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Spindlefreck Book Two: Pt Six: The Witchâs 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 â 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, âOh my God! Emeeeeeeel...â
Fran! Lovely Fran, my lover, my wife, my soulmate has come to see me...!
âWill ye look at the state of him!â cried a harsh voice in an Irish accent.
Oh, Jesus no.... sheâs brought her mother. Thatâs 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.
âLook -- heâs awake!!â 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, âOh, Emil how could you... I mean, what made you do this... you could've been killed!! What is wrong with you?!â
Hilda Laverty didnât give him time to answer, she had a ready reply, her accent getting thicker as her anger increased, âHeâs a frigginâ hippy â thatâs whatâs wrong wâ âim!! All that dope he smokes has finally addled his brain! Drivinâ hundirts oâ miles in his jammies like a mental patient! Itâs a bloody disgrace!â
Emil watched like a supine tennis spectator, his eyes swivelling left and right as the women bickered over the bed. âMommy â Iâve had you in my ear for the last three freakinâ hours! Gimme a break!!â
Typically, Hilda ignored her and ranted on, âI bet he was as high as kite -- look at him there -- itâs a blessing from heaven that he hasnât killed somebody!â
âMOM! Enough! I warned you...!â Fran shouted, then turned back to her husband and looked at him with beseeching eyes, âOh, Emil... I knew you shoulda seen a psychologist after the first time!â
âAye -- heâs finally cracked under the weight of a guilty conscience!!â
âShh! Heâs trying to say something!â
Emil spoke in a weak whisper, âIâm so sorry, Fran...â
âDonât try to speak, I understand...â
âNo... I need to say this...â He looked down at his long-term archenemy and yelled as best he could, âBlow it out yer ass Hilda!!â It hurt a lot, but it was well worth it just to see the expression on the old bagâs face.
That face was now puce with fury; it took her all of a minute to gather her dander and deploy the wagging finger, âDonât think you can shock me or insult me, Emil Labatt, cuz I have heard it all before â itâs not me youâre hurting (points at Fran) -- itâs her!â
Fran stood up and tried to shout her down, âMom this is neither the time nor place --â
But Hilda Laverty was intent on saying her piece. Sheâd 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: âThis is Divine Retribution for all yer âextracurricularâ activities, me laddo -- swanninâ round thon campus like Don Juan, with yer ponytail and yer safari shorts and yer convertible sports-car, pickinâ-up wee lassies who have more tits-than-wit!â
Fran tried desperately to intercede, âMom â stop -- donât make me --â Â
But Hilda was in full flow â sheâd been mentally rehearsing the tirade all the way from Toronto and nobody was going to stop her, âWhat 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?!â
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: âMommeeee -â shut-the-f**k-up and GET OUT!!â
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 sheâd just seen her for the first time, âWhat did you say to me...?â
For once, Fran did not waver; she pointed at the door and said, firmly, âGet out!! I mean it!â
âWhy... how...â 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, âWhat in hell is goinâ on in here!â she said, hands on hips, her shiny black bob swishing to-and-fro as she looked from one to the other, âthereâs sick folk tryinâ ta sleep down the hall! Now, yâall be quiet or Iâll haveta ask yâall to leave!â
Fran apologised profusely for the disturbance, then turned to her mother and said, âMy mother was just going -- werenât you, mom?â
Still fuming, Mrs Laverty lifted her handbag from the chair by the door, âWeâll talk later, my girl! Iâll be in the car!â
âDonât bother waiting, Iâll get a taxi,â said Fran, icily, sitting down on the edge of the bed again, taking Emilâs hand.
Hilda turned the air blue, âWell f**k you, you stupid f**kinâ bitch -- donât come cryinâ to me when he lets you down again -- and you, Labatt -- I hope you end up paralysed from the waist down -- thatâd be poetic justice!!â
The big nurse watched Hilda stomp off down the corridor and shook her head âWell, Iâll be. She looks like such a nice, Christian-kinda lady, too...â 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, âI am so sorry, Fran. I mean it. I donât know what happened or whatâs going on. I think I could have brain tumour or something...â
She leaned close, looked into his eyes and said, âYesterday morning... when you had that look in your eyes, like a... a zombie, I shouldâve known there was something deep going on. But after all the rows weâve had, it never occurred to me you were having a breakdown.â
High and dislocated, Emil found this conclusion somewhat amusing. âIs that what you think this is? A breakdown? You think Hildaâs right? Iâve cracked under the weight of a guilty conscience...?â Then he saw a tear trickle down her cheek and sobered up. He squeezed her hand again and said, âI swear to you, I donât know what this is or whatâs happening to me,â he whispered, âbut one thing I know for sure is itâs got nothing to do with you.â
She reached up, took a paper tissue from the box on the bedside locker and dabbed her eyes, âThings havenât been the same since you screwed Paddyâs niece,â she said bluntly. The time for civility was long past.
He sighed heavily. Sheâd never forgiven him for that fling. After all the other little affairs heâd had, sheâd 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 didnât 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. âI told you, it was the worst mistake of...â he froze midsentence and stared into space.
âWhat is it? You've got that look again! Oh God...â Fran groaned.
He snapped out of his trance, looked at her and gasped, âYouâre right. Youâre absolutely right!â
She frowned and shook her head, âWhat do you mean?â
âI mean I havenât been the same since I got back from Ireland!â Â
...
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 â 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 manâs 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 wasnât 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: âTobias 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?â
âOh aye, I have summat to say!!â The condemned man straightened up, smiled a humourless, triumphal smile, as if heâd 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, âGo to hell, Roxborough! For Iâm certain Old Nick will have a special torment set aside for wicked men the likes of you!â
A low, appreciative hubbub ran through the crowd.
The condemned man looked around the crowd and spoke with authority and sincerity, âHeed 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 â the man you are about to hang is an innocent man! My only crime is that I know too much and Iâve said too much and now men of influence âave 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!â
The gaunt man broke ranks and strode across the road, âEnough of this manâs blasphemy and desperate lies!â He pushed the man with the scroll aside, shouldered his way through the soldiers and smacked the horseâs rump with his silver-headed cane â- 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, âA dying man is entitled to be heard! History will judge his words, Roxborough -- NOT YOU!!â
There were cheers and jeers now; cheers for the executionerâs candour, jeers for Roxboroughâs 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 crowdâs objections. One of the men whoâd been standing by Roxboroughâs 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, âRemember who I am, gentlemen. And remember where you are...â Â
Then, the swaying, hanged man looked down at Broo, his pale purple face streaming with rain and said, âHey doggy --Wake up!â
âWake up!â
Broo opened his eyes to see Charlie Noble, Pagham Houseâs Head of Security, standing over him. âItâs raininâ -- why arenât ye under cover, ye silly mutt?â 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. âThereâs summat âee donât see every day, aunâie -- a three legged dog!â tittered the silver haired girl.
The old woman looked at Broo and scowled, ââis nibs musta called âem after all. âE said âe would.â
ââOo?â
âGhost âunters. That dog is psychic. Must be âere about the poltergeist thing. âIs nibs must be at the end of his tether,â said Mrs Sparkes, opening her door. âThanks fer the lift, our Oona, there wuz no way oi coulda walked up âere this morninâ, me leg is killinâ me...â
Still staring at the old dog, the young woman answered distractedly, âDonât you worry none... aunâie... Craigy wuz jast off noightshift... so oi were up anyway...â
âWell, tell Craigy oiâm sorry oi woke âim.â
The younger woman didnât hear the remark and continued to stare into Brooâs 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, âCut that out!â she shouted, angrily. The girl suddenly severed the budding connection, âOoow!â she moaned, rubbing her head, but didnât argue, as if sheâd done it before. âNow get âee on âome, Oona Nevin, âfore I clout âee again!â 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 momentâs contemplation, she bent down and said, ââEeâs looked in the old mirror, âavenât âee, boy? 'Eeâs seen the children, âavenât âee?â
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.
âGet âee on âome, Mr Dog. Soon as âee can,â she whispered in a low voice with a cold smile, âcuz this olâ houseâll eat âee alive.â
As Mrs Sparkes walked to the tradesmanâs 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, âOona!! Go HOME!!â 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?! âThis houseâll eat you aliveâ...? He was very worried now. Oh, câmon 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. âJESUS!â He jumped when he saw his reflection in the mirror overhead. He was not a pretty sight: unshaven, pale and puffy-eyed.
Knock-knock. âAre you OK, Mr C?â said Herbie, opening the door a crack, âCan I come in? Are you decent?â
Malky sat up and groaned, âCâmon ahead, Herbie, I ainât got nuthinâ you havenât seen before...â Â
â... as the porn star said to the Pope!!â Herbie quipped, bringing in a silver tray with a slice of melon and a tumbler of freshly squeezed orange juice. He was bright ���nâ breezy, dressed in his chauffeurâs uniform, all sparkly buttons and shiny boots, âItâs jast gawn eight firty, Mr C, anâ if youâs feeling up-to-it youâs welcome to join me ân the staff fer breakfast in the kitchen?â
With the bitter aftertaste of strong coffee still in his mouth, Malky took a gulp of juice, swilled it around his mouth before swallowing, âI donât think so, Herb, not feelinâ too good,â he said, rubbing his tummy.
Herbie went to the console at the side of the bed and pressed the button that opened the curtains, âBefowah you awsk, our young master Kris ainât up yet, what wiv the olâ jet-lag ân beinâ up all night itâs unlikely weâll see âim âfore we leave.â He went to the window and looked out, âAnâ your best pal wonât be joining us neever, Iâve awsked him â- I tried to tempt him wiv bacon, bat âe flatly refuses to come in the ahse. I fink âeâs anxious to leave.â
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, âHey! Come in and get yer breakfast!â
The old dog sat where he was and didnât as much as twitch.
âThen at least go ân sit under a tree?!â
The old dog stayed where he was and barked: Can we go home now?
âOch, heâs probably homesick...â Malky began to say, before a feeling of nausea hit him, âand talkinâ of feelinâ sick... Eeeuuugh...â
âWossup?â asked Herbie, concerned, âgotta dicky belly, âave ya?â
âMe gutsâre doinâ somersaults... said Malky, turning a light shade of green. If I didnât know better Iâd think it was hangover...â
âDrink too much coffee last night, didja?â Herbie chuckled, âCharlie went dahn to the pavilion to lock-up this morninâ ân âe said the machine wuz empty!â
The mention of the coffee set him off, âHere I go â-â mumbled Malky, making a run for the en suite.
Herbie shouted after him, âLissen -- you get dressed and Iâll go dahn anâ fry-ya-up my breakfast special -- toast, a bit oâ black-puddinâ and wiv âash-brahns anâ eggs in Worcester sawz - thatâll put ya back on yer plates!â
Malky threw up loudly.
âWell, maybe not...â said Herbie, smiling to himself as he picked up the tray.
 âSo-oo, whatâs the beef, chief?â Malky asked, gingerly staggering down the marble steps carrying his overnight bag, âwhy didnât you come back to the house with us last night?â
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 wasnât as strong as the grandsonâs, but he could still see it and feel it: physically deadening and psychically inhibiting. Malky is infected! He whimpered and backed up.
âLook, Iâm sorry you hadda sleep outside, but we couldnât wake you, so we let you sleep...â said Malky, misreading Brooâs reaction, before doubling up and retching.
Broo was very alarmed now. Itâs 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, âThe boss is awake and âe wants to tawk to ya before you go... would that be OK?â he said, apologetically.
âIâve nothing to say to âim, Herbie.â Malky replied, shaking his head.
Herbie sighed, looked down at his boots and said, ââE wants to fank you personally for what you done lawst night. âEâs still in bed, bat âeâs sober anâ of sahnd mind.â
Malky straightened up and had another bout of light-headedness; and again, Herbie had to lend a helping hand, âYou ainât lookinâ any better Mr C...â
Broo yipped, getting evermore anxious by the second.
âStop fussing! Iâm fine...â Malky lied, wincing, âIâll go talk to Laphen, and as soon as Iâm done, weâll go home, OK?â he patted the old dogâs head and walked back up the steps with the bemused chauffeur, âYou anâ âthat olâ doggy certainly are a pair, aintcha!â
As soon as Malkyâs 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, itâd worked a treat.  âI want to thank you for everythinâ youâve done, Mr Calvert,â he said, in a cheery voice.
Malky shrugged, âWe didnât find anything.â
âYouâre sure? Thereâs nothing here?â
âNuthinâ spooky, no.â
Smirking, Laphen nodded and said, âThatâs all I needed to know. Now I can concentrate on catching the real culprit.â He gave back the cheque for ÂŁ7500 that Malky had thrown in his face the night before.
Malky didnât want it, but took it for Zindyâs sake, âI canât say itâs been a wonderful experience, Mr Laphen, but itâs been worth it to make the acquaintance of Kris. That kid is an absolute diamond and you should be proud of --â
Laphen put up a hand and stopped him, âBefore you start to extol the virtues of my grandson, will you indulge me?â 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 Krisâ description: Pagham Houseâs indomitable, sour-faced housekeeper, Mrs Sparkes. ââEreâs eeâs breakfast. Thereâs bacon ânâ eggs ânâ kipper,â she grumbled, lifting the cloche, âOi didnât know âow you wanted âem done, so oi did two boiled, two froied ân two poached, so âee can work it out fer yerself.â
âYes, thank you Mrs Sparkes, put it on the table and bugger off,â said Laphen, offhandedly waving her away.
âAnd donât âee get egg on the chairs,â she grunted, on her way out.
âYou can go too, Herbie,â he said, âIâll buzz when I need you.â 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, âCoffee?â
âGod no!â Malky moaned, holding his breath.
âAre ye alright, ye look terrible,â said Laphen, as if he cared.
âI just wanna get out of here...â
âHerbie tells me Kris took you round the East Wing,â said Laphen, buttering a slice of toast.
âHe was great, it was very... enlightening.â
âHmm. When he was a kid he used to explore every nook ân cranny of this place. Up to all sorts, he was,â said Laphen, in a suspicious tone, âyou couldnât watch him.â
âWell he was very knowledgeable, very helpful,â said Malky, fading.
Laphen sat forward and looked Malky in the eye, âLook, the boy is trouble. Always has been. Heâs a compulsive liar, so-he-is. Thatâs the only reason I keep him close, not because heâs wonderful company, but because if heâs left to his own devices somebodyâs liable to get hurt.â He went back to his breakfast, âHeâs a skilled manipulator and heâs got yez all wrapped around his wee finger. But not me, oh no.â He reached into his dressing gown pocket and produced a small oblong box. âThis 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.â
Malky was affronted, âYou mean...â
Laphen shook the little recorder, âYes, I heard every word.â He pressed the little play button:
â... When I look at him now I know Iâm looking at myself in 60 years time, cos thatâs probably what Iâll look like if I live that long. But I wonât 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.â
âWhat the ....â said Malky, unable to adequately express his outrage without throwing up, all he could manage was a feeble croak, â...what gives you the right to tape us?!â
âMy property, my prerogative, I can do what I like. And Kris knows it, too,â he said, confidently, âin fact he knew Iâd be listeninâ ân put on that wee performance to get at me. Thatâs what heâs like. The spiteful little bastard...â
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, âHowâs this for a performance!â He tore-up the cheque and sprinkled the pieces over Ollieâs eggs, âfor the second ân last time - goodbye Ollie! I hope you get whatâs coming to you!â 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, whoâd looking out of the large oriel window at the end of the landing, saw him and came running. âYou look like deff-warmed-up, Mr C. I dunno wevver to take ya âome or take ya to casualty!â he said, putting Malkyâs arm around his shoulder.
âHome, please, Herbie. If Iâm gonna die, I wanna do it in me own bed,â Malky gasped, struggling to walk down the stairs, âdonât take this the wrong way, but most of all just wanna get outta this f**kinâ house...â
Meanwhile, at Odinâs 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 â- namely an XXXL ZZ Top Eliminator tee-shirt that used to belong to her hulking ex -- put on her motorcycle boots and wriggled into Malkyâs 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. âNow, I have lavished love on ya. Iâve 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 âave the rest of the week off â eh â âow would that be, eh?â
The van remained inscrutably silent.
âOK then, âere goes...â
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, â... again, but faster...
FruummmmmmmmRRRRRRRRRRRRRRMMooooMMMMMMMMMMM......PUTTAPUTTAPUTTAPUTTAPUTTA
âYES!â 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 â 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 wouldnât 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. Heâd seen the cats in the backyard â confirmation that things were about to change. âSee? The cats and birds always first to know,â said the boy in the mirror above the mantelpiece, ânow will you believe me?â 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 didnât like being in the Mirror World one little bit, he was jumpy and kept looking around as if he was scared, âLook,â he said, losing patience, âGo to Limbo! - because if you donât exist at all â youâll be even more useless than you are now!!â
âBut how do we know if this âdarknessâ or âbadnessâ -- or whatever-ye-may-call-it -- wonât harm Zindy or the child sheâs carryinâ? I mean to say...â said Sammy, pacing the mat in front of the hearth, âyou canât gimme an answer to that question.â
âI told you the Powers That Be just told me to get you to go to Limbo. You donât argue. Theyâre always right.â
Eventually Sammyâs shoulders dropped and he gave in. The face in the mirror closed its eyes and sighed with relief, âPlease go now. Iâll wait.â
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, âMummyâs still got it kiddo! And your daddy said I was wasting my time â pah! What does he know, anyway? Iâm the handyman in our house! You might inherit my powers! If youâre a girl ân you anything like me, you might be a bit of a tomboy. But if youâre into dolls ân girly stuff, thatâll be OK, too. If youâre a boy -â weâll get dirt bikes and tear up the hills! If youâre musical - weâll get you an electric guitar!â 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 sheâd done before, but the van flatly refused to respond. âYouâre not even trying!â 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. âFook! Bugger! bollocks!!â she cried, pounding the steering-wheel with her little fists. All the optimism and good cheer evaporated, she slumped in the seat and mithered, âIâll have to phone for a f**king tow-truck now! Shite!â 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, ââere we go. A Knight in fookinâ shininâ armour is cominâ to help a damsel in distress...â
The man tapped on her window. She wound it down and almost yelled, âLook mate, unless youâve got a carburettor for a 1978 Ford Escort van, you can...â
She stopped talking when the guy took off his shades (âoo 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, âYou were gonna tell me to eff-off, werntcha?!â
Zindy was agape; her stomach flipped, her heart thudded in her ears; when she finally caught her breath, she gasped: âRaspo...?â 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 widowâs-peak; heâd 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 couldnât adequately express her surprise, âYouâre so... so...?â
���Handsome? Intelligent? Sexually attractive...?â he said, that familiar gold tooth glinting in that familiar smile.
She tried not to sound impressed, âNo... I mean ... itâs quite a transformation, to say the least. When you were with me the most exercise ya got was openinâ the fridge and pullinâ the tab on a can.â
He stood back, opened his jacket and let her get a good look, âSolitary confinement and a set of weights will do that to a man. Iâve lost 7 stone! I can see my toes now!â He slowly pulled up his roll-neck sweater to reveal his heavily tattooed torso, âBeer barrel to six-pack in 4 years -- not bad for a 57 year-old slob who never walked-the-length-of-himself, eh?â He put his hands on his knees and stooped, his grey-green eyes twinkling as he looked at her hair, âI see youâre a pinkhead now. Very becoming. And youâve put on a bit of weight, too. Suits you. In fact, youâre still wearing my old clothes, I see...â
Zindy blanched and instinctively crossed her arms over the bump and told him what she thought of him. âSo they shaved 3 years off your sentence for squealinâ, did they?! Â I wouldnât know, see, since I ainât a rat-fink-coont.â
Raspo threw back his head and laughed heartily before answering, âAm I to assume that Iâm not exactly flavour of the month in Brodir? You ân the boys still mad at me, eh?â
âI havenât seen âem since you grassed-âem-up. The raid was so bad I hadda close the place up and renovate. Thanks for that,â Zindy snarled.
The winning smile vanished, âI didnât squeal on me mates, just those bastards from abroad. Itâs 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.â
Zindy recoiled and shook her head as if she couldn't understand what he was talking about and said, âSmokestack lost so much blood they had to do a transfusion -- Little Ted got a fractured skull! Marcus is blind in one eye from flyinâ glass! Not to mention the damage done to their bikes!â
Raspo made no attempt to justify or defend his actions he just stared at the ground and took his medicine like a big boy.
âWhat 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 âappen! The first I knew about it was when the riot squad kicked-in tâdoor ân gave me customers a leatherinâ -- it wuz like a frigginâ warzone!â
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, âIâm really sorry, but Somerville made me an offer I couldn't refuse. And when-allâs-said-and-done, the men I gave up were murderers, kidnappers, pimps, Nazis and many other things besides. So f**k âem.â He regarded her with a pained expression, âYou know me, Zin, I canât be caged, I canât be locked up... stuck lookinâ at the same four walls day after day, eatinâ the same auld shit, havinâ to cohabit with rapists, perverts and paedos.â He looked her in the eye, âCuz thatâs where they put you when you turn statesâ evidence, Zin: the âsecure wingâ. So on top of everything else I hadda live with the worst kind of scum -- I used to beat the shit outta them just soâs I could spend some time in solitary to get me head straight.â Â
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, âRobert (she only ever called him Robert when she was really mad at him), you looked me in the eye ân lied to me every day of our relationship; you treated me like a wee queen, ân meanwhile youâre this fookinâ gangster dealinâ smack to kids ân cuttinâ-âem-up when they couldn't pay -â then, when yer caught in the act, ye shop yer mates to get a commuted sentence!â She shook her head, âTo think thatâs the guy I shared a bed with all them years! Makes me sick to me stomach!â she said, glowering, âNow kindly get yer arm off me roof and stay the fook outta my life.â
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, sheâd forgotten her predicament and now, on top of everything else, she looked stupid. Raspo didnât gloat or make fun; he kept a straight face and said, âPop the hood. I think heard somethinâ. I think I might know what yer trouble is.â
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, âNah, the carburettorâs completely knackered.â
âBrilliant. Tell me summat I donât know.â
He wiped his hands with a crumpled paper tissue, âLook, Iâm here in a mateâs Transit -â thereâs a length of rope in the back. I could tow you home...?â
âOh wouldn't that be cosy, youâd like that wouldn't you!â 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, âI know yer game, Raspo. This is just too much of a coincidence. Too convenient.â
âOK, OK, just tryinâ to be helpful.â He shivered and pulled his jacket tight around his shoulders, âIâve got a warm flat and an even warmer woman to go home to, why should I waste my time standinâ in the rain talkinâ to a hellcat?â
She arched an eyebrow.
He knew that look, âItâs true -- thatâs why Iâm here -â weâre decoratinâ the kitchenette and I borrowed a neighbourâs van to collect some wall-tiles and a new sink,â he pointed at a white van parked by a trolley-shed at the far end of the car park, âyou can go and look if you like!â He jangled the keys.
Zindy looked away, âI ainât goinâ anywhere in a van wâ you! In fact, I ainât goinâ anywhere with you...â she said, wincing as a wave of nausea came over her.
âIâm not tryinâ to pick-you-up or pick-up where we left-off, Iâm only tryinâ to do you a favour!â
Zindyâs resolve was severely tested, her curiosity piqued: who is this new woman? Where is this flat? âIâm glad to hear youâre settling down,â she said, sarcastically.
Raspo smiled and said, âThank you,â then nonchalantly commented, âit looks like youâre settlinâ down, too.â
Another pang -- this time her stomach turned over, âErm... uh, whaddya talkinâ about...â
âI saw you in the store â youâre pregnant, arenât ya?â He took a step forward and looked at her bump, âor have I just said the worst thing a man can say to a woman whoâs put on a bit of weight...?â
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.
âIâll take that as a yes, then...â
...
5 minutes ago, 47 miles west: âStop! â- here comes the rest!â
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!
âMy, my,â said Herbie, tutting, âyer pal is very sick, olâ boy. I wouldn't be surprised if that liâl session last night puts âim off coffee fer life!â
Broo whimpered and wheezed with alarm: Why is this happening?! Is this permanent condition?! I canât live like this!!
...
15 minutes later, in a little transport cafĂŠ 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 werenât likely to ever forget.
âThat was a total head-f**k about Barry, wasn't it? Killing kids? Did ye ever?!â said Raspo, disconsolately, shaking his head with disbelief.
âOch, câmon, McKee was always a creep,â she said, curling a lip, âhe was too quiet, always goinâ off on his own and keepinâ âimself to âimself. He wasn't really one of the lads.â
Raspo shrugged, âI 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 âem all the time. Most of âem didnât get past the initiation, but Barry did. He took it all without sayinâ a word or screaminâ in pain, so he had a bit of cred. I was very impressed by âim.â
She baulked, âWe are talking about the same bastard âoo killed poor Sammy, kidnapped me and shot me, are we? Cuz this is startinâ to sound a lot like a eulogy!â
âNone 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 â- people who youâve been introduced to -- thatâre Nazis with criminal convictions for rape and possession of obscene material very, very likely to offend. Letâs put it this way, just cos they donât have horns and cloven hoofs, doesnât mean they donât froth at the mouth every time Romper Room comes on.â
She was genuinely shocked. âBloody hell! Thank God Iâm out of it!â she cried.
âWell then, you canât blame me fer wantinâ them locked-up, can ye?â he replied.
There was a pregnant pause. Zindy looked out of the window; Raspo idly stirred his coffee,
âWe had some good times though, didnât we?â he said, smiling nicely.
She wasn't biting, âWhen I turned 40 I looked back ân realised âow much time Iâve 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 yâknow what? Iâm happier than Iâve ever been! Iâm âavinâ a baby with a great guy â there are developers lookinâ at the town, so things are looking up on the business front -- ân best of all -- thereâs no two-faced cut-throats around to f**k things up!â
He sat back and made an offhand comment, âI hear the fatherâs Malcolm Calvert, the guy that caught Barry. Well, him ân âis three legged dog... Ex-RUC isn't âe...?â
She took her time answering; is he threatening me? âThis has got nuthinâ to do with Malky! Iâd already washed my hands of you when we met,â she said, a little shaken. âAnyway, how do you know about him?â
âWe do have newspapers and TVs on the inside, yâknow,â he said, matter-of-factly, âI saw him cominâ outta the hospital after he was shot. He looked like a frail old man.â
âHeâs fully recovered! He has a heart condition, but he takes plenty of exercise...â She shook her head emphatically, âWhy the fook am I justifying myself to you of all people?! Itâs none of yer fookinâ business what I do or âoo Iâm with!â
âDonât have a haemorrhage, Zin. Iâm just makinâ conversation.â
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. âWhatâs keepinâ that bloody truck?â she muttered.
Raspo looked at his watch, âYeah, I should be gettinâ back, meself. Sheâll be wonderinâ what Iâm at.â She croaked a mirthless cackle and made the whip-crack sound. He shrugged and got serious again, âUm, there is somethinâ else, as a matter of fact: my bike. Iâd like to get it back.â
âOh, NOW it makes sense,â she chided in a sing-song sneer, âNOW weâre gettinâ down to the nitty-gritty, yes indeedy-do -- your precious wheels! Yer beloved bike! I wondered when that would come up!â
An eyebrow was raised. âItâs still there, isn't it? Hasn't been damaged at all?â
âI might wanna cut your eyes out with your own blade, but Iâd never take my anger out on an innocent hog,â she said, âit was impounded after Barry stole it, but I got it back a year ago, reasonably unscratched. Yer lucky he didnât wreck it like he wrecked everythin' else. Between the two of yez, youâve fooked-me-over good-ân-proper.â
Raspo sighed with relief, âI knew you wouldn't neglect her. Good job too, cuz Iâm gonna sell âer and move to America. Iâve got contacts there and theyâre 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. Thatâs why weâre decorating. We wanna sell the flat ân get over there ASAP.â
She snorted, âYou've got a conviction for dealing drugs and violence â youâll never get a visa...â He put a finger to his lips to and told her to pipe down. She leaned closer and hissed in an angry whisper, âThereâs no way you theyâll let you in, soft-lad,â then she thought twice, slapped her forehead with the heel of her palm, âOf course, silly me- you wonât be usinâ the âproper channelsâ, will ya?!â
He looked at his finger nails and conceded, âThe main thing is itâll put an ocean between me ân my enemies.â
âThatâs another thing â arenât you takinâ a big risk hanginâ round these parts? What if somebody round âere recognises ya?! No skin of my nose, la, but arenât you askinâ for trouble?â
âWell, you didnât recognise me, did ya?! I walked past you three times in the store and you were none-the-wiser.â He shrugged, âSomerville told me itâd be in me best interests to leave the country ân I agreed.â
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: âHow long have you been out?â
âSix weeks today.â
âAnd you found a new girlfriend in six weeks?â
He smiled, âSheâs the daughter of an auld lag who died inside. Our eyes met across a crowded visitorsâ room, and when her da passed away, we arranged to meet up when I got out. Sheâs a divorcĂŠe... sweet, easy goinâ girl, and sheâs keen to make a new start.â
âWith you?â she cried, greeting the information with some hilarity, âShe doesnât know what sheâs lettinâ herself in for!â
âSo, about my bike...?â
Zindy sniffed, put her nose in the air and spoke offhandedly, âI donât want you cominâ near the inn. Iâll have it transported.â
He smiled, âWhy? Is Mr Ghostbuster the jealous type?â
âDonât even try to be funny about Malky. Heâs got somethinâ youâll never have: dignity. No, Iâll have it transported.â
Raspo started humming the riff from Ghostbusters.
She put her cup to her lips, took a sip and stated, plainly, âI donât trust ya as far as I could spit ya, Robert. I couldn't care less about your ânew lifeâ, but if you âarm one âair on Malcolm Calvertâs âead I will find you and I will cut yer eyes out. And you know I mean it.â
...
At that moment, in a private room in Harrisburg Hospital, PA: âHello, Gilray residence...?â said a familiar, slightly anxious female voice.
Emilâs jaw dropped â he almost dropped the phone! Just my f**king luck! Well, she lives there -- whatâd you expect?
âHello? Is there someone there,â she asked, excitedly, âUncle Paddy? Is that you?!â
Pretend you donât know who youâre talking to! He cleared his throat and said in an officious, disinterested voice, âMay I speak to Dr Gilray, please?â
âErm... who is this?â
F**k it. âUm... this is Dr Labatt...?â
âEmil?!â
The second she said his name his heart leapt up into his throat and all attempts at pretence fell away, âNiamh? Iâm very sorry. I didnât recognise your voice -- how are you?!â
âEmil you sound awful â is there anything wrong...?â
âEr... uh-huh... I was in an accident... nothing to fret about â Iâll live, but Iâm gonna be in hospital for a while.â
âOh my God, Emil! Accident?! Hospital?! What the f**k happened?! Are you OK...?â
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 Paddyâs bed, and despite the devastating effect on everyone involved, he didnât regret it. And now sheâs 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, âListen Emil, I havenât 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 havenât 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 didnât have his briefcase with him, I just hope heâs OK.â
The news was alarming, but he now he knew his theory was true, it had something to do with the dig 2 years before. âI think I have an idea whatâs going on, but I have to ask you, Ni -- health-wise, are you feeling OK?â
âYeah, why?â
â... Um... have you been ill since that dig in Kildare, yâknow, when the mummyâs were exhumed...?â
âWhat? No...? Why?â
âItâs just that ever since I got back from Ireland -â ever since the dig -- Iâve been having these dizzy-spells. Then I had a strange blackout, like an out-of-body experience, yâknow? Thatâs what caused the accident, I couldn't control myself, it was like someone was... using me like a puppet, yâknow? I know it sounds freaky, but sounds like Paddyâs suffering the same symptoms...â
...
10:44AM, Odinâs Inn, Brodir, Co. Wicklow: As the Rolls taxied down the seafront, it didnât 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 Laphenâs estate or Bogmire village-square. Sickly green and constantly coughing, Malky refused Herbieâs 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, âVery nice toâve met you, Mr Gorringe, Iâll never forget... euuuurrrrrrgh!â 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, âNo, go, go on Herbie... everythingâll be alright once I sleep this off...â 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 anâ âis missus best keep an eye on âim, boy. âE âreally should be in âospital.â He patted the old dogâs 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, âIâm dying, Broo...â 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, âWhatâs happeninâ to me, Broo? I never felt like this before... Am I sick or is it somethinâ... else? Any word from, yâknow... beyond the grave...?â
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; heâd 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 âreunionâ. When he was finished, he washed himself down with a hand-towel and winked at his own reflection in the circular shaving mirror, âMax Cady -- eat yer heart out!â 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 -- sheâd 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 heâd pissed himself the night before. F**kinâ 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, âWho is it?â he said.
âFelix. Itâs OK, Iâm alone,â said a little voice.
Raspo unlatched the door, walked back, leaned on the dresser and lit-up a Marlie. He looked his âbusiness partnerâ up-and-down  âWell?â 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, âRaspo, now, donât get upset, itâs got nuthinâ to do with me...â
âCâmon, câmon, just give it to me,â said Raspo, keeping his cool.
Bracing himself for the worst, Felix continued, â... The boyos in the North said itâll be Thursday this week. The boat carryinâ the goods got seized 40 miles off Rockall and theyâre havinâ to make âalternative arrangementsâ...â
âThursday? Â Shite, no stock for 3 days...â said Raspo, shaking his head. âWhereâs the takinâs from last week?â
Felix took a bulging white envelope from his pocket -- Raspo snatched it away, tore it open and started counting, âThis better be all present and correct, nobhead...â he grumbled, âoh aye, by-the-way, I hadda put petrol in that shitty van oâ yours so Iâm takinâ 20 notes outta your cut...â
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 Masterâs tone, he felt bold enough to enquire after his day, â... So... I take it everything went according to plan...?â
Raspo stopped counting and shot his quivering confederate a dirty look, âNot that itâs any of your business, f**kface, but yes, the opening act in my little scheme did indeed proceed without a hitch.â
Felix sighed, leant against the cooker in the kitchenette and relaxed; oh, life is so great when heâs in a good mood. Sure-enough, the good cheer extended to a comprehensive account, âsheâs 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,â he bragged, chuckling maniacally, âI didnât 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 blasĂŠ â the odd one liner here ânâ there to show her Iâm still a sparkling wit...â He looked up and snarled, âAnd by-the-way -- the inside of yer van stinks to high heaven â it smells like you had a dead body in there -- so thank God I didnât have to give her a lift home.â He sneered in a mocking whine, âIs that the van you used to patrol the primary schools and public parks, is it, Felix? Is it your âpassion wagonâ, huh?â
Felix looked at the floor and murmured, shamefully, âNo, the garda impounded that van. And it wasn't a Transit. It was a Bedford Astramax. And I didnât use it for pickinâ up kids -- Iâve never touched a kid in my life...â
Raspo sniggered, âNot for want of tryinâ, eh? What about when ye got done for flashing in a playground!â
âI was not flashinââ Felix whined, âI was having a wee-wee behind a tree â I didnât know they could see me from the top of the slide!!â
âOh yeah?! And what about all âem them kiddie mags they found in yer van?!â
âOne of the lodgers must've left them there!â
âDonât even try to lie to me, f**k-face. Remember who youâre talkinâ to,â growled Raspo, screwing up his nose as if the little man emitted a foul odour, âYâknow, you are so lucky youâre useful to me or youâd be seagull fodder in a landfill.â
The two met in prison after Raspo was sent to the âsecure wingâ 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 âRaspoâ Canning, a muscle-bound former Hellâs 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 â with only days to go until his release -- Felixâs 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 Felixâs 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 Blackthornâs 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 didnât like him much. Too forward, always telling me what to do.
Felixâs mother was a psychic, though she never used her âGiftâ again once she found God. Felix was disappointed. He liked it when she did sĂŠances; 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 âspecial effectsâ. He became fascinated by the occult; heâd have a go on her crystal ball, but it never worked for him -â 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, âWould you believe I used to have an hourglass figure -- look at me now! Iâm a balloon!â sheâd 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. Sheâd take to her bed for weeks on end and heâd wait on her hand and foot â 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 âI hope the big lads cut it off in the showers!â Itâs 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 wasnât 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 Felixâs 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 landlordâs 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, âThereâs only 430 quid here, dickwad?! Whereâs the other 70?!â
With the wardrobe door booming behind him like an untempered kettledrum, Felix writhed and croaked, âOh God, oh God, soorrreeee â I forgot to make-up the difference â take it outta my cut!!â Â
Raspo stopped slapping but kept his arm where it was and gave him a lecture heâd repeated many times before, âYou canât keep doinâ this, you stupid c**t! How many times to I have to tell ya â never, ever, give a smackhead credit. Theyâll bleed ye dry if yer not tough on âem!!â
âI donât do the tough stuff, I take Big Marty when I go into the flats, but this guy lives in a squat on Carville Road, yâknow, in the up-market bit, the ones I usually do on me own. But this boyo...â Felix pulled a sour face, âUgggh! I couldnât stick it in there. It stinks to high heaven, youâve never smelt anythinâ like it -- there was a big curly turd in the corner and he doesnât have a dog! I told him Iâd be back tomorrow and ran straight out and vomited in an auld twin-tub somebodyâd dumped in the front garden! Iâll take Big Marty and get it off âim!â
Raspo tensed his forearm and increased the pressure on Felixâs throat, âIf youâre gonna front my little enterprise then youâre gonna have to buck-up-yer-ideas, Felix. The premise is very good â you deliver posing as a caretaker-slash-handy-man-slash-TV-engineer with yer wee toolbox full of class A narcotics â- but hereâs your problem -- yer too non-threatening! You needa get one of these...â Raspo took the hunting knife from his boot and put the blade against Felixâs bobbing Adamâs-apple, âThis is my wee persuader. Iâve carved-up guys that owed me as little as 20 notes wâ this thing.â
There was a gurgle then Felix croaked, âSorry, Raspo, it wonât happen again.â
âYouâre f**kinâ lucky Iâm in a good mood cuz if there is one thing guaranteed to get me riled itâs people owinâ me money! And then thereâs this!â He grabbed Felix by the scruff of the neck and pushed him towards the bed; Felixâs 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, âErm, Iâll have a glazier look at it in the morning...?â he said, calmly, despite the indignity.
âIn the morning, huh? And what about tonight?â  said Raspo, pushing him away âNow, where will I sleep tonight... let me see now...?â he  said, stroking an invisible beard â... a spare room for instance... a room thatâs sittinâ all made-up and ready...â he sat in the chair by the door and awaited the inevitable conniption.
He wasnât 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, âNo-no-no-no-no...â then genuflected and fell at Raspoâs 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), âNo, please, please, please, Raspo, not me mammyâs room -- take my bed!â
Raspo lifted an empty lager can from the floor and threw it at him, âGet the f**k outta here - Iâd rather kip in a skip than put my bare skin anywhere near somewhere youâve been... eeeuggh,â Raspo shuddered, ââmy bedâ, the very notion!â He grabbed Felix by the nape of the neck and growled in his ear, âIâm not feelinâ The Love, Costello. You said my wish would be your command.â
âBut Raspo, you know how particular I am about my mother,â Felix implored him, âIâve got it exactly as it was when she passed -- I even lacquered the pillows ân the quilt to save me washing them...â
Raspo pushed him away, âLacquered bedsheets! Christ on a bike! You are sick! You ARE Norman f**ing Bates!â
âThe settee in the living room!â Felix cried excitedly, in a moment of inspiration, âitâs very comfortable -â youâve seen it -- itâs 8 foot long - big cushions, quilted leather -- and youâd have the radiogram -- the colour-telly -- and the video!â
âAnd what if somebody comes lookinâ for me?!â he tightened his grip on Felixâs neck.
âThey canât see through the net curtains!â
Raspo released his grip and considered the proposal, âHmmm. Better than a dead womanâs lacquered duvet, I sâpose...â
âWe can have dinner together! Iâm making Pasta Primavera with chicken in a lemon sauce tonight... well, if youâre agreeable, like...?â
Raspo didnât say no. After thinking it over he murmured, âHmmm, sounds alright, sure enough...â
Felix grinned and chirruped, âSee you at 8!â
âF**k-off, Felix.â
He departed the room walking on air, overjoyed that his suggestion had been approved and heâd 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 mammyâs constant companion, was coming in the front door. Felix stopped singing and smiling.
âGood afternoon, Felix. Up visiting your new friend?â asked Mr Paterson, with more than a hint of sarcasm. Felix screwed up his nose and chimed like a little girl, âHeâs my cousin, not that itâs any of your business!â
âFelix, I knew your mother 40-odd years and I never once heard her mention a relative called âBrianâ.â Mr Paterson shook his head, âand Iâm sure she would've mentioned a big brute like that.â
Exasperated, Felix crossed his arms, cocked a hip and tapped his foot, âListen -- I donât have to explain myself to you Paterson, Iâm landlord here now, and can I rent to whoever I like!â
âHeâs an ex-con, isn't he, itâs written all over that big ugly mug oâ his â Iâll bet you met âim on the inside,â said Mr Paterson looking upstairs. âAnd what have you been doinâ in the evenings, anyway?â he asked, suspiciously, âYou didnât get in until 4 on Sunday morning!â
Felix put a hand on his chest and recoiled in horror, âHave you been... spying on me? How dare you?!â
Paterson explained in a kinder voice, âAs she lay on her death bed, yer mammy told me to look after you and she said...â
Sacrilege! âDonât tell me what my mother said! Iâve only got your word for that! And anyway, I donât need looking after by some wretched auld codger who collects model aeroplanes and goes dancing down the nursing home!â
Mr Paterson shook his head. Heâd 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 didnât stir. âLooky, looky, me loves -â mammy got a letter!â 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:
ââDear Miss Costello,
âI 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...ââ
Felix stopped reading and put a hand to his chest, âMizz Carmel McCool?!â 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, âYou know what this means donât yez? Eh? EH?!â
The cats remained supremely impassive.
âWell, sheâs a bona fide psychic like me mammy -- sheâll put me in touch with her Spirit!â he said, punching the air in triumph. As he put the silver letter-opener back on the mantelpiece, he told his motherâs urn, âEven when you were bible-thumpinâ you never questioned Mizz McCoolâs psychic abilities, did ya mammy? Now I can tell you how sorry I am!â
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: Â
REPORTER: â...his niece, Niamh Fitzgerald, who is staying at Dr Gilrayâs home, reported him missing earlier today. Over the next few hours it became clear that this was no ordinary disappearance â apparently he stole a car and sped off in a hurry -- bizarre in the extreme!â
ANCHORMAN: âYes, I must say Iâve interviewed him on a few occasions and found him to be very personable, respectable man. This is totally out of character.
REPORTER: âA witness said she saw him âpeeking into parked carsâ. When the owner returned and reported the car missing, the gards took the eyewitnessâ description that they realised the thief was Dr Gilray.â
ANCHORMAN: âAnd apart from having led many high-profile murder cases in recent years - namely the Disappeared of Donegal case in 1985 â most people will know him as the man who discovered those mummies in a peat-bog in South Kildare a couple of years ago...â
Raspo changed channels, âOh, f**k off. I wanna see somethinâ to lift me spirits...â The picture eventually settled and a familiar, dimpled grin flickered on the screen.
âAhh -- wouldja look-at-that -- Ollie Laffin! The Quare Geg himself! Thatâll do!â He sat back and took a deep pull on the spliff. 10 minutes later he was in kinks...
...
Odinâs 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 sheâll 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 innâs 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 Odinâs 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 Paddyâs sister, Mairead, whom he met when she, like him, travelled all the way to San Francisco in â67 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 coupleâs 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 â89.
Niamh was Maireadâs 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 Niamhâs 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. Sheâd joined them for the annual dig every year from the age of 12, but to Emil, she was just another kid. Sheâd 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! âA 19 year-old hottie with a drop-dead-body!â He couldn't believe his eyes -- a blonde bombshell, no less! Then, miracles of miracles -- she told him sheâd 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-ânâ-dry without a Soul in the world.
He heard the musical intro to the news and turned up the radio, â... 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...â Â
He didnât hear the rest; he was distracted by Rowena, the big black nurse knocking the door, âSome police here to see ya, Dr Emil. You OK with that?â
âWhat do they want now?â he grumbled.
âAllâs I know is heâs police. Now dâya wanna see âim or not?â 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 didnât reciprocate when he offered his hand; the rebuff didnât dint the manâs ĂŠlan one iota, he unbuttoned his jacket and helped himself to the chair by the bed. âIâd say it must be hell lyinâ in here day-after-day, Dr Labatt,â he said, in a cheery voice, âI broke a leg skiing in Alberta in â83 and I was only outta action for 3 weeks but it drove me crazy!â
âWhat do you want?â Emil asked, dryly.
The young cop wasnât fazed and politely explained, âOK, Dr Labatt, Iâll cut to the chase. Iâm Detective Marty Esposito of Harrisburg PD -- Iâm here to clarify a few details about the crash and give you the personal effects that survived the fire,â he held up the black bag.
Emil was his usual sarcastic self, âDo I need to call my lawyer? Cuz heâs busy handling my divorce.â
Esposito smiled a patient smile, âNo, Iâm not gonna charge you --â
â-- yet?â
â-- I just wanna hear your side before we --â
â-- decide whether or not to charge me?â
â -- proceed.â Esposito, only mildly irritated, sat forward and got more assertive; he looked Emil in his good eye and said, plainly, âDr 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. Donât you?â
Emil just stared.
âThank you.â Esposito consulted his notes and informed him, âWell, Iâm pleased to tell you that your tox-screen turned up a negative result, no alcohol no drugs...â
âYou mean I wasn't high?â Emil chimed sarcastically, âI was sure I had a kilo of coke and a bottle of vodka in the glove box -â thank god there was a fire!â
âAs a matter of fact we did look in the glove box -- and no, we didnât find any narcotics or liquor -- but we did find this.â Esposito reached into the plastic bag and produced an evidence bag with something heavy inside. âWhy do you keep a claw hammer in your glove box, Dr Labatt...?â
A week later: Odinâs Inn, Brodir, Co. Wicklow: After three days of tossing and turning, dry retching, and a severe dose of the shits, Malkyâs 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 werenât back to normal. The aura was still there; in fact, it was stronger than ever, Broo had to stay in the parlour out of harmâs way. Whatever was happening, it didnât seem to affect Zindy or the baby. She was more agreeable than usual, no friendly banter, no teasing, just attentive and kind. She didnât even pretend to be annoyed when Malky told her heâd had torn up Laphenâs cheque and threw it back in his face. He didnât notice she was being atypically polite and pleasant. She didnât seem to notice that he wasn't himself, if she did, she didnât 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 theyâd 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 Malkyâs 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 heâd 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 heâd been, his reply was vague, âJust round-and-about...â heâd say, as if he didnât know but didnât 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, âIâm gonna have a big range â and a big dishwasher -â one of âem that can take the dishes from an entire dinner party in one load.â
âSounds wonderful!â said Malky, flipping the meat.
She stopped chopping and chuckled, âAre you takinâ the piss, Malcolm Calvert?â
Malky turned, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, spluttered, âWhat? No. I mean... What did you say?â
She could tell by the vacant look on his face that sheâd interrupted another daydream; the âwonderfulâ 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, thereâs 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 Malkyâs cheek and went out to the hall to answer the call.
âOdinâs Inn, Brodir...â
âItâs me.â
Shit! âYou couldn't have called at a worse time!!â
âItâs been over a week!â
âWaitaminnit!â 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, âWhaddya want?!â
âMe bike! Thatâs what I want!â
âIâve been very busy painting ânâ decorating anâ I âavenât âad time to do owt about it.â
âWell, I canât wait any longer! I donât care whoâs there, Iâm cominâ to get it!â
The whisper became a dissonant hiss, âI told you â- no way are you to come within a mile âo this place. Iâll make the arrangements, OK?! Leave it with me.â
âHas something happened to it? It is there, ain't it?â
âItâs out-back and itâs perfectly fine! Itâs packed in polythene under a tarpaulin in the big shed!â
âCâmon Zin, lemme come and get me bleedinâ bike back! Iâve got a buyer and he ain't gonna hang around while you fanny-about!â
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 didnât have...
âHereâs an idea â tell me when youâre goinâ out and leave backdoors open? Huh?â
âOutta the question! I ainât âavinâ you cominâ round âere unsupervised! Iâm still not 100% sure this ainât some kinda trick.â
âDonât be silly. I can come down tomorrow morning if that suits.â
âNo. I donât want you cominâ when Malky is here.â
âOK, tell me when he goes out and weâll do it then! Itâll only take 5 minutes.â
Zindy chewed the inside of her cheek and struggled in vain to find an alternative. Finally, she conceded defeat, âOK, heâs got âospital appointment on Friday morninâ. Be here no sooner than 11:15. Iâll lock-up the inn, but Iâll leave the backdoors open. In-ân-out mind. I donât want you âere when we get back.â
âThank you. Much obliged.â
âAny funny business and I call the cops.â
Click.
 Click.
âThat sounded as if it went well,â said Felix, with a hopeful smile.
Raspo blew a plume of smoke into the air, âOh yes indeedy-do!â he chuckled contentedly, âthe fish is on the hook, I just haveta reel-her-in and smash âer head on the deck.â
They were in the living-room, sitting opposite each other in high-backed leather armchairs in front of a roaring fire; itâs like a gentlemenâs 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 â but invariably referred to them as âBlofeld Catsâ (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.
âSo-oo... that Calvert guy is goinâ out, is he? Thatâll make things a helluva lot easier,â said Felix, brightly.
Raspo went on stroking the cat and answered in a strange foreign accent, âIndeed, but it also poses a problem, Mr Bond...â
âHow?â
Raspo continued in his normal voice, â... like, what if Calvert should arrive back early and catch us in the act? Nah, Iâd feel more comfortable if I wuz tooled up.â
âHeâs not gonna put up much of a fight, is he?â Felix tittered, âHeâs got a heart condition -- Iâve seen âim, he doesnât look very threatening.â
âHeâs ex-RUC, dickhead -â heâs likely to have a gun for personal security.â Raspo thumbed the catâs ear and thought it over again. âAye, somethinâ small -- a .22 should do it. Youâre gonna have to go and see GĂźnter and make the necessary arrangements...â He thought for a moment then retracted, âno â donât â get Big Marty on it -â if it gets out that youâre lookinâ fer a gun somebody might put 2+2 together and get me.â
âWhat about the dog?â
Raspo dismissed the question out-of-hand, âIf it causes me any trouble, Iâll slit its bleedinâ throat. Iâd enjoy doinâ it, too... three legged freak...â
With that, Mr Minx jumped off Raspoâs lap and ran into the kitchen. Mrs Jinx soon followed. It was as if they sensed things were about to get ugly.
But Felix couldnât resist, âSo... do you believe the dog might have special powers...?â
âNo I feckinâ donât! Do you?â grumbled Raspo, irritated by the question.
Felix chose his words very carefully, âSee, 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 canât...?â Felix stopped midsentence to make sure his guest wasn't about to punch him.
But Raspo didnât 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, âThere 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 âim ân bolted. Apparently he didnât come back until weâd gone. Creepy, sure enough...â
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, âThat ties into the theory that he was pos --!â
Raspo raised an eyebrow.
Uh oh... Felix backpedalled furiously, âWell... what I mean is, yâknow, thereâs eejits who believe he was possessed by.... a demon...?â
Raspo mightâve been stoned and slightly pissed, but he couldnât countenance such drivel, âWhataloadashite,â he raged, âThe man was sick in the head, he wasn't âpossessedâ!â
âIâm only tellinâ you what they say,â said Felix, talking quickly, trying desperately to justify his opinion, âlike thereâs this guy I know whoâs 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 --â
Thatâs as far as he got. Raspo reached across and slapped him lightly on the cheek, âI warned you about this,â he said, waving his finger in Felixâs face, âI told you Iâd batter ye senseless if I heard ye mention any âo that auld demonic bollox!â He pointed at the bookcase against the opposite wall, âI know youâre into all that shite â- Iâve seen the books you read!â
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 didnât want to arrive on crutches...
...
30 minutes ago, at Odinâs Inn: Zindy opened the kitchen door and peeked in. Malky was still at the hob, tending the skillet; âWho was it?â he asked, innocently, without looking.
âIt was somebody for me... erm... an old friend...â she said, sitting down at the table.
Her procrastination intrigued Malky, âEverythingâs alright, isnât it?â
She went to him and took his arm, âYeah... look, luv, câmere and sit down fer a minnit, willya...â
Malky, apprehensive and concerned, did as she asked; spatula in hand, he slipped into the seat opposite and looked at her bump âItâs not the baby, is it?â he asked, very concerned.
âNo, no, no, nuthinâ like that.â She looked into his eyes and said, âItâs about Robert âRaspoâ Canning,- my ex.â
Malky crossed his arms and scowled, âThe fat Hellâs Angel dope-dealer with the purple beard and penchant for ultra-violence? Outta gaol, is he?â
âYeah... well, âeâs not fat anymore, ân âeâs shaved off the beard, but yeah, âeâs out ân âe wants to flog âis bike. Heâs got a new girlfriend, see, and theyâre tryinâ to raise the cash to emigrate.â Sheâd inserted this last titbit in an effort to put his mind at rest, but it didnât have the desired effect.
He looked in the direction of the hall and slipped into detective-mode, âI must say, thatâs a lot of information for such a short conversation. You were only on for a couple of minutes.â
Heâs got me; but why the hostility? Zindy thought it best to be frank and supplied a detailed, open & honest account of the âchance meetingâ, â... and when you came home I didnât get a chance to tell you -â you were so ill I hadda put ya to bed, ân when you recovered you were in such good form I didnât wanna spoil things by bringinâ it up.â
âWhy?! How would it spoil things to be open and honest?â he asked, his mood slowly darkening.
âLook he doesnât matter anymore -- heâs irrelevant! He means nothing to me now and once âe gets his bike âeâll fook off outta our lives forever.â
He got up and returned to the skillet without saying a word.
She called after him, âThat it, then? Crisis averted?â
When he turned back, his face was virtually unrecognisable -- eyes burning, nose wrinkled with rage, he shook the spatula at her and snarled, âItâs about trust, Zindy -â you shouldâve told me! Thatâs what responsible adults do! They donât have secrets! I thought you were different! But youâre sly and sleekit -- just like my ex-wife!â
She was totally thrown; this was entirely out-of-character. She held up her hands in a gesture of surrender, âOK, OK, calm down, chook...â
He banged the table with his fist, âDonât f**kinâ patronise me, chook! Just tell me what you told him!â
Zindy, finding it increasingly difficult to keep her temper under control, answered in a strained voice, âI... I told him to come and get the bike when weâre at the cardiologistâs on Friday. I was gonna leave the yard door open for âim...â
He sat down again, his face blank and impassive.
âMal?â
Behind him, the unattended skillet suddenly burst into flames. He didnât even blink. âSHIT!â 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 hadnât budged.
âDonât you fuss yerself Malky Calvert, Iâll deal with this crisis,â 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. âI have to say, Iâm surprised at you, Mal. I never had you pegged as the jealous type.â But he stubbornly maintained his silence and stared at the table top so he didnât have to look at her. For the first time since they met, she lost her cool and bawled, âHey! Soft lad! Look at me!!â
Malky continued to stare at the tabletop and replied under his breath, in a dry, sombre tone, âIâm goinâ out. If I stay here I might say something Iâll regret.â 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, âWhat the hellâs gotten into your dad, babe?â
 Broo heard the phonecall. At least it explained Zindyâs 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, ââeard everythinâ, didja?â she said unemotionally, pointing at the blackened wall behind the cooker,  âhe burned the dinner ân went off in a jealous rage. What do you reckon on that, Broo?â All he could do was lick her hand to assure her he was on her side. âYou gonna follow âim again, are ya?â she asked, stroking his head. Broo grunted an affirmative and went to the flap in the backdoor. âWell, keep yer distance, âol boy, heâs in no mood for company,âshe said, in a sad voice.
This time Broo didnât 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 hadnât 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 auraâs 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 - âGet away from me!â he shouted, angrily and lashed out with his foot, kicking the old dog square in his left side âwinding 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.
âPssst!â
What was that? A hiss in the chimney...?
âDog!â
No, it wasn't coming from the hearth -â 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 dogâs heart leapt -- he barked a hearty hello!
Sammy was looking around him and talking at the same time, âI canât see you but I can hear you -â well, I hear you in my head -- yâknow the score. Iâm sorry but this has to be a bit quick, like, cos Iâm in what they call Mirror World or Glass Land or the Void, dependinâ on who you talk to, and you canât survive here long cos it saps yer Essence...â
Get on with it you beautiful idiot!
âOK. Here goes,â and for the next five minutes Sammy told Broo all he knew as quickly as possible. â... the plan seems to be: abandon the immediate area for a while, starve it of the auld psychic energy, and hopefully itâll die out before it spreads.â
What about humans?
âIt wonât do âem any harm unless they have the Gift -â it attacks the psychic energy, see, and thatâs why it affects you, so you gotta...â 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: âAt last! Rottingdean Cottage!â cried Felix. âThank goodness for that!â 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 heâd 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! Raspoâs plan is proceeding nicely, the tenants have paid-up on time, and now Iâm 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 -â 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, âHmm, yes, can I help you?â she asked, in a refined, unspecific Irish accent.
âFelix Costello from Enniskerry?!â he almost shouted.
âWe donât want any today, thank you.â She closed the door. Felix rang the doorbell again; she answered again immediately, âLook, if you donât...â
âThis is Rottingdean Cottage?â he said, excitedly, and held out the invitation, âIâm Betty Costelloâs son!â
The homely face dropped several inches and she almost sang an apology, âOh â I am so awfully, dreadfully sorry! I was using an old Rolodex and I must've forgotten to remove your motherâs 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...â She began to close the door again but he blocked it with his foot and quickly explained, âAs you say, Iâve come all this way, and in honour of her memory,â he pointed at the black armband, âIâd like to attend this meeting, if thatâs OK with you? Iâll sit at the back and be very quiet â Iâve brought my own snacks,â he rustled the blue carrier bag, âIâll be no bother at all!â 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 NestlĂŠ Black Magic Easter egg (5 Eastersâ old -- he bought it for his mammy before he was gaoled), âI know Easterâs past, but chocolateâs chocolate no matter what time of year it is, eh?!â
âYes... most kind, thank you...â she took it and grudgingly acceded, âWell, since youâve gone to so much trouble Mr Costello, I canât see how I can possibly refuse...â She stood aside and he scuttled into the hall, âHas Mizz McCool started yet?â 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, âSheâs upstairs preparing, doing her breathing exercises -â sheâs very theatrical. It irks some of our older members, but in my opinion people with The Gift are entitled to their little eccentricities, donât you agree...?â
âI entirely agree!â replied Felix, looking up the staircase, âSheâs one in a billion!â he said loudly, so she might hear. âMy mother had nothinâ but praise for Mizz McCool even when she was calling yez the âBlack Hearted Spawn of Satanâ!â
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, âYES! Some of the things people shout at us are awful!â she grabbed his arm and hustled him through the bemused throng, âNow be quiet, this isnât exactly a social occasion,â 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. âTea or coffee?â she asked.
He turned so that the room could hear him and joked, âI must say -- I was expecting spirits!â
The crowd fell silent again, turned and glared.
Felix gulped. âTea, please.â
As she poured she announced, âThis is Felix, everyone, heâs Betty Costelloâs son, and as most of you know, Betty passed a few months ago, so heâs come as her representative, and is not an R.I.P. member or possessed of a Gift â 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?â
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, â...You mean, thatâs her son? The one that went to prison?â He didnât 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 âGuest of Honourâ: 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. âIs that a west-country accent I hear?â he asked, cheerfully, even though she hadn't said anything to him yet (heâd been eavesdropping).
Mrs Murphy immediately answered for her, âNo, Mrs Sparkes has come from South Kildare.â
âBut I have cousins in Devon who used to visit our guesthouse every year ân they speak just like you!â said Felix, bemused. âIf I close my eyes you could be their mother!â
This time the old woman shoved the hostess aside and spoke for herself, ââOw dare ee! Oiâve lived in Kildare all moy loife anâ oiâve never been near yer âguestâouseâ, whatever tha is! âOw dare ee infur that oi âave children by any man ovver than me own âusband -- may God rest âis Soul!â Her face closed like a fist and her throat made a rattling noise.
Felix was flummoxed âI wasn't inferring anything! I was just making conversation...?â
The hostess stepped between them, âMrs Sparkes belongs to a sheltered community that donât often communicate with the outside world, they originate from Cornwall and have customs we might find a little odd...â
âOh, like the Amish!â said Felix, brightly.
âNO!âMrs 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 didnât like the hostess or Felix one little bit.
There were three sharp bumps from the room above.
âSaved by the belle of the ball...â said Mrs Murphy under her breath, as she strode to the front of the room and flashed the lights, âLadies... and gentleman, would you take your seats, please.â
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: âTonight, 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.â
Lots of mumbling and nervous whispers.
âNow, without further ado, please welcome our chairwoman -â Ms Carmel McCool!â 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 didnât 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, âShe looks just like Louise Brooks in Pandoraâs Box!â She acknowledged the applause with unsmiling aplomb then signalled for quiet. She mightâve 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 youâd know it; she had a rarefied Ulster accent, her diction crisp, clear and commanding, âThank you for your warm reception friends, colleagues, fellow Sensitives and psychics - Iâm so grateful and honoured that youâve taken the trouble to travel from all over the Island to be here tonight,â 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. âI only wish it could be a more joyous occasion, but it couldn't be more serious. Deadly serious.â
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.
âAhem.â
The crowd turned back.
Mizz McCool paused for a moment to make sure they were all listening before elaborating, âI have grave tidings, my dear friends. Something that hasnât happened for many millennia is occurring in our time -â a danger I never thought weâd face in the Modern World.â
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, âLet me explain with the help of our Guest of Honour,â she said, looking at the front row, âplease stand up Mrs Sparks -- Mrs Sparkes, everyone!â 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, âMrs Sparkes, please tell the ladies and gentlemen why you called me.â
Uncharacteristically bashful, Mrs Sparkes  clutched her hand bag to her chest, shuffled her feet, cleared her throat and explained in an apologetic voice, âErm, well, see... I read about âee in the paper ân I thought âee sounded loike âee noo wot âee was talkinâ about, so I called this-âere lady âere (Mrs Murphy), anâ she put me through to âee.â
Ms McCool prompted her, âBut tell them why you called me.â
âWell, oi works in this-âere big âouse, see -- oi canât say where tis cuz boss is very private man, see -- anyâow, I were dustinâ the bossâ study one noight -- when oi looked ân saw this liâl boy in the olâ mirror -â a ghost, oi think âe were -- all black ân burned-up, âe were -- as if âe been in a foire!â
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, âThen, coupla weeks ago, we hadda poltergeist! The boss said âe seen things movinâ about of their own accord -- books, antique ornaments anâ-that -â floyinâ through the air! Oi never seen âem floyinâ meself, loike, but oi heard it ân oi saw the results -- all these very expensive vases ân that -- smashed to pieces! It even pulled down this big grandfather clock off the wall -- a big, heavy brute of a thing -- ân sent it crashinâ down on the floor! Boss saw it -- scared outta âis wits, âe were!!â
The gasps became a din of dismay. Felix chewed noisily and stared, transfixed.
â.... anyways, oi tolâ the boss âe should get professional âelp and âe were so desperate âe agreed so I rung this-âere woman (she pointed at Mrs Murphy again) ân she called Miss McCool. Thaâs me story,â said Mrs Sparkes, ending abruptly, âmay God strike me down if oi tell a loie,â 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. âNow I canât speak to the houseâs history, but the poltergeist is indicative of a larger problem,â Mizz McCool informed the room, âthe land on which the house was built in the same area where those bog mummies were found a few years ago.â She paused for a second or two to let the tidings sink in, then delivered the coup de gras: âThis poltergeist activity is proof that exhumation of those bodies has unleashed a destructive force that is about to wreak havoc upon us all!â
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.
âWhatâs your name, friend?â
His heart leapt. He nodded slowly and answered nervously through a mouthful of Maltesers, âFelix. Felix Costello, M-Mizz Mc-C-Cool. I-I wrote to you about my m-mother.â
Mrs Murphy had a word in her ear. Ms McCool raised a pencilled eyebrow, âMr Costello, of course. You do indeed write me letters. A lot of letters.â
âOne every week for 6 months!â 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, âBetty 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 sheâs caused.â
Hear-hears all round and a short ripple of applause.
The little speech hadn't wiped the smile off Felixâs 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 âThanks very much, I appreciate it and so will she!â
Ms McCool looked at him askance, then shook her head and said âidiotâ under her breath. Â âNevermind, whatâs past is past and after all, it is all in the Grand Design, I choose to forgive and forget and move on.â She quickly got back on track and turned her attention back to their guest of honour, âTell us what happened to your cat Mrs Sparkes, your long-term companion that never left your ankle?â
Surprised by the question, Mrs Sparkes hesitated then answered, ââUmm... âE ran away, so âe did...â
âYes! He ran away!â cried Ms McCool, making everyone jump! âFelines are highly Sensitive. They may seem indifferent to the untutored eye, but thatâs because the Spirit World is as real to them as the Material World is to us,â she explained enthusiastically, âthey 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?â She asked rhetorically, âin fact, there isnât a bird or an animal within 12 miles of the house, isn't that right?â
Mrs Sparkes nodded, âNot even a crow.â
Another collective gasp.
âYou see what weâre up against?â Ms McCool shook her head and looked around the room like an excitable school teacher, âYou 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!!â
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, âAlas, my friends, I cannot go to a police station and give a statement. The media treat me like a crank,â she looked around the room, âso itâs 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 â- anything at all -â especially amongst the animal population -- and report back to me. The more evidence I have the more chance I have of proving my case.â She put a hand to her brow and wilted, like a swooning damsel in distress, âAs for me, I must save my strength for the final battle. But I can assure you of this, ladies and gentlemen â- I am prepared to fight to the bitter end.â
Utter upheaval! The old ladiesâ 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 sheâd created. Once Mrs Murphy had calmed them down, there was a brief Q&A, mostly concerning her definition of ânegative forcesâ, then the meeting came to a close. As each member filed out, Ms McCool stood by the front door shaking everyoneâs hand as they left. Felix straggled until the last disciple had departed, and finally got his face-to-face with his hero. âMizz McCool, I must say, I thoroughly enjoyed myself this evening!â
She looked over his head with hooded eyes and sneered, âItâs not a âshowâ, Mr Costello. I am not an entertainer.â
He thought for a second and came up with what he thought was the perfect response, âWell, I was utterly hypnotised!â
She cleared her throat, âMr Costello, I wonât waste time with smalltalk and hypocrisy is not in my nature, so Iâll get straight to the point: true psychics do not do âreadingsâ -- no tarot cards, no sĂŠances, no astrology. Your mother used those tropes to perpetrate a fraud and blacken our reputation. Iâve nothing to say to her, in this life or the n...â She suddenly stopped, realised that she would get nowhere by being blunt and adopted a more sympathetic attitude, âLook, if you wish to contact your mother you can talk to her anywhere, sheâll hear you, I promise,â she said, turning to go.
âBut I need to apologise and put things right!â said Felix, getting desperate, âI need to hear her say she forgives me! Please, itâs very important.â
âThings change in the Next World: earthly worries and personal woes no longer trouble her now,â she groaned, âthere are no vengeful or scornful Spirits on the Other Side and earthly matters no longer concern them. You can rest assured she forgives you -ââ She turned away, âNow, if you donât mind...â
âOut you go!â 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 doesnât care what I do anymore! âHey you!â an angry voice called out. It was that Mrs Sparkes woman standing at the end of the path, ââEeâs blockinâ the road! We canât get past!â she yelled. âCrabbit auld bat,â 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: âWow! A chauffeur-driven Bentley!â 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: âHow about talking the scenic route, say, via South Kildare?â
...
Carmel McCool and Mrs Murphy were saying goodnight in the hall. âOh, Mrs Murphy,â Carmel sighed, âI must take to my bed. This evening has drained me so.â
âIâm tired myself. Iâll go to bed once Iâve tidied the room,â 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. Itâs 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 Jamieâs room.
âCan I speak to Ogden Castle?â a voice whispered in the earpiece, âitâs me, Mrs Murphy.â
Who the hell is Mrs Murphy? Oggy didnât mention a Mrs Murphy?! âUmmm... heâs not here at the moment...â he said, confused, âthis is Jamie...â
The educated, middle-class tones disappeared and the whisper took on a guttural, rural Irish accent, âOoh, Jamie Jameson Lumb, is it? Aye, Iâve heard of you, alright. Youâre the new Master, aren't ye?â she all-but sneered.
âListen missus, I have no idea who you are but...â
âYou lissen to me!â she hissed, âIâm a Witch! One of them Witches South âo the border -- yâknow, one of them that auld Castle told to keep an eye on things?!â
Still unsure of whether or not this was a ruse, Jamie decided to hear her out, âGo on...?â
She tutted as if she was talking to an idiot, âWell, thereâs been a big resurgence in negative energy round Kildare ân it seems to be spreadinâ so it looks like the things auld Castle was worried about have now come to pass!â
Jamieâs jaw dropped, âShite...â
âAye, shite.â She took a deep breath and continued, âSee, I hadda meeting for some deluded eejits who think theyâre psychics -- we haveta keep an eye on âem, just in case they accidentally stumble into somethinâ theyâre not qualified to deal with. Itâs usually a gaggle of quacks and impostors, but tonight the guest of honour was this auld housekeeper who told a story about a poltergeist hauntinâ the place where she works. You know where she works?
âErm... no...?â
âPagham House, thatâs where! The very place where them bog mummies were dug up!â
His fears were wholly justified. âOh God... Oggy was right... itâs starting all over again...â 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, âCarmel McCool. Sheâs from Newry; I invited her down here so we could check âer out. Sheâs only a wee bit psychic, but sheâs 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 hereâs the worst of it: sheâs one of these theatrical types, yâknow, one of them that likes to be the centre of attention -- and sheâs gotta big mouth on her! She actually went to the Gardai ân the papers ân tried to tell âem all about it!â
His mouth dry with apprehension, he asked âWhat... what do we do next?â
âDonât ask me! We've done our bit! We were told to keep an eye on things and report back to you -- itâs up to youse to sort it! After all, youâre the Master now, aren't ya? Ye have the power ân all that, dontcha?!â she said, in a mocking voice.
âBut... but I donât have anybody to advise me! Oggy and Xavier and most of the staff have gone down for the Big Sleep......â
âOh aye? Well, ye better get yer act together ân think of somethinâ quick!â
She hung up without saying goodbye. He put down the phone and stared into space. What am I going to do? Heâd tried everything bar waking the sleepers; heâd 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 didnât 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.
Jamieâs shoulders dropped. âBernie bloody Pritchard,â he said, in a voice dripping with irony.
The phantom grinned, âHello, big brother. I hear youâre havinâ a spot of bother...â
...
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. âWho lives in a house like this?â 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! âEasy, easy, now, liâl fella or Iâll snap yer fackinâ neck â- so donât straggle or itâs crunch-time!â
Felix squeaked from under his assailantâs muscular armpit, âSorry... I got lost... I saw the car pullinâ in and I thought I could get directions...â
The voice growled in his ear, âWot?! Wiv yer lights off?! Nah, youâve been tailinâ us since we left that cottage â wotâs your game, pal, eh? Casinâ the joint, is ya, eh? Paparazzi?! Stawkah, is ya?!â
âNo, sexual deviant, actually....â
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, âI donât wanna see you anywhere near this place again, awright, or next time Iâll tear off yer fackinâ gonads ân stick âem up yer arse -- got that?! You liâl fackinâ weasel-faced cant!â he picked Felix by the scruff of his neck and the seat of pants and tossed him into the van. âNow fack off!â
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. âBig bully... Raspo would eat him for breakfast...â 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, âHello, are you lost?â
No reply.
âItâs very late. Does your mammy know where you are?â he said, squinting into the darkness.
No reply.
âWould you like me to take you home?â
The little girl walked out from under the trees and stood in the twin beams of the vanâs 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....
#witchcraft#Magic#irish fiction#black magic#spindlefreck#irish literature#ghosts#demon#mystery#mystery thriller#mysticism#witches#saga#IRISH HUMOUR
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Spindlefreck Book Two: Pt Three: Swamp Witch
Gilray Residence, Mount Merrion, Dublin
April 21st 1989:Â 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 didnât 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 âee readinâ books?! I âate books! Why isn't we in Top Shop or a shoe shop or somethinâ 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 Rossingtonâs private number:
âRossington.â
âSheâs still in my head. Why? How do I get rid of her?!â she cried, at the end of her tether.
âGood evening to you, too, Miss Fitzgerald, so nice of you to call...â he replied, cool as a cucumber.
âDonât piss-me-about, James â- she still has 24-hour access and itâs been over a week since I had the last jab!â She had to lower her voice lest Paddy hear her, but she was so furious it took all her strength to keep it down, âI researched the effects of psilocybin hallucinogens and fungal toxins -â theyâre more likely to get weaker over time, not stronger! Have you been injecting it into our milk-bottles or something?!â
âPiffle - and I donât take kindly to that sort of accusation, Miss Fitzgerald,â he said, glibly. âYou 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 -â then youâll have to live with the consequences --!â
She slammed the phone down and shouted at it, âWhat good are you anyway?!â
<Thatâs roight, âeâs uselass, âe âis.>
Ni tore at her hair and stomped both feet, âCHRIST ON A BIKE!!â
08:01pm: Somerville residence, Malahide: âDo fairies get pregnant?â
Ni slid the Bumper Book of Fairy Stories back into the little pine bookcase at the foot of 6 year-old Caitlinâs bed and said, âCate, as Iâve told you before, your mommy will answer those sorts of questions -- Iâm just the storyteller!â She went to lift little 3 year-old Cathy from Cateâs bed, but she rolled into a ball and refused to be withdrawn, âCâmon now Cathy, storyâs over, sweetie, back in your cot...â
âCathy wants to sleep in here with me,â said Cate.
âIs that right Cathy? Would you rather sleep with Cate tonight?â
Looking frightened, Cathy sucked her thumb, pulled the sheets over her face and snuggled close to Cate.
âIs she OK?â asked Ni, concerned, âshe looks as if sheâs afraid of me?â
âNot you. Sheâs scared the Wicked Witch from Wizard of Oz will come on her broomstick with her flyinâ monkeys ân take her away.â
Ni replied in an upbeat baby-talk voice, âOh Catheeee, the Wicked Witch of the West was a nice lady called Margaret Hamilton dressed-up ân 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 â itâs only a film and sheâs only an actor, silleeeee!â
But Caitlin was adamant, âThereâre real witches, though â we see âem all the time on Perkinâs Road.â
She tried her best not to laugh, âThatâs St Brigidâs -â itâs an old peopleâs home -- those aren't witches, theyâre very old ladies! Sure, if they were witches why would the nuns be pushing them round in wheelchairs and fetching them tea-ânâ-biccies? Anyway, if there really were witches â- the sky would be teeming with âem â- air traffic control would be a different thing entirely!â she joked, pulling a funny face.
<Aww, ainât that luvverleeeeeee...? Theyâs so cute when theyâs that age, ain't they...?>
Ni kept smiling, Go away -- this isnât the time!â
<Oi enjoyed that liâl story.>
So did I -- it kept you quiet for half an hour!
Cathy whispered in Cateâs ear. Cate passed it on, âCathy says thereâs a light round you.â
The comment made Niâs blood run cold. She had to get out of there before things got weird, âLook kids, thereâs no such thing as witches, they only exist in folklore tales and fairy stories....â
<Are âee gonna tell âem thereâs no Santa Claus nor Toof-Fairy, then?!>
Oona, I wonât 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 Cateâs ear. Cate passed on the message, âCathy says âwhoâs Oona?ââ
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 âeard 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, âWhatâs the matter? Bad dream, was it, honey?â
Holding the little racquet in front of her as if she was about to swat a fly, Cate explained in shaky voice, âCathy says she saw a wee girl standinâ at the bottom of the bed.â
âA wee girl?â
âA wee girl with long-shiny-black-hair. But her head is all lumpy and wrong.â
There was something familiar about the description but she couldnât think about it now. She whispered in Cateâs ear, âListen honey, there are no such things as ghosts and remember, Cathyâs only 3 -- she thinks Barney the Dinosaur is a real dinosaur!â
âBut she doesnât make up stories. Mommy says we shouldn't tell fibs -â and if itâs true what would you do if she came in here now with a big knife?! Youâre only a girl â- <sheâd sloice you up like a well-âung âog!> cried âCateâ, pulling a knife from behind her back, jumping down and sticking it into the centre of Niâs chest, laughing insanely as they tumbled head-over-heels down the last few stairs...
-- Ni awoke-with-a-start on the Somervilleâs 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. âCathy says she saw a wee girl standinâ at the bottom of the bed.â
âA wee girl...?â said Ni, pinching herself to make sure she still wasn't dreaming.
âAye, a wee girl with long shiny-black hair. And...?â
â... and?â her head is all lumpy and wrong?
Cate whispered instead, â... Cathy wet my bed. My jammies got wet, too.â
Ni wanted to scream.
A few minutes later -- 11 to 11 to be exact -- just as she was putting a fresh sheet on Cateâs bed, incoming headlights lit-up the windows in the hall. Shite! 20 minutes later and theyâd never have known! No comment from her talking head, though. Well, at least thatâs one thing I donât 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 sheâd 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.
âPhil, the movie scared Cathy, sheâs seeing witches everywhere... she just has an amazing imagination. She wanted to sleep beside Cate and I couldn't see the harm... Iâm sorry...â Her failure to keep eye-contact and the tremor in her voice made it look like she didnât really believe what she was saying, and that only made matters worse.
He crossed his arms, shook his head and said, âI love you to pieces Niamh. Youâre like one of me own, but youâre scaring me, never mind the weeuns. OK, you looked a bit rough after you came out of SCICI, but I thought youâdâve come-around by now -- and look-atcha â- yeâre shakinâ 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 Iâve seen junkies livinâ in skips who look better than you!â
Ni bowed her head and burst into tears, âI dunno what to do anymore... I just.... I just canât get her out of my head... I canât get her out of my head...â she sobbed, utterly defeated.
Now that heâd 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, âI didnât know. Iâm sorry for beinâ so tough on you. Itâs just where my girls are concerned I get overprotective. Look, donât drive. Iâll take you... huh?â
As sheâd reached up put her arms around his neck, sheâd rubbed her crotch against his suggestively; sheâd 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, âI donât ever want to see you again.â He pushed her away and walked back to the house, calling out without looking back, âTell Paddy Iâll see him at the club. Get outta here.â A light went on above. Pat was closing the bedroom curtains, and by the look on her face, sheâd seen what had happened. It was as if everything was synchronised to send her over the edge -â she needed to get away!
She was allâthumbs 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 â- 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 âee wanted âim? It were one of ur fantasies, wannit? Oi was just givinâ âee a liâl nudge in the roight direction.>
Ni slammed her hands against the wheel and yelled âNO!â 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 Philâs Audi. She reversed out onto the street, all the while trying not to think about what sheâd 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 someoneâs head in the backseat â-
<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. Sheâd reached her limit.
A minute or two later, Somervilleâs Audi drew up. The passenger window wound down and he called out, âCâmon, Twink. Iâll take you home.â
She didnât look up and let her hair hide her face, âSâOK. Iâm OK. Iâll be going in a minute.â
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. âPat saw what happened. She thinks I overreacted,â he said, in a kind voice, âI explained the circumstances, and we agreed: youâre not at yourself. Youâre actinâ out of character and if anybody deserves a second chance, Ni, itâs you.â He gave her the tissues, âCâmon now, dry yer eyes ân Iâll take you home. Iâll get the local patrol to pick up the car and drop it over later.â
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. âOne of the many advantages of having a famous face!â he joked.
âItâs because people trust you, Phil. Just like you trusted me, and now Iâve sullied everything...â she sobbed.
âSullied? See thatâs why you always beat me at Scrabble!â He paused, then patted her knee and assured her in a low voice, âNothinâ will change, Ni. Itâll be like it has always been. Itâs forgotten. Letâs never mention it ever again.â
Oh God, Phil, if only that were true...
Sheâd never felt so ashamed, but Big Phil, ever the diplomat, couldn't let her stew in her own juices. He put on his âThought for the Dayâ hat and explained why she should forget it: â... Ni honey, 70 percent of the things we deal with are crimes of passion of one sort or another, spur of the moment madness â like road rage and domestic violence -- itâs all just all ordinary people who just snap. Somethinâ clicks in their heads and for a split second they lose their minds -- they lift a knife or a hammer and itâs all over. I mean, look at the âHead in the Microwave Murderâ as their callinâ it now -â those two fellas had been great buddies for 14 years â- inseparable, according to friends. Then one guy does something out-of-order, could be anything â- an insult, an insinuation, an affair, we donât know yet -â but it sent the other guy over the edge. He sees red, lifts the oulâ Habitat meat cleaver from the counter and -â whump! You should see that poor fella now â- the murderer, not the victim -- heâs on suicide watch under heavy sedation cos he canât live wâout the fella âe killed. And itâs all over the head -- if youâll excuse the expression -- of something that coulda been sorted-out over tea ânâ biccies.â
He leaned over and nudged her, âSorry, is any of this makinâ sense? I never know what to say in these situations, I tend to ramble...?â
After a sizeable pause she thought it best to clarify, âI love you Phil, but not in a sexual way, youâre like an uncle -- youâre Uncle Phil,â she said, earnestly, âI lost control, and thatâs what makes this so awful...â what makes it worse is the fact that I know whoâs doing it and I can do nothing to stop her...
Somerville pretended to be slightly insulted, âWell, I donât know whether I should be glad to hear that or not, but I know what you mean. And truth-be-told, Iâd be really concerned for your sanity if you thought of me that way...!â
She shook her head, âI canât tell you what caused it, but I swear it was an aberration...â
âAberration!â Somerville bumped his brow with the heel of his palm, âThatâs the feckinâ word I was lookinâ for! Tâwas an âaberrationâ! See you, yeâre a walkinâ thesaurus!â Â
âOh, Phil.... I feel as if Iâm dangling by my fingertips over a creek full of snapping alligators... Iâm this close to jacking it all in, becoming a nun and dedicating my life to missionary work in the jungles of Central America.â
âHave ye thought about Social Work in North Dublin...?â
Somerville didnât 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, âI donât know... lesbianism, psychedelics, nymphomania...? Who is this vampish seductress in our midst?â
âOh, please, Paddy! Too soon!â Ni took the hankie from the breast pocket of his waistcoat and blew her nose. âHow did you know?â
âPat called. She explained what happened. She thinks it has something to do with you and this married woman,â Paddy said, regretfully, âshe doesnât know about your stay at SCICI or the drugs study, so you donât have to worry about breaking your NDA.â He frowned and looked toward the door, âAnd speaking of NDAs, you know who Phil will blame for this, donât you?â
She put her handbag on the occasional table, looked toward the door and said, âMaybe a little shake-down will shake-him-up...â Then -- out of nowhere -- âOwww!â -- 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, âWhat the hell just happened?â Then he noticed something on her cheek, âWhere the hell did that come from?â 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.
Paddyâs face went a pale shade of grey, his âtache drooped and his voice faltered, âNi...... Tell me truthfully, did somebody do this to you?â
âOh God no â- you saw me when I came in --â she thought twice about finishing the sentence when images of Oona flashed through her mind, âthis just... showed up...â
âWhat do you mean âjust showed upâ?â he asked, exasperated.
âI dunno. It must be an insect bite from when I was sitting outside...?â
âAn insect bite? Thatâs a contusion, my dear...â He turned on the main light and brought her closer to the mirror, âLook, you can see the impression of a wedding-ring on you cheekbone. Iâve seen this particular wound many times, on the same place on many a battered wife.â He sighed, âDear God, Ni, what fresh hell is this...?â
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.
âWhatâre ye doinâ!â Craigy yelled. âIâm sittinâ downstairs watching TV on me own â- again â- and youâre up here sleepinâ as usual!â
A muffled voice said, âOiâm feelinâ poorly, me âeadâs sore anâ oi needs to loy down. Go âway.â
Craigy grinned. He turned out the light, took off his trousers and crept up to the bed, âHow âpoorlyâ are ye...?â 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, âGet ur fuckinâ âands offa me, Craigy Nevin!! I told âee before -â I ainât 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 âDonât you dare ever lift a hand to me again, right?! Ye wee bitch?â 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, âAch, donât start gurninâ ân playinâ the martyr, now! Ye drive me to such things! Yeâre always up to somethinâ! You either come up here and âlie downâ or sit on the settee night-after-night like a feckinâ zombie off in a world of yer own! I asked you three times â three times -- to get me a cuppa tea tonight and you grunted somethinâ and I got nuthinâ -â then you go upstairs to take yer face off and you donât come down again! Well I didnât get married to sit on me own in a house in this shithole village in the middle of nowhere!!â
Oona snivelled like the child she really was. Her auntie Ella â who most people treated like a man, anyway â 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.
Itâs all her fault! Sheâs filled moy âead wiv all these notions ân they do nuthinâ 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 livinâ in Cloud Cuckoo Land ân I swallowed it up whole!!
Oona sat up, wiped the tears away with the heels of her hands and said âA cuppa tea... is that all âee wants? You clobbered me fer a cuppa tea...?â
âThatâs the tip of the iceberg!â He began pacing the room as he zipped up, âIcebergâ being the appropriate word!â He kicked the dresser in a fit of frustration, forgot that he was wearing his slippers, and almost broke his toe, âAhh!!â He hopped around holding his foot, âNow look at what yeâve made me do, you silly bitch!â
She didnât giggle or poke fun. She didnât think it was funny at all. She feigned empathy, got up onto her knees and beckoned him hither with open arms, âYouâs all toightly-wound-up, thatâs all.â She patted her lap, âCome âere and oiâll give âee one of moy special massages,â 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, âOch, Oona... Iâve never hit a woman in me life... not even in the course of me duties...â
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.
â... Iâm beginning to think this was a big set-up between your aunt and Marchant to marry-you-off! They virtually pushed me into this,â he suggested, presciently âand if thatâs not bad enough, yer auntâs got a wee network of spies watchinâ everythinâ we do! The other day I caught that auld doll across the lane, Crombie -- lookinâ through our feckinâ bin!â
âLemme make âee a noice cuppa cocoa ân weâll go to bed,â she whispered in his ear, softly and nicely.
âWhat are you after?â he asked, suspiciously, looking over his shoulder, âI just hit you -- the next thing I know youâre all massages and cocoa...?â
She came close, looked into his eyes, cupped his cheeks, and spoke in her âinside voiceâ, the one that Ni found so alluring, âI know whatâs important now. Youâre right, I was off in a world of my own, but you brought me down to earth.â
He fell for it. âOh, youâre using that voice again... I like it...â
âYou stay here and Iâll bring up a little tray and weâll have supper in bed.â She kissed him on the lips, got up and took the dressing gown from the hook on the back of the door.
âHmmm... and youâre not gonna stick a few spoonfuls of rat-poison in it?â he asked, half-joking.
She grinned, âDonât be silly. Iâll be 10 minutes.â
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. Sheâd just have to think it and theyâd 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, sheâd promised to love honour and obey him. It donât say nothing about killinâ âim, though. No, she wanted a baby, thatâs all she cared about. As soon as she had a kiddie, sheâd sort everything out. Sheâd show them all.
She put the little bottle back and made the cocoa.
SCICI; 12:38: âWell, then Barry, according to the good doctor here, you can hear me! So, howerya doinâ, me auld mate?â Somerville, hands in his trouser pockets, stooped and put his ear to McKeeâs cracked, unmoving lips. âWhatâs that Baz?â He stood up and addressed Rossington, âHe thinks youâre scamming us. He thinks youâre a chancer.â He returned to the patient and shouted in his ear as if he was stone deaf, âDo you know he has cameras all around you, Barry?! Youâre on more screens than Bruce Willis!â He looked around, âItâs more like a mad scientistâs laboratory than a hospital room!â
Rossington took a Georgian fob watch from his waistcoat pocket and flipped it open with his thumb, âWe've enjoyed your little visit Detective Superintendent, but itâs way past Mr McKeeâs bedtime, so...â
âYou know something, I hate him,â said Somerville, taking one last look at the frail wretch on the bed before turning his attention back to the good doctor, âbut I hate you more. He canât help what he is and whatever heâs done heâs paid a heavy price for it â- because even if he is âconsciousâ, heâll never have the use of his body again. Heâll still have to piss into a bag and get his dinner through a tube. Then thereâs you -- a parasite living offa him. Thatâs how far down the food-chain you are.â
Matron Stranks, a hatchet faced harridan with terrible teeth, was champing at the bit to let rip -- sheâd obviously been told to keep it shut but Big Philâs 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, âMy staff is very loyal, Mr Somerville, they hate to see me suffer an indignity or injustice...â
âBollocks. They hate me because I represent The System, not because theyâre sweet on you, Jimmy boy.â Somerville chuckled, mordantly, âI had a look at your âstaffâ file. Most of âem have criminal records or extremely dubious rĂŠsumĂŠs; your photo-ID parade looks like a rogueâs gallery. Thatâs the sorta thing that makes my antenna buzz.â
Rossington sighed heavily to express his ennui and said, âNumber 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...?â
Somerville walked around the bed and looked him in the eye, âA 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!â
âIf 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,â Rossington informed him, somewhat smugly.
Somerville exploded, âFuck that! You listen to me, Jimmy boy: you stay away from Niamh Fitzgerald. I donât care if sheâs got the secrets of the universe tattooed onto the back of her eyelids â- leave her alone or Iâll nail your arse to the wall!â
Rossington smiled, âIâll be sure to tell the commissioner about this visit when I talk to him later this morning.â
Somerville came closer and whispered, âThatâs good, and while yer on the blower with âim, tell âim a blind-eye will no longer be turned to your little peccadilloes -â 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 itâll be in your best interest to keep your nose -â hahaha -â clean!â He walked away, shouting over his shoulder, âGive the boss my best!â
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, âAhem, 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?â
The men put down their binoculars and stared back with blank expressions. Eventually Scanlon responded officiously, âWe were told only to observe. Carry on as if weâre not here. Thank you.â
Paddy sighed at the obvious disdain in the manâs tone and turned away, âOK. Sorry to have bothered you... Iâll just put this on a rock and set the automatic shutter. Careful you donât knock it down when you dismount. Thank you!â
âDickhead,â said Scanlon under his breath as he watched the big scientist wade away. He nudged his companion and hissed, âThatâs Gilray. Keep an eye on him, too. Heâs the uncle of the Fitzgerald girl. Sheâs due to get here sometime later today, so remember -- keep her away from Oona. That is yer No.1 priority, got it?!â
The sergeant nodded, âFor the hundredth time â aye! OK, OK! Jesus, you wanna watch yerself, this sorta stress isn't good for your heart!â
Scanlon watched Paddy convene with the students and grumbled, â...bloody Oona Umbert... You be sure and tell that husband of hers to keep her indoors til this blows over,â he mumbled though a mouthful of sandwich, â... first the Roxboroughs sell the house â- and now -- just when things were settling down nicely, my new lord ânâ master decides itâs time to dredge up the past...â
âWhat could there be down there that would cause you any trouble?â asked Marchant.
â... why would he give them permission to do this?â said Scanlon, angrily, ignoring the sergeantâs question; then his tone took an ominous turn when he said, âMaybe we should ask Dr Jimmy, eh?â
The Sergeant carried on eating and pretended he hadn't heard.
Scanlon pressed on, âBecause when I met with him the other night, he seemed to know an awful lot about whatâs been goinâ on around here.â
The sergeant reached for another sandwich, âHow would I know about that, now...?â
âHe pays you to keep him abreast of developments, sergeant, isn't that so?â Scanlonâs face clenched into a scowl.
The sergeant returned the glare with frightened eyes.
âIâve 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 heâs up to and relay it back to me, alright? Or Iâll have you transferred outta here so fast itâll rip the âtache off yer face!â
The sergeant resumed chewing, a look of horror on his face â- then he almost fell off his perch when the big groundskeeperâs walkie-talkie exploded into life.
A garbled, hissy voice screeched: â... ROGER OVER, COME IN COME IN... SCANLON... MR SCANLON YOO-HOO... COME-IN ROGER-ROGER COME IN...â It was Ella Sparkes.
âBloody woman...â 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, â... Iâm here! Thereâs no need to shout!!â
Silence.
Scanlonâs voice got a little louder, âPress the button when you want to speak! Over.â There was a pause, then he almost dropped the handset when the voice roared: â - etter get up here, youâll never guess who just showed up - roger-out-over... click.â
Scanlonâs voice got ever louder, âWho? Over.â Pause. He sighed and pressed his button again, âPress the button!â
Mrs Sparkes was confused: âWhat? What pullover? Roger...Over?â
âWHO IS IT â OVER?!â Scanlon barked.
Prolonged silence; crackling static.
Scanlon lost it: âPress the fucking button! Over! ... COME IN!â Nothing. He raised the handset above his head as if he was going to throw it â then thought better of it and shook his head, âFeckinâ 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,â he gave the walkie-talkie to Marchant, Give me or Charlie a shout on this if they find anything.â 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, âAnd remember what I said about Oona -- alright?!â
Marchant bit off another mouthful... and as he chewed, he took a deep breath â and quickly spat it out as an unholy stench filled his nostrils! âEeeuggh! What the fuck is that?â
There was always a peculiar smell around this place, and over the years theyâd 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 sergeantâs exclamation, âWhat the fuck is that?!â
The little pulley on the frogmenâs 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 werenât 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 didnât bother her none; she knew how to shut it out. She was more interested in what was coming up. Sheâd looked in Niâs mind and this is exactly how sheâd imagined it, but she had no interest herself. Itâs just an olâ bog. Who cares whatâs in it? Nonetheless, she felt drawn to the place -- she felt this was something she had to see. But why...?
