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November 1938: Ducks, ducks, ducks

November 1, 1938 – Philadelphia Inquirer

The dance at the West Side Tennis club and Norma Shearer’s dinner were the principal Hallowe’en festivities. At the Shearer soiree were Carole Lombard, Clark Gable, Connie Bennett and Gilbert Roland, the Basil Rathbones, Tyrone Power and Howard Hughes.

November 1, 1938 – Fort Worth Star Telegram

2 on Motor Glides Glide Into Town

Two men on motor glides, traveling from the Golden Gate Exposition in San Francisco to Grover Whalen’s big show in New York City, stopped traffic on West Seventh Street Monday night and stole the show for a moment from Halloween celebrants. They are John De Sales and Allen Rice, both former vaudeville actors who are making the cross-country trip on motor glides as good will envoys from the San Francisco fair. Their motor glides are super refined versions of the motor driven scooter Homer Holcomb, the clown, rode in the Southwestern exposition and Fat Stock Show Rodeo last spring. 

The boys say Carole Lombard and Clark Gable bought one for Clark Gable the day they were in Los Angeles. 

November 4, 1938 – The Honolulu Advertiser

Remember Carole Lombard’s published wails about the size of her income tax? I wondered then why any star wanted that kind of publicity. And today, while talking with a girl who works in the studio ran mail department, I found the obvious answer. Carole had been revealed in government reports as Filmtown’s No. 1 money maker. No sooner were those lists published than she began to receive unpleasant letters – thousands of them, some begging, some abusing. Inspired by the size of her salary, legislators in three states introduced discriminatory tax measures against the picture industry. It was to escape the tempest stirred up by the report of her wealth that Carole publicized the amount she had to pay in taxes, and it was a clever defense. She is still receiving an avalanche of letters – but now, they are all sympathetic.

November 4, 1948 – Evening Star

Carole Lombard’s favorite method of transportation is the black-and-gray motor scooter given her by Clark Gable. (Doesn’t this couple have fun?)

November 5, 1938 – Los Angeles Times

Hedda Hopper’s Hollywood

Carole Lombard and I cornered Clark Gable on the “Idiot’s Delight” set and begged to see a bit of his dancing. He wouldn’t give but told us that after his first lesson he heard George King, his teacher, mumble as he walked away: “Well – that guy must have normal intelligence, but that’s all I’ve got to start with.” 

November 8, 1938 – Minneapolis Star

Carole Lombard, in the current issue of Look magazine, selects the 10 most interesting men in the world, but alas, Clark Gable is not mentioned…

November 8, 1938 – Clinton Daily Journal

Has Gracie Allen added another Hollywood eligible to her long list of swains? She and Clark Gable were at the Trocadero the other night. Of course, Gable was sitting at another table with Carole Lombard, but everyone noticed that Gable just looked and looked at Grace all night – right after she overturned his soup plate on his lap when she passed the table.

November 11, 1938 – Buffalo Evening News

Carole Lombard is the only outsider who can crash the set of “Idiot’s Delight,” where the embarrassed Clark Gable is tap-dancing for dear old Metro. By the way, what happened to Clark’s “imminent” divorce from his long-estranged wife? 

November 13, 1938 – Des Moines Register

Exploding Hollywood Myths

“All stars spend the night at a nightclub after a hard day’s work”

Nine o’clock finds many a star in bed on working days. Bing Crosby goes to a nightclub two or three times a year. Clark Gable, Joan Crawford, Gary Cooper, Norma Shearer, Carole Lombard, William Powell, and Spencer Tracy are seen at nightclubs only infrequently.

November 17, 1938 – Honolulu Star Bulletin

Carole Lombard has been sneaking away from the studio to bring down the ducks for Clark’s dinner…

November 17, 1938 – The Times

Carole Lombard and Clark Gable went duck hunting together the other day, and the first limit was shot by Carole Lombard…

November 19, 1938 – Hartford Courant

Carole Lombard brings Clark Gable some hot coffee in a silver-plated container and warns him, “Darling, I’ll be back to see you dance” (in “Idiot’s Delight”). 

November 25, 1938 – Times Tribune

Movie night at the auto show: Clark Gable and Carole Lombard gazing enviously at an exhibit of antique models…

November 26, 1938 – Philadelphia Inquirer

Carole Lombard and Clark Gable stopping at a spot for a corned beef and cabbage dinner. They were joined by Franchot Tone and Pat DiCicco.

November 27, 1938 – Ogden Standard Examiner

Writer Tells of Farm Drift

May Mann, Standard-Examiner Hollywood columnist, is author of an article entitled “Hollywood Hightails For Rural Ranching” in the December “Modern Movies” magazine.

She tells how Clark Gable and Robert Taylor have forsaken Hollywood’s glamor life to get back to the simple life at ranches in San Fernando Valley, and how their friends Carole Lombard and Barbara Stanwyck have helped them furnish their ranch homes comfortably.

“Someone should put a sign lettered ‘This Way to Happy Valley’ at the fork of the road leading to the homes of Clark and Bob and other members of the picture colony residing there,” writes Columnist Mann. “Clark’s old-fashioned frame house is tucked away in a cluster of oak trees with a barn nearby and plenty of garden stuff. Up the road some 15 miles a simple four-room rambling structure set in 30 acres of alfalfa is Bob’s house. Nearby are Carole Lombard’s acres and three and a half miles away lives Barbara Stanwyck. It is coincidental that both Clark and Bob started out to become actors to escape farm life; that they’d both catapult to film stardom at the same studio, and should both return to settle down to ranch life at the very height of their careers.

November 28, 1938 – San Francisco Examiner

(Excerpt from article on Alice Marble)

Although the California pippin has always sung for her own amusement, Miss Marble had no voice lessons until a year ago. Then Carole Lombard, one of her good friends, paid for a dozen lessons with the Russian singer and teacher, Nina Koschetz of Hollywood. 

Not only is Miss Lombard one of Alice Marble’s favorite persons, but Clark Gable, who is one of Miss Lombard’s good friends, is also the tennis star’s favorite actor. 

“He’s a grand friend and a fine person,” said Miss Marble…

November 29, 1938 – Portland Evening Express

Clark Gable, the Great Hunter, took Carole Lombard on a duck hunting expedition. “At least he did some shooting,” she said. “Me? I’m just a retriever!” 

November 30, 1938 – St. Louis Globe Democrat

Talking about houses, Clark Gable, rumored to be building a mansion in the Valley, denies this with “I’m not building anything until I know exactly what’s happening.” He can only be referring to his long held-up divorce from Mrs. Rhea Gable.

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Spindlefreck Book Two: Pt. Four: Ha! Ha! Said the Clown

Odin’s Inn, Brodir, Co. Wicklow; Sunday, May 2nd 1991

Malky gave the big chauffeur a sideways look, crossed his arms, casually leant on the door post and refused to shake the extended hand.

Gorringe wasn’t offended, just mildly surprised. He looked at his unshaken hand and frowned. He ummed & ahhed, looked left and right and spoke hesitantly, rubbing his neck as if about to ask a contention question, “Erm... see, the boss sent me ‘ere wiv a proposition... ‘E instructed me to... that is...” he paused, stepped up so that they were face-to-face and pleaded for relief with beseeching eyes, “Lissen mate, can I use your lavvy? I’ve been on the road fer ovah-an-hour ‘n that last cuppa I ‘ad before I left the ‘ahse is abaht to bust me bladdah!”

It was an old salesman’s ploy and Malky knew it, and the chauffeur knew he knew it, nevertheless he cringed and gritted his teeth, “No messin’ guv - I’m this close to pissin’ me strides!” He seemed genuinely stricken, so after a second or two’s deliberation, Malky decided to give him the benefit of the doubt and stood aside, issuing a caution as he dashed by, “Straight in-and-out, mind. And don’t use the urinals – they’re not plumbed-in yet – use one of the stalls! OK?”

Gorringe already halfway there, “I don’t care if it’s a bucket -- I gotta go!”

Just as the door to the gents closed, Zindy walked through from the kitchen, “Who is it? Sales rep? Reporter?” she asked, wiping her oil-blackened hands with a rag, her elfin face smeared with black smuts. Malky was still at the door, looking out at the darkened windows of the Rolls, “... no, he’s somebody’s chauffeur. You should see the car he’s driving.”

Zindy lifted the waiter hatch and struggled through, “Ooow, I’ve been bent over too long, I’m all stiffened-up!” she groaned, clutching the small of her back with both hands so that her swollen tummy popped out of her denim shirt revealing an oily palm-print on the ivory-white skin of her bump. Malky closed the door, “There’s quite a draught – you can look out through the window.”

“For God’s sake a bit of sea air will do me good!”

Malky tapped her butt, “Aye, because you’re doin’ bloody auto-repairs on the kitchen table and the place stinks to high-heaven of gloss, varnish, engine oil and Swarfega! That child o’ mine must be gettin’ high on the fumes!”

Zindy made yakety-yak signs with her hand and said “I’m trying to save us some money, it’d cost us a bomb to take that van to a mechanic.”

“... because you’ve fallen out with all the local mechanics, haven’t you?” he chided ironically, “There isn’t a garage within a 30-mile-radius who’ll touch it, is there? Anyway, it’s a false economy. It’ll breakdown in the middle of nowhere and you’ll have to ring one of the garages for a tow-truck and the whole shebang will cost us three times as much as it would if we’d gone to a garage in the first place -– that’s not factoring-in the chance of an accident - or you gettin’ stranded high and dry – then whoosh – your waters break!”

“Jeezus Christ! You’re startin’ to scare me!” she cried.

“It’s a possibility -- like what if you breakdown and you fall getting out of the van -- or somebody comes round the corner too fast and hits you or something leaks in the engine and it goes up in a ball of flames...?”

“Why dontcha just swaddle me in bubble-wrap, pack me in polystyrene, stick me in an air-conditioned coffin and feed me through a tube til September! Oh I say, tally-ho, chaps,” she’d seen the stranger’s car, “a Rolls Royce Silver Shadow, no less,” she said, appreciatively, looking out of the window, “who comes to a place like this in a car like that?”

Meanwhile, Brooster was listening at the parlour door, “What’s goin’ on?” a voice whispered behind him, making him jump and almost fall over. It was Sammy, the silver-bearded, blood-spattered ghost of the inn’s elderly barman, crouching behind him with his hands on his knees. Brooster looked him in the eye and asked him with a thought: Why are you creeping about and whispering when only I can see and hear you?

Sammy stood up, stroked his beard and mused aloud, “Aye, I s’pose that’s true... Well then – I’ll just do this!” He walked through the wall, into the occupied cubicle, looked the urinator up-and-down and shouted to the old dog, “It’s a chauffeur. Big bloke. Ex-army – British army – he has a regimental pin. Big dick, if you’re interested in that sort of thing.”

Broo wasn't at all impressed by the resident phantom’s crude behaviour – one of these days the stupid old fool will walk in on a Sensitive and scare the life out of them (actually, that eventuality would be fortuitous – because escape from This Life and Ascent into The Next requires a death within the parameters of the haunting and in the three years since Sammy had been shot and killed by Barry McKee, the only candidate so far had been an elderly deep-sea fisherman suffering with angina and a bad case of hay-fever who died two days later after a particularly violent sneeze –- at home in his own bed. Sammy whined as he opined: “Why couldn't the auld eejit have snuffed-it here?! Some people have no manners at all! At this rate, I’ll have to wait for Malky to croak - and he’s got another ten years in him at least!”).

The chauffeur exited the gents and convened with Zindy and Malky. Zindy was friendly and bright and offered him a cup of tea; Malky was cagey and glum. But that’s Malky. Sammy, reclining on the couch to watch the movie, actually made an insightful comment, “He’s an Englishman and Zindy misses the company of Englishmen. She’ll bend his ear for an hour and then he’ll be off back to whoever he drives for: probably some auld oul’ banker or one of those rich pop stars who've been buying houses over here lately.” He pointed at the remote, “C’mon, turn the sound on. I love the old black and white fillums!”

The old dog was paying him no heed. He was enjoying familiar feelings of excitement and trepidation, that tingle in his pelt that told him the visitor was significant and he should prepare himself for important news. And sure enough, the chauffeur didn’t thank his hosts for the use of the amenities and return to his vehicle, he was taken to the kitchen for a cup of tea and a chat!

Sammy was still harping on, “Dog?! D’ya hear me? Hit the button that turns the sound back on!”

Oblivious, Brooster snuck down the hall, took-up position at the kitchen door and listened.

Sammy shouted from the parlour, “Ach, c’mon, you know I can’t press the buttons...?” Broo ignored him and harkened to the conversation around the kitchen table.

