon owls in the woods and the crackle of the old woman’s fire. “Why is everything so still,” asked Dani, looking out of the little window.

“He’s in the ‘Sphere,” Electra gasped.

“Who?”

“The demon!”

“So... is this part of the deal, too?” Her golden haired grandmother’s wizened hand grabbed her wrist! “Hey!” Dani cried, “what’re you doing?!”

The old witch looked at her with wild, beseeching, terrified eyes: “Speak his name, Danielle -- say it now!!”

 Forestpine Housing Estate

17:23 GMT

The muffled boom of a gunshot woke Archie up, but the world was still in darkness: he was blindfolded. Not only blindfolded but gagged with a rag that stank of grease and engine oil and tasted twice as bad; his hands secured behind his back with what he assumed were his own cuffs. He tried to shift forward and found that his ankles were bound too, his arms and upper body taped to something hard and cold, probably an old radiator. There were no sounds he could identify other than the playful screams and shouts of children somewhere in the distance - hopefully well out of harm’s way. He knew he was still in Forestpine, probably in one of the abandoned maisonettes he’d been investigating. He wasn't in any pain, but he felt groggy and listless: drugged. He didn’t know how long he’d been out. The last thing he remembered was turning and seeing the mirrored visor of a motorcycle helmet; the last thing he felt was the sting of a hypodermic needle piercing his neck.

What worried him now was the gunshot. Am I next? Or did the biker have other plans? Someone’s bound to have heard that, thought Archie, if it was anyplace other than Forestpine, somebody would phone the peelers, but the residents of the ‘Worst Housing Estate in Europe’ despised the police or valued their lives too much to report it. All things told he was at the mercy of his captor.

Sure enough, few seconds later, somewhere down below, he heard the  sound of a door being opened with some difficulty, then closing, followed by thethump-and-jingle of motorcycle boots climbing a flight of stairs, getting louder as they crossed the landing; another door opening -- the door to the room -- then footsteps squelching on the damp, carpeted floor coming toward him, and as they got closer, the unmistakeable stench of cordite filled the air. The biker was indeed the shooter. But who’s been shot? 

“You’re awake, I see,” said a male voice, slightly muted by a crash helmet, “a rude awakening was it?” it asked, with a hint of amused-mischief. Then it was next to his ear, “We meet again, Archie Harkness,” it whispered. The accent was southern Irish and very familiar. It was his man: the man who supposedly attacked him in Donegal 3 years ago [see part two]. But this time the voice didn’t hiss and crackle like a rusty needle on an old LP. This time it sounded human. “You gave me a nasty surprise, this evening, Archie. You roused me from a deep, deep meditation...  but I am now grateful for the intrusion. You've brought me to my senses in more ways than you can ever imagine.”

The creak of leather as the biker stood up; Archie heard him working at something; then the sound of tuneless chiming on his left: Coat-hangers?

“Won’t be long now... bear with me, Archie, just one more thing to do...”

Is he going to kill me? thought Archie, swallowing loudly.

As if reading his mind -- which was entirely plausible, if his previous experience and the conversation of the night before with Chief Superintendent Donald Ogle was anything to go by [see part seventeen] -- the voice said, “No, I’m not going to kill you. Not directly, anyway. The people who eventually find you are going to kill you, and hopefully, themselves, too.”

You’re using me to bait a trap?

“Precisely. I love setting traps. I’m like a man-hunter, and I always get my man!” Archie heard the boots squelch to the far end of the room -- then a series of clicks; then the rasping sound of Gaffa-tape being torn from a spool. “It’ll be quick, so don’t worry, you won’t feel a thing, and your Soul will survive the experience.”

He’s taping something to something? A booby trap!

“Right again, Archie. Plastic explosive. A very simple device, much more modern and a lot less cumbersome and crude than the landmine I used to kill your old friend Dessie.”

“Dessie Calvert -- you killed Dessie Calvert?!” Archie’s stifled voice mumbled-shouted through the rag.

The biker paused for a moment, then carried on with his work, lamenting in a mock-maudlin, ho-hum voice, “So sad. True love always ends in a tragic loss. But ahh, what can you do? The only way to deal with rejection is remove the object of your obsession, eh? The shrinks will tell you otherwise, but it’s true. People let you down. Poor Desmond. But don’t you worry, Archie, you’re about to meet him again, very soon... well, as soon as your friends find you. You’re going to bring the house down... literally!”

Archie heard the rasp of unravelling tape again as the biker returned to his work. Since telepathy seemed to be the only means of communication, he thought/asked, who are you? Why are you doing this? Is it something to do with the Lumbs? The Ivy house... what? Who are you working for? Is it a cult?!

He heard the footsteps approach again, “I’m sorry Archie, old man, I haven’t time to divulge my life story or my motives. I’ve a long journey ahead of me. But if it makes things any easier for you, everything will become clear when you depart this earthy realm. After all,” he laughed then sang a line from an old Bowie song: “‘Knowledge comes with death’s release...’”

The Ivy House

6 miles away, Ogden Castle, the Lumbs’ rotund family butler, moving as fast as his considerable girth would allow, rushed to the sanatorium. On the way across the moonlit, leaf-strewn courtyard, he encountered Gustafson, the burly head of security coming in the opposite direction, his Slavic brow vexed with alarm, “Is everything alright, Mr Castle? I was just liaising with the men, when the tremors suddenly stopped...?”

Puffing and panting, Castle leaned against one of the parked cars, mopped his jowls with his capacious hankie and explained what he assumed was happening, “He could be making ready to strike -- he could've been interrupted -- who can tell?! There’s no change with Master Jamie and Miss Danielle, they’re still in their trance... We think he’s got an accomplice to finish the job... probably Ellie...”

“Ellie Cochrane?!” Gustafson cried, confused, “But I thought Ellie died, sir? Is she a ghost... is she haunting the place?!” he asked, looking up at the house as if he expected to see her appear at one of the windows.

“Carla is pretty sure she didn’t enter The Light, we don’t know why, but we think she’s working with the demon in the ‘Sphere... it’s the only explanation, he can’t be in two places at once.... besides, she wouldn't survive in there without his protection...”

Gustafson was confused, “But what does it mean...?”

“It means he’s on the move in a physical sense and he’s still in the immediate vicinity... could be on his way here now... gawd knows... he could come at us from anywhere...” he pointed to the fields beyond the house, “Radio the men ‘n tell ‘em to spread out along the perimeter, listen out for a motorbike.... and prepare themselves for anything!”

Barking orders into his walkie-talkie, Gustafson immediately turned and bolted back into the darkness while Castle laboriously climbed the flight of white marble steps leading up to the sanatorium. His chest wheezing, his heart pounding, his face dripping with perspiration, he opened the door and made his way to Jamie’s quarters, to the huge, mounted crystal ball in the middle of the bedroom floor. He fell to his knees, timidly reached out and held his palm close to the surface. It was hot. Very hot. “Shite!” He went to one of the bedside lockers, lifted a pitcher of drinking water and poured a cupful over the glass -- there was a soft hiss as it made contact. Then he blew on his hands and carefully placed them on the steaming globe...

...

Simultaneously, in the basement, while the assembled household staff continued to chant and drum, Carla stalked into the crowd and grabbed Alice the chambermaid by the arm, “You! Come with me!” she hissed, yanking the little figure out of the ritual, bustling her through the connecting archway and into the boiler room. She closed the door, pushed her up against the old stone wall and wagged a finger in her grimacing face, “Listen to me, you little imbecile! I know all about you and your friends’ escapades in the Psychosphere!! You’re just like my sister! A dreamer. Soft-headed and hard-hearted, having fun at everyone else’s expense. Is this Electra’s doing?! Are you in on this too?! Tell me!!”

Terrified, the waifish Alice slid to the floor, threw up her arms and tearfully denied everything, “I ain’t got nothin’ to do with any o’ this!! I stopped dreaming with Miss Dani when you told me to -- it’s all Goz -- I mean it’s all Master Gosling’s fault!! He’s the one you should be chastisin’ -- not me!”

“Master Gosling is at present performing the same ritual -- he used you -- he made you make friends with Danielle, didn’t he? You must know more than you’re telling us...!” she stopped, abruptly, relaxed a little and thought it over. Then she stooped, cupped her captive’s tiny cheeks in her long, slender, silvery hands and said, “These dreamscapes you frequent. Describe them to me!”

Stammering and shaking, eyes out on stalks, Alice began with a broad overview, “They’re just the u-usual things... p-pleasure ‘n leisure... ass-astral puh-p-plains... d-d-discotheques, c-clubs, b-b-beaches... anything you can think of...?” once she saw that Carla was slightly pacified, she went on to give more detailed description.

Sure enough, as Alice elaborated, the account struck a chord. Carla let go, stood up, crossed her arms and nodded, “You are describing dreamscapes that Electra created when we were children. I stopped dreaming to deal with our problems; I preferred the challenges of the Material World. She used her imagination as a means to escape the harsh reality.”

The little maid gasped, “You mean we travel in her imagination?! But it’s so... perfect... I just assumed it had always been there... so she created all that...?”

Carla grabbed the girl’s shoulders to shake some sense into her, “Don’t you see? She’s used them to trap Danielle. She’s the demon’s accomplice! Now tell me about Dani!! Her favourite places to visit -- somewhere she is likely to go if she’s lonely!!”

Alice thought about it and eventually said, “She’s a big kid, right enough. She likes soppy stuff, like the fairground...?”

“A fairground?”

“Yeah. A huge, gigantic fairground with everything you’d want. It’s a bit childish for me, a bit hokey, like, but Miss Danielle laps it up...?”

Carla narrowed an eye and nodded, “This fairground. It has sideshows, stalls, freak shows, strongmen and fortune tellers, that sort of thing, yes?”

“Yeah... like I said, it’s dead hokey, but she loved it.”

Carla was lost in thought. “Hmmm... Fortune tellers have crystal balls... she could be using it to create a spell... the mirror....?”

“Miss...?”

Again, Carla felt a tingle in her belly that said there was something of significance in this. The something clicked -- she turned, ran out the door, through the connecting archway and shouted into the dungeon area, “Stop! Stop the ritual!!”

The staff immediately stopped chanting and drumming. A nervous hush fell upon the room as Carla crossed the floor to the dungeon. Dani was still limp, snoring through the mesh of her muzzle. She walked to where Jamie lay and hunkered down so that she could see his eyes in the little mirror. They were open, but he was still gone. She felt his pulse: his skin was cold to the touch, but his heartbeat seemed normal. He was utterly entranced.

Fordham the footman wiped his brow, cleared his throat and asked on behalf of the rest, “Is it over, Miss Carla? Has the crisis passed?”

Carla stared at Jamie and shook her head, “I don’t know if it is over, I just know in my Soul that we’re doing the wrong thing -- we’re helping the Demon, not Danielle...”

...

A scream echoed around the sanatorium as Castle recoiled from the crystal ball and staggered backward until his huge arse landed heavily on the foot of the bed. He’d held on until he couldn't bear it anymore and all he had to show for it was a rash of blisters. He’d suffered agonising pain in vain. He couldn't get through to Nᴉxau or the tribe in Namibia, or the mystics of Persia and Asia. There was no way of asking for help. Blowing on his palms, he looked around at the many drapes and rugs from all over the world and thought about how the sanatorium looked before the refurbishment. His mind drifted back to the time when Master Jamie was in his ‘coma’ and the cold, white-shiny, antiseptic walls of his room. The mirror fixed to the wall... Then the music box with the mirrored insets... And just as his mind settled on a poignant thought, he heard the bell ring in the main house. He went into the hall, to the internal phone on the wall behind the front door and pressed #1.

“I stopped the chant, Uncle Ogden. I think we've made a big mistake,” stated Carla, plainly. “If we are recreating the original spell, then why is there a mirror involved?”

Castle sighed and agreed, “I just had the same thought. Gosling is using a mirror to gain access because he couldn't use the ‘Sphere. He made a grave mistake.” He sighed again, this time with despair, “the crystal balls are picking up cast-off energy. That means the demon must be in the Void; he’s free of his host and he has his eye on the ideal replacement. In other words, Miss Danielle is just a red-herring, as-it-were; it’s Young Master Jamie he’s after. Just like last time. Jamie is the ultimate possession. We shouldn't have let him use that mirror.”

“But what about Gosling? If they’re still performing the ritual in Dublin... that means he could be in there too?! I’m not concerned for his Soul, but he could also be working with demon!”

“Well, Her Ladyship’s on her way down there now. She should be there in an hour or so. I’ll phone the plane. Hopefully she can stop them before it’s too late.”

“We need them to stop now, Uncle!! If Jamie’s trapped in the Void with the demon, there’s only so long he can last! ”

“Well, if he’s exited his host; he must have all the power he needs to take possession and Jamie is in no state to offer any resistance. We may be too late already.”

The line went quiet, then Carla said, “...... Jamie would rather die than let him in.”

“I hate to say it, sweetheart, but I hope you’re right...”

 ...

 Meanwhile...

“Speak his name and it will all be over -- trust me!!”

Dani stared at her as if she’d lost her mind, “No way, missus... If I say that word I’ll change into a full-blown monster again -- and this time they won’t bother to change me back! This time they’ll kill me!!”

“Look I haven’t time to explain -- but I’m doing this for your own good, Danielle -- say it, please!”

Dani crossed her arms and stuck her nose in the air, “You don’t fool me -- this is part of the plan -- you said so yourself -- you made a deal with him!”

A roll of thunder shook the house.

She stood up, reached across the table and grabbed Dani by the shoulders, “Danielle, you have to say the word. NOW! NOW!!”

In this state of heightened anxiety, the old woman’s innermost thoughts echoed around the room like a cacophony of whispers in a deep well:

It must happen now! I did what I was told?! Why is there a thunderstorm? Why do I feel so cold? This is all there is of me! I’ll never see her again...?