<Because itâs 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?>
<Sheâll be your little friend. A constant companion, like Niamh, only sheâll control your... urges.>
She didnât know how to take this. She didnât 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 itâs any consolation, your boyfriendâs back.>
This news put everything else out of her mind -â 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 youâre married, they've kept you apart for seven years for a reason â- theyâre not going to let you see him now. Not now that youâre a fully grown Silver Siren. Youâre 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 sâpose...?>
Her attention was broken by a rustling in the bushes, âHey there girlie â what are ye up to there?â shouted Sergeant Marchant, staggering through the brush. He wasn't too steady on his feet and he didnât look too good.
Oona put on her little girlâs voice, â... just takinâ a shortcut to the orchards ân oi âeard the rumpus ân wondered what wuz goinâ on...?â
Marchant was extremely green around the gills and sweating profusely, but tried to continue the conversation, âYouâre a bloody liar, the orchards are on the other side of therrrrrrrrreeeeeeeeugh!â and duly threw up.
She tiptoed around him and ran for home to put on some make-up, her âgood clothesâ... and Niâs big blue â bipperty-bopperty hatâ...
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, âEmil!â
Sheâd 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, âNice to see you, Liâl Twinkie!â He tried to kiss her cheek -â 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, âI was expecting Paddy in one of his vintage saloons with a roomy interior â good job Iâm travelling light...â Before he had time to say anything else, Ni took off -â they bounced over the zebra-crossing speed-bump (Emilâs 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, âJeeeeeeezusssss Niamh!â
âIâm too afraid to take one of Paddyâs old cars. If I was to get a scratch on one of them, heâd have a conniption,â 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 â which was just how she wanted it), âI nearly didnât make it â- Fran was on the warpath -â sheâd told friends weâd go jet-skiing in Maine this weekend. We had to cancel, so I had to do the whole âitâs a tradition with my best friendâ 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...â 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 Hellâ˘, but, hey, maybe thatâs 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 heâd had a few. She didnât mind; she loved the sound of his voice.
<âEâs a borinâ twot, ainât âe?>
Go away! Iâm driving!
<And âe smells of booze! >
Heâs had a few on the plane -â now go away! Youâll 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, âSorry Emil, I need to listen to this. I find it helps me concentrate,â she explained in a strained voice, as the atonal buzzsaw-guitar of Negativland blasted out of the Fiestaâs little speakers. Emil was too âcoolâ and tipsy to object, although judging by the uncomprehending frown and exaggerated grimace, he didnât 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, <âeâs quoite dishy, in âe? You think so anyway. I âad a look in ur fantasies ân âis 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, Iâm on a busy motorway -- weâll talk later -- go and do some chores!
But Oona wouldn't let it go, <âe still hasnât even looked at you yet!! âEâs witterinâ on âbout âis bloody woife ân thereâs you -- this doyno-moite blonde -- sittinâ roight besoide âim! Wotâs âis problem, then?!>
Heâs a 53 year old married man, Oona. He has no interest in me...
<Ur picturinâ it though, aintcha! I can see âee! You ân âim in a tent in the woods -- thatâs the big fantasy, innit?!>
As the psychic dialogue escalated to a full-blown telepathic brawl, the speedometer climbed to 73mph.
Oh â and howâs your knight in shining armour?! Been smacking you around has he? Please warn me when he decides to knock you about again and Iâll 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, â... well, thatâs my trials and tribs out of the way -â how is Paddy? How come heâs 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?â
Ni un-gritted her teeth and tried to sound chirpy, âErm, Paddy didnât know what equipment you might need so he went down a day early to do a recce with some of the students...â
He was very surprised, âReally? Whatâs with all the mystery? Where is the dig?â
âAll will be revealed once we get there,â she said, without ceremony.
âYou donât seem so excited,â he said, still confused.
She sidetracked him, âLook, Emil, I have to call at the house -â I forgot my wetsuit. Shouldn't take more than a few minutes...?â 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. âI must say, youâre looking well.â She heard the gratified surprise in his voice. She felt his eyes appraising her.
Oona tittered, <âere we go...>
Get lost! She glanced sideways and said, âWell, I donât look so good day, Iâm knackered. Up all night with a... headache.â
Emil continued to pile on the compliments, âNo, I mean, you look so... whatâs right term? Blooming? All grown up. Youâre usually hidden under an oversized sweater and baggy pants!â
<See, I tolâ âee them jeans look good on âee!>
Yes, thank you. âOch, donât tease me, Emil, please, youâre gonna.... make me...â
âIâm not teasing! You look great!â
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
isnât 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.
âNIAMH!â Emil immediately unclipped his belt and lurched for the wheel -â 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 Niâs side and opened the door...
Back at Paddyâs kitchen:
Sheâd 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 Paddyâs. They went to the kitchen and Emil checked her vitals and everything appeared to be sound, âYouâre a very lucky girl. I donât know what mightâve happened if I hadn't been there.â
âOh, stop Emil, it doesnât bear thinking about,â 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: âYour blood sugar level has crashed and you need sleep. I prescribe a Labatt Club Sandwich with plenty of straight Coke!â he cracked open a can, put it in front of her and began buttering bread.
She answered absentmindedly, still contemplating what might have been, âI skipped breakfast... I overslept... the last week has been a nightmare. Literally.â
âBurning the candle at both ends, are ya?â He flashed that dashing, devilish grin of his and winked, âSex? Drugs? All night raves?!â
âNo, Iâve been working at SCICI: St Cedricâs Institute for the Criminally Insane. I was an intern, but I... I volunteered to do a drugs test. It didnât agree with me. Iâm still recovering, really.â
âWhat sort of drug was it?â he asked, opening a pickle jar and popping one in his mouth.
<Tell âim the truth. Go on â- tell âim ee spend ur days dozinâ ân playing wiv me -- playinâ wiv urself!>
âFuck off, you sick bitch...!â Ni hissed, aloud.
Emil stopped chewing, âSorry...?â
Shit! Think of something -- answer the question!! âUmm... Sorry, I canât talk about it, had to sign an NDA.â
âNDA? Is that right?â He took another slug of beer to wash down the pickle, stopped for a minute, then asked with an inquisitive frown, âSCICI? Iâve heard of that place. They take in psychos from all around the world and study them, donât they? Does it have something to do with the treatment of psychopaths or...?â
âPlease, donât ask Emil, itâs ultra-top-secret...â
ââUltra-top-secretâ is it?â he reiterated, sardonically. He looked at her, âWhatever 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...â he stroked her hair.
<Oh ho, âeâs got that look in âis eye!>
Get lost!
âWhat the... where the hell did you get this?â Heâd finally seen the weal on her cheek! Shit. âIt was an accident...â she said, weakly.
He put his hand under chin, raised her head and examined it closely, âDonât bullshit me, Ni. This is a classic contusion associated with domestic violence â- commonly known as a backhander. In fact, I can see the impression of a wedding ring. Has Paddy seen this?â
âYes. He was there when I got it,â she said, getting up, too tired to think of an excuse.
âHe was there?!â he said, shaking his head in astonishment.
âLook, Emil, Iâll explain later, Iâm absolutely shattered,â she sighed, âIâm going to bed for a couple of hours.â
He looked her in the eye, his voice half-angry-half-troubled, âSomebodyâs been knocking you around, havenât they? And a married man of all things?!â
âEmil, I really need to sleep...?â
He backed up, âI get it. I get it. None of my business,â 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, âGo on -â eat, sleep -- Iâll chill-out with a beer or two and sleep off the jet-lag in front of the TV. Set your alarm for 5pm,â 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
<Heâll come to ur room wake âee up ân do âee.... >
Shit, shit, shit! The Walkman was in her case in the car, there was no way of shutting her out!
Câmon Oona, enough is enough, Iâm totally drained. You of all people must know that. Iâll be down there soon; weâll talk about it face-to-face --
<âEe just wanna do âim while oiâm gone! Oi wanna watch âee 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 Paddyâs bed.
<Go ahead, call âim, it wonât do âee any good.>
She sat on the bed, put the phone on her lap and stabbed the number into the key pad.
<I ainât goinâ nowhere ân âe canât make me!>
âRossington.â
âItâs Niamh.â
âOh. I thought you were off dredging the swamp.â
âSheâs out of control and Iâm at my witâs end.â She explained the situation quickly while Oona chimed along with every word, âSheâs at it as-we-speak! Sheâs fucking driving me insane! Tell me what to do -- Iâll do anything!â
He heaved a world-weary sigh, âDid you show her the door?â
âThe door is permanently open and I canât close it!! Sheâs too powerful now. I almost died on the motorway today! Not only that, but Iâm starting to experience physical phenomenon! Iâve got a welt on my face from where her husband hit her!â
Rossington seemed genuinely interested, âReally? Thatâs a new one. Must make a note of that...â
âFuck you, James! Iâm serious!â
âHave you been talking about the project? Your friend Detective Superintendent Somerville came to see me. He threatened me because he thinks Iâve been, in his words, âscrewing you upâ?â
âOona was plaguing me when I was babysitting his kids â- 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.......?â
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.
âNiamh?.............. Miss Fitzgerald .......?â
âNiamh?â
âNiamh...?â
Emil was standing at the door, âNi? I heard shouting. I thought you were in distress...â
âNiamh, are you there...?â
She put the receiver back to her ear, âItâs OK, James, everythingâs OK. See you soon.â 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, ââJames?â Is that the guy responsible for the gash on your cheek?â he growled.
In a way, yes. âNo. He was my boss at the institute, and heâs gay.â
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, âTwinkie, um, adjust your robe, babe, Iâm getting quite an eyeful here ....â
She didnât 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 Paddyâs big four-poster and pulled back the sheets invitingly. âPlease. I need this and it has to be now.â
Wide-eyed and opened mouthed, he visibly baulked as he took it in, âWhat?! NO!â
She pointed out the burgeoning lump in his shorts, âI know you want to and I want to too.â
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, âNo. It would ruin a beautiful friendship.â
âOne time offer,â she said, in all seriousness, âIâll never feel this way again, and we will never ever mention it again. Itâll be like it never happened. Just switch off for half-an-hour, enjoy the ride, then weâll sleep-it-off in separate beds.â
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, âThis is madnessâ 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 â 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 -â 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 Niamhâs motherâs 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 clichĂŠs 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 â- her knees buckled â- 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. âEmil...?â 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, âWhoâs that...?â 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...?
âWho are you...?â 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, â... are you Barry McKee...? Or are you the demon that possesses him...? Or am I suffering from a new form of schizophrenia...?â
The crackly voice resounded between her ears: <Iâm 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, âCâmon, get up and get dressed. I wanna get down there before dark.â
Emil sat up and watched her tidy-up around him, a look of disbelief on his face, spouting superlatives like a besotted teenager, âWhat a trip that was. I haveta tell ya, and Iâm being honest, that was the most amazing thing... It felt as if  we were locked together -- body ân soul -- it was like we were flying! It was like: Woah!â
She ignored him, âPlease get up, I have to strip the bed and change it.â
He staggered to his feet and pulled on his shorts, âDidn't you feel it? It was like we were sharing a dream... Awesome!â 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. âYou've changed, you know that?â he said at last.
âI always change after a shower,â 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 heâd be in if anyone found out. âYour mother will kill me! My wife will divorce me! Oh God -- and we did it in Paddyâs bed! I wonât be able to look him in the eye ever again...â
She spun on her heel, âShut the f --â 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, âitâs forgotten. Didn't happen, remember? Speak of it no more, please!â
They exchanged suspicious looks then got into the car. Â 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 voiceâs assurances, she couldn't be sure Oona would make a comeback, âCanât drive, still a bit groggy. Youâll have to do it.â 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 didnât have to look at him. She felt him get in, readjust the seat and try to get comfortable. He had difficulty getting it started, âFucking piece of shit car,â he yapped, as the engine spluttered twice then stalled, âItâs like a goddamn downhill-racer!!â He pounded the steering wheel with his fists. The car rocked and boomed. She didnât lose her temper or shout him out, instead, without turning toward him, she told him exactly what he was thinking, â...âsheâs over eighteenâ âit was her who invited me inâ âIâd been drinking on the planeâ âno man could refuse an offer like thatâ âWhat if she spills the beans?â âOh my God, what if she gets pregnant?â...â she iterated, dispassionately.Â
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, âHow do you do that? Itâs like youâre reading my mind! Jeezus â you are just like --â
She turned, dug her elbow into his ribs and marked his card, âNow you listen to me, mister -â 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?! Donât get hung-up-on-it -â just drive!â
He gaped at her with uncomprehending eyes and said without irony, âI think I might be in love with you...â
Meanwhile, in the grounds of Pagham house: Wearing her nicest summer frock and her best shoes, one hand holding onto Niâs 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 servantsâ 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 Dukesâ wife & child lay, when Charlie Noble, the bespectacled, beer-gutted head of security, pulled up and blocked her path with his jeep. âWhere do you think youâre goinâ, Mrs Nevin?â 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 â- he turned and deftly caught her by the arm, âHey, hey, hey â whereâs the fire, now?â
âKris is âere! Oi know âeâs âere - oi can sense âim!â
âWell now, you canât see Kris, Oona, heâs talkinâ to Mr Scanlon.â
âSo âe is âere!â she cried, excitedly, jumping up and down.
âYou canât see him! Câmon now, Iâm takinâ you home!â he said, pulling her toward the jeep.
âThat will not be necessary!â She replied in her poshest voice, as she squirmed out of his grasp and made to walk back the way she came, âOiâd rather walk â-â she said, took a few steps then suddenly veered to the left towards the path that led to the front of the house â- the manoeuvre caught him off-guard -- he slipped on the mossy cobbles and fell on his arse, âBollocks!â She bolted, âKRIS!!â she yelled repeatedly as she ran along the path âKRIS!!â Unfortunately her new shoes werenât 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, âNow câmon! Home with ye!!â He took the walkie-talkie from his shoulder and waved it in front of her face, âIâll call yer auntie, I will! Iâll tell her yeâre out here tryinâ to get in!â She tore away from his grasp, spun on her heel and headed back down the path, âI can go home on me own!â she said, haughtily as she walked off into the trees.
He thought for a moment then walked after her, âOona! Waitaminnit! Please listen to me!â
His voice sounded sympathetic so she stopped.
Charlie walked up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders, âDonât come lookinâ for young Kris, Oona. Yeâre playinâ into olâ Scanlonâs hands, darlinâ. Nuthinâ would please him better than if you wuz to do somethinâ stupid.â
She shrugged off his hands, turned and shouted, âWhy would oi do somethinâ stoopid?! Why wonât they let me see âim now we is all growed up?! Weâs olâ friends for âeavenâs sake!â
âYou know why, Oona, youâre not like other girls, youâre... special,â he explained, pointing to his head, âand we haveta be extra careful where Kris is concerned, heâs the bossâ favourite grandchild, he canât come to any harm.â
âBut I donât wanna hurt âim -- I luv âim!â she cried, tearfully.
âThatâs what theyâre worried about,â said Charlie, dolefully.
She gripped the hem of skirt, fell to her knees and screamed in frustration at the top of her voice -â 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. âHow the hell did you do that?!â
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 Niâs tummy, âPull over -- gonna be sick!â
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, âYou OK...? Want me to hold your hair or something...â
She spat out the last of the chunks and shouted over her shoulder, âNo! Go on ahead... itâs just round the corner, Iâll walk... need to get some fresh air...â Not that the air here could be described as fresh. âOK, then. See you at the bog!â He said, giving her a glum look before driving off.
Whatâs 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 âSTOP!â, 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 sheâd 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. âHello... Are you lost?â Ni called out, as she climbed over the wall and slowly approached, âAre you a local, honey? Do you live in Bogmire...?â
The little girl turned, ran into the trees and disappeared from view â âCome back!â 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:Â 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]
âHer eyes are open. Thatâs odd,â said Dr Morgan, an 83 year old GP originally from Anglesey whoâd retired to a cottage in Carlow in the late-70s. Affable and slightly detached, Morgan ministered to the villagersâ 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, âAre you sure she hasnât been using drugs or alcohol?â he asked, in his melodious Welsh accent.
âNo. Drugs is forbidden by our religion, and âer âusbandâs a gard, so I very much doubt it,â replied Mrs Sparkes. Her eyes narrowed â she looked at the trio of men around the foot of the bed, âUnless theseuns know any different?â
The Dr Morgan looked to the men.
They shook their heads, âAs far as we know sheâs clean,â vouchsafed Scanlon.
â... No history of epilepsy, fits, sleepwalking or anything like that?â asked the doctor.
The old woman chewed her cheek and looked and looked at Scanlon, âLemme think, now...â
Scanlon glowered.
She lowered her head, âNo, but, umm... but she âas a lot goinâ on in her âead all the toime.â She looked Oona and asked in all sincerity, âCould sheâdâve blew a fuse or somethinâ?â
Charlie chuckled.
Dr Morgan smiled and said, kindly, âWell, weâll just have to have a look and see, wonât we.â
It was getting too much for the sergeant; he loosened his tie and mopped his brow with a sopping cotton handkerchief, âItâs so frigginâ hot in here... even with them windows open... Jeeesus, I canât get a breath, and Iâve still got that stench from the bog in me nosterls...â he smelled the sleeves of his shirt âI think itâs got into me clothes. Ugh!â
âAck, catch a grip, ye big girlâs blouse,â grunted Scanlon, âyouâve been livinâ with that stench for years, you must be used to it by now.â
âI never smelt anythinâ like the reek that came from that excavation. That was strong enough to make a skunk run for cover!â Marchant said, a little too loudly.
Scanlon nudged him, âSsshhh -- the auld doctor is talkinâ!â
Examining her unblinking, dazzling grey eyes, Dr Morgan asked Charlie, âAnd you say she just dropped and started twitching?â
Charlie lit up a cigarette and explained, âAye -- she lost her temper, see, and let-out this almighty shriek like you wouldn't believe --â
Everyone but the doctor nodded and said in unison, âheard it.â
â-- and the next thing I know is the trees start shakinâ and (he pointed up) â- this bloody huge branch falls down and misses me (he made a tiny space between his thumb and forefinger) by that much!! Bleedinâ miracle I wasn't cleaved-in-half!â He shook his head, took a long drag and blew it out, sending spiralling clouds of bluish smoke into the shafts of sunshine.
âShe can do that...?â the sergeant gasped.
Charlie shrugged, âNobody knows what she can do, least of all her.â
Scanlon arched an eyebrow, narrowed an eye and nodded toward the door, âAhem, maybe you should smoke that out in the corridor, Charlie?â
âWith pleasure,â said Charlie, sneering, but just as he went to walk away, âExcuse me -- but when did she get this?â asked the doctor, pointedly, turning Oonaâs head to the side. Charlie stopped in his tracks, âWhat?â The doctor pulled back her hair to reveal the purplish weal on her cheek.
âLooks like somebodyâs hit her a quare slap,â the sergeant said, looking at the doughty security man.
Charlie protested his innocence, âHey, hey, hey, now, now! I wouldn't hit a woman â- and look -â itâs not fresh!â
âThatâs true,â said Dr Morgan, âitâs at least a day old.â
âNevinâs been hitting her!â said Scanlon, almost smiling; he had a distraction and exploited it immediately, âIs it any wonder sheâs fainting? Sheâs probably got a concussion, poor girl.â
Marchant covered his eyes in shame, âAh, Jaysus, no...â
âIt donât surprise me none. If oiâm honest, oi can âardly blame âim,â said Mrs Sparkes, with a dispassionate what-can-you-do shrug of the shoulders, âsheâs as thick as shit ân she canât cook. Itâs enough to drive anybody round the twist.â
Scanlon glared at Marchant and said, âWhere is that big shithead now?â
Slowly losing the will to live, the sergeant stepped back, took off his cap and wiped his brow with the back of his hand, âI left him ân his partner to keep an eye on things down at the bog...â The pang of regret quickly turned to rage, âIâll feckinâ kill the fecker!â
âAHEM!â Dr Morgan cleared his throat to take back the room, âA slap wouldn't cause a condition the like of this. Iâd say this is a psychological rather than a physiological condition.â He turned to Mrs Sparkes, âIn other words, something has upset her to such an extent that sheâs put herself in a trance.â
Scanlon stooped and studied Oonaâs glassy-eyes, âPretendinâ is she...?â
Outraged, Ella Sparkes put her hands on her hips and shouted, âCâmon, get up ye lazy bitch!â
The doctor winced and put out his hands to quiet her down and put her right, âNo, no â sheâs had some-sort-of an episode. It could be stress-related. Sheâll have to see a psychiatrist, and if thereâs no joy there, weâll have to send her for an MRI scan.â
Mrs Sparkesâ ears pricked up under her ginger wig; she didnât trust modern technology and interjected every time she heard something she didnât understand, âEmmer Eye-Scan? Whatâs that?â
While the doctor explained the rudiments of magnetic-resonance imaging, Scanlon grabbed the sergeant by the lapels and dragged him into the corridor, âGet that bastard Nevin up here ASAP! I want that string-oâ-piss to take her home ân keep her there. Sheâs his responsibility!â
Marchant had a perturbing thought, âBut what about âIs Nibs? What about Herbie?! Should I phone âem...?â Â
Scanlon tightened his grip, pulled him close and whisper-shouted into his face, âThe old man ân Herbie must NEVER find out about this or weâll all suffer!â 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, âIs that us? Are we done?â
Dr Morgan wasn't happy, âLook here, Iâll have to report this. If her husbandâs been knocking her around -- a policeman, by God -- itâs my duty to inform the relevant authority.â
âDoctor, you know the Supplicants are protected by the laws on religious tolerance and are entitled to practise their own form of worship,â the groundskeeper reminded him in his most gracious tone of voice, âand they have different laws, different customs. If they want to treat her with toadstool-juice and frog stew, theyâre perfectly within their legal rights to do so -â as long as it doesnât endanger life -- and as you can see, aside from a wee turn, sheâs perfectly healthy!â He turned, winked and whispered in the doctorâs ear, âLeave it with me â Iâll see that she gets what she needs...â and slipped him an extra ÂŁ20. As Charlie escorted him off the premises, Scanlon took Mrs Sparkes to one side and had a quiet word.
âSheâs dangerous now, Ella. What Charlie says is true. I saw the branch myself â it was ripped from a dead tree alright â the join was splintered and ragged. And today, right-around-the-time of her little temper-tantrum, the cutlery on the dish rack started tinklinâ, the pots ânâ pans rattled on their hooks. Remember? You thought it was an earthquake...â
No sooner had those words parted his lips, than her nieceâs eyelids flickered, her dark lashes fluttered like the wings of tiny rooks...
âIt looks like sheâs wakening...â
[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.Â
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
< Iâm so sorry about shutting you down like this, but you needed reining in, and since your mentor is proving so indispensable, Iâm 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. Sheâd 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?
<Sheâll live. But she is temporarily telepathically-impaired. >
So, is that it? Sheâs 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 âdemonâ? Whatâs your part in all this?
...........................
Hello...?
<Goodbye, Niamh. Itâs been a pleasure working with -->
At that very moment, at SCICI: â... happy Barry? Well, youâve got what you wanted. Your friend Somerville has seen to that!â chimed Rossington, hands on his knees, mock-smiling, yapping like an overbearing schoolmistress, âWeâre taking away all the mirrors, wires, gadgets and spotlights and weâre 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?!â
Matron and Matthew Cromarty were disconnecting the electrodes from Barryâs head while a pair of technicians on stepladders dismantled the mirrors, all listening as Rossington ranted at the insensible wretch on the bed, âBut donât worry -- I havenât given up on you just yet,â he took out a large roll of print-out paper, unfurled it and pointed to various highlighted sections on a wave line, âIâve 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,â he indicated a row of numbers in the highlighted section: âincreased brain activity! This proves your mind is active! What do you say to that?!â
Matron put a hand on his arm, âJames, câmon now, youâre gettinâ upset, you havenât slept for days...â
âGet your fucking paws off me, you damn silly bitch,â he said, calmly. He made sure the technicians were out of earshot and took the pair to one and berated them, âMatt Cromarty (sniff), phew -- stinking of liquor as usual, and Matron Stranks, Irelandâs answer to Nurse Ratched.â He pointed at the CCTV camera above the door, âDo you have any idea what would happen if Somerville got hold of those tapes?â he looked at Cromarty, âFor instance, I have video of you pinching his genitals!â
âI was just testinâ his reflexes!â
âWhat? Like this?â Rossington slapped him full in the face with an almighty smack.
The technicians stopped unscrewing and gawped.
Once heâd 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, âand as for you, you gormless old trout -- I have footage of you lighting candles and saying prayers over him!â
âI spoke to my priest and he told me to do it because...â she began to protest.
Rossington wagged his finger to cut her off, stooped and stared into her eyes, â... because you think itâll protect you from the demon from McKeeâs in Soul, huh? I warned you about talking to clergymen, didnât I?!â He took her crucifix in his hand and tore it off, âAnd you of all people should know that the wearing of jewellery is not permitted in the institute!!â and plonked the trinket in the palm of her hand.
âAsk Peter Sinclair what he believes,â Cromarty cried into matronâs chest, referring to Rossingtonâs âflatmateâ.
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. âThis is your last warning, shithead. Now get out of my sight.â
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 Barryâs unblinking eyes and said, âLife is about to get very boring for you, Barry.....â
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, âSo, your liâl experimentâs gone tits-up, âas it, Jimbo?â
âJeez! Herb? I thought you were in France...?â 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, âI came back to check-up on fings,â he said, shaking his head regretfully. âI hear Oonaâs put herself in a trance cuz the boyo you chose to be âer âusband âas been knockinâ âer abaht, ân the Fitzgerald gal you brought in to 'elp âer is due to leave the cahntry in a coupla weeks. All this after you wuz told to leave âer alone? Itâs a right-old balls-up, innit Jimbo?â
Rossington backed up slightly so that he was touching the handle of the top drawer of the desk.
âLookinâ fer this?â Herbie took Rossingtonâs beloved Magnum .357 from his belt; it glinted in the half-light as the big chauffeur advanced on his prey, âYou've cost us a blahdy packet, Jim, and for what -- a psycho we canât control?!â
âOh shit, no, Herb...â The good doctor put up his hands and backed up toward the door, âI warned you -â I told you Oona is uncontrollable -â I told you sheâs a sociopath -- she was driving Miss Fitzgerald crazy! She almost killed her!â His back hit the door with a thud -- Herbie grabbed him by the tie and growled into his face, âShe wuz perfectly awright until you got yer fackin claws into âer!â He pressed the muzzle of the pistol against the ball of Rossingtonâs nose turning it into a porcine snout.
The good doctor kept his head steady and answered nervously, âShe wasn't âalrightâ -- 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 -â heâs the one who spread malicious rumours to get me taken off the case! Heâs the one whoâs plotting to get rid of her!â
Gorringe ran the muzzle along Rossingtonâs cheek and growled, âYou can squeal all you like, Jimbo, but this time thereâs no escaping yer fate.â
âDonât do this, Herb. We go way back -- at least 20 years -- and Iâve always done my upmost -- I got Ollie off booze, I got Annelise off smack --â
âOllieâs fallen off the wagon loadsa times since then and your âtreatmentâ nearly killed poor liâl Annelise! Not only that -- - you then proceeded to exploit âer!â
âHardly! We wrote a book together! She made a lot of money and sheâs fully recovered!â
Herbie pushed the muzzle hard into Rossingtonâs cheekbone, âThatâs the reason the boss can never bring isself to pull the plug on ya. But the boss ain't the geezer âe used to be, see, ân âe leaves it to me to make all the Life or Deaf decisions.â He grabbed the good doctorâs tie, pulled him across the room, thrust him into his swivelling, leather throne and put the gun against his temple, âNow, sit still. This hasta look like suicide!â
Eyes squeezed-shut, Rossington begged for mercy in his native New Jersey accent, âChrist no, donât do this!! Look, Scanlon is your guy -- heâs your loose cannon â- heâs always hated her...!â
There was a long pause, then he heard Gorringe say âWe know.â
The muzzle was withdrawn, the pressure on his Adamâs-apple eased. He opened his eyes. Herbie was sitting on the edge of the desk, grinning, âThatâs why yer off the âook, for now,â 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. âThe boss ânâ me âad a powwow ân youâre the lucky winner, Jimbo. Scanlon is indeed âa loose cannonâ and âe will be dealt wiv in doo course, but we ainât pleased with yer work, so from now on you go back to doinâ yer normal business  anâ we leave Oona alone to get on wiv âer life. OK?â
Rossington took the gun with a trembling hand and carefully put it back in the drawer, âWhatever you say.â
Herbie nodded, âGood. Until we decide wot to do next, this operation is on hiatus...â
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 theyâd 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, âYou were right on the money. 100%. Exactly where you said theyâd be, in the same position; one an ancient adult male, the other a child with a fractured skull -- you got it exactly right,â he said, utterly awestruck.
Ni, holding a handkerchief dipped in perfume to her nose, answered efficiently and unemotionally, âThis lends credence to the legend that an âancient magusâ was placed in the bog and cursed so that his evil wouldn't spread after his demise,â 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, âAnd... you just had a dream... what...?â
Paddy tried to coax her into a confession, âCâmon Ni, did someone tell you about this? Is there someone out there who knows something about this?â
âI just had a vision, thatâs all I can tell you. I canât explain it. It could've been a side effect of the drugs Rossington gave me, but for some reason I knew it was true,â she said, equivocally.
âWell, Iâm flummoxed,â said Paddy, standing up, pulling down his hood and scratching his head, âThe older mummy is perfectly preserved! Itâll take some time to date it, but Iâm pretty sure itâs thousands of years old. I donât know whether to feel elated or afraid!â
âItâs very... exciting,â said Emil, very uncomfortable in his own skin, not knowing how to behave.
Paddy made a face and said, âIs that all you have to say? This is a monumental find! I thought youâd be overjoyed?!â He looked from one to the other and twigged something was wrong, âDid you two have a row on the drive down?â
âOh, a disagreement over something insignificant,â said Ni, glancing at Emil.
Emil swallowed hard, looked away and said nothing.
âWhat about the little girl?â she asked, sparing his blushes.
Paddy hunkered down again and examined the smaller, whiter skeleton closely and shook his head, âWell, weâll 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.â
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 kidsâ 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 didnât need to see the physical evidence, she knew in her heart it was true. But why did McKee/his demon want her found?
Meanwhile, â... the question is: how did she come to be resting in the otherâs arms? 5000 years apart and theyâre positioned like Madonna and Child? It doesnât make sense,â said Paddy, looking to his colleague for an opinion, âWhat do you think, Emil? Ever seen anything like this?â
Still distracted by guilt and embarrassment, nevermind the potential explosiveness of the situation, Emil answered diffidently, âUmm... yeah... sure looks like murder to me...â
Piqued by his friendâs semi-detached attitude and his nieceâs apparent lassitude, Paddy stood up and gruffly announced, âSorry 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...â
The Ivy House, Downpatrick, Northern Ireland:
01:45am: Ogden Castle, the Lumbâs 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. Heâd called a house meeting, although thereâll only be two members present; Lady Beth was off to her ranch in Connecticut leaving them to sort out the âhocus-pocus shitâ. The housemates and household staff were under lockdown and warned not to venture out of the estate âuntil the Barry McKee business has been sortedâ. Puffing and panting, he knocked the door and entered. âCâmon, Oggy,â said Jamie, âwhatâs the news? I had to put off a meditation session for this!â 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, âSorry, sir, I was waitinâ for word from the Council, it takes ages now, what with the Psychosphere still out-of-commission.â He took a deep breath and told them, âAnyway, according to the lads in Namibia, thereâs the slightest hint of violet in the sunset. Heâs definitely not weakening. Heâs getting energy from somewhere. There are also traces of him in the Mirror World.â
Guy âGozâ Gosling, Jamieâs 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, âThatâs it then. Go to SCICI and unplug him. How hard can it be?â
âYou know how hard it can be, dickhead, he has to die a natural death,â snapped Jamie, shooting him a dirty look. âIf we kill McKee the demon will just migrate to the nearest lifeform, I donât need to tell you that. We have to tackle him while McKeeâs still alive, and to do that, we need to get close, and Rossington has him locked up safe ân sound in a secure unit in a high-security prison. Thatâs how hard it can be.â
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, âYou've nothing to fear, sir, itâs only a setback. Weâll get him.â
âThere is another option we havenât explored,â said Goz, sheepishly.
Jamie read his mind without the aid of telepathy, âNo. Not him.â
âBut he can travel in the Mirror World and he has the energy to cast spells, he could tackle him from the inside...?â
Castle and Jamie considered it for all of second and then gave him a firm, âNo.â
âMaster Bernard is more likely to make a deal with the demon than try to stop him,â said Castle.
âThatâs if he hasnât already!â said Jamie.
Goz threw up his hands in anger and despair, âWell, what other choice do we have?! We canât get close enough to him to curse him! We canât attack him in the Mirror World...?â
Jamie paced the floor in front of the fireplace and bemoaned their lot, âIf only Carla wasn't resting. Sheâd get into SCICI and no one would bat an eyelid.â
Castle was quick to correct him, âAye, she may be able to beguile a lot of people simultaneously, sir, but she canât beguile security cameras. And besides, Rossingtonâs already met her [See Book One Part 9]; he knows sheâs one of us.â
Jamie heaved a heavy sigh, âThen, what the hell are we going to do?â
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 Castleâs ear. The butler nodded and Fordham left.
âWell, Oggy, what is it?!â 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, âItâs so virulent that itâs rendered the entire area unapproachable for psyches like us. And it would account for the sudden surge of dark power.â
âHow come we didnât know about this? An evil magus buried in a bog? An ancient curse? I donât remember any of this being mentioned in history class,â said Goz, getting more irritated with each development.
âIt must've happened before our ancestors came home to Ireland,â offered Castle, âthe curse put on his earthly remains must've been strong enough to cover all trace of âim. They mustnâtâve felt anything at all when they arrived or theyâdâve dealt with it...â Castleâs voice dropped as he realised something relevant to the conversation.
âWhat is it now, Oggy?â said Jamie, getting evermore anxious with every disclosure.
âI dunno, it could be nothinâ.â 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, âThe 8th Duke of Roxborough -- Thaddeus Ravenhill -- a one time friend of Sir Arnoldâs [Jamieâs grandfather], commissioned it. They were as thick as thieves back in the day, but he wasnât one of us. He tried everything, yâknow, the usual hokum: satanic rituals, virgin sacrifice, that sorta bollocks. He was executed in 1795, but Sir Arnold had nuthinâ to do with âim by then. He was off his rocker on mind-bending drugs. Anyway, I think the bog is in the grounds of his estate.â
âYou think he could have something to do with this?â asked Jamie.
âSeems unlikely. If he did know about it, he didnât mention it to Sir Arnold. And if anyone could see through Roxborough it was Sir Arnold. Still, itâs a bit of a coincidence them finding the mummy on his land....â said Castle, pensively.
âHow dangerous can this mummy be?â said Goz, confused, âI mean, he must've Ascended when he died? If he was a ghost weâd know about it by now.â
Jamie looked to Castle, âHe has a point.â
Castle sighed with fatigue, âItâs not his Soul that matters, sir,â he said, mopping his neck with his handkerchief, âhe 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, heâs as dangerous dead as he was alive.â He offered them some consolation, âOn 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, ân if thatâs the case, the demon will die with him ân none of this will matter.â Castle took a deep breath, âIn the meantime, the witches can keep an eye on things. Theyâre the only ones who can be around dark energy and only suffer minor effects. Iâll give âem a call on the auld crystal ball, I just hope theyâre agreeable. They can be a fickle lot at the best of times.â
âI just thought of something,â said Jamie, in a troubled voice, âas the crow flies, itâs only around 80 miles from Odinâs Inn.â
âShite, I forgot about that ...â said Castle, groaning, putting his head in his hands, â... will it ever end?â
Goz looked from one to the other, ââOdinâ Innâ?â
âItâs in Brodir, a deserted seaside town on the coast of Wicklow,â Jamie told him, âitâs where Calvert and the Lindsay woman live; they were the couple involved in the capture of McKee. Danielleâs Soul migrated to the woman during the encounter. Theyâre due to have a baby at some time in the near future.â
Goz was suddenly very interested and sat up, âJeezus! Dani? Daniâs coming back?! How do you know for sure?â
âWitches,â said Castle, tapping his temples with his index fingers, âtheyâre never wrong.â [See Book One, Part 21]
âBut if the demon gets wind of it while all this shitâs going down, she could be corrupted all over again,â said Jamie, shaking his head at the enormity of the task ahead.
âWell, youâll have plenty of time to work on a solution, sir,â Castle informed him with a regretful frown, âcos a few of us older ones are drained after the events of the last 6 months. We need to go down below ân get some rest or weâll be no use to anybody.â
Jamie was aghast, âYouâre hibernating?! For how long?â
âAt least a couple of years. The witches can handle things while weâre away. As far as weâre concerned, this operation is on hiatus.â
2 years later...
ODINâS 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, âThereâs somebody at the front door, Mal!â
Malky looked over the banister and yelled back, â...And hereâs me thinkinâ the woodworm were using heavy machinery!â
âIâm laughinâ but the doorâs still banginâ!â
âIâm wasted in this place,â he muttered, put down his paintbrush and got to his feet, âOoow, me back!â Â Heâd 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 heâd 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 heâd earned his rest. Anyway, todayâs matinee featured an Alec Guinness double bill (one of Brooâs 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 Zindyâs voice shrieked in the hall, âMalky! The door!! Iâm up to me tits in derv!â Evidently her pregnancy had not affected her vocal cords.
âRIGHT!â 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 didnât 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 wonât 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, âUm, weâre not open til the autumn, pal. Try Arklow, 6 miles that-away.â He pointed due north.
The chauffeur looked at a piece of paper, then looked askance at the paint-spattered individual in the doorway, âMalcolm Calvert...?â
It has to be said, his misgivings werenât without foundation: Malky was not a pretty sight at that particular moment -â unshaven with greying, uncombed collar-length hair, wearing Zindyâs ex-boyfriendâs outsized Hawkwind tee-shirt and emulsion caked M&S pyjama pants -- he looked like a hobo thatâd really let himself go. âWho wants to know?â he asked, charily, well-used to uninvited attention -- usually pressmen waving cheque books or ghouls and geeks in search of the âtruthâ 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 Malkyâs hand.
âHello, Mr Calvert, âErbert Gorringe. Pleased to meet ya,â he said, in a croaky, cockney rumble...
 To Be Continued Next Month in Ha! Ha! said the Clown
#spindlefreck#fantasy#witchcraft#witches#psychics#telepathy#demon#irish fiction#ghosts#horror#blackcomedy#mysticism#mystics#dreams#fantasy horror
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Spindlefreck Book Two: Pt. Four:Â Ha! Ha! Said the Clown
Odinâs Inn, Brodir, Co. Wicklow;Â 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 wasnât 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, âErm... see, the boss sent me âere wiv a proposition... âE instructed me to... that is...â he paused, stepped up so that they were face-to-face and pleaded for relief with beseeching eyes, âLissen mate, can I use your lavvy? Iâve been on the road fer ovah-an-hour ân that last cuppa I âad before I left the âahse is abaht to bust me bladdah!â
It was an old salesmanâs ploy and Malky knew it, and the chauffeur knew he knew it, nevertheless he cringed and gritted his teeth, âNo messinâ guv - Iâm this close to pissinâ me strides!â He seemed genuinely stricken, so after a second or twoâs deliberation, Malky decided to give him the benefit of the doubt and stood aside, issuing a caution as he dashed by, âStraight in-and-out, mind. And donât use the urinals â theyâre not plumbed-in yet â use one of the stalls! OK?â
Gorringe already halfway there, âI donât care if itâs a bucket -- I gotta go!â
Just as the door to the gents closed, Zindy walked through from the kitchen, âWho is it? Sales rep? Reporter?â 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, â... no, heâs somebodyâs chauffeur. You should see the car heâs driving.â
Zindy lifted the waiter hatch and struggled through, âOoow, Iâve been bent over too long, Iâm all stiffened-up!â 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, âThereâs quite a draught â you can look out through the window.â
âFor Godâs sake a bit of sea air will do me good!â
Malky tapped her butt, âAye, because youâre doinâ bloody auto-repairs on the kitchen table and the place stinks to high-heaven of gloss, varnish, engine oil and Swarfega! That child oâ mine must be gettinâ high on the fumes!â
Zindy made yakety-yak signs with her hand and said âIâm trying to save us some money, itâd cost us a bomb to take that van to a mechanic.â
â... because youâve fallen out with all the local mechanics, havenât you?â he chided ironically, âThere isnât a garage within a 30-mile-radius whoâll touch it, is there? Anyway, itâs a false economy. Itâll breakdown in the middle of nowhere and youâll 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 weâd gone to a garage in the first place -â thatâs not factoring-in the chance of an accident - or you gettinâ stranded high and dry â then whoosh â your waters break!â
âJeezus Christ! Youâre startinâ to scare me!â she cried.
âItâs 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...?â
âWhy 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,â sheâd seen the strangerâs car, âa Rolls Royce Silver Shadow, no less,â she said, appreciatively, looking out of the window, âwho comes to a place like this in a car like that?â
Meanwhile, Brooster was listening at the parlour door, âWhatâs goinâ on?â a voice whispered behind him, making him jump and almost fall over. It was Sammy, the silver-bearded, blood-spattered ghost of the innâs 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, âAye, I sâpose thatâs true... Well then â Iâll just do this!â He walked through the wall, into the occupied cubicle, looked the urinator up-and-down and shouted to the old dog, âItâs a chauffeur. Big bloke. Ex-army â British army â he has a regimental pin. Big dick, if youâre interested in that sort of thing.â
Broo wasn't at all impressed by the resident phantomâs crude behaviour â 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 â 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 â- at home in his own bed. Sammy whined as he opined: âWhy couldn't the auld eejit have snuffed-it here?! Some people have no manners at all! At this rate, Iâll have to wait for Malky to croak - and heâs got another ten years in him at least!â).
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 thatâs Malky. Sammy, reclining on the couch to watch the movie, actually made an insightful comment, âHeâs an Englishman and Zindy misses the company of Englishmen. Sheâll bend his ear for an hour and then heâll be off back to whoever he drives for: probably some auld oulâ banker or one of those rich pop stars who've been buying houses over here lately.â He pointed at the remote, âCâmon, turn the sound on. I love the old black and white fillums!â
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 didnât 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, âDog?! Dâya hear me? Hit the button that turns the sound back on!â
Oblivious, Brooster snuck down the hall, took-up position at the kitchen door and listened.
Sammy shouted from the parlour, âAch, câmon, you know I canât press the buttons...?â 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 sheâd 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, âIs that a Lancashire accent I âear?â he asked, with a wry smile.
Zindy grinned, âAye - Salford! âOw can you tell?â she said, ironically.
âHeh-heh, two of me best mates is from Salford! Salts of the erf, they is, diamonds to a man. We âad a couple of tours in Cyprus in the late fifties and then they was sent to... umm,â 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, âAhem, âow many mumphs âave you got before the big day then, sweetâeart?â
âIâm due in late July or early August,â she replied, she replied, âJust wait til Iâm at full-term, Iâll look like a two-legged Space Hopper in a pink-wig!â
Malky lost patience, coughed theatrically, walked forward and put an end to the sparkling repartee, âSo, Mr Gorringe, what can we do for you?â
The chauffeur put up a hand and waived the formalities, âOh, call me âErbie, please, Mr Calvert. Nobody calls me Gorringe âcept the boss when âeâs in a bad mood. Everybody else calls me âErbie.â
Malky sighed, âThen, what can we do for your boss, H-erbie?â
âMalky! - donât be so rude!â Zindy snapped.
Herbie shook his head, âNah, âeâs got every right to be wary, sweetâeart. Iâm beatinâ arahnd the bush, as it were, I really should explain meself,â 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, âWell, yâsee, my boss, see... âeâs not a superstitious man by nay-cha but, âeâs got it into âis âead...â he sighed heavily, looked up at Malky and bit the bullet, âLook â âe thinks the ahse âas been invaded by âa poltergeistâ and âe wants a consultation. Yâknow, whether you can confirm or deny, that sort of thing.â
Malkyâs heart sank. He threw up his hands and whined, âFer cryinâ out loud! Another crank! A rich crank, but a crank nonetheless!â
[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 Malkyâs 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, âWait til you âear what Herbie âas to say before you go on a rant, Mr Sour-Balls!â
Malky leaned against the fridge and crossed his arms, âHe can say what he likes but it wonât make a haâpennyâs worth oâ difference. We live by a Code remember?â
ââCode?ââ Herbie looked from one to the other.
Zindy harrumphed and rhymed-off Malkyâs charter to their bemused visitor, âMalkyâs Code: he wonât have anything to do with the supernatural stuff... he wonât have anything to do with the media... he wonât write a book even though heâs been offered a lotta money...â
Malky: â-- and with good reason! Once you make contact -â you let them in! Theyâll be writing begging letters, making pilgrimages to our door!â
Herbie, slightly embarrassed that heâd caused trouble in paradise, assured them, âYou come very âighly recommended, yâknow â by the Gardai commissioner âisself, no less...â
Malkyâs jaw dropped, âWhat?!â he gasped.
âOh gawd, I knew this would be a nightmare...â Herbie muttered under his breath, grimacing like a man tiptoeing through a minefield wearing a blindfold; he elaborated in an apologetic tone, â... a couple oâ weeks ago, the boss was at one of them grand-banquet dos they âave in Dublin City where the top-nobs can âobnob -- yâknow the sort oâ fing, VIPs, the politicians anâ-all-that-lot. Well, the commissioner was seated next to the boss and they got talkinâ about strange cases and your name came up, anâ when âe mentioned that Barry McKee business a few years ago, the boss wuz all ears 'n âe got the commissioner to get your address...?â
Malky was furious, âThe Barry McKee case was as weird as they come, but it wasn't anythinâ to do with the supernatural -- it was to do with the fact that heâs a schizo who liked to kill little girls.â
Herbie raised his eyebrows, âSo all that tawk abaht âim beinâ possessed is just bollocks?â
âWell, he thought he was possessed, he heard voices...â Zindy was about to elaborate when Malky shot her a what-the-hell-look. Â She took umbrage, âSo what did happen, Malcolm? Why donât you explain it?â
âYou should know -- you were there -â we nearly died!â Malky snapped back.
âYeah -- but who âelped us?! âOw did the dog find them bodies in the woods? Who told 'im where to go?!â
Sensing trouble in paradise, Herbie reached into his inside-pocket and took out a large brown leather wallet, âLook, I tell you wot, if it makes it any easier,â he pulled out a folded slip of paper and set it on the table so that it stood like a little greetings-card, âthe boss gimme this blank cheque ân awforised me to offer ya 7 grand to come up to the âahse and âave-a-butcherâs. If you can get rid of the spook, heâll give you anovver free grand. Thatâs 10 grand! More, if âeâs really pleased! âIs pockets are deep, believe me.â
âSomething strange in your neighbourhood? Who you gonna call...?â Malky sang. Â
âI donât think even the Ghostbusters would get 10 grand for one nightâs work?!â gasped Zindy, ÂŁ-signs in her eyes.
Heartened that the hostess seemed keen, Herbie went for the hard-sell, â7 grand just to âave a shufti, 10 grand if you get rid of it. What would money like that mean to you two?â he said, looking at Zindyâs bump.
Malky saw his better-half look around the kitchen, read her mind and reminded her with a wagging finger, âDonât start...!â
Zindy wagged straight back, âThe Code of Silence made sense in the beginninâ when we wuz inundated with whackos, weirdoes ânâ wankers of every stripe â before we âad money trouble and baby on tâway!â
Malky pointed and laughed sardonically, âDid you just say that? Who the hell are you?!â
The chauffeur turned to Malky and spoke softly, âLissen Mr C -- I fink the old manâs barkinâ up the wrong tree too, but âeâs at his witâs end â âe finks thereâs an âevil spiritâ out to get âim! Now, I ain't seen anythinâ myself, just the aftermaff - but âe says fings fly across the room, yâknow, ornaments âitting the wall, books falling from shelves, that sort of fing. Eâs afraid to go rahnd the âouse on âis own. If it goes on for much longer, âeâs likely to âave a stroke or âeart attack, the poor old git.â
âWho is 'e?â Zindy and Malky asked, in perfect harmony.
Herbie paused for a second then said: âOliver Laphen.â
âOllie Laphen?! âThe Quare Gegâ?!â cried Malky; amazed and delighted, he duly eschewed his standoffishness, pulled out a chair and sat down at the table.
âThe old movie star? The hellraiser?â asked Zindy, only slightly impressed.
âYip, that Ollie Laphen,â said Herbie, sheepishly, as if confessing a cardinal sin.
âMy God. Ollie Laphen! That takes me back a-ways...â Malky enthused, whimsically, looking up, as if viewing the memory in a thought balloon hovering just above his head, â...in Belfast in the late 50s when me ân me younger brother Dessie were kids, we used to see his films at the Roy Rogersâ Movie Club at the Curzon on Saturday mornings and we loved the âLaffin Boyâ shorts he made in the early 30s when he was still called âOllie Laffinâ. Jeez, we mustâve seen them all at least 10 times each...!â
Zindy left Malky to wander down Memory Lane and got down to business, âAnd ââeâs willing to pay Malky 7 grand just to look round âis âaunted âouse?!â
Herbie smiled and nodded.
Although mightily tempted, Malky still wasn't moved, âNah â it smacks of exploitation. Iâm not goinâ to take advantage of an old man whoâs probably in the primary stages of senility... Oh, sorry, Herbie...â
The chauffeur shrugged and nodded, âYouâre singinâ to the choir guv. Â Thatâs what us lot reckoned, too - but in every ovver respect heâs fine. âEâs cantankerous and narky like âe always is, but âis memoryâs fine - eâs workinâ on a one-man-show and âe donât even âave to look at the book. âE reads all âis contracts â even the small print - âe writes âis memoirs... If it is senility, then this poltergeist fing is the only symptom.â He winked, âTell-you-wot -- why dontcha meet âim ânâ see for yâself.â
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.
âLissen, if you fink itâs all a loada olâ cobblahs, you can tell âim so - take the money - and Iâll drive you âome. No âassle. No one will ever know. Mr Laphen certainly wonât be tellinâ. You know âow much âe âates the press.â
Zindy looked at Malky and batted her eyelids, âNo one will ever know and youâll have a great story to tell our kids.â
âOh â youâre not coming?â said Malky, with a raised eyebrow.
Zindy indicated the engine parts on the table, âNo time, lover â- we need the van back on the road by morninâ cos I âave to go to Arklow and pick-up the grocery order and fetch more paint from the DIY store. Incidentally, Iâll be âusingâ tâcredit card - you know the one I mean -â the one we owe ÂŁ3,400 on?â
âMy God woman, have you no shame?!â said Malky, semi-seriously, shaking his head with exasperation.
Herbie held up the cheque and flicked it with a finger, âA lotta lolly for a few hoursâ work, my friends.â
âCâmon, Malk. Like âErbie says, the ol' boyâs loaded and itâs only one night...?â
Malky stared at his paint-spattered hands and had a rethink: youâll to get away from the smell of varnish and gloss, meet the great Ollie Laphen and have a look round his house... Â âWell... I suppose one night wouldn't be so bad... ?â
Deal sealed, Herbie sighed with relief, got to his feet and shook Malkyâs hand. Malky looked at Zindy and shook his head, âYou know youâll never hear the end of this, dontcha?â
Zindy grinned, âCareful Ollie Laphenâs poltergeist donât drop summat âeavy on yer âead, chook!â
Malky held his sides and pretended to cry tears of laughter.
âOh yeah - one other fing,â said Herbie, looking around, âThe commissioner-bloke told us that you usually work wiv a free-legged German shepherd...?â
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, theyâd developed an intuitive sense of what the other was thinking.]
Malky glared, you heard all that didnât 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, itâs about time we had a case...
âItâll be a bit of a lark, wonât it?â chirped Zindy, putting Malkyâs toothbrush and shaving kit into his overnight bag. She gave the once over and shook her head, âyouâre a walkinâ disaster. Things wrinkled as soon as you put them on.â She lifted the comb and tried to do something with his hair.
Her other-half still hadn't warmed to the idea, âLark? Itâll be no laughing matter for me, wandering around some creaky, chilly stately-home all night with that grumpy hound at me heel.â
Broo growled back.
She stooped slightly and pointed the comb at the old dog, âNow listen â Broo â you be patient wâ âim and remember that âe âates all this kinda spooky stuff,â she turned back to her man, âand Mal, you remember that Broo is old and crotchety and prone to snarkiness.â
How dare you madam! Iâll 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 Malkyâs cheeks and gave him one of her pep-talks, âListen, chook... take a look round, if you donât find anythinâ or it looks like a set up, or it donât feel right -- whatever -- Iâll understand if you donât take the money, OK?â
Malky was confused, âThen why....?â
She put a finger on his lips, âIâd appreciate a little time on me own, OK? Nothing sinister, just some time to meself. We've been in each otherâs pockets day-and-night for 2 year now, so tonight -- for one night only -- Iâm gonna finish workinâ on the soddinâ van, âave 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.â
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, âYou donât need to explain, Zin. You've got whatâs commonly known as Calvert Fatigue.â
She pushed him out onto the landing, âNow fook off. Iâll be here when you get back.â
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 ÂŁ400,000 worth of Rolls Royce shook ânâ 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 -- âAaaaah! Smell that?! Laaave this cahntryside, I do! Yâknow, at least once a day, I stop what Iâm doinâ ân give fanks that we landed back âere and not blahdy Swizzer-land. Swizzer-land,â he sneered. âI âate blahdy Swizzer-land. The boss wuz a tax-exile for a while yâsee...â He went on to list the many shortcomings of the Swiss in his bouncy cockney twang. Malky repressed the overwhelming urge to shout for Christâs sake shut-up and step on it! and tuned him out. There he was, on his way to do something he didnât want to do for people he didnât want to know in a place he didnât 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 â I should sue! ... Bloody hocus-pocus and hoodoo-voodoo... but as usual, money talks and principles go out the window... money, money, money... sheâll be setting up a Supernatural Detective Agency next... Sheâll 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 snailâs-pace of pastoral Irish life after so many years spent in the fraught, hustle-&-bustle of Hollywood: âTheyâre as nice-as-ninepence to ya just so long as yer putting bums on seats and bags of lolly in the bank â if not - theyâll drop ya like âot potatah! Fankfully, the boss is always bankable â you put âis name on a marquee and youâs guaranteed a profit! âE still âas a core fanbase of millions whoâll come to everyfink âeâs in!â
Malky grunted a hollow, listless âOh really?â
Unfazed, Herbie whispered in Malkyâs ear: âLissen, mate, if you wanna take the edge-off - âave a drop of Irish. The boss keeps a flask in the glove-compartment for emergencies.â
Malky was caught off-guard and answered in an embarrassed stutter, âEr, no thanks, I donât drink...â
ââRecovering alcoholicâ, are ya?â Herbie asked.
Although wholly nonplussed by the manâs audacity, Malky replied without raising his voice, âLetâs just say I had a problem at one time and leave it at that, shall we?â
But Herbie continued to pry, âDonât take this the wrong way, pal, but you have the look of a man whoâs no stranger to --â
âOi! Enough!â Malky barked (Brooster woke up with a start), âKeep yer eyes on the road, Jeeves! Just cuz yer boss is willinâ to pay 7 grand for my services doesnât give ye the right to dig into me personal life!â
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, âI wuz only makinâ conversation, sir. If Iâve offended you in any way, I âumbly apologise and beg yer pardon, sir.â
âForget it.â 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, âDid I hear you tell Zindy you were in the army?â
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, âQueenâs Royal Irish Fusiliers, 17 years: Corporal Herbert Valentino Gorringe 2063 reporting for duty, sah.â
Malky smiled, âValentino?â
Herbie made a face, âIt was that or Rudolph. My olâ mum was a big fan. She was in-con-sole-able when âe died, grieved fer days, apparently.â
Where was another protracted pause, until Malky said, âI used to meet a lot of Tommies in Belfast in the early days of the Troubles. Seen a good few murdered, too. Bad times.â
The chauffeur turned slightly so that he could look Malky in the eye, âYou wasn't chucking the olâ Molotovs, was ya? You ainât an ex-IRA man or anyfink like that, âis ya?!â Au contraire. Malky told him he was an ex-RUC policeman. Herbie was very interested, visibly relieved and wholly amazed, âReally? If you donât mind me saying so - you donât strike me as the type...?â
âMy 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, yâknow...â Malkyâs voice trailed off.
Herbie shook his head, âGunned down right beside you? Thatâs rough that is.â
âBut surely youâve had near-death experiences yourself, Herbie, especially after 17 years in the army...?â
âWell, I wuz too young to serve in the war. I turned 17 the day after VE day. I didnât 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 tryinâ to keep the tribes apart: Jews, Muslims, Christians â 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, âorrible it was... But I never really saw battle, just âminor skirmishesâ. Luck, I suppose. It was during a tour of Norf Africa in 64 when I first met the boss!â
âReally,â asked Malky, suddenly interested, âyou met oulâ Ollie while you were still in the army? You've been with him that long?â
Herbie was back on his favourite subject and relishing the opportunity to impart his favourite anecdote to a captive audience: âOh yeah, it was me firtiefth birthday and I was on a dayâs 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 lookinâ fer âem, I strolls into this dark little tavern and sittinâ there in a corner was Oliver Laphen! Would you Adam ânâ Eve it?! âE was supposed to shootinâ an adventure movie wiv David Niven about archaeologists in World War Two called Diamonds in the Dust â- but he was skivinâ-off cuz heâd âad a row with the director and âe was layinâ-low -- he didnât wanna âang round the âotel, so âeâs âiding-out in this dark little Kasbah, trying to be inconspicuous â wearinâ a black wig, big black shades, a kaftan and a fez - but I knew âim the minute I set eyes on âim! See, our CO was a big fan. He âad 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 â he used to get âem sent ovah and screen âem for the lads on a Saturâay night! Anyway - there âe is, in the flesh, so-to-speak! Oliver Laphen! Jolly Ollie! So I go over anâ I say, âCan I âave your autograwph Mr Laphen, sah?â and at first âeâs fuminâ â âe goes-off-on-one! Then âe calms dahn and says to me â ââow the eff did you know it was me?!â and I say âItâs the way youâre âolding your drink!â Cuz âeâs always had this way of curling back âis little finger as if âeâs drinkinâ from the finest choy-nah. E âas these delicate liâl âands, see...â
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 â he was in love with the man. The pairâs long-term relationship had outlasted all of âThe Quare Gegâsâ marriages put together. No wonder the story was related with such gusto and attention to detail, it was, after all, an epic romance.
â.... anyâow, at 400 hours, I âad to get back to base, but before I go âe takes me to one side anâ âe says â ââErbie, if you quit the army ân become my chauffeur and personal bodyguard, Iâll guarantee you a 50 knicker a week for starters, bed-ânâ-board - all the skirt you can âandle â plus -- youâll get to see the world without âavinâ to worry abaht gettinâ yer âead blown orf!â So I laugh ânâ say Iâll 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-âahnd and forgot abaht it.  But it didnât stop âim. When âe asked for the fird and final time, I quit and Iâve been at âis beck-ânâ-call ever since.â
âWas it worth it, Herbie?â Malky asked.
The chauffeur thought long and hard about the question before answering. When he did, his voice was more mature and thoughtful, âE can be an âandful sometimes, but artistic people is prone to temperament, itâs âow theyâs able to do the fings they do. But Iâve learned âow to balance it aht. Iâve been all over the world, visited all the major cities ânâ âistorical places... Iâve met a lotta Very Important People â besides movie stars anâ showbiz folk, thereâs been world leaders, presidents, kings and queens, writers, top sportsmen â so whenever people awsk ââow do you put up wiv âim?â I say âtake a look at me passport, me photos and me bank accahnt, moosh - thereâs âow!ââ He turned to Malky and told him earnestly, âSee, Iâve gotta lotta great memories. Iâve seen âistory beinâ made. Iâve supped Earl Grey wiv Picasso and knocked back bourbon wiv Dean ânâ Frank. Iâve made an omelette fer Einstein anâ cocktails for Noel Coward. Iâve played cards wiv Kate Hepburn for two straight days - and lost. No matter what the olâ boy gets up to, I wouldn't trade those memories for the world.... Umm...â Something crossed his mind. When he spoke again, it was in a more tentative tone, âLook, before we get to the âahse, Iâd better mention the incident on Friday night wot started âim off.â
âWhy? What happened on Friday night?â asked Malky, a little disconcerted.
âI was away visitinâ a lady-friend in Dublin, anâ apparently all the lights went aht and the âuge grandfavver clock in the lobby fell over and smashed on the floor -â the boss was frightened outta his wits -- fought it was burglars â so âe pressed one of the panic buttons and Charlie, our âead of security, drove up to the âahse right away. But the power-cut musta shorted-aht the alarm system cuz âis swipe-card wouldn't work and the master key wouldn't turn in the lock! So, finkinâ âeâs under siege, the olâ man pressed the button that calls the Old Bill, but by the time they got there, Charlie âad managed to get in ânâ calm the old man down. Then the lights come on again â not just the lights that wuz on when the power went aht â but every single light in the âole ahse including the bedrooms, bathrooms, the ballroom -- everywhere. By this stage, the boss is goinâ mental. Really, really scared.
âWhen I got back I got a right bollockinâ as if it was all my fault â like I âad the temerity to âave a night off! Any'ow, me ânâ Charlie searched that ahse from top to bottom; the cops  ânâ the security lads looked round the grounds, but we come up empty... there wuz nothinâ up iv the fuse-box, no sign of tamperinâ or anyfink dodgy.â
âWould the grandfather clock be easy to topple?â said Malky.
âWell, itâs set into the wall ânâ itâs solid, antique Bavarian pine, 9 foot tall wiv a ruddy great bell in it; itâs got a solid gold pendulum and it weighs around a two-and-an-âalf ton, I couldnât pull it dahn on me own.â Gorringe coughed then said, âAnd thatâs the ovver fing... the bossâ been back on the bottle ever since, and if you know anyfink about the boss, youâll know that âeâs a bit... volatile when âeâs on the sawse. So, ignore any strange behaviour, if yâknow what I mean.â
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, âAnd âere we are, my beauties! My little âome-from-âome!â
Herbie slowed the limo to a funereal crawl as they entered a particularly picturesque little village, âAhhh, âave you ever been a little place like this before?â he asked, with a little smirk that hinted at a rhetorical question.
Malky honestly confessed, âNo. Iâm sure Iâd remember if I had.â
âYou wouldnât âave. This âere is a protected community, see. Only a few people know about it.â
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. âWhatâs it called?â
âBogmire. Pretty lousy name for such a laavly little âamlet, innit?â
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.
âItâs like a little oasis from bygone days, innit? You feel as if youâve slipped frew a time-warp â eh?! But the funny thing is â it ain't Irish! See, most of the people âoo live âere are descended from English peasant stock! Most of âem is originally from the wilds oâ Cornwall! The Duke of Roxborough brought âem ovah to build Pagham âAhse ân âe built these âere cottages for âem â and believe it or not, they lasted through the rebellion cos of a pact between the Irish rebels and the Roxborough family ân theyâve been âere ever since. When âe bought the ahse the only proviso wuz that we keep the staff and let the Supplicants â thatâs their religion, that is â live ânâ work on the estate.â Herbie went on to tell of the localsâ strange customs and bizarre lifestyle in a disbelieving tone, â... and they've been doinâ it fer 200 years straight!â
Malky looked around, âAnd this is all part of the estate?â
âYep, it came with the ahse!â
This didnât 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 âlike a bunch of weasels attacking a lionâ and that Britain should âstring âem upâ), 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 heâd 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, âDora oo runs the Poke is an Outsider, meaninâ sheâs married to one of the Supplicants so sheâs allowed to run a shop. None of âem is allowed to âave 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 liâl cottage ovah there.â he pointed to one of the gleaming residences across the square...â Herbie opened the door, âIâm just gonna go in and get the Sunday papers ânâ a tube of Polos... Iâll only be a sec.â
Malky wound down his window to inhale the compliment of delicious odours to accompany the view: flowers, mown lawns and more flowers, âvery 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 driverâs-side-window. Whatâs this? Malky shrank back in his seat....The rider casually unzipped his black leather jacket and reached inside â 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 â he lunged out of the open widow, shook his fist and yelled, âPiss-off ya bastard! Get that f**kinâ thing outta my face or Iâll put my foot in yer arse!â
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 bikerâs leathers like Zindyâs 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 motorcycleâs 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 heâd ever seen before.
Malky was fit to be tied, âIâm not gonna tell you again, friend! If you donât fuck aff immediately Iâm gonna come out there and stick that camera where the sun donât shine!!â
âThatâs a take!â The biker cried, packing away his camera, âThank you sir! Have a nice day!â he said and roared off, leaving a cloud of blue smoke in his wake. âBloody paps â see â this is what happens when you do somebody a favour,â 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 heâd heard the echoes of ancient battles in the silence of the first light of dawn; heâd seen the children of ancient tribes playing on a busy motorway at noon; heâd seen 16th century Spanish galleons off the coast at Cork -â 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, âDid I âear a moâorbike?â he asked, âI was chattin' to Dora and I could've swawn I âeard a rumblinâ sahnd...?â
âJust a guy askinâ for directions,â said Malky, âso I told him where to go...â Â
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.Â
âEmil! What the f**k?! Go get dressed â weâre late as it is!â shouted Fran, ever the fiery redhead, dressed to the nines in her Sunday-best, rifling through her purse in search of her car keys, âI told you to get ready an hour ago!â They were supposed to be going to her nieceâs 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. âWhere the f**k are they?!!â
Emil watched her, his arms hanging by his sides, and said, âIâm not going. I have the shits.âÂ
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, âHah! I knew it! Mom warned me â âhe wonât go â he doesnât even own a suitâ! Well, it suits me â I donât have to watch you get drunk and throw up in the swimming pool or make a pass at a waitress... Owww-ouch!â sheâd cut her knuckle on the edge of a jagged tuna can, âF**k this!â she kicked the bin and ran to the sink to rinse it, screaming, âF**K! F**K! WHERE THE F**K ARE MY F**KING KEYS!!â
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 didnât hand them over. It wasn't that he didnât 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, âAh - hah! The spare! I knew Iâd put it somewhere!!â She had one last look in the mirror to check her mascara and top-up her lip gloss, â... If you go out make sure you turn on the alarm.... and if you go back to bed - donât f**king smoke! Thatâs a new quilt and I donât want it looking like somebodyâs used it for target practice!â She strode down the hall to the front door; a few seconds later she came stomping back, madder than ever âYou f**king asshole! You've done it again!! You've boxed me in! I canât get my car out!âÂ
Emil remained silent.Â
âEmil!â She approached him and looked up into his dull, blue eyes, âEMIL! You have to move your car! Are you listening to me?!
He stood and stared.
âEmil!â
âSee you later, legislator,â 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, âAre you stoned?â
âTake my car.â He dangled his keys on his pinkie.
She grimaced at the smell of his breath, glowered and said, âListen... I donât know what the hell youâre on or what you are trying to pull, but my mother will be frothing at the mouth -â I was supposed to pick her 15 minutes ago -â this is a crisis!â
He dangled his keys.
She drew herself up and bawled in his face, âGET OUT THERE AND MOVE YOUR F**KING CAR!â
He jangled his keys.
She slammed her key down on the table and snatched his in one frighteningly limber move, âRIGHT! â Iâm calling your bluff, asshole â Iâm 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?!â
Emil stared back, unblinking and blank, and said, âIâll miss you, Fran. Youâre alright.â Â
âF**k you, asshole!â 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, âAs you can imagine, the boss is fanatical about security,â he pointed to the CCTV cameras perched atop the pillars either side of the gate, âthis place âas got more cameras than Fort Knox.â
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 heâd 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 heâd carefully nurtured over the years â 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 -â 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 Ollieâs pedigree remained a tantalising mystery. He was certainly an Irishman by birth but refused to say anything about his childhood other than he was âeducated by sadistic nunsâ; 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 heâd âhone his artâ performing slapstick in vaudeville, readying himself for stardom; two years later, at the age of 16, he was discovered by the celebrated âKing Of Comedyâ Max Sennett. The talkies were the new big thing, and at a time when most silent stars were finding it impossible to âsound funnyâ, Ollieâs 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 PathĂŠ News presentations; then, when he got âseriousâ 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 â46 he went under the name of Oliver Laphen, stopped doing interviews and avoided all âthat red carpet bolloxâ, preferring to leave the PR to his co-stars and directors whoâd either guardedly sing his praises or proffer equivocal comments that were actually thinly-veiled digs, such as: â[working with] Mr Laphen was an experience Iâll never forget... but Iâm trying.â (Lauren Bacall) âHe brings a piece of himself to every role and playing the villain comes so naturally [to him]...â (David Niven), but one vox-pop in particular had stuck in in Malkyâs 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 âfeed the beastâ.â Regardless of what his fellow-travellers thought of him, and how big a pain in the arse he was, Ollie Laphen = Box Office Gold.
âThere she is!â 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.
âJeez â- house is too small a word, Herbie! This makes Windsor Castle look like a B&B!â 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, âImpressive, eh? It used to belong to the 10th Duke of Roxborough til âe fell on âard-times ân the boss made him an offer he couldnât refuse. We rent it aht when weâre ahtta town. Itâs very popular wiv the Arabs ân the Chinese. Itâs got 30 rooms, swimming pool, gym, ballroom, sauna -- it even has its own church -- the works!â 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 Malkyâs attention was drawn to another vehicle parked to the right of the steps: namely, the same Harley-Davison touring bike heâd 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, âWhatâs he doing here?â
âMore to the point, âow the âell did âe get in?!â said Herbie, slowly unclipping his seat belt and opening his door, âIâll âandle this...â Herbie got out, straightened his cap and walked toward the diminutive figure, âCan I âelp you, mate...?â 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.
âUncle Herb â you look great!â trilled a cherub-cheeked, heavily-freckled, copper-headed American kid in his mid-20s, brimming with childlike-enthusiasm, speaking quickly and excitedly, âListen - weâre gonna be shooting in July! Iâm here to scout for locations and do the final negotiations...!â The lad stopped short when he noticed Malky trudging across the gravel.
âSorry, Mr Calvert sir, I got a bit distracted then,â said Herbie, putting a hand on the young manâs shoulder, âThis âereâs Kristof Katz, Mr Laphenâs grandson. Kris â this-âere is Mr Malcolm Calvert âooâs come to... erm... sort out a little... plumbing problem...â
The young Master Katz took off a leather gauntlet, shook Malkyâs hand, chattering incessantly, âVery pleased to meet you sir, Iâm 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 couldnât resist capturing that intense anger! I guess itâs the habit of lifetime -- Herb here will tell ya -- Iâve hadda movie-camera in my mitt since I was old enough to lift one â isnât that right Uncle Herb? Iâm a total geek!â
Malky gaped at him as if heâd arrived from another planet.
âYer caffeinated up-to the-eyeballs again!â said Herbie, playfully clipping him round the ear and scolding him like a naughty schoolboy, âjet-lagged, ridinâ rahnd windinâ cahntry roads on a bleedinâ two-wheeled deff-trap?! Are yâ off your trolley, boy?! You coulda been killed -- thereâs farm vehicles on these-âere roads, you coulda turned an âairpin bend anâ wahnd-up in the blades of a combine âarvester or summink!!â
Kris apologised for his over-enthusiasm and slowed down, â... anyhow, pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr Calvert,â he turned and pointed behind him, âwelcome to Ollie Towers, The Laphen House -- Xanadu -- whatever you wanna call it.â
Now that he was up close, Malky saw the family resemblance; the lad was short, around 5â 5â, the same steely-blue peepers and winsome dimples that had graced millions-upon-millions of magazine covers since 1930. Malky felt compelled to comment, âI must say, you are the spitting image of your granddad.â
Herbie was gushing again, âNot only that -- but heâs inâerited his talent too! Kris is a movie director!â he tweaked the ladâs cheek and pretended to punch his jaw.
Kris went all aw-shucks and kicked at the gravel with the toe of a leather boot, âWell, Iâm about to direct my first full-length feature. Iâm very excited. Itâs been in development hell for 3 or 4 years and now itâs finally in pre-production.â Â
ââEâs like a son to me!â Herbie put an arm around Krisâ shoulders, tweaked his cheek again and beamed, âwhen he was a nipper âis mum used to leave âim wif me on those days when she was... erm... uvverwise occupied...â
Kris, utterly unfazed, merrily took up the slack and filled in the blanks, âWhat Herb wonât tell you is my mom â Annelise Katz, nĂŠe Laphen - had a lotta âsubstance abuse issuesâ 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 Laphenâs daughters getting arrested for possession in the late 60s. In fact, from what he could remember, all 8 of the Quare Gegâs children had âissuesâ of one kind or another]. Thankfully sheâs been clean and sober for the past 6 years and now sheâs counselling other women with similar issues...â he squeezed the hand dangling on his shoulder, âSo I have this man to thank for givinâ me a relatively normal childhood! We used to play on the film sets in the studios when gramps was making a movie - thatâs where I got my training!â
Herbie blushed, âAch, it wasn't ideal, but where else was I gonna take ya? You know your granddad always âas to âave me arahnd to fetch and carry for âim. And watchinâ a film get made is like watchinâ paint dry, if you awsk me - itâs a wonder it didnât put you off movies for life!â
They were distracted by the sound of paws hitting gravel. The old dog had finally exited the Rolls but didnât join them; he kept close to the car and watched from a distance. âWhassup wiv the pooch, âeâs gawn a bit shy, âin âe?â asked Herbie.
Malky called out to him: âWhatâs the matter with you, Hopalong? What has you all cagey, huh? Come over here and say hello!â
âAww, look, heâs only got three legs,â 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, âYou donât have to be afraid of me, boy, I wouldn't hurt a fly! No I wouldn't...â he reached out
Broo recoiled and whimpered: Get off me, you idiot... youâre killing me!
But Kris carried on, unaware of the old dogâs distress, âEasy, boy, I wonât hurt you...â
AARGH!!
Kris cuddled him, stroked his back and made silly noises, âEh? Whoâs a handsome fella, then? You must quite the VIP, huh? A German Shepherd whoâs so important he gets to ride around in the back of a limousine...?â
Mercifully, he was rudely interrupted by a loud voice from above, âWhere the f**k have you been, Gorringe?!â
The boy stopped petting and turned away â 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, âand what-the-f**kâs that wee ginger gobshite doing on my property?!â
Malky looked up and regarded their prospective client. His collar length grey hair was thinning and unruly as if heâd 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.
âGramps! How-the-hell are you?! Itâs me, Kris!â The boy put the helmet on the seat of the Harley and joyfully bounded-up the steps two-at-a-time, âso goo-ood to see you, dude...â he embraced the frail, bristly figure - who immediately pushed him away. âGitcher filthy hands affa me, ye wee shite!! Iâm not senile yet -- I know damn-well who you are!â Laphen put his fists on his hips and sneered in a high-pitched whine, âWhaddya 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 oâ yours â oh yeah, I forgot â heâs back in the bankruptcy courts -- yet-again -- after yet-another one of his half-assed business-deals went tits-up in the water â still - why break the habit of a lifetime, huh? Once a loser, always a loser!â 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.Â
Doing his best to suppress a fit of giggles, Kris reassured him in a sober tone, âSâOK gramps, donât have a cow, man. I donât need any of your filthy lucre, after all -- we've got a backer! And for the record â- Iâve never asked you for anything in my life, you old goat -- and you know it!â
Laphen stepped closer, âWhy are you here then?â
âTo see you you...â said Kris, smirking.
Laphen went nose-to-nose with his grandson and growled, âSo, you donât need me?! Well! You've seen me! Now piss off!â
Kris put a hand on the old manâs shoulder and smiled, warmly, âC'mon, weâd better get you inside, itâs quite chilly out here and we wouldn't want you catching cold, now, would we?â
The old man swatted the hand away like a particularly stubborn piece of lint, âStop treatinâ me like a feckinâ invalid! Iâm perfectly capable of walkinâ unaided â Iâm not in a feckinâ wheelchair yet!â in the same breath, he broke away, looked down at Herbie, pointed at Malky and barked, âIs this the guy?â
âYessah!â Herbie replied, standing to attention, as if addressed by a superior officer, âthis is Mr Malcolm Calvert, the, erm... consultant from Brodir.â
âWell â donât just stand there like a spare cock at a hen-night! Bring him in!â
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, âChirpy little git, isn't he?â Â
Herbie slammed the lid shut and explained in a low voice, âDonât let the olâ Scrooge act give ya the wrong impression, Mr C. Kris is the apple of the old manâs eye - âe dotes on that boy. This is the way they speak to each uvvah. Thereâs no real malice intended so itâs best if you just let âem get on wiv it. Neevah wants to admit that itâs all a big contest to see whoâll crack first â- it usually ends in âuge laughs all-round. Only fing is the old manâs been âittinâ the bottle again. Iâm afraid âeâll end-up sayinâ somefink really âurtful to the boy and âe might never come back. Kris is the only grandchild âoo ever comes to visit, see -- so for all of our sakes -- I âope they chill-aht 'n have a civilised conversation.â
âUh-huh,â 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 theyâd forgotten someone; he looked back and saw that his trusty companion was finding it hard to drag himself up, âOch, câmon Broo, theyâre not as steep as the stairs at the inn -- and you manage to climb those when you fancy a drink from the bog!â 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 -â 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 â- by the time he embraced the old man - it had evaporated completely! One second it was there, the next â 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: thereâs 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, thereâs 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 Statesâ border, on the Peace Bridge at Fort Erie, between Ontario and Buffalo, New York State...
âSir? Sir... hello...
âSir?!
âWind down the window, sir!â
Somewhere... off in the distance Emil heard a manâs 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 Franâs Volvo, at what appeared to be the US/Canadian border!
âSir, would you please wind down your window?â the muffled voice barked âSIR?!â
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?!Â
But the inner-turmoil, dislocation and downright terror didnât 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. Â If this is a dream, itâs 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. Iâm driving my wifeâs 1979 Volvo estate dressed like an extra from One Flew Over the Cuckooâs Nest! This has to be a dream! Iâm gonna wake up at any minute...
Meanwhile, somewhat surprised that he couldn't smell any liquor, the guard returned to the business in hand, âMay I see your passport, sir?!â 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, Emilâs eyes refused to blink. The Inner-Emil wanted to grab his tie and shout: Stop me! Iâm 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 whoâs pulling the strings?
The guard was getting impatient; he pointed at the passenger seat, and snapped, âYour passport, sir!!
Emilâs outer voice said âPassport?â
The guard pointed, âItâs there. Right beside you, sir.â
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 heâd 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.
âWhat brings you to the US, Mr Labatt?â
Emil heard himself say, âDoctor Labatt. Iâm on my way to visit an elderly relative, if you must know. Sheâs very ill. Dying. Itâs an emergency.â
What?!
â... Are you planning to drive all the way, Dr Labatt?â the guard asked, doubtfully.
The inner-Emil wanted to cry out: I donât wanna drive anywhere! I donât know why Iâm here or what Iâm doing! Please call my wife, Frances â sheâll come and get me!! In fact â arrest me! Take me into custody right now!!
Instead he heard his outer voice reply, dryly, âYes, officer. Driving all the way.â
The guard handed back the passport, sighed heavily and asked pointedly, âDr Labatt, have you been imbibing today? Narcotics, alcohol, have you taken any prescription drugs that might affect your ability to drive?â
This could work to his advantage: if Iâm cheeky enough they might arrest me on suspicion of DUI! Alas, the invisible ventriloquist kept the voice calm and answered succinctly, âI most certainly have not been imbibing, officer. Iâm a well-respected forensic scientist and a senior lecturer at the University of Toronto. Iâm on my way to Baltimore to see an elderly relative with a terminal illness. Itâs matter of some urgency. I need to get on.â
Baltimore?!
The guard handed back the passport and enquired, brusquely, âCarrying any foodstuffs, livestock including pets, liquor or sundries that may be considered contraband by the United States of America?â
âNo, sir.â
âThen, would you mind popping the trunk, sir?â
Emil didnât stir.
âSir... pop the trunk?â
âThis is my wifeâs car and I donât know where the trunk popper is.â
âTrunk popperâ?! Listen to me! Arrest me, you fool! Iâm frickinâ nuts!!
Shaking his head, the guard reached in and groped under the wheel; âThere she is,â 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 heâd got back from the dig in Kildare 2 years ago when they discovered the bog mummies (heâd abandoned the annual expeditions after his little fling with Niamh). Lately, heâd been prone to intermittent lapses in consciousness and bouts of short-term memory-loss. Heâd 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, âEverything seems to be in order, Dr Labatt...â he leaned on the roof and spoke close, âListen doc, if I was you Iâd stop at the first motel I came to and Iâd get myself a couple of hours sleep. Then Iâd have a shower and a change of clothes and Iâd drive the rest of the way feeling wide awake ân 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 travellinâ the same road. Whaddya say to that, doc?â
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 heâd do something so outrageous theyâd have to take him in -- but it never came. Finally, the guard sighed and patted the roof with the flat of his hand, âWelcome to the United States, doctor.â
Before the lights went out, Emil heard his voice reply with a curt, âThank you. Have a nice day.â 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.
âPut on yer seat-belt, Cate, luv. You donât have to sit in the baby-seat but you still have to strap yerself in,â said Somerville, getting into the driverâs seat.
In the back, Cate turned to her younger sister, âSee, Cathy â he called it a âbabyâ seat!ââ
âMommeeeeeeee!â Cathy wailed.
Pat got into the passenger seat and took control: âSsshhhh, Cathy.... Cate donât tease Cathy! Youâll start her off -- then baby Clare will start!â She playfully slapped her husbandâs shoulder, âThatâs your fault, daddy! Itâs a CAR seat not a BABY seat, silly -â it even says so on the little label âCar Seatâ â- so-there, Miss smarty-pants-Caitlin -- you were wrong!â
âDaddy said it not me.â
âIt was a slip of the tongue, Pat.â
âHe didnât mean to say it, Cathy. Iâll never hear the feckin end of this... will you be more careful what you say!â
âIâm not a baby Iâm 4 and 4 months! I have to sit in it cuz Iâm too wee for the seat belt!â
âThatâs right! You tell âem Cathy! Itâs a seat for small people, not babies! Cathyâs very sensitive and unassertive and Iâm trying to build her confidence!â
âDaddy, whatâs âpolice brutalityâ?â asked Cate, apropos of nothing.
âWhere did you hear about âpolice brutalityâ?â said Somerville, looking at her in the rear-view mirror.
âOne of the older girls shouted it when Sister Marie dragged her into the bogs to wash her face.â
âToilets, Ladies, loo or lavatory, please, Cate, dear. What are bogs?â said Pat, sternly.
âSorry mommy: âBogs are Irish swamps...ââ 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 monkeyâs 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 âhey-dayâ 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 â you couldn't help but smile. Malky couldn't help but remark, âWhatever happened to that sweet liâl guy, eh?â
The burly chauffeur didnât take the bait and doggedly maintained his chummy, sunny disposition, providing information with the patter of a well-informed tour-guide, âThat used to reside in the foy-yer at Madame Toussauds in Lahndahn! They replaced it wiv a more recent model in the 70s anâ the boss brought the originals back âere when he bought the ahse. This one was done in â38, just after his first full-length feature: Ollie and Molly Strike Oil!â Herbie moved to the right of the connecting archway and unconsciously adopted an almost identical pose to the grinning effigy on the left, âThis way, Mr Calvert. Iâll take you to yer room and you can freshen up ân that ân we can tawk about the âsituationâ over dinnah.â
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: âLaphenâs Lear is a masterclass!â). 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 â 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 didnât feel excluded, there were a few tarantulas strategically attached to various pillars and posts.
Malky gaped and gasped, âWow! Did Ollie kill all these himself?!â
This time Herbie did seem a wee bit uncomfortable, âNah, âe commissioned âem from a taxi-dermistâs in Sarf Africa where they can get you anything...â He sniffed and shook his head, âI âate it too, to tell the troof â I never come frew âere if I can avoid it. Itâs the old manâs sense off ooma, see â he likes to lull visiâors into a false sense of security then - aargh! They get the shock of their lives,â he reached behind a curtain and threw a switch -- the animalsâ eyes shone bright red and and roared in their respective voices. âThe boss âates animals, see â- he got rid of all the livestock âcept for stables when âe bought the ahse. âE âates âorses most of all. âE got thrown by a donkey when âe was doinâ a cameo in Around the World in Eighty Days in â55 or â56 â- âe walked orf the set and refused to âave anyfink to do with animals evah again! Animals and kids. If he could get ridda the crows heâd be âappy.â
Broo found the menagerie obscene and growled accordingly.
Their attention was briefly diverted by shouting in a room somewhere further in: â... Will you quit nagginâ me â yeâre worse than a feckin wife!â
âNO! I wonât stop til you see sense! If I donât say it â who will!?! Youâre cracking up!! Youâre a delusional... egomaniacal narcissist! Youâre like Stalin without the people-skills...!â
Herbie quickly ushered his guests into the lobby and closed a connecting door turning the voices into incoherent murmurs, but Malky had heard enough. Herbieâs stoic exterior slipped, he got jittery and muttered something about an âInquisitionâ 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, âBig f**ker, innit?â
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, âLook, Mr Calvert... I donât know âow to say this... what I mean to say is.... you might âear certain fings whilst you is âere... and I donât like âavinâ to ask... but weâd be grateful if you would sign, for the want of a better phrase, a gag order.â
Malky shook his head, âLike I said, Herbie, I hate the press as much as âoul Ollie, but I donât feel comfortable signing that sort of thing. Cuz if there is anythinâ iffy goinâ on â Iâm not sayinâ there is â but should we detect signs of chicanery or skulduggery in the course of our âinvestigationâ -- like, say, we uncover a plot to get the olâ bugger certified and bleed him dry or rewrite his will -- a gagging order could severely hinder an official investigation, and, when allâs said and done, Iâm on the side of law and order.â He held up his right hand, âBut if it makes you feel any better â as far as petty gossip and scandal-mongering is concerned -- my lips are sealed,â he turned, looked down at Broo and added, glumly, â... canât speak for the dog, though...â
Broo grunted, still too stupefied to take anything in. Â
In light of such an earnest assurance, Herbie relaxed a little and explained, âUm well, the âInquisitionâ I mentioned refers to some recent sackinâs in the last week or two. âEâs fired a coupla security guards, the assistant gardener and the young gal who âelps out wiv the âahsework on Tuesdays ân Fursdays!â
âWhy did he sack them?â
âCos somebody leaked some gossip to an American tabloid ân it could only âave come from the staff, so âe hadda clear-aht.â Herbie took a deep breath and spoke in a half-whisper, âSo you can see how bad it is âere. Itâs got to the point where the only people âe trusts is me and the âahsekeeper, Mrs Sparkes - and âe only trusts âer cuz sheâs from the village and they believes all this âaunted âouse bollox.â
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, âUncle Herb! Is it true? Heâs sacked Scanlon?!â Kris shouted from the hall, clearly incensed. The three turned and looked down; Herbie maintained eye contact but didnât answer; his uneasy silence said it all. âHe has?! Shit! Where did he go?â
Herbie lowered his head, looked at his shoes and said, âNobody knows. He packed up ân walked aht wivvaht a word ân weâve âeard nuffink since.â
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, âThis is such bullshit, Uncle Herb --Â I was working with Scanlon -- he was helping me with the movie -- what did he do?!â
Herbieâs head dropped, âLook Kris, yer grandpawâs been âavinâ a bit of bovver lately and...â
âAnd whereâs the cat? Donât tell me heâs fired him too?!â
âHe ran away.â
âHuh?! Fey Ray ran away? I not frigginâ surprised! The entire estate is a no go area for anything with more than two legs!â 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.
âDo ever stop and think: âhey, maybe Iâm the problem?â â cuz unless you straighten-out youâre gonna die a very lonely old man...â âAch, blow it out yer arse, ye ginger shite-hawk...!â
A door slammed and the squabbling voices became muffled and unintelligible again. Herbie put a hand to his brow and groaned to himself, âKris, son, you couldn't-a picked a worse time to pay us a surprise visit...â
âWho was Scanlon? The butler?â asked Malky.
âNo, groundskeeper, but he might as wellâve been,â Herbie replied, unhappily, ââE did all the odd-jobs arahnd the ahse. Lifetimeâs service â gone - jus-like-that - phfft! Kris anâ âim wuz thick as thieves too. âE knew all the stories about this place. Kris used to sit up for hours on end listeninâ to âim but Scanlon and the boss never really got along â Scanlon came wiv the ahse, see, just like all the servants â but âe wuz a bit of a law onto âisself. When we checked, we found âirregularitiesâ in our finances. The boss confronted him, he couldnât answer, ân that was that.â
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, âWere all these recorded by Ollie?â asked Malky, genuinely impressed.
Herbie, pleased to have a diversion, nodded and cheerfully slipped back into tour-guide mode, âOh, people forget âe was a great crooner. In the 50s he recorded loadsa LPs and they wuz big âits all ovah the world - not-so-much in the US or Britain - but âere in Ireland ân France ânâ Germany. Â Canât walk dahn the street in Japan. We go over to Tokyo every now-ânâ-then and âe records all these TV commercials for âem. Liquor, potato chips, candy bars, mostly. âBig bucks for a load of olâ bollox!â âe says.â
âI know how that feels,â 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, childâs 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 Tennielâs 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 kidsâ cartoon. ââEreâs the TV,â he said, opening the doors of a huge white sideboard to reveal a 38â screen, âIf you wanna take a walk round before dinnah -â go âead, nowhereâs off limits -â oh, part of the east-wingâs locked-up, but I can get the keys from the safe and take you down later. Thereâs some PJs ân wot-not in the dresser drawer and fresh towels in the en suite. Thereâs the phone,â he pointed at an ornate, art deco phone, âjust dial 9 for an outside line.â
Astonished by his surroundings, Malky could only gaze and nod his head.
Herbie clicked his heels and stood to attention, âThereâs plenty of âot-waâah if you wanna âave a showah and a shave or wot-evah. Dinnah will be served at 8pm sharp (it was presently 5:50pm), Iâll bang the gong. In the meantime, make yerself at âome 'n Iâll see you at 8,â 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. âBit sordid for a room that looks like a nursery,â Malky opined, flopping down and looking up at his reflection, âGod, Iâm getting old. Remind me to close that curtain before I go to bed â if I wake up and see meself in the morning Iâm likely to scare meself to death.â He kicked off his shoes and writhed in the welcoming sea of satiny-softness, like a Labrador pup in an unfurled toilet roll, âOh, I just wanna sleeeeep... wake me up in September when the babyâs born...â
Broo growled quietly, thatâs 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, âHmm. maybe I should ring her. This is our first night apart since we moved in together. Iâd better give her a progress report.â He rolled over, picked up the art-deco phone and called the inn.
âWell, whatâs Ollieâs house like?! Is it dead grand or what? I wanna know everything!â
He gave her a detailed description of the house so far, right up to and including the mirror in the canopy over the bed, â... the stories are true, though -- Jolly Ollie is one grouchy oulâ shite. I donât think Iâve ever met such an obnoxious old git in all me life.â he said, shaking his head. âZindy, what the hell am I doing here? This isn't me.â
Zindy had obviously been thinking about it too, âListen luvver, this ainât a justification or an excuse, but both of us know that thereâs certain things we canât explain away with logic. I mean, look what âappened with Barry McKee? Just put yer Sherlock hat on and look at it from a detectiveâs perspective; treat it as a sorta murder-mystery weekend. What about Broo? He should be able to let you know if thereâs anything spooky about the place?â
âI dunno, he seems a bit drowsy, like heâs half-asleep,â said Malky, giving the old dog a cursory glance.
Of course Iâm sluggish, you oaf -- this place is sucking the life out of me! Canât you tell?!
But the semi-telepathic link remained infuriatingly out of order, âIt was a long drive. Heâs probably knackered.â Then, much to Brooâs chagrin, they forgot about him and exchanged love yous, miss yous and take cares before hanging up.
âHave you noticed somethinâ?â said Malky, rhetorically, going to the en-suite and turning on the light; he looked around, âHmmm,â he opened the bathroom cabinet: the mirror was on the inside of the door. âWhilst me ân Zindy were talking, it suddenly occurred to me -â there isn't a mirror to be seen around the house -- even the one above this bed is covered by a curtain.â Malky nodded, âItâs ironic, isn't it: the big Alice in Wonderland freak who doesnât have Looking Glass â- an egotist who treats you to a personalised autobiographical stroll through his glory days but doesnât like to look at his own reflection? I find that somewhat strange...â
5 minutes ago: Zindy put the receiver back in its cradle, sat back and winced, âSettle down, kiddo,â she said, patting the elongated face of Jimi Hendrix stretched across her bump, âI still have a gearbox to sort out before we âave a nice bath ân go to bed.â 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 Purpleâs 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. Iâll never be alone again
Zara âZindyâ 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 boyâs 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), theyâd 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 -- whatâs more they didnât care what their niece got up to so long as she didnât 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 didnât like her new stepdad and he didnât like her (a snooty, middle-aged bank manager who read the FT and went to Mass twice a week). She preferred Doryâs long-term boyfriend Tam Horsham who drove the Motherâs Pride bread van; but he was too common, apparently, âHe eats his dinner off a tray and smokes in the bath!â 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 âLooney Lindsay Sistersâ (as the locals called them). Then puberty hit, so did a lifelong passion: motorbikes. She found a broken down old â39 Triumph Tiger in the barn and with some help from Lottie (âIt belonged to an old boyfriend who left it here in â42 when he went to war... but he never came back for it so I assumed the worst.â) 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! âTearaway Tomboy Triumphs!!â Consequently, she met dozens of motorcycle enthusiasts and a lot of them just happened to be Hellâs Angels. Thatâs 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-auntsâ farm. According to her second year teacher in her annual report (Zindy refused to go to boarding school and went to the local comprehensive): âShe has shown a flair for art and is very intelligent â 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....â
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 (âwanna shack-up?â) and she couldn't say no. So began her lifelong âthingâ for older men â the daddy syndrome, probably.