Once Gorringe had completed his ablutions and emerged from the gents refreshed, Zindy introduced herself and took him into the kitchen for a cuppa. They hadn't had much company lately and this was the first Englishman she’d met in ages so she was chatty and vivacious. Malky was characteristically sniffy and suspicious. He wouldn't sit down and slowly paced the floor by the backdoor and let Zindy do all the talking. She began by apologising for the engine parts on the kitchen table, told him to park his arse and have a Mikado. He took a biscuit, but kept well back from the table lest oil, paint or any other petroleum-based-product come into contact with his immaculate whistle, “Is that a Lancashire accent I ‘ear?” he asked, with a wry smile.

Zindy grinned, “Aye - Salford! ‘Ow can you tell?” she said, ironically.

“Heh-heh, two of me best mates is from Salford! Salts of the erf, they is, diamonds to a man. We ‘ad a couple of tours in Cyprus in the late fifties and then they was sent to... umm,” he suddenly stopped talking. He realised he was in the Republic of Ireland talking to a pair of total strangers about old friends serving in an occupying force and quickly changed the subject. He beheld her swollen belly and asked, sheepishly, “Ahem, ‘ow many mumphs ‘ave you got before the big day then, sweet’eart?”

“I’m due in late July or early August,” she replied, she replied, “Just wait til I’m at full-term, I’ll look like a two-legged Space Hopper in a pink-wig!”

Malky lost patience, coughed theatrically, walked forward and put an end to the sparkling repartee, “So, Mr Gorringe, what can we do for you?”

The chauffeur put up a hand and waived the formalities, “Oh, call me ‘Erbie, please, Mr Calvert. Nobody calls me Gorringe ‘cept the boss when ‘e’s in a bad mood. Everybody else calls me ‘Erbie.”

Malky sighed, “Then, what can we do for your boss, H-erbie?”

“Malky! - don’t be so rude!” Zindy snapped.

Herbie shook his head, “Nah, ‘e’s got every right to be wary, sweet’eart. I’m beatin’ arahnd the bush, as it were, I really should explain meself,” his face took on a pained expression of someone who knew that what he was going to say next would either elicit gales of laughter or get him forcibly ejected from the premises forthwith; he carefully set down his teacup, laced his fingers on his lap and spoke without looking at his hosts, “Well, y’see, my boss, see... ‘e’s not a superstitious man by nay-cha but, ‘e’s got it into ‘is ‘ead...” he sighed heavily, looked up at Malky and bit the bullet, “Look – ‘e thinks the ahse ‘as been invaded by ‘a poltergeist’ and ‘e wants a consultation. Y’know, whether you can confirm or deny, that sort of thing.”

Malky’s heart sank. He threw up his hands and whined, “Fer cryin’ out loud! Another crank! A rich crank, but a crank nonetheless!”

[In the aftermath of the Barry McKee case, there had been numerous requests for newspaper interviews, TV documentaries and even a book deal with movie-options that would have set them up for the rest of their lives, but Malky had rejected them all out-of-hand. Zindy was slightly exasperated but mostly impressed by his innate integrity and refusal to exploit his adventures - then sometimes she wished he had his price, just enough to afford a decent refit. But he doggedly kept to his Code and slowly-but-surely, the phone stopped ringing, people stopped arriving at the door and they settled into what was, in Malky’s case, blissful isolation in a place he loved as a child; for Zindy, it represented normality and domesticity, something she needed after years of living in the fast lane.]

She was too taken with their visitor to dismiss the offer out of hand, “Wait til you ‘ear what Herbie ‘as to say before you go on a rant, Mr Sour-Balls!”

Malky leaned against the fridge and crossed his arms, “He can say what he likes but it won’t make a ha’penny’s worth o’ difference. We live by a Code remember?”

“’Code?’” Herbie looked from one to the other.

Zindy harrumphed and rhymed-off Malky’s charter to their bemused visitor, “Malky’s Code: he won’t have anything to do with the supernatural stuff... he won’t have anything to do with the media... he won’t write a book even though he’s been offered a lotta money...”

Malky: “-- and with good reason! Once you make contact -– you let them in! They’ll be writing begging letters, making pilgrimages to our door!”

Herbie, slightly embarrassed that he’d caused trouble in paradise, assured them, “You come very ‘ighly recommended, y’know – by the Gardai commissioner ‘isself, no less...”

Malky’s jaw dropped, “What?!” he gasped.

“Oh gawd, I knew this would be a nightmare...” Herbie muttered under his breath, grimacing like a man tiptoeing through a minefield wearing a blindfold; he elaborated in an apologetic tone, “... a couple o’ weeks ago, the boss was at one of them grand-banquet dos they ‘ave in Dublin City where the top-nobs can ‘obnob -- y’know the sort o’ fing, VIPs, the politicians an’-all-that-lot. Well, the commissioner was seated next to the boss and they got talkin’ about strange cases and your name came up, an’ when ‘e mentioned that Barry McKee business a few years ago, the boss wuz all ears 'n ‘e got the commissioner to get your address...?”

Malky was furious, “The Barry McKee case was as weird as they come, but it wasn't anythin’ to do with the supernatural -- it was to do with the fact that he’s a schizo who liked to kill little girls.”

Herbie raised his eyebrows, “So all that tawk abaht ‘im bein’ possessed is just bollocks?”

“Well, he thought he was possessed, he heard voices...” Zindy was about to elaborate when Malky shot her a what-the-hell-look.  She took umbrage, “So what did happen, Malcolm? Why don’t you explain it?”

“You should know -- you were there -– we nearly died!” Malky snapped back.

“Yeah -- but who ‘elped us?! ‘Ow did the dog find them bodies in the woods? Who told 'im where to go?!”

Sensing trouble in paradise, Herbie reached into his inside-pocket and took out a large brown leather wallet, “Look, I tell you wot, if it makes it any easier,” he pulled out a folded slip of paper and set it on the table so that it stood like a little greetings-card, “the boss gimme this blank cheque ‘n awforised me to offer ya 7 grand to come up to the ‘ahse and ‘ave-a-butcher’s. If you can get rid of the spook, he’ll give you anovver free grand. That’s 10 grand! More, if ‘e’s really pleased! ‘Is pockets are deep, believe me.”

“Something strange in your neighbourhood? Who you gonna call...?” Malky sang.  

“I don’t think even the Ghostbusters would get 10 grand for one night’s work?!” gasped Zindy, £-signs in her eyes.

Heartened that the hostess seemed keen, Herbie went for the hard-sell, “7 grand just to ‘ave a shufti, 10 grand if you get rid of it. What would money like that mean to you two?” he said, looking at Zindy’s bump.

Malky saw his better-half look around the kitchen, read her mind and reminded her with a wagging finger, “Don’t start...!”

Zindy wagged straight back, “The Code of Silence made sense in the beginnin’ when we wuz inundated with whackos, weirdoes ‘n’ wankers of every stripe – before we ‘ad money trouble and baby on t’way!”

Malky pointed and laughed sardonically, “Did you just say that? Who the hell are you?!”

The chauffeur turned to Malky and spoke softly, “Lissen Mr C -- I fink the old man’s barkin’ up the wrong tree too, but ‘e’s at his wit’s end – ‘e finks there’s an ‘evil spirit’ out to get ‘im! Now, I ain't seen anythin’ myself, just the aftermaff - but ‘e says fings fly across the room, y’know, ornaments ‘itting the wall, books falling from shelves, that sort of fing. E’s afraid to go rahnd the ‘ouse on ‘is own. If it goes on for much longer, ‘e’s likely to ‘ave a stroke or ‘eart attack, the poor old git.”

“Who is 'e?” Zindy and Malky asked, in perfect harmony.

Herbie paused for a second then said: “Oliver Laphen.”

“Ollie Laphen?! ‘The Quare Geg’?!” cried Malky; amazed and delighted, he duly eschewed his standoffishness, pulled out a chair and sat down at the table.

“The old movie star? The hellraiser?” asked Zindy, only slightly impressed.

“Yip, that Ollie Laphen,” said Herbie, sheepishly, as if confessing a cardinal sin.

“My God. Ollie Laphen! That takes me back a-ways...” Malky enthused, whimsically, looking up, as if viewing the memory in a thought balloon hovering just above his head, “...in Belfast in the late 50s when me ‘n me younger brother Dessie were kids, we used to see his films at the Roy Rogers’ Movie Club at the Curzon on Saturday mornings and we loved the ‘Laffin Boy’ shorts he made in the early 30s when he was still called ‘Ollie Laffin’. Jeez, we must’ve seen them all at least 10 times each...!”

Zindy left Malky to wander down Memory Lane and got down to business, “And ��’e’s willing to pay Malky 7 grand just to look round ‘is ‘aunted ‘ouse?!”

Herbie smiled and nodded.

Although mightily tempted, Malky still wasn't moved, “Nah – it smacks of exploitation. I’m not goin’ to take advantage of an old man who’s probably in the primary stages of senility... Oh, sorry, Herbie...”

The chauffeur shrugged and nodded, “You’re singin’ to the choir guv.  That’s what us lot reckoned, too - but in every ovver respect he’s fine. ‘E’s cantankerous and narky like ‘e always is, but ‘is memory’s fine - e’s workin’ on a one-man-show and ‘e don’t even ‘ave to look at the book. ‘E reads all ‘is contracts – even the small print - ‘e writes ‘is memoirs... If it is senility, then this poltergeist fing is the only symptom.” He winked, “Tell-you-wot -- why dontcha meet ‘im ‘n’ see for y’self.”

Malky had to smile. It was like being coerced by an aging Artful Dodger. He now knew how the big chauffeur had kept a job for so many years: Herbert Gorringe has made a career out of getting the boss exactly what he wants, by hook or by crook.

“Lissen, if you fink it’s all a loada ol’ cobblahs, you can tell ‘im so - take the money - and I’ll drive you ‘ome. No ‘assle. No one will ever know. Mr Laphen certainly won’t be tellin’. You know ‘ow much ‘e ‘ates the press.”

Zindy looked at Malky and batted her eyelids, “No one will ever know and you’ll have a great story to tell our kids.”

“Oh – you’re not coming?” said Malky, with a raised eyebrow.

Zindy indicated the engine parts on the table, “No time, lover –- we need the van back on the road by mornin’ cos I ‘ave to go to Arklow and pick-up the grocery order and fetch more paint from the DIY store. Incidentally, I’ll be ‘using’ t’credit card - you know the one I mean -– the one we owe £3,400 on?”

“My God woman, have you no shame?!” said Malky, semi-seriously, shaking his head with exasperation.

Herbie held up the cheque and flicked it with a finger, “A lotta lolly for a few hours’ work, my friends.”

“C’mon, Malk. Like ‘Erbie says, the ol' boy’s loaded and it’s only one night...?”

Malky stared at his paint-spattered hands and had a rethink: you’ll to get away from the smell of varnish and gloss, meet the great Ollie Laphen and have a look round his house...  “Well... I suppose one night wouldn't be so bad... ?”

Deal sealed, Herbie sighed with relief, got to his feet and shook Malky’s hand. Malky looked at Zindy and shook his head, “You know you’ll never hear the end of this, dontcha?”

Zindy grinned, “Careful Ollie Laphen’s poltergeist don’t drop summat ‘eavy on yer ‘ead, chook!”

Malky held his sides and pretended to cry tears of laughter.

“Oh yeah - one other fing,” said Herbie, looking around, “The commissioner-bloke told us that you usually work wiv a free-legged German shepherd...?”

Right on cue, the beast in question nosed the door open and sauntered into the room, someone call?

[Broo and Malky had a semi-telepathic link; they couldn't communicate directly, but over the years following the Barry McKee saga, they’d developed an intuitive sense of what the other was thinking.]

Malky glared, you heard all that didn’t you?

The old dog grunted, I can hear the rats building a nest three-doors-down, you twit - of course I heard. And I must say, it’s about time we had a case...

“It’ll be a bit of a lark, won’t it?” chirped Zindy, putting Malky’s toothbrush and shaving kit into his overnight bag. She gave the once over and shook her head, “you’re a walkin’ disaster. Things wrinkled as soon as you put them on.” She lifted the comb and tried to do something with his hair.

Her other-half still hadn't warmed to the idea, “Lark? It’ll be no laughing matter for me, wandering around some creaky, chilly stately-home all night with that grumpy hound at me heel.”

Broo growled back.

She stooped slightly and pointed the comb at the old dog, “Now listen – Broo – you be patient w’ ‘im and remember that ‘e ‘ates all this kinda spooky stuff,” she turned back to her man, “and Mal, you remember that Broo is old and crotchety and prone to snarkiness.”

How dare you madam! I’ll have you know my intellectual capacity is at its peak! The father of your child is the one with questionable mental faculties, not me!

Standing on tiptoe, Zindy cupped Malky’s cheeks and gave him one of her pep-talks, “Listen, chook... take a look round, if you don’t find anythin’ or it looks like a set up, or it don’t feel right -- whatever -- I’ll understand if you don’t take the money, OK?”

Malky was confused, “Then why....?”