The voices ceased when they heard a loud rat-tat-tat on the front door.

“Who’s that?” asked Dani.

The old woman backed-up and shook her head, “I don’t know...”

“What do you mean you don’t know -- this is your imagination?!”

“I made sure there would be no interruptions! The Psychosphere is out of bounds -- as far as I know there are no other Souls here...!

There was another, louder, rat-tat-tat.   

Dani defiantly marched to the door, “Well I’m sick of all this shite -- I’m going to answer it!”

The old woman appeared in front of her and stopped her in her tracks, “No! No! -- you have to say the word now!” she screeched, “It could be him!!”

Then a voice shouted through the little letterbox, “Don’t do it Dani -- it’s a trap!!”

Her grandmother was terrified but undeterred, “Believe me, Danielle -- I’m on your side -- it’s for your own good -- say the word!!”

Utterly confused, Dani pushed the old woman aside and opened the door. It was the cartoon big bad wolf in the battered top hat and scarecrow clothes, the one that she’d seen hiding from her in the woods. He looked very afraid, “Don’t say the word Dani -- she’s working with the demon!!” he barked.

Dani recognised the voice, but couldn't put a face to it, but before she could ask, her golden haired grandmother grabbed her by the shoulders again, “Don’t listen to him -- he’s working for the demon -- all you have to do is say his name and everything will return to normal!”

“No, Dani -- you’ll morph into a monster -- they’ll destroy you and the demon will destroy everything!!” cried the big bad wolf, snatching her from the old witch’s hands.

The old woman snatched her back, stooped, looked Dani in the eye and promised with hand on heart, “No -- look -- I reversed the spell -- if you say his name you will change back!!”

The big bad wolf snatched her back again, “It’s a trap Dani -- can’t you see -- it’s part of the plan! Remember where you are!!”

That’s true, she thought. They were currently in Granny Electra’s dreamscapes, so it was impossible to read his signature let alone his mind, but Dani had finally put a face to the voice, “Goz?! Is that you?!”

The big bad wolf let go and stood back, “Yes, it’s me, Dani. Remember me...?” he asked, apprehensively.

Dani sniffed, “Hmmm. I don’t like you. You were one of Pritchard’s cronies, too. You knew what he wanted to do with me. You were there when Jamie was in a coma. You pretended to be his friend.”

“That’s right, Danielle, he must be working with the demon!”

“Shaddup, you!” Dani shouted over her shoulder, “I can’t trust you either!”

“That’s all in the past now, Dani! Pritchard’s dead and gone -- I’m here to save you,” said the picture-book wolf, with a pained look in his eye.

“Don’t fall for it Danielle -- he’s the one with an axe to grind -- he hates Jamie!!”

“Don’t listen to her, Dani -- she’s in league with the demon!”

She wasn't having much luck figuring this out; they were both desperately talking over each other and the noise was giving her a splitting headache. She put her hands over her ears and screamed “SHUT UP!!” She addressed the big, bad Goz, and asked, “How did you get in here without being eaten by the black magic in the 'Sphere?”

He pointed a paw at the old woman, “Through the Void! I recreated the spell she helped create! I got your father’s scrapbook, the one with runes, and it brought me here -- straight to her imagination! I didn’t have to use the ‘Sphere -- she has a direct line!” he looked at Dani and shook his head, “She just wants to use you destroy the Ivy House. You heard her -- she hates them -- and just like before, you’ll metamorphose into a monster -- only this time you won’t change back, this time they've got you cornered -- you will be killed!”

Dani turned to her grandmother and cocked her head, “Sounds convincing.”

Electra addressed the wolf directly, “NO! You don’t know what you’re talking about; you don’t know what you’re doing -- I reversed the spell!” The old woman summoned a vision of her granddaughter’s current predicament in the crystal ball: “Look at how you live, Danielle,” she sobbed, “muzzled like a mad dog and shackled to a torturers chair! I can help you change back -- you’ll be normal!” she turned back to her befuddled granddaughter, “But you have to speak his name before he comes for me!!”

“Grrrrrrr,” the cartoon wolf was getting evermore enraged; the top hat fell off as he began to grow taller; his snout became longer, his teeth got bigger and sharper, his hair got darker, his paws became elongated claws -- he ripped his ragged suit into shreds -- he was now the real deal! Dani backed up toward her grandmother and watched as he fell on all fours, crept toward them and warned through a low, guttural growl, “Get out of the way Dani, I don’t want to hurrrrt you...”

The old witch whispered in her ear, “Why do you think I showed you how the demon killed his host’s father? Why do you think I showed you how they ruined your poor mother? Because I wanted you to see who the real villains are. But with one word Dani, you can be a girl like any other -- all you have to do is speak his name and this madness will all be over!”

 ... 

Forestpine Housing Estate

18:03 GMT

Malky opened the front door and released a gust of air rife with the sharp tang of various citrus-based household-cleaning-products. The woodwork was gleaming, “I see our ‘home-help’ has been at her work,” he grumbled, “I shoulda got the key offa her before we left, God knows what else she’s been up-to.”

The acrid melange caused Brooster to sneeze repeatedly, bloody woman, but was still too agitated and excited by their ‘close encounter’ to care; the burst of adrenaline he’d experienced had ebbed but he his pelt was still tingling, the atmosphere in the estate buzzed with the demon’s residual energy. The words he heard in the cemetery were still uppermost in his mind, but he was too tired and hungry to think about it at that moment, he needed a nap to sharpen his sense; but first -- they had to alert DS Somerville! He loped along the little L-shaped corridor, made his way to the living room, went to the phone on the sideboard and nudged it with his snout. Following close behind, Malky tossed the overnight bag onto the couch, and sighed, “OK, OK, I’ll phone the Gardai -- but that’s all I can do. There are hundreds, if not thousands of bikers fitting that description ridin’ a bike like that all over this island. All we can do is pass on the information and let them do the rest OK?” he said, gloomily, lifting the receiver and dialling the number.

The doorbell chimed. They heard the key rattle in the lock and then the bump-bump of Mrs Mercer’s heels on the hall runner. She entered just as the call went through. “Hello there!” she cried to no reply; when she saw what was going on she apologised and put a hand to her mouth.

Broo ignored the intrusion and listened with pricked ears.

“Hello? Erm, this-here is umm... Mr Malcolm Calvert in Belfast... I was wondering if I could talk to DS Somerville. Aye, he gave me this number... Oh. Yes. That’s right; it’s about the McKee case... I’ve got some new information... well, what I mean is, I think I just saw a man fitting McKee’s  description up here in County Down. Yes, he’s riding a motorcycle, a Triumph,” he read out the registration number he’d scribbled down on his palm, “uh-huh, I think it’d be best if you contacted the RUC and alerted them (pause); no... Ahem... it’d be better coming from you.... In fact, DS Somerville is friendly with a detective up here by the name of Harkness. He’ll make sure they take note ‘n follow it up. Yes, D.I. H.A.R.K.N.E.S.S.”

He hung-up and turned to greet their guest. As ever, she was rollered, scarved, overall-ed and bursting at the seams; and now Malky was available, she talked one-to-the-dozen with nary a pause for breath, “Everything alright, Malky? Did I hear you mention the Gardai ‘n Archie Harkness? Who’s this-here ‘biker’ yez are lookin’ for?” she asked, excitedly.

“Oh, just an eejit who’s wanted for murder...”

Her pudgy face broke into a wide smile, “So yez are onto him, are yez?! The child-killer -- the one who left the bones in the woods?!”

Malky nodded, “Aye. We didn’t catch him, but we know who he is. He’s on the run now, I just hope the peelers get him before he does anymore damage.”

“Aww Malky, that’s grand -- so lettin’ you have a loan of Roy’s car was worth it?!”

Oh shite. Malky coughed, looked around the room and cheerfully changed the subject, “I er... I see you’ve been busy with your duster while we've been away, missus. The place is spotless!”

She crossed her fat arms across her chest, beamed and crowed, “Oh I’ve been very busy -- I did all the dustin’ ‘n polishing ‘n hooverin’ -- I washed all your cushion covers, I even took the curtains to the laundrette!”

“It looks sensational... it makes me look untidy...” said Malky, biting his lip.

Oblivious to the hint of regret in his tone, she yammered on, “I wanted to be here when yez got in so I kept an eye out ‘n I saw yez comin down the steps from our bedroom windie, and I says to Mister Mercer, I says:  ‘there they are now! They musta been round at Gock Niblock’s leavin’ the car back’...” she reached inside the pouch of her apron and took out a fan of envelopes, “I gathered up your post ‘n I got yez some milk ‘n a wee bit of corn-beef ‘n a loaf of bread ‘n there’s a wee bag of kidneys in the fridge fer the dog...?” She stopped gabbling when she finally noticed Malky’s downcast expression. “Whassup w’ ye?” she asked, concerned, “ye look as if somebody’s died...?”

Broo looked up at Malky. Malky rubbed the nape of his neck, sighed, and laid it on the line, “To put it bluntly an’ briefly, missus: I hadda visit Castlereigh on the way back and... to cut a long story short, the peelers confiscated Roy’s car.”

She shuddered, took a step backward, put her palms against her pasty jowls and wailed, “Oh, for the love of God, NO! Not his CAR! He’ll go fuckin’ SPARE!”

The reaction was as bad as he’d expected. He held her shoulders to calm her down and assured her that if he had to, he’d go to the prison himself and explain everything to Roy’s face. “Anyway, at least it’s in good hands...”

Mrs Mercer eventually calmed down and went off brew a pot of tea to ‘calm her nerves’. Malky made sure she was out of earshot, got Zindy’s number from his wallet and rang the inn. Alas, the ringing tone went on and on. She wasn't picking up. Disappointed, he replaced the receiver and thought things over.

After giving Broo his microwaved kidney’s, Mrs Mercer staggered in carrying a heavily laden tray and set it on the little coffee table, “I suppose Pinchy Finch and Winnie the Pig were ‘round here lookin’ for me?” asked Malky, slipping his wallet into his back pocket.

“Aye, but they wouldn't tell me why. That O’Hara one is a hateful frigger. Cheeky shitebag, he-is. They wouldn't even leave a message...” She started pouring the tea, and suddenly remembered,“Oh, but I hadda let the electric meter-reader in this mornin’...”

Malky immediately became very agitated and demanded the details, “What? A meter-reader?! What did he look like? Was he tall? Long haired? Wearing a uniform? Did he show ye ID?!” He said, looking under the couch.

Mrs Mercer was slightly shocked by this unseemly outburst, “Here, here, easy-on, easy-on -- it was the one that usually comes - a wee bald man in horn-rim specs w’ the clipboard, an’-all-that. I stood and watched him while he did it! He never spoke a word ‘cept to say hello ‘n’ cheerio.”

Malky relaxed and flopped down on the armchair again, “I’m sorry, missus, but this affair has got me wound-up-the-hi-doe. I need a long hot bath and good night’s kip. My nerves are fried and I’m aching from head-to-toe...”

Then, after a minute’s silence during which biscuits were munched, tea was sipped and everyone pored over their problems, Malky remembered his conversation with Dessie’s fiancée, Nicola, and asked “Mrs Mercer, do you remember anything about the folks’ last holiday in Wicklow? It was the year I didn’t go, so it woulda been in the summer of ‘59. Do you remember if Dessie was upset or hurt or whatever?”

Mrs Mercer crunched her shortcake and had a ‘wee think’. She couldn't be sure, “I do remember them comin’ home that year cuz it was that summer that our Roy took his first steps and I couldn't wait to show yer mammy. I remember that you didn’t go with ‘em, but I can’t ‘member nuthin’ about wee Dessie. As far as I could see he was cock-a-hoop to be home!”

Malky nodded and said Hmmm. Now that she mentioned it, he had a vague recollection of Dessie being in particularly good spirits when they returned (Malky had arrived back from Bangor a week earlier). The question now was: had something happened in Brodir that made him so glad to get home? While Mrs Mercer droned-on about Roy’s toddling days, he lifted the post and flicked through; amongst the brown envelopes and junk mail, there was a crudely addressed letter. He opened it to find a death threat written on the back of a chocolate-bar wrapper in green biro. He read it aloud as written:

“YOUR DEAD CALVERT! PERVERET! GET OUT OF THIS HEAR ESTATE BEFORE YOU DRAGED OUT AND HUNG TIL YOU DIE --- ”

There was more, but Mrs Mercer had snatched it from his hands, “Gimme that! I thought I’d got them all...”

Malky’s jaw dropped, “Since when have you been opening my mail?!” he said, looking at through rest of the envelopes.

“I only open the ones with no stamps -- y’know, delivered by hand! I knew what they were -- our Roy used to get ‘em all the time while ‘e was on trial!”

“How many has there been?” asked Malky.

She huffed-&-puffed as she scrunched the offending missive into a ball, explaining that over the last 3 weeks, she’d collected 5 in all, “They started comin’ after the dog found them bones, while you were laid-up w’ the soberin’-up – I didn’t want ye seein’ em ‘n gettin’ upset, so I stuck ‘em in my pinny-pocket, took ‘em downstairs and burned them over the stove. They’re just a load of empty threats. Our Roy said to me, ‘ye shouldn't worry about poison pen letters, mammy, cuz the people that send them are usually cowards who don’t get actively involved – liftin’ a pen is as far as they’ll go!’ He said he’d ‘start worryin’ when the ‘letters started tickin’’.”

Malky wasn't fazed or worried in the least, just insulted as he looked through the other letters, the ones with a stamp. “Isn't it wonderful? I’m breaking my neck to find a child-killer and all I get is dog’s abuse. I’m seriously thinkin’ about uppin’-sticks and movin’ to a nice wee place by the seaside...” he stopped when he noticed that one of them seemed to contain something other than a bill. He tore it open the handwritten envelope and took out a cassette tape.