The cohabitation with the woodwork teacher was as passionate as it was incendiary â he turned out to be a secret drinker â 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 â âHeâs dried-out 3 times -â and heâs still the same mess he was when I first started in here 15 years ago! My advice lady â run as fast as them wee legs can take ya â find a fit young man with a good job!â She took this advice to heart, and a in a few months she met a recently widowed sculptor at a Henry Moore exhibition â- this time 40 years her senior; tall, with long grey hair who dressed like Tom Wolfe -â and got swept up in a whirlwind romance. âWhirlwindâ 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 werenât shy about letting her know. It was grist for Zindyâs 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 manâs 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: âThe stupid bitch is still sitting out in tâcorridor.â âSheâs only after âis money.â âShe looks about 9, makes you wonder...?â She heard every word, approached and told them in no uncertain terms she didnât want or need his money â 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 didnât trust her; that she was a little gold-digger. Meanwhile he was telling Zindy how ungrateful and spiteful his children were and how theyâd never done a dayâs work in their lives! She had to stand there and listen as they sneered and talked about the stranger with whom sheâd spent the last 2 years. It turned out he was a compulsive liar. His wives were all basket-cases by the time heâd 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 sheâd 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 Hellâs 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 âRaspoâ 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 ÂŁ30,000. 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 sculptorâs book-keeping and worked behind a bar in Germany for a few weeks; plus, Brodir mightâve been a rundown town, but it was a Mecca for bikers from all over Europe -- trade would be brisk â- she couldn't see what could possibly go wrong!
But you donât 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 â she preferred running things on her own â it was her name on the licence, her responsibility. She never asked about his business, she didnât want to know, but she assumed he was a small time dealer: grass and tabs. Then one day he said, âOh Zin, Iâm off to Dublin to do bouncer for a boxinâ match at the National Stadium!â 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 loverâs 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 Raspoâs 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 â 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 Malkyâs 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, âand itâs been beating for you ever since,â he said, in an uncharacteristic show of mawkish affection.Â
Good olâ 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; heâd made her a studio in the attic. (He never told what he was doing up there and she didnât ask; he just hammered and sawed and cursed whilst she went about her business. In the end heâd put a ribbon across the door for the grand unveiling. Heâd 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 â 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. Weâre broke but we ain't bust. Weâre just about keepinâ 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. Thatâs good, ain't it? Lots of meetings with property developers and councilmen: all very âestablishmentâ.
So 22 years later, what would she say to the silly girl standing on the table telling the world sheâll 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 feckinâ 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: âthe 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. Heâd been a bachelor all his life, heâd never met a woman he could live with, but Zindy was closest thing heâd ever had to a daughter â 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 sheâd only last a few weeks, and yet, thank God, here we are.Â
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, thatâs how the dog put it) â- which meant he was able to see the little glow in Zindyâs 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 heâd stand close â not too close â and look into her womb. Oh, but it was a joyous sight to behold, âLook at the miracle begin again,â he whispered, to no one in particular.
Zindy climbed up onto the draining board to close the window above the sink -â Sammy was jumping up and down, pulling at his silver beard, âAre ye mad woman?! Get down oâ that wâ ye!â 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, âLook at that floor! Thereâs engine oil down there! Yeâll slip ânâ go on yer hoop! Youâd better buck-up yer ideas, lady â thatâs a chile in there â not a bag oâ chips!â
âOh, Iâd love a bag oâ chips,â she said, apropos of nothing.
Sammy stood by the cooker as she toiled over the sizzling pan and talked to her unborn baby, âYour silly daddy doesnât 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 heâll be like when the innâs open for business...â Whether she was consoling a restless foetus or trying to convince herself, she didnât know. She stopped stirring and stared as she contemplated her certain future.
The old ghost saw the doubt in her eyes and fought Malkyâs case from his corner, âHeâs a decent sort who wonât let you down â- you have to grow up sometime, missy! Stop mooninâ about and think like a mammy!â
No, letâs 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 Cedricâs 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 victimsâ familiesâ 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. Heâd 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 nursesâ 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 SCICIâs 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 McKeeâs room.
âHello, Barry,â he said, quietly closing the door behind him and turning on the lights. The sudden blaze of brightness didnât 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.
âI must apologise, itâs been quite a while since I visited. Iâve been busy with other patients and projects, not to mention running this establishment, you know how it is. Iâve kept abreast of your progress, though... what there is of it.â Rossington slowly crossed the floor, talking in a casual manner as he approached the bed, âAnyway, Iâll get straight to the point: Iâve received some bad news regarding your case and I thought you should to be the first to hear it.â He sat in the chair by the bed and put the mirror on his lap, âThey've decided to take you off my hands, Barry. They say Iâve had enough time to prove youâre worth keeping alive. They say it would be mercy: âitâs cruelty not to let nature take its courseâ. No doubt theyâre under pressure from the families of the victims, not to mention that bastard Somerville. Whatever, youâre doomed, and thereâs nothing I can do to save you.â
As always, McKee remained silent and seemingly insensible.
âYou've shown no significant progress since that business with Niamh and Oona 2 years ago.â He tore off the latest print-out from the EEG and indicated the flat lines across the graph, âSee, nothing like the flurry of activity we recorded during those instances in 1989. Whyâs that, eh?â He scrunched the page into a ball and threw it into the corner. âIt all stopped when I took away the mirrors and had you moved you to this room, didnât it? Niamh and Oona lost their connection and have exhibited no psychic abilities since. Itâs no coincidence, is it, Barry?â
He stood up and held the mirror over McKeeâs face, âI know you use mirrors to reach out other telepaths and psychics,â he said, looking deep into McKeeâs unseeing eyes, âso Iâm having them re-installed, and you can do whatever is you do. Good or evil, I donât care anymore. I just need results, Barry. I need something to show for my work. If not, Iâll hand you over to the authorities and theyâll perform what will be, for all intents and purposes, a public execution...â
To Be Continued Next Month...
#Spindlefreck#fantasy#witchcraft#witches#psychics#irish fiction#demon#ghosts#mysticism#mystics#fantasy fiction
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SPINDLEFRECK: 21 novella-length episodes available here:Â Table of ContentsÂ
Witches, warlocks, necromancers... and thatâs just the kitchen staff.
#spindlefreck#fantasy#horror#irishfiction#demon#witches#witchcraft#mysticism#IRISH HUMOUR#dreams#telepathy#psychology#psychics#magic#demonic#Possession#serial killer#dogs#cats#cowgirls
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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.Â
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 âGozâ Gosling, wide-awake and desperately trying to escape his bonds before the Lumbsâ 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, thatâs 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! -- heâs 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 chauffeurâs 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. Thereâs a shadow in the doorway; as it enters, he glimpses the unmistakeable glint of gun metal. Oh shit. Somebodyâs come to finish the job... He takes a deep breath and braces himself for the worst.
âWhatâs going on in here?â growled a familiar, female voice.
He sighed with relief and relaxed, âJeezus. Lady Beth... Oh thank god itâs you. Please, please undo these straps. Thereâs no need to worry, now, Iâm completely back to normal...â
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, âAre you responsible for this?â she asked, nonchalantly.
Puzzled, Goz looked down at the straps and replied, âErm, no -- but whatever happened couldnâtâve happened at a better time -- it probably saved my life! Look at the size of that fucking knife!!â
She glanced at the Prussian wall-clock above the dresser, âSo... Xavier -- khanjar in hand -- collapsed on the dot of 12, just like everybody else, did he,â 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.
âWhat do you mean, just like everybody else?â he asked, perturbed.
She reached down, took the khanjar from Xavierâs 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. âAs if you didnât already know, the entire house is unconscious. But not you. You and Carla. Are you two up to something, Guy?â she asked, pointedly, cocking a hip and levelling the gun at his head.
âCarla? You mean the tall woman with the long silver hair... Is she Carla?â
âDonât fuck with me, Guy. You know full-well who Carla is.â
He shook his head, âIâve only just met her... what I mean is, we were in a dream together, but Iâve never actually met her in the flesh... Is she awake too?â
Her Ladyship responded with a disbelieving shake of her head and asked in a sceptical, pissed-off-voice, âWhat have you been up to, Guy?â
He was beginning to panic a bit now. He didnât 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, âPlease, Lady Beth, I know what you must think of me, what with all the trouble Iâve caused ân everything -- but I swear, Iâm OK now. Iâm not a... beast anymore. I need to see Carla and find out whatâs going on!â
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, âHmmmm. No fangs, no claws and no tail, now, but youâre still a bit of a wolf, aren't you, Guy,â she said, enigmatically, looking toward the window, âand the moon is still full.â
He shook his head, âWhat... what do you mean?â
She raised the gun again, âYou know what I mean. I canât trust you. How can I? Youâre an actor, after all. A great pretender! A professional fraud! You lie for a living,â she cocked the trigger, âYouâre lying now...â
He panicked and squirmed in his bonds, âIâm not -- Iâm not -- I really am sorry -- I mean... I transformed because of an anomaly in the Void! -- but the danger has passed! -- Iâm back to normal! -- back in the Real World...â Â Â
Before he could bluster any further, she whispered in his ear, âYou were one of Pritchardâs 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 âlook afterâ him... and youâve been âlooking afterâ him ever since. You've been like a brother to him.... for better or worse,â said she, mischievously, "and Pritchard put you up to this, too, didnât he? This is all part of the same sordid little scheme -- isn't it?!â
He knew what she was getting at and stridently rejected the insinuation, âThis has got nothinâ 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 thatâs as far as it went! I didnât know the d-demon had set a trap! I mean, look what happened to me -- I mutated into my avatar -- I almost died!! I-Iâm as much a victim as the rest of you!â 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, âLook, milady, I need to know whatâs going on just as much as you. So if youâd please unstrap me, we can go and see Carla and maybe she can explain it to both of us.â
She eyed his lithe, toned, personally-trained, movie-star-body with a disdainful curl of the lip, and remarked, âMy, how youâve 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?â 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, âbut I donât trust you. I donât trust any of Bernieâs Boys. I trust Xavier implicitly, though,â she stole a glance at her slumbering driver, âand 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.â Her voice coarsened as she jabbed the gun into his naval and moved closer, âWhat are you up to, Guy? Why go to SCICI?â she asked, her lips inches from his, then answered her own question before he could open his mouth, âitâs all about Pritchardâs stupid âMindchildâ project -- youâre in cahoots with Rossington, too -- aren't you?!âÂ
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, âNow, now, now, listen to me, Lady Beth, please, hear me out. Itâs true, Iâll admit it, I always had a thing for you, I mean -- we all did -- youâre an extremely attractive woman! And I did do some work for Bernie back in the day -- but Iâm not involved in anything now! Whatâs 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 Iâm just like you, milady -- Iâm not a full-âGßßl, Iâm only a Sensitive, a grunt, a drone -- Iâm not mentally equipped for any of it.â
She sat up and wagged the gun in his face naughty-naughty-fashion, âNevertheless, you performed dark magic with the aid of civilians, and that, as you well know, is strictly verboten. Biggest of no-nos. The Council wonât stand for it... and theyâre on the warpath as it is,â she paused then announced in a harsh whisper, âas if you didnât 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 Presidentâs Halloween Ball in DC [See Part 16], after which an attempt was made on my life,â She looked him in the eye, âand 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...?â
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. âLook, Lady Beth, I went to Rossington because I needed the scrapbook! Thatâs all!â He winced as she jabbed the muzzle into his sternum and growled, âYouâre lying. I can read you like a book.âÂ
He continued to shake his head vigorously and protest just as vehemently, âYes, yes, I made a mistake, OK, a BIG one -- but I helped put things right -- ask Carla and Jamie, they were there! -- theyâll explain everything...!â
She clamped a hand over his mouth and hissed in his ear, âKeep your fucking voice down, idiot! We have company! A Detective Inspector called. Heâs enchanted at present, but he could wake up at any moment -- canât have you squealing like a pig with a hot poker up its ass!â She duly got up, went to the dressing table, rummaged in a drawer and returned with a pair of thick, black woollen socks.
âWhat are you doing?â
âMy apologies in advance for the triteness of this gag, but Iâm afraid I really am going to have to put a sock in it,â 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, âOh, but this brings back such fond memories of life here in the mid-60s,â she trilled, as she moved down the bed to tighten his restraints and re-secure his wandering leg, âa 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 Iâd strip him and strap him to the bed, just like this,â she tweaked Gozâs left nipple, âthen Iâd bugger him with the barrel of a Kalashnikov,â she chuckled, evilly, âitâs funny how our deepest fears inform our darkest desires; isn't it, Guy?â
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. âThanks to our lovely longevity potions, Iâm the same woman I was back in those days,â she said, putting the pistol on the bedside locker. âIâm the same woman you idolised when you were a child, the same woman you fantasized about when you were a teenager,â she unbelted let her gown and let it fall to the floor then began unbuttoning her pyjama-top, âso 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...â
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 - werenât the only ones whoâd suffered what she was referring to as âthe big knock-outâ. âI must be the only one awake in the whole house,â 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 captorsâ rumbling snores.Â
âBloody typical! I get turned back into a proper girl again and thereâs no one here to see it or set me free!â She scowled, stuck out her tongue at her lovely new face in the smudgy glass and grumbled, âYou ân your crummy luck!â
She mightn't be a gruesome little-green-goblin anymore, but her circumstances remain the same. Sheâs still locked up like a monster in a horrible dungeon in a horrible house with horrible people who hate her and want her dead...Â
Or maybe not. Hmmmmm...
She had a notion: Maybe now that Iâm normal they wonât 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. Iâve 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. Waitâll he sees me now! So she skipped to her little dressing table and pulled out all the drawers, looking for clothes that werenât stained, ripped, plucked or full of holes. The best thing she could find was a short-sleeved, ankle length, white cotton nightdress sheâd never worn that used to belong to Alice the chambermaid. Huh! Bloody Alice! Two-faced bitch! Some friend she turned out to be! âWell, itâs better than nothing,â 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, Iâm as white as the nightdress and not a scale in sight!
That wasn't to say she felt completely ânormalâ. 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 darenât 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 Iâm 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.Â
Sheâd tried telekinesis before, sheâd 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 frigginâ worked! Well, the button definitely clicked -- she heard it -- she felt it -- but the door remained stubbornly shut. Then it occurred: the electricâs off. Thatâs why thereâs lanterns ân candles everywhere, dummy! But before she could ponder any further: âOh shiiiiiite...â 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 electricâs 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 theyâll 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: âOooooow...â Drooping head clasped in her hands, panting as if sheâd 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! Â
She tiptoed through the bodies of the sleeping guards - taking care not to trip on their rifles - stepped over Dreshâs 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 âDemonspawnâ - 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 Judgeâs 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 whoâd passed out on each otherâs 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-friendâs 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 bleedinâ hellâs he doinâ here? Is he one of us? She had a closer look:  Nope, he doesnât have an aura. He looks happy, though. Like an olâ drunk having a naughty dream. It was all very odd...
She gave herself a shake! What was she thinking of?! I donât 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 heâs 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 Jamieâs bed, her unconscious uncle at her feet, his head resting on a black velvet cushion, Mme Carla InfantĂŠ looks through Ivan Cochraneâs scrapbook for anything that might explain the current situation or yield a clue as to whatâs going to happen next; but as far as she can see itâs nothing but page after page of science-fiction themed adventure stories, childish drawings, photographs and clippings from 50s pop culture magazines.
âWell, missssy, what does it sssay?â hissed Noel the python, as he spiralled down the bedpost behind her.
Usually, Noelâs presence would be an unwelcome intrusion, but at that moment she found his company weirdly comforting and answered accordingly, âThese 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 boyâs scrapbook, nothing pertinent as far as I can see...â she replied, gloomily. She looked down at her uncle and shivered, âOne has to wonder... is this how it ends? Has the demon won?â She turned and looked at the slumbering young Master, âIs Jamie possessed? I have no way of knowing...â
âBut Oggyâsss not dead,â hissed Noel, nodding toward the butlerâs humongous spare-tyre, âLook at that big olâ belly heavinâ up-ânâ-down! Heâs asssleep, chile!â
âThat doesnât mean anything, Noel,â Carla explained, âif his Soul is destroyed the body can only last for a few days, eventually the vital functions will shutdown.â
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, âDanielle! You are awake... And you have... changed?!â
âMy, but yer lookinâ well, kid!â agreed Noel, very impressed, âthe last time I sssaw ye you were greener than a bullfrog! What did you do, ssshed yer ssskin?â
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 beautyâs hand in hers. âHey! Why isn't he awake?â she cried, âWhy didnât he come back like me?â She turned, glared at Carla and said, âHow come youâre awake and he isn't?â
Unfazed by the undiluted scorn, Carla regretfully replied âI think I was spared because I was still travelling through Harknessâ subconscious when the clock struck 12.â She looked in the direction of the house and nodded, âBut 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.â
Dani related the events that occurred after Carlaâs exit and before the big sleep, â....then the Martyrs made us form a circle and twirl around, then everythinâ 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 ân he pointed his stick ân zapped the demon with a bolt of lightning or somethinâ -- the next thing I know Iâm back in my body in the dungeon -- and Iâm like this! So if Iâm OK 'n Goz isn't a Big Bad Wolf anymore,â she cupped Jamieâs cheeks, looked into his half-opened eyes and asked, âthen why aren't you awake, JJ?!â
âBecause of this,â said Carla, holding up the shards of broken mirror, âthe portal was shattered. He has no way back, he could be anywhere...â
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 âawakensâ to the same disheartening, soul-destroying ârealityâ: 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 hasnât had a 'episodeâ 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 Carlaâs previous reassurance that âthe natural laws of time and space do not apply in an abstract dimension...â 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, itâll have to come from the other side, because this time he canât forge any meaningful dialogue: thereâs been no interaction with anyone who relates to him on anything other than a âprofessionalâ basis; heâs 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 hourâs exercise every day, but none of them engage in conversation beyond the occasional please or thank you. The âdoctorsâ and âpsychologistsâ 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 âyou are a cypher; this is just an illusionâ.Â
He doesnât know where he is or how he got here, but is 100% certain heâs trapped in someone elseâs subconscious; the question is, whose? Heâs pretty sure it isn't Harknessâ head -- this version of that reality lacks the finer details: aside from the key-players, thereâs nothing in this âscape that couldn't be scraped from even the most prosaic psyche; everyoneâs seen a movie with a set-up like this. No, as far as heâs concerned, this is a repurposed memory; and since heâs 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 demonâs handiwork. He has that familiar churning in his guts that usually indicates the presence of dark energy...
Or is it just the meds?
Heâs 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 heâs become unnaturally listless and despondent; the doctor reckons the relentless boredom and isolation are taking their toll and prescribed an anti-depressant, but thereâs nothing they can do about his circumstances until he has a âbreakthroughâ.
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 âsuicideâ 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 Jamieâs 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 heâd previously jeopardised [See Part 20], arrived to âDish out the tabs!â Jamie hadn't seen him since the first day of his current incarceration and his unexpected reappearance could mean one of two things: either heâs the key to unlocking this or heâs here to kick me when Iâm down.
âHullo! Long-time-no-see -- âowâve you been, mate? Still climbinâ the walls, are ya?â he chimed, with a wicked wink and a cheeky grin.
Heâs here to kick me when Iâm down. âHello, Gaston,â 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, ââEre, I âad a look at your notes just now. It says youâve become âwithdrawnâ ân âlethargicâ,â he teased, in his thick Midlands drawl, stooping to have a good look at Jamieâs face and adding gruffly with a hint of satisfaction, âoh yeah. You look bleedinâ awful. âOrrible. Thatâll be the barbiturates, mate. They sap yer will to live, they do.â
Jamie sighed and held out his hand, âGimme the fucking pills and get out.â
âOooh, thatâs how itâs gonna be, is it?â Masterson sneered, cocking his head and looking around the stark, windowless room, âAt least I can get out, mate,â he sighed, wistfully, âand I must say, it is such a beautiful day today. The sun is shoininâ, ain't a cloud in the skoy...â
Jamie propped up his head and cocked an eye, âYou know, for someone in your profession, you havenât got a very caring nature, have you, Gaston?â
âAch, I get a kick outta emptyinâ bedpans. I luv the smell of ammonia in the morninâ, me!â he bantered, nonchalantly, grinning like a Cheshire cat as he handed over the little plastic vial of water, âbut the main thing is I get to meet wonderful people like you, Jamie.â
Jamie took the cup, sipped it, swallowed, and then looked up into Mastersonâs little piggy eyes as he handed it back, âMm. Youâre a very interesting character, Gaston. You intrigue me, you know that?â
Masterson curled a lip and looked at him askance, âOh yeah? âIntrigueâ you âow?â
Jamie grinned and said, âYou donât fit in round here. You stick out a like a sore thumb. In fact, you even look like a sore thumb. Then again, itâs not your physical appearance or your sparkling personality that fascinates me. Itâs your function. The purpose you serve.â
âWhat are you talkinâ about, âpurpose-I-serveâ? Iâm a frigginâ nurse! Iâm âere cos I work here, yâ daft twonk!â Masterson sniggered, shaking his head.
Jamieâs smile disappeared, his eyes narrowed, â... 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?â
The nurse was utterly confounded, âYouâre crackinâ-up, mate. Youâre startinâ to rant like a lunatic,â Masterson tittered, a little nervously, clasping the tray to his chest like a breast plate.
Jamie shook his head and spoke plainly, âIt doesnât matter how long you keep me here, I wonât change my story. My consciousness is trapped in a timeless abstraction. I know Iâm still lying on a bed in the Ivy House, enchanted.â
Baffled, Masterson shook his head, tutted and put on an officious voice, âIâll have to report this to Mondale; 'is course of treatment donât seem to be workin'. If anything, youâre gettinâ worse...â
â... I donât know why youâve dragged me here, but youâve got to face facts: the battle is lost. You must know by now that Iâll never crack,â Jamie insisted, soberly. âNow, if you donât mind, itâs long after midnight and I really should be back in my own head. Câmon. Either show your hand or quit.â
Masterson backed up but continued to goad, âIâve been reading-up-on-this, too: you know what this is? This is amnesiac-paranoia, this is: when you canât remember nuthinâ ân you start thinkinâ everybodyâs out to getcha. If you donât woise-up ân show some improvement, youâll never get out of this room, mate.â
âOh, Iâm thinking straight, mate. You are the only truly interactive member of this regime. His little deus ex-machina,â said Jamie, assuredly, sitting up, âthe 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.â
Still chuckling to himself, the chunky nurse turned toward the door, then paused for thought, turned back and said, âJust for the sake of argument: - if Iâm not Nurse Masterson, then who am I?â
âA figment of a demonâs imagination.â
âOh God, wait til I tell the lads about this...â he snorted, feigning a fit of the giggles.
âThen whatâs your address, Gaston Masterson?â
The mocking laughter immediately stopped: âWhat?!â Masterson recoiled, as if stung by the question.
âWhere do you live?â
âThatâs none of your fookinâ business!â he looked very rattled.
âOK then, whatâs your date of birth?â
âUmmm...â he looked very confused.
Jamie rephrased the question: âWhen were you born?!â
âI know, I know -- just shurrup!â Masterson yelled, getting angrier and more frustrated by the second.
âOK. Then what was the name of your primary school?â
âNone of your...â
âWhatâs your motherâs maiden name?â
âStop it! Stop it! STOP IT!â he yelled, putting his hands over his ears.
But Jamie got to his feet and kept up the barrage, âWhatâs your favourite colour? Whatâs your favourite movie? Where did you spend your first ever summer holiday?â
âSHUT UP! DONâT MOVE! STAY WHERE YOU ARE!!â Masterson dropped the tray and backed-up toward the door.
âYou donât know anything, do you?â
âOf course I do, but Iâm not tellinâ a total psycho like --â 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: itâs nice to be right, but where do I go from here? Thatâs the $100,000 question... Masterson had left the door ajar. Thatâs 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 werenât 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.Â
Someone is crying somewhere.Â
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 âscape is falling apart. Not that he had any reason to rejoice. The long, tedious nightmare may be over, but heâs still trapped in someone elseâs 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.Â
The id was beset by emotions and compunctions some of which had plagued him before his âinitiationâ: 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 heâd felt so suicidal over the last âfew daysâ: 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 itâs no match for a âGßßl. With this in mind, Jamie strode confidently out his cell, past the orderliesâ 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 Orbisonâs 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, âBarry? Where are you?â 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.
<Whoâs there?> a broken, childish voice cried in Jamieâs head.
âYou know who I am, Barry. We've met at least twice before,â 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?>
âHe was routed by our combined forces -- he was propelled back to his host -- to you -- he must've dragged my Spirit back with him. Iâve been trapped, here, in your subconscious since midnight,â Jamie told him, in a cool, clear voice, as he slowly and furtively climbed the second staircase, âhe had me locked in a timeless phantasm. I sâpose he planned to keep me on hold until he summoned the strength to perform an enforced possession. Fortunately, I managed to escape before...â
<So what?! Why should I care?!> the childish, cracked voice broke in, <You know whatâs going to happen to me once he possesses you, donât you? Soul Death! Thatâs what!!>
âProbably, if we donât do something to stop him. But all is not lost. Heâs taken quite a beating. Heâs very weak, itâll take him a while to summon the energy he needs to take me on... Together we can...â
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? Whatâs the point?! No matter what I do Iâm screwed!! Iâve killed a lot of people! Dozens! Iâve killed kids, man!! KIDS!! The cops are bound to catch me! Thatâs why I wanted to die a proper death while I was rid of him! I would be dead right now if he hadn'tâve 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 Jamieâs psyche and he saw the events of the last 48 hours from McKeeâs 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 ân I waved to her before she Ascended, and she waved back. She even smiled and said: âthank youâ... Then I came back here, to Brodir, to free my fatherâs Spirit from its death-haunt and... kill myself. Thatâs when he came back... Just as I put my fatherâs revolver in my mouth and hooked my thumbs round the trigger, I felt him fill my head again...>
âHere? You mean weâre there... here... in Brodir... now?â asked Jamie, looking around, a little confused.
<That was almost an hour ago. God knows where we are now... we could be anywhere, I canât see or hear anything, heâs taken control of my senses,> the voice whinged, <and if youâre here that can only mean one thing -- heâs going to ingest me and infest you! Itâs a done deal. Iâm doomed -- literally facing a fate worse than death!>
âIt needn't come to that, Barry,â said Jamie, as he climbed the remaining steps, âif heâs put you on hold and Iâm free to wander, then he must be concentrating all his energy on manipulating your body. His focus is elsewhere -- we can take him on --â
The voice cut in again, <And then what? Even if you escape Iâll still be stuck with him. And Iâve heard the radio reports! Theyâre listing my crimes and calling me the Most Dangerous Man in Ireland! Iâll never get a fair trial. Then Iâll be stuck in prison with men whoâll want to kill me -- and heâll still be in my head!>
âThey donât 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,â 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, âyâknow, we have specialists who can help you. Demonologists from all over the globe. If you work with us thereâs 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 --â
The voice cut him off just as he reached out and touched the doorknob, <Donât open the door,> it warned, in a low, ominous growl.
Jamie paused but kept his hand where it was, âYou canât hurt me, Barry. You canât hide from me, either. I know everything. Iâm 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: Iâm aware of the things you instigated, the things he made you do and the things you did willingly, and Iâll be frank, I donât much like what I see or how it makes me feel. But Iâm 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, youâll help me,â said Jamie, slowly turning the knob, waiting for an objection. None came. He pushed the door open and ventured into Barryâs inner sanctum: the resplendent, high-ceilinged, opulently decorated throne room of an ancient Egyptian Pharaoh. For this is Barryâs 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 Pharaohâs robes and regal headdress, his head hung in shame and sorrow, his face hidden behind a long, glossy teddy boy quiff. âYou shouldn't have opened that door. Heâll know youâre here now,â he said, his childishly- petulant voice echoing around the cavernous chamber. âYou donât know how this works. We die, he eats our Souls and he moves on. A dog, a cockroach, anything will do... You canât go head-to-head with him -- heâs made of negative energy. Heâs indestructible. Itâs hopeless.â
âI canât talk about what I intend to do, but listen to me,â said Jamie, slowly treading the purple runner that led to the throne, âI need to take control of your body, Barry. If we put our heads together, I can...â
Before he could finish, the porcelain-white, tear soaked face peered through the veil of greasy tresses and snorted, âItâs easy for you! You've got nothinâ to lose! He wants you. My Soul will get eaten!â
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, âYou know what his plans are, Barry. If you die, I get possessed; then heâll use my powers to wipe-out my people. Heâll use our political connections to cause a situation that could potentially lead to the destruction of the Real World. Itâs in my best interest to keep you alive. Trust me.â
McKee smirked and scoffed, âHeâll swallow us whole.â
âIt just might save your Soul, Barry.â
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 McKeeâs dimming eyes... then the pitch black of total unconsciousness...
Everything went deathly still, deathly silent.
<âBarry...?â>
McKee was gone, his psyche had been effectively switched off, nothing but the bodyâs 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: heâd suffered a crushing blow to the head.
For Jamie, this was uncharted territory: If this a concussion, what happens to me? What if itâs something worse? What if it itâs 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 Jamieâs 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!
âWhat the fuckâsss happeninâ?!â yelped Noel, rudely roused from his nap, quickly slinking off the bouncing bed and coiling onto the floor.
Carla put her hands on Jamieâs shoulders and held him down, âIt seems he has suffered a shock to his system!â
Dani jumped back onto the bed and helped her, âIs he hurt?!â she asked, pushing down on his chest.
Carla put a finger on his throat and tapped into his vital functions, âHis blood pressure is high, his heart is racing...â she nodded to herself as she reached a conclusion, âIt could mean one of two things...â
âWhat two things?!â cried Dani.
âEither it is a reaction to a direct attack on his psyche, or he is suffering someone elseâs pain. My instincts lean toward the latter...â
âSo?! Whyâre you so worried?! What does it mean?!â yapped Dani, getting annoyed.
âI have a feeling I know where he is. I just hope the attack wasn't fatal...â
25 minutes ago, Odinâs 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. âWell, thatâs the last of it for tonight, chile,â said Sammy, panting as he secured the door-handles with an oily-rag, âIâll take it round to the scrapyard in the morninâ, see what auld Mattâll gimme fer it.â
âThanks, Sam, I donât know what Iâd do w'out you, ol' son,â said Zindy, in her mellifluous Lancashire brogue. âItâs sad, all the same, Iâm sure this breaks your 'eart, 'avinâ to see the place youâve worked in all yer life end up in this state,â she remarked, nodding toward the inn.
âNuthinâ lasts forever, me darlinâ,â Sammy sighed, resignedly, âyou 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 ân fall into wreck-ân-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,â he grimly philosophised, his grizzled, ruddy face a vision of woe.
âFook me but you can be a right morbid bastard sometimes, Sammy O'Donnell,â she chuckled, crossing her arms and shaking her head. âCheer oop, will ya?! As soon as I get it fixed-up, Iâm openinâ this place again,â she reached up, grabbed his silvery sideboards and hoisted his drooping jowls into a smile, âso youâve still got a job, aintcha?!â
He lowered his eyes and kept things serious, âYou've been a great boss, chile, yeâve been a pleasure to work for, but we havetae be realistic here. You heard what Somerville said: youâre gonna lose your liquor licence; you could be banned from ever runninâ a bar ever again, and when they catch the bolâ Barry and it all comes out about what he did, nobodyâs wanna come to Brodir, let alone stay at the auld Inn...â
âThen weâll turn the place into a House of Horror for ghouls ân gawkers Weâll do guided tours -- we can coach âem in from Arklow!â she crowed, cheekily, cupping her hands around her mouth and yelling like a carnival barker, âRoll-Up, Roll-UP for the Magical Murder Tour -- get your Barry McKee tee-shirts âere! Spend a night of terror in Mad Barryâs bed!â
He looked at her askance, shook his head and tutted, âNow, thatâs just bad taste, girlie.â
She apologised for the flippancy but refused to look on the black-side, âNo, fook-âem, Sammy!! -- Iâm not movinâ. This is me âome. I own it, I love it, anâ Iâm stayinâ put. I donât need a liquor licence to run a fookinâ guesthouse!â
Tutting to himself, Sammy got out his keys and bade her goodnight, âSleep on it. Weâll talk about it in the morninâ,â he advised, turning away, âlock 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...â he lowered his voice and asked, doubtfully, âUnless yâ want me to stay, that is...?â
She crossed her arms and scolded him, âNO. Iâve already âad Malky on the phone earlier-on tellinâ me to be careful! -- and Iâll tell you what I tolâ âim -- thereâs no way that bastard would come back âere tonight!â
ââMalky,â is it,â mumbled Sammy, morosely, turning away, rattling his keys, âhuh. I sâpose you 'n him are âan itemâ now, are yez?â
âWhatâs this, Sammy -- you jealous?!â she teased, poking him in his gut.
He blushed, made a face and spluttered a disclaimer, âI just donât want ye gettinâ into somethinâ thatâll cause ye more heartache, chile. I mean, you can certainly pick âem, canât ye...?â
He was tactlessly referring to her imprisoned âbetter-halfâ, Raspo Canning, currently serving a 7 year sentence for a string of offences including GBH and possession with intent to supply, âGawd, you donât 'alf know how to kick a girl when sheâs down, mister,â she said, with a wink and a crooked grin, âMalkyâs just a friend. I told ya. I donât need anybody. I can take care oâ meself.â
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, âand donât answer the door, no matter what! If the gards come back, make sure they show ye ID through the letterbox before ye let âem in...â
âLook you -- fook off âome!â she pushed him into the van, âIâll be safe as âouses, youâll see!â
âDonât tempt fate, missy,â he said, pointedly, groaning and clutching his hip as he shifted his arse into the driverâs seat.
She kicked the rear right tyre, âGo on, gerroutta âere. See you in the morninâ, yer daft olâ twat!â
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 Malkyâs charm out from under the collar of her tee-shirt and rolled the little, latticed silver bulb between her fingertips. It was strangely comforting. Sheâd put it on after the phonecall [See Part 18] and ever since sheâd 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 Malkyâs 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. Thatâs 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, thereâs 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: âOoâs there?!â she called out, as she edged toward an overfilled crate of empty vodka bottles to her right.
No response.
âCome out, I know yer in there...â she reached out and grabbed one of the bottles by the neck, carefully extracted it from the crate and hid it behind her back. âCâmon, câmon, I can âear you, yâ divvy... Come out!â
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.
ââOw long âave you been hidinâ in there, you fookinâ nob-âead?!â 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.
Donât tempt fate, missy.
She didnât have to ask, but for some reason she did, âBarry?â
The figure didnât 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, âKeep away from me, Baz, I swear, Iâll fookinâ cut yer...â
Thatâs 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, âGet inside.â
Zindy was baffled but defiant, âWhat the fook are you doinâ Baz?! This is fookinâ mental, this is...â 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, âtheyâll be checking all yer old haunts -- theyâre bound to come âere. Youâd be better-off gettinâ as far away as possible instead o' wastin' time settlinâ old scores...â 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, âYou were never one of us, Baz. You mighta hung out wâ us ânâ all, but we never liked you. We thought you were a creep. Raspo didnât trust you. If âeâd ever found out what you were up to, âeâdâve 'ad you skinned alive, son. And if you do anythinâ to me, youâll be signinâ yer own death warrant -- in or out of prison.â
âI know Raspo a lot longer and a lot better than you do, Zara, and I know his habits,â 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. âWhere is it, Zara?â 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, âWhat are you on, Baz?â
He sighed and raised the shotgun in both hands as if he was going to bring the butt down on her head, âIâm in a dreadful hurry, I have a long journey ahead and Iâm quite prepared to hurt you very badly if I have to,â he said, plainly, blank faced and unblinking. âFirst and foremost, I need funds. So where is it?â
She spelt it out for him by pulling out the empty pockets of her jeans, âI got nowt, dickhead. The cops confiscated all me takinâs after the raid.â
He stooped, looked her in the eye and said, âIâm not talking about your petty cash, Zara, Iâm talking about Raspoâs loot. His swag. His stash. His little nest-egg for whenever he gets out of Mountjoy.â
She crossed her arms, shook her head and said, âI have no idea what youâre talkinâ --abounnnnggggh!âÂ
Heâd grabbed her by the throat, âYour other half was quite the rogue, he did âjobsâ 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 doesnât trust banks or any of his partners in crime to look after it, it must be somewhere around here,â he stooped and snarled into her face, âso where is it?â
She crossed her arms and made a show of turning her head away as she replied in a patient voice, âI turned a blind-eye to âis extracurriculars, if you must know. We âad an understanding: as long as he kept it off the premises and it didnât involve other women or anythinâ sordid, I asked no questions ân let âim gerron wâ it. His business was none of my business, 'n vice-a-versa.â
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, âIf you donât tell me by the time I reach 1, youâll lose a knee...
â5........ 4 ........ 3 ........â
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, âOoh, jeezus Christ... Dâ you think I hit him too hard...?â
âIt sounded like you were crackinâ open a coconut!!â Zindy exclaimed brightly, quickly yanking the shotgun from McKeeâs grasp before gingerly feeling his wrist to check his pulse, âBut you avenât killed âim, chook, âeâs still tickinâ...â 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. âHmm, âeâs bleeding badly. Iâd say âe âasnât long to go if we donât get him to tâ âospital...?â she mused, as if they had a choice.
This only added to the old manâs anxiety - he dropped the bat like a hot potato and began pacing the floor and jabbering into his hand, âAww shite, câmon now, câmon, I didnât mean to kill âim! I just wanted to stun âim ... I mean, I thought âe was gonna shoot you... I mean, what else could I do?â
She patted his back reassuringly, âCalm down, chook, calm down, you did the right thing... I mean, you shoulda seen tâ look in âis eyes -- âe were off âis âead -- if âeâdâve seen ya âeâdâve shot ya w'out a second thought!â She picked up the bat to check it for cracks and asked, ââOw come you came back, anyway?â
He pointed at the connecting door, â... the radio... the news... they said that yer-man-here was armed ân dangerous ân on the run in the area, so I came back to warn ye he might be headed this way.... I parked on the street ân I let meself in the side door ân I heard âim threateninâ ye, so I crept in ân hid behind the bar.... lifted the auld cricket bat ân waited til his back was turned...â He gulped and took another look at the stricken psycho, âAww, Jaysus... do you think heâs gonna be alright?â he pleaded, swaying on his heels, his face as white as his whiskers.
âI donât give a flyinâ fook âbout that shower oâ shite -- itâs you Iâm worried about, olâ son,â she said grabbing his arm, âyou need to sit down -- yer shakinâ like a leaf -- we donât want you âavinâ fookinâ âeart attack on top of everythinâ else!â 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. Â âSammy -- was that you?â She shouted, quickly filling the glass and hurrying back, âSammy?â
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 daddyâs old service revolver in his hand. She cried out and ran to the body, âSammy, are you alright?â 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, âaww, Sammy, Sammy, Sammmeeeeee...â 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, âmy head... He hurt my brain...â he gasped, astounded, as if it couldn't be true.
âYouâre a fookinâ dirty rotten, stinkinâ, shitbag-coont, Barry McKee!! What the fookinâ âell did you âave to go ân do that for?!â Zindy yelped, clasping the old manâs head to her breast.
Even if the head injury hadn't affected Barryâs 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, âHe hurt me... bad... look...â he muttered, showing her his bloody fingertips.
âAye -- âe stoved-yer-âead-in! You should be dead! Why couldn't ye âave done the right thing ân fookinâ DIED!!â 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, âGet... his... keys!!â
âGet bent!â she fired back, âYouâre nowt but scum, Barry McKee!â
He aimed the pistol and shot a round into the wall behind her -- a cloud of plaster-dust showered down on her shoulders. âGET... FUCKING... KEYS!!â he bellowed, through gore-soaked tresses.
Zindy swiped the dust from her shoulders, sneered and said, âCoont,â 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. âTheyâre not here! âE must've left 'em in the van...â
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. âMust go... now!â 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 âDrive!â
She shook her head violently, thumped her fists on the wheel, âWhere?! Where the fookâre we goinâ?!â
He waved the gun to indicate a westerly direction, âTo the mountains... I know the Way...GO!â
She looked into his hooded, bloodshot eyes, âMountains?! Look at tâ state oâ you. Youâre fooked, Baz. You should be goinâ to tâ âospital -- not a drive in the fookinâ country!â she said, in as kind a voice as she could muster.
He put the pistol to her temple and replied, drowsily, âNO! GO! Going to finish this... going back... back to where it began...â
...
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 didnât feel good. He wasn't in pain, or anything like that, he just felt ill at ease and very hot. Thatâs when it occurred : Aww, jaysus, I must be in the other place! But how?! Iâve been a feckinâ saint all me feckinâ life! Mass every Friday as well as Sunday -- and Iâm 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.Â
âAre you an angel?â he asked, timidly.
Jamie looked down at what he was wearing and said, âNo, thereâre no such things as angels, Iâm afraid. This is a hospital gown, not a shroud. My nameâs Jamie.â
âSammy, pleased to make your acquaintance...â Sammy looked down at his sweater and the bloody bullet holes, âAm I dead, Jamie? Are we, like... I mean, is this, like... hell?â
âYes, youâre 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,â Jamie shuddered, âno, weâre in the Void. The Wizardâs Rift. The Mirror World. An empty dimension between Life and Limbo accessible via mirrors-slash-portals, like these,â he said, in reference to the sparkling constellation, âI pulled you in through this one.â 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 Sammyâs lifeless body, cradling his head in her lap while the injured McKee threatened her with a gun. If he hadnâtâve 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, âCanât we do anythinâ to help her?!â
âI sâpose Iâd better explain,â said Jamie, putting it as quickly and as simply as he could, âmy Spirit was trapped in Barryâs 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.â He pointed at the scene in the bar, âBarry 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... Iâm terribly sorry,â he said, morosely, putting a placatory hand on Sammyâs shoulder.
âSorry for what, laddie? Didn't you just save my Soul?â Sammy replied, flabbergasted, but grateful.
Frowning, Jamie shook his head and gloomily informed him, âYou donât understand, youâre a ghost now, my friend. A disembodied Spirit. Youâll have to haunt the inn until The Light shines again and you can Ascend to the Eternal Host. But in the meantime, youâll be invisible, you wonât be able to interfere in the Real World.Â
Sammy frowned.
âSee, it sounds a bit bleak, doesnât it? But the alternative was Soul Death -- an eternity of nothing -- so forgive me if I took matters into my own hands.â
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 heâd known all his life. When Jamie had finished, Sammy had only one question, âWhy are you shiverinâ so, mâ lad? How come youâre feelinâ the cold?â
âIâm 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 Iâd advise you to go to Limbo as soon as possible and wait-it-out until this blows-over.â
âLimbo...?â Sammyâs eyes darted left and right, âIs that like... Purgatory?â
âMore like a busy airport departure lounge during an eternal baggage-handlers strike, from what Iâve heard. Whatever, itâs safer than here or the Real World, and thereâll be other Spirits there who can explain things a lot better than me.â
âBut how do I get there?â
Jamie had another think, then looked up and shouted, âBernie? Bernie Pritchard?! I know you can hear me, Brother Bernie! Iâve got a recently deceased here -- he needs access to Limbo!â
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. âThere you are, away you go!â said Jamie, pushing the old barman toward it.
Sammy didnât want to leave him, âCanât you come with me?â
âOnly the dead can enter Limbo. Iâll have to go back.â
âBack? Back where?â asked Sammy, as Jamie moved back to the mirror, âsurely you canât go back into Barryâs brain?!â
âI tried going back the way I came, but that mirror must be broken, the portal is gone. So Iâm afraid itâs the devil or the deep blue sea: stay out here and get sucked dry, or take my chances in a fractured skull...â
...
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, âNo reply. She must be outside in the backyard or somethinâ,â 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. âI hope Somerville ân his crew get there before we do, thatâs all....â he mumbled.
Broo was only half-listening. Heâd 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 dogâs body was shoring up its defences in response.Â
Sensing his disquiet, Malky glanced over his shoulder, âIs everything alright, Broo?â 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 werenât 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, thereâs danger ahead!
The Ivy House
12:45: Lady Bethâs 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. âOoooooh, I needed that...â 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 loverâs mouth and posed the inevitable question, in a wry, breathless whisper, âHow was it for you, darling?â
âWill you let me go now?â he responded, flatly, his face a picture of disdain and disgust.
She smiled wickedly, âDonât pretend you didnât enjoy it, Guy, I know you did,â she tittered, tapping her temple with her finger, âthere are no secrets in this house.â
He ignored the retort and squirmed between her naked thighs as he tried to shake her off, âPlease, undo these straps and let me go, youâve had your fun...â
âHah! That wasn't fun, darling! That was letting off steam,â she replied, indifferently, standing up so that she towered over him, âjust count yourself lucky I didnât have my riding crop!â 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, âOh, if only this night was over. This has got to be the longest...â Her voice trailed of when she happened to turn and glance out of the window, â.... w-what the fuck?!â
âWhat is it!â cried Goz, alarmed by her uncharacteristic show of unease.
âLights... coming through the trees on the crest of the hill...from the direction of the forest...â 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, âWhoever it is, theyâre scaring the dogs...â
âOpen these straps -- I wanna see!â
She took the pistol from the bedside locker and bolted for the door.
âHey! Aren't you gonna free me first?!â
She spun on her heel and trotted back to the bed. Goz sighed with relief. Alas, she wasn't there to release him, âI still donât trust you, Guy, sorry, for all I know this could be Rossingtonâs men come to take you back,â she said, regretfully, and stuffed the sock back into his mouth. Once it was secured, she smiled and stroked his shaven pate, âI need you to be nice and quiet until I sort this out. Iâll decide what to do with you as soon as everyone wakes up,â 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 servantsâ 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. âFucking witches. Thatâs all we bloody need,â she gasped,deliberately letting her head roll back so that it thumped the wood. Once sheâd 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 covenâs 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, âCan I help you, Ms Costello?â
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, âAye. Ye can do yerself a favour ân open this feckinâ gate!â
Her cohort cackled loudly and mirthlessly at their sisterâs curt rejoinder -- but they soon shut up when one of them glimpsed what Her Ladyship was holding behind her back! âJeezus -- sheâs gotta gun!â 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, âFirst-things-first. How the hell did you get in?â
The haughty harridan pointed up the hill, âThereâs a special tunnel under the east wall. The Judge had it âspecially installed when they built this place,â she declared, in a sarky, sing-song voice, âput it there for emergencies, so-âe-did. And believe me, my lady, this is a dire emergency!â
The others responded with a rowdy chorus of âAye!â
âWhat âemergency?ââ Her Ladyship asked, with an unconvincing shrug.
Ezzy was wise to her nemesisâ wiles and laid it on thick with a childish waggle of her head that made her ginger wig shimmy in its clips, âThings aren't quite right, are they, my lady? Yezâve messed-up, havenât yez? The whole household is spark-out-for-the-count, isn't it, my lady?â
Intrigued, Her Ladyship cocked her head, â... and what would you know about it?â
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, âYou know how we know, my lady. We miss nuthinâ. We mightn't all be Sirens, some of us mightn't be the âFull-âGßßlâ -- but weâre still psychics and weâre still part of this coven -- we are still bound by an unbreakable spiritual connection! And at present, that connection is broken!â She held up the treasure chest, âMe grandmother predicted this state of affairs! 3 years ago when the demon burned down half of yer precious Ivy House ân killed half the Council ân 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 -- itâs all come to pass! So donât question our motives, my lady, just let us in so we can get about our business!!â
There followed a hubbub of agreement featuring a lot of âthatâs rightsâ, âoh ayesâ and a few âyou tell hersâ.
âYou mean... your grandmotherâs ashes are in that box?â Her Ladyship enquired, a little bemused, a little appalled.
âNo. Sheâs in the box. Sheâs been asleep for the last 3 years. Sheâs 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 ân see this through!â
The crinkly, mottled crew folded their arms, nodded en masse and murmured a firm, âMm hm.â
Lady Beth chewed her cheek and had a think about it. Finally, she confessed, âOK. Granted, everyone is unconscious. They dropped like flies on the stroke of midnight. But I canât let you in. Thereâs a detective in the house, heâs enchanted, but if he woke up and saw something... untoward, thereâd be too many questions.â
Ezzyâs dentures flashed, her plump cheeks bulged as she broke into a broad grin, âWe know about Harkness. We saw him in the estate earlier-on tonight. He heard the demon's confession ân now heâs onto yez!â [See Part 18] Then she lowered her voice and intimated, menacingly, with narrowed, accusing eyes, âWe know about the girl, too.âÂ
Her raddled retinue whispered as one, âOh yes, indeed we do.â
Lady Beth flinched. âWhat girl?â she asked, a little shaken.
The bullish Ezzy saw her flinch and raised a painted eyebrow, âYou know âwhat girlâ I mean. The one thatâs supposed to be dead! The demonspawn! Wee Danielle Cochrane! Yeâve been keepinâ her locked up somewhere,â 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, âSsshhh -- will you please keep your bloody voices down!â
Ezzy put her snout through the bars and snorted, âHah! You canât deny it, can ye?! We can feel her!â There then followed yet another collective murmur of concurrence interspersed with a few asides, âAye, we can feel her,â said a timid old lady standing at the back; âHer aura is so strong we had to take off our amulets -- they got so hot they were burninâ our chests,â vouchsafed another; âI can almost taste her!â said a toothless hag in hiking boots and a transparent windcheater, licking her lips as if the alleged âaromaâ was making her mouth water.Â
Ezzy glanced at her watch âLook, timeâs a-runninâ out, my lady, are you gonna let us in so we can fix this, or are you gonna walk away ân let yer people die?â she asked, pointedly, her ginger wig shifting slightly sideways as she cocked her head.
âDie...?â Lady Beth almost gasped.
All: âAye, die.â
What to do, what to do...? The witches were a disobliging bunch at the best of times, but they werenât 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 theyâll 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, âGive me one second!â she said, and trotted back to the little gatelodge to fetch the key...
...
10 minutes ago, in Wicklow, on the road into Brodir: âWell, wouldja look at this,â Malky announced, looking in the rear-view mirror, âhere comes the cavalry!â
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, âprobably Somerville and his men on their way to the inn!â said Malky, relieved, âno ambulances, thanks be to gawd.â
As he watched the tail-lights disappear into the darkness up ahead, something else caught Brooâs eye â the unmistakable glimmer of ghostly children -- at least a dozen of them gathered by the decapitated âWelcome to Brodirâ arch! They ran toward the car waving, shaking their heads and pointing in the opposite direction! When the Metro passed through them â he felt the icy chill in his bones and heard their voices screaming in his head:
âHeâs not here!â âHeâs been ânâ gone!â âGo to the mountains -- go to the mountains -- to the Ginger Witchesâ cottage!â âQuickly! Quick!â âThe twinsâ cottage!â âHeâs gonna kill somebody!â
Broo reared up, barked hysterically and almost climbed over Malky to make him stop â Malky immediately slammed on the brakes and hollered, âNot now!! Weâre almost there!! We canât stop now?!â
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: âHeâs gone to the witchesâ cottage!â âGo back! Go back! Go get him!â âHeâs weak but heâs dangerous!â
Then one voice spoke louder than the others: âMake sure to take him alive!â
Although Malky couldn't see or hear the ghosts and every inch of him yearned to floor the accelerator, go straight to Odinâs 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. Sheâd be in safe hands. He thumped the steering-wheel with the heels of his palms, rocked and roared, âOK! OK!! What?! What do we do!? Where do we go?!â
<The cottage on the hillside.>
A thought popped into his head: The Anderson place. Â He thought about it. It suddenly clicked. Sammyâs story. The taped confession. Thatâs where it all began, not in Brodir...
Broo sensed Malkyâs 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, âOK, I know where we have to go, but Iâve fergot how to get there â I just hope ye can provide directions!â
That wouldn't be a problem: the little Spirit Guides were out in force tonight...
Meanwhile: Jamie âawokeâ 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 fuckâs sake...
âHeâs awake.â
... not again...
âCan I talk to 'im?â asked another voice, somewhere near the bed.
... Jesus H Christ...
âNot yet, heâll be very drowsy...â Pause. âAhem, Jamie? Jamie, are you with us...?â Dr Mondale asked, snapping his fingers inches from Jamieâs nose.
The last thing he remembered was the conversation with the barman in the Void, then projecting back through the mirror and into McKeeâs 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, âThis wonât do any good and you know it! Barryâs brain is severely damaged. You canât keep this up!â
Dr Mondale beheld him with a defeated look, shook his head, sighed and said, âNo. Heâs still angry and delusional. You wonât get any sense out of him, Iâm afraid.â
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 Jamieâs eyes for some sign of sentience.
âGive me a few minutes alone with him, detective, please, Iâll see if he remembers anything,â 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 didnât 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, âYouâre wasting precious energy. Spare me this charade.â
Mondale leaned in and asked in a concerned voice, âJamie, do you remember anything about what happened earlier today?â
Jamie turned away, âThereâs no point talking to me, I wonât listen. This isn't real.â
âDo you remember killing Nurse Masterson, Jamie?â
Now, that twist intrigued him. He turned back and looked the doctor/cipher in the eye, âNo. The illusion fell apart, thatâs all. I was -- am -- in Barryâs subconscious,â he looked up at the ceiling again, âI know everything now. Itâs 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.â
Mondale made a note of Jamieâs response in his pad then cleared his throat and continued, âYou 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...â
Jamie chuckled, âOh, thatâs a neat twist. Another blackout. A murder. Iâm banged to rights and I donât remember a thing. Good one.â
âDid he say something to aggravate you, Jamie?â Mondale asked, softly, âIâve 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.â
Jamie couldn't help but laugh.
Mondale took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, âIâm glad you find it so amusing, Jamie. But itâs 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...?â 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, âThe rage... the anger... where does it come from Jamie? What triggers you...?â
Jamie was stone.
âIf you wonât talk to me, then thereâs nothing more I can do. The gentleman waiting outside is a detective from the Metropolitan Police. Heâs the same detective who found you in the block of flats the night of the drugs bust. Heâs 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 âincidentâ 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, youâre too dangerously ill for this place, Jamie. Iâm so very sorry we couldn't help you.â He stood up, folded his specs and put them in the breast pocket of his jacket, âGoodbye Jamie. I hope the doctors that inherit your case can unlock those memories and get to the real you,â 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, âI just 'ope Nurse Masterson is the first ân only, Jamie. I 'ope there ain't anymore victims out there that youâve âforgotten aboutâ, thatâs all.â Jamie kept smiling and replied, âjust make sure the papers call me the Absent-Minded Strangler.â The detective slammed the door on his way out. A few minutes later, the ubiquitous, shaven-headed orderlies arrived and wheeled him away.
âSo, I throttled ghastly Gaston Masterson?! Iâm a killer! Only a lobotomy can stop me now!â 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 theyâd just chew gum and exchange inscrutable glances. âWow! Is this the executive suite? Nice! I really dig the minimalist approach of your interior designer!â 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 McKeeâs faltering heartbeat. And now that there were no other noises to distract him, he came to realise that the droning sound heâd mistakenly attributed to the hum of a distant vacuum cleaner, was in fact the whine of an overtaxed motor. He heard a womanâs voice holler: âWhere are we goinâ, Barry?!â âThis is the middle of fookinâ nowhere?!â and âPot holes!! Look out!! Be careful with that fookinâ gun, willya!â It didnât 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 âget a bit of heat,â there was nothing to distract them -- until the dogs started whingeing and howling outside.
Dani took it as another ill omen. âThere they go again!! Somethinâ must be happeninâ! We canât just sit here and do nuthinâ,â she whimpered, dabbing her belovedâs furrowed brow with a dampened flannel, âlook at âim! He must be in pain -- he needs help!â
âThere is nothing we can do, Danielle,â said Carla, sadly, and for the third time, she began to explain, âhe is deeply enchanted, his Spirit is trapped...â 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, âWhoâs that?â asked Dani, sitting up.
âI donât know, but they are coming from the rear... from the servantsâ entrance...â 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, âHere they are, Ezzy! -- in here!â 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. âWhat are you doing in here?! Who are you?â demanded Carla, letting go of Jamieâs hand and springing to her feet.
Dani answered her, âTheyâre witches, so-they-are! Theyâre the ones who tried to kill me in the forest that day when I went to the estate, and... yâknow...â she couldn't bring herself to elaborate, but Carla understood, âHow did you get in?â 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.
âHer Ladyship let us in. Sheâs gone back to the house to babysit Inspector Harkness,â said the last to enter, a larger more formidable woman in a ridiculous ginger wig carrying a small, mud-caked treasure chest. âShe told us you were in the dungeon. But we knew yeâd 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.â
âThatâs the one who tried to stab me with a great big dagger!â yelped Dani, pointing an accusing finger.
Ezzy addressed Dani in a no-nonsense, schoolmarmy-voice, âThereâs no cause for alarm, Miss Danielle, weâre not here to harm you, weâre here to help you get your precious Young Master back to the Land of the Woke,â said she, glancing at Jamie, âand free your nearest ân dearest from their enchantment,â 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.
âWhat do you know of an âenchantmentâ?â asked Carla, getting irritated, the shrivelled faces glowering in the half-light making her increasingly uneasy.
âDonât youse worry. My grandmother will explain everything,â said Ezzy, lifting the lid.
âYou mean you keep that nasty old witch with the broken neck is in that wee treasure chest?!â said Dani, shrinking back.
âThis is her hibernation box. She made us bury her in the woods til she was needed,â Ezzy informed them, âWe dug âer up tonight... and it has to be said, sheâs not a pretty sight,â she reached inside and carefully pulled away a black silk cloth, âshe has no tongue, her eyesâre failinâ anâ sheâs as deaf as a post, but sheâs still in her right mind [witch-speak for psychically-active] so she talks ân sees through me.â As she gently prodded the contents of the box, Ezzyâs voice softened to a lighter, more sympathetic tone, âcâmon granny, wake up -- weâre here - itâs time.â
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.
âThatâs the wee ol' witch who buried the demon all them years ago,â Dani whispered in Carlaâs ear, âdonât let her size fool ya, sheâs the worst one oâ the lot!â
Ezzy put a hand on top of her grandmotherâs little head and carefully turned it toward Dani, âHere she is, granny. Remember her? Sheâs taken human form again, but she still has his aura. See -- itâs just like you predicted. Sheâs ready.â
âWhat? Ready for what?!â said Dani, clenching her fists, steeling herself for fight or flight.
âTis time to serve your purpose, chile!â announced Ezzy, brightly-but-sarkily, âafter all, youâre the Darkly Martyrsâ little Chosen One, arentcha? Their wee âMessiahâ?â
Dani shrugged and admitted, âThatâs what they said.â
âAye. And even though it goes against everythinâ we stand for, weâre gonna haveta take up where them auld eejits left off. In other words, itâs time for you to do what they put you here to do,â Ezzy reached out, put a hand on her grandmotherâs tiny, heavily lined brow and let her speak for herself; like a macabre ventriloquist act in reverse:
<âWhen me mother ân me buried the demon in Wicklow over a thousand years ago [See Part Three], we used the traditional method: âPut 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 diesâ, thatâs what it says in the olâ book. Thatâs how you deal with the Purple Demon King. Thatâs why we call ourselves Justified -- cuz we follow the rules. Not the Martyrsâ way -- the menâs way: âusinâ his magic against himâ! No good ever came from meddlinâ wâ the dark stuff. Anyway, no sooner had the Vikings left Wicklow, when the feckinâ English arrived -- there were widespread witch hunts ân 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 ân make sure the demonâs restinâ place was never disturbed. But 1000 years 'n several generations later, all was fergot ân the land was sold to a farmer who tore down the trees to make pasture. The bottle was unearthed ân 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 heâd come for the Lumbs as soon as heâd 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 ân lies ân dabblinâ in the dark arts!â> She lowered her little eyes, <âNevertheless, itâs no time to apportion blame or say I told you so. They did what they did without tellinâ us and now we have to live with it, or die. What Iâm sayinâ is, we have to put our differences aside ân finish what the Martyrs started. Thatâs why weâre here tonight.â>
âWhy is everybody asleep?â Dani asked, nervously, looking back-and-forth from the tiny witch to Ezzy, not sure who she should address.
<âYou ân yer young pals uttered the demonâs name in a dreamscape, little sister -- it sent a shockwave through the âSphere and into their psyches, a jolt powerful enough to knock âem all out -- the Martyrs included. The demon took advantage of the flux, cast a spell 'n enchanted their Spirits -- theyâre 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.â>
âSo, what do I do? Just tell me! Iâll do it!â Dani demanded, impatiently.
<âYouâre half-Siren-half-demonspawn, only you have the mettle to enter his hostâs psyche and wrench the Young Masterâs Spirit from his grasp. Weâll take care of the rest.â>
âBut we canât bring him back, the mirror we used as a portal is broken?!â said Carla, pointing to the shards on the bedside table.
<âItâll have to be a physical connection, naturally. Sheâll have to fuse with him ân follow his train of thought.â>
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, âWhat do I have to do...? Is it dangerous...? What is it?!â
Before Carla could impart the grisly details, a shrill voice cried out behind them, âHey -- look ladies -- the big ball is startinâ to shine!â said one of the witches, drawing her companionsâ attention to Jamieâs 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. âThatâs a communication cominâ in from Limbo, that is. Only Limbo shines wâ that shade of blue,â said a stocky, manly-looking witch, assuredly, nudging the one beside her. The rest murmured a consensus. âI wonder who it is?â 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 womenâs deeply-lined, jowly faces shone blue as the light brightened to its full extent and the great orb shimmered like a misty, aquamarine beacon. âFancy ball, that,â commented one, with a hint of envy. âAye, we aren't allowed to âave âem, -- but the Young Master âere gets to have one the size of a prize pumpkin!â mithered another. âShhhush, will yez! -- somebodyâs trying to get through! Look!â said the witch in the see-through mac. âItâs a woman!â said the witch behind her.
Carla and Dani pushed their way through for a ringside view as Electra Cochraneâs 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 - âprobably residual negative energy -- sheâs projecting through the Void,â offered Ezzy, coming to see for herself, carrying the box in her arms, her tiny wizened grandmother peering over the rim.
âIt is my sister -- Danielleâs grandmother!â Carla explained. âPlease be quiet, she is trying to communicate...â
The illuminated faces screwed up into distasteful glowers as the witches stood back, crossed their arms and made disapproving noises; evidently Ellie Cochraneâs reputation had gone before her.
âCarrie...? Is that you...? Can you hear me... itâs me, Ellie...?â she called out, her shout as faint as a whisper.
âYes, Ellie, I can hear you,â Carla replied, crouching and putting her face close to the glass so that her sister could see her, âbut you are cracking-up -- there is a lot of interference!â
âDid Danielle get back...? Is she whole again...?â Electra cried, through the hisses and pops.
Carla put out a hand and gently moved Dani toward the ball, âYes, Ellie, sheâs right here, and sheâs safe. She looks... radiant.â
The rippling countenance broke into a twisted smile, the faint voice sighed with relief, âOh thank the stars... it worked! At least one good thing has come out of all this!â
Despite the positive results of her late grandmotherâs machinations, Dani wasn't the least bit pleased to see her. She scowled and countered her great-auntâs assurances with a petulant aside, âIf it wasn't for her, Jamie ân everybody else would be OK. She mighta got me back to normal again but whatâs the point?!â she pointed toward the bed, âyou ruined everything!!â
Electraâs distorted countenance mutated into an exaggerated grimace of regret, âIâm so sorry -- but Iâm trying my best to make up for it, Danielle -- listen to me, I donât have much time -- you must warn everyone -- we know where the demon is -- we know where heâs going and...â
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, âPritchard.â
His voice chittered below the eerie psychic-static like a crackly radio jabbering in an empty oil-drum, âSorry to burst in like this ladies, but Ellie is wastinâ time, and time is runninâ out,â his hollow-cheeked, ice-white face ballooned in the glass as his voice got louder, âlissen very carefully: we just had a new arrival here in Limbo: a barman from Wicklow -- the host killed âim -- he met Jamie in the Void! The host was there - in the inn -- but heâs mortally wounded. This barman smacked âim 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...â 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 Pritchardâs distorted face, âWait, you say Jamie is in the Void?!â
âWas in the Void..... gone back into the hostâs head....â he replied, just before another screech of white noise drowned him out -- the ball flashed -- they were losing the connection -- Pritchard had to yell: â... trapped in a damaged brain... demon... hostage...â 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, <âOh, we know exactly where heâs headed, isn't that right, ladies?â>
The witches smirked and nodded.
<âThatâs right: the Anderson place. Back to where it began.â>
âDid he say there was a hostage?â
âYou know what that means, donât yez?âÂ
âHuman sacrifice!â
âOh jeezus... What if itâs a chile?â wondered the timid little witch who walked in Ezzyâs shadow.
This observation caused much consternation amongst the wrinkly coterie.
âHolâ on just one minnit,â 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, âAye, I thought as much -- itâs the Infant Host wotâs causinâ the interference, not negative energy.The wee ghostsâre usinâ the Void to project into This World!â
That nugget inspired another appreciative murmur.
âThat means the Familiar must be onto âim, too -- theyâre guiding him!â
The rest tacitly concurred and looked to the little witch in the box for clarification.
She was quick to answer: <âIf this is true, then we've no time to lose. This is what we've been preparing for, sisters. I hope Iâve trained you well. But beware -- The Demon King has prepared for this night, too. That hillside heâs 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.â> Then Ezzy turned her grandmotherâs head toward Dani, <âTis your time to shine, chile. If you want to save yer precious Young Master, you must connect with him now!â>
âOK! OK! Iâm ready, Iâm ready! Just tell me what to do!â yelled Dani, sprinting on the spot, waving her arms in frustration.
Clearing her throat, Carla put a hand on her great-nieceâs shoulder and asked, âWhat method are you suggesting we use...?â
The witches snorted, tutted, sighed, tsked and hissed as if it was the stupidest question theyâd ever been asked. Ezzy broke the communication, put her hands on her hips and spoke for them all, âMethod?! Why, the traditional method, of course!â she pushed her way through her compatriots, went to the bed, reached out and grabbed Jamieâs crotch, âvia the only part of him thatâs still awake!!â
Dani turned to Carla, âDo they mean what I think they mean...?â
Her great-aunt regarded her with a sympathetic frown and said, âIt is strictly witchcraft, Danielle. It isn't personal...â
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 driverâs 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 didnât want to hang around any longer than they had to. Broo couldn't blame them.
âStartinâ to look familiar, eh boy?â 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]: itâs 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: âSammyâs âoul transit van,â said Malky, âanâ it looks as if itâs been abandoned....â
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.
âNo, it doesnât look good at all, does it,â 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, âOh, thank gawd for small mercies!â said he, holding up a miniature torch. His luck held â- it seemed to be working. Leaving the Metroâs headlamps on, they got out and cautiously approached the abandoned van. âItâs packed with stuff from the bar. Sammy musta been takinâ it to the dump...â murmured Malky, shining the little torch beam through the grimy rear windows, âdid he get hijacked or somethinâ...?â 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! âRight! Letâs go!âÂ
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 Barryâs (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 canât create an illusion and control the body without a working psyche!
âBarry!â he called out, âI know you can hear me! -- fight him with all youâve got -- heâs fully stretched and heâs getting weaker by the minute! Remember -- this is your last chance -- if you die, your Soul dies with you!â
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. âStop that shouting!â 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, âBarry?! This is your last chance...â
âWill you please keep your voice down!â she half-whispered-half-yelled, as she stomped into the room, âitâs 2-in-the-frigginâ-morninâ! The other patients are tryinâ to sleep!â
Jamie continued to ignore her and yelled even louder, âTake control, Barry! Fight --â
She slapped a cold, dry hand on his mouth, âIf you donât shut your yap, mister, I shall be forced to administer another tranquilliser -- anâ this time itâll be a bleedinâ enema!â
The instant she touched him, Jamie felt a sudden shift in atmosphere; the link to Barryâs 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, âAre you here to deliver a message, or keep me occupied while âThe Demon Kingâ does his thing?... Or are you the devil himself, here to make a deal...?â
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.Â
Hello darkness my old friend.Â
âYou may be psycho killer, but I have something to thank you for,â she confessed, her disembodied whisper getting ever closer, âyou got rid of that cheeky runt, Masterson. He was the bane of my life, the cocky little bastard. Well, thatâs what you get for not abidinâ by the rules, innit?! I dunno âow many times I told âim: âYou donât go into a psychoâs cell aloneâ... unless heâs strapped down, that is.â She was close to his ear, her voice now low and husky, âWhat was it like, Jamie? How did it feel when you put your âands round his flabby little windpipe ân squeezed nâ squeezed til âis face turned purple ân them beady liâl eyes bulged-outta âis spiky liâl âead...? What was it like, Jamie? Tell me...â she whispered in his ear seductively, as she gently traced his inner thigh with her fingertips, â... gets me all âot under the collar just thinkinâ about it...â 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, âIs this how youâre going to do it? Seduce me?â
âThis ain't seduction, babe -- itâs an act of Christian charity,â 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, âSee, tomorra youâll be transferred to an âigh security prison for the criminally insane, luvvie. And what with your volatile mental condition 'n the murder and that, theyâll never let you out. Life, in your case, will mean life. Youâll be institutionalised. And years from now, when yer sittinâ sad ân lonely in your padded cell, youâll look back on this little fling and thank me, just you wait ân see,â she reached under his gown, put her fingers under the elasticised waistband of his underpants and slowly pulled them down, âcos from now on, luvvie, the only sexual contact youâre likely to get will come courtesy of convicted perverts ân mad faggots, so câmon, join in the fun ân make the most of me...â
...
10 minutes ago: âWhatâs the problem, girlie?â grumbled Ezzy.
âSheâs never done it before, by the looks of âer. What age is she anyway?â asked a particularly thin, particularly sullen-faced crone, looking Dani up and down.
âIâm 18,â 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.
âAye, but youâve been a big bloody goblin for most that time, 'avenât ye? Yer wee brain is a lot younger than your body,â said Ezzy, thoughtfully, before adding a disclaimer, âwell, Iâm sorry for you, dearie, but it canât be helped. If you want to save the day, youâll get up there, get on 'im and do what needs to be done!â
Carla ushered Dani away from the crowd and back toward the bed, whispering encouragement as they went, âI have done it dozens of times, Danielle. It doesnât mean anything.â
âBut... what if it does mean something? What if it means everything?â Dani whispered, with a tear in her eye.
Carla stopped, knelt and gave her a hug, âYou really do love him donât you?â she asked, earnestly.
âI think so. Heâs the nicest, bestest person I know. When he was in his coma ân I lived in the house, we discovered the Psychosphere together,â Dani replied with a sniff, the tear now coursing down her little pink cheek, âwe learned how to read minds together. We dreamed together. He showed me the outside world through his memories...âÂ
Carla dried the tear with her cuff, then put her hands on her great-nieceâs shoulders, looked her in the eye and paraphrased the oft iterated maxim in a stern, no-nonsense tone, âWe are the Vondragßßl, 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...â She paused, smiled and added in a more maternal tone, âOnce 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,â 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.
âYou know what to do, donât you?â asked Carla, doubtfully.
âWell, yeah, course I do. I mean, Iâve seen what goes on in peopleâs heads -- they never stop thinkinâ about it...â Dani answered, bashfully.
Carla made a face, âWell, then...?â
Dani parted the curtain, looked at Jamieâs 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...
âCâmon, câmon, youse two -- we haveta get things goinâ!â 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.
âEwwww! Why have they taken all their clothes off?!â whimpered Dani, eyeing the saggy flesh with a mixture of revulsion and alarm.
âItâs traditional, nothing to worry about,â said Carla, helping her through the curtain and onto the bed, âgood luck, Danielle. And remember, the hostâs 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...â
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. âShite, the batteryâs gone,â grumbled Malky, throwing the little torch into the bushes, âI can see fuck all, now -- youâll have to guide me!â he said, grabbing Brooâs 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. âSmell burninâ, do ya, olâ son? Aye, I smell it too.â 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. âHe musta set light to the cottage!â gasped Malky. âWell, at least a big blaze like that will draw the attention of the cops!â
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 â 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! Theyâre 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.Â
Malky held back the thick brush to clear the way, but the old dog seemed to be getting cold feet. âCâmon old son -- I thought youâd be champinâ at the bit!â coaxed Malky, nonplussed by the old dogâs sudden reluctance. âDo you wanna stay here? I mean, I can handle things from here on...?â
But Broo wasn't begrudging; he was hexed. The second theyâd 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. âItâs him, innit? McKee? Heâs making you feel this way, âin âe?â said Malky, sympathetically, leaning down and patting the old dogâs head. âWell, heâs armed ân dangerous, so maybe takinâ things a wee bit slow isn't such a bad idea. As me da used to say: âTake yer time, but be quick about itâ.â 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: itâs lit-up like Times Square on New Yearâs Eve! If McKee was indeed on the hill, he was bound to see them. And just as that thought crossed his mind, they heard Zindyâs voice scream out -- this time it was clearly audible, âLemme go, ya fookinâ psycho!â They had no choice but to risk it. He whispered in Brooâs ear, âRight, lad, weâre gonna haveta make a quick dash for the shed on the other side. Weâll have a good view of the hill from there, so when I say three -- run as fast as ye can. OK?
âOn a count of three... One... twoooo... threeee â go!â
Malky scuttled across the farmyard and took up position in the niche between a small wooden shed and the coal bunker. But Broo didnât get far. Malky frantically beckoned and hissed âcâmon!â, 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 demonâs lair [See Part 15], all of his senses and sensibilities, both natural and supernatural, were thrown into a state of flux â his head resounded with scores of overlapping voices with contrasting tones and timbres â some bright and encouraging â 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 â like the vision heâd witnessed under the hatch in the hangar â 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.
âCâmon!â Malky hissed for umpteenth time.
Bewildered and slightly singed, he tottered over and joined Malky between the sheds. âHear that?â said Malky. Sure enough, now that his hearing was slowly returning to normal, Broo heard what sounded like someone singing. âIt must be McKee! Sounds like heâs totally off-his-head!â Malky whispered, cupping his ear, âWhat is that heâs chantinâ? A mantra, somethinâ like that...?â
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.
âWell, whatever heâs up to, heâs otherwise occupied. Letâs get closer.â He grabbed the old dogâs 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. âYeah, itâs him alright. Heâs waving his arms about ân gesturing like heâs a shaman or somethinâ...â whispered Malky, âcanât see Zindy, though - not from here, anyway... â 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. âWhatâs all that about, eh, boy? Is that some sort of black magic spell?â asked Malky, rhetorically.Â
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? Heâs desperate! And it makes perfect sense -- heâs hit me with everything else -- whatâs 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. âDonât look so disgusted, darlinâ, most of the men in âere would give their right arms to be where you are now,â she whispered, sultrily, when she finally managed to get her leg over, âthey fantasise about me, yâknow. One of the orderlies told me. Theyâd love to be dominated by a strong woman 'oo knows what sheâs doinâ. You should count yourself luck....Oooooh, what do we 'ave 'ere?â He closed his eyes so he wouldn't have to look at her as she brightly exclaimed, âSee! You wannit just as much as me!â
It was true, dammit. In spite of his repulsion and the indignity of his position, he appeared to be responding! This canât be happening! He tried his best to wriggle away!
But the straps were tight and her hands were firm, âEasy, easy, take it easy, lover,â she sang, quietly, holding him steady while she mounted, âJust lie back, relax, anâ let me take over...â
...
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 Jamieâs 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 Jamieâs psyche in a rush of flashing, swirling psychedelic lights, into what Carla called his âlibidoâ.
âIt is virtually dormant, Danielle, when a âGßßlâs powers manifest, the sexual drive dissipates. There will only be forgotten feelings and old, suppressed memories, ignore them...â was the last thing Dani heard before her voice faded completely.
Sheâd never been here before. Like most telepaths, he kept these parts of his psyche blocked off from prying minds, so she didnât 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 someoneâs memories unfold around her, instead she was an active participant in a series of sexual encounters from Jamieâs past, taking the place of girlfriends, groupies and one-night-stands heâd 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 sheâd idolised over the last 5 years. This was a thinner faced, shaggy-haired, listless, glassy-eyed version, not the strong-willed, level-headed person sheâd 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 âall thereâ. Heâs 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. âIf you donât stop Iâm leaving you!â âLook at yourself in the mirror and face the truth!â âYou should be ashamed of yourself!â that sort of thing.Thus, slowly-but-surely, his shame and self-loathing infested her Essence and she began to feel as bad. She didnât like this Jamie one little bit. He hates himself, she thought. Itâs 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.
Sheâd 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 hostâs 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, Malkyâs 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 Brooâs ear, âSheâs tied to the tree with a bag over her head,â he whispered, anxiously, âgawd knows what heâs gonna do with her!â
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 âGßßl called âthe Old Waysâ, 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 Cochraneâs sister? Â I knew your mother. She was one of the younguns we shipped-off to Europe about 1000 years ago, wasn't she?>
âYes. 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,â 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 takinâ care of herself --Â as if, I met up with her at the docks in Boulogne. Workinâ in a brothel, she was. Abused her Gift to seduce soldiers ân sailors, if my memory serves me right. She had a thing for men in uniform, didnât she? Became beholden to the pleasures of the flesh. And a drunkard to boot, the silly bitch. They hadda time keepinâ 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 thatâs all that matters. Thatâs all the men wanted: Silver Sirens. Skips a generation you see. Your sister wasn't up to much, so Iâm told, but youâre the Real McCoy. Your father was a Sensitive, see. Ellieâs was human. Makes a big difference. Beinâ part human gives you compassion, yâsee. makes you emotional: quick to anger, envious, sentimental. They really thought youâd 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: <Youâre a disciple of Ebben Blom, aren't ye, chile?>
âYes, I am his pupil. You know that,â Carla all-but snapped, getting very irritated.
< ... I knew him before he changed sex, yâsee: 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 makinâ 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, âI know all this. Ebben told me. If you have something new to impart, please do so or...?â
The voice continued, <... then the Christian witch hunts began in earnest; we were well thought of up until then, but it didnât 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 âem 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 ân 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, âThey are casting a spell through Familiars? I thought the Council outlawed such activity in the middle-ages?â
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 Brooâs 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 dogâs ear, ââEâs away with the faeries anâ âeâs lookinâ the other way. Ready to get closer?â
Broo could barely raise his head, but managed to take a step forward.
âAt-a-boy. You first.â 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 madmanâs gauntleted hand, âHoly shite! Heâs gonna kill âer!â 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, âWHOâS THERE?!â
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 McKeeâs 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: âI can see you! I can see you! Come a little closer... so I can KILL YOU!â 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, âBarry, Barry, take it easy, son... put down the gun, youâre not thinkinâ straight, now, câmon...â
âYou ... you... you and your fucking dog...â 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, âCome out, come out, wherever you are...â
Just then, the wind gathered strength and suddenly veered from a light easterly breeze to a strong south-westerly gale -â the smoke from the fire swirled up the hill engulfing the cemetery. Broo felt yet another dip in the demonâs power.
A familiar voice resounded around the hillsides, Malky?! Is that you?!â
âShut up, bitch!â McKee shouted, swinging back toward her.
Malkyâs 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. âAye, itâs me, Zin! Are you OK, luv?â he shouted back, trying to sound as relaxed as possible.
The reply was as everything heâd come to expect from a woman as fearless and as feisty as Zindy, âYeah -- so far!! Gawd knows what this fookinâ headcase is up to!!â
âI SAID SHUT UP!â yelled McKee, in a fit of frustration.
Typically, Zindy ignored him, âHeâs got a fractured skull, Malk!! Heâs not makinâ sense --Â off âis fookinâ trolley -- totally doolally -- !â
McKee noisily cocked the gun and aimed it at her, âOne more word, cunt, and so help me â Iâll blast you and your friends to KINGDOM COME!!â
Now that McKeeâs 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 McKeeâs attention away from Zindy, âBarry, câmon now, donât make things worse for yerself, son -- youâre badly injured, yâ need urgent medical attention...â 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 didnât stir from their perches as he passed; he had to work around them, like furry bollards on a treacherous obstacle course. He wondered: if theyâre here to help, what is their role? They donât look as if theyâre 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 Brooâs ears ache -- inside and out!
Simultaneously, the figure on the hill threw back its head and screamed...
7 minutes ago: Daniâs Spirit penetrated the hostâs 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 hostâs subconscious, she wasn't picking up any thoughts or feelings. Is this meant to happen? Carla had warned her it was âuncharted territoryâ, but she didnât expect there to be nothing.Â
Is he dead or is he just unconscious or..?Â
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 itâd 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. Â
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 didnât 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, âYou've gotta fight back, dickhead! Jamieâs Soul depends on it! Youâre not a kid -- youâre a grown man! SO GROW UP!!â she screamed, into his frightened, tearstained face.
âI-I I canât feel anything... Iâm numb all over,â the would-be Boy King whinged, âall I can f-feel is him... Iâm too weak to m-move...â
Dani put her hand on his forehead, âOK, youâre weak, but you must be semi-conscious or you wouldn't be talkinâ to me! You can fight back!â
But the boy was tearfully insistent, âI told you -- I havenât got the energy... my head hurts so bad... if I go back Iâll die!â
She lifted her hand high and slapped him hard across the face, âYour Soul will die if he possesses Jamie! You have to take back control! Hey! Listen to me!â
Barry had inadvertently become preoccupied. He was looking through her, listening to something, âCanât you hear that?â he gasped, awestruck.
She raised her hand to slap him again, âCut the crap --â 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 didnât know what to make of it. Meanwhile, her young captiveâs demeanour had totally transformed. His teary eyes were now alight with a combination of relief and jubilation, âItâs the song of Bastet, the cat goddess!! The Pharaohâs Protector! Sheâs come to save me!â 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, âIt canât be -- there are no gods -- this is your imagination, dummy!! You must be...â but the noise had gotten so loud it was impossible to ignore, and now that heâd mentioned it, it did indeed sound like a horde of cats wailing at the top of their lungs -- whatâs 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.
âYou see?! I can feel her power surging through me...â yelled the boy king, âHer song is lifting me up! Bastet will save my Soul...â
...
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 ârealityâ 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 werenât in a cell anymore -- the cot appeared to be floating upward in a thick, purplish mist.
He sighed with relief. At last. A breakthrough.
Sisterâs hips ground to a halt. She went rigid and looked up. âWhat is that?!â 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:
âSHUT UP YOU BASTARDS!!â
followed by a loud BOOM!
...
2 minutes ago: now that McKee was distracted by the catsâ 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 Zindyâs 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: âLose the gun, Barry, youâre gonna kill somebody...â
Still holding the knife and the shotgun, but getting evermore frantic as the catsâ yowl reached an insufferable pitch, McKee squeezed his eyes shut and howled, âSHUT UP YOU BASTARDS!!â
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!
âNO!â Malkyâs voice echoed across the hills as he dashed up the last few yards to the pile of earth by the open grave. The shot didnât 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 harmâs way â but in that moment, McKee opened his eyes and saw her! He threw down the shotgun and pulled his daddyâs old service revolver from his belt, âGet... back... here... bitch... havenât finished with you yet...â 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 McKeeâs 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, âSing, sing, sing, ye minions of Bastet!â
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!
... Â
3 minutes ago: âSheâs stopped moving. Whatâs happening?â Carla asked the wizened old witch.
<Sheâs made the connection. Canât you feel the crackle of negative energy in the air? Sheâs in the hostâs psyche. This is the hardest part. The grown-up part.>
âWhat do you mean?â
<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...>Â
The witches raised the pitch. Dani suddenly screamed!Â
âSheâs in pain!â cried Carla, letting go of the old witchâs 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 didnât 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. âYou assured me sheâd be safe,â 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 âPrime Directiveâ?> the voice asked, with a hint of derision.
Dani screamed again.Â
Carla chewed a nail and said, âBut surely thereâs another way...?â
Instead of answering the question the old witch responded with another, <The thing with âmessiahsâ is, they usually have to sacrifice themselves for the salvation of others, donât they?>
Torn between logic and familial loyalty, Carla vaguely protested, âBut she is so young and beautiful...?â
The tiny shoulders shrugged, <Like you said yourself, mâ dear: âTis strictly witchcraft. Tisn't personal...â>
...
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 bikersâ 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 demonâs 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.Â
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 McKeeâs mindâs 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, sheâd even forgotten what her mother looked like, but now, for the first time in 5 years, she saw Maisie Cochraneâs 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 motherâs 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, âOh Dani, how wonderful to see you,â he said, in that calm, beguiling voice of his.
âI hate you. You make me sick,â she replied, gimlet-eyed and unflinching.
He kept smiling but his eyes took on a regretful look when he said, âDonât be like that, Dani. Youâre on my side, remember? You are an extension of me. We belong together. Us against the world, and all that.â
No matter their avatars difference in size, in this realm, Dani was the more powerful psyche; after all, sheâd 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. âI���m in your head. I see everything. I feel everything. I know everything. I know what youâve done,â 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, âTheyâre only people, Danielle. Mankind. From little babies to little old ladies, no matter what age, no matter what gender, theyâre just organic lifeforms: fodder for the Soul Machine. It doesnât matter how they live their lives or how they die.âÂ
âIt does when theyâre little children. Their Souls will never Ascend.â
âBut theyâre free to wander the Multiverse forever -- isn't that better than joining the 'Eternal Hostâ?â
âThey never had any say in the matter. They never got to grow up and live their lives.â
His tone softened as he reminded her, âYour family is no better. They have no love for this planet or its miserable inhabitants. They canât wait to escape either. But they have to get rid of me first. Thatâs why Jamieâs ancestors created you. Youâre not a messiah, Dani. Youâre just a weapon. A tool. Theyâre using you to kill me. And then theyâll kill you.â
âYou killed my mommy.â
He laughed and laughed as if it was the funniest joke heâd ever heard, âReally -- all the horrible things Iâve done, and thatâs the one that sticks in your craw?!â
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, âItâs me, Dani, mommy. Iâve come to take you home, honey⌠Iâve come to take you away from this awful place and these horrible menâŚâ Â
She could contain herself no longer. She forgot all about Carlaâs 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
âDIE!â
...
1 minute ago: just as the naked cronesâ yowling reached an ear-splitting crescendo, Sister suddenly lurched as if sheâd 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
âDani?!â he mumbled through a mouthful of gauze.
The little green goblin theyâd 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 -- canât you hear me?... whatâs 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 screamedÂ
âDIE!!â
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 Lumbâs 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. Thereâs 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. Sheâd seen her uncle awaken from his enchantment, assess the situation, then retrieve the pistol from under the bed; sheâd watched him assume position and take aim. She did nothing to stop him.
Once heâd gathered his wits, Jamie glared at the trusty retainer and yelled, âWhy?! Why did you have to kill her?!â
âBecause she was about to kill you. The demon tricked her at the last minute, pulled the ol' bait-ân-switch,â 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,âBut what if her Soul is still locked in the McKeeâs psyche -- the demon will devour her, wonât he?!â 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 grandmotherâs ancient head, closed her eyes and tersely translated, <âShe 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 heâs done, sheâd 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 ân killed her, or you would've died in that dream.â> She moved her head along the edge of the box and addressed Carla, <âYou told her not to let her heart rule her head? Well, thatâs exactly what we were countinâ 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 demonâs energy, but she inherited her motherâs compassion -- and her great-grandmotherâs hot temper! Those elements when combined with her youth ân 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, âall is fair in love 'n warâ....>
âWhether we like it or not, this is - was - Daniâs destiny, sir,â offered Castle, gloomily, as he removed the cartridge from the pistol and made the gun safe. âTis a terrible pity, to be sure, but my duty is to you, sir. Your safety is my No.1 priority.â
<âShe laid down her life for for the cause, like all messiahs,â>Â The old witch opined with a little chuckle, <âand like all Messiahs, I have a feelinâ she will be reborn.â>
âHow do you know?!â snapped Jamie, insulted by her offhand tone.
<âDid you hear the roar of a Soul Death when she passed? No. Take it from me, her Soul is safe.â>
âWhat will happen to her?â asked Carla, sheepishly.
 <âWell, seeinâ as sheâs too old to join the Wee Ghosts and too toxic to Ascend to the Eternal Host, thereâs only one thing the Powers That Be can do with her.â> She scratched her warty chin and asked, <âThere was a woman there, wasn't there?â>
Jamie nodded, âYes. The hostage.â
<âWell, letâs just hope sheâs of child-bearing age...â>
âSo... what about the demon, then?!â he said, closing Daniâs eyes, âor did she die in vain?â
The little witch looked up at Castle; her interpreterâs face took on a sneer as she answered, <âWell, thatâs up to you menfolk. Thanks to us ân the chile, heâs all-but done. We've played our part: we enabled ân 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 âdemonologistsâ to work on whatâs left of âim,â> she turned back to Jamie, <âof course, thatâs if his host survives whateverâs goinâ on in Wicklow. We wouldn't want âim dyinâ and the demon migratinâ to a another Soul, would we now...?â>
...
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, âIâm... in control... no -- Iâm in control!...Iâm in control...â 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, âBarry... this is bloody pointless, thereâs nowhere to go now, son... yeâre very badly injured, youâre done in.... Put the down the gun and weâll get you to a hosp --â
McKee let out another loud, incomprehensible exhortation of pain and the revolver went off â the bullet made a wheeeee-sound as it whizzed through the top of the mound, missing Malkyâs crown by a whisker! He slid further down and kept close to the ground, âBarry!! Cut that out! The killinâ has got to stop - now!â he yelled.
Broo was hiding in the bushes behind the tree, waiting for an opportunity to pounce. McKee didnât scare him now:Â the magenta halo had faded completely, the otherworldly electricity had vanished from the ether; Â The catsâ 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, âHah! Iâm back! Back in the Land of the Living! Yippeeeeee!â 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, âNow... whatâs he been up to....?â He looked around as if he was viewing the scene for the first time, âIs this the Anderson Place?!â He looked down the hill at the burning cottage, nodding as if heâd just got the joke, âCourse it is...  ooh, I see whatâs going on here, I get the picture...â he waved the pistol in the air, âthis is the big showdown, huh?I Back where it all began, very dramatic,â he chuckled, âcos looky-here -- all the key playersâre gathered in the little dog cemetery for the grande finaleeeeeee!â He turned toward the mound, âthe recovering alcoholic!â he turned toward Zindy, âthe little blue-haired inn-keeper!.... but someoneâs missing... hmmm....who can it be...â He looked from side-to-side, âWhereâs that wretched mutt of yours, Calvert?! Whereâs the star of the show?â he chided, looking behind the tree, âwhereâs the three-legged fleabag you drag around with you...â he eventually espied Brooâs eyes glinting in the undergrowth. âAhh... there you are, you old rascal... tryinâ to creep on me, were ya, ehh? Thatâs the oldest trick in the booooOOF!!â
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, âThis is for Sammy!!â
 -- a second before, the little ghostsâ words flashed through Brooâs mind and rang in his ears: âHe must be taken alive!â He duly sprang forth, took the back of her tee-shirt in his teeth and used all his strength to drag her off!
âBROO! What the fook! Whatâd ya do that for!â 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!
âWatch out!â 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 -- sheâs been hit!
âJesus! NO!â 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.Â
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
#Spindlefreck#witchcraft#horror#witches#goblins#irish humour#serial killer#dreams#imagination#psychology#saga#mystery#satire#black magic#demon#possession#historical fiction#irish fiction#feminism#telepathy#psychics#fantasy#Allegory#mysticism
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âItâs only magic when you donât know how itâs doneâ
SPINDLEFRECK:Â 21 Episodes available here.
#spindlefreck#fantasy#horror#witchcraft#magic#telepathy#dreams#demon#goblin#mystery#summer reading#saga#episodic#serial killer#murder#irish humour#irish fiction#historical fiction
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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 coronerâs 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.Â
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 Paddyâs 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. âOona!â she called, until the door slowly opened and a blinding light shone on her face. A warm, inviting voice shouted back: âCome in! Weâre in the bedroom!âÂ
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 sheâd 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 âoutside-voiceâ: âShall we go shoppinâ after, moy luvly?!â
Oblivious, Craigy groaned, âAnything, just donât stop...!â
Oona giggled as she rocked, <donât just sit there, join in...>
Ni baulked, No, Iâm 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 âinside voiceâ; that cool, intelligent, sexy voice that made Niâs heart beat a little faster: <Donât fret, my darling. Donât 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 otherâs 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 heâd written in the margin above his crossword (a handy way to remember things), âOh, the strangest thing - youâll never guess who phoned me today.â
âJames Rossington,â 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, âBy Jiminy! Spot on! What number am I thinking of?â
âDonât call the Magic Circle just yet -- one of the clerks in the Deanâs office rang to tip-me-off. Heâs offered me an internship, hasnât he?â She looked up from her comic, âWhat do you think of that?âÂ
He shrugged, âI dunno... What should âI think of thatâ?â
âWell, 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, Iâm waylaid by two of Oliver Laphenâs men, and the next thing I know, Rossington -- Laphenâs doctor -- is offering me an internship?!â She raised her eyebrows and awaited his reply.
Paddy was surprised by her reaction, âHe 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...â Then he thought about it for a bit, then asked with furrowed brow, âYou havenât been making trouble again, have you? Iâm not so worried for myself, but when it comes to Phil Somervilleâs career...?â
âHonestly, Uncle Paddy -- I havenât said anything to anyone or done anything to put either of you in the soup since you told me off,â she replied, emphatically, âIâm just saying itâs a bit suspicious, especially in light of what Scanlon ân Gorringe said about him.â She took another bite of her biscuit and ruminated as she chewed, âIt makes you wonder why heâs suddenly become so interested in me...?â
âParanoia is an interesting subject for a student of Criminal Psychology, wouldn't you agree?â he winked.