She put a finger on his lips, “I’d appreciate a little time on me own, OK? Nothing sinister, just some time to meself. We've been in each other’s pockets day-and-night for 2 year now, so tonight -- for one night only -- I’m gonna finish workin’ on the soddin’ van, ‘ave a bath, write a coupla letters and get an early night. Meanwhile, you get to spend the night in a luxurious mansion in the company of yer boyhood hero.”

She wants a break from you, and who can blame her.

Malky shot the dog a reproachful glance, then smiled when he turned back to his better-half, “You don’t need to explain, Zin. You've got what’s commonly known as Calvert Fatigue.”

She pushed him out onto the landing, “Now fook off. I’ll be here when you get back.”

Broo surveyed the stray cats lined long the parapet of the old burned-out cinema. They had gathered to watch the Rolls roll by, just like they had at the time of the McKee affair: further confirmation, to him at least, that this journey was significant. He resolved to pay attention to every detail and use all his powers... to get to the bottom... of (yawn)... whatever....zzzzzzz He was asleep within 10 minutes. Malky looked over his shoulder and scowled. Lazy sod.

Herbie took the scenic route and drove slowly. The hedgerows bustled-by lackadaisically, the dry-stone-walls refused to become a grey-white blur as £400,000 worth of Rolls Royce shook ‘n’ shimmied along bumpy country lanes and pot-holey side-roads at a leisurely 32mph. He was enjoying the view of the misty Wicklow mountains, and despite the nip in the breeze and the baleful skies, he wound down his window and leaned out to take the air -- which reeked of compost and slurry, but which was entirely to his taste -- “Aaaaah! Smell that?! Laaave this cahntryside, I do! Y’know, at least once a day, I stop what I’m doin’ ‘n give fanks that we landed back ‘ere and not blahdy Swizzer-land. Swizzer-land,” he sneered. “I ‘ate blahdy Swizzer-land. The boss wuz a tax-exile for a while y’see...” He went on to list the many shortcomings of the Swiss in his bouncy cockney twang. Malky repressed the overwhelming urge to shout for Christ’s sake shut-up and step on it! and tuned him out. There he was, on his way to do something he didn’t want to do for people he didn’t want to know in a place he didn’t want to be, and the longer it took to get there the more the prospect bothered him. Bloody cheek, that Gardai Commissioner handing my name & number out to all-and-sundry – I should sue! ... Bloody hocus-pocus and hoodoo-voodoo... but as usual, money talks and principles go out the window... money, money, money... she’ll be setting up a Supernatural Detective Agency next... She’ll be advertising it in the paper...

Seemingly oblivious to the ennui emanating from the fidgety heap of grumpiness beside him, Herbie continued to natter away about getting acclimatised to the snail’s-pace of pastoral Irish life after so many years spent in the fraught, hustle-&-bustle of Hollywood: “They’re as nice-as-ninepence to ya just so long as yer putting bums on seats and bags of lolly in the bank – if not - they’ll drop ya like ‘ot potatah! Fankfully, the boss is always bankable – you put ‘is name on a marquee and you’s guaranteed a profit! ‘E still ‘as a core fanbase of millions who’ll come to everyfink ‘e’s in!”

Malky grunted a hollow, listless “Oh really?”

Unfazed, Herbie whispered in Malky’s ear: “Lissen, mate, if you wanna take the edge-off - ‘ave a drop of Irish. The boss keeps a flask in the glove-compartment for emergencies.”

Malky was caught off-guard and answered in an embarrassed stutter, “Er, no thanks, I don’t drink...”

“‘Recovering alcoholic’, are ya?” Herbie asked.

Although wholly nonplussed by the man’s audacity, Malky replied without raising his voice, “Let’s just say I had a problem at one time and leave it at that, shall we?”

But Herbie continued to pry, “Don’t take this the wrong way, pal, but you have the look of a man who’s no stranger to --”

“Oi! Enough!” Malky barked (Brooster woke up with a start), “Keep yer eyes on the road, Jeeves! Just cuz yer boss is willin’ to pay 7 grand for my services doesn’t give ye the right to dig into me personal life!”

Herbie was visibly taken aback by this unexpected tirade; he pulled down the peak of his cap so that it covered his eyes, straightened up in his seat, took the car up to a steady 40, and after a brief pause, spoke in a more professional tone, “I wuz only makin’ conversation, sir. If I’ve offended you in any way, I ‘umbly apologise and beg yer pardon, sir.”

“Forget it.” Malky turned away and looked out of the window.

A minute or two passed, and as the little surge of adrenalin dissipated, so the embarrassment sank in and he decided to restart the conversation, “Did I hear you tell Zindy you were in the army?”

Still somewhat narked, the chauffeur kept his eyes on the road and gave his name rank and number with the clipped diction of a well-drilled soldier, “Queen’s Royal Irish Fusiliers, 17 years: Corporal Herbert Valentino Gorringe 2063 reporting for duty, sah.”

Malky smiled, “Valentino?”

Herbie made a face, “It was that or Rudolph. My ol’ mum was a big fan. She was in-con-sole-able when ‘e died, grieved fer days, apparently.”

Where was another protracted pause, until Malky said, “I used to meet a lot of Tommies in Belfast in the early days of the Troubles. Seen a good few murdered, too. Bad times.”

The chauffeur turned slightly so that he could look Malky in the eye, “You wasn't chucking the ol’ Molotovs, was ya? You ain’t an ex-IRA man or anyfink like that, ‘is ya?!” Au contraire. Malky told him he was an ex-RUC policeman. Herbie was very interested, visibly relieved and wholly amazed, “Really? If you don’t mind me saying so - you don’t strike me as the type...?”

“My ambition was to be a detective, but I never made it out of uniform. I quit after my partner was gunned down right beside me and I went off the rails a bit and... Well, y’know...” Malky’s voice trailed off.

Herbie shook his head, “Gunned down right beside you? That’s rough that is.”

“But surely you’ve had near-death experiences yourself, Herbie, especially after 17 years in the army...?”

“Well, I wuz too young to serve in the war. I turned 17 the day after VE day. I didn’t join-up til the September of 46. And I never did no tour of duty in Norvern Ireland neevah, I was mostly overseas in Cyprus and the Middle East. We was part of a UN peace-keeping force tryin’ to keep the tribes apart: Jews, Muslims, Christians – not to mention the Greeks and the Turks! Bit like Belfast, but wiv loadsa sun, sand and bearded blokes in pyjamas wiv machine guns. Mind you, I saw the aftermaff of a lotta bombs, I saw fousands killed in genocides... terrible, ‘orrible it was... But I never really saw battle, just ‘minor skirmishes’. Luck, I suppose. It was during a tour of Norf Africa in 64 when I first met the boss!”

“Really,” asked Malky, suddenly interested, “you met oul’ Ollie while you were still in the army? You've been with him that long?”

Herbie was back on his favourite subject and relishing the opportunity to impart his favourite anecdote to a captive audience: “Oh yeah, it was me firtiefth birthday and I was on a day’s leave, so me and a couple of the lads went to Casablanca to paint the tahn several shades of crimson... and after a bit of a pub crawl rahnd the Kasbahs, I got separated from me mates, and while I was lookin’ fer ‘em, I strolls into this dark little tavern and sittin’ there in a corner was Oliver Laphen! Would you Adam ‘n’ Eve it?! ‘E was supposed to shootin’ an adventure movie wiv David Niven about archaeologists in World War Two called Diamonds in the Dust –- but he was skivin’-off cuz he’d ‘ad a row with the director and ‘e was layin’-low -- he didn’t wanna ‘ang round the ‘otel, so ‘e’s ‘iding-out in this dark little Kasbah, trying to be inconspicuous – wearin’ a black wig, big black shades, a kaftan and a fez - but I knew ‘im the minute I set eyes on ‘im! See, our CO was a big fan. He ‘ad all the reels of the comic shawts from the late 30s and some of the feature films the boss made for Paramahnt in the 40s – he used to get ‘em sent ovah and screen ‘em for the lads on a Satur’ay night! Anyway - there ‘e is, in the flesh, so-to-speak! Oliver Laphen! Jolly Ollie! So I go over an’ I say, ‘Can I ‘ave your autograwph Mr Laphen, sah?’ and at first ‘e‘s fumin’ – ‘e goes-off-on-one! Then ‘e calms dahn and says to me – ‘’ow the eff did you know it was me?!’ and I say ‘It’s the way you’re ‘olding your drink!’ Cuz ‘e’s always had this way of curling back ‘is little finger as if ‘e’s drinkin’ from the finest choy-nah. E ‘as these delicate li’l ‘ands, see...”

As he watched the chauffeur get more-and-more animated, Malky came to understand how a sensible, seemingly-well-balanced ex-squaddie like Herbert Valentino Gorringe could forsake marriage, family and blissful conformity just to spend his life at the beck-and-call of -- if popular opinion had it right -- a detestable, despotic, volatile, cranky little egomaniac like Oliver Laphen. Well, now he knew. Herbie wasn't just a fan – he was in love with the man. The pair’s long-term relationship had outlasted all of ‘The Quare Geg’s’ marriages put together. No wonder the story was related with such gusto and attention to detail, it was, after all, an epic romance.

“.... any’ow, at 400 hours, I ‘ad to get back to base, but before I go ‘e takes me to one side an’ ‘e says – ‘’Erbie, if you quit the army ‘n become my chauffeur and personal bodyguard, I’ll guarantee you a 50 knicker a week for starters, bed-‘n’-board - all the skirt you can ‘andle – plus -- you’ll get to see the world without ‘avin’ to worry abaht gettin’ yer ‘ead blown orf!’ So I laugh ‘n’ say I’ll fink about it. I fanked him for the best night of my life and we say ta-ra. I go back to camp finking it wuz all the blustah and idle boasts of a booze-‘ahnd and forgot abaht it.  But it didn’t stop ‘im. When ‘e asked for the fird and final time, I quit and I’ve been at ‘is beck-‘n’-call ever since.”

“Was it worth it, Herbie?” Malky asked.

The chauffeur thought long and hard about the question before answering. When he did, his voice was more mature and thoughtful, “E can be an ‘andful sometimes, but artistic people is prone to temperament, it’s ‘ow they’s able to do the fings they do. But I’ve learned ‘ow to balance it aht. I’ve been all over the world, visited all the major cities ‘n’ ‘istorical places... I’ve met a lotta Very Important People – besides movie stars an’ showbiz folk, there’s been world leaders, presidents, kings and queens, writers, top sportsmen – so whenever people awsk ‘’ow do you put up wiv ‘im?’ I say ‘take a look at me passport, me photos and me bank accahnt, moosh - there’s ‘ow!’” He turned to Malky and told him earnestly, “See, I’ve gotta lotta great memories. I’ve seen ‘istory bein’ made. I’ve supped Earl Grey wiv Picasso and knocked back bourbon wiv Dean ‘n’ Frank. I’ve made an omelette fer Einstein an’ cocktails for Noel Coward. I’ve played cards wiv Kate Hepburn for two straight days - and lost. No matter what the ol’ boy gets up to, I wouldn't trade those memories for the world.... Umm...” Something crossed his mind. When he spoke again, it was in a more tentative tone, “Look, before we get to the ‘ahse, I’d better mention the incident on Friday night wot started ‘im off.”

“Why? What happened on Friday night?” asked Malky, a little disconcerted.

“I was away visitin’ a lady-friend in Dublin, an’ apparently all the lights went aht and the ‘uge grandfavver clock in the lobby fell over and smashed on the floor -– the boss was frightened outta his wits -- fought it was burglars – so ‘e pressed one of the panic buttons and Charlie, our ‘ead of security, drove up to the ’ahse right away. But the power-cut musta shorted-aht the alarm system cuz ‘is swipe-card wouldn't work and the master key wouldn't turn in the lock! So, finkin’ ‘e’s under siege, the ol’ man pressed the button that calls the Old Bill, but by the time they got there, Charlie ‘ad managed to get in ‘n’ calm the old man down. Then the lights come on again – not just the lights that wuz on when the power went aht – but every single light in the ‘ole ahse including the bedrooms, bathrooms, the ballroom -- everywhere. By this stage, the boss is goin’ mental. Really, really scared.

“When I got back I got a right bollockin’ as if it was all my fault – like I ‘ad the temerity to ‘ave a night off! Any'ow, me ‘n’ Charlie searched that ahse from top to bottom; the cops  ‘n’ the security lads looked round the grounds, but we come up empty... there wuz nothin’ up iv the fuse-box, no sign of tamperin’ or anyfink dodgy.”

“Would the grandfather clock be easy to topple?” said Malky.

“Well, it’s set into the wall ‘n’ it’s solid, antique Bavarian pine, 9 foot tall wiv a ruddy great bell in it; it’s got a solid gold pendulum and it weighs around a two-and-an-‘alf ton, I couldn’t pull it dahn on me own.” Gorringe coughed then said, “And that’s the ovver fing... the boss’ been back on the bottle ever since, and if you know anyfink about the boss, you’ll know that ‘e’s a bit... volatile when ‘e’s on the sawse. So, ignore any strange behaviour, if y’know what I mean.”