“What’s that,” she asked.

“It’s a tape.”

“I can see that -- what’s on it?”

The label was blank, “I dunno, it doesn’t say and I don’t have a tape player.”

“Neither do we,” said Mrs Mercer, regretfully, “we just have an oul’ radiogram and three Jim Reeves LPs. I love Jim Reeves....” she tilted her curlered head and sang a verse of Distant Drums.

Broo was as curious as Mrs Mercer, his pelt was tingling -- a sure sign that this was something of importance! He sniffed at the tape -- it had a familiar, but elusive odour. He grunted and nudged Malky’s elbow. “Whaddya want me do?” mumbled Malky, “I’ll try and get somethin’ to play it on tomorrow. Besides, it’s probably just some illiterate eejit mouthin’ off.”

Broo wasn't happy, but relented and returned to his dish to finish his kidneys.

 ...

At around 9 o'clock, after an extended reminisce of her beloved son’s childhood (a selective & sanitised account that played fast & loose with the facts concerning Roy’s juvenile delinquency and subsequent forays into gangsterism) Mrs Mercer happened to glance at the clock, “Oh-holy-friggin’-hell -- is that the time?!” she yelped, quickly gathering herself up.

“Going so soon?” asked Malky, already on his feet, ushering her out.

“Och, I hate to leave in such a rush, Malky, but Mister Mercer will be lookin’ his supper and I promised to make ‘im a round of fish-finger sandwiches.”

Malky closed the front door and sighed with relief. “Well, thank gawd for that! The bloody woman could talk the legs of a stool...” But Broo didn’t hear him. He had fallen fast-asleep on his rug. So Malky put on the immersion heater for a bath, went back to the armchair and sat in silence while he deliberated on the strange circumstances surrounding Dessie’s death: Did he know Barry McKee? He was happy when he got back from Brodir; he had an amulet he could only have bought from the Anderson Twins; he was killed by a WW2 mine – and McKee’s father just so happened to be ex-army sergeant major who served in North Africa – could Barry have inherited a little stockpile of daddy’s military mementoes and used one to kill Dessie? Or is it just a coincidence? Or was he just tired and clutching at straws – so preoccupied by the McKee case that he saw the madman’s fingerprints on everything, including his brother’s death?  

He was just about to run a bath when the phone rang. He leapt over the couch, snatched up the receiver and unintentionally bellowed a happy “Hello?!” rousing Broo from his slumber.

“Howerya, chuck?!” Hooray! It was Zindy.

He was over the moon, but tried his best not to let it show. He sat down on the couch and replied, coolly, “I phoned you earlier, but there was nobody home...”

“Oh, didja really? Sammy is here. He musta been workin’ out the backyard or somethin’. I hadda take the van to a garda station in Wicklow town to pick up a couple of the lads that were arrested the other night. As if I haven’t enough to worry about, I hadda stump up the bail money for one of ‘em! That fookin’ raid is costin’ me a fookin’ fortune!”

Malky commiserated as Broo approached and sat down beside him.

“... I suppose you were looking for your little silver locket, weren’tcha -- well, I just found it. I was changin' the sheets in Room 2 and it dropped out onto the floor.”

He was mightily relieved, “Oh, that’s great. I really thought I’d lost it.”

“I could put it in a Jiffy-bag and send it by registered-post, if you like...?”

Malky smiled and blushed at his own impertinence when he replied, “Aye... or... or I... I could come down sometime and get it meself...?”

This suggestion seemed to be a signal for a more intimate exchange. Broo yawned and fought the temptation to go back to sleep as Malky took the phone to the table and sat down; the whispered conversation soon deteriorated into a series of pregnant silences interspersed with regretful sighs, oh yeahs and I feel that way toos. It was a waste of time! He eventually lost patience and began growling <Nevermind the billing-&-cooing! Tell her about the motorcycle!>

Malky gave the old dog the fingers, and sullenly acquiesced, “Listen, Zindy, this might sound a bit weird - but I think I might’ve seen your missing motorbike earlier-on tonight,” he said, looking at his sweating palm and reading out the smudged digits.

“Yeah - that is the Triumph’s number, alright...” She sounded ill-at-ease.

There was a long pause.

“Zindy, I haven’t upset you, have I...?”

Her voice crackled in the earpiece, “You silly bastard! Of course I’m fookin’ upset! You've just seen Barry McKee in your area... he could be after you!”

Slightly embarrassed, but wholly gratified by her concern for his safety, Malky shuffled the mail and said, “No, you’ve no worries on that score, he left here in a quare hurry. I reckon it won’t be long before they catch him, though; he’s not gonna do anythin’ stupid! The last thing he’ll wanna do is waste time wastin’ us!”

Malky picked up the cassette and turned it around in his hand, wondering if it was something to do with McKee.

“Malky? Are you there?”

He put down the tape and apologised.

“... I was just saying, if it’s any use to ya, one of the guys I picked up tonight gave me a few names ‘n places, y’know, people Barry could be stayin’ with in Belfast.”

“Really?! You've got names? That would be a great help!” He went to the sideboard, retrieved his pen & pad then came back to the table. Broo was excited now. He sat to attention and listened closely. “Go ahead, Zin...”

 “Accordin' to Big Ted, there’s a bikers’ club called the Heathen Horsemen, but he can’t remember where they hang out. There’s a couple of headcases called the McBride Brothers who live in North Belfast... a grease-monkey called Gock who used to run with a crowd called –”

Malky immediately interrupted, “Gock? Gock Niblock?!”

Broo barked!

“Yeah... Gock, that’s what Big Ted said... Why? Hello...? Malky? Don’t you want to hear the rest...?”

Malky looked at his watch, then made his apologies and promised her that he’d ring her back in an hour. He put the phone down and turned to his partner.

Broo was already at the door.

Malky fetched his coat. Before turning out the light, he paused for thought, then walked back to the table, picked up the cassette and put it in his pocket, “You never know, ol’ Gock might have an old tape recorder for sale!” then they headed off to the derelict maisonettes in the bowels of the estate, and Niblock’s ad-hoc auto-repair-shop.

 SCICI (St. Cedric’s Institute for the Criminally Insane), Dublin;

21:13 GMT

Rossington, his redoubtable chauffeur, Magowan, plus a couple of Filipino cleaners, a balding sturdy orderly and a bewildered night-watchman they’d roped-in to help, were flagging under the strain. They’d been chanting along to the beat of the little drum machine for at least 4 hours now, but Guy ‘Goz’ Gosling still hadn't emerged from his self-induced trance. He seemed to experience something around late afternoon -- his body shuddered and he groaned with pain, but since then: nothing. Nada. He’s still lying on the bed, a mirror suspended inches from his face, his eyes rolling back and forth as if experiencing a kind of waking dream. The good doctor would've considered it a pointless exercise if it weren’t for the fact that all the chrome and polished surfaces in the room shone with an eerie violet light, so as far as he was concerned, he was onto to something BIG. Whatever this was, it would make him a lot of money! Maybe even a Nobel Prize!!

He signalled to Magowan that he was taking a break, walked out into the corridor and sprawled across a wooden bench by the door. He was enjoying a much-needed smoke when the telephone rang on the wall beside the security doors. He’d informed the rest of the staff not to disturb them, so what hell?! “Stupid paddy bastards,” he muttered, as he dragged himself to his feet and walked slowly toward the ringing phone, “... can’t take simple orders, no calls I said, I mean what part of that phrase do you find so difficult to understand...?” he tore the receiver from its cradle and barked into the mouth-piece, “I left strict instructions...!”

A clipped, transatlantic accent said, “Good evening, Dr Rossington.”

His eyes widened; he stood to attention, cleared his throat and replied in his politest, bedside manner, “Lady Beth, such a surprise, ahem... how did you get this number...?”

“Would you be so kind as to inform your guards to let me in?”

“You’re here?! In Dublin?!“

“I’m in the security hut at the front gates.”

His heart leapt. Shit! What the fuck...?! As his mind worked overtime on plausible excuses, he spluttered, “W-why... I mean, I’m sorry but it’s quite late... what is it...? I mean, what can I do for you...?”

Lady Beth answered impatiently and pointedly, “I’m here to visit our young friend, Master Gosling. I hear he’s under your care.”

Rossington put a hand over the mouthpiece, clenched his fist, kicked the wall, cursed, and then gradually composed himself, put the phone to his ear again and said, nicely, “Erm... he’s very ill at the moment, it’s an intense course of treatment, you see, and I’m monitoring his progress so I’m afraid --”

‘She interrupted in a low, commanding tone, “Dr Rossington, I know exactly what you’re doing. Please tell your men to let us in. I’d much rather continue this conversation in your office, hmm?”

She wasn't going to take no for an answer. Rossington reluctantly complied and gave the order. He rushed back to Gosling’s room, and entering quietly so as not to interrupt the chant, he whispered in McGowan's ear, “Lady fucking Elizabeth fucking Lumb is here!! I’ll have to go down to the office and talk to her,” he pointed at the motley crew “whatever you do -- make sure they don’t stop!” He took one last look at the shining chrome and the halo of violet and nodded to himself: this was something huge and he wasn’t going to let some jumped-up Aristocratic bitch steal it from him. Not this time!

...

Forestpine

22:10 GMT

It was a windy night and the little square of maisonettes howled as they waited for the police. Broo didn’t feel anything here; no magic, no ghosts, no ‘demons’. If McKee was gone for good, he hadn't left any ‘sentinel spells’ behind; there was no foreboding atmosphere, no sense of impending doom, just the smell of general decay and fresh blood. When the convoy of security vehicles finally arrived and delivered the detectives to the scene, Broo found their demeanour increasingly irritating. DS O’Hara, especially, “So... you’ve ‘stumbled’ onto another murder, have ye, Malky? You ‘just happened’ to be in the right place at the right time... again?!” he chided, shining his torch around the blood-spattered squalor that was Niblock’s living-room-cum-bedsit, “I’ll say one thing – this place makes your tower-block shit-hole look like Buckingham bloody Palace!”

Broo growled.

“Where’s Archie Harkness?! I told yez to bring him with you!” Malky gave out. O’Hara’s snarky scepticism was getting on his nerves too.

“Why? What can you tell him that you can’t you tell us?!” sneered O’Hara, shining the torch in Malky’s face.

“Archie went out this afternoon and didn’t tell anybody where he was goin’, as usual... youse Southside boys and your secrets...” said Finch, kneeling beside the bloody corpse on the couch, examining it from head (although there wasn't much of a head left, just a splat of exploded skull and brain tissue) to booted foot. He stood up and concluded, “A single shotgun blast to the face, if I’m not mistaken. And if my memory serves me rightly, Malky, the two ol’ dears you found in Wicklow suffered a similar fate.” He straightened adjusted his belt and gave Malky a sideways glance, “... are we beginnin’ to see a pattern emerge here, Mr Calvert?”

“Just what I was saying!” trilled O’Hara, crossing his arms.

Malky replied in a bored drone, looking the flabby malcontent dead in the eye, “Aye, it’s a pattern, alright, but Barry McKee’s your interior decorator, not me. When this guy was killed,” he pointed at the bloody faceless corpse, “I was sittin’ in an interview room in Castlereagh barracks yackin’ w’ a pair of smartarses about my brother’s murder. Yez are barkin’ up the wrong tree.”

O’Hara had had enough of Malky’s attitude; he shone his torch in his nemesis’ face and said, “You listen to me, smartarse! By the looks of things, you’re up to your neck in somethin’ sleazy! No matter where ye go, somebody winds-up dead!! In fact, I wouldn’t be at-all surprised to find you were involved in Dessie’s murder, too!”

“Bastard!” Malky swung and caught O’Hara square-on-the-nose; the big detective reeled, then immediately swung back – but his eyes were so bleary with tears he couldn't land a punch – so he made to grab Malky by the shoulders and tried to head-butt him – Malky sidestepped and tripped him – he grabbed Malky’s lapels and they began to wrestle – Broo barked and nipped O’Hara’s ankle!

Finch barged in between the three of them and forced them apart. “Will yez ever cut it out?! There’s enough teeth ‘n’ gore without youse-two eejits addin’ to the score!”

O’Hara’s nose had begun to bleed; he pinched the bridge and stemmed the flow with a soiled paper hankie, “Book ‘im, sir – assaulting a Police Officer!!” he shouted, pathetically.

“Ahh shaddup, ye big galoot -- ye’ve been needlin’ me all day!” said Malky, dusting himself down.

Surprisingly, Finch took his side, “Aye, catch-yerself-on, Winston, you deserved that!” then he turned to Malky, “- but he’s right about one thing, Malcolm – you’re nowhere near off-the-hook! You've got a lot of explainin’ to do!” He took a folded piece of paper out of his pocket, “We got a fax from Detective Superintendent Somerville of the Gardai ‘bout yer man ‘McKee’, but it doesn’t mention anythin’ about killings or kidnappings, just that he’s ‘a person of interest’...?”

Malky regrouped and gave him a brief summary of McKee’s MO, finishing with corroboration of the last sighting, “... the young cadet who gave us a lift home can verify that we saw a man on a motorcycle leave the estate just after 5 o'clock. I’m certain that man was Barry McKee: the man who killed the old women in Wicklow. There’s a dog cemetery in the field behind their farmhouse and I believe the children’s bones we found in the woods were originally buried there; I think the old ladies knew what he’d done ‘n were going to shop him, so he killed them ‘n dug-up the bones, brought them up here and reburied ‘em in the forest. I think he’s been stayin’ with Gock Niblock -- who mighta been involved, we don’t know – he musta shot him this evening ‘n then took off in a hurry. Most probably because he knows I’m onto him!”

Broo ruffed.