âIâm not being paranoid. Câmon! Rossington? What possible interest could he have in a 19 year old pipsqueak like me... unless he has an ulterior motive?â
âThen, why donât you go along to the interview and find out?â
âOh, I intend to. I wouldn't miss it for the world.â
 The next day: Where the suburbs meet open country, in the eastern outskirts of Dublin City, stood St Cedricâs 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 visitorsâ entrance in the new wing.Â
With her hair slicked back and ponytailed, dressed in her grey âpower-suitâ -- 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.Â
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: âTHERE ARE NO MONSTERS, JUST MISGUIDED MEN WHO DO MONSTROUS THINGS.â The message â you can sleep easy in the knowledge that Dr James Rossington has the ear of the Great and the Good and the Downright Nasty! â 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 Rossingtonâs 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: Whatâs 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, âGet in.â 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. âYou wouldn't believe it, but those eejits are outpatients â they can go home anytime they like.â He looked up, âThe real bastards are on the upper floors. Theyâre the ones you have to watch out for. They know how to behave themselves.â
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 interviewerâs 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, â... and I said to my uncle: âWhat possible interest could he have in a 19 year old pipsqueak like me?ââ She looked him in the eye, âSo, why am I here, Dr Rossington?â
This is brill! I feel like Lauren Bacall!
His brow furrowed, âI have to say I find your story fascinating, Miss Fitzgerald, but Iâm afraid the offer of an internship comes as a favour to Mr Laphen, nothing more.â 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, âCan I get you something?â
Ni grimaced, looked at her watch and said, âItâs 9:25AM, doctor!â
He shrugged off the reproach, âI havenât been keeping regular hours. Iâve been preparing a new book for publication and Iâve been working flat-out since last Tuesday. Deadlines, you see. By my body-clock itâs 11PM yesterday and the sun has long since set...â He snorted like a coke-fiend before necking the lot and pouring another.Â
He looked at her in the mirror above the writing bureau and said, abruptly, âYour story doesnât impress me, Miss Fitzgerald. You know why?â
Caught unawares at the strange change in his tone, Ni nevertheless stayed in character, âDo tell.â
âI know exactly what youâve been up to.â He sauntered back to the desk, brandy glass in one hand, the other casually languishing in his trouser pocket, âAt first I was concerned that you went to Bogmire because you knew something,â he said, with a sly chuckle, âbut having met you, I can see youâre just a nosy little girl who wandered off the beaten path.â He was fishing; patronising her to get her to blurt out the truth.
She was undaunted, âWhat else would I be doing there?â
âI 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.â He sipped his brandy, raised a waxen eyebrow and awaited her reply.
âYou have spies in Bogmire?â she asked, slightly offended.
âLetâs just say I have an ally on site who doesnât like whatâs been happening. They tell me youâve been getting very close to Mrs Oona Nevin, nĂŠe Umbert.â
Ni wanted to jiggle her legs and say --Â Oh please go on, this is riveting! â- 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, âYou 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.â
âWe only talked...â she began to say, then quickly took umbrage, âWha- waitaminnit-waitaminnit -- what has any of this got to with me?!â
Rossington stooped, put his drink on the desk, leaned in and said in an accusing, angry voice: âDonât come in here telling me you just happened to drive into Bogmire on a wing and a prayer -- youâre working for them, aren't you?!â
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, âOK, 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 â and the next thing I know I get a job offer from you! I just wanna know whatâs going on?!âÂ
Heâd noticed her rub her palm furiously as she talked -- and all-but leapt over the desk! âLemme see that!â he cried, taking her hand, opening it and examining the little heart-shaped rash, âTell me this -- were you violently ill shortly after this encounter -- vomiting, diarrhoea, sweating, shivering?â
She nodded nervously, âWhy, yes...?â
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, âWell congratulations, Ms Fitzgerald, you will be a much welcome, and may I say, very attractive addition to our team!â He opened the door and pushed her out, âReport to the front office tomorrow morning at 8AM sharp and Iâll have matron give you the official tour -- goodbye!â
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 âGourmet Night Chez Gilrayâ. Paddy and Phil had been firm friends since they met in NW Donegal overseeing a mass grave in â85 [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 Paddyâs 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, 'Uncleâ Phil was Niâs ideal man, and told him so on one occasion when sheâd had too much vino and was making a point about men who werenât 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, âJust say the word, Twinkle! Weâll elope in my squad car! With the sirens on!â 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 âquiet triumphâ, âconsidering the 5 hours of non-stop cursing, kicking of furniture and broken crockery that went into its creation.â 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, âNi, that was lovely, but I didnât float up the Liffey on a lily pad. Whatâre you after, Twink? I canât give you an advance on your babysittinâ money, cos thatâs Patâs department...?â
Paddy cut to the chase, âSheâs thinking of taking an internship with your arch-nemesis, Dr James Rossington, and she wants you to tell me that itâs a âgood ideaâ.â
âI am not -- I just wanna know more about him,â 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 âcaseâ.
Somerville took the napkin from his lap, patted the corners of his mouth and said in his âofficialâ voice, âSCICI 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 âexcellent work in the field of Psychopathological researchâ.â
Ni curled her lip, âThat was very pat.â
âItâs my stock answer when anybody asks me about âim,â said Somerville, shrugging, âIâve learned to keep me mouth shut as far as Dr Rossingtonâs concerned.â
Ni tapped her nose and urged him, âJust between us?â
Somerville sighed and admitted, âHeâs not my kinda guy, you know that. I mean, how many times have I sat at this table and bitched about âim? But I canât argue with the statistics, itâs just his Lust for Glory that I resent him for...â
âBut heâs reasonably clean?â said Ni.
Paddy put a hand on his friendâs shoulder and said, âBefore 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 â now this!â
Niâs temper darkened and the usual jumble of old gripes that only got an airing when sheâd had too much to drink spilled forth, âNo â she blames you for not enforcing Her Will!! Sheâs still trying to run my life!!â
âEasy, petal...â
Ni slapped the table with her hands and yelled, âNo! Every time I wanna do something for myself she has to be consulted! Well, Iâm nearly 20 now, so she can shove it! Iâll do what a want!!â
Paddy took the bottle of Burgundy off the table, âNo more for you little Miss Firecracker! I warned you -- you wonât get any booze if you canât handle it!â
âItâs got nothinâ to do with the wine, itâs her...â said Ni, fuming.
Somerville tapped the stem of his glass with his fork, âHey-hey-hey, listen to yerselves - Iâve been cominâ here for nigh-on 4 years and this is the first time Iâve ever seen youse-two fight!â
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, âLook, I only have to go to SCICI for a couple of weeks til I get the measure of whatâs going on -- then Iâll make an excuse and go back to uni. And if I do have to stay for the entire year â well, you heard Uncle Phil â the institute is doing sterling work, Iâll be rubbing shoulders with experts in my chosen field. Everyoneâs happy.â She turned to âUncleâ Phil, âSo, is there any reason in your mind why I shouldn't take this internship?â
Somerville equivocated, âIt sounds as if youâre asking for my permission...â
âSheâs asking you because she thinks youâll back her up,â said Paddy.
âNo Iâm not -- I just wanna know about Rossington. I wanted to know if he has any skeletons in his closet before I accept the job, thatâs all,â she said.
Somerville gave in, leant in and lowered his voice, âWell, itâs funny you should mention the word closet, cos heâs secretly gay â- still a crime in this country, whatever your opinion of the law  -- and he has a fondness for young, tubby teenage boys,â he paused to clear his throat, âand just between us, he has a bit of a coke habit. But besides that, aye, heâs reasonably clean. That said, heâs got three of my most prolific murderers up there living in the lap of luxury, all in the name of research...â he took on the vexed expression of a beleaguered priest, head lowered, hands laced together, as if at prayer, â... like Barry McKee, for instance.â
âIâve often wondered what he wants with McKee, the manâs little more than a vegetable,â said Paddy, slightly disgusted, âitâs rather ghoulish, if you ask me. The man shouldâve been allowed to die long ago.âÂ
Phil agreed and commented in a bitter tone, âMcKeeâs his prize exhibit, his sideshow freak: Roll-up, roll-up, see Irelandâs Most Famous Serial Killer! all that sorta muck. As a matter of fact, heâs holding a press conference tomorrow to announce a new book heâs written about âim.â
Ni was grudgingly impressed, as much by Rossingtonâs cunning as his bravado, âFrom what Iâve heard, heâs under pressure to quit, but instead of disappearing under a rock, heâs drawing attention to himself.â She nodded and looked into space as she pictured the scene, âI reckon heâll make a few insinuations during his speech to send a coded message to his enemies; veiled threats, that sort of thing.â
Big Phil looked at his friend, âIs this the same wee girl that used to read at the end of the table and the only sound youâd hear would be pages turning and the occasional âhah!â when she heard something witty?â
âOh, sheâs unrecognisable!â Paddy bitched like an old queen, âon top of ruining her life, dressing like a floozy and clandestine dalliances with married women, sheâs been watching a lot of Film Noir. Sheâs turning into the female Philip Marlowe.â
âWell, from one Philip to another - care to make a wager, sister?â offered Somerville.
Ni spat on her hand (Paddy grimaced, âif your grandmother saw that!â) âYeâre on, brother! Iâll betcha he makes, shall we say, a few âpeculiar allusions?ââ
They shook hands. Somerville watched her collect the plates and take them to the sink, âOy, Niamh Naive, youâre not at yourself, you know that?â
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!
âWe havenât agreed on an amount,â he said, passively, but he had seen the fire in her eyes, she could tell. You canât bullshit the human lie-detector, but here goes - she laughed it off, âSorry â âtampon timeâ as Paddy calls it! Iâm a wee bit spiky this week, heh-heh... would a tenner be OK?âÂ
He agreed and she went off to find her purse. Once she was out of earshot, Somerville turned to his friend, âMood swings, change of image, eyes like two burnt holes in a blanket; y'know how my mind works, Paddy.â
Paddy nodded, âDonât worry Iâm keeping a close eye on her, and I havenât seen any signs of substance abuse, just a lot of sleeping. Might be the after-effects of that fever she suffered a week ago.â He paused for reflection then said, âNo, I think this little metamorphosis and spurt of activity may be more about âdiscovering herselfâ than uncovering some grand conspiracy. Sheâs so head over heels for this Nevin woman, sheâs not thinking straight. However, Iâve decided to let it run its course or Iâll never hear the end of it...â
After showing Somerville to the door, Paddy cornered her in the kitchen and gave her a piece of his mind â âThis isn't on â you canât get Phil involved in this little adventure of yours! For one thing, he only knows the half-of-it!â
âCâmon Paddy â what if I find some dirt on Rossington,â she protested. âUncle Phil can open an investigation -- heâll have Rossington exactly where he wants him!â
Paddy took off his nezzies to let her see he was serious, âYouâre conniving and I donât like it! Itâs reckless and dangerous. And that little show of temper tonight -- it isn't like you at all. Iâm this close to calling your mother, I mean it...â
She cuddled him, pinning his arms to his sides, âPaddy, itâs best not to fight it, go with it, youâll be much happier in the long run!â
He gently pushed her off, held her arms and decried her lack of insight, âThis is important, serious, grown up stuff that you should be discussing with her, not me...â The phone rang on the wall behind him, â-- and with any luck thatâll be her now!â 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 Somervilleâs car reverse back up the drive and the toot of a horn: theyâd obviously both received the same call.
âSomeone die?â she asked, half-joking.
Paddyâs demeanour changed, he had that disappointed-but-what-can-you-do look on his face he always got when duty called. âAye, someone has indeed died,â he sighed, âa 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 wonât be home til tomorrow, so lock all the doors and put on the burglar alarm before you go to bed.Â
He gave her a last reproachful look, âAnd think long and hard about what I said. Whatever your feelings for her, your new âfriendâ is a married woman, Niamh. The relationship is doomed from the start. You're asking for a broken heart...â
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.
âSomeoneâs at the door â my door!â 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. Sheâd 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.Â
âItâs Rossington. Let me in!â 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:Â 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. Sheâd 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: â... 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!â
âWho? Laphen? It was him who asked you for the favour in the first place?!â
âNot Laphen: Scanlon. Ollieâs off filming a movie in Europe for three months, then heâs off to Japan to tape a series of Guinness commercials. Gorringe went with him -- Scanlonâs been left to his own devices and I think heâs up to something.â
Ni couldn't help herself and spluttered, âThis sounds like the plot of a bad pulp novel?!â
He stopped pacing and snarled, âItâs not a fucking joke, Niamh! Oonaâs worth tens of billions! If they nurture her properly, it could be the biggest thing since splitting the atom â or it could blow up in their faces! Thatâs how big this is -- and how dangerous these people are!â
The accent is slipping, heâs really scared!
âIn that case, let me call Uncle Phil...â she reached for the phone on the table beside the couch.
He waved his hands and cried out, âNO! Not Somerville! Jesus, no! Iâm only telling you cos youâre up-to-your-neck-in-it-already and you need me! I need you! We need each other!!â
She put the receiver back on the cradle, âSee thatâs the thing with you James, I canât tell if youâre acting or in the throes of some paranoid delusion due to alcohol and lack of sleep!â
He approached, looked down at her and said, âYou donât have that problem though, do you?â he said, bitterly. âYou know itâs true. Oonaâs 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. Youâre only important to them for as long as youâre important to her.â
ââMake me walk under a busâ...?â she repeated, appalled, âbut how... Why would she...?â
He put up his hands in a consolatory gesture, âLook, your meeting wasn't kismet -- you were handpicked. Your uncle mentioned you at one of Ollieâs soirĂŠes and I jotted down your name. You were on a list of possible mentors:Â 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.â
She was affronted, âWhat the -- nobody asked me!â
âDid you find an old map in an old book in your favourite bookshop?â he asked, lighting another cigarette.
She stopped chewing and gawped, âYou mean they arranged that? It was a trap?! The fucking bastards!!â
âIt was my idea and they used it. I knew you couldn't resist an adventure,â he said, somewhat proud that his little scheme had been so effective.
âYouâre the biggest bastard of all!â she cried.
âLet me see the rash,â he asked. She hesitantly held out her hand; he took it and examined it closely, âShe rubs a special oil into your skin â a minor irritant, completely harmless â like a concentrated nettle sting -- only it works over a longer time period and flares up when your hands sweat. The point is, while itâs there itâs a constant reminder, because she needs you to think of her. She needs to be on your mind.â He took a long drag on his cigarette and asked, âSo, what method are you using â the open/closed door technique?â
âUh huh...â She nodded distractedly, staring blankly, her head getting light, her vision beginning to blur â Oona was listening.
âOh! Is she making contact?â he said, excitedly, recognising the tell-tale signs. He knelt by the sofa and looked up into Niâs eyes, âHi, Oona! Itâs me, Doctor Jimmy! Tell them Iâve got your little girlfriend and weâre going to make a deal!â 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, âI was only â uhh!â
Sheâd 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! Sheâd done some kickboxing in her time, but never against anyone without headgear. This could be murder!! She flew into a panic â she jumped down and tugged at his jerkin, âOh dear God, are you alright?! â oh Jesus â please donât be dead!!â 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-ân-foot to a kitchen chair. Niamh was sitting on a stool opposite, legs crossed, the Beretta 9mm dangling on her little finger, âWas this entirely necessary?â she asked, dispassionately.
âPersonal protection â I have a permit. And youâve no need to worry, it isn't you I need protecting from,â he groaned, rotating his jaw. He struggled in his washing line bonds, âThis is insane! Let me out and weâll talk like adults.â
This is great! If my heart wasn't pounding in my throat Iâd be enjoying this!
âLook â come with me!â he cried, clutching at straws, âWeâll go to Bogmire and take her to SCICI! Sheâll be safe there!â
She was so taken aback she almost fell off her seat, âMalpractice, kidnapping, false imprisonment  -- this isn't Chicago in the mid-20s -- you canât get away with that sort of thing nowadays!â she laughed.
He wasn't scaring her, so he went for the kill, âDo you know why she needs a mentor? Because sheâs a child. When she reached puberty and received her Gift, the psychological trauma wiped her memories -- sheâs got the IQ and temperament of an 8 year old. And like any 8 year old, sheâs capricious and prone to tantrums if she doesnât get her way!â
Ni shook her head in disbelief, âShe canât be... We talk about serious things, most of it deep, meaningful stuff...?â
âHah! Youâre talking to yourself!â he sniggered. âShe 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, thatâs if you ever stop yakking long enough to listen to what youâre/sheâs saying!!â
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, âYou were violently ill â that means they gave you the potion! The potion opens the part of your mind that lets her in â that means she has access anytime, night or day, awake or asleep. Sheâs playing it cool so far -- probably because sheâs preoccupied with her new husband -- but soon, you just wait and see, sheâll be like a second head.â
âPotion?! What potion?!â she cried, shaking with fear, raising the little gun.
He wrenched his head to the side, âPut that bloody thing down before somebody gets hurt!â
âNot until you tell me whatâs up doc?â 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, âWhile I was at Pagham House in â83 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 âLove Potionâ. 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 heâs back on his feet, he finds that heâs 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: âit only works if the woman is a witch.â
âSo I asked her, jokingly â âwhere do I find a witch who can do this?â 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 ânobodyâ and how I should âmind my own businessâ â 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!â
Ni frowned, âAnd... is Oona a witch?â
"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.
âHe 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 â presumably they deemed it too costly and time consuming to hire a curator â there are thousands of unregistered books in there.
âSo, 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 Dukeâs notes contend that the potion can be used to open a normal human beingâs mind to psychic interaction. The diary ends around the late 1790s â- just before he was executed -- so weâll 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.
âThe results came back â theyâd never seen anything like it. it was mildly hallucinogenic but, despite some impurities, non-toxic. Thatâs 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 Iâd 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...â he winced and closed his eyes, âsheâd lose patience or get angry and Iâd get these skull-splitting headaches, terrible feelings of nausea, horrible nightmares -â 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. â Â
âIn other words, she needed a friend,â said Ni, impassively.
âAnd a husband. That was her one demand: ââusband!â And not one of the local louts, either; she wanted a specific type! Now, youâve seen her, you know sheâs 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 sheâd 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.â
âWell, if itâs any consolation,â said Ni, âmy presence hasnât interfered with her conjugal duties one iota. She likes to make me watch.â
Rossington snorted as if it was par for the course, âYes, but once the honeymoon period is over and she gets bored or they have rows, lives may be at risk, and I wonât be there to put it right.â He looked up into her eyes, âIn 1986, Herbieâs pals in the CIA brought in a âguinea pigâ -- a renegade soldier whoâd 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 â but when she got in, his memories and fantasies were so horrific she reacted badly â- the man went insane! He was a twitching cabbage within the hour. They thought she was a freak â they wanted to cart her off there and then â if it wasn't for Ollieâs involvement, sheâd be languishing in one of their âfacilitiesâ! Thatâs how dangerous she can be!â
By this time, Ni had given up on the femme fatale pose, she felt hollowed out and bitterly disappointed in herself. âWe travelled through the stars... we sat on top of Everest... we swam under the sea and made love amongst dolphins...â she mused, looking off into the distance, âit was the most thrilling thing Iâve ever experienced... Now I feel like a prize chump.â
âJust remember this: sheâs a child â sheâs sly and manipulative, she uses her good looks to get what she wants, but she doesnât 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.â
Ni lowered the gun, âOh God, sheâs in my head... whatâs going to happen next...?â
Crisis over, Rossington sighed and slumped with relief, âI donât know. They cut me out. Ollie ân Gorringe think the world of her, but Scanlon wants rid of her. He wants to sell her off to unscrupulous people whoâll use her for their own ends. Thatâs what Iâm afraid of.â
She thought for a moment, fighting her natural instinct to play it safe, âBut how...?â 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 ân get me, Niamh! Oi âeard what Dr Jimmy said anâ oi is scared! Please, please come 'n get me!!>
Again, Rossington saw Niâs expression change and recognised the signs, âDonât worry, Oona! Everythingâs gonna be OK!â
<Oi donât want âem to take oi away! Please, please come quick!!>
âOKOKOKOK! I get it, I get it!â yelled Ni, pulling at her hair and pacing the floor, â... letâs just say I was going to help you...?â
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, âmight as well dress the part!â Uppermost in her mind were impure thoughts about finally having physical contact -â Oona in the flesh! And it was an adventure, no matter what Paddy once said: âYouâre like an Enid Blyton heroine â only in my experience, snoopy middle-class gels who stick their noses into shady peopleâs businesses usually end up getting gang-raped in a disused farm house, killed, dismembered, and fed to the pigs.â
Rossington wanted to leave the way he came in. Ni insisted they leave via the front door, âI have to set the burglar alarm.â When she tried to put in the number, the alarm went off â 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, âHellooooo â is this the Gilray residence?â a male voice shouted.
Rossington jumped out from behind the bush and made a beeline for the car, âShut up Peter! Iâm supposed to be incognito for fuckâs sake!!â he hissed, loudly.
âOh! So sorrry! Iâve just been sitting outside in the dark for the last hour-and-a-half, listening to the same frigginâ Erasure tape over and over again!â shouted the voice, in a whiney, sing-song voice.
âSsshhhh!â
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 âSorry Mrs G! Jumpy visitor!â
As she bounced into the passenger seat, Rossington grumbled from the back, âWhy donât the two of you just hire a bloody brass band and be done with it!â
The driver was a young, chubby blonde with a cheerful baby face. He shook her hand and introduced himself, âPeter Sinclair,â he said, looking around at the man on the floor in the back, âwelcome to my world.â
âJust drive, Peter!â Rossington growled, âGet us the hell outta here before the neighbours call the cops!!â
The car jerked forward and stalled.
âFor fuckâs sake!!â
Ni giggled.
Peter flapped his hands, âStop shouting it only makes it worse --Â youâre gettinâ me all flustered!â Once he got the engine restarted, he asked, âWhere are we goinâ anyway?!â
âBogmire,â Rossington whisper-shouted.
Peter looked over his shoulder, frowned and said, âBogmire? Kildare? At this feckinâ time of night?!â
âWe are going to collect Oona and this is the safest time!â Rossington yelled back.
âBut sheâs just married â theyâll be watching the house!â Peter protested.
âShe knows how to get out without being seen. And they donât know anything or I guarantee an SUV-full of goons would've intercepted us by now!â
Ni confessed to Peter: âYou see, he keeps saying things like that and I canât resist!â
He drove off and moaned, âBelieve me, it wears a bit thin after the third or fourth nervous breakdown...â
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 Laphenâs 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, nĂŠe Umbert. âNow that is creepy,â said Peter, transfixed by the vision in widowâs weeds walking in the floodlight of the full-beam, âshe looks like she just stepped out of a coffin...â
... And into my dreams... Ni undid her safety belt, ready to run into her loverâs 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.
Rossingtonâs face appeared between the seats, grinning like a Cheshire cat..
âWell, well, it worked,â said Peter, slightly impressed, slightly disappointed.
Rossington patted his loverâs shoulder, âYou were great, Peter, you really should think about a job on the stage.â
âI wasn't actinâ, James! â my nerves are feckinâ wrecked! I only agreed to this cos you practically begged me!â
Oona climbed into the backseat and kissed Rossington on the cheek, âOh, Dr Jimmy, âee truly is a magician! You jast âave to say it â and tis done!â She looked at her friend slumped in the front seat and tried to read her, âAww, sheâs down so deep oi canât reach âer. Will she be all roight?â
âJust a sedative, sheâll be fine in the morning,â said Rossington, assuredly. He looked Oona in the eye, âI hope you appreciate all this, madam, itâs all for your benefit. Mr Scanlon does not have your best interests at heart, but once I have a word with him, heâll soon see things my way.â
âOi know, Dr Jim, oi is most grateful.â
âRight, well, we have 2 hours to get things done, so câmon, Peter, chop-chop!â As they did a u-turn and drove back down the road, he reached under the front seat and retrieved a large walkie-talkie:Â âJR 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 Ollieâs crimes against humanity. Over.â
Scanlonâs voice sounded in the earpiece: âIâm a man of my word, doctor. Flash your headlights when you get to the front gate...â
St Cedricâs 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. âIâm back in the loop, my darling, all thanks to you,â he said, in a breathy James Mason half-whisper, âScanlon made a deal. Weâre home ân 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 - âWhy the fuck did you knock-me-out you fucking creep?!â She lashed out as best she could; he easily parried the feeble, slapping hands and talked her down, âIt was a precautionary measure to ensure your safety!â He caught her wrist and pointed to her head, âIf she didnât 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 uncleâs 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 didnât even know you went out. Heâs just happy that youâre safe ân well.â
She pulled the covers up to her chin, âYou didnât do anything else to me while I was under, did you...?â
Insulted, he stood up, arched an eyebrow, tugged at his cuffs and spoke in a no-messing, headmasterly tone, âI needed you as a bargaining chip, thatâs all. Once Scanlon and I had settled our business, we took Oona home, came straight back here and put you to bed.â
Trying to keep her temper under control, she snarled, âBargaining chip?! Youâre taking a big, big risk, Rossington -- all I have to do is call DS Somerville and let him sort it out!â
He was quick to reassure her, âOK, 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 weâre talking about...â he winked, salaciously, âAnd besides, youâre enjoying yourself, aren't you?â
âGod, youâre glib,â she snarled.
âYes, but Iâm right.â His expression softened as his voice took on a more sympathetic tone, âLook, Oona promised us that as long as youâre there to guide her, sheâll restrict her telepathic activity to our experiments.â
âAnd what if I canât sleep? What if all this upheaval makes me an an insomniac?!â 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.
âI 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...?â
âNo. Thereâs enough crap floating around my system without throwing barbiturates or dope into the mix...â She turned away and asked quietly, âSo... when can I see her?â she asked, a little shamefaced.
âEvery hour of every day if you like.â
She turned back and sneered, âYou know what I mean: face-to-face. In the flesh. I need to look her in the eye and ask her if sheâs OK with all this. If I canât trust the person in my head anymore, I can at least see how she really feels.â
He shook his head, âNiamh, 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, thatâs why she seduced you. But not to worry, your mutual attraction will eventually fade.â
âWhat you mean is: you want me to forget the âwhirlwind romanceâ and use my influence to brainwash her into your way of thinking?â she chided.
He pinched the bridge of his nose and groaned a patient sigh, âThere are no text books on the subject, Niamh, no operatorâs manual on how to handle something as extraordinary as this â- and I admit, most of the time I fly by the seat of my pants -- but if I fail Oona and this doesnât work, she could seriously hurt someone or hurt herself. Then Scanlon will get his way. Sheâll be sold to the highest bidder.â
âI suppose...â She grumbled.
He straightened up, rubbed his hands together and quietly rejoiced, âGood. Weâd like you to tutor her and guide her through the vagaries of Modern Life, generally make yourself available. And look,â 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, â... this should cover all the inconvenience â- and Iâve included an advance on your first monthâs salary!â
It was more money than sheâd ever seen in her life, but it wasn't enough to convince her that this was a good idea. She twiddled her thumbs, âIt feels all wrong... thereâs no way I can do this... Look at me,â she showed him the reflection of her wan, dark-eyed spoon-face in the curved chrome of a kidney-dish, âthis is after a week - God knows what Iâll look like if I take any more of that âlove potionâ...â 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, â...but the Oona I met that Monday, she gave me warm vibes, she was very... she seemed so nice. Now youâre telling me sheâs been stringing me along .... and I do what any sexist pig does: I objectify her!â She sobbed into the pillow, âOh God... the one time in my life I donât do the right thing and everything goes to shit...!â
He took a deep breath, counted to ten, patted her shoulder and affected his best bedside manner, âListen to me. once she settles into married life and gets pregnant it will change everything, I can guarantee it. Thatâs her ultimate dream: to have a family. Now, that might be anathema to your right-on ideals, but in Oonaâs case itâs imperative that she settles down and leads as ânormalâ a life as possible, as soon as possible.â
âNo pressure, then?â
âIf you go with it, no. Technically, you donât even have to do anything, just open the door when she needs a consultation.â 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.
âOh God...â she whimpered.
âIt wonât be so bad this time,â he chuckled, âmost 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 thatâs highly unlikely, or youâdâve 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.â
âYou are such fucking arsehole, James. You know that, donât you?â 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 sheâd 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 ânefariousâ was going on at face value. Sheâd 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 dayâs 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.Â
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
âWho is this?â she asked, a little scared.
Close your eyes.Â
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:
<Sheâs lovely, isn't she? I call her a âSlimy, Blind, Chisel-Beaked, Web-Footed Corpse-Eaterâ, but sheâll eat anything, doesnât 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 sheâs particularly peckish and by the looks of things, sheâs under the impression she just found breakfast!>
Niamh put her knee on its back, still gripping the bill for all she was worth.
<Hmmm... Iâve been told itâs like trying to hold-down a pitbull-terrier dipped in lard.>
Niamhâs wrists were weakening...
<Sorry, I really should get to the point, eh?
<Hereâs the thing: Do you let go and hope that she doesnât bite? I wouldn't recommend it. Sheâll go all out to kill you; those little talons are designed for tunnelling and theyâll make short work of your torso. She is blind, but she smells your fear, and once she gets the scent of blood, itâll send her into a feeding frenzy and she wonât stop until youâre dead. And I can assure you, you will feel a thing â they tend to go for the soft tissue first, so youâll have to watch while she wends her way through your viscera to access the sweet meats further in... Thatâs if she hasnât already pecked your eyes out... Slimy, Blind, Chisel-Beaked, Web-Footed-Corpse-Eaters consider mammalsâ 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, youâre 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. Theyâll say this little monster is a demon you summoned from hell, and indict you as an agent of Satan â 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.
<Itâs 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 â 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, darlinâ!
<... Or do you â and this is always the most popular option -- do you simply wring her neck and kill her? No one will ever know. Itâll 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? Youâll be causing the extinction of a long-forgotten species. But â 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 weâre in business.>
Snap.
Snap.
âHey! You!â
Snapping fingers.
She snapped out of the daydream.Â
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. âWhat are you doinâ? Fallinâ in love with yer own reflection?â 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 Niâs face, âHello?! You do know where you are, donât you?!â 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, âWhat do you want, Matthew?â
He handed her a clipboard, âJames wants you to sign this. Itâs a secrecy form to stop you blabbin' to all-ânâ-sundry âbout what goes on under this roof.â
It was a standard NDA. She read it and gave the clipboard straight back, âIâm not signing anything until I speak to him. Where is he anyway?â
He held out pen, âJust sign the feckinâ form.â
She waved it away, âTake me to him now, please.â
âWell you canât see âim!â Cromarty jeered, âHeâs with Barry McKee. He gave strict orders that heâs not to be disturbed when he goes in there! And accordinâ to this,â he flipped the page, âonly me, matron, two orderlies and...â his face fell, â... and N. Fitzgerald (intern)....â he looked at her as if sheâd just broken wind, â...you?â He checked it again. âWhy would he...?â He stamped his foot and slapped the clipboard against his thighs in a rage, âWho are you exactly?!â
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 ---
âJames...?â
--- and duly spat it all over himself! He leapt to his feet, âFUCK!! Shit! Donât do that!!â he yelled, âJesus H Christ Almighty you scared the absolute living shit out of me, you stupid bitch!â 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, âDammit - $280 worth of Cardin spattered with $900 cognac...FUCK!!â
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, âJames, itâs the dig in a month or so, and while Iâm there I was wondering if you could set up a meeting with Oona? I promise -â itâs just a face-to-face, out-in-the-open conversation, no bodily contact. Itâs important to establish trust.â
Rossington sprang to his feet again â- splashing brandy over his cuff -- this time he was too incensed to care, âWhat?! What are you talking about?â he said, his eyes boggling.
Here we go again. She was beginning to see why Peter, his âFlatmateâ, was so jaded for one so young. âWhatâs the problem, James? Iâll be careful not to upset her or the project...?â
But Rossington wasn't concerned about a tryst, âWhat dig?!â he asked, dismayed.
âOur dig. The old bog. Laphen gave us permission,â she told him, confused, âScanlon must've told you about it? Itâs 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 -- itâs like an ancient, organic stew; a huge culture that has been left to moulder for thousands of years...â
âYEAH, yeah --Â (Careful! â Temper! â Accent!)Â --Â yes, yes, I donât need a biology lecture! I know what a fucking bog is!â He thought about it then came around the desk and put a hand on her shoulder, âListen, Niamh, can you get it called off?â he asked, as nicely as he could.Â
âNo! What? Why?â She pulled the hand from her shoulder, stood up and defiantly put her fists on her hips, âListen buster, my uncle is suspicious enough as it is -- Iâve told him Iâm doing some sort of âdrugs-trialâ for you â- which is half-true -- but if I call off the dig heâll suss that somethingâs up and heâll call my bloody mother! And if thatâs the case, you wonât have a mentor -- cos Iâll be on the next flight to Stockholm!â
He relented. The deep-set-eyes became pensive slits; he massaged his chin as he mulled and mumbled, âScanlon didnât mention it at the meeting, I wonder why...?â He paced one way â- frowned -- then paced back, âBastard! Heâs set me up again!â Then he smiled as a more agreeable notion occurred, âMaybe he doesnât know about it...?â 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. âWhat exactly do you do at these digs?â
Still slightly annoyed, she replied, âWe wonât interfere with any naturally-occurring phenomena or wildlife. We use state-of-the-art equipment and weâre very careful to leave things as we found them...â Then the realisation struck her, âYouâre worried about the bog, aren't you? The potion. Its bog water, isn't it?!â
â... apart from a few roots ân herbs, I suppose it is 90% âorganic stewâ, yes,â he admitted, slightly ashamed.
âAnd youâre worried we might spoil it?â
âAn excavation could ruin the natural balance...â 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, âThese are photocopies of Roxboroughâs diary. Itâs written in a crude code and almost illegible, but I had an expert decipher it.â He pointed to a page with some rough drawings of a giant standing over a crowd of frightened peasants. âThe locals believe the bog contains the remains of an ancient magus -- an âevil shamanâ, âmagicianâ, âsorcererâ 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 heâd 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 âcontain his evil spiritâ and make it safe, but itâs 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.â He showed her another entry, âHe believed that the bodyâs presence in the bog created this miraculous âfont of mystical powerâ, 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. Thatâs 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.â
âSo that stuff Scanlon said was true: Roxborough was a Satanist?â she asked, fascinated, looking through the pages.
âHe 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 Nickâs 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 fatherâs âevil workâ and the local dignitaries were only too happy to brush it under the carpet.â
Ni read as much as she could, âShit -- he talks about having orgies with children?!â
âHmm, itâs not light reading by-any-means. Suffice to say he was an ardent disciple of De Sade. Thereâs a signed copy of Justine in the library,â
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.
âBut thereâs another reason why I find it odd that Ollie should give you permission,â he said, as if still trying to work it out, âthere could be other bodies.â
Ni stopped reading. âOther bodies?â she asked, a little shocked.
âThere 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 itâs true, the discovery could cause a sensation and put the villageâs privacy at risk.â He paused and thought about it, âUnless, for some reason, he wants them to be found...?â
Ni was quick to explain, âIf we find anything untoward, then the site will be a crime scene and more than likely any forensics would be overseen by Uncle Paddy. Heâll be discreet, but heâll have a lot of questions, âspecially when children are involved.â She looked at him askance, âWhich reminds me, why have you given me clearance to visit Barry McKee?â
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, âIâm aware that your uncle and DS Somerville doubt my intentions as regards our Mr McKee, so to let you see that that Iâve nothing to hide -- that Iâm trying to help him, not exploit him -- Iâve granted you 24 hour access to his room, and you will be privy to my manuscript before itâs dispatched for publication.â
âThatâs pretty magnanimous of you,â she said, with a suspicious frown.
âIâve nothing to fear, nothing to hide,â he said, without emotion.
After a sizeable pause, she shook her head, âJames, Iâve only known you for a week and by the looks of things youâre an opportunist who exploits everybody you meet, and I canât shake this horrible feeling that Iâm just the latest in a long line of baffled patsies.â
He gave her a world-weary look, took a key from his pocket and set it on the desk, âHere, that opens the door to my private quarters. Iâll 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...â
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 Paddyâs back garden, sipping real ale and chewing the fat.
âHowâs Ni getting on at SCICI?â Somerville asked.
âSheâs losing weight. Pale and panda-eyed,â said Paddy, tutting. âShe 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 theyâre doing up there.âÂ
Somerville shook his head, âThereâs nothing I can do, Paddy. After shootin' my mouth off about McKee last December, Iâve been warned to keep it shut ân keep away from the place or face disciplinary action.â He considered it for a moment, âI sâpose I could send Dermot Malone over there; heâs a right obnoxious wee bollox, heâll rattle a few cages if nothing else?â
Paddy politely refused the offer, âNo I donât want anybody â- I mean it Phil -â nobody is to go near that place while sheâs there or sheâll never trust us again.â
âWhat is it theyâre giving her, anyway?â
Paddy lowered his voice and intimated, âWell according to a fellow who used to work for me -- he now heads SCICIâs toxicology department -- itâs just a mild hallucinogen, like magic mushrooms. Itâs connected to some top secret research into anti-psychotic drugs, yâknow the sort of thing.â
âSo, whatâre you gonna do, then? Phone Mairead and ask her advice?â
âNah, sheâs incommunicado, writing pot-boiler 435, or whatever. She left a number for emergencies, but I donât know if this qualifies.â He took a sip and asked for some fatherly advice, âIs 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 theyâre headed for a fall...? I mean, how do you tackle it? â
Ashen faced, staring into the middle-distance, Somerville groaned, âOh jeez, Paddy, youâre describing the next 30 years of my life... and if my girls take after their mother, God help me...â
That weekend, in Rossingtonâs 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, Rossingtonâs 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, âSandor the Mighty! Mystical Master of Men!â; and a huge mahogany fireplace laden with various antique bric-a-brac, dominated by an ornately framed oval mirror attached to the chimney breast.Â
If I could sit in this room for rest of my life reading every book in that library and getting my meals by dumbwaiter, Iâd 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. Rossingtonâs description of their relationship (âYouâre talking to yourself!â) 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 Oonaâs thoughts, but her own psyche was an open book. She still 'seesâ 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 Sirenâs 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 thereâd 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: âOona, we need to talk!â she shouted at the closed Magritte door.
Silence. The door remained shut.
âOona!â
Silence.
âWe need to talk!â
Suddenly, the door spoke: <Oi know what âeeâs been thinkinâ! âEe donât want me anymore!> she screamed, in her âoutdoor voiceâ .
Ni instinctively covered her ears and yelled back, âOona, if you can feel how I feel, then you should understand...â
<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 eeâs gonna say before âee says it, remember - so oiâll answer the question âee âavenât asked yet: Arr, oi do luv âee, I luv âee wiv all moy heart! But âeeâs changed since that noight âee came to Bogmoire w' Dr Jimmy. Youâve gone off me!>
âOh, Oona, this has all landed in my lap and Iâm finding it ultra-hard to adjust, Iâm afraid of letting you down... â
<Liar â ur tryinâ to fink of ways to get rid of me!!>
âIâm not lying...!â she answered, unconvincingly.
<Ur brain says 'ee are!>
âYouâre obviously being very selective in your approach, youâre seeing things out of context â everyone has their own inner voice debating life-changing decisions -- youâre only listening to one side of the argument!â
<Aaaaah! âEe twist ân turn loike a slippery eel! Oi canât take this...!> the voice dropped to a more reasonable pitch and growled: <Dr Jimmy is usinâ 'ee yâknow. Oi know so much about all of âem â theyâre up to all sorts! And if oi wanted to, oi could tell Craigy ân 'eâd âave âem all arrested! Cos Dr Jimmy ân Scanlon reckon oiâm stoopid -- and now so do you! WELL â I hope youseâll all be very âappy togevver!!>
âOona...?â
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?Â
<... Thatâs the trouble when you can read minds -- youâre saddled with a lifetime of disappointment,> whispered that other voice in her head. <Think of all the millions of people sheâd have to meet to find someone so utterly devoted to her, mind, body and Soul. She doesnât want much, does she? Just perfect, unconditional love.>
Ni sat up: âWho is that...?â
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 thatâs 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 nursesâ 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, âJames isn't back yet. Heâs at a party at Mick Jaggerâs house. Piss off. In fact, piss off, pack-up and go home. Bye.â
âHe said I could see Barry McKee any time I liked, so, if you would,â she said, officiously, crossing her arms.
âAt this time of night?!â he barked, grimacing, as if sheâd asked him to jump off the roof.
âYes. If itâs not too much trouble,â 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, âYou have to sign in, thatâs not a problem is it?â he said, sarcastically, in reference to their previous encounter. She signed on the line with a flourish and flashed him a wry smile, âYou are such a treasure, Matthew. Iâm sure your mother is very proud.â
âMy mother died when I was 5. I was reared by my father who beat the livinâ shit outta me every day and gimme this as a memento,â 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. âI heard you met the wonderful Peter Sinclair?â the name was pronounced in an exaggerated, effeminate chime.
She had a pretty good idea why he was so jealous and wound him up, âYes, weâve met. Heâs very nice, as a matter of fact. Very grounded person, considering what he has to put up with,â 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, âHis 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 ân actors -- that just goes to show ye how fucked up they are!! Peterâs not gettin' any younger and Cillian is always borrowing money. Jamesâll get tired of âem eventually and the âlovely Peterâ will end up back where he started â here, as a nurse,â he smiled, evilly, âand when he does scurry back wâ his tail between his legs, Iâm gonna make his life a feckinâ misery.â He opened the door to McKeeâs room, âYou can tell him that from me.â
âSuch heart-warming camaraderie amongst our male Florence Nightingales, so inspirational in this age of cynicism and... Oh!â She was abruptly silenced by the inglorious sight of SCICIâs 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. Sheâd 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.
âPathetic, isn't he?â said Cromarty, curling a lip in distaste.
She shook her head, âPathetic is in ill-used word. It means to engender sympathy. I donât feel any sympathy for him. Not at all. Even so, is all this necessary?â she asked, looking around at the numerous mirrors and monitors.
âJamesâ orders,â Cromarty replied, âhe wants every second of every day recorded. I donât know why he needs all these mirrors, but heâs the boss. He must have his reasons.â
âDoes he ever close his eyes?â she said, moving closer.
âHe blinks every now and again but thatâs it. Exciting, eh?â Cromarty made a show of checking the various dials, although it was obvious he hadn't a clue what any of them did.
âYou can go, Matthew, I just want to sit with him for a while,â she said, getting impatient.
Cromarty cocked his head, curled a lip and defiantly crossed his arms, âWhy? Wotcha gonna do, sing âim a lullaby?â
On the âbyâ 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, âwhat the feck have you done?!â
âNothing -- nothing -- I havenât moved...â she was about tell him about the blink, but decided not to. âItâs probably just a glitch in the grid, thatâs all.â She went to the machines and hit the reset buttons. Cromarty was begrudgingly impressed. Then he looked down at McKee and said, âWell, I donât know how you can stand to be alone with âim. Fucker gives me the creeps. To think what he did to them kids. Makes me sick...â he paused and added, âYâknow, they say heâs possessed by a demon.â
âSo Iâve heard,â she said, rolling her eyes.
âMatron believes it. She wonât come in here without her crucifix or her rosary beads,â he said, as if there was no higher authority, âshe says a prayer every time she has to touch âim.â
âSome 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 doesnât mean...â She was too distracted by her escortâs utter disregard for human rights to finish the sentence. Cromarty was casually and repeatedly prodding Barryâs crotch with his index finger, âIf he is actinâ, heâs very good,â he edged-along the bed and flicked Barryâs nose, âsee?â
Barry didnât blink.
âCan I be alone with him please?!â she snarled, slapping the chubby hand away. âOW!â he yelped, scowling like a petulant child. She pointed at the door, âOut!â
âCow,â he sniped, then flounced off, yelling over his shoulder, âI canât wait til we start the auld shock treatment! Lookinâ forward to that, eh, Barry?! Thatâll get things goinâ, huh?!â
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 McKeeâs 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 youâre a decent human being and this is abuse,> said the androgynous, whispery-voice between her ears.
She flinched. âOona... is that you...?â 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, thatâs the thing with opening lines of communication, you never know who might tune into your channel. However, thereâs 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.
<Itâs not me you need to be afraid of, Niamh. Itâs 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 Iâm going to ask you to close your eyes. Will you do that for me? Close your eyes? Donât worry, you wonât be in any danger...>
âYes,OK...â 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 Laphenâs estate, still dressed for bed, she shouldâve been freezing...
<You wonât feel the cold. You wonât feel anything. Itâs a moonlit night, so youâll be able to see where youâre going. Just keep walking forward until I tell you to stop.>
This was the most realistic dreamscape sheâd ever experienced. No unearthly haze around the edge of the frame, no surreal incongruities like those that manifested in Oonaâs fantasies, she felt as if she was actually there.Â
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. Itâll 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 youâll remember this spot?>
Niamh turned around a few times and took in various landmarks â 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, âYes, Iâve got my bearings.â
<Good.>
-- Suddenly, the ice cracked and she plunged into the icy, murky water â- 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!
<Donât panic, itâll 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 â- 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.
âGood evening...â 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, âOh, James! You gave me a start!â she gasped, still shaking from the weird experience.
â...or should I say good morning, itâs almost 2AM, after all,â 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. âGetting to know you, getting to know all about you...â he sang in a playful voice, as he danced out of the shadows and stood by the bed. âHis eyes are very hypnotic, aren't they?â he said, stooping, looking at McKeeâs face. âI 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.â
She sniffed, grimaced, and waved a hand in front of her face, âPheeeeew, youâve obviously been having a good time at His Majestyâs Request!â
âIt 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.â He turned to Ni and asked, âSo, what brings you down here at this ungodly hour?â
âI dunno,â she replied, still a bit foggy, âI got a sudden impulse. I canât describe it.â She was going to tell him about the mirror in the study, but thought better of it.Â
He walked around to the other side of the bed, and asked, apropos of nothing, âDo you know what a Sensitive is, Niamh?â
âDo you mean in the [she made apostrophe-fingers] âpsychic senseâ? A person who receives messages from beyond the grave...?â she replied, unsure where this was going.
âYes. 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.â The booze had obviously loosened his tongue.
âI thought youâd banished all mention of demons as far as Barry is concerned?â
âOnly 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, Iâm talking about legitimate scientific investigation into the âsupernaturalâ. Barry had a penchant for magic, thereâs a mountain of evidence that he indulged in, for the want of a better word, witchcraft.â
âSounds a bit far-fetched if you ask me,â she scoffed.
âSo was telepathy before we discovered Oona,â he said, with a wink and a smirk. âIf I were to tell you I have witnessed âmagicâ being performed, what would you think?â [See Book One Part 17]
âIâd say you were either duped or drunk.â
âOh, I was pragmatic and sober, it was very unsettling,â he said, confidently, âthere was no other explanation for what I saw. The strange thing was, it was shortly before Mr McKeeâs capture and I believe he was involved in some capacity. I have evidence. Concrete evidence,â he touched Barryâs cheek, âI just need to know what it all means. Thatâs the reason Iâm so interested in his survival; heâs the key to solving the mystery.â
She thought for a moment. Another notion occurred to her, âYou want Oona to look into his mind, donât you?â she said, confidently.
<Bingo.>
Looking as if heâd 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, âWell... 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.â
She frowned and shook her head, âYou know, if I didnât know better Iâd think you engineered my meeting with Oona just so that we could arrive at this moment.â
He scoffed and pretended to be surprised by the accusation, âThe thought didnât occur to me until I sat with him the other day...â he lied, âbut think about it. Itâs the perfect opportunity...â
She didnât hear him, she was lost in a daze of conflicting emotions, âItâs as if I have no control of my life anymore... I just get swept along like driftwood...â she mumbled, in a voice comprised of  doubt, fear and incredulity.
<What does he care? Youâre just a pawn.>
âWhat better way to unveil Oonaâs talents to the world?!â Rossington broke into PT Barnum mode, raised his arms and announced, âWe could make it a live event! We could televise it! We could ... umm, where are you going...?â
She was on her feet, headed for the door, âHome. The YWCA. A ditch. Anywhere but here....â
<You donât have to explain just go!>
âNiamh, donât go -- sleep on it â- then tomorrow weâll sit down and talk-it-out, whaddya say...?â he pleaded, walking after her with outstretched arms.
<Donât listen to him!>
She stopped at the door, squeezed her eyes shut, put her hands over her ears and screamed, âIâm not listening -- this is sick! Heâs sick! Youâre sick! The whole fucking thing is sick, sick, sick! I canât believe I even considered getting involved!!â
<Thatâs it! Now walk out! >
âNiamh, listen to me! Youâre still under the influence of the potion -- you canât go back to your uncle like this!!â
<Tell him to go to hell.>
âGo to hell, James. Iâm going home!â
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.
âIt feels so good to be home,â she said, trying to sound cheerful.
He saw the sorrow in her glazed eyes and told her she didnât need to tell him anything. She nibbled, sipped and white-lied that the drug test ultimately didnât agree with her, âAfter a while itâs s bit like being on a merry-go-round too long; you start feeling queasy and you just wanna get off. Speaking of which, Iâll probably be pretty ill over the next few days, but itâs just my system flushing. Take no notice." She quickly changed the subject, âWhat about that decapitated body they found on the beach?â
He informed her that (what was now known as) the Case of the Headless Body Builder had been solved, âThey 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 shouldâve seen the state of it. Loverâs 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.â
Following a considerable pause, she said, dolefully, âAfter this yearâs dig, Iâm going to stay with mum in Sweden.â
Paddy recoiled theatrically, blinked twice and raised his gingery-eyebrows, âSweden? In the summer? With my sister? Your mother? Things must be bad!â
âUnderstatement of the century, Patrick.â She held her mug in both hands put her elbows on the table, looked over the rim and intimated in a low voice, âIâm gonna tell you something and I want you to hear me out before you express an opinion, OK? This is serious. Iâm serious.â
Intrigued, Paddy put down his mug, âSounds ominous, Twink, but I canât promise anything until I hear what it is.â
âI think there are bog mummies in the bog on Laphenâs estate. I know exactly where they are. One of them is a child. Itâs skull shows signs of acute trauma. The other is much, much older, but hereâs the thing: the older one is holding the smaller, younger mummy in its arms.â
Paddy as dumbfounded, âDid you say youâve seen these bodies?!â
She couldn't tell him that she was involved in psychic research and she suspected Barry McKee had showed her via mirrors; anyway, heâd never believe her. So she put down her mug, put her hands over her eyes and said, âIâm not gonna bullshit you, Paddy, thatâs as much as I can tell you without sounding like a crank.â
Paddy frowned, âNi, Iâve told you before, if we ever find anything contentious on one of our jaunts, Iâm obliged to inform the authorities.â Â
âWell, Sergeant Marchant of the local garda station lives in the village and seems sound enough â canât you contact him and work things out?â she asked, almost begging, âa full-sized investigation would bring Bogmire to the attention of the world, and Iâd 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?â
He recoiled, âJesus, youâre not asking for much are you?! I mean, how did you find out about it? Did someone tell you?â
She looked into her cup, âLike I said, I canât say. I just know, and I want you to dig deeper than usual to prove it.â
He was still very doubtful, âBut if we donât find anything, weâll have disturbed the integrity of the site for nothing. It goes against everything we stand for.â
âYou know I wouldn't do anything to jeopardise the dig unless it was important. Canât you say youâve had a tip-off or something?â She tilted her head and batted her eyelids, âTry, pleeeease...?â
He sat back and folded his arms, âHas this got anything to do with that woman? The Bride?â
There was a momentâs hesitation then she said âIn a way, yes.â
They stared into each otherâs eyes for a while. Then he said, âI 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?â
âMum told me,â Ni admitted, âit was one of her friends. âDictionary definition of a flibbertigibbetâ, she said.â
He nodded, âAs I cancelled the catering and the honeymoon, I vowed â never again! And Iâve been as good as my word. But itâs been easy for me. Iâm a very busy man, and fortunately or unfortunately, Iâve no time for anyone now, no matter how lonely I get.â He put a hand on her arm, âI just donât want you to end up the same way.â
She got up and kissed his cheek, âOh bless you Paddy, but Iâm not lovelorn. If anything Iâm in the process of trying to escape.â
He clucked his tongue and gave in, âOK, I promise you I will do all in power etc, etc. But you havenât taken Emil into consideration, have you?â
She slumped and let her forehead land with a bump on the tabletop, âGawd, Emil. I forgot about him...!â
âThat makes a change! Youâre usually counting the days!â
âPlease, I can barely remember my name at the minute.â
âWell, heâll be arriving soon -â youâd better have a good explanation or heâll go 'apeshitâ!â
Earlier that night, at Pagham House:Â Scanlon heard another scream and took to his heels, âBloody woman!â he growled to himself. It came from the other end of the house, but there was no mistaking Mrs Sparkesâ trademark screech: manly but shrill. As he ran across the lobby toward the kitchens, Laphenâs current guest, a Saudi prince, hailed him from the balcony, âScanlon â what is that screaming?! Are we under attack?! I never heard such a terrible noise!â
Scanlon stopped and bowed before answering, âMy apologies, Your Highness -â itâs just the housekeeper, sheâs probably seen a mouse.â
The Arab put his hands on his hips, âYou know, Scanlon, we came here as Mr Laphenâs guests because the last time we stayed in Dublin our hotel room was ransacked and my wifeâs jewellery was stolen,â he said, pointing in the general direction of  their rooms, âshe 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!â
Scanlon tried to reassure him, âEverything is in hand, Your Highness, please go back to bed...â
But the prince hadn't finished and took the opportunity to complain about some other things that were bothering him, âThese servants you employ are very uncouth â- they smell as if they need a good wash -â and they are serving our food?!â They heard another scream. âNow screams in the middle of the night! My wife is praying for her life with tears in her eyes! I am not happy.â
Scanlon tried to smile and sound confident, âI 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...â They heard a particularly bloodcurdling scream. âIâm very sorry Your Highness, but I need to see to this, she must be in some distress.â
The prince waved him away, âGo! But report back to me!â
âYes Your Highness!â Scanlon walked off, scowling, muttering   fuckinâ 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 -- âThe study!â -- he ran back upstairs and found her on all-fours under the bossâ desk, cowering like a frightened child.
He approached the desk, stooped and peered in, âWhat the hell is the matter with you, woman?!â he cried.
âIn the mirror - in the mirror!! Eâs in the mirror! EâS IN THE MIRROR!â
Scanlon turned around, âWhich mirror?!â
âThe tall one! The one âis nibs got brought up frum the basement!!â she replied, pointing at the back of the room, âthat one!â
âThe cheval?â He walked over and stood before it, âThereâs nothing there but my reflection and your ugly mug peeking out from under the desk!â
The old woman crept out and saw for herself, ââYou mean, 'eâs gone...?â
âThere was never anybody there!â Scanlon lit up a cigarette and took a deep drag, âYou need to pull yourself together woman! The Prince is very upset!â
She got up, stood behind him and peeked at the mirror, âIt were a wee laddie, thaâs all oi can tell âee, cos his face wuz all burned black wiv these starinâ red oys -- starinâ rioght into my very Soul, they wuz! Oh sweet Jeezus, it musta been one the orphans âoo doied in the foire â oiâm sure of it!â
He pointed to the huge clownâs head (originally acquired from the entrance to a fairground attraction) on the wall behind the desk, âItâs probably been the reflection of that you saw! And look, the mirrorâs steamed up -â thatâs why it looked distorted!â He took the dust cloth from her apron and rubbed the glass. âThatâs funny... The condensation seems to be on the inside...?â
âTis is an evil sign, this is!!â she cried, getting evermore upset, âTis the children cominâ back to take revenge!!â
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, âNow 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!â
âOiâll attend to it first thing in the morninâ sur.â
âAye, see that you do.â Scanlon took a drag and blew the smoke in her face, âAnd tell that fuckinâ niece of yours Iâm watchin' her. Just because that bastard Rossington is back on the scene doesnât mean that she isn't likely to do something stupid.â
Mrs Sparkes didnât answer, it wasn't her place.
Scanlon flicked his ash on the floor and pointed to her temple, âIf you want to know why youâre seeing burned-up little boys in the mirror, itâs because she puts the notion in your head.â
Again, Mrs Sparkes said nothing and clenched her face tight so that he couldn't tell if she was crying, smiling or scowling.
âPathetic,â he sneered. âMe da was right about you bastards; youâre up to all sorts of devilment. Sure â even the feckin animals and birds steer clear of this place!â
âCan oi go, sur?â
Scanlon waved her away, âPiss off. And tell those maids if they donât 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 Iâm a man of my word...â
That Wednesdayâs Gourmet-Night: It was Paddyâs turn to cook, and as always, he made his own speciality: seafood and lager. He was at the sink in a butcherâs 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 werenât convinced that Rossington had her best interests at heart. When Somerville pressed for details, she told him sheâd signed a comprehensive NDA. She quickly changed the subject and teased Paddy, âYou and your bloody oysters â itâs only an excuse to drink beer!â
âIt was all that sea-air I inhaled during the Headless Body-Builder case, it got me juices flowing,â Paddy joked, mordantly.
âWell-done-to-us, another case closed!â said Somerville, raising his glass.
âWell, the head was well done. The torso - although well tenderised - was a tad on the rare side,â said Paddy, sardonically.
They both laughed. Niamh didnât find it at all funny, âDo I have to remind you that youâre talking about somebodyâs son, you ghouls!â
âGallows humour, darling, itâs the only thing that keeps us lawmen sane!â said Paddy, tittering.
She turned to their guest, âUncle Phil, about this weekâs baby-sitting gig... well, listen, I know I promised...â
Perfectly aware of the impending rejection and intent on derailing it, Somerville put a hand on hers and interjected by expressing his heartfelt gratitude, âOh, yeâre a lifesaver Twink â itâs just for a couple of hours while we put in an appearance at Patâs friendâs birthday party. Wonât be late. Sheâs due any day now and this will be last time e ask before the birth...?â
She made a sour face and shook her head, âYouâre an utter cad, Somerville.â
He batted his moth-wing eyelashes, âYou know how much Cate and Cathy love Princess Twinkle...?â
She rapped the table with the handle of her knife and announced to the room, âThatâs another thing: I think itâs about time to stop calling me Princess Twinkle or Twinkle, or Twink or â in Emilâs case â Liâl Twinkie. Itâs a bit twee for someone whoâs 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 jokeâs played out now.â
The men looked at each other across the table, reached out and linked hands. Paddy mock-sobbed and bit his knuckle, âOur wee girlâs grown up, Phil. Sheâs a woman now.â
Big Phil rubbed his eyes as if wiping away a tear, âI always knew that one day it would happen, but youâre never ready for it when the day finally arrives.â
Paddy sighed, âIf that is your wish, princess, so be it.â
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, âOh â before I forget,â he stood up, pulled his wallet from his back pocket and gave her a tenner, âThatâs for winning the Rossington bet: he did indeed make various bizarre references, such as -- âthose that doubt meâ and âunseen forces trying to undermine the value of my researchâ -- I got the distinct impression he was hinting at something. Well done, Ni. When youâre a qualified Criminal Psychologist, I for one will be availing myself of your services.â
She was chuffed, but had other things, quite literally, on her mind, âWell, thanks... Itâs sort of ironic now since Iâve got to know him...â
Paddy slurped an oyster from its shell and looked up over his nezzies, âAnd...?â
â... heâs a very complicated man â probably because he has so many plates spinning at the one time he canât remember which one needs tending to next.â She looked at Somerville, âI will say this -- the work heâs doing is important, Uncle Phil. I wouldnâtâve been involved otherwise.â
Big Phil drummed his fingers on the table and said, âA little birdie tells me you were on the guest list to see Barry McKee.â
Paddy grinned, âHere we go â âBig Phil Somerville and his ubiquitous little birdiesâ.â
Ni took another sip and looked from one to the other, âHe said itâs so I could give the two of you an honest report on his progress.â
âAnd, what is your report? Is Barry lookinâ well?â said Somerville, mordantly, âPlaying tennis? Skiing? I betcha heâs a whiz at back-gammon!â
A little irked by his offhand attitude, she answered tersely, âWhat is there to say? He just lies there, surrounded by mirrors, machines and monitors.â
Paddy tutted, âNi, youâre bristling.â
She forced a smile, âYes, I am. Sorry. Thatâs Rossington for you; you get this perverse loyalty to him because you sense his vulnerability.â
Somerville changed tack, âI was just going to say that he seems to have taken quite a shine to you.â
<Tell âim to fuck off ânâ moind âis biz-nass!>
Oh God, not you, not now!Â
âYeah... honestly it was very instructive, and despite rumours, he does know what heâs talking about a lot of the time.....â
<Arr, itâs me, ooâd you expect... Emil? I know youâre lookinâ forward to seeinâ Ee-meeeel! Ooâs this big lout then? Oh â wait â oi seen âim on the TV noos - Craigy talks bout âim all the toime â âe just solved the case of the âeadless queer boy, innee?! Detective Somerville!> the voice between her ears snickered. <Heâs anovver of ur fantasies, innee? Princess Twinkle!>Â
âSo, what about Thursday night -- are you drivinâ or do you want me to pick you up?â asked Somerville.
<Where are we goinâ? This is excoiting, innit?>
âErm...
Fuck off Oona! I warned you what would happen if you did this!!Â
No, Iâll drive...â
<Goinâ babysittinâ, are we? Great!! I luv kiddies, me!>
Shut up!!
Paddy sensed her unease, âIs everything all right, Ni...?â
She was confounded. She couldn't go to the Somervilles with Oona in her head, the prospects for disaster were too numerous to consider! â... Umm, I dunno, I still feel a bit yucky, Uncle Phil...â
Somerville stubbornly went on as if he hadn't heard her, âIâll lay-on some popcorn and the girls have got a video of the Wizard of Oz -- thatâll keep âem quiet if you wanna study or somethinâ...?â
<That sounds very noice. Oiâll be lookinâ forward to that!>
Ni sighed and reluctantly gave in, âOf course, Iâd love to...â
 To Be Continued Next Month in Swamp Witch
#Spindlefreck#fantasy#fantasy horror#black humor#black magic#mysticism#mystery#mystics#witchcraft#witches#dreams#demon#demonic possession#comedy#irish fiction#irishhumour#dream a little dream of me
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Book Two, Part One: Love Potion No.9
Catch Up Here: Table of Contents  - click on title to access chapter
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Spindlefreck: Pt.20: Seven Thousand Years to Midnight
2 November 1988
11:48PM GMT:
Electra Cochraneâs imagination:Â
âWell -- say it -- get this over with!â 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, âPlease, Danielle, just do it!â
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 sheâd 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...
âSay it,â 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, âHey you up there! Whose side are you on, anyway? Are you, like, a goodie or a baddie?â
The shimmering wraith of Zomber Blist looked down on her with eyes of gleaming sapphire and replied, âThere is no good or bad or right or wrong; there is only what will be. This your destiny! You must fulfil the Prophesy!â Then his voice deepened to a baleful roar, âSAY THE WORD.â
âSay it!â hissed the abominable throng.
Dani squeezed her eyes shut, crossed her fingers and took a deep breath...
An hour ago:
Jamie was getting desperate. Heâd been in the so-called âSecure Unitâ 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 oneâs 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 ârealityâ was flawless. The sights, the smells, the tastes and the feel of the place were just as youâd expect in a fully functioning psychiatric hospital. The staff and the other patientsâ 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 elseâs 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 âGßßl 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 âcaseâ 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 ânumerous public appealsâ, 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 didnât 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, heâs played things nice and safe. Heâs kept himself to himself and behaved impeccably. Heâs 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); heâs 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. Heâs taken his âmedsâ (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, Jamieâs 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.Â
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 demonâs name. He thought it was the key to unlocking his memory: âIf I were you Iâd have to wonder why Iâm afraid to put a name to the thing that scares me the most.â [See Part 19]
It was the only significant conversation heâd had thus far, but despite the old manâs apparent sincerity, Jamie couldn't bring himself to say it. He knew the power those syllables possessed -- especially in a metaphysical dimension --Â 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 heâd 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, heâd approached the nursesâ 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 âamnesiaâ.
Sitting at the counter on the other side of the glass, Sister replied without looking up from her work, âDr Mondale has a private practise ân only attends this hospital on certain days,â she grunted, in her thick South London twang, âbut I wouldn't hold me breath if I were you, luvvie; gettinâ an appointment with the âead doctor can take weeks.â Â
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, âOK then, if he does come in, will you at least ask if heâll see me? Please?â he said, effecting the most earnest expression he could muster without looking too wet.
She clearly didnât 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, âLook -- Mr Jameson-Lumb -- youâve been here less than a week, âavenât you? Thatâs not nearly enough time for us to make an initial assessment, let alone refer you back to the doctor!â she looked-him-up-and-down, ââspecially 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 âeels and take fings slow for a while, then weâll see,â 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, âMondaleâs always âere on a Froiday -â he began to say, in a thick Midlands drawl; but before he could finish the sentence, Sister cut him short with a curt: âYes, thank you, Gaston!â Then she thought better of her tone, smiled affectedly and added with a playful snarl, âyouâre such a helpful boy, arentcha?!â 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.
âFriday? He comes every Friday?â he said, trying not to sound too excited, his nose all-but pressed against the glass.
âNot every Friday!â she barked, hooking a thumb over her shoulder, âDonât pay no attention to young Nurse Masterson, he ain't been here long enough to know Dr Mondaleâs routine,â she turned and added in an accusing voice, âin fact, Iâm surprised heâs found the time to observe anybodyâs cominâs-'n-goinâs what with his heavy schedule,â she jeered, âheâs on loan from another institution, see. Heâs from Wolver'ampton. Heâs not up to speed. â She turned back, rolled her eyes and made a face.
âWell, Iâve been âere for 8 weeks now ân âis green Bentley is always in its designated parking-space every Froiday...â muttered the disgruntled Wulfrunian.
She kept her eyes on Jamie, tilted her head and yelled, âNurse Masterson! Go up to Geriatric, empty the bedpans, change the dressings and tap the drips, would you, dear?! Thank You!â
Appalled, the spiky-headed nurse pointed his pen at the clock on the wall above the desk, shook his head and protested, âDoreen did the rounds not âalf-an-hour ago!â
Her fists tightened until the knuckles whitened, the pained-smile intensified: âThank you, Nurse Masterson!â she growled through gritted-teeth, in a low, donât-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, âSo... if he comes in tomorrow... will you ask him?â
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, âLook, just to get you off my back, Iâll see what I can do -- but like I said -- donât get your hopes up,â 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 Jamieâs hand, shied-away and pointed to the sign on the wall: âNo Patients Beyond This Point!â 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, âListen, dude, Iâm OK, Iâm 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, âLook, I know your story ân I sympathise, but I canât get involved. You heard the olâ bat, and sheâs doinâ my report, sheâd just luv to âave an excuse to fail me!â 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, âI just need to talk to him for 5 minutes. Itâs really important -- If thereâs anything you can do, yâknow, it would mean an awful lot to me...?â
Masterson paused to have a think about it, but eventually the little pinched urchin-face screwed up, âFor Christâs sake, canât you get one of your visitors to do it? Or your solicitor?!â he whinged, turning back, taking his swipe-card from his back pocket as he approached the doors.
âI donât get visitors and I havenât been assigned legal counsel yet! I donât have anyone...â 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, âIf the olâ bitch foinds out Iâll get a bollockinâ, for sure... then again, I do fancy his secretary... I suppose itâd gimme an excuse to go upstairs ân chat-âer-up...â he looked up the corridor again, grinned and nodded, âOK, mate, Iâll see what I can do,â 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 nursesâ station.
So now he canât sleep. Heâs 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 Iâll 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 heâd delivered the request. No. Heâd have to continue playing things cool, any sign of impatience could be construed as impending mania. And what if the meeting doesnât happen.... what then?
Iâll 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 heâd been waiting for. The tinny PA ding-donged, the hospital radio muzak cut-out and Sisterâs voice crackled in the speakers, âWould Mr Jameson-Lumb please report to the nursesâ station.â
He didnât 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: âDr Mondale wants to see you at 3PM,â she sang, in a would-you-believe-it-voice at odds with her sour expression.
 Jamie smiled, âThank you, Sister, I owe you one,â he replied, gratefully - after all, who else could have arranged it?
Her eyes narrowed with mistrust, âOh, donât thank me; I just took the call from upstairs. Funny. Iâve never known 'im to take an appointment as late as 3 on a Friday. Ever. Heâs usually teeing-off by 1:30.â
âAren't I the lucky boy, then?â he trilled, grinning from ear to ear.
She turned and beheld the back of Nurse Mastersonâs spiky head as he scribbled away at his desk, and murmured, âVery lucky, very lucky indeed...â
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 Mondaleâs 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 Mondaleâs 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. âJamie. What can I do for you?â 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, âFirst of all, thank you for seeing me at such short notice, Dr Mondale, I know this wasn't on your schedule.â
Mondale held up a yellow notelet, âYes, my secretary got an urgent request from the nursesâ office. Most unusual. They know I like to keep my Friday afternoons free,â he replied, tersely, screwing the note into a ball. âSo? What is it you wanted to see me about? Have you remembered anything from your past? Something I can pass on to the authorities...?â
Jamie answered as earnestly as he could, âNo, but... I feel so much better, sir -- in fact Iâm 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 Iâm OK now. I donât think thereâs any need to detain me in the Secure Unit any longer. Iâd like to arrange an appraisal as soon as possible... with a view to getting out...?â he was forced to curtail his carefully rehearsed entreaty when he saw the sceptical expression on Mondaleâs face.
The shadow shook its head and chuckled mirthlessly, âGetting out? Really, Jamie. As Iâm sure youâve been told, it takes at least two weeksâ observation before we can make a definitive assessment of your condition. I mean, who knows what could trigger another episode? When allâs said and done, we know very little about you. And if I seem a little cynical, itâs because Iâve 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 âfeel normalâ and how they âsee things clearly nowâ. If I took any of them at their word, the country would be overrun with homicidal psychopaths, maniacal sociopaths and dangerous schizophrenics.â
Jamie had anticipated this reply and countered with confidence and certainty, âMy violent behaviour was an aberation brought on by fear and confusion following an extended coma, not malicious intent or psychosis, sir. I donât have those feelings anymore. Whatever it was, Iâve got it out of my system. Iâve adjusted. Iâm just a confused amnesiac searching for answers, you have nothing to fear from me.â
A golden tooth gleamed as Mondale grinned, âYou 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.â He sat forward so that lamp lit his heavily-lined face, took off his reading glasses and stared, âRemember, Jamie, youâre not just here because of your condition, youâre 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 canât take any chances.â He paused to let that last comment sink in, then added, âYou are a walking conundrum that everyone wants to decipher, Jamie. Your circumstances wonât change until we get to the bottom of you.â
Jamie moved to Plan B: âIn that case, Iâd like to see a solicitor ASAP,â he asked, self-assuredly if a little impatiently, crossing his arms to hide his fists.
âVery well,â said Mondale, sitting forward, nodding magnanimously, taking a note, âIâll make the necessary arrangements.â
âWhen?â
His face low and fully lit, Mondale looked over the rims of his readers, glared and grumbled as if heâd just been insulted, âAs soon as my secretary gets around to it.â Then he regrouped, took off his specs, rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, sighed and confessed, âIâm very sorry. Iâm a little cranky, Jamie. Itâs been a long week.â He smoothed his thinning hair, sat back in his chair and spoke from the shadows again, âLook 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.â Â
Getting increasingly frustrated, Jamie lost it for a second and snapped, âI need to talk to someone today! I canât stick this place a minute longer!â he cried, punching his thigh.
The orderlies stirred.
Jamie immediately apologised, relaxed and resumed in a more reasonable tone, âIâm sorry, Dr Mondale, but the Secure Unit is driving me up the wall. Thereâs nothing to do down there besides my chores and look out of the window. No good books, the TVâs only on for 3 hours every night, the hospital radio plays gawd-awful muzak all day long, thereâs 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 Iâm not mad already, Iâll go mad from the boredom...â
After a momentâs thought, Mondale cleared his throat, lowered his voice and explained, âRoutine is very important to our patients, some of them are deeply disturbed; we donât like to over-stimulate them. But I may be able get you a transistor radio for your room...â He sat forward again, made another note, then laced his hands together on the desktop, looked Jamie in the eye and asked, âThere is one thing you could do for me.â
Jamie was all ears.
âTell me that you no longer think this world is an illusion.... that this is just a dream.â
Although heâd 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: âI know this is the Real world.â
The hesitation hadn't gone unnoticed: âAhh, but do you truly believe it?â
Here we go. âYes. I mean, what else could it be?â Jamie touched the side of the chair, âitâs 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?â
Mondale stared for a moment longer then shook his head, âNo. Iâm sorry. I donât believe you.â
Of course you donât -- you can see right through me! -- he screamed inside, but on the surface, Jamie was stoicism incarnate, nodding sagely as if the doctorâs doubts were wholly justified, âI 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 thatâs why I lashed out.â
Leaning forward on his elbows, Mondale asserted, âIf you are telling me the truth, then a few more weeksâ observation shouldn't...â 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, âYes, I know! Heâs at the door now! How did he get in?! You should have called security!! Oooh, nevermind -- Iâll deal with him! Goodbye!!â 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 widowâs 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.
âWhat is the meaning of this?â blustered Mondale, âmy secretary told you to wait in her office until Iâd finished with this patient?!â
âItâs this patient Iâve come to see!â 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, âDetective Inspector Harkness, RUC CID. I need to take this man back to Belfast with me on a matter of some urgency,â then he took out his handcuffs and grabbed Jamieâs 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 Harknessâ offhand behaviour and utter disregard for procedure, Mondale lost his cool, âWhat the -- the authorities are obliged to go through  the proper channels, DI Harkness! You canât just turn up at my practise and drag my patients off like common criminals!!â Getting to his feet, he pointed toward the door and yelled, âNow, get out!â 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.
âRight! That does it! Iâm calling the Chief Constable!â barked Mondale, picking up the phone again.
While the doctor made the call, Harkness stooped, covered his mouth and whispered in Jamieâs ear, âItâs going to be alright. Itâs me - Carla.â
âCarla...?âÂ
The Ivy House
23:05pm GMT:Â
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, âBloody 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?!!â She lifted a hefty tumbler, poured herself a very large malt and diluted it with a short scoot of seltzer, âWhere is the maid?! Where is Fordham the footman?! -- this is the second time today Iâve arrived home to no reception,â she shouted, glancing over her shoulder.
Puffing and wheezing, Ogden Castle, the Lumb familyâs 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, âWell...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... Carlaâs with him now, milady... keeping an eye on him... alas,â he shook his head disconsolately, â... Iâm sorry to say, it... it isn't lookinâ good for âim, milady, heâs deeply entranced... we might lose 'im altogether...â
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, âWell, thatâs one bloody consolation!â she crowed, âIâll get control of the estate and thereâll be one less fruitcake at the dinner table!â
Still wheezing, Castle leaned against the back of the armchair opposite and tried to spell-it-out, âI donât mean heâll die, milady, itâs somethinâ worse than that... if Young Master Jamie succumbs, weâll lose everything, the Psychosphere will be destroyed...â
She put up a hand, clicked her fingers and cut him dead, âAh-ah-ah! Donât wanna know, buddy-boy! Iâve had it with this bullshit!!â she said, taking a large swig before curtly elaborating, âif it doesnât affect This World or this house -- I donât want to hear about it!â 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, âIt will affect everything if the Young Master becomes possessed, milady. The demon will...â
The eyes snapped open -- she cut him dead again: âAH-AH! What I tell you? Demons aren't of This World, Ogden,â she said, drawing loops in the air with her finger, âitâs all... psychic-telepathic-mystical-hocus-pocus in your heads -- itâs got nothing to do with me!â
âPlease hear me out, milady, indulge me just this once. If the demon invades the Young Masterâs psyche he will infect everything -- and Iâm not talking about him transforming into monster like Master Gosling, or a goblin-thing like Miss Danielle -- Iâm talking about him becoming a different person altogether --- a man possessed -- manipulated from inside by something with the guile to utilise the covenâs resources to achieve its diabolical ends! For instance, can you imagine what would happen if he had access to the White House?!â
Her Ladyship arched an eyebrow and smirked, âReally......? Do tell.â
âThis isn't funny, Lizzy!â he hissed, giving her one of his sternest looks, âremember what happened when he got his claws into you!â [See Part 4]
Her cheeks reddened as her blood rose; she sat up, punched a cushion and shouted, âIâm not being fucking funny!!â She pointed in the direction of the sanatorium, âMaybe demonic possession is the best thing for that twerp! Maybe thatâs what we need: a cut-throat, cold-blooded, conniving son-of-bitch whoâll beat the Washington crowd at their own game! Itâll save me having to do it, for one thing! Because Iâm getting mighty sick of all this cloak and dagger malarkey, matey-boy, I can tell you that!â She took another sip and then pointed a finger at the despairing, perspiring butler, âAs I told you this afternoon -- before I had to rush off and snatch Wolf-Boy from Rossingtonâs 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 Rossingtonâs smug perma-tanned mug!!â She took a breath and thought back to the encounter then intimated with an indignant gasp, â... 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 Rossingtonâs henchman pulls a gun on me! Thatâs how low theyâre prepared to go! Sir Arnold must be spinning in his urn!â
Castle did indeed find these tidings deeply disquieting, but first things first: âMilady, if Master Jamie gets possessed the demon will have control of the Psychosphere and he will obliterate every âGßßl 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,â he gave her a sly look, âno longevity potions or reconstructive surgeons, Lizzy.... Nothing.â
She raised an eyebrow and cocked an eye: youâre on very thin ice, mister, donât push it.
But Castle continued unabashed, âThereâll be no one left but Master Jamie: heir to the estate and the Judgeâs fortune, possessed of a spirit bent on the destruction of everything on this planet. And you, of course. Thatâs if he chooses to let you live, which is highly unlikely, given that youâre the only one who knows what heâs up to...â
She shrugged, âThen kill him. No Jamie: no one to possess.â
âWe need him, Lizzy. If the Washington Witches have indeed moved against us, we need him more than ever.â
The morbid diatribe inspired another explosion of angst. She almost spilled her drink when she punched the arm of the couch and yelled, âJeeeeezus H. Christ! What do I have to do to get some peace and fucking quiet round here?!â jumping to her feet, she rounded the couch and began prodding him in his gargantuan gut, reminding him of her murderous caveat that afternoon, âI warned you about goblin-girl, didnât I? I warned you to get rid of her before I got back...â she paused to take another sip............ then the poking and heckling resumed, âBut no, you ignore a direct order because all you care about is your stupid Prophesy and your bloody âPrime Directiveâ! And now look where we are! You useless sack of shhh........ Ooh, hello Xavier, darling, didnât see you there...â
The tall, dark, mute, shaven-headed, broad-shouldered figure of her redoubtable chauffeur filled the doorway, cap under arm, Ivan Cochraneâs scrapbook in one hand and the roll of photocopied hieroglyphs in the other. âEverything alright, Xav? Did you put our patient to bed?â Her Ladyship asked, in much sweeter, much softer tone.
The chauffeur looked to the butler to expound. Castle cleared his throat and officiously obliged, âSince Master Gosling has returned to his original form, I instructed Mr X to put âim in a room on the 2nd floor toward the back of the house and strap âim to the bed as a precaution, milady.â Castle brought the chauffeur in and took the scrapbook from his hand, âAhh, so this is the notorious scrapbook, is it?â 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.
âMidnight? It ends at midnight?â said Castle, getting evermore perturbed.
Xavier stood back and nodded, solemnly.
âOh shite...â murmured Castle, studying the notation.Â
Her Ladyship coughed and interrupted, âExcuse me, but what the hellâs going on now...?â
Castle was too busy studying the âtextâ to supply a comprehensive reply, âAccording to this... the spell woven by Gosling and Young Master Jamie is due to expire at midnight, milady, and...â
There followed a long pause while Castle continued to scan the lines.
She thumped his arm, â... And?!â
The punch barely registered and he went on reading, pausing only to glance at the pocket watch, âI dunno... the rest is gibberish as far as I can see...â he looked up at the chauffeur and asked his opinion; Xavier shrugged and shook his head. Castle nodded in agreement, âAye, itâs not like anythin' Iâve seen before, either.â He turned to Her Ladyship, âThe only recognisable figures are these numerals denoting the witching hour, milady. If weâre right, it means we've got less than an hour to sort this out...â
ââTheyâ? Are you referring to those âbeingsâ buried under the house?â she asked, getting evermore irritated by his lack of focus.
âAye, milady, it was the Martyrs all along...â he held up the roll of the hieroglyphs, âfrom this spell in the Boy Kingâs tomb to the one that turned Miss Danielle into that goblin-thing!â he showed her the page containing said spell and Ivanâs 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, âWorthy of the National Gallery,â she sneered, crossing her arms and looking at the floor, âanswer me this: if these Dark-Martyrs-or-whatever-theyâre-called have been buried under the house for over 7000 years, then how the hell did they carve the runes in King Tutâs tomb?â
Castle sighed and spoke impatiently, as if he was talking to a boorish child, âThe Martyrsâ had a band of so-called âdisciplesâ -- a bunch of human would-be sorcerers in-and-around the Middle East during the 8th century BC -- itâs more-than-likely they put it there. Trouble is, the demon was in the area at the same time, so thereâs also the possibility that he could've meddled with it! Whoeverâs responsible, weâre caught in a trap,â he looked to Xavier, âyou heard the demonâs âconfessionâ, didnât you, Mr X? âMy enemies will soon be vanquished. The ducks are all sitting in a row. Itâs just a case of shooting them down, one by oneâ, he said, remember?â [See Part 18]Â
Xavier nodded deeply and sombrely.Â
âWell, it looks like the shooting is due to begin sometime in the next three-quarters-of-an-hour!â
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.
âWill all of you die?â
âMost assuredly, milady.â
âEven Xavier?â
âUh-huh. Every Gßßl on the globe will perish within minutes, milady. Thereâll be Soul death on a massive scale.â
âWhat do we do?â
Castle looked at the clock again (11:14), âI need to study this âtextâ, 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 thatâs impossible what with the Psychosphere rife with negative energy and the crystal balls too hot to handle...â Just then, the walkie-talkie cackled in his inside pocket, âThatâll be Gustafson at the gatelodge, milady -- if youâll excuse me, the reception is better by the windows...â he walked to the back of the room and put the receiver to his ear.The news wasn't good: âOh dear, oh dear.... Bear with me a moment, will you, Gusty....â he turned back, beheld her with a hapless frown and nervously passed it on, âYou wonât believe this, but apparently Detective Inspector Harkness is here, milady -- and heâs on foot. Says his car broke down. Says he had to abandon it ân walk the rest of the way...â he squeezed his eyes shut and winced in anticipation of the inevitable explosion:
âHarkness?! HERE?! NOW?!â she screeched, glancing at the clock (11:15), âWhat in the name of holy fucking-fuck is that bastard doing here at this time of night?!â
âSays heâs on official police business, milady, âit canât waitâ, says he,â Castle gave her a brief summary of the nightsâ events, including Harknessâ kidnapping [see part 18] and McKeeâs subsequent rampage south of the border, âso... will you see him, milady?â
She was flabbergasted and aghast! It took her a good few seconds to collect her thoughts, âWhat the fuck has his kidnapping got to do with us...?â
âWell, 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 wonât know anything unless you talk to him, milady,â suggested Castle, timidly.
She paced the floor in front of the fireplace -- gnashing her teeth, tearing at her hair -- speechless with rage and incomprehension!
âI hate to rush you but Gustyâs waiting, milady...?â
She threw up her hands, stomped a stockinged-foot and ranted, âYou might as well tell them to bring him up -- but he can bloody wait a while! I need a bath -- and itâs gonna be a long-fucking-soak!â She slugged the rest of her drink, slammed the tumbler down on the sideboard, picked up her shoes and stormed out, âWill this day ever fucking end.....?â 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, âGo upstairs, keep watch over Master Gosling and await further instructions,â he whispered, handing over his walkie-talkie, âIâve got four men with rifles stationed in the basement watching young Dani,â he glanced toward the window, âCarlaâs in the sanatorium keeping an eye on Master Jamie, so Iâll go over there ân send her over here to entertain Harkness.â He put the scrapbook and the roll of photocopies under his arm, âwhile Iâm there, Iâll study the runes, see if I can make head-or-tail of this. If not, we might haveta take drastic measures...â he looked up into Xavierâs sorrowful, deep, dark eyes, âI trust you to know what to do, Mr X. Just keep it nice ân quiet, OK? We donât want the Inspector hearinâ anything that might give him cause to seek a search warrant. Got a knife on ya?â
Xavier lowered his eyes and nodded, gravely.
Castle patted his arm, âGood man,â he said, taking a last look at the clock (11:19). Before they parted, he smiled a pained smile and shook Xavier's hand, âBest of luck Mr X. One way or another, brother, thisâll end at midnight...â
A few minutes ago, in the sanatorium, in Jamieâs room: Castleâs niece, Mme Carla InfantĂŠ, 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 sheâs doing the right thing. After all, itâs been 30 years since sheâd 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. Sheâd divested herself of her mortal coilâs 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 sheâd taken many lovers, male and female, but purely for pleasure or exploitation. Sheâd also bedded a veritable rogueâs gallery of royals, generals, spies and heads of state on behalf of the coven; mortals who needed guidance or diversion on their iniquitous paths. Sheâd walked through the dark catacombs of warped psyches and emerged with her sanity intact. She knew how they ticked. Sheâd killed quite a few of them, too. Sheâd 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 âMessiahâ? Or is she kidding herself? Is Uncle Ogden right: is she seeing something she wants to see because sheâs 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? Â She drew her fingernail across Jamieâs throat. If I was truly dutiful I would kill you before he takes you...
âPenny for them thoughts, ssssssssister!â 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 serpentâs head suddenly dropped down from the canopy, âscare you, did I, luvvie -- I am sssssorry,â 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 Judgeâs 100 year-old foulmouthed, troublemaking, pet Burmese python [see part 10] and Carla was not pleased to see him, âWhat are you doing in here? Get out and leave us in peace!â 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.
âIs that a mirror on the pillow? I thought yezzz werenât allowed to âave mirrorssss after the last time?!â he asked, in that annoying, reedy, sneery voice of his.
âGo away Noel.â She looked up, âHow did you get in here anyway?â
âVia the central heating duct, have to keep close to the pipes, ssssee, what with me beinâ cold-blooded ân all and it beinâ frigginâ freezinâ outsssssside!â he turned his head and tilted it in the direction of the rear wall. âI wanna know whatâs goinâ on! Nobody elssse will tell me: Dresh ân Gebbit (the botanical gardeners) are in a right mood -- told me to fuck off, so-they-did! Â The house is like a fuckinâ graveyard -- you should sssee the kitchen ssstaff -- missserable as sssssin, they are! Sat round the hearth wringing their hands ân humminâ one of them stupid chantsss! Itâs like a bloody morgue down there, so-tissssss!â He descended further and looked down on Jamie, â... I suppose itâs all down to coma-boy, again, is it? Him ân that lizzzzardy-girlie-thingummy youâve got locked-up in the dungeon, innit? Theyâre both away with the faeries, ainât they? Itâs got to do with that demon, innit? Heâs got into their headsssss, ainât âe...?â
Carla tried being nice about it, âNoel, please, please leave, this is not a good time...â
But Noel was undeterred and explained as he slithered down, âIâm not psssssychic, me, yâ ssssee. Iâm just a talkinâ snake, me -- I canât read yer minds or follow yer mumbo jumbo -- but Iâm a member of thissss-here household, oh yessss indeed, Iâm not a ssservant or a guessst -- ân I have every right to know whatâs afoot! Yesssss?!â he said, his tongue lashing.
Feigning interest, Carla propped her head up and stared into his beady eyes, âHmmm, I was forgetting that. Youâre really just a common Familiar, arenât you?â she remarked, with a hint of intrigue in her tone.
Noel was affronted, âFamiliar?! Iâm a magic  sssnake, me! Iâm the Eighth fuckinâ Wonder of this world, missssy: I can talk -- Familiars canât talk, no sssssireeeee -- thereâs only one of me!!â his voice lowered to a low, hissy growl, â... what are you gettinâ at, anyway?â
Carla sat up, âMagic 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? Â I could look directly into your memories -- uncover all your secrets! All I would have to do is touch you...â 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, âOi -- keep back -- I heard about you!! Youâre one of them ice-queens, aintcha?! Asssssassssins, yez are! Donât you dare lay a hand on me,â he cried, as he tried his best to uncoil and retreat, âget back, now, I mean it -- Iâll choke the life out of ya! I might be long in the tooth, but I can still ssssssqueeeeeze -- !â
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 otherâs eyes, âDid you know that physical contact provides an instant connection with the nervous system of any living creature?â she asked, archly, grinning evilly, her teeth gleaming, âyou are all mine, Mr Snake.â
Now stiff as a bishopâs crosier, Noel protested loudly in a high, panicked voice: âFuck off! Lemme go! Help! HELP!! MURDER!!â
She put a finger on the top of his head and said, âIâm not going to kill you. But I could if I so desired. Iâd just have to think it and that tiny stone of a heart of yours would stop beating...â
The old snake proceeded to bleat like a condemned coward on the steps of the guillotine, âHave mercssssy! Iâm only a lowly, lonely snake with nuthinâ to do but slink round this miserable auld housssse day-in-day-out -- Iâm harmlesssssssss, me!!â
âIt wonât hurt. I just want to burrow into your mind for a few minutes...â she said, with an evil glint in her eye.
âOhh no! Donât, pleeeeeeeasssssssse...â
âLet âim go, Carrie,â said a voice to her right, âYou know full-well he doesnât have a Soul. Youâd probably kill him.â Her uncle waddled into the chamber and closed the door behind him. âAlso, heâs protected by Sir Arnoldâs last will & testament. The old man was very specific: âno harm must befall my beloved Noelâ.â
âHear that?! -- Iâm a protected sssspeciessss!! Ssssso --- lemme go, bitch!â 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. âI was only trying to frighten him, uncle. He needs taking down a peg or two from time-to-time,â she explained, in a dull voice laden with ennui.
âHeâs a right-royal-pain-in-the arse, thereâs no doubt about that, my darlinâ, but there are more important things to worry about than the capers of a meddlesome serpent,â said Castle, agreeably, before sharpening his tongue and addressing the python directly, âso fuck off back to the wee jungle with ye -- and stay outta trouble til this business is settled, OK?!â
Noel didnât 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, âIâm taking over the vigil for a while, Carrie. Youâre needed at the house: hostess duty,â he informed her, sitting down with a heavy sigh, âDetective Inspector Harkness has decided to pay us a visit and Her Ladyship insists on havinâ a bath before she talks to him. In the meantime, I need to study this,â he held up the scrapbook, âso youâll haveta entertain him for a wee while until sheâs ready.â He sat forward, looked down at Jamie and said, âit shouldn't take more than half-an-hour.â
âSo, that is the infamous scrapbook?â she asked, wondering why he was avoiding her eyes.
âTis indeed, my dear,â he said, putting a hand on Jamieâs shoulder and changing the subject, âhow has he been? Any change?â
Carla looked at Jamie and shook her head sadly, âNo, he hasnât stirred, but his pulse and breathing are steady... although, his skin feels cold...â she said, then changed the subject back, âSo, that is the book that contains the spell that cursed young Danielle?â
âYep, this is the cause of all the recent trouble,â he said, opening the book on his lap and flipping through the pages while relating the story of Lady Bethâs visit to SCICI and Master Goslingâs 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. âNo need to worry, Carrie, Iâll take good care of him,â 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, âWhat does Harkness want?â she asked, pulling off her sweatshirt and unbuttoning her jeans.
âGawd only knows, chile. Probably something to do with this eejit McKee. Thatâs why Iâm making meself scarce. Iâm not in the mood to stand to attention ân keep quiet while he makes sarky innuendos.â He went on to tell her about  McKeeâs most recent activities, âHeâs 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 Iâve told you before,â he glanced at Jamie and sighed, âheâs been stuck in the Void for a long time, Carrie, the Martyrs are risen, and we dunno what theyâre up to. All things considered, you may prepare yourself for the worst.â
âJamie will surprise you,â 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. âIâve met Harkness before, have I not? He is one of Chief Superintendent Ogleâs men, is he not?â
âAye, 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,â he put a finger to his forehead, âone of the auld witches in Donegal wiped him, but we donât know how effective it was; so no mind games, please Carrie. It might trigger a memory. OK?â
âDonât worry, Iâll play it safe,â she replied, wriggling into the flaccid limbs of the catsuit. âAfter all, Iâm merely a visiting cousin who knows nothing.â 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, âBy all-accounts heâs a cold fish, Carrie, you wonât distract him with t-&-a. Heâs  seen it all before; heâs ex-Vice.â
âI know what I am doing. Just make sure you keep Jamie warm.â 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, âPlease donât kill him, Uncle Oggy.â
âIâm just gonna sit here ân try ân figure this thing out....â 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 passengerâs incessant enquiries: âDid I spy torches shining across the fields tonight -- were yez combing the grounds for an intruder?â âPaparazzi, was it? A snooper?â âWere yez on night-manoeuvres?â Archie chimed, in the same loud, upbeat tone he used to chide suspects whoâd invoked their right to silence. As they passed the uproarious kennels he asked, âThem olâ hounds are howlinâ somethinâ shockinâ -- did something happen to upset âem?â
Unmoved, the driver kept his eyes on the road, his hands on the wheel and his lips firmly zipped.
âThey have you well-trained anyway!â Archie tittered, slapping the outside of the door with his left hand.Â
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 dĂŠjĂ vu; the same all-encompassing thrum of dread that infested his bones the night of the attack on Pascalâs 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 âSilver Ladyâ, AKA Mme Carla InfantĂŠ, 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 widowâs 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, Archieâs 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, âGood evening, Inspector, what a lovely surprise,â she said, graciously and sweetly, in that seductive, canât-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. âTo tell you the truth, luv, I was expecting to be met by the olâ family butler, yâknow -- Mr Castle? Gone to bed, has he...?â Archie asked, as she led the way through the dark of the cavernous vestibule into the dimly lit main hall.