Malky was a trifle miffed at being apprised of these tidings so late in the day; he was about to ask if there was anything else he should know when Herbie suddenly brightened and declared, “And ‘ere we are, my beauties! My little ‘ome-from-‘ome!”

Herbie slowed the limo to a funereal crawl as they entered a particularly picturesque little village, “Ahhh, ‘ave you ever been a little place like this before?” he asked, with a little smirk that hinted at a rhetorical question.

Malky honestly confessed, “No. I’m sure I’d remember if I had.”

“You wouldn’t ‘ave. This ‘ere is a protected community, see. Only a few people know about it.”

It was beautiful, rows of whitewashed thatched cottages with black gloss doors, all flowers beds and hanging baskets with a little square with a little roundabout in the centre, bedecked with a floral clock depicting the flag of St George (?); aside from the copious vegetation, there was very little sign of life and almost no sign of the 20th century. “What’s it called?”

“Bogmire. Pretty lousy name for such a laavly little ‘amlet, innit?”

If it wasn't for the faded & peeling Coca Cola sign stuck to the inside of the window of the post office-cum-newsagent and an old bicycle leaning against the bench outside a ramshackle little country pub (the Black Water Rat), they could be back in Tudor England. Malky made appreciative noises.

“It’s like a little oasis from bygone days, innit? You feel as if you’ve slipped frew a time-warp – eh?! But the funny thing is – it ain't Irish! See, most of the people ‘oo live ‘ere are descended from English peasant stock! Most of ‘em is originally from the wilds o’ Cornwall! The Duke of Roxborough brought ‘em ovah to build Pagham ‘Ahse ‘n ‘e built these ‘ere cottages for ‘em – and believe it or not, they lasted through the rebellion cos of a pact between the Irish rebels and the Roxborough family ‘n they’ve been ‘ere ever since. When ‘e bought the ahse the only proviso wuz that we keep the staff and let the Supplicants – that’s their religion, that is – live ‘n’ work on the estate.” Herbie went on to tell of the locals’ strange customs and bizarre lifestyle in a disbelieving tone, “... and they've been doin’ it fer 200 years straight!”

Malky looked around, “And this is all part of the estate?”

“Yep, it came with the ahse!”

This didn’t surprise Malky one bit. For an Irish ex-pat, the old man wasn't renowned for his patriotism; in fact, he was a close friend of Princess Margaret and during the height of the Troubles in the 70s he was renowned for making disparaging noises about the Republican movement in Ireland from the safety of his Bel Air mansion (when Lord Mountbatten was murdered by the IRA he told a NBC TV news reporter that the terrorists in question were ‘like a bunch of weasels attacking a lion’ and that Britain should ‘string ‘em up’), he was frequent visitor to the Whitehouse when the Republicans were in office, and was often mooted to be an anonymous sponsor of various right-of-centre US politicos -- he backed Nixon over Kennedy, was close to Ronnie Reagan since his  days as chairman of Screen Actors Guild, and was a frequent house guest of George Bush senior -- all of which made him a potential target for disgruntled boyos on both sides of the pond. It made sense that he’d want to live out his twilight years in a little slice of England transplanted into the heart of the Irish countryside, it suited his style: contrary to the end.

Herbie pulled-up outside a dainty little general store called The Peppermint Poke. The window was full of candy jars and pastries neatly arranged on little lacy paper doilies, “Dora oo runs the Poke is an Outsider, meanin’ she’s married to one of the Supplicants so she’s allowed to run a shop. None of ‘em is allowed to ‘ave a shop or make profit from their work, so the outsiders tend to do them fings, like business transactions and that. The local garda sergeant is an outsider, too -- he lives in that li’l cottage ovah there.” he pointed to one of the gleaming residences across the square...” Herbie opened the door, “I’m just gonna go in and get the Sunday papers ‘n’ a tube of Polos... I’ll only be a sec.”

Malky wound down his window to inhale the compliment of delicious odours to accompany the view: flowers, mown lawns and more flowers, “very restful. Then he heard a rumble outside the car -- a motorcycle had pulled up alongside and its rider, wearing a helmet with a dark visor, was looking through the driver’s-side-window. What’s this? Malky shrank back in his seat....The rider casually unzipped his black leather jacket and reached inside – for a second Malky flinched -- but instead of a weapon, he produced a video camera. Malky knew a maverick paparazzo when he saw one and immediately flew into a rage – he lunged out of the open widow, shook his fist and yelled, “Piss-off ya bastard! Get that f**kin’ thing outta my face or I’ll put my foot in yer arse!”

The shouting roused Broo from his slumbers. He saw the motorcyclist, heard Malky screaming and instinctively barked loudly and forcefully -- until he sensed that the stranger posed no threat and Malky appeared to be overreacting. He stopped barking, gave himself a shake and tried to get his bearings. The cameraman was quite small, dressed in biker’s leathers like Zindy’s biker chums, but these were more expensive and unsullied by general wear-&-tear. Then, as the bleariness subsided and his eyes refocused, Broo saw something that both startled and alarmed him. At first he thought it was the motorcycle’s exhaust fumes, then he realised the figure was shrouded in what he could only describe as a purplish-halo -- whatever it was, it was unlike any aura he’d ever seen before.

Malky was fit to be tied, “I’m not gonna tell you again, friend! If you don’t fuck aff immediately I’m gonna come out there and stick that camera where the sun don’t shine!!”

“That’s a take!” The biker cried, packing away his camera, “Thank you sir! Have a nice day!” he said and roared off, leaving a cloud of blue smoke in his wake. “Bloody paps – see – this is what happens when you do somebody a favour,” grumbled Malky.

Broo was still drinking in the atmosphere and looking for anomalies. Having been in places like this all over Ireland, the old dog had noted that each dainty village and township they visited had its own peculiar little ripples of the past shining through the present. On his travels he’d heard the echoes of ancient battles in the silence of the first light of dawn; he’d seen the children of ancient tribes playing on a busy motorway at noon; he’d seen 16th century Spanish galleons off the coast at Cork -– but Bogmire was a spiritual desert: there was absolutely nothing to sense or feel beyond the here and now. It was clearly old, spotless and brightly painted, but utterly devoid of soul. And that smell... beneath the floral scents and peat smoke, lay an ever-present stench that marred the otherwise wholesomeness of the place. Even for a dog that usually salivated at the stink of putrid flesh, it was hard to stomach. Most unusual...

Just then they heard the little tinkle of a bell and Herbie emerged from the shop with a bundle of newspapers under his arm and a Polo mint in his cheek; he got back in and offered one to Malky, “Did I ‘ear a mo’orbike?” he asked, “I was chattin' to Dora and I could've swawn I ‘eard a rumblin’ sahnd...?”

“Just a guy askin’ for directions,” said Malky, “so I told him where to go...”  

At that very moment, 3000 miles away, in the kitchen of a townhouse in North York, Toronto, Canada, the man of the house appeared in the kitchen doorway, barefoot in his pyjama bottoms, unshaven, hands deep in the pockets of his bedraggled dressing gown. 

“Emil! What the f**k?! Go get dressed – we’re late as it is!” shouted Fran, ever the fiery redhead, dressed to the nines in her Sunday-best, rifling through her purse in search of her car keys, “I told you to get ready an hour ago!” They were supposed to be going to her niece’s christening and they were running 10 minutes late. She looked under the cushions in the lounge; she looked in and under the couch; she checked every pocket in the coat rack. “Where the f**k are they?!!”

Emil watched her, his arms hanging by his sides, and said, “I’m not going. I have the shits.” 

Did I just say that? What the f**k?!

Fran, currently poking through the trash in the pedal-bin with the salad-tongs, threw her head back and mocked him in an ironic voice, “Hah! I knew it! Mom warned me – ‘he won’t go – he doesn’t even own a suit’! Well, it suits me – I don’t have to watch you get drunk and throw up in the swimming pool or make a pass at a waitress... Owww-ouch!” she’d cut her knuckle on the edge of a jagged tuna can, “F**k this!” she kicked the bin and ran to the sink to rinse it, screaming, “F**K! F**K! WHERE THE F**K ARE MY F**KING KEYS!!”

He knew exactly where they were. They were in his pocket. He was holding them in the palm of his hand; but for some strange reason he didn’t hand them over. It wasn't that he didn’t want to, it was because he couldn't. And no matter how hard he tried to communicate, his body wouldn't respond; he let her go on searching and said nothing.

She went to the knick-knack drawer in the welsh-dresser, rummaged around in the back and eventually emerged triumphant, “Ah - hah! The spare! I knew I’d put it somewhere!!” She had one last look in the mirror to check her mascara and top-up her lip gloss, “... If you go out make sure you turn on the alarm.... and if you go back to bed - don’t f**king smoke! That’s a new quilt and I don’t want it looking like somebody’s used it for target practice!” She strode down the hall to the front door; a few seconds later she came stomping back, madder than ever “You f**king asshole! You've done it again!! You've boxed me in! I can’t get my car out!” 

Emil remained silent. 

“Emil!” She approached him and looked up into his dull, blue eyes, “EMIL! You have to move your car! Are you listening to me?!

He stood and stared.

“Emil!”

“See you later, legislator,” he said, without smiling. It was a catchphrase he used when they said goodbye on the doorstep in those early days when they first moved in together; but here & now it just sounded weird. She gave him a sideways look, “Are you stoned?”

“Take my car.” He dangled his keys on his pinkie.

She grimaced at the smell of his breath, glowered and said, “Listen... I don’t know what the hell you’re on or what you are trying to pull, but my mother will be frothing at the mouth -– I was supposed to pick her 15 minutes ago -– this is a crisis!”

He dangled his keys.

She drew herself up and bawled in his face, “GET OUT THERE AND MOVE YOUR F**KING CAR!”

He jangled his keys.

She slammed her key down on the table and snatched his in one frighteningly limber move, “RIGHT! – I’m calling your bluff, asshole – I’m taking your beloved Porsche! You can take my Volvo -- I wonder what all those cutesy little students of yours will think when they see the delectable Dr Labatt driving through campus in a busted-up soccer-mom-mobile?!”

Emil stared back, unblinking and blank, and said, “I’ll miss you, Fran. You’re alright.”  

“F**k you, asshole!” She thrust the finger in his face and stormed out.

The slamming door was the last thing Emil heard before the darkness descended...

A few miles from Bogmire, along a road that was little more than a narrow lane, they arrived at a long, narrow lane lined on one side by yew trees concealing a tall, ivy-covered, red-brick wall that contained the entrance to Pagham House (or Paggum Ahse, as Herbie called it, making it sound like a particularly nasty proctological affliction), the stately-home of Oliver Laphen. Herbie reached into the inside pocket of his tunic and produced a small remote-control which he used to open a pair of inconspicuous but heavily fortified, solid iron gates, “As you can imagine, the boss is fanatical about security,” he pointed to the CCTV cameras perched atop the pillars either side of the gate, “this place ‘as got more cameras than Fort Knox.”

Inside of course, it was different story entirely: acres of well-tended lawns as smooth as billiard-table-baizes; vast flower beds moistened by a huge sprinkler system; topiary styled to resemble the figures in the Ascent of Man leading to the entrance of an extensive privet-maze; an enormous, ornate white-marble fountain with alabaster cherubs pissing into the air. It was all very tastefully ostentatious.

Like most of the world, his knowledge of Oliver Laphen was based on sensational gossip-columns he’d read in tatty magazines in various waiting-rooms over the years and the odd interview on Parkinson. Because Laphen was such an intensely private man, there were no official biographies and he used the services of an extremely litigious LA law firm to stymie any scandalous tomes that might shed light on the mystery he’d carefully nurtured over the years – a tantalising question: where did this fiery, working class, comic genius come from? The more reclusive he became, the more public interest increased, the more speculative the press became about his private life, the more outrageous the rumours -– the more tickets he sold. His career was indestructible. Not that everything was rosy on the home front. Enigmas, especially rich, volatile enigmas, are pap magnets; a good picture will fetch upwards of $10,000 so he was tabloid fodder from the day he stepped into the limelight. Editors from LA to Tokyo dispatched an army of dedicated investigative journalists to Dublin where they pored over thousands of files in public records offices in an attempt to trace the Laphen family line, but they always drew a blank: Jolly Ollie’s pedigree remained a tantalising mystery. He was certainly an Irishman by birth but refused to say anything about his childhood other than he was ‘educated by sadistic nuns’; he never talked about any parents or siblings and nobody knew where in Ireland he was from -- his accent was hard to pinpoint and changed as often as his anecdotes, the most famous of which was the story of his emigration to America when he allegedly stowed-away on a liner bound for New York at the age of 13 in 1929. After evading processing at Ellis Island he hitched his way across the States east to west and landed in Hollywood, where, according to (his) legend, he slept on the beach and did whatever work he could find during the day. At night he’d ‘hone his art’ performing slapstick in vaudeville, readying himself for stardom; two years later, at the age of 16, he was discovered by the celebrated ‘King Of Comedy’ Max Sennett. The talkies were the new big thing, and at a time when most silent stars were finding it impossible to ‘sound funny’, Ollie’s cartoonish Irish accent was a godsend and Sennett gave him his own series of 15 minute shorts. As Laphen retold this story over the subsequent decades, the narrative was wont to evolve until the embellishments rendered it wholly unreliable.