“Sorry -- we’re onto him! And that’s not all... if you’ll follow me, gentlemen...”

Malky led the way around to the rear of the maisonette, to the row of garages where Gock had previously stowed Roy Mercer’s MG; behind the bushes of an overgrown hedge at the end of the short lane, there stood a large white van. A young PC was already inside, shining a torch into various boxes and crates. Finch asked the lad for a brief inventory. The PC jumped down and gave them the gist, “It seems to be camera equipment, sir... loads o’ cables and apparatus an’-that... There’s also a loada spooky books and weird looking stuff in jars. It’s like he’s been dabbling in the occult, or somethin’!”

The detectives were once again taken aback, but not wholly convinced, “So what, a lot of these hell’s angels types are into devil worship ‘n that!” asserted O’Hara, still determined to pin it on Malky, still pinching the bridge of his bloody nose.

Malky shook his head, “This guy takes it very seriously. He wouldn't leave all this gear behind unless he was in a real hurry...”

He was interrupted when another PC arrived and shouted up the narrow alleyway, “DI Finch, sir! – could ye have a look at this?”

The PC led them to the maisonette adjacent to Niblock’s lot, and as they walked up the little path and approached the front-door, Broo got an ominous, yet familiar shiver in his hide. Something wicked had walked this way, the ground beneath his pads positively buzzed with negative energy.

“Up there, sir,” The PC pointed out a faint, flickering light behind a filthy window on the first floor. “D’ye think there might be somebody in?” he asked.

Finch appraised the downstairs windows; they were either boarded or bricked-up. “If there is somebody in there, they must be a squatter, the place is condemned,” he said, looking up again, “probably a tramp...”

“.... Or an alkie,” sniped O’Hara, scowling at Malky.

“Did you knock?” Malky asked the PC, ignoring O’Hara’s aside.

“Aye -- and I threw stones at the window, but there was no reply.”

Finch pushed the door -- it gave a little groan and opened slightly. He looked back at the PC, “You mustn’t’ve knocked very hard, son.” He shoved it with his foot -- it teetered, toppled backwards and slammed down on the dusty lino of the hall. “OK, Winston, look lively,” They took out their guns and entered, Malky and the old dog taking up the rear.

Broo was on tenterhooks, he sensed danger, although he couldn't hear anything to confirm his fears. Nevertheless, there was a smell that troubled him. The peeling wallpaper was sepia-toned with decades of tobacco smoke, and the remaining carpeting stank of mildew and rising damp, but he also detected  a more familiar, redolent scent; a scent that was once his bread and butter: the grimy, earthy aroma of old death...

...

Archie heard the door crash open down below. Shite. They’re here. The moment he’d been dreading for the last three hours was about to pass. He began to panic -- he tried to shout through the gag -- anything to alert them -- but then what? Making a noise will only bring them closer sooner... There was nothing to do but wait until the door opened and pray that it would be quick and painless...

...

Pistols drawn, the detectives climbed the stairs slowly and quietly, separating and spreading out once they reached the landing. Finch signalled to O’Hara and pointed to the door at the end of the short passageway. They crept towards it and took position on either side.

Finch put his back against the wall and knocked the door. 

No reply. 

“This is the police -- is there anybody in there! If there is ye’d better come on out now or we’re comin’ in!” he shouted.

Still nothing.

He nodded to his partner. O’Hara stepped in front of the door, raised a huge size 12 and took aim at the handle...

...

“This is the police -- is there anybody in there! If there is ye’d better come on out now or we’re comin’ in!”

Finch. They’re right outside the door. He turned his head to the side: this is it Archie... kiss yer arse goodbye...

...

Suddenly, there was uproar behind them -- Brooster came galloping up the passageway -- barking for all he was worth! O’Hara almost toppled sideways as the old dog threw himself between the door and the big detective’s foot!! “What the fuck!!” he cried.

Malky followed closely behind, “He smells something! There’s something wrong!!”

It was true. Broo had been trained to sniff other things besides corpses, and one of them was explosives. But more importantly -- he smelled a living breathing man. Someone breathing heavily and unable to speak.

“It must be drugs or explosives -- probably explosives if his reaction is anything to go by. I’d say yez’re about to step into a trap,” advised Malky.

Neither man was about to argue; in fact, the usually contrary O’Hara confirmed it, “It’s true, sir, all the dogs were re-trained to detect plastic explosives about 5 years ago. The door could well be booby-trapped.”

Finch looked down at the dog and rubbed his chin, “Hmmm, this old boy never ceases to amaze me. OK, everybody out -- call the UXB lads and the fire brigade -- clear the area!”

Broo looked at Malky and thought, <There’s someone in there.>

“... and there’s someone in there.”

“What?!” asked Finch, impatiently, looking from one to the other.

“The dog says there’s somebody in there. Trust me he knows what he’s... talkin’ about.” Malky rushed past them and ran down the stairs.

The detectives looked at the dog, scratched their heads and then the trio ran after him. 

Malky ran out the front door, jumped over the low fence separating the garden from Niblock’s ad-hoc garage/repair shop, where he fetched a tall, paint-spattered aluminium step-ladder from amidst the clutter, took it back  over the fence and placed under the window. 

Broo, Finch and O’Hara watched from the front door. “Malky get down, ye eejit! We can’t afford to hang about -- the device could be on a timer!!” shouted Finch, when he saw Malky climb the steps. Malky ignored the pleas; he reached the top of the ladder and stood on tiptoe, grabbing the window-ledge to keep steady while he pulled himself up and tried to see inside inside. Using his cuff to wipe away the film of grime, he peered in: there was a candle burning in the corner, too dim to illuminate the rest of the room, but bright enough to see what looked like a tall, long legged man with a widow’s peak, sitting on the floor, blindfolded, gagged and bound to a radiator!

“It’s Archie!!” he shouted, getting more anxious by the second.

On the ground, holding the ladder, the detectives gasped in unison, “Archie Harkness?!”

Malky tried to open the window, but it was nailed shut on the inside; he held on tight with his left hand and used his right elbow to smash the glass.

“Malky!!” Finch’s voice sounded down below, “Don’t go in there -- you dunno what you’re doing -- there could be trip wires everywhere...!”

Malky answered as he pulled the remaining jagged shards from the window frame “I can see the device -- it’s wired to the doorframe! I’m going in!”

Despite their protests, Malky did just that; he heaved himself up and rolled onto the damp, carpeted floor, taking care not to cause too much noise. The captive figure squirmed and groaned. “It’s alright Archie, mate -- it’s me, Malky!” he whispered, as if speaking aloud might trigger the bomb, “I’m at the window - just nod or shake your head: are you wired?”

The bound and gagged figure shook its head emphatically.

“OK, ol’ son -- I’m gonna sidle along the wall towards ya, just in case he’s set a trip-wire across the floor or somethin’ -- just hold on, mate, we’re gonna get you outta here!”

Malky did as he said and slowly edged along the wall inside the window, “Do you know if it’s on a timer?”

Archie shrugged.  

Malky reached the radiator and had a good look at his friend before carefully removing the gag and the blindfold. Archie coughed and spat, “There’s nuthin’ on me and I don’t think there’s a timer, he was in too much of a hurry... but I heard him wire the door...  said wanted to kill as many of yez as he could... Oh, thank God for that dog...” he panted.

As Malky removed his old friend’s bonds using a shard of glass from the broken window to cut through the layers of tape -- a searchlight suddenly lit up the room and made his job a lot easier. “Thank fuck for that...” he said.

Archie was looking to his left. “Look at ... What the bloody hell is that?” he asked with a gasp.

Malky turned and looked up.

It was a large coat-rail with the skeletal remains of a dog suspended from coat hangers by a series of wires carefully threaded through the whitened-bones and around the gleaming skull.

“By the looks of it, I’d say that used to be a whippet,” vouchsafed Malky, touching his throat, a shiver of unease creeping along his spine.

All-in-all, it looked like a garish shrine dedicated to some unspeakable god; and in keeping with the religious motif, there was an inverted wooden cross with a nameplate attached to the base of the arcane apparatus – just like those inscriptions they’d seen in the dog cemetery. For some reason, he knew not to speak its name.

His friend had noticed something else -- something that gave him the same shiver, “Look... look at all the mirrors...” said Archie, wide-eyed, gazing around the room.

There were mirrors all over the walls; a veritable mosaic of looking glasses of all shapes and sizes -- bathroom mirrors, vanity mirrors, large mirrors removed from frames and glued in place-- all broken. “I dunno know about you... but that gives me the creeps more than the fucking skeleton.”

Malky quickly got back to work, “The guy’s aff his fuckin’ bap, Archie, he’s into shit you wouldn't believe, this is wee buns compared the stuff I’ve seen -- c’mon, son -- this place might be about to blow at any second, we gotta get outta here!”

SCICI, Dublin

21:27 GMT

Lady Beth and her mute, tall and imposing North African chauffeur/bodyguard, Xavier, were shown into the darkened, unmanned ‘reception area’ by one of SCICI’s security guards. In contrast to the cold granite exterior, it was very contemporary and luxurious, more like the lobby of a modern 5 star hotel, designed, she supposed, to engender a feeling of stability and safety when one entered what was essentially a Victorian Madhouse. Like everything else about Rossington, she found it vulgar and pretentious, but couldn't help but be amused by a huge photograph adorning the wall behind the reception desk: a b/w blow-up of a of the good doctor himself, solemn-faced, sober-suited, shaking hands with a smirking Richard Nixon, captioned by a brass plate emblazoned with the legend: ‘THERE ARE NO MONSTERS, JUST MISGUIDED MEN WHO DO MONSTROUS THINGS.’

While their escort rang through to Rossington’s private office and alerted the boss that his guest was waiting, she reclined on one of the plush, pastel- pink sofas and lit a cigarette; Xavier stood behind her, his hands behind his back, his dark brown eyes scanning the room. Now that they were back in Ireland and the Psychosphere was out-of-bounds, his psychic powers were limited and all communication between the pair was restricted to a set of well-practised code-words, facial tics and gestures. She looked up and raised an eyebrow:  ‘everything OK?’ He drew her attention to the row of small halogen spotlights embedded in the ceiling above the seating area: they were blinking intermittently, then slightly dimming, then brightening again, as if the power was surging and ebbing. He touched his temple: the rite is still in progress. She shook her head and whispered, “The bloody fool.”

Their escort, an armed guard who made it plain he resented having to abandon his post and play PA, returned and brusquely informed her that Dr Rossington was on his way. “You mean he intends to conduct our conversation down here -- in the foyer?” she replied, acidly, looking around, “this is an insult! And I don’t suppose there’s any chance of a drink, is there?”

The surly guard pointed out a water-cooler in an alcove in a far corner at the back of the room. She sniffed and turned her head away, “There’ll be hell to pay for this, never in all my days have I been subjected to such discourtesy...”

There was a soft ding and the elevator doors opened; out came Rossington, straightening his tie, smoothing his luxurious salt-&-pepper hair, obviously inconvenienced but unlike his chippy minion, too polite to make it plain, “Lady Elizabeth,” he trilled, “Such a wonderful surprise!” he put out his hand, but Her Ladyship was having none of it and left him hanging. He tugged at the creases of his pants, and sat sideways on the sofa turning toward her, the perfect teeth gleaming, the blue eyes smiling, and asked, “Well, what can I do for you?”

She blew smoke in his face and said, “I want to see our Mr Gosling, doctor, and I won’t take no for an answer.”

Rossington’s tanned, chiselled features transformed into a pained, sympathetic frown, “I’m very sorry, milady, but as I said, Mr Gosling and I are in the middle of an intense course of treatment and it’s imperative that he has no visitors or interruptions,” he said, apologetically.

She took another drag and smirked, “I know what you’re doing, Rossington.”

The good doctor feigned surprise, “I beg your pardon, but I don’t know what you mean...?”

She flicked her cigarette ash into the pot of a tall yucca plant beside the sofa and sighed, impatiently, “Don’t be coy. I’m too jet-lagged for silly games. As you probably know, I arrived back from Washington this afternoon...”

Rossington gushed like a schoolgirl, “Yes, yes, of course, I saw you on the evening news. You were a guest of honour at a Halloween Ball thrown by the president -- you looked fabulous, by the way -- black lace certainly suits you!”

She looked at him askance and said, “Hmmm, I also met with my business partners and members of our larger family while I was there. Members of Senate, elderly grandees with close ties to the President. ‘Old Money’, as you would put it. Your name came up in the conversation.” She raised her eyebrows:  what do you think of that?

Rossington’s demeanour changed immediately, “They were talking about me...?” he asked, unnerved.

“Yes, you and this...” she looked around, “... macabre madhouse of yours and our recent, failed transaction... They were most interested in Mr Gosling’s stay and the intentions of your anonymous benefactor.”

Worried that conversation was straying into private matters, Rossington quickly dismissed the guard. Once they were alone, he sat forward and whispered, “Interested? You mean they’re interested in my work or...?”

She ignored the question and went on as if he knew exactly what she was talking about, “Last night one of your operatives was killed: a chauffeur who tried to inconvenience me, she looked up at the tall, dark driver and smiled, “but he was no match for Xavier. Then I had to temporarily cripple another man who accosted me at the airport,” she pretended to search for a name “... Gorringe, I think he called himself. Anyway, there’s no doubt in my mind that these men -- thugs, henchmen, I should say -- were trained and supplied to our so-called friends by SCICI.”

She watched Rossington’s reaction intently. There was a definite widening of the eyes at the mention of murder and a noticeable flinch when he heard the name. The good doctor swallowed loudly and denied everything, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, milady...?” he lied, badly.

She smoked, smiled indulgently, and carried on regardless, “All things considered, I would say you and your mysterious benefactor are actively seeking our destruction and you’re prepared to use any means at your disposal to achieve that end.”