âMr Castle is busy tending to the Young Master and Lady Beth is having a bath, Inspector, she will be down presently,â she replied, amiably, âin the meantime, I am afraid you will have to make do with my company. I hope you donât mind...?â She paused at the cloakroom and offered to take his coat but Archie politely refused and confessed he found the house quite chilly, âI suppose this place is too big ân draughty to keep the heat,â he commented, looking up the at the high, arched ceiling.
âOur tribe is the hardy type, Inspector,â she explained, cheerfully, âwe donât feel the cold. Some of us rather enjoy it! (big surprise, thought Archie) But not to worry, thereâs always a fire in the drawing room!â 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, âThe dogs are kicking up quite a racket, I must say. Something spook âem, huh?â
Carla shook her head, put her hands on her hips and playfully complained, âOh, those silly mutts! There must be a fox wandering around the kennels; that usually starts them off. Theyâll soon be quiet when they go out on the midnight patrol... Can I get you anything, Inspector...?â she gestured toward the array of bottles and decanters.
Archie smacked his lips and admitted, âNow you come to mention it, luv, after the day Iâve had, I could murder a cuppa tea.â
She laughed, âYes, if what I hear is true youâve 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!â
âWell, I wasn't âstrappedâ to the bomb; the door to the flat was booby-trapped. But it just goes to show ye -- good news really does travel fast, doesnât it?â he joked, with a cocked-eye, like: keepinâ tabs on me, are yez?
Unfazed, Carla confessed with a little chuckle, âWe 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?â
Archie smiled and replied with a wee hint of flint, âVery lucky, very lucky indeed...â
She frowned and tutted, âGhastly business, thank the stars you lived to tell the tale,â then, as if to bring the matter to a close, she clapped her hands and went to the interior phone, ânow, what would you like, Inspector? Earl Grey? Green? Oolong?â
Archie didnât want a fuss, âNo, no, thatâs alright, luv, Iâll make do with a glass of water,â he said, flapping his hands.
âIt is no bother, there is always a maid on duty,â said Carla, punching the extension button; after placing the order she went back to the sideboard, âI think I will have a large brandy!â she exclaimed, uncorking a large crystal decanter and pouring a few fingers into a sizeable balloon, âAre you warm enough, Inspector? Shall I put another log on the fire for you?â
Harkness didnât 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, âThe last time I saw that -- Iâm sorry, I mean: the last time I saw you, you were climbing the steps of Purdysburn mental hospital, yâknow, on the day Dani Cochrane died.â
The conversation had taken quite an unexpected turn, but Mme InfantĂŠ didnât flinch, âReally? I donât remember seeing you,â she replied, still smiling benignly as she crossed the room, put her balloon on the coffee table and went about lighting another cigarette. âIt is hardly surprising, though. It was such a chaotic day. Everything is a blur. Poor Danielle,â 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, âIt was such shock to us all.â
Slipping into interview mode, Archie sat forward and clarified, âSorry, you misunderstand me, Madame InfantĂŠ -- I didnât see you âin personâ, as-it-were, I saw you on film. Well, yâknow -- 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 ân everything, and the local news crews were there to cover the story,â he did walking-fingers across the top of the coffee table as he described the scene, âit 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,â Archie paused to take her in; from her perfectly pedicured toes to her shimmering dĂŠcolletage and commented, âvery striking indeed...â then his extended brow furrowed, he shook his head in mock-disbelief, âbut hereâs the thing, Madame InfantĂŠ: 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.â Archie sat back and insinuated with a wry smile, âYou haveta wonder how come such beautiful woman didnât make much of a an impression.â
She smiled, smoked and sipped, shrugged and laughed it off, âWhat can I say, Inspector? Maybe I simply slipped their minds?!â
Archie stroked his lantern jaw and murmured thoughtfully, âHmmm.... âSlipped their mindsâ, you might have something there.... Cuz if you ask me thereâs been an awful lot of minds slippinâ recently. For instance: the detective assigned to investigate Daniâs assault on her doctor -- the one who oversaw the signing of he papers, remember him...?â
Her gaze unwavering, her voice steady, she supplied the answer with a regretful frown, âYes. Inspector Volt. He became very...â she turned, stared into the embers and scoured her mind to find the right word â... vexed.â
âVexed?! You should hear him! Heâs aff his frigginâ trolley! Makinâ all sorts of wild accusations, he-is!â Archie snorted, âThe boss hadda put him on the sick for his own good!â He winked again, sat forward, tapped the tip of his nose with his finger, lowered his voice and confided, âI shouldn't say anythinâ, but wait-til-ye-hear-this -- poor olâ Jerry thinks you were sent by the Lumbs to mess with his head. He thinks you, like, mesmerised him. Whaddya think of that?!â
âAre you insinuating that I am in some way responsible for Mr Voltâs mental breakdown, Inspector Harkness?â she asked, blowing a plume of smoke in his direction.
Archie waved away the cloud  and snorted, âNaaah, donât be silly now... Youâre not a hypnotist, are you?â
She smiled that beautiful wide-mouthed, toothpaste-white-smile; her eyes twinkling as she replied in a warm, amused purr, âIs this an interrogation, Inspector? Do I need to call a lawyer?â
Archie tilted his head and feigned surprise, âWhy, Madame InfantĂŠ? Have you something to hide?â
The smile faded but she remained unruffled and answered plainly, âI 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...âÂ
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 sheâd 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.Â
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, âIâm sorry if I come across as a wee bit brusque, Madame InfantĂŠ, but, I have this terrible affliction, you see. Itâs cost me three marriages, most of me mates and nearly put me outta my job. You know what my sickness is, miss?â
She shook her head and continued to stare into his eyes.
He took a deep breath, sighed and confessed, âI can see right through people. Iâm a walkinâ lie- detector, I am. I can smell a rat in a matter of minutes, and although itâs a blessinâ in my line of work, it can also be a frigginâ curse. Cos I canât switch if off. Iâm a real pain-in-the-neck. I havetae get to the bottom of everybody I meet, and most people take exception when you pick âem apart to figure-out what makes âem tick. Especially people with somethinâ to hide.â
They gazed unblinkingly into each otherâs 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, âYou've been through hell today, Inspector Harkness. You havenât eaten; your blood sugars are low; your reflexes are slow. Itâs time to rest. Relax. Let go.........â
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, âTell me Inspector, when you were abducted, how were you rendered unconscious?â she asked, nonchalantly.
âHypodermic in the neck,â moaned Archie, letting his head roll back on his shoulders, closing his eyes and rubbing his throat, âgawd knows what the bastard put in it, but whatever it was, it put me out like a light... Next thing I know Iâm blindfolded, bound ân gagged ân taped to an olâ radiator in a smelly olâ flat. Quite an evening, all told... Itâs funny though...â he said, as he turned and looked up at the huge Art-Deco mirror above the mantelshelf.
âWhat is funny?â
âWhen Malky -- thatâs the guy who got me out -- when he took off the blindfold... it was like I was in a scene from some olâ 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...â Archie half-whispered, dreamily.
Fascinated and enthused, Carla sat forward and begged him to go on, âMirrors, you say?â
Archie nodded and dreamily elaborated, âAye, thatâs right, mirrors... dozens of âem. All shapes 'n sizes... all over the walls... But all broken, yâknow, smashed...?â For a moment his mind was filled with distant memories; a flickering montage of inexplicable images and disembodied voices; i.e. the âtalking mirrorsâ in the pub in Donegal... McKeeâs rasping voice whispering in his ear... Jamieâs 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, âUmmm... where is Master Jamie, by the way?â
âHe felt unwell and decided to have an early night. Please tell me more about your ordeal, Inspector, it is most enthralling,â 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. âOh, it is hot here by the fire,â she puffed, fanning her face with her open hand, âyou donât mind if I join you,â 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. âI wonder where that tea is?â he murmured, looking at his watch (11:42).
âIt will be here presently... but please, do go on.â
Now feeling a bit hot under the collar himself, Archie straightened his tie and politely demurred, âNow, now, Iâve said too much already, miss, I havenât even been debriefed by the detectives in charge of the case yet.â
âOh, please donât stop, it is most exciting and unusual thing I have ever heard -- I promise I wonât tell anyone,â she pleaded, in a conspiratorial, kittenish-whisper, moving closer, âwas there anything else other than mirrors...?â
For some reason Archie couldn't see the harm in indulging her with one last detail, âWell, there... there was this sorta shrine as well,â he shook his head, âwell, when I say âshrineâ what I mean to say is it was a load of olâ tat rigged-out to look like a shrine...â the thought of it made him shudder, âbrrr -- very creepy, all-the-same, made my skin crawl, sent the olâ proverbial shiver up me spine. Like I said, it was like somethinâ from one of them daft olâ horror movies... like one of them video nasties me daughter watches... McKee must be outta his mind...â
She shifted even closer; he felt her hip against his thigh, âA shrine, you say?â she gasped, her eyes widening, her lips pursed into an o, âthis is most fascinating! What sort of shrine? You think maybe McKee is a Satanist?â
âNot unless the devil is a dog,â Archie hazily replied.
âA dog?â
He turned, gazed into those twinkling eyes again and confided in a low whisper, âIt was an old, rusty coat-rail with a skeleton suspended from it on wires, yâknow? Like some sorta gruesome puppet. Malky said it was a whippet,â he suddenly remembered, âoh yeah, come to think of it, it had a nameplate on it, but it wasn't a name Iâve ever seen before... A strange word, it was. Burned into an auld piece of wood... What did it say? What was it now...?â he frowned as he tried to remember...Â
... and then, just as it reached the tip of his tongue -- a long, slender finger planted itself firmly on his lips, âDonât say the name, Inspector. Never say that word,â she warned, in a low, husky purr.
As soon as the fingertip made contact, Archieâs 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, âYou might see right through people, Inspector, but I see into them.â She straddled him, held his face in her cool hands and pressed her brow against his so that they were nose-to nose, âYou have something in your eye, Inspector, and I mean to get it out.â
Harkness lost consciousness as Carla projected. They didnât 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! âOoh! Shite! I am sorry... Iâll come back when youâre... finished, shall I? Erm, just ring the bell...â she stammered, as she slowly backed out of the room -- just in time to put a heel down on Lady Bethâs exposed big toe!
âOoooow!â Her Ladyship howled, hopping mad, taking off the slipper to massage the offending appendage, âwatch where youâre going, you silly little bitch!â she screeched.Â
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 girlâs gob. âWhat the hellâs the matter with you anyway?!â
Alice pushed the door open a crack, indicated the odd coupling on the couch and whispered, âI think theyâre at it, milady!â
Her Ladyshipâs jaw dropped! âWhat the f---â Shoving the diminutive maid aside, she barged in and loudly demanded an explanation, âWhat in the name of all that is holy are you doing, woman?!â she yelled, hands on hips, her face puce with anger. There was no reaction: Carlaâs legs remained clamped to her victimâs 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. âYou canât do this, you stupid cow -- heâs a cop -- heâs out-of-bounds! Get off him!!â
âShe cannae hear you, milady. Sheâs gone inside âis 'ead, milady!â whispered Alice, tiptoeing up behind her.
âI know what sheâs doing, pipsqueak -- sheâs fucking things up -- thatâs what sheâs doing!â Her Ladyship strode across the room, lifted the seltzer syphon from the sideboard and took aim at the couch, âIâll soon get her off!â
Alice jumped in the way and put up a hand to stop her, âNO, milady! You canât interrupt a beguilinâ all-of-a-sudden! You could cause âim to âave a seizure or somethinâ -- his brain could pop -- it could send âim totally doolally!â she cried, screwing a finger into her temple.
Her Ladyship slammed the seltzer down on the coffee table and ran to the door, âWhereâs that bloody oaf, Castle! He was supposed to take care of Harkness, not her! CASTLE!! CASTLE!!â 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 Cochraneâs 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 canât make-head-nor-tail-of it, what chance do I have? He looked down at the mirror on Jamieâs pillow and ruefully shook his head, if only they hadn't used mirrors to project...Â
Bloody Mirror World... then he was struck by a sudden flash of inspiration.Â
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! âOf course! It makes sense that the men who created Mirror World would devise a text you can only read by reflection!â
He looked at his watch, â11:55.â No time to call for help! Then he had another notion, turned and gazed into the darkness at the bottom of the room, âNoel? Are you still there?â
â...............erm................. .............No....?â
âCome-on-out, I wonât be mad, I promise. I need you to do me a big favour...â
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, âI wasn't listeninâ, yâknow! I was just takinâ a nap in the laundry basssket!â
âNevermind that -- howâs your singing voice?â
âCarla?â whispered Jamie, slightly relieved, but mostly confused.
âSsshhh, let me do the talking,â 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, âThe Chief Inspector has no knowledge of this and says you have no jurisdiction here. In fact, heâs so outraged by your behaviour heâs phoning your superior officer right now to demand an explanation. Iâm afraid I will have to ask you to leave.â
âI donât care if he calls the Queen herself, Iâm not goinâ anywhere without this man,â the detective replied, calmly and assuredly.
Mondale stood up, leaned over his desk and pointed at the door, âDo I have to call security and have you physically removed?â
This time Harkness didnât 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 âfuckinâ âell!â
Naturally, Mondaleâs composure was seriously compromised; he sat down slowly and deliberately, straightened his tie, cleared his throat and made with his best bedside manner, âNow, now, thereâs 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,â 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.Â
Shocked and bewildered, shaking his head in disbelief, he slowly got to his feet, âWhat the... what the fuck did you do that for...?â he muttered, in a bewildered whisper,
âThrowing a spanner in the works,â said Harkness; then the voice changed to Carlaâs as she explained in a warm, reassuring tone, ânone of this is real, Jamie. Your astral form is trapped in the Void, your consciousness trapped in this phantasm fashioned from Harknessâ memories. Thatâs how I got here -- through his psyche -- heâs at the Ivy House now! Iâm physically connected to him.â
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 heâd 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, âIâve been here for almost a week...?â
âSurely I donât have to remind you that the natural laws of time and space do not apply in an abstract dimension,â Carla impatiently explained, âthe demon performed a ritual using multiple mirrors to invade the Void and then used Harknessâ psyche to trap your consciousness. Heâs trying to break your spirit so that he might possess you!â her voice cracked as she cried, âCome, Jamie, please -- we must be quick! I canât stay here for long -- Harknessâ psyche is too delicate, the demon is too powerful -- and I have no insulation!â She drew his attention to a dim violet aura now visible around his entire body, âif not for that protective shield, you would have perished out here hours ago!â
âThen whoâs protecting me?â Jamie asked, examining his glowing hands.
âWe are,â announced a gruff but unmistakeable voice in the darkness behind them.Â
âMr Murphy?!â said Jamie.
âYes. Iâm Merfi from the Darkly Woods,â said the voice.
Jamie: âOh, I get it -- youâre that Merfi -- youâre one of the Martyrs.â
Carla: âThe Martyrs? You did this? You trapped Jamie here?â
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.
âWe 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 weâre utterly exposed and itâs almost midnight!â The voice lowered to a threatening growl, âWe have to hurry! Heâs coming for you, boy, and it wonât be like last time, oh no!â
âWhat do you mean?â asked Jamie.
âHe was weak the last time he petitioned you, his powers were at low ebb [See Part 5]. Now he is omnipotent! Thereâll be no need for bargaining -- no deals! Heâs free of his host and heâs amassed enough energy to take possession of your Soul by force!â
Carla replied: âBut how do we know you and your cohorts are not his allies? How do we know you are not complicit in his plan?â
Merfiâs voice sounded in their heads, <I havenât time to explain -- suffice to say weâre 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.
âHow can we trust you?!â yelled Carla.
âHow can I trust anybody?!â yelled Jamie.
The pair felt a presence come between them and take their hands, <Shut your gobs ân 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 werenât 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 Harknessâ 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 kiddieâs pop-up picture book.Â
It was all very familiar if the expression on Carlaâs 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, âYou know this place?â
She beheld the misshapen moon with a wry smile and said, âOh 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.â
âThis is Electraâs imagination? Is that good or bad?â asked Jamie, a little alarmed. Heâd heard a lot about Carlaâs sister over the past few years and none of it was good.
âOh, itâs bad, dear boy -- you only have to look at that sky!â said Merfi, pointing his staff at the swirling, purple clouds and cupping his ear in reference to the grumble of distant thunder, âwhatever it was before, this dreamscape is now infested with his energy!â
âI know one thing for sure: Electra is here! I sense her Essence in the ether!â snarled Carla, clenching her fists, âI 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!â She angrily kicked a cartoon toadstool out of the grass as the implications sank in, âI was right!! Sheâs been in league with him all along! She lured Dani here knowing Jamie would come after her!â She had another thought, âLittle Red Riding Hood... the Big Bad Wolf... This is why Gosling morphed into a wolf-man...â
âGoz is a wolf-man...?â gasped Jamie, getting evermore confused.
Carla gave him a brief summary of Goslingâs recent misadventures then apprised him of the situation as it stood, âWhen 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 donât 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.â She gnashed her teeth and pointed an accusing finger at the ancient mage, âThis all began with your hellish âMessiah Spellâ! You and your confederates caused this catastrophe!â
âWe carefully devised a ritual to create a being capable of destroying the demon, not aid-ân-abet him, we went to a lot of trouble to ensure its efficacy,â said Merfi, taking in the tidings, nodding sagely, âso the spell was performed twice and rebounded in the Void, eh? Well, we didnât account for that eventuality...â he turned to Carla, â... and you say your sister has lured the demonspawn here? That accounts for the rum grumble in me belly...â he groaned, âshe must be around here somewhere, too...â
âDaniâs here? Where?!â asked Jamie.
Carla was already running along the little pathway into the darkened forest, shouting, âFollow me!â
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, âThe Witching Hour is upon us, my brothers. Itâs time to finish what we started 7000 years ago...â
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, âOh milady! Look! Madame Carla!!â
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.Â
âWhat the hell happened?â Her Ladyship snapped, slamming down the receiver and striding back to the couch.
âI dunno, milady! She sort-of-groaned, threw 'er 'ead to the side and rolled offa 'im!â 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, âSo sheâs broken the connection, has she?! Then we can wake her up, canât we?!â she said, smiling wickedly, rolling up her sleeves and raising her hand to administer a good, hard smack, âIâve been waiting for this for quite some time...â
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, âIt wonât do any good, milady! -- sheâs entranced, so-she-is!â Alice grabbed the collar of her mistressâ robe, âCanât you feel it?! This is the night of the demon, so-tis! This is all his doinâ, so-tis! Sheâs doomed, so-she-is! Weâre all doomed! Heâll kill us all, he-will!!â
âENOUGH!â the infuriated virago got to slap a face after all. Upon impact, Aliceâs 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, âRight! Whereâs that fucking butler...â she grumbled, punching the button marked âsanatoriumâ...
...
3 minutes before, Castle was reciting the text reflected in the little mirror and tapping out the requisite beat on Jamieâs tablas whilst Noel intoned the chant. Well, he tried: âFuck it! I canât do this!â the churlish serpent cried, breaking-off for the umpteenth time, âit sounds frigginâ ssstupid -- I canât get the hang of it!â
The big butler stopped drumming and erupted in a fit of frustration, âNOEL! FUCK!! Keep going!! Jeezus Christ!!â he yelled, âWe nearly had it there!â
âFuck you, fatssso, Iâm going back to the laundry bassssket,â 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, âPlease, Noel, all ye have to do is keep doing what youâre doing -- itâs working! -- âmember itâs just a chant, it doesnât have to sound good! But whatever you do -- once youâve got it -- donât stop!â
Noel thought about it.
âCâmon, youâll have a ball tellinâ everyone how you saved them from extinction -- you might even enjoy it!â
âI very much doubt it...â Somewhat mollified but still muttering about the indignity, the snarky snake reluctantly returned to his place, âHowâs this supposed to help coma-boy, anyway?â he asked, nodding at the slumbering Young Master.
Castle checked the digital clock on the bedside locker: 11:57. âIâll explain later, weâre running outta time -- now come on! After me...â 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.
âAren't you gonna answer that?â asked Noel, âItâs probably Lady Bitch gaspinâ for a snort, innit? You know what sheâs like if she doesnât get her nightcap.â
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...
âSTOP!!â
She had just uttered the first syllable of the dreaded word when she was abruptly interrupted by a distant cry.Â
âDani! DONâT!!â
She looked toward the edge of the forest -- âJamie?!!â She squealed, jumping up-and-down with delight upon seeing her beloved Young Masterâs glowing avatar run out of the trees, closely followed by the rather faded form of her Great Aunt Carla! âDonât say it, Danielle -- it is a trap!â 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 Whiteâs wicked stepmother. Once they were captive and mute, Blist turned his attention back to Dani. âSay the word, little girl or Iâll have their Souls torn apart.â
âIâm not sayinâ a bloody thing until you let âem go!â Dani yelled, stamping her foot, putting her nose in the air and defiantly crossing her arms.
Blist snapped his fingers.
âSAY THE WORD!â 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 âPack it in, Zomber Blist!â and an old man in stripy pyjamas and slippers brandishing what looked like a knobbly wizardâs staff emerged from the wood, giving-out as he marched through the throng, âYou always were a bit of a maverick, werenât you, Blist? Well, the gameâs up! Iâm afraid we've lost the day.â
The glistering Martyr begged to differ, âAll the more reason to complete the spell! We've nothing to lose now, have we?! She MUST say the word!â
âNo, Blist! Itâll only hasten the inevitable!â 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 Merfiâs backgammon buddies; the other, a short, slender man with very feminine features (ZĂśch) was his âcase workerâ 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]
âLook here, my brothers -- our old friend Blist has taken matters into his own hands -- again!â Merfi announced, sardonically, âMaybe you can talk some sense into him!â
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, âWe've been out-played!! Heâs has all of us right where he wants us! Itâs checkmate, my brothers!!â whinged the tubby Welsh necromancer known as Parswald Nedi. Arms aloft, he pleaded with his aggrieved colleagues, âI say we split-up and take our chances elsewhere!âÂ
âWe canât hide from him, you fool,â Merfi dolefully informed him, pointing his staff at Jamie, âonce he takes possession of the boyâs Soul heâll have the means destroy The Psychosphere from within. Thereâll be no hiding place for anyone, least of all the 5 of us.â He shook his head and sighed, âThere is nothing left to do but make peace with our consciences and prepare for the bitter end.â
Nedi refused to believe it was over; he fell to his knees and beseeched the churning, incandescent heavens, âThen 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 wonât let it end like this!!â
âThe Powers That Be have long since forsaken us! We were entrusted with the means to destroy him, and we failed, miserably,â said the long haired, androgynous Assyrian mystic known to the Psychic World as Prince Molton ZĂśch.
âYes, they empowered a crippled dog to do our work, thatâs how much faith they have in us,â said the tall, hollow-faced, French alchemist known as Bezeel. Â
âI knew this would happen!â cried Nedi, getting evermore anxious, âwe shouldn't have meddled -- we shouldn't have deviated from the Prophesy!â
âOh, shut your soppy pie-hole, you craven Welsh jellyfish!â sneered Blist, âWe knew what we were doing when we agreed to this! â 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, âI thought you were gonna die out in the Void! They wouldn't let me go after you! But I knew youâd come and save me!!â
âIâm happy to see you too, Dani-girl, but Iâm just as helpless as you,â replied Jamie, stroking her head, gazing up into the tumultuous skies, âthis is one nightmare Iâll be happy to wake up from.â
Dani looked up at him and asked, âWill we wake up?â
Jamie looked to the Martyrs for a glimmer of hope, âIs there a way out of here?â
Nedi slapped his forehead and pointed at the trio of Living Souls, âListen to these fools! They havenât a clue!â he shouted, angrily, pointing an accusing finger at Blist, âand you said it was foolproof!â
âThere were unforeseen circumstances!â countered the cadaverous wizard, glaring at the craven spectre of Pritchard, âI wasn't to know the last Judge would fall prey to senility and entrust the execution of the ritual to this self-serving dullard!â
Pritchard stood behind the grimacing figure of Electra and tried to look inconspicuous.
Noticing him for the first time, Jamie jeered, âI might have known youâd have something to do with this, Bernie!â
The shady ghost shrugged, threw up its arms and yelled back, âI just followed the instructions as written -- I only did what was required of me!!âÂ
âOh yeah? Does that include collaborating with the enemy?!â Jamie replied.
âHah! Jamieâs right -- youâre to blame for everything!â Dani chided, and informed the wizards of her nemesisâ past indiscretions, âHe tried to kill us! He used me to make a deal with the demon!â [See Part 9].
âCan you blame me?! He had me locked in a death-haunt! Any one of you would've done the same!â Pritchard protested.
Tutting and shaking his head, Zomber Blist sombrely informed his brothers, âI discovered this dreamscape a few a few hours ago while you were taking care of the boy. I overheard the girlâs grandmother relating her story,â he fixed Electra with a gimlet-eye, âshe made a deal with the demon. She lured the demonspawn to this dimension knowing the boy would come after her!â
âI didnât know it would come to this -- all I wanted was for little Dani to be a normal little girl again!â 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 Daniâs golden-haired grandmother and yelled in her grimacing face, âLook at what youâve done Ellie! After all this time, after all we've been through -- you havenât changed one iota! And now your selfishness will destroy us all!â
âIvan begged me to do it! His wee girl was a goblin -- what was I to do?!â Electra screeched, sobbing into her shawl.
âBloody women!â shouted Nedi, scornfully, âI knew theyâd screw-things-up! They ruin everything!!â
Carla wasn't going to stand for that! âI 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,â she said, giving Pritchard a cold stare, before putting a translucent hand on her wardâs shoulder and attesting, âI have explored Jamieâs psyche and I say he is the true Messiah! He is the key to defeating him. All is not yet lost.â
âHeâs not the Messiah,â Blist snorted, derisively, pointing a long, glittering fingernail at Dani, âsheâs the Messiah.â
âDani?â Carla, Electra. Pritchard and Jamie gasped in unison.
âMe...?â muttered Dani, screwing up her face as if  it was the craziest thing sheâd ever heard.
Merfi nodded and grimly explicated, âIt had to be a Silver Siren. A female.The demon doesnât possess women, he prefers alpha-males blinded by greed and ambition. The Messiah had to be a strong, defiant woman with a will that canât be broken.â
âThat sounds like our Dani, alright,â said Jamie.
âMe...? Really...?â muttered Dani, still trying to take it in.
âYour father was just a vessel, you are the fruit of his enchanted seed,â Bezeel explained, turning toward Carla, âyour esteemed Young Master may have inherited his grandfatherâs advanced psychic abilities and strength of character, but he is no Messiah.â He looked Dani up-and-down and regretfully sighed, âThis waif had all the talents required, until her father turned her into a monster,â he then turned and glared at Electra, âand her grandmother brought her to the forest and offered her to the demon!â
By now, Electra was almost hysterical: âHow many times do I have to tell you, I did it for --â
âSilence!â bellowed Blist, cutting her off, âYou've said and done enough!â He explained to his comrades, âOnce 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 âSphere and engineer this trap.â
During the ensuing discussion it emerged that the âMartyrsâ 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 âMartyrsâ 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 Gßßl 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 Martyrsâ so-called âdisciplesâ -- a group of human âmagiciansâ 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 Martyrâs curse in a secret chamber in Tutankhamenâs tomb. Â
Alas, as always, fate conspired to thwart their designs: â1200 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!â cried Nedi, shaking his head as if he still couldn't take it in.
Bezeel: âThe 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.â
Merfi: âThe incumbent Judge called an emergency meeting of the Grand Council and questioned the tribal leaders.â
ZĂśch: âDespite a thorough interrogation, the witches never uttered a word.â
Bezeel:Â âThere was nothing to do but continue with our plan.â
Merfi: âAfter 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 harmâs way.â He turned to the InfantĂŠ sisters, âYou are the descendants of those children,â he turned toward Dani, â and this little girl is that child.â
Electra and Carla (now almost transparent) looked at each other, then looked at Dani and shook their heads in disbelief.
Blist: âUnfortunately, 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!â
Merfi: âWhen you joined him in the incantation, his imagination transformed you into an approximation of that atrocious illustration!â [See Part 1]
âIâm still an ugly green goblin, if thatâs what you mean. I only look like a normal person in my imagination,â said Dani, sadly, looking at her little Red Riding Hood avatar.
âAnd if all that isn't damning enough, he implores her grandmother to make a deal with the demon,â said Blist, addressing the others while scowling at Electra, âshe was corrupted and became bait for this trap.â
âAnd we fell for it!â bawled Nedi, clenching his fists and whining like a child. â7000 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!â
âI blame the witches! They ruin everything! They should have been wiped from existence aeons ago!â said Bezeel, crossing his arms and putting his long nose in the air.
âThese aren't witches -- theyâre fully-developed Sirens! Thereâs no excuse! Face the facts, brothers -- we put our faith in a bunch of selfish, undisciplined amateurs!â shouted ZĂśch.
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, âThereâs nothing to be gained by reproaching each other, my brothers,â he said, drawing their attention to the escalating electrical storm, âhe is here and we are undoneâ
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.
âGoz?â said Jamie, incredulously.
The goofy-looking, picture-book wolf nodded.
âYeah! He was here earlier! We watched âim disappear in a puff of smoke!â shouted Dani, holding Jamieâs arm tightly.
âAye, thatâs one you need to talk to! He came to me lookinâ for the scrapbook!â yelled Pritchard, gratefully shifting the blame, âhe cast the spell through a mirror -- heâs the one who kicked this off -- not me!â
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, âThatâs right. Itâs true. Iâm only a half-blood, Iâm not a telepath; I used the spell to open a portal in a mirror and searched for Daniâs signature in the âSphere. I wanted revenge on Jamie... but somehow I ended up here, in this dreamscape, looking like this,â he looked at Dani, âwhen 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 canât go back now. Not that thereâs much point, since it looks like weâre all going to die anyway...â
Something occurred to Jamie; he cocked his head and asked Merfi, âYou told me to say the word when we were in the âhospitalâ.â
The elderly sorcerer nodded, âA 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 itâs all academic now. Like this pathetic creature says, we are about to die. And you are about to be possessed...â
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 Hoodâs grannyâs 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!
âThis is it my friends,â cried Merfi, âonly a miracle can save us now...â
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.Â
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 Jamieâs 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 --Â âListen!â 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, âcanât you hear that?â
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...
âItâs the spell! Somebodyâs casting the spell!â yelled Jamie.
âI hear it!â screamed Dani.
âSo can I!â shouted Goz.
âThen go with it! Join Hands!! Form a circle and turn in step with the rhythm!!â shouted Merfi, suddenly energised --  seizing the moment and rallying his brothers, âWe will protect you!!âÂ
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, âIf you want to save your Souls, go to Limbo -- the portal is open -- now -- while heâs preoccupied!â
âBut what about Dani?!â screamed Electra.
âShe will fare better without you here to distract her! Now -- GO!â 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-oâ-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, âAlright lads, nice and steady, after me....â
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, âThatâs it, lads, this is it...â
Then the drums abruptly stopped!
âThatâs the sign. Here it comes... keep her lit, lads, keep her lit...â Â Â
...
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.
âOh shite...â he muttered to himself, and immediately stopped drumming.
Noelâs head wobbled as he was rudely snapped-out-of his trance, âWha... whatâs goinâ on... Hey! Why did you sssssstop?!â he hissed.
But Castle couldn't answer. He was crouching beside the bed with a hand on the restless Young Masterâs chest, whispering into his ear:
âYou haveta say his name. Say it now.â
The digital clock on the bedside locker counted down the final seconds to midnight...
...
Jamie heard the whisper.
He looked at his twirling companions. Theyâd heard it too.
<Do it,> thought Goz, squeezing his eyes shut.
<Say it,> thought Dani, squeezing his hand tight.
âAll of you say it! YOU ARE AS ONE!!â 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!Â
10...
9...
8...
7...
Jamie looked at his companionsâ grimacing faces, âReady?!â
They nodded...
5...
âWith me -- after 3...â
â3...
â2...
âHey, you! Oy you! Wake up, ye fat fool!â
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, âOy! Wakey-wakey, fatso -- come on now, ye eejit -- this isn't fun anymore...â
...
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.Â
â... Câmon, câmon, answer the fucking phone, Oggy, donât make me come over there...â 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! âWhat the hell is up with you people...!â 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 servantâs 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 --
âJamie!â screamed Carla, her eyes wide with fear, waking with a start.
âOh, youâre with us, are you?! Maybe you can tell me whatâs going on!â said Lady Beth, pointing at Harkness and Alice, âthe entire house is out for the count!â
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: âMidnight?! I must go to Jamie at once!â she said, springing to her feet and bolting for the door -- Her Ladyship ran after her and caught her by the arm, âOh no you donât, madam -- youâre going to tell me what weâre gonna do with Harkness...â she stopped yapping when they heard a distance voice, â... who the hell is that?â she asked.
Carla shook off the grabbing hand and rushed down the hall, âPlease, My Lady, stay here with the Inspector -- I must go to Jamie!â 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 âGosling!â 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, âWell, heâs not going anywhere...âÂ
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 momentâs 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 Judgeâs 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 Iâm not in SCICI. Then he looked to his left: the Lumbâs 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!Â
WE SAID THE WORD!!
âHelp! Anybody there?! Help! Somebody -- HELP!!â
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 theyâd all been doused with sleeping gas!Â
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!Â
âI look... beautiful...â 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...
âWe said the word!!âÂ
She thought it over, âBut if Iâm OK... then what happened to Jamie?!âÂ
Beset with sudden anxiety, she  began pounding the the glass with her tiny fists, âHey! You out there!! Wake up!! Lemme out -- I gotta go ân see Jamie!!â
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 youâve-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, âJamie... are you with us.... hello....?â
He tried to move and found to his horror he was bound by restrains! âYou --you strapped me to the bed?!â he hoarsely cried.
 Ignoring the outburst, Mondale addressed him in a, warm, placatory tone, âFeeling a bit woozy, are we? Not to worry, old chap, the tranquillizer will soon wear off.â
âIâm... still in the hospital?! What the fuck?!â Jamie groaned.
âNow, thereâs no need for that kind of language, young man!â said Sister, wagging her finger in his face, patently grateful to have something to nag him about, âYouâre beinâ restrained cos you âad another violent episode! You told the doctor youâd have him killed!!â
âYes, thank you Sister that will be all. Iâll page you if I need further assistance,â said Mondale, sniffily, clearly peeved by her insensitive attitude. He waited until sheâd gone then told the orderlies to wait outside the door. Once they were alone, he patted Jamieâs shoulder reassuringly, âI must apologise for ever doubting you, Jamie,â he confided, earnestly, in a sympathetic tone, âI must confess, I didnât 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...â
âStop it!!â Jamie was having none of it! He used all his strength to voice his opinion as loudly and as forcefully as he could, âThis isn't real! This is a dreamscape built from Harknessâ memories... the Martyrs created this!â
âOh dear,â said Mondale, wearily, massaging his greying eyebrows, âthis is precisely the sort of thing you were shouting while in the throes of delirium....â
Jamie shook his head emphatically and protested just as vehemently, âNo, no, no you donât -- donât try to twist this! Iâm trapped in a dreamscape -- you are just a figure from Harknessâ past!â
Mondale checked his notepad, âYes, you mentioned the name âHarknessâ several times during the attack.â
âI didnât suffer an attack! This is a phantasm! The Martyrs are behind this!â
âThe martyrs?â
âThe Darkly Martyrs -- the wizards buried under the Ivy House!!â shouted Jamie, struggling under the restraints.
âWizards?â
âYes wizards!! And donât patronise me --- Iâm not crazy -- it wonât work! Iâm not fooled anymore!â
Smiling benignly, Mondale explained, âJamie, please listen to me: during our session today, when I told you I couldn't arrange a solicitor until youâd been assessed, you took the news rather badly. You became hysterical and threatened me. You threatened to have me shot.â
âBut you were shot! Harkness shot you in the head... I mean Carla shot you in the dream... I mean -- you aren't real!!â
Mondale waited for him to calm down and went on, âThe orderlies had to restrain you while I called for a medic to administer a tranquilliser. I take it, then, you donât remember anything?â
Jamie refused to believe a word of it, âThis is utter bullshit!  Ask âMr Murphyâ -- or should I say Merfi of the Darkly Woods!â Jamie lifted his head and shouted at the door, âHey! Merfi! Merfi get in here! You can stop this now! Enough is enough!â
One of the orderlies put his head around the door and asked if everything was OK. Mondale impatiently waved him away and continued, âI know how hard this must be for you, Jamie. Amnesia is a frightening condition, especially when its compounded by feelings of paranoia. But donât worry,â He gave Jamie a paternal pat on the arm, ânow that Iâve seen it for myself, I can assure you I will do my utmost to see that youâre properly looked after.â He frowned as he delivered the âbad newsâ, âUnfortunately, you will have to be separated from general population for a while, and as soon as weâre sure itâs safe, weâll remove those restraints, in the meantime, Iâm prescribing a course of sedatives to level your mood and relax you; then, when youâre stable, weâll work on a way to keep these episodes under control...â he said, and brought the little tĂŞte-Ă -tĂŞte to a close, âI am sorry it had to come to this, Jamie,â he said, sadly, looking at the restraints, âIâll come back and see you after the weekend, when youâve had time to... settle.âÂ
But Jamie had stopped listening minutes ago; so despondent he didnât 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 --
âWe said the word!â
So how come heâs back in the hospital? -- back in Harknessâ subconscious? -- back in the Martyrâs dreamscape? Thereâs no chill in his bones now, it doesnât feel like heâs 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?!Â
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 didnât look too happy.
âWell, thank you very much!â he chimed, in a high, scathing voice, looking down at Jamie with hand on hip and a disbelieving shake of the head, âIâve got a big-black-mark on report card cuz of you! Mondaleâs secretary ratted-me-out! So not only 'ave I blown my chances with âer, Iâve got Sister and Mondale breathin' down me neck! Open wide, please,â he said, tersely, and placed a pair of pink capsules on Jamieâs tongue and continued his acerbic harangue, ââOh, Iâm absolutely fine ân I need to see Dr Mondale urgently, can you arrange it for me?â -- And look where it got ya! -- stuck in Isolation -- strapped to the bed on 24 hour suicide watch! What the âell were you thinkinâ?!!â
Jamie closed his mouth and refused to be drawn.
His wilful silence only made Masterson madder, âI got you that appointment in good faith, matey! I trusted you -- and what do you do?! You go mental ân threaten to shoot the âead doctor!!â he nagged, putting the glass of water to Jamieâs lips.
Jamie sipped the water, swallowed the pills and said nothing.
The disgruntled Wulfrunianâs flushed little urchin face clenched into a sneer as he stooped and informed his taciturn patient in a harsh, half-whisper, âWell, youâve had it now, mister. Youâll never get outta here. If you thought a week in the Secure Unit was bad -- waitâll youâve been in âere for a few years!â
Jamieâs eyes widened: years?!
Now heâd finally got a reaction, Masterson laid it on thick, âOh yeah, cuz Iâve seen your file. Youâre Category-A, now: âdangerousâ and âunstableâ, âprone to violent outburstsâ -- âPossibly homicidalâ! Not only that, but yer âomeless and a âperson of interestâ to the law. And this ain't gaol, yâknow -- thereâs no parole âere! You 'aveta convince a board of specialists ân magistrates that youâre no longer a danger to the public, and yeah, that can take years! -- in some cases, a lifetime!!â
Jamieâs heart sank to the pit of his stomach.
Putting the cup back on the tray, Masterson, stood back, smiled evilly and winked, âStill, you gotta look on the broightsoide of loife, dontcha, mate? Iâm going off-duty in âalf-an-hour,â he trilled, turning away, âIâm gonna âave a few bevvies with me mates, and later on, weâre goinâ to a club in town; gonna get absolutely bladdered and dance till dawn.â He paused at the door to give a little parting wave and bid him a tart farewell, âHave a nice time staring at the walls, coma-boy...â
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 Jamieâs room; she rushed to the bed, put a hand on his head and checked his vital signs. She sighed with relief. There didnât 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, âHow long has he been out?!â
âNot long. We wuz castinâ a spell then 'e stopped drumminâ, leaned over ân whispered somethinâ in coma-boyâs ear -- then he just passed out! Just like that! Whumph!â
âYou cast a spell?â she asked, putting a pillow under her uncleâs head.
âAye. He took it from that-there tatty olâ book. He used the wee mirror to read them squigglesssss round the edges,â hissed the indifferent serpent, nodding toward the open scrapbook on the bed, âSounded like complete gibberish, if you assssk me...â
Carla nodded to herself as she came to understand what had happened, âSo... he recast the spell using the mirror to reverse the text...?â Â
âI did the chantinâ! He couldnâtâve done it without me!â chirruped Noel.
âAnd what did he whisper to Jamie?â
Noel had a wee think, âHmmmmmmm. It wuz somethinâ like, âsay the wordâ; then, just as the clock struck 12, he hit the deck like a big sack oâ spudsssss!â
Carla reeled for a moment as she reached a conclusion, âHe must have told Jamie to say the demonâs 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 Harknessâ psyche when it happened...?â Â She returned to the bed, looked under the pillows and searched the creases in the sheets, âWhere is the mirror?â
Noel wound around one of the bedposts and looked down, âI dunno. Oggy had it in his hand the last time I sssssaw it.â
She knelt beside her uncleâs 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, âWhatâs up wâ ye, lassssie?! Olâ Oggyâs not dead, is he?!â
âNo... Itâs Jamie...â she replied, holding up a shard of broken glass, her voice cracked with dread, âThe mirror is broken... Jamie has no way back!â
To be continued in Devil-Dogs, Hellcats and Cowgirls
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#spindlefreck#fantasy#witches#wizards#demon#irish humour#witchcraft#saga#ghosts#irish literature#horror#ghost story#northern ireland#humour#serial killer#telepathy#paranormal#psychology#bipolar
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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 couldât open his eyes.
There were people talking nearby, and they were talking about him:
 A manâs voice: â... heâs not a gard heâs ex-RUC, and heâs lucky to be alive. If they hadnâtâve been there, itâs 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 thatâs when he had the heart attack...â
A womanâs voice exclaimed excitedly: âWaitaminnit â is this the same guy they were talkinâ about on the news?! Is this the fella who got shot when he went after that nutcase whoâd been killinâ the wee girls?!â
The man hushed her and replied, âI havenât heard the news yet, but aye, this is indeed another unfortunate victim of that incident, but weâre tryinâ to keep it quiet so keep your voice down.â
The woman whispered: âTwo bullets, massive blood-loss followed by a heart-attack? Heâs a very lucky boy.â
âIf I was him Iâd give up chasing criminals and take up a career as a professional gambler,â the man chuckled.
âOh, aye, heâs jammier than a sackful of rabbitsâ paws, thatâs to be sure, but he didnât haveta put himself in that predicament, did he? - goinâ after an armed lunatic with only a dog fer company?â
The manâs voice came closer, âWell, heâs 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.â Malky felt a cool hand on his brow, âHmmm, his temperature is a bit on the high side. Keep an eye on his blood pressure, will you? Page me immediately if thereâs any change in his condition. And whatever you do, sister, donât let any detectives or reporters in here.â
The woman pretended to be offended by his underestimation of her powers of discretion and bantered him light-heartedly, âIâll put the word out amongst the staff, then â âno dicks or hacks for our Mr Calvert!ââ
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 McKeeâs pistol... the muddy grave... the screeching cats... Zindy getting shot...!
Zindy got shot!
blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip...Â
He opened his eyes and tried to sit-up â 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.
âUh-oh! Heâs awake!â The doctor returned to the bedside and gently eased him back to his original position, âEasy, easy there, Mr Calvert, try to stay calm.... nurse, give him a jab, there...â
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, âEasy now, I need you to try and relax and not to exert yourself in any way...â
Malky gasped and asked in a strained voice, â... is Zindy... still alive...?â
âNobodyâs been killed, donât you worry, now -- thereâll 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...â
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 doesnât remember dying. He doesnât 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 heâd ever seen about people dying and going to heaven. He doesnât 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.Â
He doesnât 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.
âWelcome to my world, Malky,â said the spectre.
Malky recognised him immediately, âBernie bloody Pritchard,â he said, with a contemptuous sneer, âI thought you were dead.âÂ
The cruel lips widened into a devilish smile, âI am. So are you,â he said, looking over Malkyâs shoulder at the body on the bed.
Malky sighed resignedly, his shoulders slumping, âAh, well, it was good while it lasted. At least I died saving someoneâs life...â
âOh, youâll be revived, son,â Pritchard interrupted assuredly, âthis-hereâs only temporary. A near death experience, as they say.â
Malky looked up into The Light and an all-consuming yearning came over him, every fibre of his being was desperate to ascend, âI dunno what it is, but I donât want to go back, I want to go up so badly...â he murmured, regretfully.
Pritchard chuckled, âYou will eventually, just not today. No, I thought Iâd call and say hello while youâre on my side of the fence, yâknow. I like to keep up with old friends.â
âYouâre no friend oâ mine, Pritchard,â snapped Malky, stepping back, looking him up and down, âyou were always a sleekit get, up to all sorts of badness.You wouldn't be cominâ here to see me unless it was bad news or you were up to no good.â
The dapper spectre shrugged, âI 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 weâre honest. He did most of the work, didnât he, Malky?â
âIs that it then? Is that what you came to say?â said Malky, irritated, wondering if this was heaven or the other place. I mean, where else would Bernie be?
Pritchard ignored him and continued, âOh, youâll go on denyinâ it. Youâll put it down to intuition and happy-happenstance, but deep down youâll know the truth. You were guided by Faeries. Thatâs what we call the Infant Host: Faeries. The ghosts of little children. They guided the dog and you followed. Isn't that right, Malky?â
When Malky didnât respond, he got to the point, âYou see, Iâm a very special ghost. And here, in the space betwixt life and death, I have the run of the place. In your world I canât be seen or heard and I canât touch anything, but I can watch. And Iâll be watching you Malky. Your life is gonna get very interesting from now on, so Iâll be keepinâ an eye on you.â
âInteresting? In what way?â asked Malky, gimlet-eyed.
But Pritchard refused to expound, âLooks like our little tĂŞte-Ă -tĂŞte is at an end, Malky, they've just saved you,â 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 Pritchardâs previous remarks, âWhat do you mean about âinterestingâ -- what do you mean youâll be âwatching meâ -- what are you talkinâ about?!â shouted Malky, his voice growing faint as he faded from view.
âBe seeinâ you Malky,â the spectre shouted, laughing as the mist proliferated and swallowed him up, âgive my regards to Archie...â
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.
âJeezus fuck! Where am I?â 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, âGood morning, sir,â he said, with a slight sneer, "youâre in the Ivy House. Mr Castle instructed me to inform you that breakfast will be served in the Morning Room at 10 o'clock.â
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, âWhat happened to my clothes?!â shrinking back, a multitude of possibilities racing through his mind.
Fordham cleared his throat and explained, âApparently you were in the drawing room chatting to Mme InfantĂŠ when you fell asleep on the couch by the fire. You were quite... unconscious. We couldn't wake you. Mme InfantĂŠ 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,â he pointed toward the pile of neatly folded clothes on an armchair by the window, âwe took the liberty of undressing you, laundering and pressing your clothes.â He put his nose in the air again and produced the tattered remains of Archieâs white shirt (Primark: ÂŁ2.99!), âUnfortunately, your shirt did not survive the cycle. So we've replaced it.â He indicated a gleaming white shirt hanging on a coat hook behind the door, âWe 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.â
âUh... thanks... I think...?â 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, âa fully-stocked en suite with a shower-room, sir. Hot water. Fresh towels. New toothbrush. Feel free to use them,â 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 âchattingâ to the InfantĂŠ 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.
Heâd dreamed about the mental hospital in London, the one he committed himself to after the âDonegal Incidentâ to âsort his head outâ 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 elseâs 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 canât think like this. Thatâs what scuppered him the first time. He canât 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 widowâs 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 mightâve been, was firmly imprinted on his mind: a bespectacled, shadowy figure in a black overcoat with a knowing smirk on its face...
âBernie bloody Pritchard...?â 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 Gßßl 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).Â
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 nightâs events, he was pulled in so many directions it felt as if his Soul was being torn apart. It didnât feel right. He didnât 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 donât like I belong at all. I mean, how do you live in a world where life isn't sacred, everybody lies and you canât trust your own mind? Daniâs dead... and itâs 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. Daniâs death hasnât hit him the way it should. After all, theyâd discovered the Psychosphere together, heâd 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. âWhat is it Oggy? I told you I didnât want to be disturbed,â he said, tersely, without looking round.
âHer Ladyship sent me, Master Jamie, sir. She wants you to come up for breakfast,â Castle murmured in the shadows. âThe policeman, Detective Inspector Harkness will be there ân she wants to âshow a united frontâ, sir, yâknow, like, things are... as she puts it: âproceeding as normalâ ân all that...â
âWell, she can go and take a running jump. I told all of you: I donât want to see or talk to anyone until I figure out how I feel about this.â
After a sizeable pause, he heard Castle take a few steps closer, There was an audible sigh. âYou shouldn't dwell on it sir. Everything has worked out for the best.â
Jamie folded his arms and grumbled, ââThe bestâ? Daniâs dead! You shot her through the head! And now everybodyâs back to work as if nothingâs happened. Again.â
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, âMay I, sir,â he asked. Jamie rolled his eyes, slid up the bench and made room for the butlerâs gargantuan arse. When he eventually managed to squeeze in and make himself comfortable, Castle turned and whispered in Jamieâs ear, âI 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.âÂ
Jamie didnât react.
Seeing that his words were having little effect, Castle took a deep breath and addressed a few home truths, âI know it seems bad. Her death is especially sad cuz sheâd morphed back into a sweet little girl again ân looked for-all-the-world like a normal, human chile - but she was a tickinâ 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 âdemonspawnâ. Thereâs 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.â He was unequivocal in his conclusion, âShe 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.â
âDoesn't make me feel any better, Oggy,â 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, âThen thereâs the bright side. The old witch told ye, didnât she? She said: âshe will be rebornâ. And now that the olâ crystal ballsâre workinâ again, I asked Ná´xau ân Derek down in Namibia to look into the firmament and, sure enough -- Miss Danielle still has a signature, faint though it may be.â
Jamie was suddenly very interested, âOh, and what does that mean?â
âHer Soul must've migrated. The hostage at the scene -- the woman -- she was shot durinâ the fight with McKee, but it was only a flesh wound, she survived. Sheâs in her late-thirties, fit-&-healthy...â
Jamie raised an eyebrow, â...âof child-bearing age?ââ
Castle smiled broadly and nodded, âSo thereâs every chance we will meet little Danielle again one day,â he said, leaning in, âand this time sheâll be free of his badness. Sheâll be perfect.â
Jamie sat back and grumbled, âSheâll still be one of us though: a cold-hearted, cold-blooded, cold-fish who canât even squeeze out a tear for a sweet little kid...â he said, lowering his head.
Castle put a hand on his shoulder, âCome upstairs for breakfast, sir. I mean to say, you havenât eaten anything for almost 2 days...â
Jamie had to admit he was starving and reluctantly gave in, but with reservations, âI still donât know how I feel about this, Oggy. I mean, literally: I donât know how to feel.â
âWe are Vondragßßl, Jamie. Weâre not human. We know the secrets of life and death,â said Castle, gravely. âWe donât share the same fears. You just havenât lived long enough to develop a callous.â
Jamie uncrossed his arms, turned toward him, and intimated in a conflicted half-whisper, âWhen I was locked in Harknessâ subconscious, I experienced a world that made much more sense than this, yâknow? It was a cold and lonely, hopeless place, but it felt so real, so scary, so... so vivid. Youâll say I was channelling Harknessâ 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?â
Castle smiled broadly as he explained, âYour 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?â
Jamie nodded, not entirely convinced.
Castle nudged him again, âAnd you handled it very well. They put you through hell and you still won the day.â
âWhat do you think happened to the Martyrs?â
âGawd knows. They did what they had to do and their plan was reasonably successful. Theyâre still buried beneath this house, but thereâs no sign of life, no residual energy. They could be dead, I dunno...â said Castle, with a shrug of his big shoulders.Â
Jamieâs stomach squeaked.
âIâll tell cook to put on some extra sausages. I know how yâ like yer sausages...â 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 Jamieâs old clothes, closely followed by Xavier, the Lumbâs 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 âgood morningâ 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.
âLissen to me, gobshite! Youâre in enough trouble as it is, so I want no nonsense outta ye this morninâ!â He hissed into Gozâs face. âThereâll be a peeler joininâ yez fer breakfast -- so no snarky comments or loaded remarks -- donât try to take control of the conversation, let Her Ladyship do all the talkinâ! And no sniping at Jamie. Right?!â
Goz reeled, shocked by the butlerâs aggressive attitude, âHuh! He started it!â
âAye, but you took yer revenge to a ridiculous extreme! You've put us in trouble with the Council! Thereâll be repercussions,â Castle prodded Gozâs temple with his index finger, âSo, keep it light ân friendly or Iâll give ye a headache the like of which yeâve never âad!â
Goz was at once shocked, angry and aghast, complaining in a transatlantic falsetto âWhat the f -- ! Youâre freakinâ kidding me! If anyone should be shouting the odds it should be me!â he bitterly complained, doing his best to push Castle away, âThat fucking bitch more-or-less raped me last night!â he cried, pointing in the direction of the morning room.
âKeep yer voice down!â Castle slapped a hand on the upstartâs gob and pushed him further into the corner. While Xavier stood in front and kept watch, the big butler marked Gozâs card once-and-for-all: âThis is the Ivy House, me bucko. Youâre no big noise here,â he snarled, his jowly mug pink close and puce with contained rage, âwe have scullions thatâre more psychically adept than you! So long as youâre under this roof, youâre beholden to me, son. Got it?!â
Gozâs eyes glared, but he eventually acquiesced.
The big butler relented and took his hand away, âGood.â
âFucking liberty,â Goz huffed under his breath, straightening his collar, smoothing his creases,âkidnapped...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...â
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. âHere comes Harkness. Time to get in character,â he growled, waving a finger in Gozâs face, âyouâre an actor, so play the quiet, polite guest.â He patted his arse in the direction of the passageway to their left, âNow, go on ân get yer breakfast.â
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, âYou too, Mr X. Iâll take it from here.â As Xavier walked off to get his own breakfast, Castle regained his composure and resumed his place at the foot of the staircase.Â
âGood morning sir, I hope this day finds you well-rested and refreshed?â 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, âHmmm... who was that?â he asked, with a hint of suspicion.
âMaster Guy Gosling, sir,â Castle replied, âfriend of the family. Heâll be joining you for breakfast. May I take your coat, sir?â 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, âHer Ladyship is already at the table. Master Jamie and Mme InfantĂŠ will be joining you shortly.â
âI... erm... the footman said I was talking to Mme InfantĂŠ when I passed out...?â said Archie, looking in the direction of the drawing room.
âThatâs right sir. Small wonder after the stress of yesterdayâs events. Mme Carla said you looked thoroughly exhausted ân had trouble keepinâ your eyes open. Iâm very glad to see that youâve made a full recovery,â he said, as if it was all in a dayâs work. But Archie didnât trust the big butler any further than he could throw him, and with good reason. It was Castle who guided Donny Ogleâs decisions on the Cochrane case [See Part 17]; it was Castle who attended Danielle Cochraneâs victimâs autopsy and made the pathologist falsify the report. Archie couldn't let the moment go without puttinâ the wind up the olâ bugger, âEh, Iâll want to speak to you later, Mr Castle.â
Castle paused at the door of the Morning Room and cocked an ear, âIâm sorry, sir, what did you say?â
Archie stepped closer and looked him in the eye and delivered what he thought would be the coup de gras, âConcerning the late Danielle Cochrane. The changes made to her victimâs forensics report. I have a few questions.â
Castle smiled, âReally, sir? Well, if I can be of any help...?â
âChief Inspector Ogle seems to think so...â said Archie, archly.
âOh, Her Ladyship has already spoken to Chief Superintendent Ogle. She telephoned him earlier this morning to tell âim you were here,â Castle informed him, unaffected, âIâm sure sheâll explain everything over breakfast.â
That took the wind out of Archieâs sails. By the looks of that smirk on the big butlerâs mug, Ogle is on the warpath. I mean, gawd knows what they think. Heâd fallen off the radar without telling anyone; not only that, but this was after heâd 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, âGood morning, Detective Inspector!â she trilled in a mock-cheerful voice without smiling, âMy, youâre looking a lot better than you did last night.â
âUmm yeah... thanks for puttinâ me up ân washinâ me clothes ân that...â muttered Archie, getting more apathetic by the minute.
âYouâll have to excuse my attire. Iâve been out for a ride and I didnât have time to change,â she explained, whimsically, âI like to ride first thing every morning, it blows away the cobwebs,â she said, stealing a glance at the shaven-headed boy at the other end of the table. He scowled back. She smirked, âMost invigorating!â
âIâm not sure Iâve had the pleasure,â 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 ladâs general direction, âThis is Guy Gosling, heâs a... close friend of the family. Heâs staying with us while he recuperates from a recent... illness,â she grumbled, somewhat dismissively, then added with a contemptuous sniff, âIâm sure youâve heard of him... heâs quite famous, apparently.â
Seemingly oblivious to her little show of disinterest, Gosling stood up and offered his hand. Stretching across the table, Archie scrutinised the young manâs face as if examining an abstract painting, âWaitaminnit,â he suddenly exclaimed, snapping his finger. âI do know you!â
Gosling shook Archieâs hand, sat back in his seat, and awaited the inevitable revelation with a forced smile.
âYouâre a pop-star! My wee Natalie has a picture of you on her bedroom wall!â said Archie, still standing.
Lady Beth tutted and tsked and noisily turned a page.
âWell, I'm more of an actor these days,â said Gosling, politely but impatiently, as Marta, the elderly teasmaid put a dish in front of him, âI was a singer. Jamie and I formed the band when we were at school.â
âOf course!â said Archie, sitting down, picturing Natalieâs face when he tells her about this. âIs that why you came here, Mr Gosling? To see Jamie?â
Goz splashed some milk on his muesli, looked at Her Ladyship and grunted, âSomething like that.â
Archie looked toward the door, âWhere is Jamie by-the-way...?â
Sighing impatiently, Lady Beth replied, âHeâs not been well. Up all night with a dreadful migraine. Heâll be with us presently.â She nodded toward the teasmaid standing by the tea trolley, âTea or coffee, Detective Inspector?â
âCoffee, please. I suppose you want to know why Iâm here...â But before Archie could utter another syllable, Lady Beth chimed in without looking up, âIâve spoken to our old friend Donald Ogle. He is most anxious to see you. I told him Iâd have you ring him as soon as possible. He says he has no idea why you are here and apologised profusely for the intrusion.â
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, âWell, Iâm sorry to have intruded, but I came here because the man who kidnapped me...â
Again, Lady Beth cut him off with another newsflash, âOh. Youâll be pleased to know that they've caught him.... ummm... canât recall his name...?â
"What?! They caught âim?â 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, âSorry, did I hear you right? Did you say they caught Barry McKee?!â
She looked up and snapped her fingers, âMcKee! Thatâs 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...â
âMalky...? Malky Calvert? ...How...â said Archie, gaping with incredulity, a pencil-moustache of brown foam coating his upper-lip.
âUmmm... canât recall the name...â she looked over her shoulder.
Castle waddled forward, stood to attention and supplied the information, âYes, the man in question is Malcolm Calvert, milady.â He looked at Archie and explained, âIt was on the wireless first thing this morning, sir. Caught McKee in the Wicklow hills, he did.â
Archieâs lantern-jaw sagged as he gasped, âMalky...? Malky caught him?â
Lady Beth continued to expound in a carefree manner, âHmmm. They say he was very seriously injured in the affray, â
âHow badly? Is he OK?!â
Castle excused himself and chipped in, âGot shot in the leg, lost a lot of blood, sir. Apparently he died on the operating table but was mercifully revived,â
Her Ladyship, examined her nails and added, âThe McKee fellow suffered a severe blow to the head, isn't that right Castle...â
Again the fat butler took up the narrative in a flat, officious tone, âHeâs in a coma, sir. They say heâs almost brain-dead: in a âvegetative stateâ. Unlikely heâll ever recover.â
âGood thing too,â 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, âEh, yez didnât happen find a tape amongst my belongings, did yez?â
Ever apathetic, Her Ladyship puffed a plume of smoke into the air and blithely answered the question with a question, âTape? You mean a video tape? Sticky tape? Police tape..?â
âNo, I mean an audio tape,â said Archie through gritted teeth, trying to keep his voice down, âa standard-size, TDK C60 cassette.â He eyed their faces for signs of complicity, âIâm pretty-damn-sure it was in my pocket when I got here last night.â
Her Ladyship looked over shoulder at Castle, âWell?â
Castle addressed Archie directly and succinctly, âWe didnât remove anything from your coat, sir, and I supervised the men that stripped you ân got you ready for bed. I set everything we found in your trouser-pockets on top of the dresser in your room. I donât remember seeing any tape, sir. Iâm sorry.â
No -- Iâm 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. âCould it have slipped down the back of the couch in the drawing room?â he asked, getting evermore exasperated.
The butler shrugged, âItâs possible, sir... Iâll have someone check,â 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, âIâm very sorry, sir, the housemaids had a good look, but thereâs no sign of a cassette tape in, around, or under the couch.â
Gosling looked up from his muesli, âWas it a mix-tape, Inspector? Yâknow, a compilation of your favourite tracks?â 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. âLook, milady I... I gotta get goinâ... Theyâll be wondering what happened to me...â he said, getting to his feet and pulling on his coat, âCan somebody give me a lift to my car?â
âAren't you going to finish your breakfast?â she trilled, clearly pleased to see the back of him.
âNo, Iâve lost my appetite,â said Archie, strutting toward the door.
Lady Beth turned to Castle, âHave Xavier take him in the Rolls.â
âYes milady,â said Castle, returning to the interior phone.
Jamie was coming in just as Archie as going out, âOh, hello there, Mr Harkness... going so soon?â
Archie paused, looked back into the room, shook his head and said, sullenly , âIâve been here too long already, son,â and marched out.
Once Harknessâ footsteps had faded into the distance, Jamie turned and looked around the table, âWhat did you do to him?â
Lady Beth shrugged, âNothing, heâs just a little upset because he lost something.â
Jamie walked around her and sat in the chair opposite Harknessâ place, âOh. I donât suppose you had anything to do with it?â
âNot me. Canât speak for the staff, though,â she said, glancing over her shoulder at the butler. Castle coughed and explained, âMcKee has been caught, sir. The case is more-or-less closed. A weird confession from an obvious madman will only confuse matters, sir.â
âWhat makes you think Harkness wonât come back here with a warrant to search this place?â Jamie asked, as he calmly poured himself a large helping of Frosties.
Lady Beth: âHis commanding officer wonât allow it. I warned him. No more investigations. Anyway, Harknessâ recollections of the tapes will be spotty to say the least.â
âCarla wiped him, sir,â said Castle, âselectively, just the contentious stuff. Perfectly safe.â
Jamie shook his head, âAll the same, he seems pretty angry. I was trapped in his subconscious, remember, I know how he thinks ân feels. I know the type of man he is. He wonât let this go, with-or-without his superiorâs blessing.â
Lady Beth remained sanguine, âIt doesnât matter now. Danielleâs dead. McKeeâs virtually dead. Everything has settled rather nicely.â
Goz finished his last mouthful of cereal and let the spoon clatter in the dish, âBusiness as usual then. Deception and subterfuge. Who cares who gets caught in the cogs as long as the coven keeps its secrets,â he scoffed, in a sarcastic, sing-song tone.
His outburst inspired a round of dirty looks.
âYouâre looking quite chipper despite all the aggro you caused,â said Jamie, contemptuously, looking him up and down.
Goz shrugged-off the jibe and went about buttering a slice of toast, âYou 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.â
âYou lied to me all my life!â
âYou mean I looked after you all my life!â
âBy lying to me?!â
âYouâre a pair of cretinous assholes,â said Lady Beth, in a bored voice, âthe only good thing to come out of all this is getting rid of goblin-girl.â
Everyone -- including Marta, the teasmaid -- looked at Her Ladyship and glowered.
âWell! Iâm only stating what youâre all thinking. Sheâs better-off dead!â she protested.
The scowls intensified.
Castle begged her indulgence, âIt is not done to speak ill of the deceased while their remains are still lyinâ in state, milady. âSpecially a bairn.â
She waved away the polite admonition, âDonât lecture me, Ogden -- youâre the one that shot her! Anyway, she was 18 -- she was a young woman!â she turned her attention to Jamie in an effort to shift attention away from herself, âif it wasn't for you weâdâve gotten rid of her years ago!â
âShe died trying to save Jamie, poor thing,â said Goz, loudly crunching the crust.
Jamie turned in his chair and pointed an accusing finger, âShe wouldn't have been in that position in the first place if you hadn't cast that spell, you bastard!â
Lady Beth put up her hand and banged the table with the handle of her butter-knife like a judgeâs gavel, âThereâll be no recriminations or accusations until we've carried out a thorough interrogation,â she said, looking at Gosling.
âOh, wasn't that what you were doing last night? Felt like it...â sneered Goz, chewing with his mouth open.
Lady Beth gave out a loud âHah!â and said, âYou didnât enjoy it? So what? I did.â
Coughing loudly, Castle asked for permission to speak and informed her, âIâve already looked into his head, milady. I know what he was up to.â
âWhat?!â snapped Goz, dropping his toast. âI thought the âSphere was still outta bounds?!â
âI put my hand on yer mouth in the hall, remember? Direct connection. Got everything in a split second,â said Castle, with an evil smile, tapping his nose with his index finger. âI know all yer little secrets.â
Goz was furious! He jumped to his feet, threw down his napkin and gave out, âThis is an utter fucking outrage!â He pushed his chair back and walked toward the door, âIâm going! Get me a car! Better yet -- get me a fucking chopper! I wanna get away from here ASAP!â
âSit down and shut up, Wolf Boy. Nobody is going anywhere for the foreseeable future,â said Lady Beth with authority, folding her hands in her lap, adopting an almost regal pose.
âYou canât keep me here!! What are you gonna do? Throw me in the dungeon like Dani?! Iâm an internationally famous celebrity! The world will come looking for me!âÂ
Silence. Goz looked from her to Castle.Â
Their expressions were solemn and resolute.Â
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, âHeâs got a point, though. If itâs peace ân quiet you want, youâd be better off letting him go...â He was interrupted by the buzz of the internal phone. While Castle answered it, Her Ladyship laid down the law, âUntil we know what Rossington and the Washington coven are up to, nobody goes anywhere...â 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, âHeâs fucking WHAT?!â
Whatever it was, it had rendered Her Ladyship wide-eyed and speechless, so Castle thought it best to address the room, âDr Rossington called a press conference this morninâ and intimated that Mr Gosling was forcibly taken from his care by milady. Thereâs a crowd of reporters gatherinâ at the front gate as we speak. Our friends in the RUC tell us thereâs a lot more on the way.â
âSee!â said Goz, smugly, adopting a triumphant posture.
âRossington is fucking accusing me of kidnapping him?!â yelled Lady Beth, holding her butter knife like a chiv and pointing it at Goz.
âNo, milady. The Press Office wuz very clear about that,â vouchsafed Castle, âthey said he spoke in general terms and avoided using the actual word. But the gist of it was there, milady.â
âFucking liberty...â she grumbled. âYou see! Heâs done this deliberately! He wants us under siege! Heâs playing us!â
Jamie shook his head, âYouâre overreacting, surely. So -- he has a few men inoculated against telepathic incursion -- theyâre no match for us.â
She banged the table with her fist, âHavenât you been listening, fuckwad?! The Washington mob is in on it! They have unlimited resources! Fuck knows what they've got up their sleeves...â Then, looking toward the door, her voice dipped and softened to a sarcastic purr, âOooh. Look what the cat dragged in. Madame InfantĂŠ. So honoured that youâve deigned to grace us with your presence.â
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 Ladyshipâs entendre and took the seat at the bottom of the table opposite Gosling. âI met Inspector Harkness on his way out. He seemed most troubled,â she told them in a bored voice, as Marta poured her a tall glass of grapefruit juice, âWhen I asked him how he was, he mumbled something about a âtapeâ and stormed off without saying goodbye.â
Lady Beth rolled her eyes and looked away, âNever mind that idiot, we've dealt with him -- we've moved on to Rossington now!â
Carla took a sip and nodded, âOh yes, I saw him on the television in the gymnasium. He was standing at the gates of SCICI reading a statement.â She glanced in Her Ladyshipâs direction and added, âHe insinuated that youâd virtually kidnapped him.â She nodded toward the man in question, who slipped into lothario-mode as he reached across the table to take her hand, âGuy Gosling, at your service, Madame...â 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. âIâve been in Rossingtonâs mind [See Part 9],â she said, âhe 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.â
Castle leaned forward, âIf I may, milady, Carrieâs right. Itâs unlikely the Washington coven would've had anything to do with this. Itâs not their style: too high-profile. They wouldn't have anythinâ to do with an eejit like Rossington. We can cross him off the list.â
âThat maybe, Ogden, but the barbarians are at the gate demanding a response and we have to oblige or thereâll be telephoto lens and helicopter cameras trained on this place 24 hours a day until we do,â she said, taking a long drag on her cigarette.
âYou canât engage, milady, youâll be giving him exactly what he wants!â countered Castle, somewhat perplexed.
âIâm not going to talk to them, Ogden,â she said, pointing at Gosling: âHe is.â
Goz jumped to his feet, âI fucking am not! If anyoneâs got any explaining to do -- itâs YOU!â
âSiddown ân shut-up, ye skitterish weasel, ye...â growled Castle, infuriated, âyou got us into this...â
Her Ladyship slapped his arm, âQuiet! Iâll deal with this.â She put her elbows on the table, leaned forward and turned her attention back to Goz. âYou are gonna go out there and tell them you called me from SCICI and begged me to come and get you. Youâll tell them that being cooped-up in a nut house full of serial killers and perverts was freaking you out and youâd made a terrible mistake by going there in the first place......â
Jamie had a flashback.
At the mention of âa nut house full of serial killers and pervertsâ, 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 nurseâs throat, squeezing and squeezing, a feeling a blissful of exhilaration surging through his being as he gazed into his victimâs bulging eyes and listened to the last gasp of air rattle in his throat...
âWhat the hell...!â 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. âWhatâs goinâ on?â he asked, flashing his ID.
The lad leaned on the door, tipped his cap and pointed at the house, âThey've got wind that yer man Goz Gosling is up at the house, sir! They took âim from a mental hospital down south ân brought him here last night -- once his fans found out they've inundated the place -- been arriving all mornin, so-they-have!â
Archie looked back at the house, âJeezus! Nut house? He seemed OK to me!â
âYou've met âim?!â cried the lad, gripping the edge of the glass, wide-eyed, his face as avid as the school girls gathered around the gate, âwhatâs he like?!â then he caught-himself-on and lowered his voice, âI mean... did you talk to âim, sir? Do ye know whatâs goinâ on, like?â
A little vexed by the ladâs momentary lack of composure, Harkness replied with jag of reproach in his tone, âHe wasn't sayinâ much, thatâs for sure,â He looked around the inside of the cabin, wondering if he was currently sitting in the car in question. Then something suddenly occurred, âThe mental hospital he was taken from... it wasn't SCICI, was it?â
âThatâs right, sir! He checked-in the other day,âłÂ he lad exclaimed, pleased to be of help, âbig news, so-it-was. He peed his pants on live TV, see. Said he was goinâ there to sort himself out -- everybodyâs been talkinâ about it!â
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 girlsâ faces pressed against the glass; whoâd 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. âAhem, did you hear that?â said Archie, a spike of irony in his tone, âSaid âe 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?â
Again, the big chauffeur nodded politely and kept his eyes on the road.
âItâs a good job you canât talk or Iâd be askinâ you a lotta questions right now...â
When they reached the copse from where Archie had spied on the grounds the night before, he told the driver to pull over. âIâll walk the rest of the way, big lad, if yâ donât mind. Need time to think.â 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. âUm, if the tape I âlostâ should turn up in the Ivy House, get 'em to ring me straightaway,â he said, with a strong hint of innuendo in his tone tantamount to an accusation, âIt contains vital information pertinent to a murder case. Itâs imperative that I get it back.â He took out his wallet and gave the driver a card, âYou got that?â
Xavier gave him a look that said: Iâm 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 limoâs 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, âFucking Finch 'n OâHara. oh gawd, wait-til-ye-hear this load oâ bollocks...â
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, âWell now, well now, well now, if it isn't DI Archie Harkness, the Incredible Vanishing Dick!â sang Finch, tittering like a chile. His corpulent companion, DS Winston - âWinnie the Pigâ - OâHara, 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, âWe've had men looking fer you all night, Archie,â he said, âthey checked all the hospitals, the after-hours bars, the morgue, everywhere... And there you were up in the Ivy House, livinâ the high-life with Lady Beth,â he nudged his partner, âDid she show you a good time...?â He snickered, âdid you tickle her fancy?â
OâHara put his hand over his mouth and stifled another giggle.
Archie ignored the facile banter and walked into the copse to find the tree heâd climbed the night before. Once heâd 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: âWHAT?! How the fuck did you lose it!!â he yelled, rushing forward.
âI had it in my pocket. It mighta fell out when I climbed down one of those branches up there,â said Archie, pointing without looking.
âIs this the tape Malky got?!â
âyeah.â
âWhat was on it?!â
âA sorta confession,â replied Archie, distractedly.
âA sorta confession?!â
â... more like the ravinâs of a demented lunatic...â
âWhat the f... Wait! You had it in the car -- maybe itâs still in the player?!â reasoned Finch, so wracked with frustration and contained rage at Archieâs laissez-faire attitude he began pacing on the spot, fists clenched at his sides.
But Archie remained infuriatingly cool, âNah, I definitely put it in my pocket,â he muttered, pawing aside another swathe of leaves and plunging his hands into the dew-sodden long grass underneath.
âArchie -- we need that effinâ tape! It was found on our patch! We can use it to take the McKee case off the Gardai!!â
Archie stopped searching, rested his elbows on his knee, looked up at Finch and shook his head in disbelief, âThose 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.â
After a momentâs thought, Finch spat, backed-off a little and sullenly relented, âAye, well, I was talkinâ to yer old mate, DS Phil Somerville, early-on this morninâ. Needless to say, heâs of the same opinion. But Iâm not lettinâ this go. We still want McKee for a string of offences, too -- i.e. Dessie Calvertâs 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!���
âWhaddya gonna do, Ian? The manâs in a coma heâll never wake-up-from. He canât answer questions or go on trial.â
Finch looked away and snarled, âLucky bastard, he is... I wanted him to rot in the Maze. Our ladsâd make his life a quare misery...â
Archie stood up, dusted down his trousers and commiserated, âI understand how ye feel, we all wanted to get him for Dessie. But fate is a fickle mistress... as Iâve just come to realise. I just hope it doesnât get out that we lost a vital piece of evidence, that all.â
Finch called OâHara and the three immediately started searching the scrub, âCurse you, Archie Harkness! How could you lose it! I mean -- what the fuck were ye doinâ up there in the first place?!â snarled Finch.
âSpyinâ on the Lumbs before I made my grand entrance,â said Archie, scratching his head, looking up at his perch.
âYou and the fucking Lumbs! -- I thought youâd gave-up on all that shite! Theyâll have you thrown outta the force at this rate! Whatâs the tape got to with them, anyway?!â
âHe mentioned... well, he didnât so much mention âem by name, but he gave the impression that he ...â 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. âI know he admitted to Dessieâs murder.. ân he confessed to murdering the children ân burying them in the forest...â Archie reached another mental block, â... he believed he was possessed by a demon...â For a man who prided himself on his powers of recall, Archie was at a loss, âThatâs why I need it... cuz itâs gettinâ harder ân harder to remember...â
âWell then, yeâd better get back to the station and write-it-up before ye ferget the whole thing altogether!â shouted Finch, pointing toward the road.
Finch called a maintenance crew and they eventually got Malkyâs Viva started. By the time theyâd 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 Ogleâs 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.Â
âCome in, Archie.â
Archie rolled his eyes, here we go, and entered to find his superior unusually calm and collected, studiously writing at his desk. âI told you to be discreet. I warned you not to get too close,â he said, plainly and quietly, without looking up from his work.Â
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, âI went there because I had what I thought was solid evidence...âÂ
Ogle cut him off, âYou 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 thatâs what Iâm doing now,â he held his hands over the page on the blotter as if warming them over a fire, âIâm drafting the letter. Iâve had enough. Iâm out.â
Shocked, Archie began to say, âDonny, I donât know...âÂ
Ogle interrupted him again, âShe knew all about our âlittle arrangementâ. She said you spilled the beans before you passed out,â he announced, finally putting down his pen, looking up, leaning forward, keen to see Archieâs response.Â
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. Â âI... I canât remember, Donny... I can honestly say, I canât remember anything. Like a memory gap. Missing time. They musta put somethinâ in in my drink...â
âAch! It isn't a drug, Archie,â Ogle scoffed, as if explaining an evident truth to a backward child, âitâs 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 donât remember anythinâ, thatâs how they operate. But weâd never prove it. Accusinâ Lady Elizabeth Lumb of beinâ part of a coven? Weâd sound like a pair of lunatics. Theyâd lock us up.â
But Archie didnât want to be convinced, âItâs sophisticated drug... a hallucinogen... makes you suggestible... makes you forget things...â
âStop it Archie,â Ogle shook his head, âForget them. Take my advice ân see this experience as a sign to move on before they lose patience ân get you sacked... Or worse,â he added, ominously, frowning, making sure Archie knew he was wholly serious. âIâm tellinâ ye for yer own good, son. Look at what theyâre capable of. Stay away before you literally lose your mind.â
Archie sullenly kept his counsel.
âThe thing about you is, Archie, youâre married to yer job,â said Ogle, with a disapproving shake of the head. âYeâve been through three wives, drivinâ âem crazy with these wee crusades of yours that take up most of your spare time. Well, this is one wee crusade thatâs gonna end in tears or a funeral. Theyâre untouchable, Archie, let it go.â
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, âAs for me, Iâm 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 spoutinâ conspiracy theories.
âMost of all, I want some peace of mind in my old age...âÂ
Dr James Rossingtonâs office, SCICI:
RTE Lunchtime News: â... 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...â
Reporter: Dr Rossington -- Lady Elizabeth Lumb called here late last night -- are you saying she abducted him?!â
Rossington (turning away): Â âThat is all I have to say...â
Anchor: âThat was head of SCICI, Dr James Rossington earlier this morning...â
Gorringe, the bossâ 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 didnât have to raise his voice to let Rossington know it. He reached across the desk and hit the mute on the remote control, âHow does this 'elp matters, Jimmy?â he asked, âyouâre drawinâ attention to something we need to keep quiet. What good does it do to 'ave a mob of journos all over it?â Â
The good doctor shifted uncomfortably in his luxuriant swivel chair, âThey were bound to find out -- they've been out there for the last few days,â he said, pointing at the silent screen. âThey saw Lady Beth enter and leave. It doesnât take a brain surgeon to work out that her visit had something to do with his sudden departure.... I just thought Iâd be open and honest from the outset and give them our side of the story...â 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, âAnyway -- what has it got to do with you, Gorringe?! Youâre a chauffeur, a minder, just like my man, Magowan. Youâre an employee. I donât answer to you.â
The big man replied in his customary low, growly, cockney brogue, âAs you well know, Jimmy, Iâve been the old manâs right-âand-man for the past 30-odd years. I was lookinâ after âim when you was still modellinâ gents briefs fer mail-order catalogues, so donât try pullinâ rank on me, son. I know âow âeâll feel abaht this. âE wonât be âappy.â
Rossington lifted the blue trim-phone on his desk, âIâll call him. Heâll take my side. Youâll see. He hates them as much as I do...â
But Gorringe reached out and pressed his finger on the hookswitch, âThat wonât be necessary, Jimmy. Iâve already spoken to âim ân âe told me to tell you to forget it. And by âitâ âe means the entire operation.â
Rossingtonâs tan faded to pale beige, his mouth dropped open, âHeâs... closing SCICI...?â he muttered, putting a hand on his chest..
âNo, not the institute, you berk, just operation Mind Child,â Gorringe made to turn, "aaah,â he groaned, rubbing his aching thigh [See Part 16], âso no more pokinâ-arahnd in the Lumbsâ backyard, and no more aggravation. 'E wants you to concentrate on the original project.â
Rossington was aghast, he rocked in his chair and vigorously shook his head, âOh, no, no -- itâs too fucking dangerous! Remember what happened last time?!â 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: sheâs too unpredictable...â
Still moaning with pain, Gorringe slowly got to his feet and put his weight on his sturdy rosewood cane, âItâs up to you, Jimmy. If we wanna keep our customers âappy, youâve got to plough-on, my son. Anyâow, from what Iâve âeard sheâs gettinâ stronger every day.â
âItâs no good having the ability if you donât have the personality to handle it,â 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, âItâs no good. I canât do anything with her. Iâve tried to teach her right from wrong, but she doesnât listen. I tried prescribing sedatives, but she wonât take them. She canât control herself. She displays sociopathic tendencies. The old man spoiled her -- he literally let her get away with murder.â
âSheâs young, Jimmy, sheâll grow aht of it, youâll see,â said Gorringe, putting his cap under his arm and limping toward the door, âcuz we've been keepinâ a close on eye on âer. I saw âer the other day, sâ-a-matter-of-fact. Beautiful gal.â
Rossington shook his head and responded in his âprofessionalâ voice, âWell, between the two of us, Iâm the qualified psychiatrist and I say sheâs a total nut job.â
âShe needs a man in her life, thatâs all. Somebody ooâll keep âer in line.â Gorringe grinned and opened the door, âIâll see myself out.â
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, âFucking Lumbs... That Gosling bastard... Damn them all to h --â 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 whoâd 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:
â... had links to various bikersâ 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 âone of the ladsâ...â
Itâs him! The biker who left the scrapbook at the front gate! Heâd 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, â... 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, itâs possible that he was practising witchcraft and that maybe the children were killed as part of some sort of Sacrificial Rite...â
Rossington thought for a moment, then went back to the bust on the rear wall, stroked its cold, iron beard and said, âThereâs something bigger at work here, Cedric, old man, and I mean to get to the bottom of it.â
After meditating for a minute or two, he went back to his desk, sat down, picked up the phone and pressed the intercom button: âSiobhan? Get me the minister for the Department of Justice, please...â
blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip..
âMalky? Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Malky? Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Malky... are you there...?â
âZindy...?â 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, âYouâre... OK...?â
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, âStraight through the soft part, nicked the bone on the way through. Bit painful, but no major damage. They sent me âome yesterday.â She looked up at the clock, âThey called me a couple of hours ago when you woke up, but you were too out-of-it to know what was goinâ on, so I stuck around.â
Malky frowned, âWhy? How long have I been out?â
Zindy looked at her watch, ââBout 36 hours, give or take.â
â36 hours?!â The cardiograph blipped a little faster and a little louder.
âEasy chook!â 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 Malkyâs forehead then took his pulse. When Zindy came back, she told her in a cold voice, âTry ânâ keep the conversation light, miss, or weâll have to ask you to leave,â she put the thermometer back into her breast pocket and marched out the door.
Zindy handed him the little polystyrene cup and whispered, âYou gotta cool it, chook, keep it down. They only lettuz stay on the condition that I donât get you all excited.â
âYouâre OK though...?â he asked again, relaxing a little.
âYou know me. âArd as nails, I am. I just wish Iâd had the jump on âim before he killed Sammy,â she replied with a sigh.
âSammy...?â he asked, âthe barman?â
âAye. Barry shot âim before âe whisked me off to the mountains. Poor olâ Soul.â She looked up as if she could see the sky, âDied in me arms, âe did.â
Malky frowned, âIâm very sorry to hear that... I didnât know him that well, but he seemed a nice old bloke...â After a respectful pause, he asked, âTell me... is McKee still alive?â
She half-heartedly brought him up-to-date, âOh aye, wouldn't you know it - the bastard had the temerity to survive. Sammy gave him a whack on the back of âead with the olâ cricket bat, he has a fractured skull and brain damage, he broke his leg fallinâ into the grave -â but miraculously heâs still alive. In a coma. They donât reckon much to âim cominâ out of it.â She looked into space and dwelt upon the more bizarre aspect of the ordeal, âIt was the weirdest experience Iâve ever âad in me life. And them cats, the ones that drove Barry mad... Where the heck did they come from...? Thank God Broo was there...â
âAnd what about Broo? Is he alright?â asked Malky, steering her away from the subject.
âSomerville took âim to the police station til I got out. I fetched him this morninâ ân took âim back to the inn... âE saved my life âe did. Heâs one in a million dog...â She lowered her head, âI thought Iâd lost you, yâknow. I passed out after I was shot, but when I came to, I saw Broo standinâ by the open grave, howlinâ... I guessed whatâd happened, so I crawled to the edge, looked down and saw both of you wrapped round each other -- both unconscious â- the way Broo was goinâ on, I was sure heâd killed you! Thank God Somerville arrived a coupla minutes later, or you woulda been a goner...â She paused again. âOh yeah,â she said, suddenly remembering, âI found this in the yard.â It was the little locket. âBarry tore it off me neck and threw it away when he jumped me.â
âDidn't bring you much luck, did it?â
âWell, it got very hot before'and. Like it was warning me of the danger,â she said, tentatively, as if she thought Malky might shed some light.
"Iâm just glad youâre alive,â Malky replied, squeezing her hand, effectively closing the conversation.Â
In the silence that followed, she nervously fingered the little silver bud and regarded him with a strange look heâd never seen before. For the first time since heâd 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, sheâd rehearsed it and it came straight from the heart:
âI want you to move into the inn when you get out. I think the sea air will do you good and itâll be secluded... I donât think that pokey little flat of yours is a suitable place for poor old Broo, nevermind a man recoverinâ from your injuries -- but donât go thinkinâ itâs cuz Sammyâs gone and I donât wanna be on my own, or feel that Iâm pressurising you into it or anythinâ like that -- I just think weâre well-suited, and whatâs the point of both of us sittinâ frettinâ on our own after all we've been through together...?â
Malky, heartened, flattered and quietly relieved, put a hand on her shoulder and spared her any further embarrassment, âAye. âCourse I will. Iâd love to - but are ye sure yer thinkinâ straight?â
âNo, I mean it. I think itâd be the best for both of us.â
He smiled, âThen yes. I am honoured to accept.â
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, âHi there, I know youâre not to get excited Mr Malcolm, but I was wonderinâ... me wee niece gave me this-here-paper and asked me if youâd sign it for her...?â 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, âAch, fer gawds-sake - theyâre not still usinâ that stupid olâ picture of us, are they!â The headline read:
âONE MAN AND HIS DOG FACE MADMAN IN THE MEADOW:
How Malcolm Calvert And His Three-Legged German-Shepherd Brought A Multiple Murderer To Justice!â
Zindy chuckled, âWell, thereâll be plenty of photographers lookinâ to take some new snaps â thereâs been a constant stream of reporters callinâ at the inn â thereâs a few âem outside the hospital now! Youâre big news â Mr âPsychic Detectiveâ!â
blip-blip-blip-blip-blip-blip-blip-blip-blip-blip-blip-blip-blip
ââPsychic Detectiveâ! Theyâre not callinâ me that, are they?â
blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip..
Zindy fired back, âWell, donât look at me â- I send the hacks a-packing, I do!â
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, âCalm down, calm down Mr Calvert, Iâm very sorry â I didnât think this would upset you so!â
Malky took a deep breath, composed himself, signed the paper and handed it back, âItâs not your fault nurse, you werenât 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 Iâll be a bloody laughing-stock... From now on, itâll be âMalky Calvert: Ghostbusterâ or some stupid auld shite like that!â
Zindy continued to giggle and told him to give-over, âOch, stop beinâ a big Moaninâ-Minnie! Youâre alive, arentcha? And youâre an âero! Enjoy the moment!â
The young nurse frowned and asked, âWhy, 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 âhave visionsâ?!â
Malky harrumphed, âOh, I can guess which RUC man told them that!â
The nurse was very disappointed, âSo... there was no divine intervention? Youse werenât guided by voices?â
Malky was too grumpy to worry about crushing the nurseâs expectations, âLook, sister, the only miracle here is coincidence, luv. The only voices were in McKeeâs âead.â
The nurse walked away, somewhat deflated and chastened.
Zindy put her fists on her hips and shook her head, âThat was a bit harsh, weren't it? And we both know thereâs more to it than that. Thereâs Broo for one thing. You said yerself that âhe sees thingsâ. Thereâs definitely somethinâ spooky about âim...â
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, âBloody hell. The wounded soldier, eh?â he said, depositing the flowers in a bedpan on a trolley behind him.
âAye. And Iâm not outta danger yet, so no wind ups Archie...â said Malky, weakly.
Archie was effusive in his praise, âIâm not winding ye up, son. Yer a hero! Iâm proud of ye. You showed âem all. Oh yeah! Has Phil Somerville been to see you yet?â
âNo. I wish he would, though. I wanna thank âim for savinâ me life.â
âPhilâs a very busy man. But Iâm sure heâll get around to it eventually. In fact, Iâm meeting up with him in Dublin later-on to discuss the McKee case. Iâll tell âim yer eternally grateful.â Archie pulled a folder from the carrier bag, âIâm here to deliver this in person. Itâs 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. Itâs probably inadmissible, but I wanted to visit you anyway, so...â
Malky cocked an eye, âWhy not just give âim a copy of the tape?â
Harkness looked at the floor and braced himself for a mouthful, âI... I lost it. I went to the Ivy House to question the Lumbs... I lost it somewhere along the way.â
âYou lost the frigginâ tape?!â Malky almost shouted.
blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip..
Archie rubbed his temples with his fingertips, âDonât start, Malky, Iâve already had it in the neck from everybody else. I wrote down what I can remember. Theyâll probably interview you about it, too.â
âWhat...? Whaddya mean... I canât remember half of what he said either, just the overall picture that it sounded like the gibberish of ravinâ lunatic.â He relaxed and took solace in the positive aspects, âIt doesnât matter anyway. The bottom line âere is we caught Dessieâs killer. We got justice for them poor kids.â
Archie couldn't let it go, âAye, but Malky, it was a key piece of evidence tyinâ 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 stakinâ the place out...â
âOh fer gawdâs sake Archie, you and the bloody Lumbs, give it a rest, willya,â Malky croaked. Then he thought for moment and said, âItâs funny you should mention them, though. When I was out of it I had this stupid dream that Iâd died and I was standinâ looking down at my body, in the operatinâ theatre, just like you see in them auld movies on TV, and youâll never guess who met me on the other side: their head of security, your olâ nemesis: Bernie Pritchard. Whaddya think of that?â
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 Ogleâs takinâ early retirement.â
Malky was very surprised, âReally? I thought Donny was a career copper, in it for the promotions, big dinners, yâknow, rubbinâ shoulders with the powers that be, anâ all that. What happened?â
âHe... I dunno. I think heâs a wee bit disillusioned. Change of priorities. Thereâs a lot of things weighinâ on his mind.â
âIâm not surprised havinâ to look after you. Iâm sure you drive âim round the twist with all this Ivy House business.â
âAch, you know what Iâm like, Malky, a dog with a bone...â After a pause to scratch his head, Archie asked in a teasing tone, âSpeakinâ of dogs, itâs funny how your adventure began when you adopted Dessieâs dog....â
Malky turned back and sighed, âEnough, Archie. Itâs over. I donât wanna talk about it.â
âHeâs just a dog.â
âAye, Heâs just a dog.â
âSo yer not a âpsychicâ?â Archie bantered, in reference to the previous morningâs headlines.
âDonât you start. Iâve been gettinâ that sorta shite all day ân it annoys the hell outta me. I just got lucky,â Malky grumbled. âNo, Iâm gonna get away from all that shite after this. Zindyâs asked me to move into the inn with her and I accepted her offer.â
Archie sat back, gaped in wonder, slapped his knees and crowed, âWell, well, well. Malky Calvert! You jammy bastard! You get sober -- catch a serial killer -- survive a massive heart attack -- and you get the girl!â
âThatâs what bothers me. Itâs just too perfect an ending.... Things never go right for me,â said Malky, mournfully.
âGawd, youâre a miserable sod.â
âLook whoâs talkinâ!â
âWell, however it is, it sure beats beinâ alone, rottinâ away in that wee flat in Forestpine, drinkinâ yerself to death, doesnât it? I mean, weâd all like to live beside the seaside...â
Odinâs Inn, Brodir:Â Brooster was quite enjoying his stay, so far. Heâd 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 didnât 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 â she couldn't sit still for 5 minutes without polishing something. Then there was the constant vacuuming â the hoover was old and emitted a terrible whining noise that made Brooâs 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.Â
Zindy still had that weird halo about her, as if lit by an inner glow. Broo didnât 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 heâd open his mind to let them explore his memories.
Sometimes, Zindy let him out on his own at night and heâd 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. McKeeâs 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 sheâd 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.Â
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 werenât 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.
â<Are ye there, boy?>â 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 heâd been waiting for! He barked in response.Â
â<Thatâs good. Iâm going to let myself in, OK? There is no need for alarm. Iâm a friend.>â
Broo wasn't perturbed at all, quite the contrary, he knew who it was. Itâs one of the Vondragßßl. 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 butlerâs uniform. He must be here to âtake overâ 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 butlerâs 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.
âI waited until the wee woman went out. I need to talk to you,â he said, pulling off the gloves and putting them in the bowler hat..
Sammy put his head around the sitting-room door, âWho is it?â he asked, still under the impression that whoever it was wouldn't see or hear him.
âHello, Mr O'Donnell, how are you, sir? Terribly sorry to hear of your untimely death,â the stranger offered, apologetically, âI only hope you get to step into The Light before long.â
âErm... thank you... eh, how is it that you know my name and you can see me ân nobody else can...?â asked Sammy, timidly edging round the doorframe.