In the mid-30s when he traded under the moniker Ollie Laffin, he was happy to mug and gurn for the downmarket rags and Pathé News presentations; then, when he got ‘serious’ in the late-40s/early-50s, he stopped playing the fool and became a semi-reclusive thesp. The post-war world was a different place: screwball comedy and slapstick was old hat and Ollie was too canny to go down with the ship. When he returned to movies in ‘46 he went under the name of Oliver Laphen, stopped doing interviews and avoided all ‘that red carpet bollox’, preferring to leave the PR to his co-stars and directors who’d either guardedly sing his praises or proffer equivocal comments that were actually thinly-veiled digs, such as: ‘[working with] Mr Laphen was an experience I’ll never forget... but I’m trying.’ (Lauren Bacall) ‘He brings a piece of himself to every role and playing the villain comes so naturally [to him]...’ (David Niven), but one vox-pop in particular had stuck in in Malky’s mind: "He kept us mere mortals waiting for 4 hours before gracing us with His Presence, we went $4 million over-budget, 4 producers suffered a collective nervous breakdown and 2 of the crew died from heatstroke, but when you hire [Oliver Laphen], you get the best and some studios are prepared to set aside a few million to ‘feed the beast’.” Regardless of what his fellow-travellers thought of him, and how big a pain in the arse he was, Ollie Laphen = Box Office Gold.

“There she is!” cried Herbie, like an enthusiastic tour guide. The Rolls had rounded a bend in the driveway and Malky got his first glimpse of Pagham House.

“Jeez –- house is too small a word, Herbie! This makes Windsor Castle look like a B&B!” said Malky, when confronted by the huge, sandstone edifice of palatial proportions, with rows of latticed gothic windows, draped with thick beards of ivy.

The chauffeur chuckled, “Impressive, eh? It used to belong to the 10th Duke of Roxborough til ‘e fell on ‘ard-times ‘n the boss made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. We rent it aht when we’re ahtta town. It’s very popular wiv the Arabs ‘n the Chinese. It’s got 30 rooms, swimming pool, gym, ballroom, sauna -- it even has its own church -- the works!” They pulled into a gravel forecourt and parked at the foot of a huge white marble staircase leading up to a tastefully-weathered, balustrade-lined terrace. But Malky’s attention was drawn to another vehicle parked to the right of the steps: namely, the same Harley-Davison touring bike he’d seen in the village, and sitting on the steps was the mysterious rider/cameraman filming them as they drew up!

Malky was furious all over again, “What’s he doing here?”

“More to the point, ‘ow the ‘ell did ‘e get in?!” said Herbie, slowly unclipping his seat belt and opening his door, “I’ll ‘andle this...” Herbie got out, straightened his cap and walked toward the diminutive figure, “Can I ‘elp you, mate...?” Malky heard him ask, and then he and Broo watched as the biker promptly stopped filming, jumped down and met the burly chauffeur head-on -- he took off his helmet, grinned, opened his arms and the two embraced like they were very pleased to see each other.

“Uncle Herb – you look great!” trilled a cherub-cheeked, heavily-freckled, copper-headed American kid in his mid-20s, brimming with childlike-enthusiasm, speaking quickly and excitedly, “Listen - we’re gonna be shooting in July! I’m here to scout for locations and do the final negotiations...!” The lad stopped short when he noticed Malky trudging across the gravel.

“Sorry, Mr Calvert sir, I got a bit distracted then,” said Herbie, putting a hand on the young man’s shoulder, “This ‘ere’s Kristof Katz, Mr Laphen’s grandson. Kris – this-‘ere is Mr Malcolm Calvert ‘oo’s come to... erm... sort out a little... plumbing problem...”

The young Master Katz took off a leather gauntlet, shook Malky’s hand, chattering incessantly, “Very pleased to meet you sir, I’m very sorry for the candid camera incident, but when I saw the car I thought my grandfather was inside and I wanted to catch him unawares but I caught you unawares and once you started to rant I couldn’t resist capturing that intense anger! I guess it’s the habit of lifetime -- Herb here will tell ya -- I’ve hadda movie-camera in my mitt since I was old enough to lift one – isn’t that right Uncle Herb? I’m a total geek!”

Malky gaped at him as if he’d arrived from another planet.

“Yer caffeinated up-to the-eyeballs again!” said Herbie, playfully clipping him round the ear and scolding him like a naughty schoolboy, “jet-lagged, ridin’ rahnd windin’ cahntry roads on a bleedin’ two-wheeled deff-trap?! Are y’ off your trolley, boy?! You coulda been killed -- there’s farm vehicles on these-‘ere roads, you coulda turned an ‘airpin bend an’ wahnd-up in the blades of a combine ‘arvester or summink!!”

Kris apologised for his over-enthusiasm and slowed down, “... anyhow, pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr Calvert,” he turned and pointed behind him, “welcome to Ollie Towers, The Laphen House -- Xanadu -- whatever you wanna call it.”

Now that he was up close, Malky saw the family resemblance; the lad was short, around 5’ 5”, the same steely-blue peepers and winsome dimples that had graced millions-upon-millions of magazine covers since 1930. Malky felt compelled to comment, “I must say, you are the spitting image of your granddad.”

Herbie was gushing again, “Not only that -- but he’s in’erited his talent too! Kris is a movie director!” he tweaked the lad’s cheek and pretended to punch his jaw.

Kris went all aw-shucks and kicked at the gravel with the toe of a leather boot, “Well, I’m about to direct my first full-length feature. I’m very excited. It’s been in development hell for 3 or 4 years and now it’s finally in pre-production.”  

“’E’s like a son to me!” Herbie put an arm around Kris’ shoulders, tweaked his cheek again and beamed, “when he was a nipper ‘is mum used to leave ‘im wif me on those days when she was... erm... uvverwise occupied...”

Kris, utterly unfazed, merrily took up the slack and filled in the blanks, “What Herb won’t tell you is my mom – Annelise Katz, née Laphen - had a lotta ‘substance abuse issues’ at the time, Mr Calvert. She used to unload me onto Herbie for weeks on end when she went on a jag [Now that the lad had mentioned it, Malky recalled reading something about one of Laphen’s daughters getting arrested for possession in the late 60s. In fact, from what he could remember, all 8 of the Quare Geg’s children had ‘issues’ of one kind or another]. Thankfully she’s been clean and sober for the past 6 years and now she’s counselling other women with similar issues...” he squeezed the hand dangling on his shoulder, “So I have this man to thank for givin’ me a relatively normal childhood! We used to play on the film sets in the studios when gramps was making a movie - that’s where I got my training!”

Herbie blushed, “Ach, it wasn't ideal, but where else was I gonna take ya? You know your granddad always ‘as to ‘ave me arahnd to fetch and carry for ‘im. And watchin’ a film get made is like watchin’ paint dry, if you awsk me - it’s a wonder it didn’t put you off movies for life!”

They were distracted by the sound of paws hitting gravel. The old dog had finally exited the Rolls but didn’t join them; he kept close to the car and watched from a distance. “Whassup wiv the pooch, ‘e’s gawn a bit shy, ‘in ‘e?” asked Herbie.

Malky called out to him: “What’s the matter with you, Hopalong? What has you all cagey, huh? Come over here and say hello!”

“Aww, look, he’s only got three legs,” crooned Kris, in a childishly sympathetic voice. Broo whimpered as he watched the glowing boy walk toward him, stooped and spoke softly as if addressing a bashful toddler, “You don’t have to be afraid of me, boy, I wouldn't hurt a fly! No I wouldn't...” he reached out

Broo recoiled and whimpered: Get off me, you idiot... you’re killing me!

But Kris carried on, unaware of the old dog’s distress, “Easy, boy, I won’t hurt you...”

AARGH!!

Kris cuddled him, stroked his back and made silly noises, “Eh? Who’s a handsome fella, then? You must quite the VIP, huh? A German Shepherd who’s so important he gets to ride around in the back of a limousine...?”

Mercifully, he was rudely interrupted by a loud voice from above, “Where the f**k have you been, Gorringe?!”

The boy stopped petting and turned away – Broo (unseen) wobbled for a second then keeled over.

There was an elderly man in a gaping, black silk kimono, electric-blue satin boxer-shorts, and bright green unlaced baseball boots standing at the top of steps; he pointed at Kris with an accusing finger, “and what-the-f**k’s that wee ginger gobshite doing on my property?!”

Malky looked up and regarded their prospective client. His collar length grey hair was thinning and unruly as if he’d just got out of bed, his heavily lined face clenched in distaste; but underneath the grizzled exterior and the bizarre attire, was none other the Quare Geg Himself: the fun-loving Ollie Laphen, former Crown Prince of Comedy! Looking at him now, though, it seemed there was little to laugh about, but you wouldn't know it to hear his grandson.

“Gramps! How-the-hell are you?! It’s me, Kris!” The boy put the helmet on the seat of the Harley and joyfully bounded-up the steps two-at-a-time, “so goo-ood to see you, dude...” he embraced the frail, bristly figure - who immediately pushed him away. “Gitcher filthy hands affa me, ye wee shite!! I’m not senile yet -- I know damn-well who you are!” Laphen put his fists on his hips and sneered in a high-pitched whine, “Whaddya want from me this time? Money, is it? Well, you can feck-off back to La-La Land - this bank is closed! Go and ask that crooked auld kike of a father o’ yours – oh yeah, I forgot – he’s back in the bankruptcy courts -- yet-again -- after yet-another one of his half-assed business-deals went tits-up in the water – still - why break the habit of a lifetime, huh? Once a loser, always a loser!” he stuck his little pug nose in the air, stuck out his chin and tied the belt of his silk kimono, like a superannuated prize-fighter squaring-up at a weigh-in. 

Doing his best to suppress a fit of giggles, Kris reassured him in a sober tone, “S’OK gramps, don’t have a cow, man. I don’t need any of your filthy lucre, after all -- we've got a backer! And for the record –- I’ve never asked you for anything in my life, you old goat -- and you know it!”

Laphen stepped closer, “Why are you here then?”

“To see you you...” said Kris, smirking.

Laphen went nose-to-nose with his grandson and growled, “So, you don’t need me?! Well! You've seen me! Now piss off!”

Kris put a hand on the old man’s shoulder and smiled, warmly, “C'mon, we’d better get you inside, it’s quite chilly out here and we wouldn't want you catching cold, now, would we?”

The old man swatted the hand away like a particularly stubborn piece of lint, “Stop treatin’ me like a feckin’ invalid! I’m perfectly capable of walkin’ unaided – I’m not in a feckin’ wheelchair yet!” in the same breath, he broke away, looked down at Herbie, pointed at Malky and barked, “Is this the guy?”

“Yessah!” Herbie replied, standing to attention, as if addressed by a superior officer, “this is Mr Malcolm Calvert, the, erm... consultant from Brodir.”

“Well – don’t just stand there like a spare cock at a hen-night! Bring him in!”

With that, Laphen stomped back to the house with Kris walking alongside him, chatting incessantly despite the cold shoulder.

As Herbie fetched his overnight bag from the trunk of the Rolls, Malky watched them walk off and commented, “Chirpy little git, isn't he?”  

Herbie slammed the lid shut and explained in a low voice, “Don’t let the ol’ Scrooge act give ya the wrong impression, Mr C. Kris is the apple of the old man’s eye - ‘e dotes on that boy. This is the way they speak to each uvvah. There’s no real malice intended so it’s best if you just let ‘em get on wiv it. Neevah wants to admit that it’s all a big contest to see who’ll crack first –- it usually ends in ‘uge laughs all-round. Only fing is the old man’s been ‘ittin’ the bottle again. I’m afraid ‘e’ll end-up sayin’ somefink really ‘urtful to the boy and ‘e might never come back. Kris is the only grandchild ‘oo ever comes to visit, see -- so for all of our sakes -- I ‘ope they chill-aht 'n have a civilised conversation.”

“Uh-huh,” Malky grunted, distractedly. The more he heard, the stronger the temptation to hand back the cheque and book a taxi back to Brodir, but he was so hungry now he had no choice but to reserve judgement until after dinner.

As they climbed the steps he suddenly realised they’d forgotten someone; he looked back and saw that his trusty companion was finding it hard to drag himself up, “Och, c’mon Broo, they’re not as steep as the stairs at the inn -- and you manage to climb those when you fancy a drink from the bog!” said Malky, turning away.