Flustered, Rossington protested, his New Jersey drawl cutting through his affected LA tones as his voice climbed in pitch, “Listen lady, I think you’ve got the wrong end of the bat -- I didn’t instigate any of this! When I reported back after our last meeting at the Ivy House, the board was disappointed that [Dani] had died ‘n the deal was off; but there was no ill will on our part, no talk of recrimination! Anyhow, it was you who came to me, remember?!”

She blew a cloud of smoke into the air and replied, “No, Bernie Pritchard went to you -- your organisation solicited us via our friends in Washington. I thought it was a bad idea at first, but Pritchard talked me into it and we cleared it with our board of directors. And, lo-and-behold, my principal reservations have proved correct: your paymasters have been complicit in a plot with our erstwhile allies in Washington. They’re using our deal as an excuse to eliminate us, and if you don’t know that, then you’re the dumbest patsy I’ve ever had the misfortune to encounter -- an unwitting dupe who doesn’t know he’s involved in a huge, transatlantic plot that threatens to destabilise the world, not just our organisation. If you don’t believe me, call your benefactor and ask him directly.”

She was calling his bluff. He huffed and puffed, loosened his tie and tried desperately to dig himself out of the hole, “Preposterous! ’Plots to destabilise the world’ heh-heh... I don’t think so -- I’ve been looking for a psychic -- a mind-reader, whatever you wanna call it -- for years, now! It’s on record that I’m very interested in telepathy and telekinesis -- but purely for my own research...?”

“Don’t insult my intelligence,” she said, indicating the large photograph behind the desk, “you know full-well that psychic research is of special interest to intelligence services and espionage agencies; and that’s all very well, as long as your clients have our interests at heart. But I have it on good authority that your benefactor wanted a genuine psychic to sell to the highest bidder, regardless of their nationality or political ambitions -- isn’t that so, Jimmy?”

The answer came back a quick and emphatic: “No! I promise you -- my benefactor, as you call him, is just that -- a sponsor, a chairman of the board; he trusts my judgement and leaves me to do as I see fit...”

“You’re afraid of him, that’s understandable...” she paused as the lights above them began to gradually brighten. She looked up and nodded, “As you must know by now, Mr Gosling is also a psychic. He isn't as powerful as Danielle Cochrane, but he has the know-how to enhance his abilities to perform minor... tricks. Unfortunately, at present, he’s dabbling in something that could cause a lot of serious, irreparable damage. I suggest we go to his room and stop whatever it is he’s doing before your precious SCICI burns down around your ears, yes?”

Before Rossington could answer, a door closed and voice sounded behind them, “Everything awright, sir?” asked Magowan, Rossington’s shifty, cockney chauffeur, as he emerged from the shadows at the back of the room. Xavier turned to face him; Magowan let his tunic fall open exposing a holstered pistol on his hip. The water-cooler gulped.

Lady Beth laughed acerbically, “Another driver who likes to wear sunglasses indoors, eh, Jimmy? And you say you have no idea what’s going on!”

Rossington stood up and buttoned his jacket, “If that’s everything, milady, Magowan will show you out. I’m afraid I have to go back to work.”

As the dim night-lights continued to flicker, Xavier and Magowan stood facing each other, chauffeur to chauffeur, silently assessing each other. Slowly and deliberately,  Lady Beth got to her feet, “I’m not leaving without Guy Gosling, doctor,” she told him plainly, “If he can’t walk, Xavier will carry him.”

Magowan smiled, looked up at Xavier and put his hands on his hips so that the fingers of his right hand rested on the butt of his pistol, “Mr Rossington wants you to leave. I fink that’s a good idea,” he said, menacingly, smirking.

Lady Beth strolled around the sofa and stood between them, “Are you threatening us, Mr Magowan?” she asked, nicely.

The doughty driver’s smirk widened to a smile, but he didn’t answer.

Rossington, sounding a little jittery, told him off, “There’ll be no need for that, Magowan. Just show Lady Elizabeth to her car.”

She glanced over her shoulder, “I told you, I’m not leaving without that wretched boy,” she said, tersely, then turned back and gazed into Magowan’s be-shaded eyes, “what do you say to that?”

“Look, if needs be, I’ll call the orderlies and have you escorted out!” said Rossington, getting evermore anxious and uncertain.

Magowan looked down at her and advised, “Be reasonable, ma’am....”

“It’s milady, if you don’t mind,” she replied, unblinking, “one of your colleagues made the same mistake. He was in Washington, chauffeuring for an old friend of mine. They’re both dead now...”

Magowan’s smile faded; his nostrils flared.

“... and then  we met your boss, Mr Gorringe. We had to incapacitate him and several of his heavies, too. If you don’t believe me, why don’t you give him a call?”

Magowan gritted his teeth; his cheeks reddened with contained rage.

Rossington, still keeping well back, tried to intervene, “Magowan -- go back upstairs -- I’ll be with you in a moment.”

“No sir... I’m very sorry, but I can’t allow ‘milady’ ‘ere to leave. The boss was very clear ‘bout that.” He went for his gun -- it wasn't there! “What the fuck?!” he cried.

Lady Beth stepped aside: Xavier, at least a foot taller than his opposite number, stepped forward and stood over him, holding the errant pistol in his big fist -- before Magowan could take evasive action -- the butt came down on his head, instantly knocking him unconscious -- the sunglasses skidded across the polished floor.

“How the fuck... how did you do that....?” Rossington gasped, aghast.

“Never mind. Take us to Gosling or I won’t be held responsible for what Xavier does next...”

 ...

 5 Minutes ago:

“Don’t say it Dani!” growled the now slavering, big, bad wolf.

“You've got to say it now, Dani -- something’s happening -- I can’t keep you safe unless you say it!” screeched her grandmother, glancing in every direction, surveying the crumbling cartoon landscape as it dimmed to purply darkness, “I can’t keep control of this dreamscape for much longer!”

Dani was still very confused, but not in the least frightened. Despite the chaos, her grandmother’s obvious distress and the fiery eyes of the approaching werewolf, she folded her arms and refused to take sides, “I’m not doing anything until one of yez explains what’s going on!”

“I haven’t got time to explain -- just say the word!”

Getting ever closer, drool dripping from it’s maw, the werewolf snarled, “It’s a trick, Dani -- the demon is using her to get to you -- to make you mutate again! If you won’t listen to me... I’ll be forced to take drastic action...” 

Suddenly, there was something wrong: “What the f---” He was fading and it seemed to cause him excruciating pain -- he reared upright on his hind legs and clasped his head with his long claws as his body became opaque -- then transparent -- they could hear his heartbeat thrum in their ears! “NO! Noooooo...” he howled, as he shrank, fizzled and faded out of sight, until all that was left was a wisp of purple vapour drifting up from the floor...

...

They entered Gosling’s room to find him convulsing on the bed; the little choirs had stopped chanting and were gathered around him, holding him down. “What the -- why did you stop?! I told you not to stop!!” yelled Rossington, pushing them out of the way and putting a hand on Gosling’s sopping brow.

The chastened little band shook their heads. “He shake so much -- we thought we stop to help him, doctor!” cried one of the Filipino cleaners. The others quietly concurred. Lady Beth and Xavier approached; the tall chauffeur brushed the good doctor aside and put two fingers against the thrashing patient’s temple; the convulsions instantly ceased -- simultaneously -- the lights went out and drum machine slowed to a stop.

Rossington snatched the guard’s torch from his belt, switched it on and shone it on Gosling’s face, “Is he gonna be OK?!”

Xavier picked up a few of the pages lying around the bed; he looked at Lady Beth and nodded: I know what these are. This is not good. Then he noticed the mirror lying on the pillow beside Gosling’s head; he picked it up and showed it to Her Ladyship: it was glowing with a purplish light; he pointed a finger at various items in the room -- chrome dishes and stainless steel fittings: they were all shining with the same eerie luminescence. He dropped the mirror on the tiled floor and crunched it to smithereens under his heel.

“Why did he do that?!” said Rossington, utterly confused.

“Never mind,” she said, picking up Ivan Cochrane’s scrapbook from a chair by the bed, “Where did you get this?”

Rossington summarily dismissed the little coterie of chanters and explained in a whisper, too afraid to do anything but tell the truth: “It was stuffed into the bars of the main gate by a guy on a motorbike a couple of years ago. I recognised the name - Ivan Cochrane -- presumed it something to do with that girl so kept it in my safe. Gosling must've known about it -- he asked for it as soon as he arrived,” he pointed to the various hieroglyphics strewn around the bed, “then he had Magowan trawl the local bookshops for specialist stuff on the Carter expedition, text books, that sort of thing... Look, Goz was very forthright, he seemed to know what he was doing and I went along with him, did what he asked, that’s all. He set this up, not me!!”

For once she believed him, “Right, get his things together, we’re taking him home.”

“You can’t -- look at him... he’s sick -- he’s in some sorta coma -- and he’s internationally famous!! If he dies they’ll blame me! I’ll be ruined!!”

“He won’t die --. but I have to get him back to the Ivy House! We have specialists there -- they’ll know what to do!!”

In that moment, Gosling’s eyes suddenly opened wide -- his head jerked from side to side -- his body began to shudder as if suffering electrocution -- Xavier grabbed him by the shoulders and forced him down!

“Is he going to be OK,” she whispered, looking into the chauffeur’s dark eyes. He nodded toward the good doctor: get rid of him.

Her Ladyship marched around the bed and grabbed Rossington by the arm of his jacket and pulled him toward the door. “What is it?!” he shouted, getting frantic. She pushed him out of the room, “Wha -- what are you doing -- you can’t throw me out...” he yelled.

“OUT!” she yelled, shoving him into the corridor.

“This is outrageous...!” but before he could finish his objections, the door slammed in his face. She put a chair under the doorknob and returned to the bed. Gosling was writhing as if in extreme discomfort, and the more he struggled, the stronger the eerie glow became; the room virtually throbbed with violet light! Xavier used one hand to grab his wrists -- with the other, he tore open Gosling’s shirt to reveal his heaving, naked chest -- there were coarse, black hairs sprouting out of every pore! He pulled back Gosling’s lips to reveal a set of encroaching jagged incisors and sharp, animal-like fangs!  His hands and feet were developing into claws, the nails growing into thick, black talons!

“Holy shit -- it’s like an old werewolf movie come to life?!” gasped Lady Beth, moving back to give Xavier room to manoeuvre.

Finding it increasingly difficult to keep the creature pinned to the bed and fend off its developing claws, the big driver was forced to use a choke-hold -- slowly applying pressure until it went limp in his arms. He looked up at his mistress, frowned and made the sign that said: this is the demon’s work.

“Whatever it is, we have to get him out of here, Xav -- but we can’t let anybody see him in this state...” she muttered, eyeing the hirsute monstrosity lying face down on the bed. Gosling’s ears were now dog-like and pointed; his nose had grown into a snout.

An alarm sounded outside in the corridor. There was a loud knock; the door handle shook and rattled against the tilted chair. “Open up please! I’ve summoned security -- they’ll be here in a few seconds!” Rossington shouted through the crack in the door.

Lady Beth made a snap decision: “Wrap him from head-to foot in the bedsheets and throw him over your shoulder -- we need to get him out of here and into the car, we’ll have to drive back to Downpatrick,” she said, gathering up the scattered pages and shoving them into the scrapbook, “if anybody sees him like this, we’re toast!”

...

The Ivy House

Meanwhile, Castle and Carla were talking in the botanical gardens, standing by the door to the boiler house steps, when the sky suddenly brightened; the full moon broke through the clouds and shone through the latticed windows at the apex of the arboretum roof, casting abstract shadows on the wall behind them, and yet, there was no purple tinge to the light; and the night was peaceful. Too peaceful. Something had changed. Carla knelt, touched the ground and mused, “I can’t feel anything. No vibrations. If he was coming, he’d be here by now.”

“Hmmm, no vibrations...?” murmured Castle, gazing up at the moon, “and there’s no purplish corona, either.”

Carla nodded and agreed, “None whatsoever. He’s gone. But it doesn’t make any sense. Why would he go to all this trouble and then leave without seeing it through?”

“True, he’s absent in the physical sense of the word. There’s no doubt about that...” The big butler opined, “In my humble opinion he’s either cut his host loose so that he can infest the Psychosphere, or the host has taken the opportunity to sever the link whilst they’re disconnected. If we’re right, and Master Jamie is suspended in the Wizard’s Rift... the demon can’t be in two places at once. He can’t contend with Master Jamie and deal with Miss Danielle, he must have help -- and I don’t mean Ellie or Master Gosling, for that matter; neither of them would have the power to survive in the Rift for more than a few minutes. It’s a conundrum and no mistake...” then he had an idea, “just a sec,” he turned toward the exotic trees of the arboretum, put his fingers to his lips and blew a special whistle. A moment later, the small, hairy figure of Gebbit, the gardener/mycologist, came stomping out of the bushes and into the light. He was naked but covered in mud from head to foot.

“No need to explain, I knows why ye called me,” he chuckled, in his grumbly, gravelly Cornish brogue, “the voibrations ‘as stopped, ain’t they?! I’s been down me ‘ole -- an’ there ain’t as much as the sloightest buzz down there! ‘Bad news’, says oi to meself: ‘the ol’ Martyrs aren’t all there’ says oi!”

“’Aren’t all there’ -- whaddya mean, ye eejit?” chided Castle, perplexed by the grimy gnome’s tangled thread.

“Oi mean they’s risen, some’ow -- they’ve projected or summat -- I dunno what you’d call it, s’not moi speciality -- I jest know their magic ain’t in the soil no more! Gone, they are!!”

“What is he talking about, uncle?” asked Carla, unable to decipher Gebbit’s thick accent.