The big butler smiled, tugged his earlobe and explained, âI âave 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 âBrodirâ, as they called it, and he used âem 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 oâ his badness ân we can come back. All thanks to this old boy.â
He turned to the old dog, bent down, patted his head, looked him in the eye and spoke in an earnest tone, âWe want to thank you for all youâve done. Iâm 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 sâpose youâve been advised of our part in all this?â
Broo ruffed an affirmative.
âMy name is Ogden Castle, Iâm 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, âhiccupsâ along the way. But it doesnât really matter. You got him in the end. And alive, at that. Well done, old son.â
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 Demonâs machinations to Sammyâs current predicament, â... and thatâs why Jamie pulled you into the Mirror World. The demonâs dark energy would've devoured you before you got the chance to walk into The Light. Thatâs why youâre stuck here until somebody else dies on the premises, Iâm sorry to say.â
Sammy was sorely disappointed and a little scared, âSo itâs here or Limbo until somebody else croaks -- is that what yer tellinâ me?!â
âUnfortunately, yes.â
âWhat if Zindy decides to move -- what if this place is abandoned like everythinâ else is this town?! I could be stuck here forever!â he cried, panicking.
âThereâs nothinâ we can do about that Iâ afraid... Iâm so sorry.â Then Castleâs posture changed. He lowered his voice, sat forward, beckoned Broo and intimated in a low. serious voice, âLook, I canât stay here too long, thereâs still a lot of negative energy in the air, so listen closely. This is very important. OK?â
Broo woofed.
âThe wee woman who was taken by the demon -- the one who owns this place -- is gonna get pregnant. We donât know when, but we know it will happen at some stage in the next few years. Itâll be a wee girl. And sheâll be a very special baby.â
Well that explains the weird halo, thought Broo.
Castle answered if heâd spoken aloud, âExactly, sheâll be one of us. Sheâs the key to what will happen next for our race now that the demon has all-but kicked-it.
âSo look after her. If anyone comes a-callinâ askinâ about her -- from this world or the next -- let me know.â Castle touched his temple, â<Reach out to me. Just think of my name and Iâll hear you. But itâs important that no one knows. She has to grow up and find her own path, OK.>â
Broo ruffed an affirmative.
âZindyâs gonna have a baby..?â asked Sammy, mistily.
âAye. So keep yer wits about ye. â
Having said his piece, the big butler made to leave, âI know I can trust you,â he said, pausing in the doorway to take one last look at the old dog, âcuz youâre one of us, too, auld chap. Youâre part of our world now...â
Ogden Castle left the Inn and crossed the concourse, down to the cobbled litter-strewn seafront where the Lumbsâ 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 fishermenâs 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, âWell, thatâs that, Mr X. Our futureâs in the hands, or should I say paws, of a three legged dog,â he muttered, strapping himself into the passenger seat with some difficulty.
Hearing the doubt in Castleâs voice, Xavier drove off and silently asked, <He caught the demon. Surely he is trustworthy?>
âI know the old dog is dependable. He has minor psychic powers. He can converse with the ghosts and the Infant Host, and heâs canny, sure enough... But he has a companion, and thatâs what bothers me.â
<A ghost?>
âThe barman McKee killed.âÂ
<You think this ghost might be susceptible to the influence of mischievous spirits?> thought Xavier.
âAye, I do: Master Bernard; our Mr Pritchard, for one. Heâs been released from his death haunt and heâs free to wander again. I feel his presence in the Ivy House. I dunno what heâs up to, but you can bet itâll be no good...â
<And the demon?>
âThatâs the next order of business, Mr X,â said Castle, eyeing the line of cats watching from the parapet of the derelict cinema as they passed, âhow do we get to 'im before they pull the plug and he migrates to his next host...?â
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 sheâd 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 didnât need to pack. She left what clothes she had in Jamieâs 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 sheâd finished, she cocked a hip and stood cross armed in the doorway to bid him farewell.
They didnât need to speak. The Psychosphere might be infected, telepathy was off-limits, but they could read each otherâs 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.
âSleep well,â he said agreeably, propping his head on his right hand, âIâm sure Iâll see you again someday. Theyâre bound to need you when all this American shit kicks off.â
She smiled. âThere is no âtheyâ. There is only âweâ.â
Jamie shrugged, âIâm one of you, true. I canât deny it. Doesn't mean I have to join in.â
She looked at him for quite a while, then said, âYou are the new Master. You've proven you have the mettle to assume the mantle. You will settle into the role. Eventually.â
âI donât want it. Iâm not a general. If it wasn't for the lockdown, you wouldn't see me for dust.â
âIt 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.â
Jamie sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and said, âWhat if I was to say I need you here as my advisor? You could sleep down in the catacombs...?â
Carla shook her head, âMy 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.â
He looked at the floor and sighed heavily, âHow come if weâre such cold-hearted bastards we can still have feelings for each other?â
âCopulation was once necessary for procreation,â she explained in a matter-of-fact voice. âUntil 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.â
Jamie shook his head and grumbled, âSpoken like a true Ice Queen.â
âWe prefer Silver Siren.â
âWhatever.â
âWould a goodbye kiss make any difference?â she joked.
Jamie scowled, âDonât patronise me, Carla.â
âIndulge me.â 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 sheâd slain in her long life as a Gßßl 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.
 âNone of these people are human,â she said, almost regretfully, âthey are Vondragßßl. 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 âgoing rogueâ, 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.â She stooped again and looked him in the eye, âSo, yes, you are right. I am the most ruthless of assassins. The best. I have been trained to be detached. Cold. Hollow... Heartless.
âTherefore Iâm incapable of ever loving you the way you want to be loved.â
Despite the flatness of her tone, Jamie was certain he sensed a little spark of doubt in her Aspect, if only the faintest glimmer. âIâm a great believer in redemption, and I donât give up easy,â he replied, staring up into her sparkling, multicoloured eyes.
She shook her head, âSomeday I shall return, of that you can be sure. And when I do, weâll see if you feel the same way,â she said, turning, walking toward the door.
âOh, I will. Iâve never been so sure of anything before in my life.â
âThen you wonât mind waiting a few more years,â she said, without looking back, âremember, we live forever...â
Odinâs Inn, 17th December 1988:Â Three weeks later, on a drizzly, cold winterâs evening, Malky came home. It was almost Christmas. Somerville, whoâd 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 Brooâs 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 â 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. Sheâd done her best to put a ring of tinsel around his collar, but he didnât like it one bit and made it plain by not keeping still while she worked on it. âOh, youâre an old killjoy, you are!â she scolded, waving a finger, âGrin ânâ wear it, grumpy! Itâs only a wee festive touch to make him smile!â He quit his restlessness and reluctantly complied.
Malky instinctively knew that Broo didnât like it, but it was funny. He looked the old dog in the eye, patted his head, winked and croaked, âNice to see youâve entered into the spirit of the season.â
Somerville walked into the centre of the floor, looked around and complimented his hostess on her hard work, âThe place is lookinâ lovely, Zindy. If you donât mind me sayinâ, itâs a quare sight better than it was a couple of months ago...â
Zindy did indeed mind him saying and reminded him that she didnât want to be reminded.
Malky was about to say, âItâs good to be home,â 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 âhappy ever afterâ.
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 â fallinâ in with a woman who owns a bar! Three days before, heâd had a visit from a very discomfited Mrs Mercer (âThis is me first time in the Free State an��� Iâm shakinâ like a leaf! The ticket inspector on the train was the first Fenian Iâve spoke to since 1973!â), 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 heâd been spending so much time in the south and working so closely with the garda, âBut ye donât have to worry, My Royâs mates will make sure that nobody gives ye any trouble.â Great, thought Malky, more saddened than annoyed. He told her it didnât matter and informed her of his plans to move Wicklow. Mrs Mercer was slightly shocked, but took comfort in the fact that his âlive-in-loverâ was a ânice English girlâ not a âpapish spud-muncherâ. She then asked if he wanted her to pack-up his things and have them delivered to his new address, and thatâs 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 heâd 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 heâd âsee how it wentâ.Â
He looked down at the old dog and inwardly cowered.
Broo returned his stare with worried eyes. He was well-aware of his partnerâs misgivings, but there was no way to reassure him of Zindyâs feelings. That was up to her. And, after sitting through her numerous soap-operas and romantic movies, heâd learned that inference in affairs of the heart invariably resulted in trouble for all parties concerned:Â Theyâll have to work it out for themselves.
Sammyâs ghost, standing cross-armed behind the bar, watching proceedings with a sceptical expression, remarked, âYer mate doesnât look too happy, does he? He looks as if heâd rather be anywhere else than here!â
Broo growled to shut him up. The ghost shrugged, âIâm just sayinâ â it could be worse - he could be a walkinâ colander like me!â 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, âLook, Zindy, Iâm gonna recommend that you get yer licence back, Iâm gonna have a word with...â
Zindy shook her head and interjected before he could go any further, âDonât bother Mr Superintendent, Iâve decided that Iâm 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.â
âHooray!â 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...
 Brooâs heart almost burst out of his chest.
A week before, heâd been saddened to hear reports of the Big Oâs 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 manâs 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, âWowee, that auld dog sure loves Orbison!â
Zindy crossed her arms and joined the men to watch the performance, âI found in the record section of a charity shop in Wicklow Town â I couldn't resist it! Heâs so stern and pompous most of the time, I thought itâd be nice for him to let his hair down.â
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.
Sammyâs ghost was holding his sides, laughing like a drain.
They sat in a corner booth, drank the tea and discussed the ubiquitous Barry McKee, âOh, thereâs some brain activity, according to the auld EEG, but thatâs all,â said Somerville. He thought about his next statement carefully before saying, âLook Malky, I know you hate talkinâ about the weird stuff that went on, but I have to tell youse about this.
âThe day after McKee was apprehended, I sent a coupla my men over to the auld peopleâs rest-home to talk to witnesses about the shooting of his mother, yâknow, 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 shootinâ, the residents in the rooms either side of Mrs McKeeâs heard things during the night â singing 'n talking â just like she used to do when she was alive. âCourse, my men took it all with a pinch of salt, but when they checked-out her room, they said it was stone-cold â and during the search - get this â they said there was a rockinâ chair beside the bed and it started rockinâ of its own accord. They ran outta there like pair of frightened lassies! Whaddya think of that?â
Malky didnât comment.
Broo was intrigued and wanted to hear more.
But Zindy was keen to keep the conversation light, âAch, thereâs got to be a rational explanation, itâs probably been a draught...?â
Somerville looked down at the table and scratched his head, âWell, it certainly spooked my men. I guess itâs just another wee mystery...â
âWhatâre you gettinâ at, Phil?â asked Malky, his eyes narrowing.
âYou and Archie Harkness: Pragmatic men confounded by inexplicable events. Somethinâ has yez tied up in knots, hasnât it?â said Somerville, with a wry smile. âCuz Iâve been in this game long enough to know when somebodyâs holdinâ somethinâ 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.â He paused for a moment, then asked in a cordial tone, âI mean, why you, Malky? This all started when you discovered them bodies in the middle of nowhere... How did you know theyâd be there?â
They stared into each otherâs eyes for a while.
âOh, take the night off will ya!â scolded Zindy, waving her hand between them to break the spell, âHeâs been through everything 100 times! Leave âim be!â
Unmoved, Malky asked, âSo, what about McKee? Are they gonna switch off the machines or what?â
Somerville looked away, rubbed the nape of his thick neck and said, âHeâs beinâ moved.â
âWhat...?â said Malky, stunned.
Brooâs ears pricked up.
âTo where?â asked Zindy, horrified.
âSCICI: St Cedricâs Institute for the Criminally Insane,â Somerville told them, in a morose, regretful, almost angry voice, âthe governor there, Dr James Rossington, offered to put him up. SCICI has the facilities, itâs all âstate-of-the artâ anâ all that. He talked to right people in the government ân got permission from the highest authority. I donât like it anymore than you do, but thereâs nuthinâ I can do about it.â
âThis is...How... Why...â Malky couldn't think of anything to say.
Somerville went on, âSee, I donât like this Dr Rossington. Heâs 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 âem. Getting McKeeâll be a major coup for âim. Heâll keep him alive like a sideshow freak, you can put money on it. Heâll do lecture tours. Heâll be on TV. McKee will be a goldmine for âim.â
Malky finally found his voice, âBut... he... heâs a vegetable? I thought theyâd give âim so long then theyâd pull the plug?â
âLike I said, thereâs some brain activity. Itâs minimal, but itâs enough for the board to stay the execution, as it were. Theyâre only too glad to let Rossington take âim off their hands.â
âWell, I hope he fookinâ dies, the fookinâ bastard,â 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,âWhy does that make you so happy? He almost killed me!â
Broo barked back in protest.
Flummoxed by the outburst, Zindy and Somerville looked at Malky, then looked at Broo, then turned back to Malky. âWhat was that all about?â said Zindy, with an incredulous look on her face.
Embarrassed, Malky passed it off as a joke, âOh, itâs just a wee thing we have...â he chuckled, âI tell you what, put that olâ Roy Orbison song on again.â
When the clock chimed 2AM, Somerville looked at his watch, âIs that the time?! I better get goinâ!â He got to his feet and shook their hands, âItâs been a pleasure workinâ with yez. Iâm just relieved that this has all reached what we call a âsatisfactory conclusionâ and yez survived yer ordeal. Thatâs the most important thing. You've lived to tell the tale.â
Once again, Malky thanked him for saving his life and warmly shook his hand, âMaybe when Iâm better we can take a boat out ân go fishing in the bay?â
âIâd like that, Malcolm.â Somerville said, sincerely.
âOh, before you go -â Zindy handed him an instamatic and asked him to take a photo of them, âthis moment should be captured for posterity!â
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 Sammyâs 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.Â
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 wonât give up the ghost.
Thereâs 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 bodyâs  scrotum, grabs it, and looks into those staring eyes as he twists and squeezes. Then, with one final wrench, he stops and chuckles, âDead to the world.âÂ
He goes to the top of the bed, puts his hands on his knees, stoops and whispers in the bodyâs ear, âYouâre mine, now Barry. Iâve made all the arrangements. Youâre coming back to my place. Iâm going to do everything in my power to keep you alive, because youâre the missing link. The Cochrane girl. The scrapbook. Goslingâs spell. The mirrors. The Lumbs...
âYou are the key, Mr McKee, and I mean to find whatâs on your mind...â
blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip..
End of Book One...
#spindlefreck#witchcraft#demon#demonicposession#IrishFiction#IrishHumour#Saga#serialkiller#mysticism#witches#dreams#mystery#Ghosts#horror#fantasy#HorrorFiction#fantasyfiction
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SPINDLEFRECK: 21 novella-length episodes available here: Table of Contents
âWitches, warlocks, necromancers⌠and thatâs just the kitchen staff.â
#spindlefreck#witchcraft#fantasy#irish fiction#irish humour#dreams#demonic possession#mysticism#serial killer#saga#psychology
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Seven Thousand Years to Midnight  the latest episode of #Spindlefreck is  now available;Â
Catch up here Spindlefreck Table of Contents
#spindlefreck#fantasy#witchcraft#witches#demon#allegory#satire#dreams#parapsychology#wizards#saga#serial#comedy-horror#irish humour
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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 âpoltergeistâ 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 Odinâs 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 thereâs the arrival of Laphenâs grandson, Kris, visiting from America; he has a dark aura about him that renders Brooâs extrasensory powers inoperable and saps his strength, but most disturbing of all, his psychic link with Malky is broken; thereâs 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, doesnât take the bait and laughs-off every slur...] Â
 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, Laphenâs 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 grandfatherâs eye; a course of action, in Malkyâs opinion, that would be entirely permissible in the circumstances.
â... then you were in that pop group, what was it called, Satanâs Pooves?â Laphen sneered, looking for something to crack Krisâ resolve.
âHa-ha-ha-hah, Luciferâs Hooves,â Kris corrected him, tittering, turning to Malky and explaining with unshakable chirpiness, âit was a garage-band I formed in high school,â he joked, âwe never got outta the garage!â
âThen there was the time you tried to start your own magazine...?â said Laphen, trying desperately to touch a nerve.
âIt was a hobby! I was 10!â Kris snorted.
Laphen got all Noel Coward with a little bit of Gielgud thrown in for good measure, âWhat Iâm getting at is this, Kristof: youâre not a renaissance man, youâre an interminable amateur -- a dilettante, a poseur â you flit from one thing to another, looking for something to get you noticedâ and when it doesnât work you move on to the next thing. You donât care what medium you exploit to achieve your goal: celebrity. Thatâs Art for Fameâs Sake. Thatâs profane.â He sat back and continued in his usual, sarcastic tone, âThis is where you and I differ, boy. I got famous cos I have Talent. When I do something I give it my all â no matter what piece of shit they put me in - I shine cos Iâm true to meself and my craft. Thatâs how I knew I would always succeed in everything I did: because I have the unshakeable self-belief that only God-given Talent provides. Thatâs why I canât take you or your silly movie seriously. Itâs 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...â
Kris passed the mill and snorted with laughter, explaining, âThatâs what those teenage years are for, gramps, trial and error and making career choices. Iâm going to be director. Iâve 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 âoutstanding young talent with a very bright futureâ... More pasta...?â
Malky looked up from his bolognese and grinned through a mouthful of meatballs. You tell him, boy.
Then, after a few secondsâ pause came the poisonous riposte aimed squarely below the belt: âYour mother made a documentary too, didnât she? What was it called, now...? Oh yes, Annie Bell Does Bel Air! Iâm pretty sure it was a documentary, it looked real enough...?â
Ouch. Malkyâs grin vanished. Heâd heard about Krisâ motherâs 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 Iâd be sitting at the great manâs table 40-odd years later hating him with every fibre of my being, Iâdâve 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 Brooâs brain. He lay in a darkened corner â- 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: âthis house wasn't built with electricity in mind, dudes!â 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 boyâs debilitating aura and the all-too-human tension created by Laphenâs incessant needling, there was no real atmosphere here. Theyâd 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.
âEverythinâ all right, Mr Calvert?â asked Herbie, rousing Malky from his daydream.
âThis is the best bolognese sauce Iâve ever tasted!â said Malky, with a what-the-hell-am-I-doing here look.Â
âFanks very much, Mr Calvert. Itâs jas somefink I rassle-ap in an âurry,â said the big man, shaking his head, with a what-can-you-do-itâs-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; heâd 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 Laphenâs jibes were meant for the old retainer as much as the boy: every time Ollie takes a shot at Kris, itâs Herbie who takes the bullet.
Laphenâs tirade went on, â... Is it any wonder your mother turned out to be such a dead loss when she wuz reared by a woman the tabloids dubbed âThe Worst Mother in Hollywoodâ?! Stupid bloody Danish cow. No, sorry, thatâs an insult to cattle â- they nurture their calves -- they donât let them play beside unsupervised swimming pools. Shoes, now. She knows about shoes. Beyond that, she has the IQ of a dog turd.â
Kris came straight back and trilled, âGrandma? Grandma is so-oo happy these days. Sheâs busy with her charities, sheâs in love with a younger man who thinks the world of her and, you-know-what?â he turned and winked at Herbie, âhe never beats-on-her, or locks her in her room, or throws her clothes out of the window...â
âI wish Iâd thrown her out of the window,â grumbled Laphen.
âDidn't you throw No.3 out of a window?â
âThat was No.4. And it wasn't a window, it was a moving car.âÂ
âI stand corrected.â
âFunnily enough, so does she.â
Malky yawned noisily. Herbie continued to stare into the middle distance. Â
â... So, your mother is still sober is she?â Laphen asked, feigning concern.
âOh yes, youâll be simply thrilled to learn your darling little Annelise is straight ân sober and of sound mind â sheâs been running a womanâs shelter in the Valley for a couple of years now. Weâre all very proud of her. She told me to pass on her regards...â he looked up as if trying to remember, âNo, wait - her exact words were:Â âtell that vile old goat to hurry-up and die!ââ
Malky had to stifle a laugh.
Laphen bristled, âAye, well, you can tell that cheeky bitch she wonât get a brown penny from me when I do pop me clogs! I disinherited her when she was done for hooerinâ! Anyway, sober or not â at heart sheâll always be a ditzy f**k up who bounces from one crisis to another with her knickers round her ankles!â
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, âHow many bottles have you had today, gramps?â
âF**k off,â grunted Laphen. âIâm very rich, very successful, Iâve worked very hard all my life and Iâve earned the right to do whatever-the-f**k-I-like.â
âEven if it kills you?â Kris replied; then after a split-secondâs thought, he retracted, âWaitaminnit - open another bottle! Go on - drink up! Iâll get another case from the cellar!â
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, âForgive me for asking, Mr Calvert, but what exactly is it you do?â
Broo snorted, Oh, thisâll be good. What do you do, Malcolm?
Malky didnât have time to reply â Laphen was in like a shot, âI told you! Heâs a plumber! Heâs here to mend the boiler, OK?! Leave him alone.â
Kris winked at Malky, turned back to Laphen and said, â... 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?!â He turned back to Malky and spoke in his normal, friendly voice, âI donât 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...?â
Again, before Malky could reply, Laphen sat forward, snapped his fingers repeatedly and took back the conversation, âHey! Hey! Hey! Nevermind him -- tell me, boy -- whoâs this backer yeâve got? Whoâs the eejit daft enough to invest their cash in yer silly wee horror picture?â He smiled smugly and winked at Malky as if to say â wait til you hear this!Â
Again, Malky was about to say something when Kris took the words right out of his mouth, âOh, stop acting like a total asshole, Ollie, youâre not funny.â 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, âAsshole or not, I didnât get to sit in the big chair without beinâ thorough. So câmon now, whoâs your Generous Benefactor?â
Putting his elbows on the table and hunching his shoulders, Kris sipped his water, looked down at his empty plate and said âIâll tell you when youâre sober.â Â
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, âOch, câmon laddie, If you want to film here youâll have to tell me sometime.â He turned and informed his faithful retainer, âSee Herbie, he wants my permission to bring a feckin film-crew through here! He wants me to let a bunch of arse-scratchinâ 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 â- not to mention drivinâ their trucks and trailers all over my award-winning lawns!!â
Herbie continued to stare ahead.
Kris, sounding a wee bit stressed, assured him, âThe crew will be very discreet and I will take personal responsibility for any...â
âSo, whoâs the backer?â
Kris looked him in the eye, âAre you going to let us to film here?â
âWeâll see. Depends who Iâm dealing with,â said Laphen, taking a long drag on his cigar, looking very pleased with himself that he had Kris on the back foot. âSo tell me, who is it?â
After a long pause and a drink of water, Kris answered in a weak voice, âGuy Gosling...â
âGuy Gosling?! The silly twat who pissed himself on live TV?!â Laphen cried, banging both fists on the table and bouncing on his cushion like a tickled imp, âYouâre f**king shittinâ me!â
The boyâs voice cracked as he yelled back, âSee â I knew how youâd react! Youâre such a predictable old shit, Ollie!â
âHeâs usingâ you to revive his career! No wonder he agreed to it -- nobody with any sense will touch him!â
Kris was losing it now, his freckled cheeks aflame, âYou donât know what youâre talking about - heâs still got a lotta respect in Hollywood!â
It didnât matter what he said, Laphen was on a roll, âLet me see now...â he sat back, tilted his head and made a show of caressing his brow, as if trawling his memory for the appropriate anecdote. âAye - thatâs 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 â 3 million for half-a-dayâs work, I think it was...?â he looked to Herbie for confirmation.
Still staring into space, Herbie perfunctorily supplied the information, âA million a day for free days. And a cut of the box-office. And a car. Canât âmember which one. Maserati, I fink.â
âHear that? 3 million and a classic sports-car to add to my collection, all for 3 days work,â Laphen turned to Malky, âit 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 ditherinâ-on about death-throes and whether or not he should close his eyes... By day three I just wanted throttle him: âDIE YOU F**ER!! DIE!!â Cuz heâs one of those Method Actors, ain't he? I hate Method Actors.â He turned to Kris, âespecially 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!â Laphen paused then resumed in a more sober tone, âWell, what goes around comes around. He ain't got a friend in the industry now, no matter what youâve heard.â
âHeâs learned from his mistakes!â yelled Kris, desperately, âHeâs committed to the project! Itâs been 2 years since the pissing incident! He deserves a second chance!â
âHe wants a comeback vehicle!â Laphen cried.
âThe publicity will be good for us â itâll create a buzz!â
âAye - like flies round shite!â Laphen cracked. âLissen, the knives are out for âim! 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!â
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 âF**K YOU!â and banged his fist on the table.
It only made Laphen cackle louder.
At last, Herbie cleared his throat loudly and said, âGentlemen, please.â 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, âDoes your dog usually accompany you when you mend a boiler, Mr Calvert?â
Again, before Malky could answer, Laphenâs shit-eating grin disappeared, âI told you to leave him alone!â he snapped, âitâs none of yer business!âÂ
âDid I miss a meeting?â Kris asked Herbie, âa plumber with a three-legged dog? Doesn't this seem kinda weird to you...?â
Thatâs it. Malky slammed down his cutlery, stood up and gave out, âRight! Iâve had enough oâ this shite â weâre outta here!â
Herbie reached out, âWait Mr Calvert, please...â
But Malky was resolute, âSorry Herbie, but this isn't on! When I agreed to come here I didnât expect to have to listen quietly while this pissed-up oulâ fart abuses his grandkid!â He took the cheque from his back pocket and slapped it down on the table, âYe can keep yer money, Mr Laphen! Enjoy whatâs left of your life!â
âSit down, Mr Calvert!â yelled Laphen.
Malky expressed himself by presenting his middle finger as he walked to the door, âCâmon Broo. Weâre leavinâ.â
âIâll double your fee!â Laphen shouted, pointing at the cheque on the table.
Malky stopped and sniggered derisively, âYou canât buy me! This isn't worth the aggravation!â Shite. I hope Zindyâll understand...
Befuddled, Krisâ head swivelled from side-to-side as he looked from one to the other, âWhaddya mean: âYouâll double his feeâ? Whatâs going on here? Plumbers are a dime a dozen... What is he, some kinda super-plumber...?â
âI AM NOTA F**KING PLUMBER!â 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.
âWhatâs the m-matter with âim?â Laphen stammered in a shaky voice, as he looked up into the darkness. âDoes h-he s-see s-somethinâ...?â
Malky put a finger to his lips, âShhh! He hears somethinâ.â
âWhat the hell is going on here, people?!â shouted Kris.
 âShut up and lissen!â 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 werenât in his head; the sounds were audible, not telepathic.
âHear that?!â whispered Malky.
Herbie heard it too, âIt sounds like kids... kids shrieking...?â
Kris cocked an ear for a moment, then murmured, âHey... yeah!â
Laphen stared at the ceiling, âIt-itâs cominâ from the room above... The t-Trophy Room...â 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? Emilâs eyes were stinging and streaming.
A youthful voice called-out, âSir! Hey -Â whoa! Excuse me â sir â câmon, man, whatâre you doinâ?â
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, âHey, hey, hey, man -- stop squeezinâ the trigger, man, puh-lease - youâre creating a super-crazy-dangerous situation here, dude...â
âWha --â Emilâs 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 â but, more terrifyingly â the Volvoâs 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, âSir â gimme that, puh-leeeese!â
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, âSorry. Needed to fill âer up, kid... Got lost in my thoughts for a minute...â
The young clerk (now at his witâs end) tiptoed over the puddle of petrol, took the gun back on the pump and whinged, âYou gotta be more careful, mister! Iâll have to wash-it-all-down now! Jeez-us H... this is, like, totally bogus, dude! I mean itâs f**king Sunday -â itâs supposed to be the day of rest...â
Just then -- Emil felt the power ebb again â for some reason the puppeteerâs 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 boyâs face: âWHERE... AM... I?!â
Now scared out of his wits, the hapless clerk couldn't supply a coherent reply, âHey man, easy -- ch-chill...donât lose it, yeah?!â
Emil tightened his grip and almost screamed in the boys face, âListen, kid â report me! Call the cops! Iâm sick! Iâm dangerous! They need to stop me before I go too far...!â
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 clerkâs collar, stood back, dusted him down and said in a calm, clear voice, âJust kidding.â He reached into his dressing-gown pocket and took out his buckskin wallet, âDo you take American Express...?â
...
Meanwhile, back in Pagham House:Â There was a crackling sound: â*Whatâs your position Herb, over.*â
Herbie whispered into the walkie-talkie, â... weâre 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.â
â*Copy. On our way. Over.*â
But Herbie didnât want to wait. He slowly opened the door and turned on the lights. There were a series of rapid flashes as the âTrophy Roomâ 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, âIf thereâs somebody there â I swear Iâll feckin kill ye! Iâll take yer feckinâ head off, I will! Câmon out!â Herbie took him by the shoulders and told him to keep back.
The squeaky voices continued to gabble and shriek; due to the roomâs natural echo, it was hard to tell where they were coming from. Malky was intrigued, but unafraid; judging by the old dogâs subdued reaction, he knew that it was nothing to worry about. Behind them, Kris continued to express his confusion, âSomebody please tell me whatâs going on...?â
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.âWhat the hell...?â said Herbie. He bent down and lifted the bucket â the voices instantly got louder. Malky looked over the big chauffeurâs shoulder and saw a cassette recorder lying face-down on the floor. âItâs a bloody tape!â Herbie exclaimed, angrily, âWe've been âad!â
Laphen, still shaking with fear, still brandishing the baseball bat, joined them and gaped at the offending object, âWhat the...â Herbie picked it up and pressed the stop button. The room fell deathly silent for a few seconds, and then the old man gasped, âWho would...â 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, âYou should see your face, Gramps!â
Laphen was agape, âYou... you set this up...?â
â... You were so spooked!!â sniggered Kris.
They heard boots on the stairs; Herbie heaved a loud, world-weary-sigh and raised the walkie-talkie to his lips, âStand-down, stand-down, false alarm, repeat, false alarm! Over.â The communication was punctuated by a collective groan of disappointment from the hall.
Kris was wiping tears of mirth from his eyes, âI GOTCHA! Ah gotcha you goo-ood!â Â
The Quare Geg failed to see the funny side: âYâ wee BASTARD!!â Laphen lashed out at Kris, swung the bat and missed â 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. âLemme at him! IâLL F**KINGâ KILL âIM! JUST YOU W --âÂ
He suddenly seized up, the bat fell from his hands and clattered on the parquet; he fell back into Herbieâs arms, his eyes popping out of his head, the air escaping his lungs like a slowly deflating balloon.
Kris chuckled, âAwww, câmon gramps, you can do way better than that...â
Malky went to help; Herbieâs face was a picture of helpless-consternation, ââE canât breeve! I think âe might be âavinâ an âeart-attack!!â They took him to an antique chaise-lounge beside a huge Native American totem pole on the other side of the room. âHeâs hyperventilating! Get a paper bag!â cried Malky.
âHeâs faking, dudes!â 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, âHeâs faking, Uncle Herb?!! Heâs acting!â
Unconcerned, Broo sauntered over to the corner and had a lie down. Oh, a minute ago you were all for strangling him â now you want to save his life. Human beings, I donât know...
Malky used the first-aid he learned during his time in the police, âEasy, Ollie, take it easy... take deep, deep breaths and fill your lungs, hold for a count of 5, then exhale slowly through yer nose...â Laphenâs 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: Heâll live: the heartbeat is strong for a man of his years, no murmurs. Heâll live.
Herbie arrived back with a plastic carrier bag, âWill this do?!â
Malky took the bag from him, twisted the neck to create a makeshift mask and put it over the old manâs nose and mouth, âThisâll make it easier â breathe-out into the bag, then breathe in...â his ministrations appeared to be having the desired effect; Laphenâs pulse was slowing, the colour was returning to his cheeks. Kris stopped pacing and grabbed Herbieâs arm, âSee, heâs gonna be fine - heâs just tryinâ to get me back...!â Herbie took the boy by the shoulders and gave him a shake, âKris, I âavenât time fer no bollocks - this is fer real! Make yâself useful -â go to âis stahdy 'n call the doctor!â
âRossington...â the old man hissed.
Herbie knelt and looked at him with a doubtful frown, âSurely you want yer physician, boss?â
Laphen glared and growled, âI want Rossington!â
Herbie looked up at Kris, ââE wants Rossington. Thereâs a button for âim on the phone on âis desk.â
âRossington...?â 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. âHeâs sleeping it off. Itâll be OK to move him. Is he on any medication for asthma or any other respiratory illnesses?â
ââE ain't asthmatic or nuthinâ. Dr Rossington gives âim these âvitaminâ shots that perk âim up.â
âWhy? What does Rossington specialise in?â asked Malky, as if he didnât know.
ââEâs the bossâ shrink, âas been for years. âAvenât you âeard of âim?â
Malky and Brooster knew exactly who Rossington was and what he did.
Itâs 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 Jamieâs 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 McKeeâs 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 âGßßl 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: âGoz, you arsehole,â he muttered.
After searching most of the house, he eventually bumped into Fordham the footman whoâd taken up the butling duties now that Oggy had gone down for a Big sleep. Fordham was carrying a Martini on a silver tray, âI suppose thatâs for our guest?â Jamie asked. Fordham nodded and rolled his eyes, âheâs in the pool, sir.â Jamie took the tray from him, âDonât worry, Iâll see he gets it.â
Guy âGozâ Gosling  was floating naked on a lilo in the indoor pool, reading a loosely bound sheaf of papers that looked suspiciously like a script. âWho was that?â 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, âA guy I met in LA, if you must know. A director. He wants me to star in a little horror film heâs making here in Ireland,â he said, cool as a cucumber, slowly turning in the water.
âOh Yeah? And how did he get in?â asked Jamie, carelessly putting the tray down on the poolside table, irritated by his former band-mateâs blasĂŠ attitude and patronising tone. It was what heâd come to expect. Goz had been restless for some time, but up to now heâd been willing to live under the rules of the extended lockdown. âNobody can come in unless you clear it with me or Oggy. Iâm surprised that security opened the gate,â said Jamie, bristling.
âI told them he was an old friend. I told them I was expecting him,â said Goz, unaffected.
Jamie nodded knowingly, âYou told them youâd cleared it with me, didnât you?â he sneered. Â Â Â Â Â
âWell, I thought you were studying in the library or meditating in your room or something and I didnât want to disturb you,â said Goz, blithely, still perusing the pages.
âFor all you know he could be working for one of our enemies!â Jamie snapped, sounding a wee bit shrill.
âDonât be so melodramatic, JJ,â chuckled Goz, talking as if consoling a difficult child, âI 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, âmaybe we might work together some dayâ. I didnât get any bad vibes, not at all. Heâs a like little red-headed puppy: eager to please.â He flipped another page and said, âRemember, Iâve been at this game a lot longer than you, JJ. I can spot a wrong-un a mile away.â This was Gozâs 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, âWhatâs his name?â
Goz let out a heavy sigh, âKris Katz. Believe it or not, heâs 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 heâd be in Ireland scouting for locations and if I was interested heâd deliver the script by hand...â Goz turned a page, â... and after perusing it, Iâve decided to take him up on the offer. Iâve even agreed to put some money behind it. A small independent movie is just the ticket to restart my acting career. I canât afford to turn it down.â
âYou know nothing about him. He could be in cahoots with the tabloids,â said Jamie crossing his arms and shaking his head, âworse -- he could've been sent here by the Washington coven to case the place and see what weâre up to!â
Goz finally looked up from the script and laughed, âLook, heâs harmless! And itâs not as if Iâm leaving the country -- weâll be making the movie here!â
Jamie shook his head, âOggy needs to know about this. Youâll have to wait until he wakes and discuss it with him.â
Getting a little more animated, Goz splashed the water with his fist and shook his head emphatically, âLook -- Oggy is hibernating, he wonât wake for at least another year and we start shooting in the summer! And Iâm not a f**king prisoner, remember?! Iâve stayed here voluntarily! But enough time has passed -- 2 years to be exact, and thatâs a long time in show business. Itâs 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 Iâm not hiding anymore.â He sighed, relaxed and went back to the script, âIâm doing this whether you -- or Oggy -- like it or not.â
âWeâll see...â Jamie muttered under his breath, and walked away.
...
2 days later at Pagham House:Â â... See, I saw a tabloid story about grampâs suspected âpoltergeistâ at the airport, so I thought Iâd have a little fun with it,â Kris explained as they crossed the landing, âwe used to do it all the time, yâknow, tryinâ to out-punk each other; each stunt more vicious than the last, but we always made-it-up afterwards. I didnât think heâd get in such a state...â He paused when they heard a distant buzzing sound outside, âUh-huh, here comes the âgood doctorâ,â 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 doctorâs 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 â 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, âKristof! What a pleasant surprise! Long-time-no-see-and-all-that!â
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 nemesisâ fingers. Rossington grasped the flaccid appendage and jerked it up-and-down with gusto, âOver for a little visit, eh? Having fun, are we?â
The boy looked at his hand as if itâd been spat on and said nothing.
âI hear youâve literally been up to your old tricks again!â 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 didnât like what heâd 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. Thatâs an oddly non-specific âposhâ 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. âYou might look 15, my dear, but youâre a 22 year old adult now.â
â23.â Kris grunted.
â23! Even more reason to find a nice girl, settle down and do something worthwhile... You donât want to end up like your mother, now, do you...?â Heâd been stealing glances at Malky until he couldn't contain his curiosity a moment longer; he turned away from Kris and asked, âSorry, but do I know you? You look vaguely familiar...?â
Malky was about to reply when Rossington cut-him-off, âNOâNOâNO, donât tell me!!â he cried, putting a hand his brow and snapping his fingers as he scoured his memory, âI never forget a face -- Iâve written books on how not to forget a face! Now, where have I seen you before...?â
Herbie opened Laphenâs door and hissed, âShhh!â
Rossington backed-up toward the door, staring at Malkyâs face and racking his brains... âI know you... I do know you...â Before entering the room, he stopped trying to remember and whispered to Kris, âOh, if I donât see you later - give my regards to your mother, wonât you? Itâs so gratifying to know sheâs finally found her niche at long last.â
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: thatâs 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, â...as you can probably tell, I cannot stand Rossington. Heâs like... anathema to me. Heâs like Kris-kryptonite in Gucci, dude!â What followed sounded like heâd researched his subject with a detectiveâs eye for detail. âHeâs the self-proclaimed âShrink to the Stars!â - You mighta seen him on TV. He heads-up an institute for psychos... umm... whatâs it called...? â
âSCICI,â said Malky, âSt Cedricâs Institute for the Criminally Insane.â
Kris nodded emphatically, âYeah, thatâs right! Itâs like puttinâ a cobra in charge of a nest of vipers!â
The door opened. Herbie looked out, scowled and shook his head. Kris lowered his voice to a whisper, âThe truth is heâs 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.â
The pair retired to a pair of Queen Anne armchairs in an arched recess adjacent to Laphenâs bedroom door. Broo kept well back and listened from a distance. âIn the summer of â70 when I was like 2 years old, my mom â Annelise Katz, nĂŠe Laphen â 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 â I was almost poached, dudes â 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 â 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 ânâ âludes, 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 heâd do anything to get her straight. Someone gave him Rossingtonâs card. See, Jimmyâd devised a method of reprogramming drug addicts with an uncompromisingly tough regime: torture and mind control, basically â but with some New Age horseshit thrown in to make it look progressive. The literature was all this, like, flowery bullshit about ârebirthâ etc, but the kids were treated like laboratory rats -- two guys died and a girl committed suicide, thatâs not taking into account the mental scars of those who actually made it through.â Kris sighed, âAnyway, he promised gramps he would have mom detoxed and straightened-out within 6 months, so Ollie cut him a cheque.â
âAnd did Rossingtonâs treatment work?â asked Malky.
âOh yeah. Â 6 months later, just as promised, thereâs Annelise Katz, clean and sober, made-over, looking hale and healthy and weeping to Barbara Walters about her drugs hell and her âresurrectionâ, hailing Gentleman Jim as her Personal Saviour! She relapsed 18 months later, mind you, but it was good while it lasted.â
âWhere was Ollie when all this wuz goinâ on?â
The boy became melancholy, his tone heavy with ennui, âHe was on a world tour with his one-man-show for most of it, but heâd 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 â I was all that mattered now. He got temporary custody of me.
âAnyhow, in the 80s Rossingtonâs rich and famous, but he yearns for something money canât buy: a Serious Reputation. See, Jimmy wants Nobel Prizes not Daytime Emmys! He wants to be fĂŞted by The Elite â 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 â82, Jimmy tagged along, all-the-while plotting his next move. He met up with an old colleague who worked at St Cedricâs 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 Cedricâs 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 âa better understanding of psychopathic behaviourâ -- and sell a lot of books. so gramps called-in a few favours and made it happen. Jimmyâs all set! Unfortunately, the location sucks â 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?â
âAye, Iâve heard all about all about it,â said Malky, âIn fact, didnât your mate Gosling check-in there after that âincidentâ?â
âYeah, like I said, âShrink to the Starsâ...â Then he took a deep breath, looked down and shamefacedly admitted, âLook... I know who you are, Mr Calvert. I know what youâve been through ân I know what you do, but I was so intent on getting one over on the old man, I held back. Iâm sorry. Itâs like we met under false pretences and I wanna clear the air.â
âUh-huh,â 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, âI have to ask you this, Kris: do you have anything to do with whatâs been goinâ on in this house?â
Kris put up his hands and vehemently protested his innocence, âHey now -- the first time I knew anything about this business was a coupla days ago when I saw that report in The Enquirer!!â
â... I mean, you make horror movies,â Malky asserted, âyeâve got access to allsortsa props and special effects ân that. For all I know you ân Herbie -â maybe even Rossington -â could be in cahoots to put poor olâ Oliver round the twist!â
Good God, I was wondering when youâd say that... Broo grumbled.
Just then, the door to Laphenâs room opened and Herbie emerged to give them the latest, ââis vitals is lookinâ good, blahd preshaâs OK, no permanent damage, thank gawd...â Herbie clipped the boy around the ear, âYou wuz lacky this time, boy! I âope you take this as a lesson! No mowah practical jokes!â
...
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 didnât take him long to realise he was gazing into a smashed windscreen. Iâm still in the Volvo. But his head was squashed against the compressed ceiling -- the car was upside down! He tried to move -- thatâs when a blazing pain ran through his entire body. If he could catch his breath heâd scream.
He heard crackling radios and excitable male voices: âHey! He moved! Heâs alive!â âHey! Guys! Heâs alive!â âHeâs alive?â âFor real? Shit!â
Then an older voice shouted, âWe canât wait for the ambulance!! Thereâs full tank of gasoline leakinâ into the grass! We gotta move him now!â 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, âI can see youâs in a lotta pain, sir, but we have a very volatile situation here... so keep still, donât try to move, OK? Iâll be right back!â
Oh, Iâll keep still, kid... cos if I as much as blink itâll hurt like hell, and Iâd rather die than feel that pain again, so please, please donât move me...
The excruciating pain seemed to radiate from below his waist -- his legs were splayed and trapped between the steering-wheel and the driverâs 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 manâs voice purred close to his ear, âEasy... easy there, sir, I got you...â
No! If you try to pull me out Iâll come apart like scarecrow... the pain, the pain... Iâm begging you...
The soothing voice in his ear implored him, âBrace you-self, suh, we gonna do our best to get ya outta there as quick as possible...â
An impatient voice yapped, âCâmon, letâs go, guys, letâs do dis ân get the hell outta here!â
Emil felt arms around his midriff. Oh no. Oh God no...
Christ...
âI got âim! You got âim?â
Kill
âI got âim.â
me
âOK. After 3, swing âim out.â
now!!
âOne... Two... and Three -â
AAAAAAHHHHH!!!
He was hauled from behind and twisted from below â then his body began to move backwards â something was stopping him: âthe handbrake is stuck up his assâ we gotta lift him offa it!â The humiliation, the pain, the utter helplessness.... Somehow they repositioned him and hoisted him up again -- his left hip nudging-in the cigarette lighter â again the pain flared to an unbearable degree as he began to move backwards through the passenger-side window â 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 firemanâs voice call out, âHey, his papers are all over the inside of the car... his passport â everything!!â Â Emil heard one of the men carrying him yell, âDONNY â get the f**k outta there now!!â
Thatâs when the cigarette-lighter popped on the dash.
There was a huge fireball â Emil and his rescuers were thrown clear, but the young fireman wasn't so lucky. Emilâs 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 girlâs voice -- presumably the voice of his interior puppeteer -- spoke huffily: <Well, youâre damaged goods now, Emil â youâre no use to me at all. Youâre 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 Iâll be back... Iâve 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. âItâs the creepiest part! And itâs just gone midnight, dudes - thisâll be a gas!â
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 âlittle word in Krisâ âshell-likeâ. 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, âWeâll take the scenic route through the hidden passageway to the old chapel! Itâs really cool!â
âHidden passageway?â asked Malky, intrigued.
âOh yeah â the old Duke and his disciples had to prepare for every eventuality! The place is riddled with âem!â
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, âHere we are!â 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, âAbandon hope all ye who enter here... â he said in a croaky voice âFollow me... if ye dare!â Malky, stooped and squeezed through the little hatch. Kris noticed the old dog dragging his feet, âCâmon Broostie,â he trilled, slapping his thigh and beckoning him hither.
If he calls me Broostie again, Iâll 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. âHere it is!â 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, âNowadays this is referred to as the chapel cos it looks like a chapel -- but it ain't no chapel -- no siree!â
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, âthis-here is Pagan stuff made to look Christian,â he cried, âItâs all fawns, demons ân naked nymphs!!â
Kris was elated, âRight! Keep looking, dude!â
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.
âI wasn't expecting this at all...?â 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, âErm, to be frank, the film Iâm making is based on the true story of Roxboroughâs life. Iâve had to change the names and locations, but itâs loosely based on actual events, most of which Iâve hadda tone-down to get an R certificate! I have to be discrete, yâknow, The Roxborough family are still a big noise in English society and they donât like to be reminded of their lurid family history. Theyâd sue the ass-off-me if they thought I was exploiting the legend.â
They went through another door at the rear of the âchapelâ and entered a corridor lined by a row of white doors; Kris unlocked them one by one, âThese were Thaddeusâ âprivateâ roomsâ where he indulged in his little perversions. But by the time gramps bought the house, the Roxboroughs had removed anything âincriminatingâ,â he said, looking a little disappointed. âGramps stores his antiques in here now, yâknow, stuff heâs bought on the spur of the moment, or gifts heâs received from different countries over the last 70 years: lots of ugly vases, objets-dâart ân shit thatâre too big to have in the house.â The âWhite Roomsâ 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, âWhere does that lead to?â he asked.
Kris frowned, âOh, the old infirmary.â He made a face, âHavenât you seen it yet? The front door is on the outside of the house.â
âIt was locked and Herbie didnât have the key,â Malky replied, wondering why the boy seemed so uncomfortable.
Reluctantly climbing the stairs, Jamie filled them in on the infirmaryâs history, âIt 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 donât believe in modern medicine for the most part, but when one of them gets really sick or injured theyâll bring them here and call a proper doctor.â He stopped at the little door and shivered, âDude, I hate hospitals to the point of nausea. I donât really wanna go in there unless itâs absolutely necessary. â
Broo looked at Malky. This time Malky didnât need telepathy to guess what the old dog was thinking. âAye, weâd really like to have a look. Would you mind?â
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, âyeeesh â I hate that smell, dudes...â
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.
âAnything?â asked Kris, looking from Malky to the old dog.
âNope. If there was, he wouldn't be long in lettinâ us know.â
Kris was very impressed, if a little disappointed, âOh, thatâs good, I suppose... hey, whatâs he doing now?â Heâd noticed Broo pawing a door to the side of the last bed on the left.
I hear something -- and this time itâs not a tape recorder! My fur is standing on end! Open the bloody door!
âItâs the door of the bathroom,â said Kris, as he tried various keys in the lock. Once heâd found the right one, he turned the handle but the door wouldn't budge. âGimme a hand, will ya, the wood must be swollen and sealed it shut.â 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.Â
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 thatâd been sitting on the edge of a shelf above the bath fell into the empty tub with a loud THUD! âWhat the hell was that?!â cried Kris, turning on the light â blinding brightness â the old dog reeled! He turned and barked loudly! âOh Shit! Sorry!â 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.
âWell, whatever it was, itâs gone now,â said Malky.
âWhat do you think he saw?â asked Kris, rattled.
âDunno,â said Malky, turning the light back on, âis there anythinâ special about this mirror? It looks a bit out of place, a bit grand for a hospital bathroom?â
âI have no idea... Iâm never in here,â said Kris, looking genuinely confounded.
â... it looks as old as the house,â said Malky, examining the frame.
Shivering and shuffling his feet, Kris was getting impatient, âErm... if thatâs it, dudes, Iâd really like to get the hell outta here...â
 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 doctorâs helicopter took off. They heard the front door close, the jingle of keys and then the steel-tipped heels of Herbieâs 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, âYâknow... there was something that happened when I was last here... but Iâm not sure if itâs relevant.â
Now he tells us...
Malky shrugged, âWell, weâre at a loss, so anythinâ you can tell us would be better than chasinâ round this place like headless chickens.â
âIâd like to show you something,â said Kris, enigmatically, âbut weâll have to go to the old pavilion to see it.â
âAlright lads?â Herbie called, standing in the shadows of the lobby looking up, âThe old manâs OK, fanks-be to you, Mr Calvert - it wuz a panic attack anâ you did all the right fings.â
âOh, thank f**k,â said Kris, sighing with relief.
As they descended the staircase, Malky asked Herbie about the mirror in the infirmary bathroom. âThe ahsekeeper, Mrs Sparkes, âad it moved there coupla years ago,â he said, in a doubtful tone, âshe was in the bossâ study late one night ân she said she seen a little lad watchinâ âer in that mirror. Screamed the house dahn. Scanlon âad to give âer a slap to shut-her-up.â
In spite of the big chauffeurâs doubts, Broo was sure this information was significant -- it sounded eerily similar to what heâd just experienced -- but for now, he could nothing but keep it to himself and see how things developed.
âIs the power on in the pavilion?â Kris asked Herbie.
Herbie tutted, âAch, câmon Kris, my son, no matter what the old man says we donât expectcha to sleep aht there tonight!â
âNo,â Kris chuckled, âI wanna use the screening room to show Mr Calvert some video I shot last time I was here...â
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 boyâs 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: âpast itâ 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: â... listen, you could hear a pin drop out here. Itâs eerie, isn't it? Complete silence. Not even the hoot of an owl or a breeze to rustle the trees.â 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 heâd just unlocked the pavilion and switched on the power. He asked after Laphenâs 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 â Antrim Town, to be exact -- and like Herbie, he was ex-army.
âI hear you had a bit of trouble on Friday night?â said Malky.
Charlie looked to the boy for guidance; Kris nodded, âItâs OK, heâs got Herbieâs permission.â
âYou mean the night the big clock got pushed over? âA bit of troubleâ is about right, aye,â said Charlie, spinning a large key-ring on his index-finger like a six-shooter. âThe boss was in a right state. He hit the panic button ân I raced up here as fast as I could -â but when I got to the door -- the swipe-card wouldnae work and the frigginâ master key wouldnae turn in the lock! I hadda climb in through a winda  -- when I found âim he was under the stairs shakinâ like a leaf! âPoltergeist!â says he, pointing at the big grandfather clock lyinâ in the hall! Itâd fallen off the wall! A big thing like that! I wuz flummoxed.â
âWhat do you think of this fella Scanlon?â asked Malky, still suspicious that this mightâve been an inside job; i.e. a disgruntled ex-employee with access to the house, maybe.
âScanlon...?â thrown by the question, Noble bowed his head, scratched it and said, âWell, Scanlon was one of me best mates â ex-RAF, all-round good egg, so-he-was...â Then, suddenly aware that he was in the presence of the bossâ grandson, changed his tone, giving the impression that heâd revised his opinion, âThen 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 ân that. Big shock that was...â Looking uncomfortable in his skin, he looked at Kris with an expression that said âcan I go now?â They let him get back to his rounds and continued on their way.
Once Noble was out of earshot, âSee?â whispered Kris, ânobody believes Scanlon is guilty.â
âHmmm, that maybe,â said Malky, doubtfully,âbut heâs still the prime suspect.â
 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. âTo keep out the light. Gramps had it converted into a little cinema so he could screen movies,â said Kris, unlocking the door. âHe  got prints of all his old comedy shorts and he shows them to visitors.â He turned on the lights, âWait til you see inside, itâs a feast for the eyes!â
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 starsâ publicity pictures lining the walls (Louise Brooks, Douglas Fairbanks, Mary Pickford, Chaplin, Keaton and, of course, the man himself â 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/cafĂŠ. 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. âGramps always made his own home-movies, so when video became popular he bought all of this state-of-the-art equipment â he has to have all the latest gizmos.â
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.
âItâs a tape of the exhumation of the mummies,â Kris shouted from the projection booth, âI was in Dublin when it happened, so I drove back ASAP and fetched the video camera to shoot some footage.â The screen lit up and a bright blizzard of static flickered on Malkyâs 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 Krisâ recorded voice sounded in the theatreâs speakers:
âItâs Thursday July 20th 19-and-89, Iâm at my grandfatherâs house in Ireland in the marshlands on the outskirts of the estate, and Iâm on my way to film a very significant ân strange event -- probably historic --â
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. âI was staying here while Ollie ân Herb were in Japan,â Kris explained, talking over his voice-over as he joined Malky in the theatre, âI 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.â
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, âThatâs Paddy Gilray, heâs a top forensics guy from Dublin. Big Phil Somerville 'n him are good friends. Dunno who the guy with âim is, though.â
âEmil something. I tried to talk to him afterwards, but he told me to f**k off,â said Kris, looking a wee bit hurt. âSomebody told me heâs another forensics guy from Canada. He flies over every summer and they do these archaeological digs.â
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, âWhen they moved the bodies there was this unholy stink like nothinâ I ever smelled before -- thatâs why I threw up! I hadda stop filming and get the hell outta there!â He made a sour face, âIt wasn't swamp gas â cuz Iâve smelled swamp gas â it was more like this thick, sickening miasma that made it hard to breathe, Ugggh!â he said, grimacing, âAnd it wasn't just me! Look, everybody is retching or puking -- even some the guys wearing surgical masks!â 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, âNow look at the villagers -- theyâre are fine with it, like theyâre used to it. And thatâs not all,,.â He sat forward, lowered his voice and spoke in a sombre tone, âThere 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 doesnât show up on the tape. And I checked the camera -- itâs not technical fault.â Kris shook his head, âAnyway, 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...â He turned to Malky, âI swear to God, I smelled it when I walked into the house today. 2 years later and itâs still there. Thatâs 24 months and several gallons of Sparkyâs wood-polish and grampsâ cigars -- and itâs still there!â
Malky shook his head, âI didnât smell anythinâ.â
âThatâs whatâs so weird, Iâm the only one who does,â 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 oneâs 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 grandfatherâs long-since defunct ânaughty-hellfireâ 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 heâd been looking for:
âOliver Laphen.â
According to the log, Laphenâs 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.Â
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 Jamieâs surprise, he discovered that his grandfather had added a heavily underlined note pertaining to Laphenâs purchase of Pagham House: âWitches -- Observe!â 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.Â
Oggy talked about Pagham House before he went down for his sleep. He said itâs 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 Laphenâs grandson turns up and offers Goz -- the only one of us who could be tempted to break ranks -- a part in a film heâs shooting in Ireland? It was all too much of a coincidence.Â
He slammed the book shut, crossed his arms and sat back. Shite. This could be the first major crisis heâs faced since taking up the mantle of Master, and there was no Ogden Castle around to guide him...Â
...
After screening a few of Ollieâs old âLaffin Boy!â shorts to lighten the mood, Malky and Kris sat in the little cinemaâs cocktail bar/cafĂŠ 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 âJolly Ollie!â 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, âThe Purgeâ.â
âWhatever his reasons, I predict old Ollie will be battling a few âunfair dismissalâ law-suits over the next coupla years,â Malky opined .
âAny potential litigants will have to go to the end of the queue,â said Kris, âgrampâs life has been one long lawsuit, and heâs got the best lawyers money can buy.â 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, âI can honestly say Iâve never met anyone like him in my life! If I wuz you, Iâd stay well away!â
âEverybody else does keep away, Iâm the only one of the family that bothers,â he said, coming back to the sofa and flopping down, âI think our little spats are a sorta communication on a deep level. Like, I canât explain it, but it kinda opens things up â- things you canât talk about âman-to-manâ can come out in one of our shouting-matches.â Kris sat up, raised his mug at the life-size picture of the man himself in his heyday hanging behind the bar, and said, âNo matter what heâs done, heâs still a genius. Heâs a hard act to follow. All I can do is learn from his mistakes.â Kris smiled at the youthful, dimpled face, âWhen I look at him now I know Iâm looking at myself in 60 years time, cos thatâs probably what Iâll look like if I live that long. But I wonât 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.â
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, heâs a realistic, intelligent, talented, well-rounded good kid. He raised his mug to salute his new best friend, âI hope my chile grows up to be as bright and as thoughtful as you are, son.â
âYouâre gonna to be a father?!â Kris asked, excitedly.
â8 weeks from yesterday,â said Malky, smiling, but sounding a wee bit daunted.
Kris jumped to his feet and vigorously shook Malkyâs hand. âThatâs awesome! Congratulations, dude!â
âI never thought of the future til I heard the words, âIâm lateâ," joked Malky. He took a moment to think, then asked, âSo, what do you thinkâs goinâ on in Pagham House, Kris?â
Kris answered straightaway as if he was expecting the question: âI have absolutely no idea. I mean, that grandfather clock -- besides the fact that I wasn't here at the time, thereâs no way I could've pushed that over, let alone a scrawny old guy like Ollie. Youâd need a tractor to move it!â
Malky shrugged and sighed, âWell, thatâs us. Thereâs nuthinâ more we can do. As far as weâre concerned, the house is uncontaminated by evil spirits. Iâll just have to tell Ollie we've come up empty. If I was him, Iâd leave it to the police.â
Kris looked at the old dog sitting in the corner and asked, âU-huh, I wonder what Broo makes of it all?â
âI dunno,â Malky answered, sleepily, looking over his shoulder, âlike I said before, if there was anythinâ âsupernaturalâ heâdâve let us know by now...â
But Broo didnât know how to communicate what he was seeing. Because when the pair sat together, the boyâs 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 doesnât last. I hope it disappears once we leave this woe-begotten place...
...
Two hours later, sitting in the bar of Odinâs Inn in Brodir, the ghost of Sammy O'Donnell, the innâs 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 dogâs back tomorrow, at least Iâd somebody to talk to, he thought to himself. We could be watchinâ TV right now... his thoughts were interrupted by a far cry: <Samuel... Samuel... Samuel O'Donnell...>
âWhatâs that?â Sammy said aloud, though nobody could hear him, âwell, up til now.â
<Samuel... Samuel...> a little voice cried in his head. He wasn't imagining it. Itâs a thought, he thought, like the way the old dog talks me.
<Samuel... Samuel... Samuel O'Donnell...> It seemed to be a childâs voice calling his name...âSamuel O'Donnell...â 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.
<Iâve been sent by the Powers That Be to warn you!>
âWarn me?â said Sammy, perturbed.
<Aye. From tomorrow forth your haunt will become infected!> cried the little spectre, <Youâll haveta get yerself to The In-Between until the danger passes!>
Even though heâd never heard the phrase âThe In-Betweenâ before, Sammy could guess what it meant: âLimbo?! Why? I bloody hate Limbo!! Itâs full of martyrs 'n murderers 'n all kinds of religious headcases!â
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 -- heâll bring the darkness back with him! Itâs a Soul-eating disease, no spirit is safe, not even us ghosts â so itâs 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. âNO! Wait, donât go...!â 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 âbringing The Darkness back with himâ mean? For the first time since he died, Sammy O'Donnell was scared. If there was something wicked coming â something so dangerous that itâs fatal to Immortal Souls â how could he be sure it wouldn't pose a risk to The Living?
And what about an unborn baby?!
He couldn't â he wouldn't abandon Zindy!
To Be Continued...
#witch craft#Witchcraft#irish literature#fantasy#Ghost#Hollywood#hooray for hollywood#Mystery#poltergeist#magic#black magic#irish humour#demon
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Spindlefreck Book Two: Pt. One: Love Potion No.9
ALL FOOLâS DAY,
Saturday, 1st April 1989:
 âI donât have to sell my Soul,
Heâs already in me --â
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.
âWow!â and again, with a little gasp of awe, â.....Wow.â
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. âWhat is this: Brigadoon?â 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 didnât 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: ââBogmireâ?â She looked at the AA map once again just to make sure it wasn't there. Nada. âI guess this place must still be a secret.â
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; theyâre 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. Sheâd 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 â probably a barmaid - wiping-down a gnarly hardwood table, âHello...?â she called out, as she slowly descended the stairs.
A female voice shouted back, âHiya - take a pew - oiâll be wiv ee in a sec, just wanna finish-up âere!â
Niamh couldn't sit down â 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 clichĂŠd, no truism too trite, âItâs... itâs 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...â She suddenly felt entirely out of place â 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: âHow much did it cost to look like a ten year old boy wearing his older brotherâs cast-offs?â â âIâm not telling you,â she replied. âWhy are you wearing glasses?â - âIt makes me look smart.â - âYou are smart!â - âYes, but sans specs I look like a dumb blonde, apparentlyâ - âPeople that say things like that aren't your friend.â - âThatâs why his testicles had a brief interaction with my right knee.â - âTalking of balls, Ni, are you wearing flares....?â â âSee you at teatime!â - âWhen? 1971?!â]
A vision in black lace emerged from the shadows tucking a dish cloth into the belt of her pinny, smiled and said, brightly, âWelcome to Bogmoire, moy dear!â
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 â76 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... Â 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, â- this place is amazing, it even smells like the 19th century!â 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, âIt pongs loike this cuz itâs fulla clapped-out junk layered wâ 200 year of groime 'n poipe-smoke, moy luv, not to mention the stink of our lunch-toime cloientelle. They come marchinâ in âere at noon ev'ry day with thur mucky boots and thur stinky poipes, loike a bunch of starvinâ walruses clappinâ their flippers and âonkinâ for stew! Stew, stew, stew! Bloody creeps...â Then she narrowed an eye and asked with a sly wink, âJast-a-mo-mant â what age is ee, gurlie?â
â... Iâll be 20 in a few weeks, as a matter of fact,â Niamh informed her, proudly, but had to ask, âExcuse me, but your accent --Â are you a student from England?â
âWot? Stoo-dant? Me? Oiâm as thick as olâ pigshit, oi am! Oi canât even read proper!â She laughed uproariously, revealing a beautiful set of gleaming white teeth, ââstoo-dantâ... did you ever âear the loike...?â She lifted a huge tray of empty glasses to the bar and began unloading them onto the wooden drainer.Â
Niamh thought sheâd offended her and tried to make amends, âIâm sorry, but truly, you sound exactly like someone from South West England, like Devon or Cornwall, if you donât mind me saying...?â
She carried on with her work and laughed, ââEe might âave summat there. When we goes to town theyâll make remarks loike (whiney voice) - âYou sounds loike a yokelâ âYo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!â or âPieces of eight! Pieces of eight!â Oi do âate it, though. Oiâd love to talk proper... loike you,â she said, walking behind the bar.
âI think your accent is wonderfully.... refreshing!â Niamh lied. If she was honest, up until this precise moment sheâd 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 sheâd say it sounded dumb and horrible. But no, when in doubt, apply some soft soap with a light flannel, âI think it suits you, itâs very... musical.â
âI fink it sounds fugginâ dumb ân âorrible (Huh?!). But we donât see enough of outsoide folk to talk any diffârent cos we is a protected communiây. We is totally self-sufficient, see. We live very frugally, that means all our clothes is cast-offs, all our possessions is second-âand, and we work the land for food.â
Niamh was utterly enchanted, âOh, itâs like a commune? How fascinating!â
âWe canât come and go as we please, weâs to get permission to go to town, but we can see ooever we loike and marry ooever we loike,â she said, rather pointedly, âonly catch is, they âave to come anâ live âere, an' livinâ amongst theseuns will droive normal folk crackers, cuz they is so vulgar ânâ ugly ân stoooooopid!â She cocked her head, âWhereâs ee from then, gurlie?â
âBorn in Cork â 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 didnât really affect me until summer hols, which I spent between Stockholm and Dublin. Right now Iâm studying at Trinity, so Iâm living with my uncle in the Fair City until I get my degree.â
It was the barmaidâs turn to stare, and if her wandering gaze was anything to go by, she appeared to be undressing Niamh with her eyes, âDo ex-cuse oi, bat if you donât moind oi saying, ur very pretty, apart from them specs. You should take âem off anâ let ur âair down. And them clothes is so frumpy â they âoides ur figure!â
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. Paddyâs question resounded in her subconscious: âHow much did it cost to look like a ten year old boy wearing his older brotherâs cast-offs..?â) And yet, she was so beguiled by her beautiful new acquaintance that she didnât even protest her companionâs next suggestion.
âGet âee a low cut dress! If âee got good tits â flaunt âem! âEeâll make a mint in tips.â
Niamh frowned, âTips?âÂ
The barmaid stopped rinsing tankards and gave her a sideward glance, âArr. âAvenât ee come for the jab?â
âJab...?â
âAye. Moy jab. Barmaid? Oiâm leaving at tâend of week, moy luv â gonna be gettinâ married -- olâ Snadgrass needs a new barmaid!â
âOh... JOB! â no, no, sorry, no â just passing through â Iâm Niamh Fitzgerald, or Ni â most people call me Ni â Iâm a psychology student, part-time intrepid explorer and intrepid Bog-Trotter! Thatâs what we call ourselves, our merry little band of swamp-things: The Happy Bog-Trotters â naturally, weâre using the term ironically - reclaiming it from our English oppressors, you could say...â
Christ almighty - youâre rambling, you silly bitch, the woman hasnât a clue what youâre on about! Shut up and shake her hand! The barmaid dried her lily whites on a tea-towel and shook Niâs 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 â 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, âOiâm Oona Umbert soon to be Nevin!â she said, reaching up and taking a modest engagement ring from a shelf by the sink, putting it on and, showing it to her. âVery pleased to meet ee, Niamh Fitzgerald, or Neeeee! â but if 'eeâre not âere for the jab, what brings âee to a dump loike Bogmoire, moy luv?â
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 yearâs 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, âYou see, every summer my uncle and his friend from Canada take a team of enthusiastic students â- including me, of course -- and we do a bit of amateur archaeology in the wetlands of Ireland, i.e. bogs and marshes. Weâre 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 â 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 â which was actually on Irish flora - and went to the library to check the mapâs authenticity against modern, state-of-the-art satellite maps, and I discovered this region of S. Kildare isn't mentioned, so I thought Iâd come down and see for myself!â She grinned inanely, âerm, I take it there is a bog near here...?â
Oona wrinkled her little nose, snorted and said, âI ain't got a clue wot eeâs talkinâ bout, gurlee? Ammater-arky-ography? Whaâs that?â
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, ââAmateur Archaeologyâ -- Itâs digging for ancient relics in your spare time.â
Oona raised her arms, did a little twirl to indicate the entire area and chimed sarcastically, âOh well, eeâve cum to roight place, moy luv! Thereâs plenty of relics rounâ âere - and âee wonât need no shovel neever!â She cupped her ear and frowned, âIn fa-a-act... oi thinks oi âears one of âem cominâ now...â
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. âItâs olâ face-ache back from âis lunch â did ee ever âear the loik? A publican oo goes âome for lunch? Oi mean, what does that say âbout âis fare? Thatâs âArry Snadgrass, for ee. Twat.â Oona retrieved her washcloth and began wiping the bar, âIâd bess look loively, don wanna give âim cause to carp, cuz âe luvs to carp...â
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, âItâs startinâ to spit! Oona, âave ee taken âem tableclaths in?â he asked, in the same yokel/Irish twang as his barmaid.
Oona kept polishing the glasses, and replied in a hoity-toity-tone, âOi âave gathered the tablecloths in, arr. âEe wuz talkinâ to me whoile oi was foldinâ âem earlier, remember? But âee wuz probably too busy pervinâ at moy tits to noâice wot oi wuz doinâ!â
Snodgrass sneered and grimaced to exaggerate his denial, âNo, oi did not see what âee was doinâ, Oona Umbert, cos moy oys is always screwed-toight-shut from the earache of âavinâ to listen to the sounâ of âee voice first thing in the fugginâ marninâ... Oh!â Heâd spotted Niamh; his voice went from belligerent boss to genial host, âhmm, hello my dear...!â He loosened the hood and pulled it back, unleashing a mop â 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, ââArry Snadgrass at your service, moy luv: landlord, restaurateur, spirit merchant and bon-viveur... Ahem, is that your liâl Fiesta outsoide?â He shook her hand and looked up to indicate the street, âCuz thatâll come in âandy, that will -- oiâll be needinâ someone wiv traaaaansport...â He stepped back, looked her up and down and licked his lips, âWell thatâs formaliâies done wiv, allâs left for oi to say is -- when can ee start, moy luv?â
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, âHah! Sorry, Mr Casanover Snadgrass, she ain't âere for the jab, sheâs moy chum frum Cork! Youâll âaveta âoire a man after all, cos there ainât no gurlie in âer roight moind gonna stand behoind that there bar anâ put ap wiv âee droolinâ like an âorny mongrel all day!â She put her nose in the air, âNow, weâs a-goinâ outsoide for a fag -- whoy donât âee spend the toime countinâ ur lunchtoime takings - which oi earnt on me own wâ no âelp from ee, moind you!â As she hitched up her skirt and bustled past, he curled a lip and chimed after her like a 5 year old, âIt be raininâ, Miss Smarây-Knickers! Your stoopit âair will get all frizzy â then âeeâll go croyin-aff âome to use âeeâs la-di-da âcrimpersâ â anâ oi wonât see ee for at least an hour!!â Oona turned on her heel and shouted, âHah! If ur shitâole âad modurn electriciây oi could bring me crimpers âere, but âees only got gas, see â ur livinâ in olden toimes, âArry Snadgrass â loike everybody else rounâ âere! Yez wanna get up wâ the 20th century loike the rest of us!â
âWell -- âee ain't gettinâ moy big 20th century umbreller!â 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, âGo on then --Â go out anâ âave ur fag!â
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, âWe-donât-need-no-umber-eller-smarty-arse-cos-weâs-gonna be-sattinâ-in-âer-car â ainât we? So stick that in ur poipe anâ puff on it!!â
Niâs giggles stuck in her throat, âWhat?!â
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, âOiâll be glad to be rid-of-âee, Oona Umbert! If it werenât fer yer Aunâie Ella, oiâda sacked âee years since! And âeeâs uselass cook too â thatâs whoy oi eat aâ âome! Ur stew tastes like burninâ tyres ânâ gives oi the squits!!â He addressed the disinterested third party, âHey â gurlie, dunnee let âer cook for âee â âeeâll be sick as a badger!â
Oona shouted without looking back, âCâmon Ni, the reek of desperation, is turning moy stomach,â She leaned close and whispered in Niamhâs ear, âOh, Iâm so glad to get out of there, my dear, all that testosterone with nowhere to go - itâs a frightful bore, is it not?â
That aside wiped the smile clean off Niâs face: Wait-a-gawd-durn-tootinâ minute there, madam. Isn't that âreeking of desperationâ bit, my line? Didn't I use it in my sign-off speech when I dumped Useless Fleshy Appendage No.4...? The words: âall that testosterone with nowhere to goâ were definitely lifted from a recent dinner-table-debate sheâd 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 didnât fizzle on Oona one iota, she was much too self-obsessed, âCâmon â moy âairâs gonna be like candy-floss if we stay out âere much longer!â As she waited for Niamh to open the door, she jooked inside enthused like a child at a toy store window, âOh beezer! A cassette player! Aw, this is brilly-ant!â When they got in, Oona produced a packet of Majors from her sparkly handbag and offered one to Ni, who politely refused. Normally, she didnât allow smoking in the car, but it was raining, and she was too intrigued by what sheâd 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, âmoind if I use your loighter moy luv?â
âLoiter? How do you mean...â Ni found it hard to concentrate when she looked into those almost colourless eyes. Staring again! Snap out of it, bitch! âSure -- I forgot I had a lighter!âÂ
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, âDo you âave any David Bowie? Or T.Rex? OH! Got any Scott Walker?! I Love Scott! Me and Kris used to listen to âim while we watched old silent filums!â She seemed very pleased to have remembered this, almost like an amnesiac finally achieving total recall.
âUmm... I have heard of those people, but theyâre considered a bit old hat these days,â Niamh said, rather weakly, âI like new music - yâknow, Indie - The Smiths, Pixies, Throwing Muses, and the Stone Roses and the Happy Mondays -- the whole Madchester scene?â
âMadchester? Oiâve never âeard of it. Is it in Ireland or England...?â
âItâs not a place â well it is a place â itâs more a âstate of mindâ... well mindlessness... um...â
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.
Niâs heart beat faster as she looked at the charcoal eyelids against the pale of her skin, the ruby-red-lips... by Jupiter, sheâs beautiful...
The beautiful grey eyes opened. She smiled and said ahem.
Wakey-wakey - she wants you to light-her-up, dummy!
âOH!â 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 Niâs 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 Niâs head like a halo and wafted out of the window. She let go of Niâs wrist and smiled. âYou OK, moy luv?â
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, âUm, you wanna know about Madchester, do ya, la - here! This is âere tâStone Roses...!â Oh gawd, I sound like a total moron!
As soon as the first few bars of I Wanna Be Adored sounded in the Fiestaâs little speakers, Snodgrassâ carrot topped noggin jooked out of a rickety upstairs window and yelled, âTurn that racket off! Youse is scarinâ off moy customers!!â
Oona leaned out of the window, looked up-and-down the street and pretended to speak to Ni, âOooo, âow did you foind a parkinâ space in this mad rush, Niamh?!â Then she looked up at the window and yelled, âthere ain'tâ no customers for moiles, âee twot! SO!!â She turned the stereo up full blast
â... I DONâT NEED TO SELL MY SOUL
HEâS ALREADY IN ME...â
He flicked the Vs and shut the window with a loud bang.
Ni stopped the tape, âNo, sorry, we canât do that - runs down the battery and I donât fancy my chances of getting a jump-start in this place. No one has a car round here and I havenât seen a service station for miles.â
Oona blew a plume of smoke out of the window and explained in a pissed off voice, âArr, âee be roight there. Everybody rounâ âere cycles or walks or uses an âorse ân cart...â
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 âpassengerâ distracted, âum, Harryâs a character, isn't he...?â
Oona looked up at the window and sneered, âBastard-bogey-faced-bugger, more loike. âIs woife doied two year ago anâ eâs been a randy sod ever since. Gawd only knows wot she âad to put up wiv!â
The old woman tiptoed across the square and disappeared into an alley between the pub and a row of cottages.
â... E finks âeâs gonna pull in more punâers wiv a âbuxum barmaidâ, huh?! Oi mean, âe actually put that in the advertoisement in a newsagentâs in town! âBuxum barmaid neededâ! Did you ever âear the loike?!â
Ni was outraged, âGod, he sounds positively Neanderthal!â
âIf that means ââorny shortarsed twotâ, then yar! Thatâs whoy he loikes me to wear this âere koind of dress see,â She put her hands on her hips, thrust out her considerable, porcelain-white cleavage, âthereâs loads oâ single men rounâ this district and âe wants them to keep âem cominâ back - cos I tell ee this â tâainât the ale tha brings âem âere!!â  She blew another plume of smoke out of the window and sighed.
She doth protest too much, think oi. âHave you had any candidates?â Maybe a moonlighting stripper or a down-at-heel lap dancer...
âWe've âad two so far and âe tried it on wâ boaf of âem â oi tolâ âim to face-facts: there ainât no young gurl gonna stand behind that bar with you pervinâ ânâ rubbinâ yerself up against them all noight!â
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! âJesus! Thatâs sexual harassment â you donât have to put up with that â you can take him to a tribunal!â She was about to say this is the 20th century, but it didnât seem appropriate somehow.
Oona tittered at what she perceived to be downright prudery, ââE never troys it on wif me, though! I can âandle meself!â she honked the horn and put her head out of the window and yelled in the direction of the pub: ââE wouldnât DARE troy it on wiv me cos Aunâie Ella would break âis arms, so-she-would, and âE KNOWS IT!â
âWho is your aunt? A local councillor or something?â
âMissus Ella Sparkes. Sheâs âousekeeper at Big âOuse and sheâs sorta the âead of the Elders in our church, although, we ainât sâposed to âave âa leader. Look,â she pointed around the cottages and the little shop, âno church, see? We believe that God is everywhere, so every Sunday everyone takes it in turn to âost the service at their âouse. The rest oâ the week peopleâs supposed to pray at 'ome.â
âDo you live with her?â
âYar - in a cottage down that liâl lane,â she indicated a narrow siding behind the pub that disappeared behind a high, well trimmed hedge. âOiâs an orphan, see. Moy mom took off after I wuz born and sheâs dead now â- doied of pneumonia whoilst livinâ on the streets, they tolâ me -- and moy dad died of old age when oi was 4, so âis sister, me Aunâee Ella -- she wuz widowed when she was 25 anâ ur twins ran away when they was fourâeen -- took me in. Tâainât too bad though. I mostly âave the âouse to meself cuz Aunâeeâs so busy wiv workinâ at the Big âOuse.âÂ
âWho lives in the Big House?â asked Ni, distractedly, still entranced.
âCanât say, sorry,â she replied. regretfully. âOiâd get into a lotta trouble if oi told âee. Itâs a BIG secret.â Then, apropos of nothing, she smiled, sidled up, beckoned Ni near, and whispered in her ear, âIsn't this nice, though? Isn't this kismet? Us meeting like this, out of the blue?â
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: âitâs so pleasant to talk to someone my own age, Ni, you donât know how much this means to me,â 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 girlâs eyes. As the foggy coils unfurled and enveloped their faces, the following words popped into Niamhâs head:Â
<I know how it feels to feel different. I know what itâs like to feel lonely. I know whatâs 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 Oonaâs lips werenât moving, but Niâs 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, âDear-o-dear o-dearie-me, you alroight thur, moy luv, âee ain't gonna be sick, is 'ee...?âÂ
Ni pulled the water-bottle from the pocket in her door and took a drink; when she looked, Oona was smiling mischievously as if sheâd orchestrated the entire episode. She knows I like her so sheâs playing-up; hmm, letâs throw her a curve-ball and see how she likes it! âAnd what about your fiancĂŠ, is he from round here too?â
She was very offended, âNO! âE most certainly is not!â she cried, cringing as if sheâd bitten into something bitter.
Bullseye.
âThe very oy-dear! UGH!â She tossed her cigarette out of the window, spat into the gutter, sat back and crossed her arms, ââEâs a respectable gard from Sligo! I wouldn't make do wiv any of the shoite we get rounâ âere! Perish the fought! Nah, oi got meself a tall âandsome man-in-uniform!â The good mood returned as she waxed lyrical about her intended, ââE wuz loike moy knoight in shoininâ armour! âE came to into the bar with Sergeant Marchant -- heâs the local policeman, heâs married to a woman in the village -- he introduced âim to everybody, cuz eâs gonna be his new constable at the station. Oh, 'e wuz gorgeous! Tall dark ân âandsome wiv these blue eyes thatâll melt your âeart... quoiet 'n strong. I fell for âim roight away! It was luv at first soight!!â
I know how he felt... âWhatâs his name?â
âCraigy. Craig Nevin. 'E proposed after 2 weeks! âE said âe never met anybody loike me before! Oi said âme neitherâ! The only boy oi ever âad any feelinâs for wuz Kris, but that wuz a long time ago, anâ âe donât visit âere now'days,â she said, looking out of the window, as if the memory still hurt.
âWas Kris your childhood sweetheart?â
She seemed slightly embarrassed and didnât directly answer the question, âKris is the big bossâ granâson from âMericar. Used to come every summer. âE went to a school to learn âow to make filums and now âe lives in Los Angeles: âLAâ. Oi âavenât 'eard frum âim since. Have âee ever been to âMericar?â
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), âNot yet. But if I did go, I wouldn't want to go to Disneyland or the Statue of Liberty -- Iâd want to walk in the path of the native tribes and see those fantastic rock formations, like the Grand Canyon!â
Oona joyfully disagreed, âI wish I could go to âMericar -- but I would wanna see Disneyland ânâ the Statue of Liberty â and the malls! Kris used to talk about these âmallsâ full o' every sorta shop 'ee can imagine â and cinemas â and swimminâ pools! Can you 'magine that?! A swimminâ pool in a shoppin' centre?! ... I wish we coulda went there for our âoneymoon.â
âWhere are you going for your honeymoon?â
âCosta Del Sol â long weekend! Itâs gonna be lush,â she chirruped, before looking out of the window and slumping in her seat, â... oh shoite, âere âe comes again...â
Snodgrass was standing in the little doorway of the pub, shaking a mop like a ceremonial spear, âHey, Miss Lazy-Arse Umbert! FLOOR!â he yelled. Heâd 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. âOiâm not payinâ âee a single penny this Froiday til âee do ALL âee chores - anâ oi shall be deducting monies for toime wasted from âee wages as well, so there!!â He licked an imaginary pencil and pretended to write on his hand, âLemme see... âSaturday â 10 minutes ab-sense!â Minus sixpence!!â
Oona took Niamhâs wrist and glanced at her pink Swatch then shouted out of the window, âItâs only just gone 2 -â so this âereâs me tea break! âEe shall just âave to wait, âArold!â
He harrumphed, threw down the mop and stormed back inside.
âStoopid olâ bugger, but oiâd beââer not push at, Aunâieâll kill me if oi donât pull me weight, so...â - she suddenly had a brainwave - âoy! Tell ee what â aunâeeâs workinâ tonoight! Whoy not meet me back âere at 6 oâclock anâ we can go to ours! Oiâll tell ee all about Moy Loife In The Land Oâ Ginger Twots, eh?â
Niamh pulled a face, âUm... sounds delightful, but my uncle will be expecting me home for dinner, and heâs doing his famous Duck Surprise tonight, heâll go mad if I call this late and cancel...?â
Oona reached out and took her left hand again, his time rubbing her thumb gently on the centre of Niâs palm as her big grey eyes seemed to cloud over and sparkle like moonlit silica; the voice changed yet again, âPlease come back, Niamh Fitzgerald, I think weâll be great friends, you and I. Canât you feel a connection?â
Dazed and strangely becalmed, mouth as dry as a desert, breath baited, Ni gave her a bobble-headed nod and sleepily acquiesced, âYeah... Why not? I can call Uncle Paddy and tell him what happened. Heâll be so over the moon that we've got a site for the summer he wonât mind... and more duck for him, too, I suppose...â
âOh joy!â Oona was so excited she kissed Niâs cheek and hugged her tight, squishing the glasses against her eyes and causing the clip-on shades to snap off, but sheâd got her own way and that was all that mattered. âOiâll see âee in the bar at 6, then!â 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 Oonaâs lasting impression would be the Real Ni. Why? Because sheâs so beautiful.... So... absolutely, ravishingly, old fashioned, BEAUTIFUL........... and I canât get the fucking car to start! Canât 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.Â
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...Â
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, sheâd been lucky, no matter where she went she was met by nice, accommodating people whoâd 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?Â
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 â sheâs 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 sheâd 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 â 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?Â
Then there were the weird coincidences: either sheâs been spying on me or she plucked phrases from my head. Is it a con trick? Whoâd 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 youâre a woman alone in the wilderness and you could disappear never to be seen again.
And Paddy doesnât know Iâm here -Â 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 donât let this go all Deliverance or Southern Comfort on me! She knew a lot about most things â 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 â 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 Oonaâs 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, Iâm 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 â even with the wipers on at full tilt! Christ, what if I get stuck in the mud...?!
Then, in the blink of an eye â daylight. The rain receded and stopped. The windscreen cleared.  Sunshine. Itâs turned out nice again. Sheâd 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... Sheâd reached her destination, and ever the optimist, had decided to take it as a good omen: the sun came out for her, itâs almost as if Mother Nature is saying, âCome and see!â
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 doesnât mention the village, but otherwise itâs 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 â or see them off with a pitchfork?
âAch, to hell with it, itâll just act dumb and twinkle like I always do...â
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 â 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! Canât wait until Emil sees this!!
[Emil Labatt, a Canadian forensic scientist from Toronto, was the de-facto joint leader of the Bog-Trotters and Niâs 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:Â She sang to herself in a jokey baritone as she worked:
âMud, 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!â
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 âorrible pong Iâd 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 â
âHey! YOU! What are you doing there?!â
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, âDONâT SHOOT!â
âSsshhhh!â
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. âWell, who are you and what are you doing?â 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 didnât fancy being pelted at close range.
âThis isn't a game Miss Fitzgerald - this is all-out-warfare... huh?â
They heard a crunching sound to their right.
âOkey-dokey.... ! I hear you...â the man whispered and started to back up.
âFee-if-foe-fum... âere cum the Brit wiv a Tommy gun!â the second voice cried.
âDUCK!â hollered the first man, jumping into a shallow ditch behind a fallen tree trunk. She wanted to run, but because sheâd been standing in the one position for so long, her wellies were stuck fast - and before she had time to yell PLEASE DONâT! -- 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 â this time from behind!
âSTOPPIT-STOPPIT-STOPPIT!â she screamed repeatedly.
The men eventually shouted âtruceâ, 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, âYOU STUPIDÂ BASTARDS! LOOK AT THE FUCKING STATE OF ME! My cameraâs ruined!! My clothes are ruined... AAAAAAAAArrrrrrrrrgggggh!!â
(âHow much did it cost to look as if youâre wearing your older brotherâs cast-offs..?)
â800 QUID THIS LOT COST ME! I repeat: AAAAAAAAArrrrrrrrrgggggh!!â
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 didnât feel she could insist.Â
âWeâll take you to the olâ âunting lodge, thereâs showahs and âot-waâer. Then, when you is all scrubbed-up, shiny-'n-new, weâll bring you back to yer car and show you the way âome. âOw-would-that be?â offered Herbie, in his adorable cockernee twang.Â
She looked from one to the other, âHow do I know Iâll be safe?â
Scanlon smiled and opened his eyes wide, âYou donât.â
Gorringe shook his head, âDonât lissen to âim. âEâs only teasinâ. You can trust us,â he said, in a warm, sensitive voice.
Intrigued and mollified by Herbieâs 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: âHow the Dickens did I get here?â she moaned, âone minute Iâm taking photos of swampland... the next Iâm 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.â
Scanlon looked over his shoulder, âEx- military? And how do you arrive at that conclusion, miss?â
âBoth of you are wearing regimental rings, and to be honest, those generic militia outfits fit you too well,â 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, âIâm ex-RAF. Herbie here is ex-army.â
Herbieâs smiling eyes looked at her in the rear-view-mirror, âAnd jus fer the record â we ain't suspicious, darlinâ, just mildly curious. See, the minnit you drove into Bogmire our security lads spotted you via our liâl network of concealed CCTV cameras. They thought youâd taken a wrong turn 'n went into the village to get directions, but when ya didnât turn back and drive out again, proverbial alarm bells started ringinâ.â
Bloody hell! A network of concealed CCTV cameras?! Who the hell do these guys work for?! âOh, so you decided to give me a reception Iâd never forget! The paintball massacre wasn't an accident at all -- was it?!â
The pair looked at each other and smiled, but didnât 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, âMay I see your left hand please? (She scowled) Indulge me. I wonât bite, I promise.â
Sheâd 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, âItchy, is it?â
She nodded, âWhy, what is it?â
âDepends. If it goes red and in the shape of a heart, she loves you. If itâs a red cross, sheâs got it in for you!â
Herbie glanced over his shoulder, âWhat is it âOrace? Cross or an âeart?â
âItâs too early to tell, Herb. But you know our Oona: as changeable as the weather,â 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. âGhouls!â she muttered. On the other hand, her hosts werenât directly responsible and couldn't be more courteous, she didnât feel she had the right to complain; so as they passed through the âtrophy roomâ 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, âIf you donât mind me saying, this is a strange place to have a hunting lodge. When I was out on the water I didnât hear any birds in the wood, not even a crow â so, what do they hunt?â
Scanlon happily explained, âOh, there was plenty of game here right up until the 1920s, thatâs why the decor is so antiquated. There hasnât been a hunting party in these rooms since 1929. Anyway, the boss just shoots clay pigeons. He hates this place, but itâs 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.â He showed her to the locker room and gave her fresh towels and a red tracksuit still in its plastic packing, âThatâs one of the bossâ, he has dozens of them â it might be a bit snug, but itâs better than nothing. Iâll leave you to it and make some drinks. What would you like? No tea or coffee, Iâm afraid, but we have cocoa... or something stronger, maybe?â
She gave him an ironic frown, âDrinking and driving, Mr Scanlon? Cocoa will be fine, thank you very much.â
He smirked, âEnjoy your shower.â
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 âshowersâ 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 â gawd, their boss must be awfully small -- but it didnât 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, âJeez this is so...Arrgh! OOOW! YOU BASTARD!â she screamed as she dislodged yet another wad of tresses and goo from her scalp. She showed it to her hosts, âLook at that!â before tossing it onto the fire, where it hissed and sizzled on the logs. She pointed a finger, âThose paintballs werenât standard issue â they were designed to saturate, not to spatter. That wasn't me getting âcaught in the crossfireâ out there -- that was a deliberate ambush to destroy my camera and ruin my equipment! Wasn't it?!â
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.
âWell, I shall be sending you a bill, you can count on that!â she sniffed, and resumed brushing.
Herbie was as genial as ever, âWas the watah âot enough, my darlinâ?â
âWell aside from my hair, as you can see, Iâm now gloop free â no thanks to you two. But I wouldn't get too close â this tracksuit is likely to explode at any moment -- your boss must be a very small man.â She indicated the monogram on the breast pocket: âO.L.?â
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, âOh âell, indeed - it sounds like its gonna be pissinâ cats-ânâ-dogs again...â
She ignored the attempt at distraction and continued to probe, âHmm. Whatâs the O for... Oswald, Ogden, Oliver, Orville...?â
âSheâll never guess, Herbert. Sheâs too young,â said Scanlon.
She begged to differ, âYouâre talking to a girl who lives with a man who still listens to 20sâ Jazz on a wind-up gramophone! Oberon, Oscar... is it Oscar?!â
They smiled their inscrutable smiles.
âHe must be loaded, huh? What is he? Oil tycoon? Merchant banker? Pop star? Is he in the Rolling Stones?â
Scanlon replied in a never-you-mind voice, âHeâs a very successful business man, and he is also an intensely private man whose golden rules are: âNo Trespassers Under Any Circumstances!â and âCareless Talk Costs Jobs!ââ
The men reclined again, sipped, puffed, and smiled the smile. After a minute of watching her tackle a particularly stubborn tat, Herbie asked, âNiamh, âowja find aht abaht this place?â
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 bossâ 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 clubâs president, her uncle, was a renowned pathologist: (in other words: Donât even think about abducting me! I will be missed!)
Scanlon smiled brightly, raised his mug and said, âAhh, Paddy Gilray, why didnât you say?!â
She was gobsmacked, âYou... you know Uncle Paddy?â
âWell, Iâve met him on a few occasions, very nice man,â Herbie nodded appreciatively and growled the way men do when theyâre 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, youâd have to be a total misanthrope not to be charmed, âvery witty... dresses like an olâ fashioned dandy, dun âe, wot wiv the Irish tartan and the gaudy waistcoats. Lavs classic cars, too â âe came up âere in a beautifully restored cream 1955 Zephyr...â
Suddenly, Scanlon scowled and tersely interjected, âDoes paddy know youâre here, Niamh?â
The jag of seriousness in the question caught her unawares, âNo... No, No. like I said, I found the map in a bookshop and itâs a surprise... but you say Uncle Paddyâs been here before...?â
Scanlon nodded, âThe 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.â
âI didnât know about any of this...?â
Herbie nodded, ââE wuz sworn to secrecy. We all were.â
Scanlon winked, âPaddy has enjoyed the bossâ hospitality on several occasions, mâ dear. Paddy and the boss are classic car buffs â they go to auctions together!â
She wasn't so cocky now: he never told any of us about that! Iâm pretty sure Emil doesnât 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: âso, youâve been tawkinâ to our Oona, âave ya?â asked Herbie, cradling his hot-tot in his lap.
Yet again, she was at a loss. She didnât want to get Oona into trouble, but they seemed to know her every move, so, âUm, I asked her for directions...?â
Herbie made a face, âThatâs awright! Why so nervous, treacle? Youâd think you âad been up to summink the way ya reacted!â
Scanlon winked â not a very appetising sight â and teased, âProbably a bit dazed after meeting our Oona.â He clucked his tongue, âSheâs a bit of a one-off, isn't she Miss Fitzgerald?â
Herbie: âSheâs the âahse-keeperâs niece. She used to run-arahnd the estate when she wuz small â into everything she wuz â we âad to watch her like âawks!â
Scanlon concurred with a sombre nod and covered his eyes to hide his ennui, âThen she reached puberty ... deary, deary me...â The men looked at each other, shook their heads, rolled their eyes and heaved world-weary sighs.