Broo could barely stand, let alone climb a flight of steps. When the young leatherman approached to indulge in a spot of light-petting and the strange, purplish halo enveloped him, Broo was instantly numbed -- he felt a sensation akin to sinking into a vat of virulent, viscous quicksand; a toxic vapour overwhelmed his senses -– and when the boy eventually let go, the dread feeling went with him. Alas, the men were too busy to notice him collapse in a heap, having been distracted by the sudden appearance of an angry old man who smelled of cigarettes, alcohol and bathsalts. Then something strange happened: when the younger man climbed the steps -- the aura around him grew more transparent –- by the time he embraced the old man - it had evaporated completely! One second it was there, the next – nothing. This was most perplexing. And if his senses were to be believed, aside from a few passing crows, there were none of the usual creatures one would find on an estate as big as this. Just like the village, there was no livestock or wildlife in the vicinity at all. Not only that, but as his head cleared, he realised that something else was missing: there’s no sign of anything Other in the ether either, and that bothered him most of all. The sky was darkening for dusk, the shadows were lengthening and the sun was low, so why are there no apparitions in the Golden Hour? Where was the shimmering residual energy of past events that can only be glimpsed through the rays of twilight? In a land such as this, historically ravaged by epidemics, tribal violence, famine and murderous invaders, there should be at least a few ghostly children playing in the fields... And yet, there’s nothing. If the Barry McKee case had taught him anything at all, it was to Beware Spiritual Vacuums. Bad things happen in Spiritual Vacuums.

... at that very moment (12:56 US Eastern Time), approximately 3600 miles away, at a checkpoint at the Canadian/United States’ border, on the Peace Bridge at Fort Erie, between Ontario and Buffalo, New York State...

“Sir? Sir... hello...

“Sir?!

“Wind down the window, sir!”

Somewhere... off in the distance Emil heard a man’s voice and a clicking sound. Metal on glass...

It wasn't like waking up, more like someone switching on a light. He was sitting in Fran’s Volvo, at what appeared to be the US/Canadian border!

“Sir, would you please wind down your window?” the muffled voice barked “SIR?!”

In his peripheral vision, Emil discerned a uniformed figure peering through the window. A US border patrol guard?! Holy shit?! What the f**k is going on?! 

But the inner-turmoil, dislocation and downright terror didn’t register on his face: on the outside, he was deadpan, ice-cool and composed. The inner-Emil watched his own hand reach out and push the button that wound down the window; he felt the crisp breeze buffet his face and arms as the glass descended.  If this is a dream, it’s very vivid. The guard stooped, leaned-in and sniffed the inside of the car. The outer-Emil remained unfazed, but when he caught a glimpse of himself in the wing-mirror, he soon realised why the guard was so suspicious.

He appeared to be wearing an unbelted towelling bathrobe, pyjama pants and his XXL Jimi Hendrix tee-shirt -- the ensemble he wore when he was slouching around the apartment... Shit -- you gotta be kidding me -- no briefs?! He desperately wanted to grab the hem of the gown and tuck the tails between his legs, but his arms refused to budge!

The certainties: it was daylight; he was at the border. I’m driving my wife’s 1979 Volvo estate dressed like an extra from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest! This has to be a dream! I’m gonna wake up at any minute...

Meanwhile, somewhat surprised that he couldn't smell any liquor, the guard returned to the business in hand, “May I see your passport, sir?!” he asked, acidly, in a thick New England accent. He was leaning on the roof now, the midday-sun gleaming off the chrome-plated badge on his cap; despite the dazzling flashes, Emil’s eyes refused to blink. The Inner-Emil wanted to grab his tie and shout: Stop me! I’m out of my mind! but his lips remained firmly zipped; his body remained still. For all-intents-and-purposes, he was a puppet with no mind of his own.

So who’s pulling the strings?

The guard was getting impatient; he pointed at the passenger seat, and snapped, “Your passport, sir!!

Emil’s outer voice said “Passport?”

The guard pointed, “It’s there. Right beside you, sir.”

His head turned to the right and he found himself looking down at the passenger seat; sure-enough, sitting atop an array of various official papers, was his passport. He saw his hand reach out, pick it up and hand it over. Maintaining eye-contact, the guard took the little booklet, ceremoniously shook it open and read it with a disdainful look. Emil had taken many acid trips and tried every psychedelic he could get his mitts on, but this was unlike anything he’d ever experienced in his voyages through the Doors of Perception. So what does that leave? Sleepwalking? He tried to make the fingers of his left hand pinch his thigh... but nothing.

“What brings you to the US, Mr Labatt?”

Emil heard himself say, “Doctor Labatt. I’m on my way to visit an elderly relative, if you must know. She’s very ill. Dying. It’s an emergency.”

What?!

“... Are you planning to drive all the way, Dr Labatt?” the guard asked, doubtfully.

The inner-Emil wanted to cry out: I don’t wanna drive anywhere! I don’t know why I’m here or what I’m doing! Please call my wife, Frances – she’ll come and get me!! In fact – arrest me! Take me into custody right now!!

Instead he heard his outer voice reply, dryly, “Yes, officer. Driving all the way.”

The guard handed back the passport, sighed heavily and asked pointedly, “Dr Labatt, have you been imbibing today? Narcotics, alcohol, have you taken any prescription drugs that might affect your ability to drive?”

This could work to his advantage: if I’m cheeky enough they might arrest me on suspicion of DUI! Alas, the invisible ventriloquist kept the voice calm and answered succinctly, “I most certainly have not been imbibing, officer. I’m a well-respected forensic scientist and a senior lecturer at the University of Toronto. I’m on my way to Baltimore to see an elderly relative with a terminal illness. It’s matter of some urgency. I need to get on.”

Baltimore?!

The guard handed back the passport and enquired, brusquely, “Carrying any foodstuffs, livestock including pets, liquor or sundries that may be considered contraband by the United States of America?”

“No, sir.”

“Then, would you mind popping the trunk, sir?”

Emil didn’t stir.

“Sir... pop the trunk?”

“This is my wife’s car and I don’t know where the trunk popper is.”

‘Trunk popper’?! Listen to me! Arrest me, you fool! I’m frickin’ nuts!!

Shaking his head, the guard reached in and groped under the wheel; “There she is,” and tugged the lever.

While the guard searched the trunk, the Inner-Emil tried to think logically: Could I have been inadvertently poisoned at the lab? Unlikely, he was very careful about sterilisation and wore a mask at all times... Have I ingested something in the course of my work... a fungus...? A spoor that causes one to act out in some way...? But he was ignoring the obvious: there was a taste in his mouth -- a taste that was as familiar as it was bitter and earthy that usually preceded the bouts of sickness. In fact, it had been happening ever since he’d got back from the dig in Kildare 2 years ago when they discovered the bog mummies (he’d abandoned the annual expeditions after his little fling with Niamh). Lately, he’d been prone to intermittent lapses in consciousness and bouts of short-term memory-loss. He’d find himself staring at his reflection in the bathroom mirror for hours on end. Fran thought he was smoking too much weed, but not even strongest strain of mary jane could induce blackouts like this, and nothing would leave a taste in his mouth this bad.

The trunk slammed shut. The guard returned, “Everything seems to be in order, Dr Labatt...” he leaned on the roof and spoke close, “Listen doc, if I was you I’d stop at the first motel I came to and I’d get myself a couple of hours sleep. Then I’d have a shower and a change of clothes and I’d drive the rest of the way feeling wide awake ‘n refreshed. I wouldn't want to fall asleep at the wheel and maybe kill myself or some innocent folk who were unlucky enough to be travellin’ the same road. Whaddya say to that, doc?”

An uneasy silence followed. The inner-Emil waited for his body to respond but nothing came: his eyes remained unblinking, his mouth stayed shut. He prayed that this was a turning point -- that he’d do something so outrageous they’d have to take him in -- but it never came. Finally, the guard sighed and patted the roof with the flat of his hand, “Welcome to the United States, doctor.”

Before the lights went out, Emil heard his voice reply with a curt, “Thank you. Have a nice day.” He felt his right hand release the handbrake; he felt his foot gently depress the accelerator. He watched as the Volvo taxied through the checkpoint; he paid the toll and ventured onto the open road... that was the last thing he remembered before the darkness descended again...

Malahide, Dublin: The Somerville family were going to Mass.

“Put on yer seat-belt, Cate, luv. You don’t have to sit in the baby-seat but you still have to strap yerself in,” said Somerville, getting into the driver’s seat.

In the back, Cate turned to her younger sister, “See, Cathy – he called it a ‘baby’ seat!’”

“Mommeeeeeeee!” Cathy wailed.

Pat got into the passenger seat and took control: “Ssshhhh, Cathy.... Cate don’t tease Cathy! You’ll start her off -- then baby Clare will start!” She playfully slapped her husband’s shoulder, “That’s your fault, daddy! It’s a CAR seat not a BABY seat, silly -– it even says so on the little label ‘Car Seat’ –- so-there, Miss smarty-pants-Caitlin -- you were wrong!”

“Daddy said it not me.”

“It was a slip of the tongue, Pat.”

“He didn’t mean to say it, Cathy. I’ll never hear the feckin end of this... will you be more careful what you say!”

“I’m not a baby I’m 4 and 4 months! I have to sit in it cuz I’m too wee for the seat belt!”

“That’s right! You tell ‘em Cathy! It’s a seat for small people, not babies! Cathy’s very sensitive and unassertive and I’m trying to build her confidence!”

“Daddy, what’s ‘police brutality’?” asked Cate, apropos of nothing.

“Where did you hear about ‘police brutality’?” said Somerville, looking at her in the rear-view mirror.

“One of the older girls shouted it when Sister Marie dragged her into the bogs to wash her face.”

“Toilets, Ladies, loo or lavatory, please, Cate, dear. What are bogs?” said Pat, sternly.

“Sorry mommy: ‘Bogs are Irish swamps...’” Cate sang, rolling her eyes.

Herbie led the way through the huge front door into a huge, cavernous sandstone vestibule lit by a quartet of gothic, arched windows, not unlike the narthex of a Christian church, but cluttered with precisely the sort of tone-lowering kitschy bric-a-brac that one would expect a working-class-boy-made-good to put on display -- as much a screw you to visiting nobs & snobs as it was a totem to his wealth and wilful nature, to wit: a suit of armour wearing an American Indian headdress, a deep-sea diving-suit with a stuffed monkey’s head in the helmet; a pair of large Persian vases filled with strange umbrellas. One item in particular gave Malky cause for pause: standing to the left of the adjoining Gothic archway, stood a life-sized waxwork of the Master of Mirth himself, fashioned and dressed to represent his ‘hey-day’ in the 30s; this waxen Laphen was the youthful, joyful Jolly Ollie Laffin, grinning that trademark  squidgy-grin, complete with pinchable dimples, the rash of freckles across the bridge of his little pug-nose, the glassy sky-blue eyes gleaming like sapphires – you couldn't help but smile. Malky couldn't help but remark, “Whatever happened to that sweet li’l guy, eh?”

The burly chauffeur didn’t take the bait and doggedly maintained his chummy, sunny disposition, providing information with the patter of a well-informed tour-guide, “That used to reside in the foy-yer at Madame Toussauds in Lahndahn! They replaced it wiv a more recent model in the 70s an’ the boss brought the originals back ‘ere when he bought the ahse. This one was done in ’38, just after his first full-length feature: Ollie and Molly Strike Oil!” Herbie moved to the right of the connecting archway and unconsciously adopted an almost identical pose to the grinning effigy on the left, “This way, Mr Calvert. I’ll take you to yer room and you can freshen up ‘n that ‘n we can tawk about the ‘situation’ over dinnah.”

As they walked through a slate-floored lobby lit by muted spotlights, it was more of the same: a veritable Ollie Laphen museum exhibit; an autobiography laid out chronologically -- from glass-cases containing newspaper columns, magazine covers and PR stills from the slapstick days of the 1930s -- to the chin-stroking thesp (a framed headline in The Irish News: ‘Laphen’s Lear is a masterclass!’). The dark, wood-panelled walls were lined with framed photographs of Ollie pressing flesh and embracing some of the greatest movie-makers, movers-and-shakers of the past 60 years: FDR, Bogart, Monroe, Gable, Jackie O, Bing, Hope, Groucho, Einstein, Fidel, Vidal, Hitchcock, Wayne, JFK, Johnson, Nixon, Kissinger, Elvis, the Dalai Lama, the Beatles, the Queen of England and various royals – as far as the 20th century is concerned, Ollie is the OED definition of ubiquitous. As they passed through the connecting archway, Malky got quite a jolt - enough to stop him dead in his tracks. Dead being the appropriate word, for in the shadows of the dimly lit reception hall stood a menagerie of dead things ready to attack -- lions, bears, tigers, panthers -- feral, snarling, glassy-eyed, posed in a stance of attack; ugly birds-of-prey hung on wires from the rafters, talons bared, poised to swoop; and to be certain that arachnophobes didn’t feel excluded, there were a few tarantulas strategically attached to various pillars and posts.