“He thinks the Darkly Martyrs have risen -- that they've astrally projected,” murmured Castle, mulling it over, shaking his head,

“Is that bad?” she said, looking from one to the other.

Gebbit fingered his filthy bush of a beard and grumbled, “Oh arr, thass bad alroight, lassie! They ain’t gonna be too ‘appy ‘bout being buried neath this sod for ump’een thousand years or more -- if they’s free, they could do a lotta damage, see -- ‘specially if they wuz to join farces with the demon!!”

Irritated by Gebbit’s pessimistic blether, Castle clipped him around the ear, told him to go back to his hole and keep him posted.

As the grumbling Gebbit tramped back into the foliage, Carla looked at her uncle and asked, “Is he right? Could this be part of the campaign?”

“It makes sense, doesn’t it? They were once allies of the demon, after all. They used his dark magic to create the Rift...” muttered Castle, still ruminating on the implications, “they created the Rift in the first place, they could survive in there, no problem; and like I said, the demon can’t be in two places at once... and if he has been using them as a power source, he could've unlocked the spell that bound them....?”

Getting increasingly frustrated by her uncle’s obfuscation, she continued to probe him for clarification, “So... you think they’re on his side? They’re taking revenge for their internment by conspiring with the demon... what?!”

Castle shrugged, “Well, the Darkly Martyrs were tried and convicted by Master Jamie’s ancestor, way, way back in the day, so you could say there’s no love lost, it could be revenge. Back then they used the demon’s magic to become powerful at a time when the Human World was in awe of witches and took sorcery for granted... and the Martyrs are immortal. You can’t kill ‘em, only contain ‘em. If they have combined forces with the demon... we’re toast...”

...

The Forestpine Estate

22:45 GMT

Sitting on the steps at the back of an ambulance while a medic checked Archie’s eyes and tested his reflexes, Malky and Broo watched the UXB unit climb the fireman’s ladder and enter the window.

“How do you feel, Archie?” asked Malky.

“Fuckin’ awful,” groaned Archie, wincing as he spoke, “whatever he spiked me with, it’s playing merry hell with me guts. I wish I could get the taste of grease and oil out of my mouth,” said Archie, spitting into the grass by the steps. “But thank God for you and old Broo, here,” said, patting the old dog’s head. “Jesus, Malk, you dunno what it was like waiting for that door to open. I thought I was gonna shite myself...”

Malky nodded, “Count yerself lucky you didn’t end up like Gock Niblock, Arch. You should see the mess McKee made of him. Just like the two oul’ ladies in Wicklow, so-it-is.”

The medic had declared him fit, but told him to keep drinking water, go home and have an early night. Archie rubbed his eyes and shook his head, “As soon as this is over, son.” The medic gave him a cynical look.

“Do as the man says, Archie. There’s not much we can do now,” said Malky, giving him a gentle nudge.

“Listen to your friend, DI Harkness, or you’ll have one hell of a headache in the morning,” said the medic, packing up and walking away.

Archie looked across the quadrangle at Niblock’s lot and shook his head, “McKee is some piece of work, Malk. If he is the same guy who did that stuff in Donegal and killed all those guys three years ago, he’s some kinda criminal mastermind...”

He certainly has mastered the power of the mind, thought Broo, as he sat by the steps listening. He was getting impatient; although he knew McKee was on the run, he couldn't help feeling that there was more to Harkness’ situation than a simple booby trap. The mention of the shrine and the multiple, broken mirrors gave him pause. The encounter with the Little Ghost Girl in the cemetery and the visions from on high flashed through his mind. The fact that they were in an area that was once part of the enchanted forest, the land where buried bodies didn’t decay but lived for centuries radiating negative energy, must be the key to McKee’s MO. Had he harnessed their power to facilitate his grisly work? The key to everything was the big house on the other side of the forest; according to The Powers that Be, they are witches who know what to do -- so where was he in all this? And what could he do now that McKee had fled the vicinity?

Archie was deep in thought too. Malky thought he was beating-himself-up, “Don’t be too hard on yerself, Arch. It won’t be long before they catch up with him. I mean there’re two police forces lookin’ for him now. Give yer mate Somerville a ring, he’ll put you in the picture.”

Archie looked up at his old friend and as about to say something when Malky noticed an approaching shadow, “Uh oh, look lively, here comes oul’ Finchy. I wonder what he’s got to say fer himself...?”

DI Finch approached with his hands in his trouser-pockets, his trenchcoat billowing in the wind behind him like a belted khaki cape; he produced his walkie-talkie and wiggled it at them, “Thought ye might like to know the UXB boyos have diffused the bomb. Simple stuff, they said, nothing complicated. No timer, no trip wires. I don’t suppose youse-two know why he has the remains of a dog hanging on wires and a host o’ broken mirrors up there, do yez?” he asked, with a glum look on his face.

The pair shook their heads and shrugged.

Finch nodded, “Well, I’ve also been on the blower to Dublin, I wanted to talk to your mate Somerville, Archie, but it seems he has his hands full at the moment. Yer man McKee has been spotted -- rode right through a Gardai checkpoint in Drogheda, according to the girl I was talkin’ to -- the point is, he’s over the border ‘n well out of our jurisdiction. All we can do now is clear-up this mess, call it a day ‘n leave the rest to the SOCO lads and Special Branch. I’ll need a full statement from both of you, though. I ain't too pleased that you didn’t tell me about any o’ this, Archie. You shoulda kept in contact with the station.”

“Look... there is somethin’ you should know... both of yez,” said Archie, looking at Malky with a mournful frown, “McKee did tell me somethin’ while I was up there... I dunno how to tell ya this Malk...”

Malky nodded and finished the sentence, “He killed Dessie.”

Finch was dumbfounded, “Big Dessie?! McKee?! Are ye sure?!”

Archie nodded, gravely, “He told me. Said he used an oul’ landmine. Said he enjoyed settin’ traps... By the sounds of it, he held a grudge for some reason.... I’m sorry Malky.”

Broo ruffed.

Malky looked at old dog, “What is it now?” he asked.

Broo walked forward and nudged Malky’s coat pocket with his snout; the cassette rattled inside.

“Oh... this...” Malky took out the tape and showed it to Archie, “I got this in the post this mornin’. There’s no writing on it and I don’t have a cassette player.”

“You think it could it be from him?” said Archie, stroking the old dog’s head.

“I dunno, the envelope had a local postmark, but if the ol’ dog’s instincts are anythin’ to go by...”

Archie pointed to his old, battered Viva parked in a little lay-by on the other side of the road, “There’s a player in my car...?”

Finch’s walkie-talkie crackled. He was needed to oversee the search of Niblock’s house. “I wanna hear that tape too -- don’t lose it!” he said, before walking off.

 They sat in the car; Malky and Archie in the front, Broo sitting on the backseat, his head between their headrests. Archie looked at his old friend and said, “Well, here goes,” and pushed the tape into the slot on the dashboard. There was a lot of hiss, but eventually a voice sounded in the speakers:

Click.

“Greetings,

“I won’t introduce myself, you know who I am. I feel I owe you an explanation. Call it a confession, if you like.... “

It wasn't the voice Archie heard a few hours ago in the derelict maisonette when he was bound and gagged, it was McKee’s ‘other’ voice: the unearthly crackling, half-whisper that he heard in Donegal [See part 2]. Broo was at once terrified and spellbound, the words seemed to echo around his skull like the chiming voices of the little ghosts he’d met on his adventures, but this was more ominously familiar: the voice of the dog thing that visited him in Odin’s Inn -- coarse, dry and eerily hypnotic, as if the demon was speaking directly to him -- and through him! He whimpered and wheezed to confirm his companions’ suspicions.

Archie and Malky turned to each other, both nodding and saying with absolute certainty: “It’s him.”

...

... In the Ivy House, everyone stopped what they were doing and listened to the hissing, crackling voice in their heads. The kitchen staff put down their utensils, mops and pots and harkened; the servants making their way back to their quarters froze in the corridors and looked up; the older security men combing the grounds stopped walking and talking on their radios and listened; in the dungeon, Dresh the gardener and the guards watching over the entranced patients stopped chatting and paid attention; standing by the door to the basement, Castle and Carla broke from their discussion and looked at each other with surprised, worried eyes. “It’s him,” said Castle, as if she needed to be told.

...  

On the M1, just outside Dublin, as they sped toward the border, Xavier suddenly applied the brakes, steered the Rolls onto the hard-shoulder and skidded to halt. Lady Beth opened the glass partition, “What is it, Xav?” she asked, quietly. He put up a hand to signal that he was receiving an incoming message. Because her meagre psychic powers were artificially induced, Lady Beth wasn't privy to the telepathic communication currently coursing through the ‘Güül’s collective conscience, but she knew it must be something ominous and significant: their canine captive had stopped struggling in the trunk.

Xavier turned and gave her a look that said: ‘It’s him.’

...

In Electra Cochrane’s imagination, the pair stopped arguing as the cartoonish landscape darkened to deepest purple and the Psychosphere resounded with a familiar, ghostly voice. Dani saw the look of terror on her grandmother’s face and asked, “What’s happening now?”

Electra clutched at her heart, nodded and gasped, “It’s him....”

...

“... I am what you might call a ‘spirit’. My enemies call me an evil spirit. A ‘demon’. But I’m not like those idiotic monstrosities depicted in medieval woodcuts, or those hideous gargoyles crouched on the ledges of Christian cathedrals. I have no shape or physical form. I am a psychic parasite, a metaphysical infection that inculcates a living creature for the duration of its natural life and then moves on to the next. I am as old as the Earth itself. From the first prehistoric tribes of humanity to the ancient civilisations to Modern Man, I have taken control of minds and bent them to my will in furtherance of my cause. I could entertain you with tales of my travels through the myriad kingdoms of Africa, Asia, and Europe, but it would take far too long; suffice to say, my machinations have been very successful. Just look at the world today -- my ‘fingerprints’ are everywhere. All that stands the way of my ultimate goal -- the extinction of mankind and the destruction of this tawdry planet -- are my natural enemies: a race of what you might call witches, wizards or mystics; beings endowed with psychic powers and charged with my eradication. They have doggedly pursued me  through the centuries and made things very difficult for me. In a bygone age, it was much easier to fight back; the hosts I inhabited -- be they kings, warlords or so-called spiritual leaders, have been adept at locating and exterminating most of them. The rest were scattered or driven underground, too small in number to ever cause me any real inconvenience, nevertheless, they've a constant thorn in my side throughout my long life. Only one tribe eluded me. The original tribe; and after many millennia, when empires arose and fell and ancient civilisations were laid waste, I finally located them in a faraway island in Western Europe: Ériu; the land you now call Eire. Ireland.

“You see, during what you now call the Dark Ages, when the Roman Empire finally crumbled and barbarians ruled the lands of Europe, I came to be in possession of an ambitious Viking chieftain with the means and ferocity to prosecute my mission. Under my direction, he became an omnipotent leader with an army of sea-faring warriors at his disposal, and after a very successful invasion of Northern Britain, I whispered in his inner-ear that Ireland -- a land of magic, mystics and faeries -- should be his next conquest. I told him he would have access to the Unlimited Power of the Gods and his place in Valhalla would be assured. Oh, we had a rare old time as we hacked & burned our merry-way across the Emerald Isle. Once we had the general population under our control, I persuaded my bloodthirsty host to make a sweep of the countryside and slay as many witches, sorcerers and magicians as his army could lay their hands on. It was a great success. My enemies were routed at every turn.

“Unfortunately, as the adage goes, ‘time & tide waits for no man’, and the old chieftain became fatally-ill.

“He was soon laid-out on his deathbed waiting for the darkness to descend. And as I stood-by for his last gasp so I could make the leap from his carcass into one of the princelings gathered around the bed –- suddenly -- a redheaded-hag with a warty-nose burst into the hall and told them she was there to save the old man’s Soul.

“This was one mystic we’d missed! How she’d evaded our search when we rounded-up the others I will never know. The guards held her down and raised their axes ready to strike – waiting for the old man’s signal. I screamed in his head that she must be killed immediately - but her voice rang-out between his ears and drowned out mine! She told him not to heed me, that she could hear me too; she told him he was to remain resolute and ‘renounce’ me if his Soul was to be saved from eternal damnation. She told him that he could only rise to Valhalla if the demon within him was exorcised at the very second of his demise.

“I felt the old man sag under the weight of a guilty conscience. I felt his Will slip from my grasp. Yet again, I had fallen-foul of the principal hazard of my profession – the Death Bed Repentance!

“The hag sucked me from his dying lips and spat my Essence into a specially prepared bottle which she then buried under a chestnut tree in the wilderness where she thought no man would ever find me [see part 3]. Then, after 1200 years in suspended animation, fate smiled upon me when around 60 years ago, a farmer excavated the land where I was interred and cut down the old, dead tree; as the roots were torn from the soil, the bottle was unearthed and later crushed under the tyre of a passing tractor. My spirit was duly set free.

“I was too weak to wait for a Human Soul, so I took possession of a dog that happened to come sniffing around the broken glass. It just so happened to be a pregnant whippet bitch, so I infiltrated its foetus (I wanted a fresh body to work with – because, as the beast grows stronger, so do I). I was born a few weeks later in a 4-puppy litter. Thereafter, I spent a few years in the bodies of dogs, listening, watching, learning the ways of the modern world, waiting for a suitable human to come along. Someone I could mould. As luck would have it, I eventually found exactly what I was looking for, and more. A little boy adopted a pup I presently inhabited; his name was Barry McKee.