Niamh felt compelled to say something positive, âWell, she was very nice... very helpful, although, she does seem a bit... uncomplicated? I hope she isn't in any trouble...?â
âShe is trouble â especially when sheâs beinâ helpful! Thatâs why things get complicated!â Scanlon exclaimed, âSheâs as crafty as get-out and she can turn on the charm whenever she likes â but she can turn on you just as quick. Asked you to meet her for a spot of dinner, did she?â
She looked at the palm of her left hand (it was itchy but there was still nothing there) âYes... I told her Iâd see her at 6...â
Scanlon shook his head,âIâd advise against it; for one thing her cooking is abominable, and for another she...â
Herbie, definitely the more relaxed of the two, put a hand on his colleagueâs arm to interrupt, ââOrace, the poor galâs lived all her life in a place full of ugly nutters ooâve been brought-up to fink theyâre a notch below pond-scum on the Food Chain. The only reason she ain't done a moonlight flit is cos sheâs at the mercy of âer Auntie Ella! I fink sheâs entitled to reach aht to someone âer own age. There ain't anovver young gal wivvin 20 miles of this place.â
Niamh liked Herbert Gorringe, heâs stalwart man like Uncle Phil: big solid and reliable; so she popped the big question to him, âWill you have a word with your boss about letting us explore the bog?â
Sheâd asked the wrong man; this time Herbie was the unwilling one, âI dunno, petal. The boss is unlikely to let anybody go nosinâ around in his backyard, especially since itâs unspoilt countryside wiv a protected community.â He looked to his companion, âWot dâya fink, âOrace - youâve lived âere awl your life?!â
Scanlon shrugged, âWell, besides the fact that that the bog hasnât been touched for at least 200 years, thereâs a village full of idiots who think it contains the slumbering spawn of Satan.â
For the first time she saw a crack in the façade. There was a tiny flicker of irritation in Gorringeâs 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, âReally?! If itâs a no-go area in an estate thatâs hundreds of years old -- we've hit the mother lode! Thank God for superstitious peasantry!â
Herbie wasn't happy. âWe shouldn't mess wiv their beliefs, âOrace, you know that.â
Time to be creative: âYeah, but if they donât go near the place, then it stands to reason that we could do the excavation without their knowing....?â
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, âDidn't I see a Greenpeace badge on your jacket?â asked Scanlon, with a mischievous wink.
Herbie: âTree-âugger, eh? I dunno why Paddy didnât just come to us in the first place?â
Niamh: âIt told you itâs a surprise - heâs none-the-woiser.â
Herbie: âDid you say, âwoiserâ?â
Scanlon: âSee, you spend 10 minutes in her company and already sheâs under your skin.â
Niamh baulked, thumbing the itchy patch on her palm, âErm, she says sheâs getting married to a policeman, so there canât be that much wrong with her....? Unless sheâs lying of course...â
âAye, well that is true,â said Scanlon, âCraigy Nevin, from Sligo â nice lad. Bit dim and a bit full-of-himself, but a solid man. Local cop.â He nudged Herbie, âShe calls him her knight in shining armour and he thinks heâs got himself a little princess â cos she is looker, no doubt about that â but as my dad used to say: âthe deadliest plants have the most beautiful bloomsâ...â
ââOrace, sheâs jas a liâl girl in a womanâs body.â
âAnd what a body.â
âFunny, most people are only interested in 'er mind, 'Orace!â
They laughed as if sharing another private joke. Ni drank her cocoa and looked from one to the other, unsure where this was going.Â
Scanlon looked Niamh in the eye and asked, âHow did it feel when she touched you?â
âWell, 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.â
Scanlon: âCuriouser and curiouser?â
Herbie was keen to play-it-down âShe has charisma â ya see it all the time in LA. Blondes like âer are a dime a dozen in âOllywood. Porn stars anâ ookers most of âem â thatâs not to put her dahn -- itâs jast the way she likes to dress. Most of the chumps rounâ âere dress like dossers, thatâs why she stands aht.â
âHow come a pagan Cornish tribe wound up living in Ireland, anyway?â 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, ââOrace, you know the boss donât like this sorta tawk, so keep it short ânâ sweet, mate.â
The groundskeeper took issue in a semi-serious, patronising manner, âHerbert, 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 mâ dear?â
Wow, he seems to know lot about me!
Niamh ignored the thought: this was too important. She shook her head and answered emphatically, âNo, our interests are purely scientific!â
Again, Gorringe looked at Scanlon and gave him a look that read: tread carefully. Scanlon took another sip of his tot, then compromised, âIâll give you the âsanitised versionâ, the one I used to recite to guests when I still worked for the Roxboroughs â the English family that owned this place before the present proprietor.
âSee, 200 years ago the 8th Duke of Roxborough â 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 â- 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 â 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.â
Now this was getting interesting â but Herbie was still determined to change the subject and tersely interrupted, âAre ya studying Archaeology at uni, Niamh?â
âNo, thatâs just a hobby...â Uh oh, I know whatâs coming next...
âSo what are you studying?â asked Scanlon.
Hereâs 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 sheâs already under suspicion, it might convince them that she had ulterior motives after all. In the end she âkept it lightâ and blurted it out as if it was as everyday as chemistry, âIâm doing Criminal Psychology. Can you believe it? Itâs the first time a course has been run at Trinity and Iâm in my second year â mum went mad, of course â 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! Iâm really into murder and stuff -- I suppose itâs cuz mummy writes crime novels and Uncle Paddyâs a pathologist. It must be in my genes!"Â
She needn't have worried; rather than arousing suspicion or inspiring a lot of awkward questions â they seemed to have heard of it!
âCriminal Psychology! Would you believe it!â Â said Scanlon, tapping his friendâs knee, âDid you hear that, Herbert â talk about serendipity!â
ââThere are no coincidences! Only serendipity...ââ growled Herbie, in a thick German accent. They laughed. Â
Friends again; theyâre back on script. Nevertheless, she found their laughter strangely infectious and giggled along, âYou must be the only people Iâve ever met who've heard of it.â
Scanlon sat back and intimated with a hint of intrigue, âWell, to be honest, a friend of ours runs an institute: SCICI -- St Cedricâs Institute for the Criminally Insane. Have you heard of it?â
She immediately stopped laughing. This was a decidedly unexpected turn of events, âYou know Rossington?â She forgot herself for a moment and almost sneered, however, the tone of her voice was enough to curtail the hilarity and raise eyebrows.Â
âNot a fan, eh?â said Herbie, peering over the rim of his mug.
Is he smiling or...
âDoesn't sound like a fan, Herbert,â said Scanlon, sighing despairingly.
Dr James Rossington was a pet hate (although it was his foundation that funded the course, but that didnât 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, âWell, on the plus side heâs suave, debonair, effusive and charming, but on the other, heâs 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 (doesnât 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!â she cocked her head and curled a lip, âSo, no, since you ask: ânot a fanâ.â
Scanlon frowned, ââHis latest wheeze?â I take it youâre referring to that comatose child-killer?â
Niamh clicked her finger and pointed, âExactly! Barry McKee! Heâs got that monster and is in the process of exploiting him!â
Herbieâs eyes narrowed, âAnâ you anâ Paddy Gilray anâ DS Somerville, this is the verdict of you all, is it?â
âAhem, yes?!â There was no stopping her now, she was astride her high horse, sword of truth in hand, brandishing her hairbrush like a conductorâs baton when emphasising salient points, âThe general consensus at Gardai HQ is heâs a freak show impresario, not a serious psychiatrist...â She was slowly running out of steam, and the expressions on their faces hadn't changed; they just stared impassively. She stumbled on,  â... heâs 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...?â  She was getting very tired. She raised her eyebrows, câmon 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 theyâd finished coughing and wheezing, they high-fived and Scanlon said, âSee, Herbie â out of the mouths of babes! I told you we had nuthinâ to worry about!â
âAht o' the mouths of babes!â Herbie cried.
âSo... you two think heâs a charlatan too...?â she asked, foggily.
Scanlon nodded, âWe do. But unfortunately, he was an unwelcome fixture in our lives.â
Niamh was nodding, her eyes were closing...
Herbie was more diplomatic, âE was the bossâ shrink at one time and âe cured one o' the family of drug addiction, so âe was a bit of a Golden Boy as far as the ol' man wuz concerned.â
Niamh nodded more deeply...
Scanlon was frank, âIt was the boss who put up the money and convinced the board at St Cedricâs to give him the job. It was a thank you for years of selfless service and a steady supply of prescription narcotics...â
âZzz............................. hic!â Niamh was passing out.
âI think we've said enough, âOrace.â
âI think youâre right, Herbert.â
Niamh was fast asleep.
Herbie got up and peeked into her mug. âAll gone?â asked Scanlon.
âYup. All gawn. No dregs.â
âWorks a treat doesnât it?âÂ
Gorringe took a little bottle from his cardigan pocket, âIt does exactly what it says on the tin, âOrace!â 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.
âShe wonât be back! Mr Scanlon willâve told âer to go ân keep away from âee!â said Harry Snodgrass, watching her from the other end of the bar,
âShurrup, âArry,â Oona growled, in her donât-e-mess-with-me-voice. The funny thing was, she seemed more nervous than angry.
Snodgrass prattled on, âOiâm jast troyinâ to be koind, moy dear â âdunnee get ee âopes-upâ, says oi -- and now look! Sheâs stood 'ee up!â
He was right, though. Niamh didnât come back. Instead, much to his surprise, one of the bossâ 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 oulâ spinster who liked nothing better but to stir things up (hence her nickname Dolly Mixer), was sitting over a half oâ 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, âDid I see Oona Umbert go off in the big car at teatime... Oi wunner whoy? Would it have summat to do with the gurlie âoo came âere today? The one I saw âer wiv in a car at 2 oâclock this afâernoon?â
There was a collective gasp and all the Redmenâs eyes and pipes swung towards Harry Snodgrass, currently cleaning glasses behind the bar. âOona tolâ oi to keep it quoiet, folks, yâknow what âer is loike. But the gurlie was gone wivvin 10 minutes â âer wuz only askinâ directions!â
Dolly had an answer for that, âFunny, from where oi was standinâ it looked like they wuz kissinâ.â
The crowd murmured discontentedly.
Snodgrass stomped his foot, âDolly! Eeâve been spoyinâ again avenât ee â sneakinâ âbout like Mata Hari doinâ Ella Sparkesâ dirty work! Cos Oona knows, yâknow â she thinks 'eeâs funny or eeâd be dead ânâ buried long ago!â He looked at the rest of his customers, âSheâs been as good as gold since she got engaged -- sheâs all excoited about âer weddinâ - anâ âee all know it to be so - or we would be digginâ us some graves!â
Lots of yarrs and thaâs roights from the discomfited clientèle.
But Dolly held the trump card. She casually sipped her porter and said: âIf sheâs dun nuffink wrong, âArry Snadgrass, then âow come sheâs been fetched up to the Big âOuse in a big car? Makes âee think.â She addressed her gingery audience, âDunnit make ee think?â
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 âliaisedâ with the house and was always first with the gossip. Like the landlord, he waved away any talk of impropriety, âHush-it-now, Dolly, accordinâ to Charlie at the security gates that was just a silly wee girl who took a wrong turn. She wonât be back.â
âSheâs not gonna back outta the weddinâ, is she?â 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, âOh gawd âelp us all if she donât get married, Sergeant. Our lives wonât be worth livinâ.â
âOh, but can ye imagine life w'out her...â mused another, in a fanciful tone.
This comment roused a lot of ahhs ânâ oohs and looking off into space with dreamy smiles; those whoâd had a few finally voiced their feelings: âArr, the peace and quoiet...â -- âNo more watchinâ everything you say!â â âNo more of âer awful singinâ!â -- âNo more of her fugginâ stew!â â âAww, wonât loife be sweet!â
âOi âate to disappoint âee, folks,â Dolly Crombie lied, shouting over the outbreak of bucolic whimsy and what ifs, âbut oi saw Oona blow her a kiss from the doorstep and the gurlie smiled anâ blushed like a smitten lover! Iâd say theyâre gonna meet up at the Big âOuse fer a romantic tryst!â
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, âLook â she was just a wee girl scouting for somewhere to dig â sheâs an amateur archaeologist.â
ââOo goes digginâ in a bog?â asked Snodgrass, speaking for them all.
Marchant sighed, set down his tiles and patiently explained, âArchaeologists are scientists â they dig up old stuff from generations ago â sometimes thousands of years ago. They clean 'em up and put them in museums so that people can look at them and say âoh lookee-here, a broken pot from the Iron Ageâ and take a moment to wonder at how far we've come 'n reflect on our mortality. Alright?â
Dolly Crombie snickered, âSo-oo, if everyfinâs rosy in the garden, wotâs Mr Scanlon want wiv Oona at this toime of noight?â
The Redmen puffed and grumbled another bassy âArr...â
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: âIf you must know, itâs not Mr Scanlon sheâs goinâ to see. Itâs his nibs. He wants to give her his blessing.â
The room resounded with relieved sighs, âAhh... âIs Nibs...â They knew if anyone could control the capricious Oona Umbert, it was 'Is Nibs.
âOK? Now can I get back to me dominoes?!â yelled Marchant, knocking the table.
The crowd were buoyant again. Even Dolly Crombie was somewhat pacified... if a little disappointed...
Pagham House:Â âCome in and sit down, my dear.â
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. Sheâd 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 thereâs âIs 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.Â
Sheâd never been summoned for âa tĂŞte-Ă -tĂŞteâ before. She didnât know what a tĂŞte-Ă -tĂŞteâ was. She sat down, pulled her shawl tight around her shoulders and clutched her spangly handbag to her chest. âYou wanted to see oi, sur...?â 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, âThereâs no need to be afraid, Oona. This isn't a bollockinâ. We have some good news,â he announced, brightly.
Oonaâs 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: âReally?!â She shook her handbag and suppressed the urge to jump up and dance -- meanwhile, Laphenâs 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, âHey now, hey now â calm down, calm down! Thatâs part of the deal, my darlinâ, we have to learn how to control ourselves or we canât proceed apace, eh? Besides, thereâs about a half-a-million quidâs worth of antique glassware in here!â
Now remember what Dr Jimmy said: Deep Breaths before any stressful conversations, she told herself;Â 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 sheâd taken in what heâd 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, âSheâs luvverly, sur, I took to âer straightaway. Thank you very much, sur.â
The old man sat down again and slurped the dregs from the bowl, âIt took a lot of doinâ, but we got there in the end.â
âOi is so grateful to youse for all youseâve done...â
He held up the bowl, âThatâll be all.â 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, âHave your auntie and Mr Scanlon been looking after you?â
Oona put on her serious face, âYes sur, oi got no complaints, sur. Moy loife seems to be on the up-ân-up!â
He smiled, âDo you ever wonder why, Oona? Why Iâve devoted so much time and energy on this little venture?
âI s'posed itâs cos you is a koind-âearted man, sur. Aunâee says youâre a philanderer.â
âPhilanthropist!â he chuckled, scratching his ear.
The ivory-white brow wrinkled as she tried to recall, âNo... oiâm pretty sure it was philanderer, sur...?â
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, âThat bloody aunt of yours!â
Oona chuckled, âOh - âeeâs so funny when âee does that sur!â
He winked, âLet me tell you, my darlinâ, this face, this rubbery, be-dimpled fizzog has made me millions over the years. Iâve rubbed shoulders with the great 'n the good, but when it comes down to it, I love to make people laugh - and itâs always nice to know Iâve still got it!â He patted her hand as he got back on track, âNo, thereâs a very good reason why I might be interested. Câmere here...â He walked her to a tall cheval-mirror at the back of the room, âLook at you! Youâre a raving beauty and you have the Gift, Oona.â He took her hands and looked up into her grey eyes, âAre you trying to you read me right now?â
Shocked, she looked way and covered her mouth. Dr Jimmy was very strict about not going into peopleâs heads unless she had permission. It was rule No.1!
âAre you?â he insisted. â âI wonât be angry, honestly. Go on. Try.â
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, âYa canât, can ya?â
She gazed into his bright blue eyes and muttered, âNo. No, I canât...â Her face transformed yet again, this time it was a gape of amazement as the truth sank in, âYou... youâre one of... us?â
He put a finger to his lips, âShhh, now! Iâm not a thoroughbred like you, but thanks to my motherâs genes Iâm Sensitive and thanks to my fatherâs genes I had the sense to run away and make something of myself. When Iâd made enough money, I bought this house and came back. But thatâs just between you-ân-me, my darlinâ, OK?â
âOi wonât breeve a wurd sur, you can be sure of it,â she said, crossing her heart.
âI know you wonât, Oona, I know you can keep a secret.â He looked at her in the mirror again and said, wistfully, âYou remind me so much of a little girl who lived in the orphanage.â
âDid she die in the fire?â
âYes. 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,â he explained, regretfully, âwe all thought she was gonna wake up one morning, tall, beautiful with silver hair, just like you...â 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, âBut I need to know â and this is very important, Oona -- so you must be 100% honest with me, donât worry about upsetting me. Eh?â
âVery well, sur....? Iâll answer truthfully. What is it?â She began to feel nervous again.
âDo 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?â he asked, with concern.
She had a think about it and finally answered, âAunâie tolâ me I was locked up cos oi was too dangerous to be amongst ordinary folk. Oi canât 'member much about that bit, see, cos oi was hearin' the voices by then, oi was seeinâ things, oi couldn't unnerstand what was goinâ on.... But no, sur, nobody hurt me. Oi don���t 'ate nobody.â
He stood up and put a hand on her shoulder, âI need to know, my darlinâ, because youâre about to become part of someone elseâs life, and any hidden anger, any baggage, might affect that relationship. So nowâs the time to speak up.â
âNo sur, Iâm as happy as can be!â she said, but one thing was bothering her, âbut what about Dr Jimmy, sur? Isn't âe gonna wanna see oi before we do this?â
Laphen smiled and shook his head, âDonât you worry about Dr Jimmy, his work is done. Heâs taught you all he can and now itâs time for you to stand on your own two feet. You understand, donât you?â
She nodded, âYes sur.â
He stroked the back of her hand, âGood. 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 --Â alright? Your Gift is a privilege, not a god-given right, so respect her privacy and do not open the door unless youâre invited. Is that clear, Oona?â
She put her right hand on her left breast and took an oath, âOi swear oi wonât disappoint you, sur!âÂ
âListen to me Oona â you must settle down, now. All that hard work in the past few years, all the pain of the transformation â itâs all been leading to this moment: you now have a mentor and a husband. Yeâre all set!
âYou can get married this Saturday without a care in the world. Unfortunately, I canât attend in person, but Iâll be there in spirit; and of course, Iâll be providing all the spirits...â
 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. â... Ni? Are you in there?â
She was dressed for bed - although she doesnât remember going to bed, just waking up in a spinning room with a lurching tummy. So now sheâs holding onto the toilet bowl like a shipwreck survivor clinging to a rubber-ring, feeling like hell and wishing she was dead.Â
âCome in Paddy.... it isn't locked...â she croaked.
His head popped around the door, âLook, Iâm off to the golf course, sweetie, Iâll ring later...â then he saw her, âOh, dear God in heaven, what have we here!â He put down his clubs, ran to her side, carefully lifted her head and put a hand on her brow, âJeezus! Youâre on fire! He picked her up and carried her like a babe in arms to her room and put her to bed,âWhat did you eat last night?â
âIt canât be food poisoning - I didnât eat anything all day and I had a light supper when I got home,â she mumbled.
âWhere did you go?â he asked, checking her eyes.
âUm... Kildare,â she replied, unsure whether she should divulge any more information, but she was too ill to think of a convincing story.
âKildare? What were you doing in Kildare?â
âIt was meant to be a surprise... I was scouting for locations for the Bog-Trottersâ summer dig and I found this really great place... but I think I mightâve picked-up a bug along the way...â
Paddy stuck a thermometer under her tongue and mused, âDuring 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.â
âWas he OK?â
âNo, he died, God bless him. Fortunately for you, Iâm a man who learns by his mistakes, so youâre in safe hands...â he joked. âAnd what happened at this place you discovered?â
She put up a hand to stop him, âPlease, not now Paddy, Iâm too sick to explain myself...â
Talking of hands, she was reminded to look at her left palm: there was now a little ruddy heart that didnât itch anymore. She didnât 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 didnât 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, âFeeling better, Twinkle?â The sudden interjection didnât 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, âIf this was a katana your head would be rolling across the tiles, chummy.â Â
âVery impressive, âMrs Peelâ. Is this down to too much caffeine... or do I have to test your urine...?â
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, âIwokeupfeelinglikethis!I swear, IâveneverfeltsoaliveanditâsnotcuzIâvebeendrinkingordruggingoroverstimulating, if-you-must-know â Iâm just a bundle of energy â I jogged â I jogged 8 miles today - andthenIcamebackdidallthehouseworkincludingtheironing! What about that, huh? Huh?â
âJesus Mary and Joseph will you ever slow down and listen to yourself!â he said, slightly alarmed, taking her hands and holding them tight, âYouâre trembling. I can feel the tension. You have to clam down.â
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. âYeah, youâre right, I canât sit still â but I feel so good...â
âLook â before you say or do anything else, please sit down!â Paddy pulled out a chair. She sat and waited impatiently while he examined her eyes, âYou donât show any obvious sign of intoxication or toxicity, so Iâm guessing this is your bodyâs way of resetting itself after that frightful ague and the Big Sleep.â
âAgue? Big Sleep? I was in bed for, what...â she glanced at the clock on the cooker, â8 hours?â
âThis is the 3rd of April, Twinkle. You've lost a day.â
She pulled a face, âFsshht!! Are you telling me I was out for... 26 hours?!â
Paddy found this highly amusing and explained, âOh you were out of it, alright,â he tittered, âyou were delirious! You were that poor little girl in The Exorcist â tossing ân turning, swearing in your sleep, kicking off the sheets, running hot-and-cold â sweating so much I had to fetch an icepack and put it on your neck â that inspired another volley of abuse â you called me a âfat dickless bastardâ on that occasion, if I remember rightly. Then you started shivering so much I had to get extra blankets â 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 youâre wiping vomit off your nieceâs headboard.â
âOh, Paddy, I wondered why there were so many sheets in the laundry basket â- and hereâs me gadding about like an eejit without a care in the world â you deserve an explanation...â
Paddy threw up his arms and beat a retreat, âAh-ah, food first, dear! I need sustenance! Iâm fit to drop...â
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, âPaddy, why didnât you tell me you met Ronald Reagan in â84?â
For once in his life, Paddy was at a loss for words. He put down his crossword and carefully considered his reply, âWell, 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.â
She raised an eyebrow, âIt was 5 years ago. I thought you mightâve mentioned it by now.â
âExactly, it was such a non-event Iâd forgotten all about it. You know Iâm not impressed by status or celebrity.â
He was being evasive and she knew it. âDonât get me wrong Uncle Patrick, I love-you-to-little-bits ân all -- but I also know when youâre hiding something, and I should warn you before you dig yourself deeper -- Iâm apprised of the fact that youâve been a regular visitor ever since.â She crossed her arms, cocked an eye and put on a posh English voice, âExpound, you scoundrel!â
âThereâs no big cover-up - I forgot about meeting Reagan, not the visits. But nothing about the affair is indelibly etched on my memory. If heâd wound up on my slab with an interesting wound, then of course Iâd be attentiveness incarnate, but otherwise...â
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 didnât mention Oona in great detail, just that sheâd got directions from a beautiful barmaid who was getting married on Saturday.
â... 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,â she hooked a thumb in the direction of the laundry room, âthey put all my gear in a bin-liner and gave me a blank cheque for the damage â very generous.â 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, âBut... you didnât feel as if youâd been interfered with, or anything untoward had occurred whilst you were unconscious?â
âNO! You know me Paddy, if I had any worries on that score Iâd go straight to Uncle Phil!â
Paddy picked up the cheque, âHmmm... Herbert Gorringe.â He thought hard and eventually found a face to fit the name, âOh yes, I remember him now! Herbie! Big, ex-army man. Heâs Ollieâs driver...Oh dear...â Paddy winced as the cat escaped the bag, skipped across the room, and jumped onto his nieceâs lap.Â
âOLLIE, is it? OL?! OLLIE LAPHEN? Thatâs who owns the land?! The Quare Geg himself?!â
As Ni brayed with mocking laughter, Paddy shook out his paper and harrumphed, âI sâpose you young right-on-lefties think itâs 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 âwarmongering entourageâ, not to mention our insalubrious host â but I donât care, because Iâll Iâll freely admit â for the first time in my life I was selfish! I did something for Patrick Ignatius Gilray! Pagham House was a place Iâd always wanted to visit, so I relaxed my standards and let my hair down.â
âHmm, and you didnât know about the village or the bog?â
âNo, 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 â or should I say hangar! Oh, but the cars, Twinkle. Those beautiful cars! He has a fleet of multicoloured, maddeningly-magnificent American cars...â 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 - âBy-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?â 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, âI just remembered -- Iâve still got the samples I took â they were bagged ânâ sealed and put away before I got gunked!â 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. âExcellent!â said Paddy, cleaning his nezzies on his silk handkerchief, âthisâll give us an idea of the kind of bacteria weâre dealing with... Whatâs the matter now?â
âThere is no matter now!â She stood by him, stooped and held the little nest of glassware up to the light, âSee? Empty! The bastards must've taken them out, rinsed them and put them back while I was asleep!â She shot her uncle a sideward look, âPaddy, what kind of company are you keeping?!â
The grizzled dandy was stumped, âHmm. It is a bit over-the-top, isn't it? I think Iâll give them ring tomorrow and see what they have to say for themselves.âÂ
She looked off into space and mused, âYâknow, 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 Iâve ever come across in wetlands before. Remember when we found that rotting stag in Offaly â the one that had been lying in a trough for days in the middle of summer? Well it was worse than that!â She sniffed the skin on her forearms â yâknow, itâs like itâs 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?â
âLeptospirosis? Well, running hot ânâ 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 itâs some new fast-acting strain of the disease peculiar to Ireland and youâre the first ever victim. It could be a reaction to some form of natural gas created by the chemicals in the bog,â he held the test-tubes up to the light again, âwe could go on surmising forever, but without hard evidence, weâre whistling Dixie.â
She held up her hands, âWell, itâs either that or they slipped me a mickey. Which do you think is more likely?â
âI think you should lay off the Film Noir and stick to Renoir...â
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 youâre 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 werenât prone to random silliness or surreal delusion, they werenât fantasies wrought from her subconscious; they were proper interactions, albeit set in fantastical locations. Theyâd 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 Niâs every word, nodding appreciatively when she heard something she agreed with, asking intelligent questions when she didnât 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 sheâd talk herself out and theyâd sit silent, looking into each otherâs eyes... then closer... they would be just about to kiss when...Â
... the fucking alarm would sound and it would all fade and disappear! Sheâd stare up at the blank, white ceiling feeling utterly bereft.Â
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 sheâd been skipping classes to indulge these fantasies. Heâd come home in the evening and sheâd be making dinner, as chirpy as a sandboy.
âAre you in love?â he asked.
âWhat make you think I might be in love?â she chuckled, stirring a pot of spaghetti sauce.
âItâs not another Star Wars geek, is it? Or one of those longhaired New Romantic types who dresses like a vaudevillian gypsy?â
She ignored him and enquired, âDid you ring Pagham House and talk to them? Did you ask about the bog? Whatâd they say?â
âThey asked me to come down on Saturday to discuss it â Ollieâs 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 â no, you canât come â they asked specifically that I attend on my own.â
âAnd... you think youâll be OK?â she asked, with a concerned frown.
âWhy shouldn't I be OK? Iâve met the man -- heâs been nothing but a perfect gentleman!â he protested.
She took his hand, âCâmere, I want you to see this,â and took him to the sitting room.
Being unfamiliar with Laphenâs back catalogue (they preferred Laurel & Hardy, Keaton and the Marx Bros), sheâd hired a few videos to get a sense of Ollieâs oeuvre. Video No.1 was a compilation of three 20 minute Max Sennett produced Laffinâ Boy comedy shorts from the early 1930s. It was all slapstick and gurning as far as she could see; âI got caught-up in the energy of it and smiled a lot, but there were no belly-laughsâ -- she wrote in her notes -- âtypical male-oriented humour: loads of nubile starlets dressed as schoolgirls - the depression era Benny Hill! 4-out-of 10!â 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 âmarked his transition from broad comic to character actorâ. It was such a great performance he was nominated for an academy award. âHe should have won! Brilliant turn as a conniving little weasel â but the undercurrent of vulnerability makes you feel sorry for him! - 9-out-of 10!â Â
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 friendâs 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.Â
At first, heâs 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 heâs 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 â expletives deleted - translates as: âHow can you ask me that? Havenât you done your research? What are you a bunch of hacks? This is an ambush! Get out of my house!!â and trashes most of the crewâs equipment (the last few seconds were culled from the ADâs handheld 16mm) before chasing them off with a shotgun.
Ni hit the pause button. âThis is your pal?â 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: âHe looks like a complete and utter psychopath!!â
âOch, that film was made years ago, during his hell-raising days,â Paddy tittered, "heâs 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...â
That Saturday morning:Â 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, âI take it you want me to drop you off at the village so you can attend that barmaidâs wedding.â
âBrilliant, Holmes, what gave me away?â
âThe big hat (she was wearing her baggy jammies with a big blue felt hat) and the fact that youâve talked about nothing else for the last 4 days: Oona this, Oona that, Oona said this, Oona said that.â It was true, sheâd been talking nonstop about her new best friend, although, she kept it to the funny accent and her amazing looks â 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, âJust so long as you donât suddenly get up and do something disruptive when they ask if there is âanyone who knows of any just impedimentâ... etc, etc...â
Ni immediately snapped back: âIâm not in love with her!â
Oh God! You absolute div! He was joking!
Paddy peered at her over the rims of his specs and gave her a sly grin, âMethinks you doth protest too much!â
She laughed it off and needlessly over-explained, âI mean sheâs 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?â
Since sheâd been daft enough to put the notion into his head, Paddy teased her with it, âI donât have an all-consuming crush on Ollie Laphen. And the more I think about it, sheâs dominated your entire week - youâve been mooning around, you havenât been studying, and worst of all youâve been shopping.â He gave her a bemused frown, âProper shopping â 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?â
âTheyâre for the summer! Umm, I thought Iâd go in a new direction...?â
Paddy shrugged, went back to his paper and shook his head, âI suppose youâve been gassing for hours on the phone...â
âI canât ring her - they donât have phones, remember, itâs against their religion.â
Paddy was puzzled, âThen that 10 minute conversation you had last Saturday must've made quite an impression!â
She thought for a moment, then replied, âLook, I felt a connection, yâknow? I canât describe it... I just want to see her one last time before she becomes a downtrodden housewife...â
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, âThe open top is a considerable advantage for the taking of candid photographs.â 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 (sheâd 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-lookâ. 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, âWho are you and whatâve you done with Niamh Fitzgerald?â
âOch, Paddy,â she trilled, âlet me be a stranger just for one day...â
When they reached Bogmire, Paddyâs misgivings vanished as his jaw dropped. He took off his goggles and gawped, âHow come Iâve never seen this place before?! This is tremendous! This is....â he sat up on the back of his seat, threw his head back and drank in the atmosphere, â.... breathtaking, quite arousing  -- I must get out my Pentax!â
Ni tished-away his double entendres, got out, looked around and bemoaned the shiny, metallic blots on the landscape: âItâs such a pity there are so many cars parked here today -- you shouldâve seen it when I rolled-in on Monday â it was like going through a time warp.â
âSmile, Time-Travel-Girl!â 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, âYâknow, I can still smell that stink amidst the flowers. Maybe thatâs why theyâre so keen on horticulture â theyâre trying to mask the whiff.â
Paddy inhaled deeply and disagreed, âOh, all I can smell is Spring flowers. I think itâs just your imagination,â he glanced at his watch and bounced down again, âRight, running late, Twinkle -- save me a slice of wedding cake â and above all - DONâT get pished and start a row!â
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, âDonât go in there if youâre a God-fearinâ Christian, chile -- itâs a holy mockery!â he barked loudly so that those inside might hear him. âMay the Lord have mercy on their Souls...â 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 --Â 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 beggarsâ 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 --Â presumably the groomâs mother â heckled in a voice wracked by hiccuping-sobs, âItâs profane! This is a mockery! How can they say such things?!â and if Oonaâs 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 â 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: âBoo! This is a travesty! Shame on you!â
Redman: âThank ee sur!â
Guest: âShut-the-fuck-up bumpkin boy!â
Redman: âVery kind of ee sur!â
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 Niâs 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: âDo you, Craig Nevin of Sligo take onto you this woman, Oona Umbert, in âoly matrimony and swear to do roight by her and stray ye not from the paff of roighteousness ânâ fidelity, lest ye be impaled on a pole then roasted on a spit oâer the fires of hell as the goblins of Satan stick thy peeling flesh wiv toastinâ-forks and torment ee for all eternity, forever and ever?ââ
There was a loud âAMENâ from the locals.
âNot there! Only at the end of a prayer!â Mrs Sparkes thumped the lectern with a meaty fist and scolded them, âHow many times do I have to tell yez?â Then she singled-out one particular offender in their midst, âBilly Kipps â I see âee! Donât ee dare sup ale whoilst oiâm doinâ the Lordâs wurk!â
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 groomâs party were so upset.
Mrs Sparkes turned back and glared at Craigy, â....WELL?!â
Craigy snapped to attention, âWhat?â
âDo ye swear?!â
âUm... sometimes, if Iâm angry or I hurt meself...? Â
âDO YOU SWEAR TO BE FAITHFUL TO HER?!â
Craigy jumped, âI DO! I do!â He shrank a little, as if his life had suddenly flashed before his eyes. He looked at Oona and groaned, â... I do?â
This exchange was accompanied by a hubbub of discontent from the groomâs side.
Mrs Sparkes turned to her niece, and in a tone dripping with scorn and doubt, she read, ââAnâ will YOU, Oona Umbert of this-âere parash â will ee do roight by ur man, obey âim anâ honour 'im anâ not even look at another man â or woman â or beast of the field for that maââer .............. As long as ye both shall liveâ?!â
In a split second, the demure vision under the veil became a spoilt little girl â she shook her corsage of withered black orchids and stomped her high heels on the slate floor, âOi do! Oi do! Oi do! Come on Auntie Eller, give over â peopleâs gettinâ restlass â we wants to get ur dinnur ânâ drinks ânâ get dancinâ!!â
There were a few arrs and câmons from the more rowdy Redmen. The children started slow-clapping.
The glowering inferno erupted at this show of contempt. âSHURRUP!â Â The hubbub immediately ceased. Ella raised her hand as if to slap her insubordinate niece across the chops, âDonât ee get all uppity wâ me, Oona Umbert! âEe wanted this-âere big do wiv all the trimmins -- so grin-ânâ-bear-it-ânâ-show some respect, âee SILLY BITCH!â
That was the last straw for the majority on the groomâs side, âIâm outta here!â âLetâs go before they sacrifice a chicken!â âTheyâre barbarians!â âDid you ever hear such shite!â Several people, some weeping inconsolably -- including most of the groomâs immediate family - brushed past on their way out the door, and just as Ni moved out to let them pass, a voice screeched, âNI! Ni! Ni!!â
Oona broke away from the wedding party, hitched up her skirts and came trotting down the âaisleâ on her 4 inch heels. Ni didnât know where to look as she lifted her veil â there was a blur of scarlet lipstick and ash-grey eye-shadow - and threw her arms around her! Niâs 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 âGood luck, mate,â and joined the exodus.
Meanwhile, the bride ignored the insulting remarks of the departing in-laws-to-be and looked at Niamhâs left hand - upon seeing the heart-shaped rash, she cried, shrilly, âYou are still thinkinâ âbout me! You DO care!! This is the best day of moy loife!!â 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: âOh Jesus, are those tears of joy or sorrow?â âAre they gonna runaway together?â âOh gawd, please let them get married!â âOur lives wonât be worth livingâ.
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 nieceâs innate fickleness. Sitting in the front row, Dolly Crombie smirked and said, âI tol youse so! Sheâll never go through wiv it!â 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 â Niâs eyes widened as she wondered what was coming next â then Craigy lost it and shattered the hush, âOona - this has gone far enough â get back here and finish this fucking pantomime so we can get outta here and I can get outta this frigginâ monkey suit!â
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, âCominâ moy luv...â
There were whoops of relieved delight and ecstatic cheers from the congregation. Harry Snodgrass (filling in for the brideâs 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, âWell-said, Craigy â you showed âer ooâs boss!!â The locals guffawed like snaffling hogs â Craigy was a man to be reckoned with! Hooray for the Alpha Male! Oona whispered to Ni in her âotherâ voice, <wait here, Iâll just go and get married and then we can have a nice little tĂŞte-Ă -tĂŞte 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!
âShurrup, all of you!â shouted Mrs Sparkes.
Silence.
âRoight. âBe there any man or woman âere oo âas any objection to this pairinâ may they speak now or forever âold their peaceâ...?â
The entire congregation, including Craigyâs colleagues, turned and stared at Niamh. She began to edge back into the shadows.
âEXCUSE ME!â Auntie Ella bellowed.
All eyes swung back.
Ella pointed at certain members of the congregation and made Iâll see you later gestures, then put on her reading glasses and returned to the text: âRoight than, oi now pronounce ee man and woife. Ah-men.â
Silence.
âNow!â
âAMEN!â
She turned back to Craigy, âYou may punch the broide. That was a joke â kiss the broide Now drink ur fill, go forth an' multi-ploy...â She shouted to the guests, âTHAT MEANS YE CAN GET PISSED ân FUCK OFF!!â
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 groomâs 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 brideâs 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.
âYou donât look very happy,â said Ni.
Oona closed her eyes, lowered her head and said, âIf eeâda come any later, oi donât fink Iâd âave gone through wiv it. I couldn't sleep last noight finkinâ about us. I wuz worried âee might get bored wiv me and Iâd never see âee again. I was standing there thinkinâ bout runninâ away, I wuz. Iâda âitched up me skirts and left âim there at the altar if ee âadnât come.â
Halfway through her third flute of Cristal, Ni was in a giggly mood, âWhat are you blithering about â you hardly know me!â she said, throwing her head back as the swing swayed.
âI know âee better than anyone else in the whole-wide-world Niamh Fitzgerald,â said Oona, solemnly. She took off Niâs bippity-boppity hat and held it so that it hid their faces from any onlookers. Once they were nose to nose, she looked into Niâs eyes and said in that âotherâ 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, âYes, Iâve 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.â As a matter of fact, sheâd realise later that the question came from a tutorial sheâd had the previous day about Hindley and Brady; and there was more verbatim to come, as her own thoughts, things sheâd 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 itâs best to know him through his work. You love Paddy but you worry that youâve turned him into a surrogate dad/ father figure and itâs 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 relativesâ and friendsâ brothers; I know youâve been suspicious of the opposite sex ever since your heart was broken on Valentineâs 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, âOur dreams.....?â
<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, â...Are you saying that... it wasn't a fantasy? You have the same dreams I do...?...what?â
Oona laughed, âThey are moy dreams, silly-boots. I brought ee into my dreams to let you see how fings could be if we wuz togevver.â
The truth hit her like a sledgehammer; Ni recoiled slightly and clutched her breast as she gasped, âTelepathy?! I thought I was having, you know.... fantasies? How is this possible...This is incredible...?â
.......and I donât know if I like it....
Again, Oona spoke without speaking in that beautiful voice: <From now on, weâll be able to see each other whenever we like,> then aloud, âJust let me in - thatâs all ya gotta do!â<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 sheâd 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..... Iâve..... 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...
âOONAR!!â
Niâs eyes snapped open and she found herself gazing into Oonaâs eyes  -- they were virtually glowing with a strange, violet light. She blinked, the eerie light disappeared.
âLook lively, gurlie â itâs toime fer ee broidal daaance!â Harry Snodgrass shouted again.
Still hidden behind the brim of the big felt hat, they rested their heads on each otherâs brows for a second and giggled like naughty kids.
Did that just happen? Did you just.... get inside my head? Ni asked without speaking.Â
Oona smiled, lowered the hat and let rip with in her ânormalâ voice, âOh, go to âell, âArry Snadgrass, âee mangy currrrr! âEe spoil everythin you do!â
Collar asunder, shirt opened to the waist, chomping on a greasy drumstick, Snodgrass, slumped on the doorjamb and growled in a pervy voice, âWas you two kissinâ? ........ Can I watch?â
âNo we wuz not â âee got a filfy moind âArry Snadgrass! And now that oi am a respectable married woman anâ oi don work for âee no more - oi can do what oi always wanted â Iâll skelp ye wiv ur own belt!â 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?
Thatâs the problem when your dream lover can make you part of anything her imagination might manufacture:Â You canât 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 â emitting a sound not unlike frantic, pizzicato violins â while another man slowly provided the percussion banging a 6ft pole covered in bottle-tops on the wooden floor of snug â 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 â getting very fast before stopping mid-bar â this time the bride and groom werenât 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 âDRINK! DRINK! DRINK!â â the crowd chanted: the pair were required to drink the lot in one go! The reel started up again â they spun again; this time the seconds were on-hand to catch them -Â DRINK! DRINK! DRINK! - Â 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. Craigyâs 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, âAre they coming back?â
The crone laughed and replied, âNo! Itâs bad forâune to leave ur broidal bed before midnoight!!â
âOh.â 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 (âYouâre a horrible daytime drinker â you either you get crabby and snappy or fall asleep!â 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 youâre talking about me but Iâm too pissed to care â 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 whoâd 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) â 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, âHello there, Iâm Sergeant Marchant of the local garda, Craigyâs boss. Can I ask, are you a friend of Oonaâs?â
She broke off a knob of icing and nibbled, âUm, sort of. I met her on Monday (and my heart stood still) and she invited me along.â She looked him up-and-down; he looked like an outsider, but seemed very conversant with the locals, and like the locals, heâd 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. âDo âee live locally, Sergeant Marchant?â she chuckled.
âI live in the village, aye.â 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 bandâs version of Abbaâs Waterloo, âI married Madge 12 years ago. I hadda go through all this meself. Itâs a bit strange at first but I love it here, the people are comical, but they are the salt of the...â he lowered his voice and leaned in, âlisten would you..... would you mind moving to the womenâs area?â 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, âToo much goinâ on below the chin, darlinâ. Yeâre causinâ a bit of a stir,â he nodded toward a large crowd of Redmen gathered at one table ogling her like the dirty mac brigade.
Heâd gone too far and pushed one of her buttons: the burgeoning chip on her shoulder combined with alcohol is a combustible enough compound â add sugar to the mix and ka-boom: Suffragette City! Wham bam - thank you Mr Man! and letâs start off with an obligatory: âHow dare you! What is this â the middle ages?!â she stood tall and looked him in the eye, âItâs almost the 21st century and Woman has moved on!â then a run through the family credentials, â... Iâll have you know Iâm the step-daughter of a Swedish civil-rights lawyer and my grandfather is a judge...â blah-blah-blah and finished with the mandatory: âI know my rights and that suggestion is downright offensive! I mean â a womanâs enclosure? This is Segregation! Sexual apartheid! Why donât you just put them in cages and be done with it!â
Dismayed at her reaction, Marchant put up his hands and implored her not to be silly â WRONG! She saw the hands as offensive weapons and his entreaties of ânow, now, calm downâ 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, âItâs like the womanâs movement never happened! Iâve seen ânâ heard things in this village that make my blood boil ân my skin crawl! These people make cavemen look sophisticated...!â
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.
âOh shite...â said Marchant, closing his eyes and putting a hand on his brow.
Suddenly, Mrs Sparkes stood up and said, âWhat do we do when we is insulted or offended?â
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:
âWe take the blame,
We bear the shame,
We beg for mercy,
In His name.â
One of the younger gards who clearly wasn't in on it, laughed uproariously, pointed at Niamh and said, âIs she their Queen or somethinâ? All hail the dumb blonde!!â
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, âTheyâre Supplicants.Theyâre atoning for the sins of their former leader! If you insult them - instead of being consumed with anger - they remember why theyâre here and what they've dedicated their life to, and they prove it by doing things like this! Which reminds me...â He left the boy rubbing his lug, came back to Ni and whispered, âYouâd better tell them they can get up now. The wife will kill me if we make her do this much longer...â
âWhat? Oh!â 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 âOooooooonaâ 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 Ellaâs 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 Oonaâs âother voiceâ laughing between her ears:Â <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 sheâd been playing an x-rated game of Twister in a tumble drier.
Craigyâs 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 youâre in pain; she clasped her tummy, âOooh, Iâve never had such a bout of cramp in all my life - followed by a hot flush, too!! Hahahaha -- maybe itâs the menopause!â she laughed, blushing and flapping her hands, edging toward the little flight of steps that led up to the front door, âWe-ell â itâs been lovely, but I must be going....â
Marchant was getting antsy, âPlease, please miss - tell them they can get up...!â
She stopped in her tracks, âSHIT! Sorry!! You can get up now, please, donât do this on my account, itâs so not cool...â âSo not coolâ, 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 Sparkesâ aside to her confederates as they plucked bits of sausage roll from each otherâs cardigans: âSheâs trouble.â
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, âDrive!â
âShotgun wedding?â asked Paddy, casually, looking over his shoulder.
âIf looks could kill â yes!â
Once they were at a safe distance, she climbed into the front and realised sheâd left the hat behind, âBollocks!!â
âNo, couldn't possibly. I had a beeeautiful seafood lunch,â Paddy quipped.
âMy hat - I forgot my bloody hat! I had to trawl through three flea markets and 23 antique clothes stores to find that hat! Theyâll probably eat it...!â
<I have your blessed bippity-boppity hat â relax! Iâm taking it â and you - on honeymoon! Weâre flying to the Costa del Sol tonight and Iâm going to wear it to the airport!>
Oona?! Itâs daytime.... Am I awake?
<Ssh, donât give the game away â itâs our secret! Sorry, Craigyâs just come in â Iâve got to go! See you in our dreams...>
Meanwhile, Paddy was talking about his visit to Pagham House, â...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?â
Niamh wasn't listening, she was on autopilot, âAbsolutely spiffing, darling. Couldn't be better!â and pushed the button to close the roof. âI think Iâll sleep now.â
âYou are drunk!! What did I tell you â I hope you didnât make a show of yourself and start a fight.... and where is my slice of wedding cake?!â
Without mentioning Oonaâs virtual reality bedroom antics and the intermittent psychic communiquĂŠs, she told him about the wedding, and concluded, âThese people are nuts, right? They've been cut off from civilisation for so long they donât know whatâs going on...Yeah?â
Paddy was infuriatingly philosophical and did his usual Q&A routine, âDo you feel threatened by them? (âTheyâre a bunch of misogynists, but their leader is an old woman who keeps them in line, so, no.â) Do they show signs of disaffection or coercion? (â... No.â) Are they happy? (âOn the whole, they seem so.â) Well then, Twinkle, look at it this way â the men are subservient, ineffectual grunts and the women, despite knowing their place, appear to run the show. Sounds to me like youâve found the fully-functioning matriarchal society you always dreamed of!â
But his nieceâs arms remained defiantly crossed, âYouâre thinking of my mother in her â60s heyday. My ideal society is egalitarian - which means neither sex having the upper-hand. That place... itâs all flowers and light on the outside, but inside itâs 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...â
Paddy rested his head on the wheel and groaned, âGod save us from Ms Lunchtime OâBooze!â
She reclined, put her head on the armrest, closed her eyes and said without thinking, âButton it, Butcher Boy.â
Oops.... Where did that come from?!
âThat was uncalled for!â 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, âOh God, Iâm so sorry... that just slipped out. My mind isn't my own - youâre right, the Cristal was flowing courtesy of the Laphen House and I heartily imbibed. But I needed anaesthetic, Patrick, these bumpkins are hard work.â She quickly moved on, âTell me about your afternoon.â
Paddy harrumphed, but reluctantly continued, âWell, he took me for a walk after tea â and youâre right â there are no animals on that estate. No dogs, no horses, no squirrels, no hares â just a few birds and bees. Ollie jokes and says they keep away because they know how much he hates them. Thereâs 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...?â
âSee â told you: heâs up to something. Maybe they've been dumping chemicals in the bog and itâs killed them all off?â
âWell, the end of my story is the bit youâll be interested in: when weâd 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 â âtore them a second anusâ Â --Â 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.â
For fleeting moment, the excitement overwhelmed her doubts and fears. She bounced in her seat, âHeâs given us permission?! Thatâs great!!â
He pulled a folded sheet of paper from his inside pocket, âHe was good enough to sign a permit. Heâll be away filming this summer and this is to ensure that none of his security people obstruct us while heâs gone.â
She read it and enthused, âI canât wait to tell Emil!â
Paddy shook his head emphatically,âNo, Twink! Donât mention any of this to Emil! If he knows that weâll be working on the country estate of a renowned right-winger like Jolly Ollie â heâll 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...?â
..... 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, âIâm in the kitchen,â a voice called out. It was Oonaâs 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, âYou were expecting a hovel with no running water?â
âNo...â Ni had a second thought, âYes.â
ââYesâ, because I know what youâre thinking. You know you canât lie to me, and why should you want to? What terrible secrets do you harbour, Niamh Fitzgerald?â
âNone. Mum always says Iâm an open book. Paddy is always saying I talk when I should listen.â
âExactly! Youâre as honest as the day is long!â
âNot if you count fibs and white lies.â
âI donât.â Oona ran a finger across the marble counter-top, âThis is where we were when I made that little connection today,â she chuckled, âhe was doing me right here and I was thinking of you. On my wedding day! How mad is that?â
âI thought I was having a fit!â Â said Ni, too fascinated by her surroundings to complain. She tried to open a drawer, but her fingers passed through the handle.
âSee. You canât touch anything, Youâre a ghost in this world. Try it now.â
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, âSee. I can make it real for you, I can make you feel what I feel.â Her attitude changed, she looked at the floor and said, âI know it was a bit naughty to catch you unawares today, but itâs only a demonstration of the things that I -- we -- can do.â Â
âAnd youâre taking me on honeymoon with you?â Ni asked, still trying to take it in.
Oona looked up, winked and said, âDidn't someone once say: âtravel broadens the mindâ...?âÂ
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:Â
âCan you live with Oona Umbert living in your head?â
To Be Continued Next Month in Dream a Little Dream of Me
#Spindlefreck#LovePotionNo9#mysticism#mystery#telepathy#horror#fantasy#irish humour#irishfiction#fiction#bogs#demon#psychics#blackcomedy#Dreams
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Spindlefreck: Pt.19:Â The Soul Destroying Secret Curse of Tutankhamunâs Tomb
Ireland, 7000 years ago:
At midday, in the depths of the ancient forest the âGßßl 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 theyâd 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:
âBlist! Merfi! ZĂśch! 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...â
A large section of the crowd cheered the word âdeathâ.
The Judge fetched them a reproachful glower, then continued, â... and although it is the unanimous verdict of this court that you are guilty of these crimes, we cannot execute you.â
The crowd registered their disappointment with a loud awww and a few disgruntled whispers about social inequality, âone rule for wizards and another for the rest of us!â
The Judge ignored the groans and went on, âIf 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.â
The crowd werenât 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, âHave mercy, my brothers! Kill us and let us step into The Light -- let us Ascend -- no âGßßl wants to be a disembodied spirit shacked to this realm!â
The crowd erupted with a fresh round of jeers, whistles and heckles. The Judge hammered the lectern with his gavel and demanded âSilence!â then answered Merfiâs plea, âNo, I cannot take you at your word, youâve told too many lies already. You have shown yourselves to be most unscrupulous, deceitful and downright slippery.â He turned to the others, âDo any of the rest of you wish to make a final entreaty?â
The tall, imposing French alchemist known as Bezeel stepped forward, looked along the line of cowled accusers and beseeched them, âWe 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!!â
The judge leaned forward and with eyes ablaze, pointedly replied, âThen how do you explain the Rift -- the monstrosity you kept hidden, the greatest abomination in supernatural history?â
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, âIt was a simple spell derived from ancient runes used in good faith! We didnât know heâd corrupted them! We did not intend to cause a schism, my brothers! Tâwas an honest mistake!!â
The Judge shook his head firmly, and acidly denied him, âThen why didnât 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!â
The crowd merrily applauded the Judgeâs righteous rejoinder.
A fourth man, an asexual Assyrian mystic who travelled under the title of Prince Molton ZĂśch, justified the collusion with a contemptuous aside, âWe knew the penalty for our crimes -- you canât blame us for trying to escape -- any one of you would've done the same!â
The crowd reacted with another volley of abuse.
The Judge once again called for silence, this time adding another warning: âThis is not entertainment! This is a respectable court of law!! Any further interruptions and the culprits will spend a day in the stocks!â
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. âHave you nothing to say for yourself, brother?â the Judge asked, âyou proved the hardest man to track down -- itâs taken us 10 years to catch you and bring you to justice!â
It was apparent that the poker-faced Persian had resigned himself to his fate; he nonchalantly examined his fingernails and casually replied, âAs I learned long ago, my lord, there is no point wasting oneâs breath on deaf ears and closed minds.â
âBetter a closed mind than a warped mind, mate,â the Judge grumbled under his breath and then returned to his closing remarks, âThe five of you meddled in matters you knew could disrupt the metaphysical status quo. By creating the âMirror Worldâ, or âthe Voidâ: the infamous âWizardâs Riftâ, you have violated the Laws of Nature the Vondragßßl are sworn to uphold. Whatâs 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 youâve created a gateway to anywhere in the Multiverse -- simply by accessing a common looking glass!â He looked to the public gallery, and included them in his solemn reminder, âJust 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. Theyâre asking questions of each other, philosophising, applying logic, studying the Natural World. Long-held beliefs are becoming the stuff of myth and legend! Whatâs worse is theyâre 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!âÂ
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.Â
The Judge turned back to the wizards, hectoring them like a disappointed father lecturing his wayward sons, âWise men can be blind to whatâs going on under their very noses. Theyâre so wrapped up in their intrigues they canât see the wood for the trees. You did the devilâs work the day you created the Void, and you knew it. You werenât bumbling, callow apprentices whoâd stumbled upon an untested spell; you were perfectly aware of the risks of infection when you embarked upon this insalubrious enterprise.â His eyes narrowed, his voice deepened as he spoke  from the heart, âOne 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?!â He paused, straightened his back, then continued in a low, officious, tone, âYou 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.â He banged the gavel three times, bowed his head and announced, âThe rite will now begin.â
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 itâs 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 Councilâs 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 Judgeâs 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 Martyrsâ 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 wizardsâ 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, âThis session is adjourned. Take the prisoners down.â
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 Judgeâs previous warning and pelted them with rotten vegetables; some shouted âTraitors!â some shouted âDemonspawn!â others yelled âEvil Witches!â
However animated they might have been, the majority of the crowd still werenât entirely happy with the sentence. They wanted executions, and not just to satisfy their bloodlust. To the average Gßßl, 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.Â
A fretful shepherd tapped the earth with his staff and said, âWe feel a slight tremor, my lord. We fear it might be coming from the Martyrsâ graves, so-we-do!â
The others nodded in a agreement and said âayeâ.
The Judge jumped down, fell to his knees, put an ear to the ground and listened closely; after a few secondsâ meditation, he said, âHmmm. Itâs them, alright, I recognise the energy,â he looked up at the concerned faces, â... but donât be afeared, my dear brothers -- tis far too faint to do us any injury. Completely safe, believe me!â he trilled, cheerfully.
But the delegation was unconvinced by his jolly reassurance and continued to probe: Â âDo you reckon they could be tryinâ to burrow out of their grave, Judge? Are they after revenge, is that what it is?!â asked a tremulous, ruddy-faced pig farmer.
The Judge met each query with a patient smile and a succinct explanation, âListen 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.â
âWell, itâs makinâ my sheep very jumpy! They donât like it, my lord,â the fretful shepherd protested, âand we were always told to watch the animals, cos theyâe always the first to know!âÂ
âItâs absolutely safe, my brothers, it wonât get any worse,â insisted the Judge, still smiling, âand the animals will get used to it, you see if they donât!â
âBut will it infect the grass or the oats? Will it sour the milk?!â asked a worried goatherd.
âNo, I keep telling you, this is nought but a gentle tickle on the soles -- feel it!!â 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 Martyrsâ sentence, and this was the perfect forum to voice their nagging concerns:
âHow can we hibernate with their dark magic seeping through the earth?â -- âWhat if someone inadvertently undoes the curse and releases them?!â -- âWhat if they astrally project?!âÂ
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, âListen 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 itâs creators. The so-called Darkly Martyrsâ 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,â he put his hand under the collar of his nightshirt, pulled out his little silver amulet and held it up, âFeel your charms! Eh? Are they not cool?â 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.
âYou see?! What more proof do you need?â the Judge cried, âif 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!â
The crowd werenât 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. âShoulda killed âem!â a dissenting voice loudly remarked, within the Judgeâs hearing; the old man harrumphed about them being a "shower of morbid bastardsâ and went back indoors to get dressed and have his porridge. The guard stood outside the little chamber window and shouted in, âPay no mind to âem, theyâll come âround, my lord. Itâs just going to take some getting used to.â
The Judgeâs head popped out, his beard flipped over the sill; he called the soldier hither and whispered, âI canât blame them, brother -- they can tell Iâm not entirely convinced myself. And they donât have to read my mind either, itâs written all over my face!â
âWell then... maybe we should dig âem up and kill âem, my lord? What harm could it do?â offered the guard, with a couldn't-care-less-shrug.
The Judge dismissed the notion out of hand, âDidn't you hear me when I passed sentence? Itâs much too risky! Theyâre more dangerous dead than alive...â He shook his head, regrouped and pooh-poohed his silly misgivings, âNo, donât listen to me, itâs alright. Iâm just being overanxious and pernickety. The spell is unbreakable. The leakage is unfortunate, but completely harmless...â the head disappeared back inside.
âSo... why do you still sound so unsure, my lord?â 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: Thereâs 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 Martyrsâ adventures might inspire younger magicians to turn their talents away from their purpose and devote themselves to the demonâs 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 Scholarsâ 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 covenâs 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, âEvery mirror is now a potential portal,â he muttered, touching the glass, looking into his own, sorrowful eyes.Â
There was one consolation: the Martyrsâ grimoire stated that only a complete glass could be utilised, so the Judge issued a Council Order that every witchâs mirror must henceforth be crackâd. 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 .Â
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 werenât 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: âbetter safe than sorryâ, theyâd 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 Martyrsâ 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 --Â and now the menace had finally arrived at their door.Â
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 âWitches Woodâ in order to âexorciseâ 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 âthe holy cleansing firesâ... only a few Gßßl 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 Gßßl 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 Gßßl 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 Martyrsâ 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 Martyrsâ graves. The last of these, a huge Georgian mansion known as the Ivy House, built by âthe firstâ 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 Vondragßßl...
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 mĂŞlĂŠe, 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 consommĂŠ; he had to jump sideways to avoid a heavily laden trolley on its way to the dumb waiter, shouting âXAVIER!!â over the uproar, âwhoâs seen Xavier?! Eh, eh?â He called to the scullery maids, whisking cream at the top of the table, âYou two -- have you seen Xavier?â They made sour faces and pointed to the tradesmanâs 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 chauffeurâs 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.>
âNo. Now. I have to be back upstairs in time for for the main course.â
There was a disgruntled murmur amongst the players and quite a few muted curses. Theyâd all worked for Bernie Pritchard at sometime in their long careers and they all had an axe to grind, but he didnât 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 theyâd 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 Arnoldâs 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; heâd seen it all and done it all, and heâd encountered ambitious young upstarts like his current Masterâs 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. Pritchardâs only consolation was the knowledge that, despite his thousands of years of experience and the things heâd seen and endured, Xavier had chosen a life of servitude over ambition, something Pritchard couldn't comprehend and secretly despised him for.
Thatâs why Xavier refuses to kowtow to Pritchardâs unreasonable demands. He refuses to applaud his little successes. He refuses to wash his flashy new cars. He takes his sweet time when heâs called. Pritchard swallowed his pride and asked politely, âPlease, Xavier; before Iâm missed.â
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 Pritchardâs eyes, <What can I do for you, Master Bernard?>
âIâve got it!!â whispered Pritchard, holding up the briefcase, backing up into the kitchen, putting a finger to his lips, âbut we canât talk here -- somewhere quiet. I donât want any of those snoopy lassies hearing something juicy and starting rumours,â he said, eyeing the gossipy whiskers conspiring at the top of the table. He pointed to the connecting door, âWeâll go to the House of Rest.â
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 âthe chaplaincyâ, although it bore no real resemblance to a Christian church besides the design. Itâs 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, âI got these a couple of minutes ago -- straight from Carnarvonâs sweaty mitts -- I couldn't wait to see let you see them!â he said, excitedly, removing a large buff envelope containing a block of 8x4 photographs, âThese are the first images from inside the tomb, the ones I told you about; theyâre well-lit, high-resolution close-ups of the cartouche, see?â He held one up to the light, âSee the runes midst the hieroglyphics?! Eh, eh? What do you think of these?!â
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 Gßßl 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...>
âDecrypted?! Mystery?! What?! You mean theyâre in code -- what are you saying?!â spluttered Pritchard, wholly aggrieved at the driverâs 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 didnât want to hear this, âAye, but, I mean, no -- I mean come on!! Itâs 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 itâs the fucking final chapter of the Prophesy! It has to be! What else could it be?!â
Xavier looked past his former chargeâs 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 Gßßl, I went north, out of range. But there were many charlatans in the Pharaohsâ court during that era, humans who dabbled in the demonâs magic. It is possible that he could have beguiled one of them and had them carve these runes before they sealed the Boy Kingâs tomb.> Xavier raised an eyebrow and asked: <Didn't they teach you this in Junior Temple School?>
Pritchard snapped back, âListen matey, if I was you I wouldn't go around claiming to be the worldâs greatest authority on Gßßl history when I canât even recall where I was born, nevermind how ân when I got the tongue ripped outta me gob!â
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. Thatâs why I chose the life Iâve lived, Master Bernard. I have indeed âdone it all.â I have indeed âseen it allâ. Iâve 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. âOne day at a timeâ, 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.>Â
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, âLook, Mr X, cut me some slack -- this isn't one of my âschemesâ! It might seem like Iâm hustling you, but itâs just cos Iâve spent a small fortune on this and Iâm under a lot of pressure to come up with the goods! If this-here is the bona-fide missing chapter of the Prophesy, Iâll be a hero! Golden! The old man will be proud, Iâll be promoted in the Temple -- the coven will get its long-awaited final revelation! You can see why Iâm a wee bit anxious ân impatient, canât you?!â He held out the prints and begged him, âI canât afford to fly to the Middle East for a powwow with ancient mystics, and since the crystal balls are out of bounds, thereâs 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.â
Xavier took the photographs back and took a second look and reconsidered. <They are very intriguing... Do you know any ancient âGßßl, Master Bernard?>
âI didnât 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 âBoy Kingâ! And look -- there it is!â
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 Gßßl 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.Â
Twitching on tenterhooks, Pritchard watched the chauffeur flip through the prints, and had to ask, âI may be jumpinâ the gun, olâ son... but  now youâve had a good look at them... I mean, are you gettinâ anything from them... are you, I dunno... getting, like, a niggle in the pit of your gut that tells you itâs the genuine article...?â
Xavierâs 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.>
âWe havenât 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 heâs...â Pritchard paused when he saw his companionâs eyes narrow with scorn, âDonât give me that look, Iâm 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!â
Xavier nodded, <His brain may be deteriorating, yes, but he is still a wise man. One of the wisest Masters Iâve ever served...>
âYes, I admire your loyalty, but you of all people know how this works. He will have to name his successor, and you canât blame me for making sure my name is at the top of the list!â Pritchard tapped a finger on the sheaf of prints, and consoled him with a pleasant thought, âjust think, Mr X: this discovery will be his legacy! If this is genuine, weâll complete The Prophesy! What a way to send him off, eh, eh?!â
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, âYeah, yeah, but most importantly I need to know if theyâre 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...â
They heard the distant bong of the dinner-gong sounding in the entrance hall above.
âBugger -- gotta go!â Pritchard placed the briefcase on the big driverâs lap, jumped to his feet and vigorously shook his hand, âIâve hired 4 body builders and dressed-them-up as Egyptian slaves to carry the centre piece and I wanna see the look on Carterâs face when they bring it in! Itâs gonna get a big laugh and a standing ovation!â then he got serious for a second, and said, âConsult with everyone you have to -- but start tonight!â
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 5Â 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, âthe real dealâ - i.e. carved by a scribe versed in Gßßl 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 Gßßl scholars from four continents working on the text.
Pritchard was a fully-fledged policeman by then, the Judgeâs âinside manâ in the new regimeâs security force. He wore a dark grey captainâs 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 Judgeâs study, that Xavier, dressed in full chauffeurâs 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, âSo soon -- blimey, that was quick! -- Iâd resigned myself to another 10 years at least...!â he chittered, as he escorted his guest to a huge leather armchair by the fireplace, âYou've decoded it, you say...?â He asked, nervously, hovering, bracing himself for the verdict.
Xavierâs 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.>
âWhy... what do they say?â
Xavier announced the findings: <The text is grammatically perfect, the style of lettering is the type used by Gßßl sorcerers around that time. As for the incantation, on the surface, it seems perfectly innocuous ...>
âXavier. Just tell me theyâre the real deal,â Pritchard asked, wearily, twitching with suspense.
Xavier opened the briefcase, <It would appear so.>
âYE-ESSS!!â exclaimed Pritchard, jumping and punching the air.
Somewhat peeved by the Young Masterâs 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, âAnd the spell itself -- whatâs it for?â
The big Chauffeur paused for a second and then answered, <... it is an orgiastic ritual formulated for the propagation of the Gßßl Messiah. Only when he is born can the Prophesy be fulfilled.>
Heâd almost forgotten about that bit. The Gßßl Messiah. The 'Chosen Oneâ 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., âOh... bollox.... It isn't a silly myth then... The Prophesy is true...? Ssshite...itâs on us...â He put a hand to his brow and slowly lowered himself into the armchair opposite the big chauffeur, â What the hell do we do....?â
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.>
âI wouldn't worry about that, old man; itâs all Greek to me!â 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, weâll need to train a band of drummers... choir rehearsal ....>
Sensing his disquiet, Pritchard rapped the desk, âWell....? What is it now, man? Whatâs got you so worried, eh?â
The big driver looked down and confessed, <... Now that Iâve read the full transcript, I feel that... how you say: a âniggle in the pit of my gutâ. 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, weâll never get this chance again. They recommend that you advise the Grand Council to sanction its implementation... But, I am sorry, I canât ignore my âniggleâ.>
âWell, we canât afford to ignore The Prophesy, either! Weâre talking about the next stage of our evolution! The Messiah versus the demon, then our ultimate salvation!â said Captain Pritchard, in a patronising tone, sitting forward, waving the relevant pages at the doubtful driver. âIt all fits, Mr X! âIt is writtenâ, as they say! This is the missing chapter -- and I got it!â He smiled wistfully to himself as he skimmed the summary, âSo, thatâs it then, is it? Thereâs gonna be another world war and then we make a baby?â
Irked by his former wardâs 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, âThatâs easy -- weâll use Electra, sheâs French -- itâll save getting a translator.â
Xavier was appalled: <Electra? Sheâs unstable, Master Bernard! She is a dreamer, not an active participant! She imbibes. We canât be sure she will look after him properly...?>
âAll we have to do is adopt the baby as soon as itâs born,â 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.>
âThen Iâll keep a close watch on them from a distance!â Pritchard was getting exasperated by his companionâs constant negativity and told him so, âStop whingeing, will you? Itâll all be hunky dory! And donât worry about our Ellie, sheâs married now, sheâs settled down, she canât behave too badly...â The reassurances hadn't smoothed the furrow on the chauffeurâs troubled brow. He sighed impatiently and asked in a weary voice, âWhatâs the matter now?â
<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 âMessiahâ destined to deliver us, or regenerate monsters with the power to destroy us?>
Pritchard threw up his hands, âYou said the majority of experts were erring on the side of caution, well, Iâm willing to take their advice over the qualms of a humble chauffeur, if youâll pardon my candour --Â and anyway -- look here!â 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, âLook at that sunset, thereâs nary a glimmer of violet in the sky, not even a hint of lilac in the corona! Ergo -- heâs weak! -- itâs gonna take a long, long time for him to be any problem. The Namibians told the old man so!â
<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. Iâve 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, âIâll call an emergency meeting of the Council, tell them what it says and what the scientists advise. Thank you, Xavier. That will be all.â
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. Gßßl undercover agents were effective and thwarted the Reichâs experiments with sorcery and âblackâ 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, Pritchardâs 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, heâd dutifully study the text of the final revelation, consult weather maps and astronomersâ 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 runesâ 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 Martyrsâ spirits didnât 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]Â and Xavierâs deepest fears were at last realised.
The niggle in his gut was âon the moneyâ. 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 heâd influenced the scribe and written himself into the Grand Scheme. And today, 50-odd years from the discovery of those runes in the Boy Kingâs tomb, as far as the Gßßl 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, âPrepare another shot of chloral hydrate, if you would, Xav. Mr Gosling is restless again and weâre almost at the border; canât have him leaping out of the trunk and biting a customs officer, can we darling?â
Xavier obeyed his mistressâ 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.
Goslingâs gleaming eyes widened, his long, sharp canines bit into the gag as he howled a muffled ânooooooâ. Xavier waited for his body to go limp before covering him up and slamming down the lid.
Never in all my years...Â
2nd November 1988
Coast of NW Donegal
Pascalâs Pub; 10:55PM GMT
âBernie!â
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.
âWhy, if it isn't little old Electra Cochrane. Long, long time, no see, hmm?â said the phantom, in a dull voice devoid of humour. âI knew a few old acquaintances would call when the cleaner replaced this mirror. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?â
His aura exuded malice, she could tell he wasnât 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.
âWhy -- whatâs wrong -- what do you want from me?â the spectre grumbled, suspiciously.
There was a short pause, then the rippling visage returned and the voice came back, <Itâs 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 heâd come to despise the deceased Landlordâs repertoire of portentous laments and mawkish dirges dedicated to the spirits of the women heâd 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 didnât 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. âAre you dead?â it asked, bluntly.
The tiny voice yelled, <Yes. Thatâs why I donât have much time... Câmon Bernie -- come inside!!>
âWhy are you still here? Why didnât you Ascend?â
<..................I stayed back... to help Danielle!!>
The spectre rocked on its heels cackled, then sneered, âI knew it -- I frigginâ knew it! You canât even be trusted to die right! You couldn't let it lie, could ya?!â
<It doesnât matter why I did it, we need you! Come on -- cross over now! We canât stay here much longer!>
He was taken aback -- âWe? You mean to tell me Daniâs with you?! But how the f---â
She interrupted, <I trapped her in my imagination! But sheâs not a bit happy about it! Sheâs 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 Wizardâs 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]! Â 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 donât have a shoulder to look over, it can be pretty disconcerting. Itâs 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 grandmotherâs grasp, when an even stranger feeling crept over her. Her Essence quivered with a familiar shiver -- a semi--pleasant shiver that didnât give her the creeps: traces of another living Soul in the vicinity! But its Aspect was troubled. It was weak and fading. <Thereâs somebody out there who needs help! Let go of me, ye olâ 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 hourâs time, heâs due to be chopped to pieces. Whatâll it be? The usual haunt or the Great Unknown? He turned back, took her hand in his gloved fist, and said, âLetâs go.â
Meanwhile: <Let go, y âoul witch -- thereâs 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 wonât lie down. When she saw who it was, Dani made her objections plain! <Oh gawd no, Iâm 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! Heâs the worst person Iâve 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 didnât like it, <We have to get out of here fast -- whereâs 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 Daniâs other hand and cried: âDo it Ellie -- do it now!â
Dani didnât have time to think let alone fight back -- before she knew what was happening theyâd 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 Hoodâs grannyâs 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, âSo this is your imagination, eh? Itâs not very imaginative, is it? Looks like it came from the mind of a disturbed child! Downright scary, if you ask me!â
Electra looked into the smoking crater explained, âIt 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. Itâs a dreamscape within a dreamscape within a dream, impossible to find...?â 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, âThat was a really shitty thing to do, you bastards! You had no right to drag me back -- heâs out there and you just donât care, youâre more interested in savinâ your own Souls!â She pointed a finger at the spectre, âCuz you know whoâs out there, dontcha -- I recognised the signature ân so do you -- itâs Jamie! We've left him out there alone in the Void! We shouldâve went lookinâ for him!â
Unmoved, Pritchard nodded and bemoaned their lot without a hint of genuine regret, âSheâs right, I fear. The instant I came through the mirror I sensed his presence in the ether; heâs my brother, after all. But I also sensed the demon, and heâs takinâ no prisoners today -- that ball of negative energy cominâ for us would have devoured us in the blink of an eye!â The shadow stooped a little and spoke to Dani, âThereâs a full moon. Heâs omnipotent. Heâs 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.â
âWhy midnight?â asked Electra.
âThatâs 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 âSphere and make an enforced migration -- but he has to possess Jamie tonight, before that energy dries up, or heâll be forced to return to his host.â He looked at their faces and chuckled, âDonât get your hopes up, ladies, remember: itâs Young Master Jamie versus the most diabolically-devious, most powerful psyche in the Multiverse...â Then he sighed theatrically and said in a sympathetic voice, with a little hint of schadenfreude, âIâm afraid heâs punching well above his weight.â
âIf he possesses the Young Master... then what?â gasped Electra.
âThen? Heâll harness his superior telepathic abilities to infect the entire psychic community. Thereâll be nothing. No dreamscapes, no Psychosphere. No Life in the Mind. Heâll locate ân eat the Soul of of every last Gßßl; then he and Jamie will take over the family business, and you know what that means...â
âNo. What does that mean?â Dani chimed, distrustfully.
âWith our organisationâs resources and political connections?â said Pritchard, âIt would be the end of the world as we know it; sure, thatâs the demonâs ultimate objective: The Destruction of life on this planet.â He stood up, looked up at the badly drawn pentagram-shaped stars and spoke with the confidence of someone with all the answers, âIt all hinges on your anointed Chosen One. This is Jamieâs destiny. This is his fight. Be possessed or be destroyed; he must sacrifice his Soul to save our race...â The spectre turned to Electra, âwell done, Ellie, you set the wheels in motion by luring him into the Void.â
âShe did what?!â grumbled Dani, crossing her arms, getting angry.
Shocked and baffled, Electra shook her head and tried to explain, âI didnât mean to do it... I mean,I didnât lure that boy. He must have come after Danielle,â she muttered as she slowly came to her senses and realised what sheâd done, â... he must've got trapped on the way through...â
âAll part of the demonâs plan, you silly bitch! You didnât double-cross him -- he triple-crossed you!â snickered Pritchard.
âI knew you were up to somethinâ,â yelled Dani, âYou just wanted me here so Jamie would come after me!â
Electra shook her head and held out her arms in a plaintiff gesture of surrender, âI meant to save you! I did all this to put you back the way nature intended -- I didnât know the boy would come after you! Thatâs why I chose the night of the attack, I thought no one would dare come in here while he was on the offensive...â She turned to her former pimp, pusher and partner in crime, âBernie -- tell her! Tell her I wouldn't do anything to put her danger, tell her how much I love her!â
The spectre shrugged and snorted, âWhat good will it do, woman? -- Look at her -- youâve handed the demon her beloved Young Master on a big silver platter! She hates you! And to be honest, I donât blame her.â
Electra was tearfully confused, âWhy does none of this bother you?! Why are you revelling in our despair?! Donât you care what happens to Danielle?!â
His voice lowered to a grumble as he beheld the little red riding-hooded, blonde-haired avatar, âSee this one, here? Sheâs caused me nothing but effinâ trouble! Ever since she was born sheâs been a royal pain in the arse, just like her idiot father and her feckless grandmother before her --  she wonât do as sheâs told, she canât keep her claws to herself -- sheâs a dim-witted dreamer who doesnât know a wand from a willow twig!â 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, âAye, looks painful, doesnât it, chile?â his eyes blazed with hatred as he told her, âYour 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 thatâd mutated him. And when they kill you this time, oh little Danielle, just like your father, you too will be consumed by the demonâs power.â
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 heâd just belched them in her face, âBlow it out your arse, Pritchard,â she chandered, dismissively, âthis 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!â
âYou canât be happy ever after if you donât exist, and thatâs what will happen if the demon manages to take up residence in Jamie,â he replied, in the same carefree manner, âbut thereâs no point crying or fighting it -- according to the last chapter of The Prophesy this is how itâs meant to be. This is the last stand,â he winked and added, tantalisingly, â... well baby, itâs your time to shine.â
âOooh yeah....?â she asked, suspiciously. Â
He nodded and said, âYou 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.â
Dani closed her eyes, groaned, stamped a foot and cried, âNot this shite again!â
âIs that right...?â Electra asked, âShe has to say his name...?â
Pritchard shushed her and kept up the pressure; he pointed at the smoky crater and argued, âWhy do you think he tried to stop you from saying it? Donât fight it! Itâs your destiny, Dani. Itâs why youâre here. Itâs why you exist.â
Dani cocked her head and enquired in a thoughtful tone, âHow can I be sure that if I say it itâll save Jamie?â
âIf 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 itâs a foregone conclusion that evil will prevail. But the demon didnât reckon on you, Dani. When you were mutated instead of your father, it threw a spanner in the works, and ever since heâs been saddled with a silly little girl who is too fickle to follow orders. A little girl whoâs outlived her usefulness, but refuses to die. Thatâs why youâre Jamieâs only chance. Youâre 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.â
Electra was about to ask another question when something relevant and perturbing suddenly struck her. After a momentâs dithering, she timidly put up a hand, gave him a feeble wave and hesitantly informed him, âUmm... you know, Bernie -- I reversed the spell -- and, ahh ... mirrors were used during the rituals... does that matter...?â
She jumped back and cowered as he suddenly lurched forward -- eyes ablaze, gloved hands balled into fists -- and bellowed, âWhat the hell are you talking about woman?!â
She cowered, gulped and explained, â...the âSphere is teeming with negative energy... I suppose the Void was their only means of entry ... I wasn't to know theyâd both cast the spell with mirrors...â
âThey BOTH USED MIRRORS?! There were TWO RITUALS?! And then YOU REVERSED THE SPELL?!â wailed Pritchard, unable to comprehend the extent of the womanâs stupidity nevermind the enormity of the catastrophe!
Electra backed up slowly, speaking quietly, âYes, 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...?â
He was finding it difficult to keep his composure, and asked again in strained staccato falsetto, âBut - they - both - performed - the ritual - with... MIRRORS?!â
â... Yes...is that... really... bad?â stammered Electra.
Pritchard was about to explode again when he realised, âWait a minute  -- Jamie and who else?!â
Electra nervously replied, âWell, there was the Big Bad Wolf...â
âWho?! Who was the Big Bad Wolf?!â he cried.
Dani gleefully piped up, âIt was your old pal -- Goz!!â
âGosling was here?!â he bawled, looking from one to the other.
Dani cheerfully supplied the relevant information, âOh aye. First of all he was a cowardly, cartoon-y wolf, then he turned into a real nasty werewolf, ân then he staggered about for a bit, howled in agony and disappeared in a puff of purple smoke! He didnât look too healthy, if ye ask me!â
â... and he told her not to say the word,â added Electra.
âNot to say the word...?â 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, âThat two-faced, vainglorious, treacherous, self-serving bastard!! I knew I couldn't trust that big streak oâ piss not to fuck things up -- I should never have let him talk me into it...!â
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, âYouâre not the only one whoâs 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; heâd 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 Ivanâs scrapbook. I told him Dr Rossington had it.â
The women scowled.
Pritchard was unrepentant, âI never thought heâd 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 didnât figure one mirror into his equations, nevermind two. Sounds like heâs in a lot of pain...â he muttered, wistfully, as if the notion brought him a sliver of solace.
âWhy, what affect would the Void have on the spell?â asked Electra, innocently.
He was so astounded by her ignorance he could barely contain himself, he waved his arms and spluttered a patronising tirade, âIt fucks-everything-up!! Itâs like a huge, metaphysical washing machine! It makes magic unstable -- it spins, it unravels, it warps and inverts! Thatâs why you should never cast a spell with a looking glass in the room; itâs far too dangerous -- a spell like this could cause chaos across the Multiverse!â
âSo... if she says the word now... what effect will it have?"
âEffect?! A reversed spell filtered through two mirrors during simultaneous rituals?! The possibilities are fucking endless! Â 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! Thereâs no way of knowing now!â
âBut you wanted me to say it. What did you think would happen?â asked Dani, still cross-armed, still tapping her toe, still wary.
He shook his head and turned away, âIt doesnât matter now...â
She caught on immediately, âIt 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!!â
He nodded, âUh-huh, but you would have saved Jamie and the Psychosphere,â he said, this time with regret, âWhatâs the use. Itâs all academic now. You canât say it. You could obliterate us all.â
Dani suddenly had a thought; she gave them a cockeyed look, cocked her head, put a hand on her hip and said, âThis is a double-bluff  isn't it? And yer man Goz is in on it! You donât want to help Jamie -- you want him to die...?â just as she said the word âdieâ, 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!
âWhatâs going on here -- are there any other characters in the story?!â asked Pritchard, as his head jerked left & right.
âNo, just a woodsman, a wolf and us,â replied Electra, getting frantic, âI donât know who it could be...!â
âWell they donât look too friendly to me,â 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:
âTheyâre characters from the other fairytales ... giants, ogres, bears and wolves, but theyâre mutations -- they look feral!â 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 Cinderellaâs 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 companionsâ faint-heartedness and merrily called across the glade, âWhatâs the problem, playmates? Get lost on your way to the Halloween Parade?â
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: âSay the word! Say the word! SAY HIS NAME!â
Dani put her hands over her ears, squeezed her eyes shut and screamed at the Purple moon...
âAAAAAARGH!â
...
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 harmâs 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 Lumbâs rotund family butler, knocked on the door and entered the Young Masterâs chamber, only to find to find his niece gazing distractedly into the little mirror -- he walked up behind her and squeezed her shoulder, âDonât be getting any ideas, Carrie. Silver Siren or not, you wouldât last 5 minutes in there now. By rights I should have smashed it once we knew it was a trap.â
âBut we need it -- itâs his way back,â she said, setting it back on the pillow.
âItâs also the demonâs way out,â said Castle, sitting on the ottoman, shaking his head forlornly, jaded by the eveningâs events and the seemingly insurmountable odds facing them. âIâve 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. Â Everyone is expecting the worst, and I canât blame âem after hearinâ that âconfessionâ [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 heâs out of control. That means the demon must migrate tonight or heâll be forced to return to the body of killer on the run, and that doesnât bode well for his future. In other words, heâll pull out all the stops to get what he wants...â Castle looked at the floor, âand thereâs no telling what the Martyrsâ role is in all this, or if theyâre part of it, or whose side theyâre on....All-in-all, the odds are stacked against us.â
âJamie wonât let us down. I know it,â said Carla, assuredly, running a finger across the Young Masterâs untroubled brow.
âListen to what Iâm tryinâ to tell you, Carrie. I hate to say it, but if he does survive, itâs unlikely that heâll return as the man he was before. I canât speak for Miss Danielleâs predicament, but his psyche can only last a few hours in there before everything just shuts down or...â
â... He dies?â
Castle pointed to his temple, â... he becomes a man possessed.â
Jamie woke up in a strange bed. A single bed. A hospital bed...?
Whatâs 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 âgood morningsâ and âhow are you todaysâ 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 âclinicsâ? Has he been in another coma? Â His body seemed to be unaffected. He didnât feel ill, just a little fuzzy-headed... and cold; a peculiar, disconcerting chill in the marrow of his bones...?
Then it came to him: Iâm 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, âHere she comes, JJ, here she comes! Stand by for lift-off!â 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: âRemember what I tolâ ye, right?! Remember what we agreed last night! All sensible and straight-faced! You wuz stir-crazy, right?! Keep yer cool, say youâre sorry ân tell âem youâll be a good boy, got it? -- you wuz stir-crazy, right?!â he babbled, in a thick, Northern Eastern English accent, probably a Geordie.
Jamie crossed his arms, sighed and asked in a bored voice, âWho are you and where am I?â
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, âOh fer fuckâs sake, JJ -- donât start this shit again!â he hissed, ânot today, bonny lad!! I thought you ân me was tight, right?!â 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, âPlease go away.â
The beardo thumped the bed with his fist, âYou gorra snap outta this, right? No more crazy spiel about witches and demons, right?! This is your last chance before they --â
A harsh female voice cut him off, âMr Cummins!â
The freak immediately jumped back from the bed, pulled himself together and tried to act natural.Â
âYou were warned about coming in here!!â The voice lowered to a reproachful growl, âGo down to the canteen and get your breakfast! Now!â
He scratched his chin through his beard and muttered, â... Just came in to borrow a magazine, doc... sorry... see ya later, JJ...â 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, âThank God weâll be rid of you in a couple of days...â 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. âNow!â 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, âhow are we feeling today, Jamie?â
Here we go: playtime! âWe feel fine,â 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. âHmmm... Do you feel frustrated? Angry? Are you thinking about harming yourself...?â 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, âIâm not fooled by any of this, you know. I can still feel the chill in my bones. I know Iâm still in the Void. You can ask me or tell me anything you like, but I know what this is. Itâs an interactive dream, isn't it?â
She made a face, and asked with an affected, disinterested shrug, âSo... you donât remember yesterday?â
âUmm... it was a big hit for the Beatles?â 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, âSoooo. Itâs going to be this way today, is it Jamie? Weâre back to this again, are we?â
He made a face, shook his head, put up his hands, shrugged and said, âWhy, what way would you like it to be? How am I supposed to be? I have no clue unless you tell me.â
âIâll tell you what it means!â she said, angrily, counting-off a list on her fingers, âCT scans, extensive psychotherapy, hypnotherapy, youâve 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, thereâs nothing wrong with you! So why do you do this?!â
âAs I said, I have no idea what youâre talking about or why Iâm here,â he said, tittering under his hand, âThis is very good, though, I have to confess... her reactions are priceless...â
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, âListen to me, JJ, after what happened yesterday itâs very likely you will be put in the Secure Unit. You donât want that, do you? I donât know what you hope to achieve, but I implore you -- cut out this crazy act now, before itâs too late.â
Jamie remained unmoved, âHmm, using the term âcrazyâ...â he read her name tag, âDr Sloss? As I far as I know itâs taboo these days, bit like âmidgetâ or âretardedâ or âsenileâ, isnât it?â he chided, cheekily, giving her a sly look, ânot very professional, Dr Sloss...?â
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, âWhat are you?! You have no feelings... thereâs no remorse -- youâre stuck in this stupid routine?!â
âWhat routine?â
âTHIS FUCKING CHARADE!!â she cried, indignantly, waving the clipboard.
Jamie coolly and cheerfully replied, âI couldn't have put it better myself, doc,â then, in an act of defiance, he lurched forward and snatched the clipboard out of her hand, âlet me see, now, what exactly have you been saying about me...?â
She leapt to her feet -- snatched it back -- whacked him across the forehead with it and shouted, âNever, ever, ever do that!â
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, âVery unprofessional, Dr Sloss.â
She was incandescent and utterly unrepentant, âIf you make a complaint I think the board will be very lenient -- and after all Iâve been through, including yesterdayâs incident -- no jury in the land would convict me if I put a pillow over your face right now and finished the job!â
âYesterday! Yesterday! What happened yesterday?â 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, âThatâs it! Iâm done!!â Then she stood up and shouted out: âBOYS -- heâs ready!â
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, âAnd where am I going exactly?â
âStop pretending like you donât know,â she said, fetching a dressing gown from a hook on the back of the door and throwing it onto the bed.
âDo either of you two know?â he asked the taciturn orderlies.
They scowled but remained silent.
âToday is the âDay of Judgementâ, if you want put a name to it,â said Dr Sloss, proudly, putting the clipboard under her arm. âWe've done all we can. Itâs up to Dr Mondale now. He has the last word.â
Jamie leapt out of bed, âThat sounds utterly delightful. Maybe he can tell me why Iâm here?â 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 âbastardâ 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, âIs this about what happened yesterday? Am I under arrest? Did I kill somebody? Steal their pills?â he chatted, as they harried him along, âhey, dude! Donât I get a wheelchair?â he quipped to a passing geriatric -- the old man recoiled in abject terror, as if heâd 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, âOh, seven years bad luck, right there! Hope we donât get stuck between floors, lads!â he bantered, running a finger along the haphazard mosaic of cracks and splinters.
The taciturn orderlies glared, accusingly.
âHuh?! Youâre not going to tell me I did this?!â he asked, raising an eyebrow.
Their sullen faces and baleful silence said: yes.
âLooks like Iâve been a very naughty boy!â 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, âCome inâ 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. âVery âCuckooâs Nestâ this, isn't it?â 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. âWell, Mr Jameson-Lumb, we meet for the 5th and final time,â he said, in a polite, light and reassuringly placid tone.
âIâm sure we do,â replied Jamie, brightly, still smiling, still shielding his eyes. âHey this is a bit like The Prisoner - I must be No.6! You must be No.2!â Jamie laughed and shook his fist, âI am not a number! I am a free man!â
Mondale failed to see the joke and went on, âAhem, your case worker, Dr Sloss, tells me that despite intense mental therapy you havenât deviated from your original story. Is that right?â
âMy original story?â
Mondale looked down at his notes, âYour insistence that this is all a dream; âa situation created by a supernatural entity in order to weaken your resolve and cause you to succumb to demonic possessionâ. You still hold that view, do you?â
Jamie thought about it for all of a second, âHmmm, well, I donât remember saying it, but that sounds about right... so I suppose the answer would have to be: yes. Yes I do.â
â... You believe you belong to a coven of witches bent on killing this âdemonâ and saving the universe, is that right?â
âSounds a bit mad when you put plainly like that... but... yeah?â
The doctor lifted his pen, wrote a note, and said, âYou seem a lot more relaxed today.â
âIâve nothing to be uptight about. Iâm just watching this play out. Waiting for the punchline.â
The doctor looked up, âAnd yesterdayâs... incident? Have you anything to say about the way you behaved? Aren't you sorry for things you did?â
Jamie thought about the frightened old man in the wheelchair, the look of disgust on the faces of the people he passed and mused, âUmm, Iâm not too clear on the details, but does it have something to do with the broken mirror in the lift?â
Mondale frowned and informed him, âNot 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.â Mondale went back to his notes and iterated various allegations, âyou 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...â Mondale looked up, frowned and asked with a shake of the head, You donât remember any of this?â
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.
âAah, you donât remember... again.â said the doctor, unsurprised and just a little exasperated; he pulled another page from the pile, skimmed it and summarised, â... 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 didnât know what to do with you. Now we donât know what to do with you. You are a very peculiar, very vexing case, Mr Jameson-Lumb.â
âWait, wait, slow down a minute, doc: I overdosed?â Jamie laughed, disdainfully, âWell, thatâs one thing I donât believe -- I havenât touched drugs for 5 years, and Iâm not inclined to try them again,â he scoffed, shaking his head.
The doctor peered over his horn-rims and said, âThen look at your arms and explain the marks to me.â
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! âWhat the f --- Iâve never injected anything in my life!â
Mondale shook his head and begged to differ, âThere 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.â He went back to his notes, âYou've given the authorities the name James âJamieâ Jameson-Lumb, but the police canât 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 youâve cited donât exist and the ones that do have never heard of you,â he raised his eyebrows, âwhat do you say now?â
Jamie smirked and touched his temple, âOh, 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!â Then he had a thought and chuckled, âEven your name - âMondaleâ - is an anagram of âLa Demonâ! Come on doc. You know who I am. You know what this is. Just get it over with.â
Mondale rolled his eyes, sighed and said, âSo, for the record, despite everything Iâve told you, you canât remember anything?â
Jamie continued to smile and shake his head, âItâs all bollocks, âdoctorâ. We both know that. Iâm not falling for it. You canât break me like this.â
âBreak you? Weâre all trying put you back together again! Youâre clean, youâre sober, youâre reasonably healthy, you have no obvious infirmities or abnormalities (back to his notes) -- in fact Dr Sloss intimates that in her personal opinion youâre âa narcissist acting-up to get attentionâ...?â he turned sideways in his swivel chair, rested his arm on the desk and closely observed Jamieâs reaction to the accusation.
The sun disappeared behind a cloud and the room darkened to shadow. Jamie stopped squinting and looked at things from Mondaleâs 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, âSave your breath, doc. Like the notes say, Iâm 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.â
One of the orderlies couldn't contain himself and muttered âarseholeâ 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, âLet me put this to you, then, Jamie,â he said, setting the notes aside, holding his pen in both hands and adopting a more genial tone: weâre all friends here: letâs not beat about the bush, âis this a ruse to avoid prosecution? Are you afraid weâll hand you over to the authorities? Because itâs been almost 2 months now -- youâre clean and sober -- if they charge you, youâll get a suspended sentence! Itâs 1988! We donât throw sick, vulnerable people in prison anymore! Youâll be assigned a social worker. Theyâll find you accommodation and a job. Youâll be integrated back into society...?â
Jamie kept smiling, shrugging and insisting, âIâm entranced on the floor of the basement in the Ivy House and my Soul is trapped between worlds.â
The doctor groaned and tried again, âLook at it this way, whatâs more likely, eh? The world youâre living in now or a world of witches, goblins, ghosts and demons?â
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, âNope. Not falling for it. I know where I am.â
The doctor wearily drummed his fingernails on the edge of the desk for a moment-or-so, then gloomily concluded, âWell, Iâm very sorry we havenât been able to change your mind, Jamie.â He took a sheet of paper from a tray on his right, stretched his arm to shorten his cuff and began writing, âDue to your volatility and recent violent behaviour, Iâm afraid we canât 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 youâre no longer deemed a danger to yourself and the general public...â
Jamie made some aww-shucks noises, threw up his arms and said, âHey-ho! Whatever. Iâm hungry. Do they serve breakfast in bed?â
Mondale looked up, and for the first time showed signs of losing his patience, âIâm disappointed youâre taking this so lightly, Mr Jameson-Lumb. We did our best for you. It pains us that we havenât been able to help you. Most of all, I hate to deprive a man of his liberty for the sake of his sanity. Itâs the hardest, most heartbreaking part of the job.â
âYouâll get over it,â said Jamie.
âGoodbye, 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...â
âOh, Iâm sure I will, doctor. I am sure I will,â said Jamie, winking.