Malky gaped and gasped, “Wow! Did Ollie kill all these himself?!”

This time Herbie did seem a wee bit uncomfortable, “Nah, ‘e commissioned ‘em from a taxi-dermist’s in Sarf Africa where they can get you anything...” He sniffed and shook his head, “I ‘ate it too, to tell the troof – I never come frew ‘ere if I can avoid it. It’s the old man’s sense off ooma, see – he likes to lull visi’ors into a false sense of security then - aargh! They get the shock of their lives,” he reached behind a curtain and threw a switch -- the animals’ eyes shone bright red and and roared in their respective voices. “The boss ‘ates animals, see –- he got rid of all the livestock ‘cept for stables when ‘e bought the ahse. ‘E ‘ates ‘orses most of all. ‘E got thrown by a donkey when ‘e was doin’ a cameo in Around the World in Eighty Days in ’55 or ’56 –- ‘e walked orf the set and refused to ‘ave anyfink to do with animals evah again! Animals and kids. If he could get ridda the crows he’d be ‘appy.”

Broo found the menagerie obscene and growled accordingly.

Their attention was briefly diverted by shouting in a room somewhere further in: “... Will you quit naggin’ me – ye’re worse than a feckin wife!”

“NO! I won’t stop til you see sense! If I don’t say it – who will!?! You’re cracking up!! You’re a delusional... egomaniacal narcissist! You’re like Stalin without the people-skills...!”

Herbie quickly ushered his guests into the lobby and closed a connecting door turning the voices into incoherent murmurs, but Malky had heard enough. Herbie’s stoic exterior slipped, he got jittery and muttered something about an ‘Inquisition’ under his breath. Malky was about to ask what he meant when he quickened his step and led the way through another archway that led to a lobby at the foot of a huge white marble staircase cleft with a dark scarlet runner. On the bottom step stood the other waxwork of Ollie dressed as a tramp holding the Oscar statuette for his role as a shady boxing promoter in the movie Knuckledusters. In an alcove in the rear wall to the left of the staircase stood an imposing, but badly-damaged grandfather clock; the glass insets covering the face and pendulum case were smashed, the hour-hand hung limp on the wheel and part of the ornate, intricately hand-carved casing was cracked down one side.

Herbie stood next to his guest, looked up at it and said, “Big f**ker, innit?”

Malky was inclined to agree that it was highly unlikely that such a huge piece of solid timber could be toppled so easily by a man as old and small as Ollie.

The bickering voices were making Herbie very uncomfortable, there was a pained expression on his big, weather-beaten face. As they climbed the staircase, he said, “Look, Mr Calvert... I don’t know ’ow to say this... what I mean to say is.... you might ‘ear certain fings whilst you is ‘ere... and I don’t like ‘avin’ to ask... but we’d be grateful if you would sign, for the want of a better phrase, a gag order.”

Malky shook his head, “Like I said, Herbie, I hate the press as much as ‘oul Ollie, but I don’t feel comfortable signing that sort of thing. Cuz if there is anythin’ iffy goin’ on – I’m not sayin’ there is – but should we detect signs of chicanery or skulduggery in the course of our ‘investigation’ -- like, say, we uncover a plot to get the ol’ bugger certified and bleed him dry or rewrite his will -- a gagging order could severely hinder an official investigation, and, when all’s said and done, I’m on the side of law and order.” He held up his right hand, “But if it makes you feel any better – as far as petty gossip and scandal-mongering is concerned -- my lips are sealed,” he turned, looked down at Broo and added, glumly, “... can’t speak for the dog, though...”

Broo grunted, still too stupefied to take anything in.  

In light of such an earnest assurance, Herbie relaxed a little and explained, “Um well, the ‘Inquisition’ I mentioned refers to some recent sackin’s in the last week or two. ‘E’s fired a coupla security guards, the assistant gardener and the young gal who ‘elps out wiv the ‘ahsework on Tuesdays ‘n Fursdays!”

“Why did he sack them?”

“Cos somebody leaked some gossip to an American tabloid ‘n it could only ‘ave come from the staff, so ‘e hadda clear-aht.” Herbie took a deep breath and spoke in a half-whisper, “So you can see how bad it is ‘ere. It’s got to the point where the only people ‘e trusts is me and the ‘ahsekeeper, Mrs Sparkes - and ‘e only trusts ‘er cuz she’s from the village and they believes all this ’aunted ‘ouse bollox.”

Again they were distracted; this time it was the jingle of unbuckled buckles and the stomp of motorcycle-boot-heels on the chequered tiles below, “Uncle Herb! Is it true? He’s sacked Scanlon?!” Kris shouted from the hall, clearly incensed. The three turned and looked down; Herbie maintained eye contact but didn’t answer; his uneasy silence said it all. “He has?! Shit! Where did he go?”

Herbie lowered his head, looked at his shoes and said, “Nobody knows. He packed up ‘n walked aht wivvaht a word ‘n we’ve ‘eard nuffink since.”

The lad stamped his foot and punched his thighs with his fists in a sudden fit of anger and disbelief, pacing back and forth at the bottom of the stairs, as the implications hit him one by one, “This is such bullshit, Uncle Herb -- I was working with Scanlon -- he was helping me with the movie -- what did he do?!”

Herbie’s head dropped, “Look Kris, yer grandpaw’s been ‘avin’ a bit of bovver lately and...”

“And where’s the cat? Don’t tell me he’s fired him too?!”

“He ran away.”

“Huh?! Fey Ray ran away? I not friggin’ surprised! The entire estate is a no go area for anything with more than two legs!” yelled Kris, without realising how odd it sounded, and stomped off in a huff; a few seconds later they heard him shouting at the old man in another room.

“Do ever stop and think: ‘hey, maybe I’m the problem?’ – cuz unless you straighten-out you’re gonna die a very lonely old man...” “Ach, blow it out yer arse, ye ginger shite-hawk...!”

A door slammed and the squabbling voices became muffled and unintelligible again. Herbie put a hand to his brow and groaned to himself, “Kris, son, you couldn't-a picked a worse time to pay us a surprise visit...”

“Who was Scanlon? The butler?” asked Malky.

“No, groundskeeper, but he might as well’ve been,” Herbie replied, unhappily, “’E did all the odd-jobs arahnd the ahse. Lifetime’s service – gone - jus-like-that - phfft! Kris an’ ‘im wuz thick as thieves too. ‘E knew all the stories about this place. Kris used to sit up for hours on end listenin’ to ‘im but Scanlon and the boss never really got along – Scanlon came wiv the ahse, see, just like all the servants – but ‘e wuz a bit of a law onto ‘isself. When we checked, we found ‘irregularities’ in our finances. The boss confronted him, he couldn’t answer, ‘n that was that.”

They reached the second landing and the old retainer ushered them along a long corridor with row-upon-row of sky-blue doors with ornate brass name plates, the panelling in-between bedecked with gold and silver discs, “Were all these recorded by Ollie?” asked Malky, genuinely impressed.

Herbie, pleased to have a diversion, nodded and cheerfully slipped back into tour-guide mode, “Oh, people forget ‘e was a great crooner. In the 50s he recorded loadsa LPs and they wuz big ‘its all ovah the world - not-so-much in the US or Britain - but ‘ere in Ireland ‘n France ‘n’ Germany.  Can’t walk dahn the street in Japan. We go over to Tokyo every now-‘n’-then and ‘e records all these TV commercials for ‘em. Liquor, potato chips, candy bars, mostly. ‘Big bucks for a load of ol’ bollox!’ ‘e says.”

“I know how that feels,” muttered Malky, thumbing the cheque in his pocket.

Herbie opened a door with an engraved plate bearing the legend The Wonderland Suite and put the case on an ottoman by the door. The room was weirdly magnificent, in an oversized, child’s playbox type-way. The floor was a chessboard, there were huge cushions in the shape of chess pieces scattered around the floor; the walls were decorated with blow ups of Tenniel’s drawings of Alice in Wonderland characters; an emperor-sized four-poster swathed in white satin sheets patterned with black diamonds; and a large, white tallboy with outsized, bright red knobs and drawers that were shaped to look warped and uneven, like a prop from a kids’ cartoon. “’Ere’s the TV,” he said, opening the doors of a huge white sideboard to reveal a 38” screen, “If you wanna take a walk round before dinnah -– go ‘ead, nowhere’s off limits -– oh, part of the east-wing’s locked-up, but I can get the keys from the safe and take you down later. There’s some PJs ‘n wot-not in the dresser drawer and fresh towels in the en suite. There’s the phone,” he pointed at an ornate, art deco phone, “just dial 9 for an outside line.”

Astonished by his surroundings, Malky could only gaze and nod his head.

Herbie clicked his heels and stood to attention, “There’s plenty of ‘ot-wa’ah if you wanna ‘ave a showah and a shave or wot-evah. Dinnah will be served at 8pm sharp (it was presently 5:50pm), I’ll bang the gong. In the meantime, make yerself at ‘ome 'n I’ll see you at 8,” said Herbie, brightly, closing the door behind him.

Malky sat down on the edge of the bed and examined a brass plated console next to the headboard; he pressed the first button: the curtains closed; he pressed the second: the curtains opened; he pressed a third and the lights either side of the bed came on; he pressed the fourth and the drape across the canopy over the bed rolled back to reveal a full-size, horizontal mirror. “Bit sordid for a room that looks like a nursery,” Malky opined, flopping down and looking up at his reflection, “God, I’m getting old. Remind me to close that curtain before I go to bed – if I wake up and see meself in the morning I’m likely to scare meself to death.” He kicked off his shoes and writhed in the welcoming sea of satiny-softness, like a Labrador pup in an unfurled toilet roll, “Oh, I just wanna sleeeeep... wake me up in September when the baby’s born...”

Broo growled quietly, that’s right, you have a nice relaxing catnap while your tiny, put-upon wife labours over a hot engine just so that she can get that wretched old banger of a van back on the road in order to buy provisions and decorating materials to build a nest for you and your unborn progeny.

Malky sat up, “Hmm. maybe I should ring her. This is our first night apart since we moved in together. I’d better give her a progress report.” He rolled over, picked up the art-deco phone and called the inn.

“Well, what’s Ollie’s house like?! Is it dead grand or what? I wanna know everything!”

He gave her a detailed description of the house so far, right up to and including the mirror in the canopy over the bed, “... the stories are true, though -- Jolly Ollie is one grouchy oul’ shite. I don’t think I’ve ever met such an obnoxious old git in all me life.” he said, shaking his head. “Zindy, what the hell am I doing here? This isn't me.”

Zindy had obviously been thinking about it too, “Listen luvver, this ain’t a justification or an excuse, but both of us know that there’s certain things we can’t explain away with logic. I mean, look what ‘appened with Barry McKee? Just put yer Sherlock hat on and look at it from a detective’s perspective; treat it as a sorta murder-mystery weekend. What about Broo? He should be able to let you know if there’s anything spooky about the place?”

“I dunno, he seems a bit drowsy, like he’s half-asleep,” said Malky, giving the old dog a cursory glance.

Of course I’m sluggish, you oaf -- this place is sucking the life out of me! Can’t you tell?!

But the semi-telepathic link remained infuriatingly out of order, “It was a long drive. He’s probably knackered.” Then, much to Broo’s chagrin, they forgot about him and exchanged love yous, miss yous and take cares before hanging up.

“Have you noticed somethin’?” said Malky, rhetorically, going to the en-suite and turning on the light; he looked around, “Hmmm,” he opened the bathroom cabinet: the mirror was on the inside of the door. “Whilst me ‘n Zindy were talking, it suddenly occurred to me -– there isn't a mirror to be seen around the house -- even the one above this bed is covered by a curtain.” Malky nodded, “It’s ironic, isn't it: the big Alice in Wonderland freak who doesn’t have Looking Glass –- an egotist who treats you to a personalised autobiographical stroll through his glory days but doesn’t like to look at his own reflection? I find that somewhat strange...”

5 minutes ago: Zindy put the receiver back in its cradle, sat back and winced, “Settle down, kiddo,” she said, patting the elongated face of Jimi Hendrix stretched across her bump, “I still have a gearbox to sort out before we ‘ave a nice bath ‘n go to bed.” She sat at the kitchen table, radio tuned to a classic rock station (Malky listened to nothing but BBC Radio 4) and sang along to Deep Purple’s Child in Time, wailing like a banshee as she screwed and unscrewed oily nuts and rusty bolts: très cathartic. She felt a little guilty, but surely she was entitled to a night on her own. She looked down at the bump: I mean the two of us. I’ll never be alone again

Zara ‘Zindy’ Lindsay, you see, was an accident; everybody told her so.