“It didn’t matter that the boy wasn't a prince or the son of a powerful man just the offspring of a lowly innkeeper, I had access to a malleable Soul: a confused little boy with a wicked streak and a gift for deception; but best of all he was extremely Sensitive: a psychic. He could see the magenta glow around my host; more importantly, we could communicate – he could hear me think. He’d look into the dog’s eyes and I’d tell him my stories. And although he wasn't the most academically gifted subject I’d ever encountered, nevertheless, he was a very willing & able apprentice. All-in-all, it was a match made in heaven (if you’ll excuse the expression). I just had to figure out a way of migrating from the dog and into little Barry’s body.

“Then one day, we were strolling along the seafront of the little coastal town where we lived, looking around the stalls of the weekly market, when I happened to snap at an irksome little brat who insisted on poking my eye with a lollipop. The child’s mother was understandably upset, but Barry, arrogant as ever, rudely told her to go away. But the incident didn’t go unnoticed.

“That was the moment the Anderson Twins entered our lives. [See Part 15]

“They were two middle-aged, virginal Sensitives; and by the looks of their wares – they had a talent for all-things Spiritual. In other words: witches. Using the dog’s acute sense of smell, I could tell they were descendants of the same warty-nosed hag who’d spat me into a bottle 1,200 years before. They discerned the magenta glow around my host and duly informed young Barry that his dog was infested by a demon. They told him they could get rid of me by performing an ‘exorcism’.

“This was a turning point.

“I braced myself and awaited Barry’s reaction. Thankfully, he took to his heels. We ran back to the inn where he spent the afternoon staring into the whippet’s eyes and thinking it over with me.

“You see, up until then, Barry had been plagued by doubts. He couldn’t be sure that I wasn't a figment of his overactive imagination. Now, thanks to these cursed ‘Ginger Twins’’ unsolicited diagnosis, he had confirmation that I wasn't just an ‘imaginary friend’ or a childish fantasy. I told him not to worry, that they couldn't prove anything. But we needed to do something to divert their attentions.

“I decided to use the situation to our advantage. I told Barry to go back to their market-stall and seek their advice; sound them out, as you might say. And needless to say, they were happy to help and told him to bring the hapless creature I possessed to their little farm where they would perform the requisite ritual. I knew exactly what this ‘ritual’ entailed.

“The night before the visit, I told Barry what was about to transpire and instructed him to let them do what they had to do: kill the dog. But he had to make sure that once the dog was fatally wounded - that he went to it immediately and held it close. That way, I could make the leap and we would be together forever. And just to be sure the silly old fools didn’t turn the knife on him –- I told him how to prepare a little charm that would mask my magenta glow once I was firmly ensconced (a little something I concocted long, long ago with the help of sympathetic mystics).

“The next day we went into the countryside to visit the Anderson homestead. It wasn't far from where I had been buried -- a place rife with the old magic of my enemies. Surprisingly, they didn’t waste much time – as soon as we arrived, they grabbed the whippet by the scruff and went about their grisly business! But Barry was ready –- as soon as they sliced my host’s throat – he screamed, pushed them out of the way and clutched the twitching carcass close to his heart. The old women tried to drag him off (they already had a bottle ready to receive me) – however he held tight and intoned the little incantation that masked my aura –

“I leapt - and we were one.

“The Twins were perplexed. They looked carefully, but they couldn't see the telltale glow and there was no apparent change in Barry’s (outwardly) gentle demeanour. He is quite the thespian, is our Barry. He cried over the body of the slain puppy and wailed ‘why?! Why did you kill my doggy?!’’’

“Then, as a sop to the boy, and ‘just to be on the safe side’, the Twins explained that the dog had an infectious disease and killing was the kindest thing to do. They then took the carcass to a hillock at the rear of their property, to a little ‘dog cemetery’ they kept for local children’s pets. But they chose a plot further up the mound, well-away from the other graves, and buried it six-feet-deep under another lone horse-Chestnut tree (probably planted there centuries before for this very purpose). All the while, they scrutinised Barry’s every move and tried to catch a glimpse of me in his eyes. They knew that, in all probability, the demon was inside him and it would stay there until the day he died - but what could they do? Kill Little Barry?! No, of course not - this was the 20th Century - they’d never get away with it! All they could do was to keep an eye on him. So they made him promise to call regularly and visit the grave; they warned him that should they hear he’d been ‘up to any devilish-mischief’ they’d have to ‘do something drastic’.

“So feigning bemusement, Barry made a solemn promise that he’d be a frequent visitor. And yet again, this was the ideal situation -- we would have access to all their herbs & potions. By-&-by, I’d be able to continue where I’d left off before my millennium-long incarceration!

“But, first things first:

“I had to mould Barry in my own image. I had to erase him and start again.

“I had him modify his arrogant behaviour and tone down his spoiled child act -- it wouldn't do to be a brazen, boisterous attention-seeker. I taught him how to control his temper. I showed him that a silent man is the sort of man who gets on in life. There’s no shame in anonymity. Like the arsonist who blends-in with the crowd as they watch the fire, you take your pleasure from the reaction to the act, not the infamy it might inspire. I taught him that a solitary existence equals emotional stability: if a man remains an island, no one but himself can let him down. I told him if he stuck to these rules, we should get along famously.

“His head could remain in my world, but his feet had to remain firmly on the ground.

“From then on, we became very reserved and impassive, and the world was happy to pass us by - except the Twins, of course: they were still observing our every move with narrowed, mistrustful eyes. However, as long as Barry remembered his little amulet and stayed as nice as pie, there was no reason for them to ‘do anything drastic’. And as time went by, we continued to make use of their facilities and magical materials, passing-off our arcane little experiments as mundane school-work or idle curiosity. Childless and isolated as they were, the ageing hags were only too happy to have some young blood around the place. They even passed on some innocuous spells and herbal remedies!

“I was still too weak to continue my quest to destroy those who might destroy me. I needed energy to recharge my depleted batteries, as you might put it, and unadulterated Souls are the best source. In ancient times, it was simple; one could inveigle one’s host into performing the most gruesome tasks with relative impunity -- superstition was rife and human sacrifice was a common occurrence, children went missing all the time, but this was the Modern Age, people were much more careful about their progeny – not to mention the advances in forensic investigation -- one can’t get away with abduction and infanticide the way one used to – and since they've abolished the death penalty and taken pity on the mentally ill, there was every chance that my host might end up in a padded cell where even suicide would prove impossible, and that would never do! Also, despite my influence, he was still quite close to his mother; she was his confidante; he was, at heart, a mommy's boy, and on many an occasion I’d had to stop him from telling her everything.

“So, I broke him in gently by suggesting we kill a few animals.

“We began with birds and rabbits; then we moved on to cats and stray dogs which we killed by suffocation – the slower the death, the better. Barry wasn't squeamish in the least; he revelled in the depravity, just as I knew he would. The only problem was, living members of the local animal population had cottoned to my presence. The remaining cats ran away. The dogs caused a terrible fuss -- fits of fearful temper and disobedience that gave the owner no choice but to have them destroyed. To make matters worse, Barry persuaded the old hags to let us bury a few of them in the dog cemetery, explaining that they were either roadkill or friends’ pets. I didn’t really approve, but it was in his nature to toy with people’s expectations; he enjoyed the subterfuge as much as he enjoyed the heinous deed – he liked ‘getting one over’ on the old hags. The Twins were very suspicious, but by then, Barry had the butter-wouldn't-melt-in-my-mouth-routine down to a tee. I wasn't pleased, but with a subject like young Barry, one has to make allowances.

“Nevertheless, I foresaw trouble ahead. Barry was growing up and getting bolder by the day. Over the next few months, he went through puberty and the balance of power shifted.

“He had a personality crisis. ‘Crisis’ being the operative word.

“He began to ignore my express wishes and intermittently dispensed with the meek little boy act. He began getting snippy with his father again; he was rude to the bar-staff. At the Anderson place, he began bossing the old dears around. It was something that I’d been dreading: would his passage into manhood make him less pliable? Would he be more likely to rebel against me and use the things I’d taught him to further other, less salubrious ends? Would he become religious and beseech a holy man to save his Soul? Had he not been such an apt pupil, I would've done what I always did when trapped inside an intractable adolescent – I would've goaded him to the point of suicide. But Barry was too precious a gift to destroy so arbitrarily. I decided to let him get certain things ‘out of his system’.

“I sat back for a while, withheld my counsel and observed as he became evermore distracted by Pleasures of The Flesh. Unfortunately, he had homosexual tendencies - a predilection that doesn’t bother me in the least - but one which could result in unforeseeable problems. For these are unenlightened times, such predilection is outlawed, and if he decided to actively pursue his heart’s-desire, arrest & prosecution could result in a custodial sentence, or at the very least, bring him to the attention of the constabulary, and that would certainly ‘cramp my style’. I tried to suppress the urges, but I was still weak and his will was strong. It became like a metaphysical tug of war. His hormones and three years of near-solitude made him yearn to be with other boys. This time I relented; as long as the relationship remained platonic and I could choose the mate. Barry reluctantly complied.

“In the summer of 1959, we came across a shy, retiring boy by the name of Desmond Calvert.

“Barry had noticed him the year before and admired him from afar. He usually had his older brother for company, but this year he was alone. Barry developed a crush on him. He was the same age, but taller, heavier built and looked more mature. Barry, adaptable as ever, transformed his character to fit into Desmond’s world. He even began to talk with a Northern Irish accent! They chatted about girls and football. They went fishing together. They went rock climbing together. It was very boring, but I’d allowed this little friendship to blossom knowing Desmond was a holidaymaker and he’d soon be gone.

“Despite the circumstances Barry fell deeply in love. He wanted to declare his intentions, throw caution to the wind and kiss the boy. But I advised that Desmond was likely to break his nose and his heart.

“Alas, Barry wouldn't listen.

“Desmond was due to leave at the end of the second week and Barry was getting restless. He wanted the object of his affection to know how he felt. He didn’t see a dull, spotty juvenile with little-or-no interest in his emotional welfare - he saw a potential soul-mate that should share his dreams and ideals! He even wanted to tell him about me and our little experiments! I was absolutely furious! This was a full-scale rebellion! But in my weakened state, all I could muster was a measly migraine. He hummed loudly to drown out my protests and ignored the ache in his head. He insisted on showing Desmond a little piece of his world, and under the pretext of an extended bicycle ride, Barry took the boy to visit the Anderson Twins and the Dog Cemetery...

“All I could do was sit tight and wait to see how far he would go.

“Now, the old ladies weren’t pleased to see that Barry or his new best friend. In light of his recent behaviour, they were downright terrified. You see, stroppiness invariably leads to sloppiness and Barry had forgotten to wear his amulet that day - my magenta glow was plain to see!! In fact -– I made sure they saw it –- I surged! My aura proliferated! For the Twins it was the final proof that Barry was indeed possessed and that his new best friend was in mortal danger! They screeched and told the boy to run for his life! Desmond, bewildered by the commotion and already of the opinion that the old ladies were raving lunatics, made to leave.

“But I love you!” yelped Barry, pathetically, the shrill entreaty echoing around the surrounding hills like the plaintive bleat of an injured lamb.

“Desmond’s face darkened as the blood rose in his cheeks, he laughed nervously and said, “I always knew there was somethin’ funny about you -- now I know it’s cuz you’re a bloody bender!”

“Oh dear. Barry’s hopes weren’t just dashed - his entire world came crashing down around his ears – I felt his heart snap! I felt his spirits plunge into a pit of despair! Despite my advice, he didn’t make light of the faux pas and tactfully brush it aside -- he gritted his teeth and exploded!

“Then I CURSE you – I’ve got mystical powers – and I CURSE you Desmond Calvert! He screamed through angry tears -- “I’ll send you to HELL -- and make sure you BURN for all ETERNITY!”

“Quite rightly, Desmond called him a ‘Bloody fruitcake!’ and went to fetch his bicycle; but before he left, the old women gave him one of their silver amulets -- told him to wear it at all times and that it would keep him safe. He seemed genuinely shaken by their concern, so he took it and rode off.

“Distraught, hurt and humiliated, Barry left soon after, but not before telling the Twins he wouldn't be back and issuing a stark warning, “If you breathe one word about what happened here today or tell anyone about me, I will make it my business to come back and burn this place to the ground.”

“As we rode back to town, I told him the entire episode only went to prove my theory: we were better off alone. He refused to agree. And although he later saw sense and it eventually reaffirmed and strengthened our relationship, he was never the same again. I used to view his dreams and fantasies -- all of them featured this Calvert boy in some form or another. Some of these reveries were vengeful, some were bitterly regretful, and some were idealistic meditations on what could have been. It was his first and only love, and it was unrequited. His Soul and self-confidence never recovered.  

“The only solution was putting those idle hands back to work. I broke the news that the next stage of our Quest involved the killing of a human being. I told him that the next stage of the operation involved the slaying of children between the ages of 3 & 5. Only pure Souls have the power to re-energise my Essence. And to avoid the rite taking on a sexual undertone, I insisted that the subjects had to be little girls.

“It worked. Barry was relieved that his bitterness & fury had somewhere to go. ‘I always wanted to play with dolls...’ said he.

“As it was, there were plenty of specimens to choose from. After all, we lived in a seaside town with many hundreds of visiting families. And when Barry was gifted the children’s fairground for his 17th birthday, it was like being given the keys to The Kingdom.

“Again, we were very discreet.

“I won’t go into the unsavoury details of our activities, but the little sacrifices were a roaring success – killing and then feeding upon the energy of captured Souls manifestly increased my powers and satisfied Barry’s lust for danger.