Mondale shook his head sadly and said, âTake Mr Jameson-Lumb to the Secure Unit. Thank you.â
The orderlies were very rough with him on the way back to his room, but Jamie wasnât 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, âThere he is, fellas -- hide your mirrors!!â 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 Jamieâs situation. He broke away from the jeering mob and jogged backwards in front of the escort, âWell?! Well?! How did it go, dude?!â he asked, nodding vigorously and expectantly, the fronds of his âtache 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, âWhat didja tell Mondale?! Didja tell him like I said?! Stir crazy?! Didja?! Are we awright?!â
Jamie looked through him, âYouâre just a figment of someone elseâs imagination, my bearded friend -- disappear!â he sang, wiggling his fingers like a hack magician.
Cummins slowed his backward tracks then stood aside to allow the trio to turn into Jamieâs room, âYou stupid mad fucker, JJ!â he shouted from the doorway, getting angrier as the news sunk in, âFuckinâ idiot! Al ya hadda do was act normal for once and tell âem you went sir-crazy, right!! Thatâs all you hadda do!! But now youâre fuck-en dooooomed, pal. Theyâll never let you outta here now! Theyâll sling you in the looney-bin ân throw away the key!â
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 âSecure Unitâ. There was a sign on the wall that read, âAuthorised Personnel Only No Visitors Except By Appointmentâ. The windows opposite the entrance were caged and barred. It looked quite daunting. âIs this where you put the real headcases?!â 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, âSo! This is the infamous âDream Boyâ -- AKA JJ Lumb, is it, eh? We've been expecting you, JJ. Your reputation goes before you, as youâll soon find out...â 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 Nurseâs office for a debriefing. She was a formidable, well upholstered matron-type who gave him a stern lecture on how to âbehave like a civilised human beingâ 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 âthe charadeâ went on, the harder it was to believe that it wasn't all it seemed.Â
These people werenât drawn from his subconscious; they werenât 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, âThis is the dayroom,â 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 heâd have to report to the supplies cupboard to get his quota of toilet paper. Jamieâs 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: âWe donât want any trouble, OK lad?â he said, because he and his colleagues âdidnât suffer fools gladlyâ; they wouldn't stand for any âaggroâ of any kind! âIt mightn't be a prison, but we âave got solitary confinement and shock treatment, so think on before you decide to smash the place up or cause a scene!â And with that, off he stalked to let Jamie âget unpacked and acclimatisedâ. 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, âI heard all that, boy. And heâs right, yâknow. This ain't prison. Thereâs no luxury here. We only âave one telly ân itâs in the day room, and it only shows BBC2. No wirelesses or nuthinâ like that; alls we got is âospital radio piped-in through the tannoy âtween 6 ân 6, and itâs all easy-listening stuff, classical mostly; nothing that might wind-anybody-up (it was presently playing a rather tinny, lo-fi version of Stravinskyâs Rite of Spring). No newspapers, no library, neither - just a box of tatty old paperbacks ân borinâ magazines donated by a local charity. We does our little jobs all day ân then we âave our dinner ân then itâs a mad scramble for the Day Room to get the best seats for the cricket âighlights ân One Man and âis Dog. They donât let us see the news in case somethinâ comes up about one of us. Then itâs suppertime; and then itâs time for bed.â
âSounds bracing,â said Jamie, brightly, opening his holdall and examining his âthingsâ.
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 Canât Buy Me Love, apropos of nothing, he commented, âI heard âem talkinâ bout you in the canteen, when I was doinâ the bins, like. I 'ear all the gossip up there. I 'ear all about you, yâknow.â
Without looking up from his work, Jamie replied as if talking to a child, âDo you indeed? And what, pray, did you hear?â
The porter answered with another question, âYou know Chris Cummins, dontcha?â he asked, in an I know something you donât know, voice.
Jamie shook out a pair of jeans, and replied as he read the label, âIf youâre 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.â
âWild? Heâs absolutely fuckinâ furious, mate! Heâs due to get out on Thursday anâ âe wuz countinâ on you gettinâ out today! Boy, was he ever wrong!â
âWhy? Why is he so interested in whether I got out or not?â
âCuz he believed ya when you promised âim that once yez wuz on the outside youâd 'ook-him-up with yer 'igh-class âpalsâ and âe would âave the time of âis life! âThey 'ave tasty gearâ, you told âim, all nice ân upmarket ân sophisticated -- âno more âhavinâ to deal with scummy toe-rags in slummy tower blocks!â -- you said. Cummins was bankinâ on it! We all knew you wuz full of shit, but âe wouldn't lissen, the stupid git, ân now he âas nowhere else to go!â The porter chortled wheezily and shook his head, âAlls you âad to do was act sane for one day, bullshit âem ân say you went stir crazy, ân everythinâ woulda been OK ------ but you couldn't do it!â 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. âWe all knew you couldn't do it! I tell ya, I almost bust a gut laughinâ when we âeard that you blew it! We 'ad bets on it and everything! Heh heh, Cummins is beside hisself -- heâs gonna be potless, âomeless, low 'n dry!â
Unworried, Jamie studied the socks and opined, âThe man seems like a total basket case, Iâd never make friends with someone like him... besides, apparently Iâm clean, arenât I? Thereâs no way...â he pulled a double-take, â... Wait -- did you say you were an inmate?â
He nodded, âLong term patient, mate. Nameâs Phil Porter. I work in the kitchens and the laundry. Youâre fit ân âealthy ân you seem quite with-it so youâll probably be a cleaner. All the new lads start with a brush and a mop ân bucket.â
âYour nameâs Porter and youâre a porter?â Jamie asked, still in detective mode, giving him a sideways look, scanning his eyes for any sign of duplicity, âthatâs a bit on the nose, isn't it?â
He leaned his chubby, heavily-tattooed forearms on the handles of the trolley and chuckled, âI know! Porter the porter! Did you ever? On the outside I was a plumber.â
âWhat are you in for?â 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, âI butchered my wife and 'er sister with a JML steak knife 12 years ago last September. I donât âmember it at all... but they âave the photos of the crime scene, see, and my fingerprints over everythinâ, so I took them at their word. Alls I 'member is we 'adda blazinâ row ân I 'ad a black out. Next thing I know is Iâm in the back of a black-maria covered in claret, cuffed and on me way to the cop shop! The lawyers ân doctors say Iâm a schizo so the beak found me guilty âby reason of diminished responsibilityâ; yâknow âinsanityâ. They put me in this-âere hospital and threw away the key, cuz as far as I can see, thereâs no way Iâll ever get out. Like I said, itâs not like proper chokey. There ain't no parole.â He looked at his feet and confessed, âI gotta take a lotta pills, see. They stop the black-outs ân keep me from punchinâ the wall. They donât âalf slow me down, though. I used to be as skinny as a rake with a full 'ead oâ hair, I did. Not now,â 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, âOi, Porter! Get your fat arse back to the laundry room -- theyâre waitinâ on those sheets!â
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. âJJ Lumb, the Cloud Cuckoo Land Kid. The Great Pretender! Iâve heard a lot about you, my son, and none of itâs good,â Â and then came the obligatory warning, âI donât know what your game is, sunshine, but we have people in here who really need help so we havenât 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 theyâre sensitive, quiet types, they have to be approached with caution and treated tenderly cos they snap easily. One wrong word and theyâll kill you without thinking about it.â
Exasperated by the constant hostility, Jamie looked up at the ceiling and addressed his supposed supreme antagonist, âSo this is how youâre going to do it, huh? Good old-fashioned physical and mental torture?â
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 otherâs eyes, he half-whispered in a no-more-bullshit voice, âThat airy-fairy shit wonât wash with me, sunshine. Iâm a very fond of Dr Sloss. Sheâs a nice lady ân you drove her half-âround-the-twist with your bollocks! Not only that, but my Auntie Ethel âappens to be in the geriatric ward, and you traumatised the old girl yesterday! So listen âere. There ain't gonna be no winding up the other patients with talk of curses ân demons. No grandstanding, neither -- and no heckling the staff! I donât care what the fuckâs going on in that burned out shell of a skull -- just keep it to yerself! Got it?!â
Oh, Iâve got it alright: weâre going all the way with this, Jamie thought. âWill that be all, sir?â he asked, in an untroubled tone.
Unnerved by his composure, the orderly reluctantly let him go, âSince youâre fit ân able for duties, we've assigned you a work detail,â he imparted, in a more moderate, but no less threatening, tone. He smiled like a predatory reptile, âYouâre going to be a cleaning lady, JJ. At 2pm sharp today you will go to the janitorâs cupboard to collect your brush, mop and bucket. And make sure you wear a pair of shoes that donât squeak; it drives âem mental. We wouldn't want one of the sickos attacking you while you was scrubbing a toilet, would we?â 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. Itâs all logical, plausible and tactile....... and itâs getting fucking heavy. Illusion or not, the immediate future looked pretty bleak. Itâs a dream, it doesnât 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 Gozâs memories? He was no stranger to rehab, after all? And Goz is the sort of person to throw a tantrum if he doesnât get his way. What if this scenario has been lifted from Gozâs experiences woven around a narrative created by the demon?
And yet, Mondaleâs words echoed in his head: âWhatâs more likely -- the world youâre living in now, or a world of witches, goblins, ghosts and demons?â
Well, thereâs a quick and easy answer to that, and itâs 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 heâd 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 heâd 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 didnât 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 didnât 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 crackâd -- 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?
âHEY YOU!â He jumped back -- startled by a woman shouting from the doorway -- âWhat are you doing in here?!â 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, âNothing, maâam, I was just looking around, itâs my first day...â
âHuh?! Nothing? âNothingâ you say?!â she prodded his chest with an accusing finger, âYou were gonna smash that mirror werenât you?! You have a thing about mirrors, donât you?!â she said, as she took him by the arm and yanked him toward the door, âwe canât 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 itâs the preferred place for suicide!â
âIâm not suicidal, Iâm just mystified... confused...â said Jamie, stumbling along.
âConfused?! This is a bathroom! You must've seen a bathroom before?!â
âWell then, maybe I wanted to have a bath?â
âNo one is allowed in here without clearing it with us first,â she pointed to a sign on the outside of the door that said: âPatients must get key from officeâ. âItâs unlocked because Mr Murphy was just about to use it!â
âHello there,â 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, theyâd 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.
â... We wonât stand for any of your fantastical nonsense here! Youâre not gonna start smashing mirrors or attacking members of staff, here, got it?! Now, get yourself on-down to the dayroom and socialise -- youâre gonna be in here a long time, youâll have to make friends -- just donât annoy anybody or do anything stupid! OK?!â
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 Iâm deluded amnesiac John Doe with no past, then the âthis is all a dream scenarioâ still makes sense. Iâm a non-person, no oneâs heard of me. Iâm 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. Heâd obviously had his bath, his white beard was fluffy, the scent of Pears soap and baby powder filled the air, âHello again,â 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.
âIâm 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...â 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. âItâs not your fault, sir. I shouldn't have been in there, I suppose,â 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, âIf they accuse you of being a troublemaker, son, well then, weâre 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?â he pointed at Jamieâs forehead, âItâs just your brainâs way of coping. It can be quite terrifying when you have gaps in your memory.â
âDo you think thatâs whatâs wrong with me then, amnesia?â Jamie asked, with an indulgent smile.
Mr Murphy shrugged and said, âIâm an alcoholic, dear boy, I donât have to imagine, memory loss goes with the territory. Itâs like when you wake after an extended binge and youâre in a strange room and no idea how you got there. Itâs horrifying...â then he intimated, âOne of the nurses, one of the few who believe youâre sick, reckons you created this fantasy because you canât cope with Reality.â
âDo you believe me?â
The old man stroked his beard, looked into Jamieâs eyes, thought about it and said, âI donât know. If you are âacting-upâ, as they say, youâre very good at it. You seem sincere. I think thatâs what they find most infuriating.â
âIf youâll excuse the question, Mr Murphy, but what are you in for?â
The old man looked away and fidgeted with the belt of his robe and explained, âI couldn't cope after my wifeâs 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.â
âReally? Then why did they put you down here in the Secure Unit?â
âLike 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 ân 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. Â Itâs where they put mild-mannered psychopaths and patients who have to be heavily medicated or constantly watched. Itâs a strict regime, it has to be. Iâve been here a couple of years and I still get days when I canât cope with the guilt and the pain....â then he looked up and said, â... we all have our personal demons, donât we, Jamie?â
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, âWhat do your demons tell you, Mr Murphy?â he asked, watching the old man closely.
Mr Murphy held up his hands in a defensive gesture and chuckled, âItâs just a figure of speech, dear boy.â
âBut delivered with a nudge and a wink. I take it you know that in my case, the demon is all too real.â
He stroked his silvery beard and commented, âWell now, if Iâve got it right, you believe a demon has created this world you find yourself in,â he grinned, looking around the room, âif thatâs true, what part do I play in your illusion?â
âI honestly donât know, Mr Murphy. I canât trust anything or anyone at the moment.â
âDo you think Iâm one of the demonâs minions?â
âI have no idea. He could be you, for all I know.â
âI could be a demon?!â The old man laughed, âThen, who am I? Old Nick, Beelzebub -- Satan -- the Devil himself?â
Jamie scratched his head but found it hard to give a satisfactory reply, âYes, and no...I dunno --Â please, Mr Murphy, I donât mean to be rude, but itâs very complicated...â
The old man understood, but pushed for a definitive answer, âI just want to know my name...?â
Jamie was slightly taken aback, âYour name...?â
âYes. If Iâm the demon -- whatâs my name? Is it a name one might know, say, from  literature or legend ?â
âUmmm... I canât say...â
âYou canât say? So...Iâm a âmetaphorical demonâ, then?â
âNo... He has a definite name. I just canât say it.â
âWhy? Canât you remember it?â
âNo, of course I remember...â
âIs it a curse word? -- because Iâve heard them all, dear boy,â old Mr Murphy chuckled, âIâm not a prude by any stretch of the imagination!â
This was very chewy. Jamie looked deep into the old manâs watery, grey eyes and pondered: is he the perpetrator of this charade? âWhy do you want me to say its name?â he asked, in a tone laced with mistrust.
Mr Murphy shrugged as if he couldn't see a problem and said, âI 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...?â
Jamie refused to be drawn, âPlease, Mr Murphy, if itâs all the same to you, Iâd rather not say it.â
âBecause it would make it real? Or because it would make no sense? Whatâs in a name, after all?â
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. Heâd had the bad cops; was it the good copâs turn?
Mr Murphy winked, and said, âIâve given you something to think about, havenât I, dear boy?â
âIâve had a lot to think about since I woke up this morning, Mr Murphy. If I believe the doctors, Iâm a nobody, a junkie-John-Doe with some sort of intermittent amnesia, prone to violent outbursts. If I trust my conscience and my memory, Iâm exactly who I think I am, and this is all an interactive mirage.â
âYou make it sound like youâd 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?â
âItâs my world, Mr Murphy, The Real World.â
âIâm beginning to see why you are the bane of the psychiatric world!â 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, âDonât 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 youâve reformed, youâll 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 Iâd have to wonder why I'm afraid to put a name to the thing that scares me the most.â
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?Â
...
âSay the name, say his name, say the name, say the name, say his name...â
âCanât you make them go away?â Dani asked Electra, as they slowly backed-up.
Her frightened, golden haired grandmother shook her head and said, âNo... He must have hexed this entire dreamscape, taken control of the characters! Heâs warped them and made them monsters! Thatâs the only conclusion!â
âSomebodyâs taken control, but itâs not him, this isn't the demonâs work,â said Pritchard, pensively but assuredly, âhe canât be in two places at once. His time is running out, he wonât have the energy to pull off something like this and take care of Jamie. No, this is something else entirely, itâs not the same kind of energy... but itâs still potentially fatal, even to ghosts.â
âOh my God -- Soul Death!â screeched Electra.
âReally?â 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, âSay the name, say his name etc...â over and over and over again. Â 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 âSAY HIS NAME!!â so loud it blew the red hood off  Daniâs head!
The mutant fairy-tale-folk took a step closer: âSay his name!â
She grimaced, looked up at Pritchard and said, âJust so ya know, bozo -- weâre screwed either way. If I donât say it theyâll tear us apart. If I do say it, it could rip this universe apart. What do I do, smart guy?â
âWe could try reasoning with them -- maybe they donât know the spell was reversed?â suggested Electra.
âCould work,â said Pritchard, stepping forward, addressing the giant, âIt appears thereâs been a bit of a mix up -- the spell has been reversed and filtered through the Void -- itâs an unknown quantity -- thereâs no telling what it will do!â
âHo, ho, ho,â the giant laughed -- then scowled and rumbled, âWeâll know if she says it!â
The myriad fantastic creatures chuckled and cackled appreciatively. The three evil little boars flashed their knives and snorted with delight. Then they all chanted âSay it!â again.
Daniâs patience had worn to a thread. She was bloody sick and tired of this! She held her breath and started counting to ten.
âDani, no -- you canât -- there must be some way out of this!â cried Pritchard, flapping his hands.
âThereâs nothing else she can do, like she said herself, theyâll tear us apart anyway!â cried Electra, tearing at her hair.
âWeâre the Vondragßßl, Ellie, we can still have a life after death, but this energy...â Pritchard stopped when he realised something. âwait a minute, I know this energy. I recognise this feeling... donât you?â
âWhat do you mean?â
âItâs the same feeling you get when youâre in the forest -- the real forest, not this thing -- the buzz you get from the ground...â
âYou mean the...â said Electra, looking down.
âYes, itâs the only answer... Itâs just like Xavier warned me when we deciphered the original runes -- heâs harnessed their power and freed them from the spell that bound them to earth...â
âWhat are youse two talkinâ about,â asked Dani, nonplussed.
âThe Darkly Martyrs. The wizards who created the Void. This is their doing, not his!â
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 Vondragßßl.
âIs that one of them?â asked Dani.
Before Pritchard could answer, the ethereal wizard spoke for himself, âI am Zomber Blist. I am here to ensure that the girl speaks his name,â he intoned, in a deep, solemn tone, âno matter how it was cast or what circumstances now prevail, it is written. The Prophesy must be fulfilled.â
âThe Prophesy must be fulfilled,â intoned the horde, in a low, awed, whisper.
Pritchard tried to reason with him, âBut, câmon, Mr Blist -- it was cast in two separate places, through 2 separate mirrors then reversed by an incompetent witch?! Itâs anybodyâs guess what will happen, and OK, you have every right to be angry with the coven -- but itâs been 7000 years -- do you really want to be scratched from existence for the sake of revenge?â
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, âIt is written. The spell is cast. She will say the name.â
âShe will say the name,â echoed the terrifying horde, now so close that the hapless trio could smell their rancid breath.
âYouâll have to say it,â muttered Pritchard, stooping and whispering in Daniâs ear, âat least thereâs a chance things might be OK; think of it as a game of cosmic Russian Roulette...â
...
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 manâs twinkling eyes beneath the peak of the chauffeurâs cap; He felt as if he should know him. He had a strong aura that didnât make his pelt stand-on-end. His expression said: I know what you are, where youâre going and why.
Broo whimpered: Will we catch him?
But Xavierâs 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 âconfessionâ 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: Itâs all my fault! This would never have happened if Iâd gone on that holiday instead of going to Bangor with me mates! But he didnât dwell on the supernatural aspect; he didnât 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 â the order from the Spirit World was unequivocal â 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 âdidnât seem to be anyone at that numberâ. Panic! Malky asked her if she could connect him to Gardai HQ, but she didnât have a âFree-State directoryâ. 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 Ăireann 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!â sighed Malky, when they waved it off and at last approached the car; even then he wasn't happy, âOh gawd, I hope they donât ask for my licence or insurance or somethinâ...â 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, âYouse-two are the talk-oâ-the-town down here, so-yez-are! Everybody in the force is talkinâ about that psychic guy with the 3-legged dog -- yezâre feckinâ legends, so-yez-are!â
Malky was pleasantly surprised to find they didnât appear to be taking the piss and informed them in an officious tone, âI need yez to radio ahead and get Detective Superintendent Somerville -- tell him that Barry McKeeâs on the loose in Wicklow and heâs likely to be headed for Brodir - !â
The other gard politely interrupted, âSorry, did you say Wicklow? Thereâs been a murder down there this eveninâ, so-there-has! Have yez not been listening to the radio?âÂ
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, âApparently, at about 10 o'clock tonight, some bloke broke into an old folkâs home and shot ânâ killed an auld woman and wounded a couple oâ the staff! Terrible stuff!â
Unsurprised, Malky nodded sagely and sighed, âIt wasn't Golden-Slumber Meadows, by any chance, was it?â
The gards gaped and nodded, astonished by his powers of deduction.
He looked over his shoulder and explained to Broo, âSounds like our man is clearinâ the decks. It mightn't be long until they catch him now,â He turned back to the gards, âThat was the old folkâs home where McKeeâs mother lived,â he told them, âyouâll have to get on to Somerville immediately and tell him to go to Brodir ASAP -- thatâs where heâs headed next!â
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 âthat psychic guyâ, 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 Barryâs been-ânâ-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 didnât wave or call out or warn him of danger to come, they just frowned and watched the car pass, unsmiling, looking troubled and uncertain...Â
...
Sitting high in an elm tree on the edge of the forest, Archie Harkness had been watching the Ivy House for a while now. Heâd planned on a timely confrontation after the events at Forestpine, but when his useless Vivaâs 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 Lumbsâ 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. âIn my experience, itâs always better to call at a bad time.â 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. âHmmm. Lady Bethâs limo if Iâm not mistaken; she must've been out of town.â He looked at his watch: 11:21. âOch, Iâll give her 10 minutes or so to get settled in, and then An Inspector Calls...â
...
Xavier parked in the courtyard and opened the door for Her Ladyship; Castle was waddling down the steps to greet her, âSo pleased to see you back, milady, but why didnât you take the plane?â
She explained about Rossington and the ritual, then punched him in the arm, âWhy didnât you tell me what could happen! I thought I was hallucinating! We could've been mauled!!â
Castle was bereft, âS-sorry milady? Is this about Master Gosling...?â
She shoved him around to the back of the car, âGo on -- look in the trunk and see for yourself!â
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, âWas this entirely necessary. milady?â
âWhat?â
âHog-tying, gagging and drugging Master Gosling, milady?â
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! âWell, he didnât look like that an hour ago when Xav gave him a shot!â 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.
âThis happened because of  the Void?â asked Castle, intrigued.
Xavier then pointed at the ground.
Castle understood and agreed, âYes, their spirits have risen, we think the spell set them free...â Then he caught the big driverâs gist. He looked at Gosling and asked, âIs it your the opinion that theyâre responsible for this?â
Xavier nodded again and pointed in the direction of the table mountain.
âIt was their spell all along?â
Xavier nodded yet again.
Lady Beth snapped her fingers impatiently, âCâmon, câmon, tell me whatâs going on!â
Castle rubbed the back of his neck and said, âWell to put it in laymanâs 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, thatâs all I can think of... Carla and I knew there was something iffy about using a mirror, the mirrors twist everything...â
âNevermind the magic lesson, will he change again?â she snapped, stepping aside to let Xavier untie the hapless Gosling.
Castleâs jowls wobbled as he shook his head firmly, âI wish I had an answer, but I just donât know, milady, this like all-out psychic warfare on a biblical scale -- this is unprecedented in the annals of Gßßl - !â
She shut-him-up by grabbing his lapels and shaking him, âJust tell me how it affects the Real World -- my world!!â
Castle lowered his eyes and confessed, âMaster Jamie used the same spell to try and reach Miss Danielle and now heâs stranded in the Void, in another coma, if you like. But this time heâs up against the demon and the Darkly Martyrs too.â He pointed at the ground, âWe donât know what theyâre doinâ or whose side theyâre on, but on this evidence,â he paused as Xavier  hoisted Gosling out of the trunk and threw him over his shoulder, â... it could turn Master Jamie into something ten times worse than Master Gosling or Miss Danielle...â
  To be continued in Seven Thousand Years to Midnight
Table of Contents
#Spindlefreck#witchcraft#witches#fantasy#horror#demon#tutankhamun#curse#saga#magic#dreams#IrishGhostStory#ghosts#irish fiction#Northern Ireland#Northern Irish fiction#christmas special#satire#allegory#telepathy#psychics#mystery#serial killer#magical
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Spindlefreck: Pt.18: Witches, Bitches, Vamps and Creeps
2nd November 1988
Electra Cochraneâs Imagination;
Little Red Riding Hoodâs Grandmotherâs Cottage
      âSo, lemme get this straight... you just stood there watching... while he raped me?!â 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, âIt wasn't like that... it isn't like that. The flesh means nothing to us. You must know that by now,â 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 didnât know where to start, âWhat... how...? Where was my daddy when all this was going on?!â
âLook into the glass,â 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. âThe 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.â
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! âMake it change!â 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, âIvan 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.â The old woman grumbled as she recalled her second sonâs short life, âOf course, Bernieâs 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 didnât 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.â
Suspicious of the old womanâs intentions and somewhat dismayed by her hard-hearted attitude, Dani took a sceptical tack: like, who is the enemy here, anyway? âSounds like they were right about you!!â she jeered, bitterly, looking the old woman up and down, âYou should hear the way they talk about you! They say you were junkie and you worked for Bernie Pritchard -- they call you his âmollâ ân say you were a right olâ slut!â
Smiling patiently, the old woman nodded and replied, âTis true, I suppose. I was never a âgoody-two-shoesâ like your sainted aunt Carla. I wasn't interested in competing or honing my powers to fight in one of their stupid âsecret warsâ. 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, Iâd already decided I didnât 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 didnât 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 âguestsâ. I always had my imagination, you see, and when youâre a vivid as I am and youâve been through everything Iâve been through, you donât 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, câest la vie ...â
Dani made a face, âYou sound just like Auntie Carla.â
âYou remind me of her,â Electra replied, rhetorically.
Dani didnât 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, âWe 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.â 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 Daniâs great-grandmother, brandishing a heavy ladle, chasing her first born into the trees. âMomma was a different kind of monster, as Iâm sure youâve 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 âCarlaâ -- 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. Carrieâs defiance only made life more difficult for me. I counted the days to my hibernations when I could drift into the âSphere, 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 sheâd been in touch with Uncle Oggy via mommaâs crystal ball and heâd told her to come to Ireland as soon as we could and heâd look after us. Heâd given up on his sister years ago. He knew what she was capable of. Â âUncle Oggy says sheâs killed before -- so come with me now before she kills one of us!â 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.
âWe 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....â She looked up at her sullen granddaughter, âHave you explored my dreamscapes -- have you ridden on the cosmic roller coaster? Sailed on the Martian crystal ships? Visited the underwater ballrooms of Atlantis?â
âAlice took me,â Dani replied, grumpily.
She smirked, nodded and opined in a cynical tone, âAhh, 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?â
Daniâs lip curled, âNot much. I suppose you two set this up between yez!â
âNo, I havenât 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 âFrench Tartâ 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.â
Dani snorted, âShe hates the fogies in the Ivy House too, so-she-does. They drive us up the frigginâ wall with their boring old twaddle and their stupid rules... gits.â
âExactly. 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.â 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, âWe became a pair of âPritchardâs Bitchesâ; I âworkedâ in one of his Purple Pleasure Rooms. I didnât get physical, mind you. I was so adept at telepathy Iâd just touch their brows and send them into their sickest fantasy, smoke some opium and disappear into my own little reverie, heh, heh...â She snickered, âAfterwards, 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 didnât 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 Vondragßßl.
âOne day, Bernie came to me with another of his silly proposals. Some archaeologist had uncovered Tutankhamenâs tomb, apparently, and there were runes engraved on a cartouche amidst the hieroglyphics with specific instructions on how to create a âGßßl 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 theyâd 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 --  Bernieâs 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, âthe Full âGßßlâ. It was clear from the outset that heâd 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 Ivanâs powers would manifest later in life, but thankfully, he showed no promise; in fact, he was a troubled child.â Electra sighed, ruefully, âHe didnât trust anybody, least of all âUncleâ 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.â She smiled, benignly, âThen 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...â  Electra frowned, âI knew something was wrong. There was a tingle in my Essence that told me something significant and ominous had come to pass. I couldnât find your signature in the Psychosphere!â The frown became a sorrowful grimace as she recalled the day of the fire, âYour 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.â The grimace became a scowl, âThey lied. They told me youâd died. They even had a funeral! Jacob, Maisie and I wept for days!â she winked a twinkling eye, âBut itâs hard to keep a secret in the âSphere, 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 didnât know youâd morphed...â
â... Into a big, bog-ugly goblin!â snapped Dani.
The old woman hid her face behind her hand and looked away, âOoh, 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. Bernieâs messiah-making project was a trap set long ago by the demon. Heâd followed the Templeâs 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 âput out of your misery for the covenâs sakeâ.
âIvan was desperate to save you; he asked me to go to the dark side of the âSphere, the place where the demonâs hostâs psyche resides... He wanted to make a deal.
âSo, I sat before my dressing room mirror and entered The Devilâs Rift, and then on into the dark side of the âSphere. I was safe. The demon had been expecting me. He knew why I was there. Â 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.â She looked up and smiled, her spangled, emerald irises twinkling with compassion, âI did it for you, Danielle. You were too precious a jewel to lose...â
Dani shivered. The story seemed entirely reasonable, but one thing bothered her above all else; she cocked her head and asked, âWhy didnât you tell me all this years ago, when I was normal? When they took me in? -- You could've saved me from the mess Iâm in! You could've come and seen me, at least!â
âThat 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.â She straightened her back, wiped the wistful smile from her lips and continued in a low, morose voice, âI darenât disobey him. While I was in the dark side of the âSphere, 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....â
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, âIâve heard that noise before!â
The old lady nodded and looked up at the ceiling as if it was about to fall in, âAnother Soul Death. What is he doing...?â
Then it went very quiet, just the hooting of cartoon owls in the woods and the crackle of the old womanâs fire. âWhy is everything so still,â asked Dani, looking out of the little window.
âHeâs in the âSphere,â Electra gasped.
âWho?â
âThe demon!â
âSo... is this part of the deal, too?â Her golden haired grandmotherâs wizened hand grabbed her wrist! âHey!â Dani cried, âwhatâre you doing?!â
The old witch looked at her with wild, beseeching, terrified eyes: âSpeak his name, Danielle -- say it now!!â
 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 harmâs way. He knew he was still in Forestpine, probably in one of the abandoned maisonettes heâd been investigating. He wasn't in any pain, but he felt groggy and listless: drugged. He didnât know how long heâd 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? Someoneâs bound to have heard that, thought Archie, if it was anyplace other than Forestpine, somebody would phone the peelers, but the residents of the âWorst Housing Estate in Europeâ 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 whoâs been shot?Â
âYouâre awake, I see,â said a male voice, slightly muted by a crash helmet, âa rude awakening was it?â it asked, with a hint of amused-mischief. Then it was next to his ear, âWe meet again, Archie Harkness,â 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 didnât hiss and crackle like a rusty needle on an old LP. This time it sounded human. âYou gave me a nasty surprise, this evening, Archie. You roused me from a deep, deep meditation... Â but I am now grateful for the intrusion. You've brought me to my senses in more ways than you can ever imagine.â
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?
âWonât be long now... bear with me, Archie, just one more thing to do...â
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, âNo, Iâm not going to kill you. Not directly, anyway. The people who eventually find you are going to kill you, and hopefully, themselves, too.â
Youâre using me to bait a trap?
âPrecisely. I love setting traps. Iâm like a man-hunter, and I always get my man!â 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. âItâll be quick, so donât worry, you wonât feel a thing, and your Soul will survive the experience.â
Heâs taping something to something? A booby trap!
âRight 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.â
âDessie Calvert -- you killed Dessie Calvert?!â Archieâs 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, âSo 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 itâs true. People let you down. Poor Desmond. But donât you worry, Archie, youâre about to meet him again, very soon... well, as soon as your friends find you. Youâre going to bring the house down... literally!â
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, âIâm sorry Archie, old man, I havenât time to divulge my life story or my motives. Iâve 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,â he laughed then sang a line from an old Bowie song: ââKnowledge comes with deathâs release...ââ
The Ivy House
6 miles away, Ogden Castle, the Lumbsâ 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, âIs everything alright, Mr Castle? I was just liaising with the men, when the tremors suddenly stopped...?â
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, âHe could be making ready to strike -- he could've been interrupted -- who can tell?! Thereâs no change with Master Jamie and Miss Danielle, theyâre still in their trance... We think heâs got an accomplice to finish the job... probably Ellie...â
âEllie Cochrane?!â Gustafson cried, confused, âBut I thought Ellie died, sir? Is she a ghost... is she haunting the place?!â he asked, looking up at the house as if he expected to see her appear at one of the windows.
âCarla is pretty sure she didnât enter The Light, we donât know why, but we think sheâs working with the demon in the âSphere... itâs the only explanation, he canât be in two places at once.... besides, she wouldn't survive in there without his protection...â
Gustafson was confused, âBut what does it mean...?â
âIt means heâs on the move in a physical sense and heâs still in the immediate vicinity... could be on his way here now... gawd knows... he could come at us from anywhere...â he pointed to the fields beyond the house, âRadio the men ân tell âem to spread out along the perimeter, listen out for a motorbike.... and prepare themselves for anything!â
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 Jamieâs 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. âShite!â 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, âYou! Come with me!â 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, âListen to me, you little imbecile! I know all about you and your friendsâ escapades in the Psychosphere!! Youâre just like my sister! A dreamer. Soft-headed and hard-hearted, having fun at everyone elseâs expense. Is this Electraâs doing?! Are you in on this too?! Tell me!!â
Terrified, the waifish Alice slid to the floor, threw up her arms and tearfully denied everything, âI ainât got nothinâ to do with any oâ this!! I stopped dreaming with Miss Dani when you told me to -- itâs all Goz -- I mean itâs all Master Goslingâs fault!! Heâs the one you should be chastisinâ -- not me!â
âMaster Gosling is at present performing the same ritual -- he used you -- he made you make friends with Danielle, didnât he? You must know more than youâre telling us...!â she stopped, abruptly, relaxed a little and thought it over. Then she stooped, cupped her captiveâs tiny cheeks in her long, slender, silvery hands and said, âThese dreamscapes you frequent. Describe them to me!â
Stammering and shaking, eyes out on stalks, Alice began with a broad overview, âTheyâre just the u-usual things... p-pleasure ân leisure... ass-astral puh-p-plains... d-d-discotheques, c-clubs, b-b-beaches... anything you can think of...?â 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, âYou 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.â
The little maid gasped, âYou mean we travel in her imagination?! But itâs so... perfect... I just assumed it had always been there... so she created all that...?â
Carla grabbed the girlâs shoulders to shake some sense into her, âDonât you see? Sheâs used them to trap Danielle. Sheâs the demonâs accomplice! Now tell me about Dani!! Her favourite places to visit -- somewhere she is likely to go if sheâs lonely!!â
Alice thought about it and eventually said, âSheâs a big kid, right enough. She likes soppy stuff, like the fairground...?â
âA fairground?â
âYeah. A huge, gigantic fairground with everything youâd want. Itâs a bit childish for me, a bit hokey, like, but Miss Danielle laps it up...?â
Carla narrowed an eye and nodded, âThis fairground. It has sideshows, stalls, freak shows, strongmen and fortune tellers, that sort of thing, yes?â
âYeah... like I said, itâs dead hokey, but she loved it.â
Carla was lost in thought. âHmmm... Fortune tellers have crystal balls... she could be using it to create a spell... the mirror....?â
âMiss...?â
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, âStop! Stop the ritual!!â
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, âIs it over, Miss Carla? Has the crisis passed?â
Carla stared at Jamie and shook her head, âI donât know if it is over, I just know in my Soul that weâre doing the wrong thing -- weâre helping the Demon, not Danielle...â
...
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. Heâd held on until he couldn't bear it anymore and all he had to show for it was a rash of blisters. Heâd suffered agonising pain in vain. He couldn't get through to Ná´xau 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 âcomaâ 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.
âI stopped the chant, Uncle Ogden. I think we've made a big mistake,â stated Carla, plainly. âIf we are recreating the original spell, then why is there a mirror involved?â
Castle sighed and agreed, âI just had the same thought. Gosling is using a mirror to gain access because he couldn't use the âSphere. He made a grave mistake.â He sighed again, this time with despair, âthe crystal balls are picking up cast-off energy. That means the demon must be in the Void; heâs 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; itâs Young Master Jamie heâs after. Just like last time. Jamie is the ultimate possession. We shouldn't have let him use that mirror.â
âBut what about Gosling? If theyâre still performing the ritual in Dublin... that means he could be in there too?! Iâm not concerned for his Soul, but he could also be working with demon!â
âWell, Her Ladyshipâs on her way down there now. She should be there in an hour or so. Iâll phone the plane. Hopefully she can stop them before itâs too late.â
âWe need them to stop now, Uncle!! If Jamieâs trapped in the Void with the demon, thereâs only so long he can last! â
âWell, if heâs 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.â
The line went quiet, then Carla said, â...... Jamie would rather die than let him in.â
âI hate to say it, sweetheart, but I hope youâre right...â
 ...
 Meanwhile...
âSpeak his name and it will all be over -- trust me!!â
Dani stared at her as if sheâd lost her mind, âNo way, missus... If I say that word Iâll change into a full-blown monster again -- and this time they wonât bother to change me back! This time theyâll kill me!!â
âLook I havenât time to explain -- but Iâm doing this for your own good, Danielle -- say it, please!â
Dani crossed her arms and stuck her nose in the air, âYou donât fool me -- this is part of the plan -- you said so yourself -- you made a deal with him!â
A roll of thunder shook the house.
She stood up, reached across the table and grabbed Dani by the shoulders, âDanielle, you have to say the word. NOW! NOW!!â
In this state of heightened anxiety, the old womanâs 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! Iâll never see her again...?
The voices ceased when they heard a loud rat-tat-tat on the front door.
âWhoâs that?â asked Dani.
The old woman backed-up and shook her head, âI donât know...â
âWhat do you mean you donât know -- this is your imagination?!â
âI 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.  Â
Dani defiantly marched to the door, âWell Iâm sick of all this shite -- Iâm going to answer it!â
The old woman appeared in front of her and stopped her in her tracks, âNo! No! -- you have to say the word now!â she screeched, âIt could be him!!â
Then a voice shouted through the little letterbox, âDonât do it Dani -- itâs a trap!!â
Her grandmother was terrified but undeterred, âBelieve me, Danielle -- Iâm on your side -- itâs for your own good -- say the word!!â
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 sheâd seen hiding from her in the woods. He looked very afraid, âDonât say the word Dani -- sheâs working with the demon!!â 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, âDonât listen to him -- heâs working for the demon -- all you have to do is say his name and everything will return to normal!â
âNo, Dani -- youâll morph into a monster -- theyâll destroy you and the demon will destroy everything!!â cried the big bad wolf, snatching her from the old witchâs hands.
The old woman snatched her back, stooped, looked Dani in the eye and promised with hand on heart, âNo -- look -- I reversed the spell -- if you say his name you will change back!!â
The big bad wolf snatched her back again, âItâs a trap Dani -- canât you see -- itâs part of the plan! Remember where you are!!â
Thatâs true, she thought. They were currently in Granny Electraâs dreamscapes, so it was impossible to read his signature let alone his mind, but Dani had finally put a face to the voice, âGoz?! Is that you?!â
The big bad wolf let go and stood back, âYes, itâs me, Dani. Remember me...?â he asked, apprehensively.
Dani sniffed, âHmmm. I donât like you. You were one of Pritchardâs 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.â
âThatâs right, Danielle, he must be working with the demon!â
âShaddup, you!â Dani shouted over her shoulder, âI canât trust you either!â
âThatâs all in the past now, Dani! Pritchardâs dead and gone -- Iâm here to save you,â said the picture-book wolf, with a pained look in his eye.
âDonât fall for it Danielle -- heâs the one with an axe to grind -- he hates Jamie!!â
âDonât listen to her, Dani -- sheâs in league with the demon!â
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 âSHUT UP!!â She addressed the big, bad Goz, and asked, âHow did you get in here without being eaten by the black magic in the 'Sphere?â
He pointed a paw at the old woman, âThrough the Void! I recreated the spell she helped create! I got your fatherâs scrapbook, the one with runes, and it brought me here -- straight to her imagination! I didnât have to use the âSphere -- she has a direct line!â he looked at Dani and shook his head, âShe just wants to use you destroy the Ivy House. You heard her -- she hates them -- and just like before, youâll metamorphose into a monster -- only this time you wonât change back, this time they've got you cornered -- you will be killed!â
Dani turned to her grandmother and cocked her head, âSounds convincing.â
Electra addressed the wolf directly, âNO! You donât know what youâre talking about; you donât know what youâre doing -- I reversed the spell!â The old woman summoned a vision of her granddaughterâs current predicament in the crystal ball: âLook at how you live, Danielle,â she sobbed, âmuzzled like a mad dog and shackled to a torturers chair! I can help you change back -- youâll be normal!â she turned back to her befuddled granddaughter, âBut you have to speak his name before he comes for me!!â
âGrrrrrrr,â 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, âGet out of the way Dani, I donât want to hurrrrt you...â
The old witch whispered in her ear, âWhy do you think I showed you how the demon killed his hostâs 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!â
 ...Â
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, âI see our âhome-helpâ has been at her work,â he grumbled, âI shoulda got the key offa her before we left, God knows what else sheâs been up-to.â
The acrid melange caused Brooster to sneeze repeatedly, bloody woman, but was still too agitated and excited by their âclose encounterâ to care; the burst of adrenaline heâd experienced had ebbed but he his pelt was still tingling, the atmosphere in the estate buzzed with the demonâs 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, âOK, OK, Iâll phone the Gardai -- but thatâs all I can do. There are hundreds, if not thousands of bikers fitting that description ridinâ a bike like that all over this island. All we can do is pass on the information and let them do the rest OK?â 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 Mercerâs heels on the hall runner. She entered just as the call went through. âHello there!â 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.
âHello? 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. Thatâs right; itâs about the McKee case... Iâve got some new information... well, what I mean is, I think I just saw a man fitting McKeeâs  description up here in County Down. Yes, heâs riding a motorcycle, a Triumph,â he read out the registration number heâd scribbled down on his palm, âuh-huh, I think itâd be best if you contacted the RUC and alerted them (pause); no... Ahem... itâd be better coming from you.... In fact, DS Somerville is friendly with a detective up here by the name of Harkness. Heâll make sure they take note ân follow it up. Yes, D.I. H.A.R.K.N.E.S.S.â
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, âEverything alright, Malky? Did I hear you mention the Gardai ân Archie Harkness? Whoâs this-here âbikerâ yez are lookinâ for?â she asked, excitedly.
âOh, just an eejit whoâs wanted for murder...â
Her pudgy face broke into a wide smile, âSo yez are onto him, are yez?! The child-killer -- the one who left the bones in the woods?!â
Malky nodded, âAye. We didnât catch him, but we know who he is. Heâs on the run now, I just hope the peelers get him before he does anymore damage.â
âAww Malky, thatâs grand -- so lettinâ you have a loan of Royâs car was worth it?!â
Oh shite. Malky coughed, looked around the room and cheerfully changed the subject, âI er... I see youâve been busy with your duster while we've been away, missus. The place is spotless!â
She crossed her fat arms across her chest, beamed and crowed, âOh Iâve been very busy -- I did all the dustinâ ân polishing ân hooverinâ -- I washed all your cushion covers, I even took the curtains to the laundrette!â
âIt looks sensational... it makes me look untidy...â said Malky, biting his lip.
Oblivious to the hint of regret in his tone, she yammered on, âI wanted to be here when yez got in so I kept an eye out ân I saw yez comin down the steps from our bedroom windie, and I says to Mister Mercer, I says: Â âthere they are now! They musta been round at Gock Niblockâs leavinâ the car backâ...â she reached inside the pouch of her apron and took out a fan of envelopes, âI gathered up your post ân I got yez some milk ân a wee bit of corn-beef ân a loaf of bread ân thereâs a wee bag of kidneys in the fridge fer the dog...?â She stopped gabbling when she finally noticed Malkyâs downcast expression. âWhassup wâ ye?â she asked, concerned, âye look as if somebodyâs died...?â
Broo looked up at Malky. Malky rubbed the nape of his neck, sighed, and laid it on the line, âTo put it bluntly anâ briefly, missus: I hadda visit Castlereigh on the way back and... to cut a long story short, the peelers confiscated Royâs car.â
She shuddered, took a step backward, put her palms against her pasty jowls and wailed, âOh, for the love of God, NO! Not his CAR! Heâll go fuckinâ SPARE!â
The reaction was as bad as heâd expected. He held her shoulders to calm her down and assured her that if he had to, heâd go to the prison himself and explain everything to Royâs face. âAnyway, at least itâs in good hands...â
Mrs Mercer eventually calmed down and went off brew a pot of tea to âcalm her nervesâ. Malky made sure she was out of earshot, got Zindyâs 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 kidneyâs, Mrs Mercer staggered in carrying a heavily laden tray and set it on the little coffee table, âI suppose Pinchy Finch and Winnie the Pig were âround here lookinâ for me?â asked Malky, slipping his wallet into his back pocket.
âAye, but they wouldn't tell me why. That OâHara one is a hateful frigger. Cheeky shitebag, he-is. They wouldn't even leave a message...â She started pouring the tea, and suddenly remembered,âOh, but I hadda let the electric meter-reader in this morninâ...â
Malky immediately became very agitated and demanded the details, âWhat? A meter-reader?! What did he look like? Was he tall? Long haired? Wearing a uniform? Did he show ye ID?!â He said, looking under the couch.
Mrs Mercer was slightly shocked by this unseemly outburst, âHere, here, easy-on, easy-on -- it was the one that usually comes - a wee bald man in horn-rim specs wâ the clipboard, anâ-all-that. I stood and watched him while he did it! He never spoke a word âcept to say hello ânâ cheerio.â
Malky relaxed and flopped down on the armchair again, âIâm sorry, missus, but this affair has got me wound-up-the-hi-doe. I need a long hot bath and good nightâs kip. My nerves are fried and Iâm aching from head-to-toe...â
Then, after a minuteâs silence during which biscuits were munched, tea was sipped and everyone pored over their problems, Malky remembered his conversation with Dessieâs fiancĂŠe, Nicola, and asked âMrs Mercer, do you remember anything about the folksâ last holiday in Wicklow? It was the year I didnât go, so it woulda been in the summer of â59. Do you remember if Dessie was upset or hurt or whatever?â
Mrs Mercer crunched her shortcake and had a âwee thinkâ. She couldn't be sure, âI do remember them cominâ 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 didnât go with âem, but I canât âmember nuthinâ about wee Dessie. As far as I could see he was cock-a-hoop to be home!â
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 Royâs 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:
âYOUR DEAD CALVERT! PERVERET! GET OUT OF THIS HEAR ESTATE BEFORE YOU DRAGED OUT AND HUNG TIL YOU DIE --- â
There was more, but Mrs Mercer had snatched it from his hands, âGimme that! I thought Iâd got them all...â
Malkyâs jaw dropped, âSince when have you been opening my mail?!â he said, looking at through rest of the envelopes.
âI only open the ones with no stamps -- yâknow, delivered by hand! I knew what they were -- our Roy used to get âem all the time while âe was on trial!â
âHow many has there been?â asked Malky.
She huffed-&-puffed as she scrunched the offending missive into a ball, explaining that over the last 3 weeks, sheâd collected 5 in all, âThey started cominâ after the dog found them bones, while you were laid-up wâ the soberinâ-up â I didnât want ye seeinâ em ân gettinâ upset, so I stuck âem in my pinny-pocket, took âem downstairs and burned them over the stove. Theyâre just a load of empty threats. Our Roy said to me, âye shouldn't worry about poison pen letters, mammy, cuz the people that send them are usually cowards who donât get actively involved â liftinâ a pen is as far as theyâll go!â He said heâd âstart worryinâ when the âletters started tickinââ.â
Malky wasn't fazed or worried in the least, just insulted as he looked through the other letters, the ones with a stamp. âIsn't it wonderful? Iâm breaking my neck to find a child-killer and all I get is dogâs abuse. Iâm seriously thinkinâ about uppinâ-sticks and movinâ to a nice wee place by the seaside...â 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.
âWhatâs that,â she asked.
âItâs a tape.â
âI can see that -- whatâs on it?â
The label was blank, âI dunno, it doesnât say and I donât have a tape player.â
âNeither do we,â said Mrs Mercer, regretfully, âwe just have an oulâ radiogram and three Jim Reeves LPs. I love Jim Reeves....â 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 Malkyâs elbow. âWhaddya want me do?â mumbled Malky, âIâll try and get somethinâ to play it on tomorrow. Besides, itâs probably just some illiterate eejit mouthinâ off.â
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 sonâs childhood (a selective & sanitised account that played fast & loose with the facts concerning Royâs juvenile delinquency and subsequent forays into gangsterism) Mrs Mercer happened to glance at the clock, âOh-holy-frigginâ-hell -- is that the time?!â she yelped, quickly gathering herself up.
âGoing so soon?â asked Malky, already on his feet, ushering her out.
âOch, I hate to leave in such a rush, Malky, but Mister Mercer will be lookinâ his supper and I promised to make âim a round of fish-finger sandwiches.â
Malky closed the front door and sighed with relief. âWell, thank gawd for that! The bloody woman could talk the legs of a stool...â But Broo didnât 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 Dessieâs death: Did he know Barry McKee? He was happy when he got back from Brodir;Â he had an amulet he could only have bought from the Anderson Twins; he was killed by a WW2 mine â and McKeeâs father just so happened to be ex-army sergeant major who served in North Africa â could Barry have inherited a little stockpile of daddyâs military mementoes and used one to kill Dessie? Or is it just a coincidence? Or was he just tired and clutching at straws â so preoccupied by the McKee case that he saw the madmanâs fingerprints on everything, including his brotherâs death? Â
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 âHello?!â rousing Broo from his slumber.
âHowerya, chuck?!â 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, âI phoned you earlier, but there was nobody home...â
âOh, didja really? Sammy is here. He musta been workinâ out the backyard or somethinâ. 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 havenât enough to worry about, I hadda stump up the bail money for one of âem! That fookinâ raid is costinâ me a fookinâ fortune!â
Malky commiserated as Broo approached and sat down beside him.
â... I suppose you were looking for your little silver locket, werenâtcha -- well, I just found it. I was changin' the sheets in Room 2 and it dropped out onto the floor.â
He was mightily relieved, âOh, thatâs great. I really thought Iâd lost it.â
âI could put it in a Jiffy-bag and send it by registered-post, if you like...?â
Malky smiled and blushed at his own impertinence when he replied, âAye... or... or I... I could come down sometime and get it meself...?â
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, âListen, Zindy, this might sound a bit weird - but I think I mightâve seen your missing motorbike earlier-on tonight,â he said, looking at his sweating palm and reading out the smudged digits.
âYeah - that is the Triumphâs number, alright...â She sounded ill-at-ease.
There was a long pause.
âZindy, I havenât upset you, have I...?â
Her voice crackled in the earpiece, âYou silly bastard! Of course Iâm fookinâ upset! You've just seen Barry McKee in your area... he could be after you!â
Slightly embarrassed, but wholly gratified by her concern for his safety, Malky shuffled the mail and said, âNo, youâve no worries on that score, he left here in a quare hurry. I reckon it wonât be long before they catch him, though; heâs not gonna do anythinâ stupid! The last thing heâll wanna do is waste time wastinâ us!â
Malky picked up the cassette and turned it around in his hand, wondering if it was something to do with McKee.
âMalky? Are you there?â
He put down the tape and apologised.
â... I was just saying, if itâs any use to ya, one of the guys I picked up tonight gave me a few names ân places, yâknow, people Barry could be stayinâ with in Belfast.â
âReally?! You've got names? That would be a great help!â 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. âGo ahead, Zin...â
 âAccordin' to Big Ted, thereâs a bikersâ club called the Heathen Horsemen, but he canât remember where they hang out. Thereâs 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 ââ
Malky immediately interrupted, âGock? Gock Niblock?!â
Broo barked!
âYeah... Gock, thatâs what Big Ted said... Why? Hello...? Malky? Donât you want to hear the rest...?â
Malky looked at his watch, then made his apologies and promised her that heâd 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, âYou never know, olâ Gock might have an old tape recorder for sale!â then they headed off to the derelict maisonettes in the bowels of the estate, and Niblockâs ad-hoc auto-repair-shop.
 SCICI (St. Cedricâs 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 theyâd roped-in to help, were flagging under the strain. Theyâd been chanting along to the beat of the little drum machine for at least 4 hours now, but Guy âGozâ 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. Heâs 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 werenât 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. Heâd informed the rest of the staff not to disturb them, so what hell?! âStupid paddy bastards,â he muttered, as he dragged himself to his feet and walked slowly toward the ringing phone, â... canât take simple orders, no calls I said, I mean what part of that phrase do you find so difficult to understand...?â he tore the receiver from its cradle and barked into the mouth-piece, âI left strict instructions...!â
A clipped, transatlantic accent said, âGood evening, Dr Rossington.â
His eyes widened; he stood to attention, cleared his throat and replied in his politest, bedside manner, âLady Beth, such a surprise, ahem... how did you get this number...?â
âWould you be so kind as to inform your guards to let me in?â
âYouâre here?! In Dublin?!â
âIâm in the security hut at the front gates.â
His heart leapt. Shit! What the fuck...?! As his mind worked overtime on plausible excuses, he spluttered, âW-why... I mean, Iâm sorry but itâs quite late... what is it...? I mean, what can I do for you...?â
Lady Beth answered impatiently and pointedly, âIâm here to visit our young friend, Master Gosling. I hear heâs under your care.â
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, âErm... heâs very ill at the moment, itâs an intense course of treatment, you see, and Iâm monitoring his progress so Iâm afraid --â
âShe interrupted in a low, commanding tone, âDr Rossington, I know exactly what youâre doing. Please tell your men to let us in. Iâd much rather continue this conversation in your office, hmm?â
She wasn't going to take no for an answer. Rossington reluctantly complied and gave the order. He rushed back to Goslingâs room, and entering quietly so as not to interrupt the chant, he whispered in McGowan's ear, âLady fucking Elizabeth fucking Lumb is here!! Iâll have to go down to the office and talk to her,â he pointed at the motley crew âwhatever you do -- make sure they donât stop!â He took one last look at the shining chrome and the halo of violet and nodded to himself: this was something huge and he wasnât 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 didnât feel anything here; no magic, no ghosts, no âdemonsâ. If McKee was gone for good, he hadn't left any âsentinel spellsâ 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 OâHara, especially, âSo... youâve âstumbledâ onto another murder, have ye, Malky? You âjust happenedâ to be in the right place at the right time... again?!â he chided, shining his torch around the blood-spattered squalor that was Niblockâs living-room-cum-bedsit, âIâll say one thing â this place makes your tower-block shit-hole look like Buckingham bloody Palace!â
Broo growled.
âWhereâs Archie Harkness?! I told yez to bring him with you!â Malky gave out. OâHaraâs snarky scepticism was getting on his nerves too.
âWhy? What can you tell him that you canât you tell us?!â sneered OâHara, shining the torch in Malkyâs face.
âArchie went out this afternoon and didnât tell anybody where he was goinâ, as usual... youse Southside boys and your secrets...â 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, âA single shotgun blast to the face, if Iâm not mistaken. And if my memory serves me rightly, Malky, the two olâ dears you found in Wicklow suffered a similar fate.â He straightened adjusted his belt and gave Malky a sideways glance, â... are we beginninâ to see a pattern emerge here, Mr Calvert?â
âJust what I was saying!â trilled OâHara, crossing his arms.
Malky replied in a bored drone, looking the flabby malcontent dead in the eye, âAye, itâs a pattern, alright, but Barry McKeeâs your interior decorator, not me. When this guy was killed,â he pointed at the bloody faceless corpse, âI was sittinâ in an interview room in Castlereagh barracks yackinâ wâ a pair of smartarses about my brotherâs murder. Yez are barkinâ up the wrong tree.â
OâHara had had enough of Malkyâs attitude; he shone his torch in his nemesisâ face and said, âYou listen to me, smartarse! By the looks of things, youâre up to your neck in somethinâ sleazy! No matter where ye go, somebody winds-up dead!! In fact, I wouldnât be at-all surprised to find you were involved in Dessieâs murder, too!â
âBastard!â Malky swung and caught OâHara square-on-the-nose; the big detective reeled, then immediately swung back â but his eyes were so bleary with tears he couldn't land a punch â so he made to grab Malky by the shoulders and tried to head-butt him â Malky sidestepped and tripped him â he grabbed Malkyâs lapels and they began to wrestle â Broo barked and nipped OâHaraâs ankle!
Finch barged in between the three of them and forced them apart. âWill yez ever cut it out?! Thereâs enough teeth ânâ gore without youse-two eejits addinâ to the score!â
OâHaraâs nose had begun to bleed; he pinched the bridge and stemmed the flow with a soiled paper hankie, âBook âim, sir â assaulting a Police Officer!!â he shouted, pathetically.
âAhh shaddup, ye big galoot -- yeâve been needlinâ me all day!â said Malky, dusting himself down.
Surprisingly, Finch took his side, âAye, catch-yerself-on, Winston, you deserved that!â then he turned to Malky, â- but heâs right about one thing, Malcolm â youâre nowhere near off-the-hook! You've got a lot of explaininâ to do!â He took a folded piece of paper out of his pocket, âWe got a fax from Detective Superintendent Somerville of the Gardai âbout yer man âMcKeeâ, but it doesnât mention anythinâ about killings or kidnappings, just that heâs âa person of interestâ...?â
Malky regrouped and gave him a brief summary of McKeeâs MO, finishing with corroboration of the last sighting, â... 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. Iâm certain that man was Barry McKee: the man who killed the old women in Wicklow. Thereâs a dog cemetery in the field behind their farmhouse and I believe the childrenâs bones we found in the woods were originally buried there; I think the old ladies knew what heâd done ân were going to shop him, so he killed them ân dug-up the bones, brought them up here and reburied âem in the forest. I think heâs been stayinâ with Gock Niblock -- who mighta been involved, we donât know â he musta shot him this evening ân then took off in a hurry. Most probably because he knows Iâm onto him!â
Broo ruffed.
âSorry -- weâre onto him! And thatâs not all... if youâll follow me, gentlemen...â
Malky led the way around to the rear of the maisonette, to the row of garages where Gock had previously stowed Roy Mercerâs 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, âIt seems to be camera equipment, sir... loads oâ cables and apparatus anâ-that... Thereâs also a loada spooky books and weird looking stuff in jars. Itâs like heâs been dabbling in the occult, or somethinâ!â
The detectives were once again taken aback, but not wholly convinced, âSo what, a lot of these hellâs angels types are into devil worship ân that!â asserted OâHara, still determined to pin it on Malky, still pinching the bridge of his bloody nose.
Malky shook his head, âThis guy takes it very seriously. He wouldn't leave all this gear behind unless he was in a real hurry...â
He was interrupted when another PC arrived and shouted up the narrow alleyway, âDI Finch, sir! â could ye have a look at this?â
The PC led them to the maisonette adjacent to Niblockâs 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.
âUp there, sir,â The PC pointed out a faint, flickering light behind a filthy window on the first floor. âDâye think there might be somebody in?â he asked.
Finch appraised the downstairs windows; they were either boarded or bricked-up. âIf there is somebody in there, they must be a squatter, the place is condemned,â he said, looking up again, âprobably a tramp...â
â.... Or an alkie,â sniped OâHara, scowling at Malky.
âDid you knock?â Malky asked the PC, ignoring OâHaraâs aside.
âAye -- and I threw stones at the window, but there was no reply.â
Finch pushed the door -- it gave a little groan and opened slightly. He looked back at the PC, âYou mustnâtâve knocked very hard, son.â He shoved it with his foot -- it teetered, toppled backwards and slammed down on the dusty lino of the hall. âOK, Winston, look lively,â 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. Theyâre here. The moment heâd 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 OâHara 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.Â
No reply.Â
âThis is the police -- is there anybody in there! If there is yeâd better come on out now or weâre cominâ in!â he shouted.
Still nothing.
He nodded to his partner. OâHara stepped in front of the door, raised a huge size 12 and took aim at the handle...
...
âThis is the police -- is there anybody in there! If there is yeâd better come on out now or weâre cominâ in!â
Finch. Theyâre 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! OâHara almost toppled sideways as the old dog threw himself between the door and the big detectiveâs foot!! âWhat the fuck!!â he cried.
Malky followed closely behind, âHe smells something! Thereâs something wrong!!â
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.
âIt must be drugs or explosives -- probably explosives if his reaction is anything to go by. Iâd say yezâre about to step into a trap,â advised Malky.
Neither man was about to argue; in fact, the usually contrary OâHara confirmed it, âItâs true, sir, all the dogs were re-trained to detect plastic explosives about 5 years ago. The door could well be booby-trapped.â
Finch looked down at the dog and rubbed his chin, âHmmm, this old boy never ceases to amaze me. OK, everybody out -- call the UXB lads and the fire brigade -- clear the area!â
Broo looked at Malky and thought, <Thereâs someone in there.>
â... and thereâs someone in there.â
âWhat?!â asked Finch, impatiently, looking from one to the other.
âThe dog says thereâs somebody in there. Trust me he knows what heâs... talkinâ about.â 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.Â
Malky ran out the front door, jumped over the low fence separating the garden from Niblockâs 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.Â
Broo, Finch and OâHara watched from the front door. âMalky get down, ye eejit! We canât afford to hang about -- the device could be on a timer!!â 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 widowâs peak, sitting on the floor, blindfolded, gagged and bound to a radiator!
âItâs Archie!!â he shouted, getting more anxious by the second.
On the ground, holding the ladder, the detectives gasped in unison, âArchie Harkness?!â
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.
âMalky!!â Finchâs voice sounded down below, âDonât go in there -- you dunno what youâre doing -- there could be trip wires everywhere...!â
Malky answered as he pulled the remaining jagged shards from the window frame âI can see the device -- itâs wired to the doorframe! Iâm going in!â
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. âItâs alright Archie, mate -- itâs me, Malky!â he whispered, as if speaking aloud might trigger the bomb, âIâm at the window - just nod or shake your head: are you wired?â
The bound and gagged figure shook its head emphatically.
âOK, olâ son -- Iâm gonna sidle along the wall towards ya, just in case heâs set a trip-wire across the floor or somethinâ -- just hold on, mate, weâre gonna get you outta here!â
Malky did as he said and slowly edged along the wall inside the window, âDo you know if itâs on a timer?â
Archie shrugged. Â
Malky reached the radiator and had a good look at his friend before carefully removing the gag and the blindfold. Archie coughed and spat, âThereâs nuthinâ on me and I donât think thereâs a timer, he was in too much of a hurry... but I heard him wire the door... Â said wanted to kill as many of yez as he could... Oh, thank God for that dog...â he panted.
As Malky removed his old friendâs 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. âThank fuck for that...â he said.
Archie was looking to his left. âLook at ... What the bloody hell is that?â 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.
âBy the looks of it, Iâd say that used to be a whippet,â 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 â just like those inscriptions theyâd 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, âLook... look at all the mirrors...â 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. âI dunno know about you... but that gives me the creeps more than the fucking skeleton.â
Malky quickly got back to work, âThe guyâs aff his fuckinâ bap, Archie, heâs into shit you wouldn't believe, this is wee buns compared the stuff Iâve seen -- câmon, son -- this place might be about to blow at any second, we gotta get outta here!â
SCICI, Dublin
21:27 GMT
Lady Beth and her mute, tall and imposing North African chauffeur/bodyguard, Xavier, were shown into the darkened, unmanned âreception areaâ by one of SCICIâs 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: âTHERE ARE NO MONSTERS, JUST MISGUIDED MEN WHO DO MONSTROUS THINGS.â
While their escort rang through to Rossingtonâs 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: Â âeverything OK?â 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, âThe bloody fool.â
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. âYou mean he intends to conduct our conversation down here -- in the foyer?â she replied, acidly, looking around, âthis is an insult! And I donât suppose thereâs any chance of a drink, is there?â
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, âThereâll be hell to pay for this, never in all my days have I been subjected to such discourtesy...â
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, âLady Elizabeth,â he trilled, âSuch a wonderful surprise!â 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, âWell, what can I do for you?â
She blew smoke in his face and said, âI want to see our Mr Gosling, doctor, and I wonât take no for an answer.â
Rossingtonâs tanned, chiselled features transformed into a pained, sympathetic frown, âIâm very sorry, milady, but as I said, Mr Gosling and I are in the middle of an intense course of treatment and itâs imperative that he has no visitors or interruptions,â he said, apologetically.
She took another drag and smirked, âI know what youâre doing, Rossington.â
The good doctor feigned surprise, âI beg your pardon, but I donât know what you mean...?â
She flicked her cigarette ash into the pot of a tall yucca plant beside the sofa and sighed, impatiently, âDonât be coy. Iâm too jet-lagged for silly games. As you probably know, I arrived back from Washington this afternoon...â
Rossington gushed like a schoolgirl, âYes, 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!â
She looked at him askance and said, âHmmm, 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. âOld Moneyâ, as you would put it. Your name came up in the conversation.â She raised her eyebrows: Â what do you think of that?
Rossingtonâs demeanour changed immediately, âThey were talking about me...?â he asked, unnerved.
âYes, you and this...â she looked around, â... macabre madhouse of yours and our recent, failed transaction... They were most interested in Mr Goslingâs stay and the intentions of your anonymous benefactor.â
Worried that conversation was straying into private matters, Rossington quickly dismissed the guard. Once they were alone, he sat forward and whispered, âInterested? You mean theyâre interested in my work or...?â
She ignored the question and went on as if he knew exactly what she was talking about, âLast night one of your operatives was killed: a chauffeur who tried to inconvenience me, she looked up at the tall, dark driver and smiled, âbut he was no match for Xavier. Then I had to temporarily cripple another man who accosted me at the airport,â she pretended to search for a name â... Gorringe, I think he called himself. Anyway, thereâs no doubt in my mind that these men -- thugs, henchmen, I should say -- were trained and supplied to our so-called friends by SCICI.â
She watched Rossingtonâs 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, âI donât know what youâre talking about, milady...?â he lied, badly.
She smoked, smiled indulgently, and carried on regardless, âAll things considered, I would say you and your mysterious benefactor are actively seeking our destruction and youâre prepared to use any means at your disposal to achieve that end.â
Flustered, Rossington protested, his New Jersey drawl cutting through his affected LA tones as his voice climbed in pitch, âListen lady, I think youâve got the wrong end of the bat -- I didnât instigate any of this! When I reported back after our last meeting at the Ivy House, the board was disappointed that [Dani] had died ân 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?!â
She blew a cloud of smoke into the air and replied, âNo, 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. Theyâre using our deal as an excuse to eliminate us, and if you donât know that, then youâre the dumbest patsy Iâve ever had the misfortune to encounter -- an unwitting dupe who doesnât know heâs involved in a huge, transatlantic plot that threatens to destabilise the world, not just our organisation. If you donât believe me, call your benefactor and ask him directly.â
She was calling his bluff. He huffed and puffed, loosened his tie and tried desperately to dig himself out of the hole, âPreposterous! âPlots to destabilise the worldâ heh-heh... I donât think so -- Iâve been looking for a psychic -- a mind-reader, whatever you wanna call it -- for years, now! Itâs on record that Iâm very interested in telepathy and telekinesis -- but purely for my own research...?â
âDonât insult my intelligence,â she said, indicating the large photograph behind the desk, âyou know full-well that psychic research is of special interest to intelligence services and espionage agencies; and thatâs 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 -- isnât that so, Jimmy?â
The answer came back a quick and emphatic: âNo! 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...â
âYouâre afraid of him, thatâs understandable...â she paused as the lights above them began to gradually brighten. She looked up and nodded, âAs 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, heâs dabbling in something that could cause a lot of serious, irreparable damage. I suggest we go to his room and stop whatever it is heâs doing before your precious SCICI burns down around your ears, yes?â
Before Rossington could answer, a door closed and voice sounded behind them, âEverything awright, sir?â asked Magowan, Rossingtonâs 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, âAnother driver who likes to wear sunglasses indoors, eh, Jimmy? And you say you have no idea whatâs going on!â
Rossington stood up and buttoned his jacket, âIf thatâs everything, milady, Magowan will show you out. Iâm afraid I have to go back to work.â
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, Â Lady Beth got to her feet, âIâm not leaving without Guy Gosling, doctor,â she told him plainly, âIf he canât walk, Xavier will carry him.â
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, âMr Rossington wants you to leave. I fink thatâs a good idea,â he said, menacingly, smirking.
Lady Beth strolled around the sofa and stood between them, âAre you threatening us, Mr Magowan?â she asked, nicely.
The doughty driverâs smirk widened to a smile, but he didnât answer.
Rossington, sounding a little jittery, told him off, âThereâll be no need for that, Magowan. Just show Lady Elizabeth to her car.â
She glanced over her shoulder, âI told you, Iâm not leaving without that wretched boy,â she said, tersely, then turned back and gazed into Magowanâs be-shaded eyes, âwhat do you say to that?â
âLook, if needs be, Iâll call the orderlies and have you escorted out!â said Rossington, getting evermore anxious and uncertain.
Magowan looked down at her and advised, âBe reasonable, maâam....â
âItâs milady, if you donât mind,â she replied, unblinking, âone of your colleagues made the same mistake. He was in Washington, chauffeuring for an old friend of mine. Theyâre both dead now...â
Magowanâs smile faded; his nostrils flared.
â... and then  we met your boss, Mr Gorringe. We had to incapacitate him and several of his heavies, too. If you donât believe me, why donât you give him a call?â
Magowan gritted his teeth; his cheeks reddened with contained rage.
Rossington, still keeping well back, tried to intervene, âMagowan -- go back upstairs -- Iâll be with you in a moment.â
âNo sir... Iâm very sorry, but I canât allow âmiladyâ âere to leave. The boss was very clear âbout that.â He went for his gun -- it wasn't there! âWhat the fuck?!â 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.
âHow the fuck... how did you do that....?â Rossington gasped, aghast.
âNever mind. Take us to Gosling or I wonât be held responsible for what Xavier does next...â
 ...
 5 Minutes ago:
âDonât say it Dani!â growled the now slavering, big, bad wolf.
âYou've got to say it now, Dani -- somethingâs happening -- I canât keep you safe unless you say it!â screeched her grandmother, glancing in every direction, surveying the crumbling cartoon landscape as it dimmed to purply darkness, âI canât keep control of this dreamscape for much longer!â
Dani was still very confused, but not in the least frightened. Despite the chaos, her grandmotherâs obvious distress and the fiery eyes of the approaching werewolf, she folded her arms and refused to take sides, âIâm not doing anything until one of yez explains whatâs going on!â
âI havenât got time to explain -- just say the word!â
Getting ever closer, drool dripping from itâs maw, the werewolf snarled, âItâs a trick, Dani -- the demon is using her to get to you -- to make you mutate again! If you wonât listen to me... Iâll be forced to take drastic action...âÂ
Suddenly, there was something wrong: âWhat the f---â 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! âNO! Noooooo...â 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 Goslingâs room to find him convulsing on the bed; the little choirs had stopped chanting and were gathered around him, holding him down. âWhat the -- why did you stop?! I told you not to stop!!â yelled Rossington, pushing them out of the way and putting a hand on Goslingâs sopping brow.
The chastened little band shook their heads. âHe shake so much -- we thought we stop to help him, doctor!â 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 patientâs temple; the convulsions instantly ceased -- simultaneously -- the lights went out and drum machine slowed to a stop.
Rossington snatched the guardâs torch from his belt, switched it on and shone it on Goslingâs face, âIs he gonna be OK?!â
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 Goslingâs 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.
âWhy did he do that?!â said Rossington, utterly confused.
âNever mind,â she said, picking up Ivan Cochraneâs scrapbook from a chair by the bed, âWhere did you get this?â
Rossington summarily dismissed the little coterie of chanters and explained in a whisper, too afraid to do anything but tell the truth: âIt 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,â he pointed to the various hieroglyphics strewn around the bed, âthen 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, thatâs all. He set this up, not me!!â
For once she believed him, âRight, get his things together, weâre taking him home.â
âYou canât -- look at him... heâs sick -- heâs in some sorta coma -- and heâs internationally famous!! If he dies theyâll blame me! Iâll be ruined!!â
âHe wonât die --. but I have to get him back to the Ivy House! We have specialists there -- theyâll know what to do!!â
In that moment, Goslingâs 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!
âIs he going to be OK,â she whispered, looking into the chauffeurâs 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. âWhat is it?!â he shouted, getting frantic. She pushed him out of the room, âWha -- what are you doing -- you canât throw me out...â he yelled.
âOUT!â she yelled, shoving him into the corridor.
âThis is outrageous...!â 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 Goslingâs shirt to reveal his heaving, naked chest -- there were coarse, black hairs sprouting out of every pore! He pulled back Goslingâs lips to reveal a set of encroaching jagged incisors and sharp, animal-like fangs! Â His hands and feet were developing into claws, the nails growing into thick, black talons!
âHoly shit -- itâs like an old werewolf movie come to life?!â 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 demonâs work.
âWhatever it is, we have to get him out of here, Xav -- but we canât let anybody see him in this state...â she muttered, eyeing the hirsute monstrosity lying face down on the bed. Goslingâs 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. âOpen up please! Iâve summoned security -- theyâll be here in a few seconds!â Rossington shouted through the crack in the door.
Lady Beth made a snap decision: âWrap 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, weâll have to drive back to Downpatrick,â she said, gathering up the scattered pages and shoving them into the scrapbook, âif anybody sees him like this, weâre toast!â
...
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, âI canât feel anything. No vibrations. If he was coming, heâd be here by now.â
âHmmm, no vibrations...?â murmured Castle, gazing up at the moon, âand thereâs no purplish corona, either.â
Carla nodded and agreed, âNone whatsoever. Heâs gone. But it doesnât make any sense. Why would he go to all this trouble and then leave without seeing it through?â
âTrue, heâs absent in the physical sense of the word. Thereâs no doubt about that...â The big butler opined, âIn my humble opinion heâs either cut his host loose so that he can infest the Psychosphere, or the host has taken the opportunity to sever the link whilst theyâre disconnected. If weâre right, and Master Jamie is suspended in the Wizardâs Rift... the demon canât be in two places at once. He canât contend with Master Jamie and deal with Miss Danielle, he must have help -- and I donât 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. Itâs a conundrum and no mistake...â then he had an idea, âjust a sec,â 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.
âNo need to explain, I knows why ye called me,â he chuckled, in his grumbly, gravelly Cornish brogue, âthe voibrations âas stopped, ainât they?! Iâs been down me âole -- anâ there ainât as much as the sloightest buzz down there! âBad newsâ, says oi to meself: âthe olâ Martyrs arenât all thereâ says oi!â
ââArenât all thereâ -- whaddya mean, ye eejit?â chided Castle, perplexed by the grimy gnomeâs tangled thread.
âOi mean theyâs risen, someâow -- theyâve projected or summat -- I dunno what youâd call it, sânot moi speciality -- I jest know their magic ainât in the soil no more! Gone, they are!!â
âWhat is he talking about, uncle?â asked Carla, unable to decipher Gebbitâs thick accent.
âHe thinks the Darkly Martyrs have risen -- that they've astrally projected,â murmured Castle, mulling it over, shaking his head,
âIs that bad?â she said, looking from one to the other.
Gebbit fingered his filthy bush of a beard and grumbled, âOh arr, thass bad alroight, lassie! They ainât gonna be too âappy âbout being buried neath this sod for umpâeen thousand years or more -- if theyâs free, they could do a lotta damage, see -- âspecially if they wuz to join farces with the demon!!â
Irritated by Gebbitâs 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, âIs he right? Could this be part of the campaign?â
âIt makes sense, doesnât it? They were once allies of the demon, after all. They used his dark magic to create the Rift...â muttered Castle, still ruminating on the implications, âthey created the Rift in the first place, they could survive in there, no problem; and like I said, the demon canât 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....?â
Getting increasingly frustrated by her uncleâs obfuscation, she continued to probe him for clarification, âSo... you think theyâre on his side? Theyâre taking revenge for their internment by conspiring with the demon... what?!â
Castle shrugged, âWell, the Darkly Martyrs were tried and convicted by Master Jamieâs ancestor, way, way back in the day, so you could say thereâs no love lost, it could be revenge. Back then they used the demonâs 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 canât kill âem, only contain âem. If they have combined forces with the demon... weâre toast...â
...
The Forestpine Estate
22:45 GMT
Sitting on the steps at the back of an ambulance while a medic checked Archieâs eyes and tested his reflexes, Malky and Broo watched the UXB unit climb the firemanâs ladder and enter the window.
âHow do you feel, Archie?â asked Malky.
âFuckinâ awful,â groaned Archie, wincing as he spoke, âwhatever he spiked me with, itâs playing merry hell with me guts. I wish I could get the taste of grease and oil out of my mouth,â said Archie, spitting into the grass by the steps. âBut thank God for you and old Broo, here,â said, patting the old dogâs head. âJesus, Malk, you dunno what it was like waiting for that door to open. I thought I was gonna shite myself...â
Malky nodded, âCount yerself lucky you didnât end up like Gock Niblock, Arch. You should see the mess McKee made of him. Just like the two oulâ ladies in Wicklow, so-it-is.â
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, âAs soon as this is over, son.â The medic gave him a cynical look.
âDo as the man says, Archie. Thereâs not much we can do now,â said Malky, giving him a gentle nudge.
âListen to your friend, DI Harkness, or youâll have one hell of a headache in the morning,â said the medic, packing up and walking away.
Archie looked across the quadrangle at Niblockâs lot and shook his head, âMcKee 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, heâs some kinda criminal mastermind...â
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 Harknessâ 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 didnât decay but lived for centuries radiating negative energy, must be the key to McKeeâs 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, âDonât be too hard on yerself, Arch. It wonât be long before they catch up with him. I mean thereâre two police forces lookinâ for him now. Give yer mate Somerville a ring, heâll put you in the picture.â
Archie looked up at his old friend and as about to say something when Malky noticed an approaching shadow, âUh oh, look lively, here comes oulâ Finchy. I wonder what heâs got to say fer himself...?â
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, âThought ye might like to know the UXB boyos have diffused the bomb. Simple stuff, they said, nothing complicated. No timer, no trip wires. I donât suppose youse-two know why he has the remains of a dog hanging on wires and a host oâ broken mirrors up there, do yez?â he asked, with a glum look on his face.
The pair shook their heads and shrugged.
Finch nodded, âWell, Iâve 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 talkinâ to -- the point is, heâs over the border ân well out of our jurisdiction. All we can do now is clear-up this mess, call it a day ân leave the rest to the SOCO lads and Special Branch. Iâll need a full statement from both of you, though. I ain't too pleased that you didnât tell me about any oâ this, Archie. You shoulda kept in contact with the station.â
âLook... there is somethinâ you should know... both of yez,â said Archie, looking at Malky with a mournful frown, âMcKee did tell me somethinâ while I was up there... I dunno how to tell ya this Malk...â
Malky nodded and finished the sentence, âHe killed Dessie.â
Finch was dumbfounded, âBig Dessie?! McKee?! Are ye sure?!â
Archie nodded, gravely, âHe told me. Said he used an oulâ landmine. Said he enjoyed settinâ traps... By the sounds of it, he held a grudge for some reason.... Iâm sorry Malky.â
Broo ruffed.
Malky looked at old dog, âWhat is it now?â he asked.
Broo walked forward and nudged Malkyâs coat pocket with his snout; the cassette rattled inside.
âOh... this...â Malky took out the tape and showed it to Archie, âI got this in the post this morninâ. Thereâs no writing on it and I donât have a cassette player.â
âYou think it could it be from him?â said Archie, stroking the old dogâs head.
âI dunno, the envelope had a local postmark, but if the olâ dogâs instincts are anythinâ to go by...â
Archie pointed to his old, battered Viva parked in a little lay-by on the other side of the road, âThereâs a player in my car...?â
Finchâs walkie-talkie crackled. He was needed to oversee the search of Niblockâs house. âI wanna hear that tape too -- donât lose it!â 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, âWell, here goes,â 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.
âGreetings,
âI wonât introduce myself, you know who I am. I feel I owe you an explanation. Call it a confession, if you like.... â
It wasn't the voice Archie heard a few hours ago in the derelict maisonette when he was bound and gagged, it was McKeeâs âotherâ 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 heâd met on his adventures, but this was more ominously familiar: the voice of the dog thing that visited him in Odinâs 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 companionsâ suspicions.
Archie and Malky turned to each other, both nodding and saying with absolute certainty: âItâs him.â
...
... 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. âItâs him,â said Castle, as if she needed to be told.
... Â
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, âWhat is it, Xav?â 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 âGßßlâs 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: âItâs him.â
...
In Electra Cochraneâs 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 grandmotherâs face and asked, âWhatâs happening now?â
Electra clutched at her heart, nodded and gasped, âItâs him....â
...
â... I am what you might call a âspiritâ. My enemies call me an evil spirit. A âdemonâ. But Iâm 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 âfingerprintsâ 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: Ăriu; the land you now call Eire. Ireland.
âYou 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.
âUnfortunately, as the adage goes, âtime & tide waits for no manâ, and the old chieftain became fatally-ill.
âHe 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 â- suddenly -- a redheaded-hag with a warty-nose burst into the hall and told them she was there to save the old manâs Soul.
âThis was one mystic weâd missed! How sheâd 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 â waiting for the old manâs 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 ârenounceâ 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.
âI 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 â the Death Bed Repentance!
âThe 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.
âI 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 â 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.
âIt didnât 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 â he could hear me think. Heâd look into the dogâs eyes and Iâd tell him my stories. And although he wasn't the most academically gifted subject Iâd ever encountered, nevertheless, he was a very willing & able apprentice. All-in-all, it was a match made in heaven (if youâll excuse the expression). I just had to figure out a way of migrating from the dog and into little Barryâs body.
âThen 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 childâs mother was understandably upset, but Barry, arrogant as ever, rudely told her to go away. But the incident didnât go unnoticed.
âThat was the moment the Anderson Twins entered our lives. [See Part 15]
âThey were two middle-aged, virginal Sensitives; and by the looks of their wares â they had a talent for all-things Spiritual. In other words: witches. Using the dogâs acute sense of smell, I could tell they were descendants of the same warty-nosed hag whoâd 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 âexorcismâ.
âThis was a turning point.
âI braced myself and awaited Barryâs reaction. Thankfully, he took to his heels. We ran back to the inn where he spent the afternoon staring into the whippetâs eyes and thinking it over with me.
âYou see, up until then, Barry had been plagued by doubts. He couldnât be sure that I wasn't a figment of his overactive imagination. Now, thanks to these cursed âGinger Twinsââ unsolicited diagnosis, he had confirmation that I wasn't just an âimaginary friendâ 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.
âI 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 âritualâ entailed.
âThe 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 didnât turn the knife on him â- 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).
âThe 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 didnât waste much time â as soon as we arrived, they grabbed the whippet by the scruff and went about their grisly business! But Barry was ready â- as soon as they sliced my hostâs throat â 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) â however he held tight and intoned the little incantation that masked my aura â
âI leapt - and we were one.
âThe Twins were perplexed. They looked carefully, but they couldn't see the telltale glow and there was no apparent change in Barryâs (outwardly) gentle demeanour. He is quite the thespian, is our Barry. He cried over the body of the slain puppy and wailed âwhy?! Why did you kill my doggy?!âââ
âThen, as a sop to the boy, and âjust to be on the safe sideâ, 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 âdog cemeteryâ they kept for local childrenâs 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 Barryâs 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 - theyâd 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 heâd been âup to any devilish-mischiefâ theyâd have to âdo something drasticâ.
âSo feigning bemusement, Barry made a solemn promise that heâd be a frequent visitor. And yet again, this was the ideal situation -- we would have access to all their herbs & potions. By-&-by, Iâd be able to continue where Iâd left off before my millennium-long incarceration!
âBut, first things first:
âI had to mould Barry in my own image. I had to erase him and start again.
âI 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. Thereâs 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.
âHis head could remain in my world, but his feet had to remain firmly on the ground.
âFrom 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 âdo anything drasticâ. 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!
âI 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 oneâs 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 â not to mention the advances in forensic investigation -- one canât get away with abduction and infanticide the way one used to â 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 Iâd had to stop him from telling her everything.
âSo, I broke him in gently by suggesting we kill a few animals.
âWe began with birds and rabbits; then we moved on to cats and stray dogs which we killed by suffocation â 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 friendsâ pets. I didnât really approve, but it was in his nature to toy with peopleâs expectations; he enjoyed the subterfuge as much as he enjoyed the heinous deed â he liked âgetting one overâ 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.
âNevertheless, 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.
âHe had a personality crisis. âCrisisâ being the operative word.
âHe 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 Iâd been dreading: would his passage into manhood make him less pliable? Would he be more likely to rebel against me and use the things Iâd 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 â 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 âout of his systemâ.
âI 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 doesnât 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 heartâs-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 âcramp my styleâ. 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.
âIn the summer of 1959, we came across a shy, retiring boy by the name of Desmond Calvert.
âBarry 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 Desmondâs 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 Iâd allowed this little friendship to blossom knowing Desmond was a holidaymaker and heâd soon be gone.
âDespite 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.
âAlas, Barry wouldn't listen.
âDesmond 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 didnât 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...
âAll I could do was sit tight and wait to see how far he would go.
âNow, the old ladies werenât 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 -â I made sure they saw it â- 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.
âBut I love you!â yelped Barry, pathetically, the shrill entreaty echoing around the surrounding hills like the plaintive bleat of an injured lamb.
âDesmondâs face darkened as the blood rose in his cheeks, he laughed nervously and said, âI always knew there was somethinâ funny about you -- now I know itâs cuz youâre a bloody bender!â
âOh dear. Barryâs hopes werenât just dashed - his entire world came crashing down around his ears â I felt his heart snap! I felt his spirits plunge into a pit of despair! Despite my advice, he didnât make light of the faux pas and tactfully brush it aside -- he gritted his teeth and exploded!
âThen I CURSE you â Iâve got mystical powers â and I CURSE you Desmond Calvert! He screamed through angry tears -- âIâll send you to HELL -- and make sure you BURN for all ETERNITY!â
âQuite rightly, Desmond called him a âBloody fruitcake!â 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.
âDistraught, hurt and humiliated, Barry left soon after, but not before telling the Twins he wouldn't be back and issuing a stark warning, âIf 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.â
âAs 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. Â
âThe 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.
âIt worked. Barry was relieved that his bitterness & fury had somewhere to go. âI always wanted to play with dolls...â said he.
âAs 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 childrenâs fairground for his 17th birthday, it was like being given the keys to The Kingdom.
âAgain, we were very discreet.
âI wonât go into the unsavoury details of our activities, but the little sacrifices were a roaring success â killing and then feeding upon the energy of captured Souls manifestly increased my powers and satisfied Barryâs lust for danger.
âThe only problem was the disposal of the bodies. Burial at sea was too risky, the undercurrents were unpredictable â we didnât 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, weâd 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 theyâre unconscionable and enjoy it too much, then thereâs little I can do to control the urges Iâve aroused. Barry was born to it; Iâd 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.
âBut that didnât 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 Barryâs 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 heâd stopped bathing. Fortunately, I was almost back to full strength and ready to take over should he suddenly give up the ghost.
âSince 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 neâer-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 âshow on the roadâ, we needed capital.
âAs luck would have it, Barryâs 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 Barryâs 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 daddyâs 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 bikerâs 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 didnât matter - the money was ours now. We were solvent and upwardly mobile.
âWe sold-off the equipment in the little fairground (retaining the little carousel - Barryâs 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.â
âWe 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 Barryâs 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.
â... Ahh, I suppose you know the rest.
âIâm making this recording whilst Barry is asleep, taking control of his body one last time before I cut him loose. Thereâs no telling what he will do without my steadying influence. What I do know is, heâs unforgiving and extremely volatile -- after all, as the adage goes: âthereâs nothing more dangerous than a man with nothing to live for and nothing to loseâ. Heâs also somewhat of a sentimental fool, heâll return to the place he knows best, probably to settle old scores. I do hope you find him before he does something rash.
âMy condolences for your loss, Mr Calvert. This petty vendetta distracted me for a while, but thankfully Iâve been able to regroup and make alternative arrangements. My enemies will soon be vanquished. The ducks are all sitting in a row. Itâs just a case of shooting them down, one by one. Â
âCiao....â
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. Theyâd both experienced too much weirdness in the last few weeks -- in Archieâs case, the last few years -- to renounce what theyâd 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.
âWhat do you think he meant, âsettle old scoresâ... âfind him before he does something rashâ?â asked Archie.
Malky shook his head, âDunno. Heâs going to return to the place he knows best, he said...â then it suddenly struck him: âWaitaminnit -- Brodir! I think he meant Brodir! Oh shite. Heâs going back to the inn!â Malky became anxious, âI think heâs going back to Odinâs Inn! Zindy!!â
Broo barked in agreement: <We need to get back there now!>
Archie was confused, âWhatâs Odinâs Inn... Whatâs Zindy?â
âI havenât time to explain everything, Arch -- please, mate -- can I borrow the car?! I need to back to Wicklow!!â
âThis rusty oulâ crateâll never make it past Annalong, never mind get you to Wicklow, Malk! The engineâs on its last legs -- the exhaust is hanginâ by a thread!â
Before Archie could say anything else, Malky was out of the car, âSorry Archie, weâll talk later -- gotta go -- câmon Broo!â he shouted, opening the backdoor and heading across the quadrangle toward the clutch of coppers standing around Gock Niblockâs lot. He found Finch and grabbed his sleeve, âGimme me a car! I have to go down to Wicklow!â
OâHara snorted, âGive you a car?! Who do you think you are?! Robert De Niro?!â
Malky ignored OâHara and kept his grip on Finchâs sleeve, âCâmon, Mr Finch... Ian... Finchy... gimme a car! You can tell âem I took it without askinâ!â
âWhat the fuck are you bletherinâ about?! Whatâs goinâ on -- is it somethinâ to do with that tape?!â said Finch, tearing his sleeve from Malkyâs grasp.
âYes! Heâs threatening to do somethinâ stupid and I need to get down there as quick as I can! Believe me -- itâs a matter of life and death!!â
The cops looked at him as if heâd lost his mind. âHeâs cracked, sir -- look at him!â said OâHara, shaking his head, âHeâs probably on somethinâ!â
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, âHey there, Mr Calvert -- Mr Calvert -- over here!â
It was the young cadet whoâd 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. âHiyez â I was listeninâ-in on the radio at home when word came over that thereâd been another murder! Then I heard about Inspector Harkness!â he said, excitedly, patting Brooâs head, âWhat a turn up, eh?! I couldn't wait til the morninâ -- I hadda come right-away and see for meself! Is DI Harkness alright -- did he get a look at McKee?â
Malky put a hand on his shoulder, âListen son, what sorta car do you drive?â
The young cadet became shamefaced and shuffled his feet, âWell... tonight Iâm in me mammyâs car. Itâs only a wee 1982 Mini-Metro. My Lambrettaâs got engine trouble, see...â
Malky snatched the keys off his finger, âSorry son, but I need to borrow it for a while -- police business!!â and the pair ran off before the cadet could object.
...
Still sitting in his car, still mulling over what heâd 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 Pascalâs Pub; the talking mirror in the wardrobe in his room... Ogleâs assertion that there was something otherworldly about the Temple... the mystery surrounding Dani Cochraneâs 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, âWhy do I always get myself into something that makes me feel like Iâm going insane...?â [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.
âItâs started,â said one.
The rest concurred with a grumbling chorus of âOh aye.â
âTime to do our bit, ladies,â said another.
âTonightâs the night.â Â Â
...
10 minutes ago at the Ivy House:
âCiao....â
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. âHow... why...â 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, âHe was talking to the Familiarâs master... I donât know how, but I think the dog channelled it. Probably a recording. Heâs seems to be attesting to their crimes to make sure thereâs enough evidence to warrant a nationwide manhunt. By the sounds of it he wants them to catch his host -- take him alive, maybe heâs suicidal, off his head... maybe heâs making sure he has a safe haven to return should his plans go awry.... Havinâ said that, it doesnât sound like heâs expecting to lose.â He concluded, glumly, âThe Martyrs have risen, Daniâs trapped in Ellieâs mindscapes and Jamieâs trapped in the Void. All told, it looks like tonightâs the night.â
...
âCiao....â
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.Â
âEverything OK, Xav,â Her Ladyship asked, through the open partition, âyou were gone for quite a while, then...?â As she spoke, their reluctant passenger began thrashing about in the trunk again. âLook, I know that was important, darling, but we need to get on... wolfie is having a fit!â she said, patting the big chauffeurs shoulder.
Xavier nodded, started the car and put his foot down.Â
Lady Beth sat back; lighting up another cigarette, she said to herself, âWell, whateverâs going on, it looks like tonight is gonna be one helluva night...â
...
âCiao....â
As soon as the voice stopped, Electra began to panic again, âItâs too late -- heâs going to attack --â
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! âTimeâs up, Electra! Hand her over,â he said, in a creepy, sing-song tone, âyouâve been quite the quisling, havenât you, Ellie? And you know what happens to traitors, donât you?! Off with their heads!!â the face disappeared and the axe hit again -- the door splintered in two!
Electra grabbed her granddaughterâs hand and closed her eyes. The cartoon landscape disappeared completely -- they were soaring into the dark purple clouds, across the bright lilac moon, âWhat are you doinâ now! What was all that about?!â cried Dani, in an exasperated voice.
âItâs him! The demon! He knows I double-crossed him!â Electra yelled, over the sound of rolling thunder and crashing timber, âThereâs only one person who can help us now!â
âWhere are we goinâ?!â Dani shouted back.
âInto the Void!â her grandmother replied, âbrace yourself!â
...
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 Pascalâs 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. Thereâs 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, itâs 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, âBernie -- itâs Electra. We need your help...â
 To be continued in The Soul Destroying Secret Curse of Tutankhamunâs Tomb
Table of Contents
#spindlefreck#witches#witchcraft#fantasy#horror#irish humour#mystery#irish ghost stories#saga#magical#magic#warlocks#demon#halloween#telepathy#irish fiction#serial killer
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