“The only problem was the disposal of the bodies. Burial at sea was too risky, the undercurrents were unpredictable – we didn’t want one of them washing up on the rocks; in any case, Barry was an incompetent sailor. In the end he suggested we use our previous modus-operandi, only this time, we’d work under cover of darkness. So, while the Twins slept, we stole onto their land and buried each victim in the existing graves in the dog cemetery. Typically, he relished the thought of getting away with murder under the noses of the only people who could possibly perceive what was going on. I wasn't entirely at ease with this arrangement, but Barry needed the added excitement. It was all he lived for now. You see, in most cases, in order to make the subject commit the crime, one has to make him enjoy the deed and feel no remorse upon its completion, but if they’re unconscionable and enjoy it too much, then there’s little I can do to control the urges I’ve aroused. Barry was born to it; I’d only poured some oil on the flames. Coupled with my condition that we allow 5 years between each slaying to avoid detection, he found it very difficult to rein-in his urge to kill. In the interims, his behaviour became evermore erratic. In the winter of 63, while the fairground was in storage for the winter, he bought a motorcycle from a local hoodlum and spent days zooming around the Irish countryside causing trouble wherever we went. His recklessness and repressed sexuality turned him into a ticking time-bomb. If it wasn't for the fact that he bore all the attributes and abilities required to destroy my enemies, I would have considered making an early exit at this stage. Hence, I decided I had no choice but to persevere, try to control his urges and constantly remind him that incarceration was to be avoided at all costs.

“But that didn’t stop him loosening those bolts on the Cyclone, or pushing that little boy into the sea; or burning down the local cinema; or killing sheep in Tralee. Eventually, after 15 years of missing children and various tragedies, just like Barry’s sanity, the town of Brodir was in steep decline. Things got very quiet. The lack of stimulation was making Barry morose. He became bitterly withdrawn. He couldn't sleep. He wasn't shaving and he’d stopped bathing. Fortunately, I was almost back to full strength and ready to take over should he suddenly give up the ghost.

“Since we were now mobile, I suggested we take our desolation abroad. Barry joined the local motorcycle club; they were men after my own heart -- a bunch of scruffy ne’er-do-wells with a laudable disregard for authority and a morbid fascination for the occult. It was a superficial fraternity at best, but it provided us with contacts and places to stay abroad. But to keep the ‘show on the road’, we needed capital.

“As luck would have it, Barry’s mother developed senile-dementia. Her sudden decline hit Barry hard (I thanked my stars that she would no longer be a problem). When she took to wandering in the middle of the night, the father had no choice but to put her into secure accommodation -- a course of action that compounded Barry’s hatred toward him. Once again, I felt his heart break and then harden. It was another chip out of his Soul. On the plus side, he felt he had no one on earth to answer to now. The father then took to the bottle to drown his woes; the inn was losing what little business it had left. I advised Barry to hasten his daddy’s decline so that we might inherit his estate and liquidise the assets before they became worthless. We convinced the old man to sell the inn to a biker’s moll; when he refused, we waited until he was in a drunken stupor, and using a combination of magic and autosuggestion, we goaded him until he fetched his old service-revolver and blew his own brains out -- unfortunately, the incantation anchored his Soul to This World and doomed him to haunt the upper floor of the inn; but it didn’t matter - the money was ours now. We were solvent and upwardly mobile.

“We sold-off the equipment in the little fairground (retaining the little carousel - Barry’s favourite amusement) and moved into the shed where said equipment was once stored. It was the ideal place, private and secluded. Using it as a base, we travelled to India, Viet Nam and Thailand. Everywhere we went, children went missing and I grew ever stronger. Barry took the opportunity to find sexual release in countries where attitudes and laws on homosexuality were more relaxed. Then, things went from bad to worse when, after yet another crisis of conscience, Barry began taking drugs. Some acquaintances in the various motorcycle clubs he frequented had convinced him to smuggle narcotics on one of our expeditions, and upon successfully completing the mission, Barry just had to try some. It had a strange effect on my Essence. It numbed me, but thankfully made him easier to control, and after a few sojourns abroad to gather more resources, I decided it was time to put my final plan into operation. I had amassed the power to eliminate my ancient nemeses; i.e. the coven of witches who seek to destroy me. I compelled him to move to Ulster. To Downpatrick. The place they called home.”

“We moved into a run-down suburban ghetto known as the Forestpine Housing Estate where we lodged with an elderly gentleman by the name of Gilvinchy [see part 4]. We used his little house as a base for operations and things went very smoothly for a time... until one fateful day when I as otherwise engaged and he met Desmond again; he was now a dog handler searching the forest for a murderer. Barry couldn't help himself and approached to see if things had changed. Of course Calvert rejected him for a second time, and Barry’s heart was broken all over again. Only this time it proved a turning point in our relationship and I couldn't deter him from taking the ultimate step to rid himself of the thorn in his side.

“... Ahh, I suppose you know the rest.

“I’m making this recording whilst Barry is asleep, taking control of his body one last time before I cut him loose. There’s no telling what he will do without my steadying influence. What I do know is, he’s unforgiving and extremely volatile -- after all, as the adage goes: ‘there’s nothing more dangerous than a man with nothing to live for and nothing to lose’. He’s also somewhat of a sentimental fool, he’ll return to the place he knows best, probably to settle old scores. I do hope you find him before he does something rash.

“My condolences for your loss, Mr Calvert. This petty vendetta distracted me for a while, but thankfully I’ve been able to regroup and make alternative arrangements. My enemies will soon be vanquished. The ducks are all sitting in a row. It’s just a case of shooting them down, one by one.  

“Ciao....”

Click.

Archie reached out and ejected the tape. Both men sat silently in the flashing blue lights of a nearby panda and stared at the dashboard; there was nothing to say. They’d both experienced too much weirdness in the last few weeks -- in Archie’s case, the last few years -- to renounce what they’d heard as the insane ravings of a psychopath.

A moment later, Broo snapped out of his trance, whimpered and broke the silence. They turned and looked at him, both aware that he knew a lot more than they did.

“What do you think he meant, ‘settle old scores’... ‘find him before he does something rash’?” asked Archie.

Malky shook his head, “Dunno. He’s going to return to the place he knows best, he said...” then it suddenly struck him: “Waitaminnit -- Brodir! I think he meant Brodir! Oh shite. He’s going back to the inn!” Malky became anxious, “I think he’s going back to Odin’s Inn! Zindy!!”

Broo barked in agreement: <We need to get back there now!>

Archie was confused, “What’s Odin’s Inn... What’s Zindy?”

“I haven’t time to explain everything, Arch -- please, mate -- can I borrow the car?! I need to back to Wicklow!!”

“This rusty oul’ crate’ll never make it past Annalong, never mind get you to Wicklow, Malk! The engine’s on its last legs -- the exhaust is hangin’ by a thread!”

Before Archie could say anything else, Malky was out of the car, “Sorry Archie, we’ll talk later -- gotta go -- c’mon Broo!” he shouted, opening the backdoor and heading across the quadrangle toward the clutch of coppers standing around Gock Niblock’s lot. He found Finch and grabbed his sleeve, “Gimme me a car! I have to go down to Wicklow!”

O’Hara snorted, “Give you a car?! Who do you think you are?! Robert De Niro?!”

Malky ignored O’Hara and kept his grip on Finch’s sleeve, “C’mon, Mr Finch... Ian... Finchy... gimme a car! You can tell ‘em I took it without askin’!”

“What the fuck are you bletherin’ about?! What’s goin’ on -- is it somethin’ to do with that tape?!” said Finch, tearing his sleeve from Malky’s grasp.

“Yes! He’s threatening to do somethin’ stupid and I need to get down there as quick as I can! Believe me -- it’s a matter of life and death!!”

The cops looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. “He’s cracked, sir -- look at him!” said O’Hara, shaking his head, “He’s probably on somethin’!”

Malky knew it was useless and gave up on them; he dashed back to the lay-by. By the time Broo caught-him-up, he was running between the squad cars, hoping that one of the uniforms had been careless enough to leave the keys in the ignition -- then once again, providence smiled upon them!

They heard a voice call out, “Hey there, Mr Calvert -- Mr Calvert -- over here!”

It was the young cadet who’d given them a lift earlier that day. He was in his civvies, twirling a key-ring around his finger and grinning from ear-to-ear, gratified that Mr Calvert seemed so pleased to see him. Malky smiled back and walked across to the forecourt to meet him halfway. “Hiyez – I was listenin’-in on the radio at home when word came over that there’d been another murder! Then I heard about Inspector Harkness!” he said, excitedly, patting Broo’s head, “What a turn up, eh?! I couldn't wait til the mornin’ -- I hadda come right-away and see for meself! Is DI Harkness alright -- did he get a look at McKee?”

Malky put a hand on his shoulder, “Listen son, what sorta car do you drive?”

The young cadet became shamefaced and shuffled his feet, “Well... tonight I’m in me mammy’s car. It’s only a wee 1982 Mini-Metro. My Lambretta’s got engine trouble, see...”

Malky snatched the keys off his finger, “Sorry son, but I need to borrow it for a while -- police business!!” and the pair ran off before the cadet could object.

...

Still sitting in his car, still mulling over what he’d heard, Archie took the tape out of the player and looked at it. Could it be true? Were the things that happened to him in Donegal 3 years ago the actions of a man possessed? The broken mirrors in the empty house; the broken mirror in Pascal’s Pub; the talking mirror in the wardrobe in his room... Ogle’s assertion that there was something otherworldly about the Temple... the mystery surrounding Dani Cochrane’s case... and now this? Malky certainly seemed to think so. Even the old dog seemed convinced!

He looked out of the window and saw them both getting into a Mini Metro further down the road and thought, “Why do I always get myself into something that makes me feel like I’m going insane...?” [see part 5]

There was only one way to put his mind straight -- it was time to go to the Ivy House, confront the Lumbs and get the truth! He put the tape on the passenger seat, turned the key in the ignition and drove off.

As both cars made their way through the crowd of rubbernecking bystanders, neither driver noticed the large group of little old ladies gathered around a lamppost at the end of the street, watching and nodding, as if they knew exactly what was going on.

“It’s started,” said one.

The rest concurred with a grumbling chorus of “Oh aye.”

“Time to do our bit, ladies,” said another.

“Tonight’s the night.”    

...

10 minutes ago at the Ivy House:

“Ciao....”

The hissing stopped. The Psychosphere fell silent. A few seconds later the house erupted as the staff and shouted to each other and a few of the kitchen maids could be heard screaming down below. Castle and Carla looked at each other, scared and bewildered. “How... why...” was all that Carla could say.

Castle rubbed his chins, pondered the question for a moment or so, and then opined in a portentous voice, “He was talking to the Familiar’s master... I don’t know how, but I think the dog channelled it. Probably a recording. He’s seems to be attesting to their crimes to make sure there’s enough evidence to warrant a nationwide manhunt. By the sounds of it he wants them to catch his host -- take him alive, maybe he’s suicidal, off his head... maybe he’s making sure he has a safe haven to return should his plans go awry.... Havin’ said that, it doesn’t sound like he’s expecting to lose.” He concluded, glumly, “The Martyrs have risen, Dani’s trapped in Ellie’s mindscapes and Jamie’s trapped in the Void. All told, it looks like tonight’s the night.”

...

“Ciao....”

On the hard-shoulder of the motorway, Xavier snapped out his trance as a motorcycle zoomed by on the other side of the road, headed in the opposite direction. He looked in the rear view mirror and watched it disappear into the distance. He knew who t was, but there was no point in turning the car around and giving chase. The demon wasn't there. 

“Everything OK, Xav,” Her Ladyship asked, through the open partition, “you were gone for quite a while, then...?” As she spoke, their reluctant passenger began thrashing about in the trunk again. “Look, I know that was important, darling, but we need to get on... wolfie is having a fit!” she said, patting the big chauffeurs shoulder.

Xavier nodded, started the car and put his foot down. 

Lady Beth sat back; lighting up another cigarette, she said to herself, “Well, whatever’s going on, it looks like tonight is gonna be one helluva night...”

...

“Ciao....”

As soon as the voice stopped, Electra began to panic again, “It’s too late -- he’s going to attack --“

Sure enough, there was an almighty crash as the head of an axe hacked through the front door! It came down again and again -- until there was a hole big enough for the woodcutter to peer into the room! “Time’s up, Electra! Hand her over,” he said, in a creepy, sing-song tone, “you’ve been quite the quisling, haven’t you, Ellie? And you know what happens to traitors, don’t you?! Off with their heads!!” the face disappeared and the axe hit again -- the door splintered in two!

Electra grabbed her granddaughter’s hand and closed her eyes. The cartoon landscape disappeared completely -- they were soaring into the dark purple clouds, across the bright lilac moon, “What are you doin’ now! What was all that about?!” cried Dani, in an exasperated voice.

“It’s him! The demon! He knows I double-crossed him!” Electra yelled, over the sound of rolling thunder and crashing timber, “There’s only one person who can help us now!”

“Where are we goin’?!” Dani shouted back.

“Into the Void!” her grandmother replied, “brace yourself!”

...

In the extreme North West of Ireland, on the coast of Donegal, in a tiny village, miles from civilisation, in one of the upstairs rooms of the little tavern they call Pascal’s Pub, an old wardrobe door slowly creaks open of its own accord and the mirror attached to the inside begins to shimmer with a faint, violet glow. There’s a rushing sound, like the swish of a strong wind swishing through treetops, or the rush of rainy-day rapids; but it isn't the wind or a gushing stream, it’s the muddled hisses of a host of whispering, disembodied voices; scared, confused voices; the voices of the restless dead; the voices of ghosts: dispossessed Souls cursed to walk the Earth or dwell in the cold darkness of Limbo.

A few moments later, the door to the room opens and darkens. A lone figure appears on the threshold, the translucent, shimmering figure of a man dressed in a buttoned-up grey greatcoat, his features obscured by the brim of a black fedora. He walks to the open wardrobe and faces the glowing mirror.

The whispering glass brightens, a voice calls out above the others, “Bernie -- it’s Electra. We need your help...”

  To be continued in The Soul Destroying Secret Curse of Tutankhamun’s Tomb

Table of Contents