Ever since she could understand rudimentary English, her aunts and her mother would mention it regularly - usually after something burned down or yet another little boy’s mother had arrived at the door complaining that she was demanding dinner-money with menaces. When she was old enough to understand the mechanics of human reproduction (hard not to when you live on a farm), they’d tell her she was the result of a drunken one-night-stand with a Spanish scout master (visiting Burnley on an exchange-visit) that no one had seen or heard from since. Fortunately for Dory, the Lindsays were/are a well-to-do family with links to the cotton trade that go as far back as the 17th century, so they had the wealth and power to cover it up. After a secret birth, mother Dory and baby Zara were spirited away to a remote farmhouse in the heart of the Lancashire countryside under the care of a pair of huge, lumbering maiden-aunts. Unlike the petite and genteel Dory, Maggie and Lottie were tall, mannish land-girls with no time for molly-coddles and sentimentality -- what’s more they didn’t care what their niece got up to so long as she didn’t burn the place down or leave a gate open (she could drive a tractor by the age of 6). When she was 7, Dory married and moved out, but Zindy didn’t like her new stepdad and he didn’t like her (a snooty, middle-aged bank manager who read the FT and went to Mass twice a week). She preferred Dory’s long-term boyfriend Tam Horsham who drove the Mother’s Pride bread van; but he was too common, apparently, “He eats his dinner off a tray and smokes in the bath!” said Dory, tartly, when asked if Zindy should start calling him dad. So, after numerous tantrums, she was allowed to stay at the farm and enjoy the relative freedom of life with the ‘Looney Lindsay Sisters’ (as the locals called them). Then puberty hit, so did a lifelong passion: motorbikes. She found a broken down old ‘39 Triumph Tiger in the barn and with some help from Lottie (“It belonged to an old boyfriend who left it here in ’42 when he went to war... but he never came back for it so I assumed the worst.”) she cleaned it up and replaced the missing parts. It took 8 months of scouring scrapyards and hard labour, but she managed to restore it to its former glory. She was in the Gazette! ‘Tearaway Tomboy Triumphs!!’ Consequently, she met dozens of motorcycle enthusiasts and a lot of them just happened to be Hell’s Angels. That’s when she first got that weakness in her knees. Big, fat, hairy men. Her pals were aghast. It could've been a father-daddy complex or just a weird perversion, but she could get enough of grizzled, over-weight geezers most girls would cross the road to avoid.

In spite of her aggressive side, she was quite the artist and spent hours quietly painting and sketching the scenery behind her great-aunts’ farm. According to her second year teacher in her annual report (Zindy refused to go to boarding school and went to the local comprehensive): ‘She has shown a flair for art and is very intelligent – when she wants to work, which isn't often ... for the most part she is headstrong, opinionated, brusque and quick to temper; a girl who sees life as a big adventure ... it may be a symptom of her diminutive stature that she feels she has to be brash and contrary, but if she continues in this fashion she may face expulsion....’

Zindy just couldn't be tamed. She was up before the magistrate on a regular basis, mostly for driving without a licence or brawling with boys twice her size. On her 18th she stood on a table in the Flat Iron pub in front of her closest friends and allies and vowed never to settle down to a life of domesticity, to forsake motherhood and be a free spirit for the rest of her life. Three weeks later, she moved in with a recently divorced woodwork teacher 17 years her senior. He proposed (‘wanna shack-up?’) and she couldn't say no. So began her lifelong ‘thing’ for older men – the daddy syndrome, probably.

The cohabitation with the woodwork teacher was as passionate as it was incendiary – he turned out to be a secret drinker – there were vodka bottles hidden all over the flat; she tried to keep up for a while, but all they did was fight. Things came to a head with the couple spending a night in the cells of Bottle Street nick. The desk sergeant told her he was a lost cause – “He’s dried-out 3 times -– and he’s still the same mess he was when I first started in here 15 years ago! My advice lady – run as fast as them wee legs can take ya – find a fit young man with a good job!” She took this advice to heart, and a in a few months she met a recently widowed sculptor at a Henry Moore exhibition –- this time 40 years her senior; tall, with long grey hair who dressed like Tom Wolfe -– and got swept up in a whirlwind romance. ‘Whirlwind’ in the sense that the trail of destruction they left behind: various foodstuffs were hurled, crockery was smashed, household utensils took flight and embedded themselves in walls. Zindy loved it. She loved him. Alas, his kids, two of which were older than her, did not approve and weren’t shy about letting her know. It was grist for Zindy’s mill; it only strengthened her resolve. She thrived in adversity; she lived to Fight the Good Fight and persevered with the relationship without a thought for the toll it was taking on the poor man’s heart. Of course, like most Spring/Winter love affairs it ended with a lonely vigil in a draughty hospital corridor listening to the impassive beep of medical machinery whilst his own flesh & blood hold his hand as he drifts over. Previously estranged siblings now united in their grief against a common enemy: “The stupid bitch is still sitting out in t’corridor.” “She’s only after ‘is money.” “She looks about 9, makes you wonder...?” She heard every word, approached and told them in no uncertain terms she didn’t want or need his money – all she wanted was to organise the funeral in accordance with his last wishes. They told her his last wishes were enshrined in his last will & testament, not word of mouth, and while they were on the subject, he hadn't left her anything. They told her he was never done talking trash about her behind her back, telling them how he didn’t trust her; that she was a little gold-digger. Meanwhile he was telling Zindy how ungrateful and spiteful his children were and how they’d never done a day’s work in their lives! She had to stand there and listen as they sneered and talked about the stranger with whom she’d spent the last 2 years. It turned out he was a compulsive liar. His wives were all basket-cases by the time he’d finished messing with their minds. All told, the heart condition came as a result of the stress of numerous love affairs and having to remember what lie he told to whom.

Zindy swore to herself that she’d never have anything to do with men ever again! She cut her hair short, dyed it blue and foreswore make-up, skirts and blouses, bought a motorbike and toured Europe with a chapter of Hell’s Angels who treated her like one of the boys. The vow was broken 5 years later when she accompanied her new pals to the Isle of Man for the TT and met a biker from Wicklow. Robert ‘Raspo’ Canning was a built like a brick-shithouse with a long plaited (usually purple, sometimes blue) beard and intense stare (hence the moniker; Raspo: short for Rasputin). He was a nightmare in a studded leather jacket but Zindy was besotted with him. Despite his hulking size, expanding waistline and intimidating manner, he was smarter than the average bear. He read science fiction and knew a lot about astronomy. They used to ride up to Donegal, sit on the cliffs and he would teach her the consolations. She was hooked.

While she was there, one of her great-aunts died and Raspo took her back to Salford for the funeral. She inherited £30,000. Then Barry McKee, one of the gang of bikers from Brodir, happened to mention that his father was selling a seaside pub and she was very interested. She could run a business - she used to do the sculptor’s book-keeping and worked behind a bar in Germany for a few weeks; plus, Brodir might’ve been a rundown town, but it was a Mecca for bikers from all over Europe -- trade would be brisk –- she couldn't see what could possibly go wrong!

But you don’t know anybody until you live with them for a while.

At first, Raspo enjoyed playing host and worked behind the bar, but he had other business interests and that was OK – she preferred running things on her own – it was her name on the licence, her responsibility. She never asked about his business, she didn’t want to know, but she assumed he was a small time dealer: grass and tabs. Then one day he said, “Oh Zin, I’m off to Dublin to do bouncer for a boxin’ match at the National Stadium!” he kissed her goodbye, got on his trusty Triumph and off he went to bounce in Dublin. She found out later that he was off to collect a sizeable debt owed to him for a delivery of coke. When the debtor wasn't forthcoming, Raspo lost his temper and took it out of his hide with a crowbar. This information came courtesy of DS Phil Somerville, who also informed her that her beloved Raspo wasn't just peddling grass, he was dealing in all the a-listed narcotics, not to mention a little sideline in video piracy. She had to sit and listen while Somerville listed her lover’s shady dealings with various Dublin-based organised crime syndicates and proscribed terrorist militias when he tried to coerce her into turning tout and aid in the apprehension Raspo’s subordinates/associates/friends etc. She flatly refused. Raspo was sent down for 7 years, but 8 months later, to shave a few years off his sentence, he did what she refused to do: he shopped most of his former associates including some regulars, and - boom – the bulk of her clientele has declared her persona non grata and boycotted the inn. Somerville told her it was her own fault; she knew what Raspo was and chose to ignore it. He was right. A psychologist would say that it was indicative of a subconscious desire not to commit to a long-term relationship... Whatever, she was alone again, naturally.

Then along came Malky and his spooky three-legged German shepherd and their notorious pursuit of the evil Barry McKee. It was a thrill-a-minute-life-or-death roller coaster ride but it nearly killed them. She took a bullet to the shoulder; Malky had a heart attack and almost bled to death (the irony: Somerville saved Malky’s life after destroying hers). And here she was, back in another hospital corridor listening to bleeping machines. Just when she thought history was repeating itself, his old broken heart kept beating, “and it’s been beating for you ever since,” he said, in an uncharacteristic show of mawkish affection. 

Good ol’ Malky. He made her laugh. He was a good man and he made her feel good. They had conversations that lasted all night. OK, so he has a psychic three-legged dog who complains about the noise when I play me records, but that only makes it more fun. To put it simply, life was good. She was painting again; he’d made her a studio in the attic. (He never told what he was doing up there and she didn’t ask; he just hammered and sawed and cursed whilst she went about her business. In the end he’d put a ribbon across the door for the grand unveiling. He’d widened the skylight to let in more light and built a little podium for her still-life subjects. She accepted the keys like a gushing thesp before bursting into real tears. And although , he was hard work at times - he was sometimes taciturn and prone to moodiness – he was a good, kind man.

Then, wonder-of-wonders, she gets pregnant and her instinct, much to her surprise, is to keep it. Malky acted as if he wasn't overly keen, but she knew that deep-down he was delighted; he just felt unworthy and old.

And here we are. 2 years later and things couldn't be better. We’re broke but we ain't bust. We’re just about keepin’ our heads above water...

She went to the bar and looked out of the big window at the dirty, litter laden, windswept promenade. The council were meeting on Thursday; word on the wind had it that property developers were looking at the town with a view to redevelopment, so things were looking up. That’s good, ain't it? Lots of meetings with property developers and councilmen: all very ‘establishment’.

So 22 years later, what would she say to the silly girl standing on the table telling the world she’ll be a wild-child forever? Is she where she wants to be, where she has to be, or where she needs to be...?

Sammy couldn't read her mind but felt her doubts as if they were his own. It must be something to do with Malky. He hoped that it wasn't anything serious. Malky had grown on him. The old dog was a godsend, somebody to talk to who can see you, hear you... not that he ever feckin’ listens! But what if the auld dog died? Sammy shuddered at the thought: There would be no watching TV until 4 in the morning for a start. It was tough being a ghost. And although he knew Zindy couldn't see him, he still felt a little self-conscious about his appearance; as the old dog says: “the bloody-bullet-hole-ridden-apron makes you look like a psychopath (ghosts are stuck with what they wore when they died -- the last image The Light captures before their Soul passes), so he was discreet. He sat on the bin in the dark corner by the stove and watched from what he considered to be a reasonable distance. He’d been a bachelor all his life, he’d never met a woman he could live with, but Zindy was closest thing he’d ever had to a daughter – this, despite the fact that she was a headstrong, blue-haired English girl who dressed like a boy and swore like a docker. When she bought the inn, he thought she’d only last a few weeks, and yet, thank God, here we are. 

There were very few advantages in existing between Worlds, besides the walking through walls and not having to eat or sleep or all that malarkey, his senses were heightened and attuned to the Oneness of All Living Things (well, that’s how the dog put it) –- which meant he was able to see the little glow in Zindy’s belly. It was nothing more than an amber glimmer throbbing with the minute pulsebeat of a budding Soul, but it radiated an energy that brought a ripple of warmth to his Essence. Sometimes, when she was sleeping he’d stand close – not too close – and look into her womb. Oh, but it was a joyous sight to behold, “Look at the miracle begin again,” he whispered, to no one in particular.

Zindy climbed up onto the draining board to close the window above the sink -– Sammy was jumping up and down, pulling at his silver beard, “Are ye mad woman?! Get down o’ that w’ ye!” Thankfully she performed the exercise without incident, but he still hadn't settled; as she went about preparing her evening meal, he paced the floor behind her, fussing, wagging his finger, “Look at that floor! There’s engine oil down there! Ye’ll slip ‘n’ go on yer hoop! You’d better buck-up yer ideas, lady – that’s a chile in there – not a bag o’ chips!”

“Oh, I’d love a bag o’ chips,” she said, apropos of nothing.

Sammy stood by the cooker as she toiled over the sizzling pan and talked to her unborn baby, “Your silly daddy doesn’t know what to do with himself. He hates all this spooky stuff... He hates anything that brings the world to his door -- God knows what he’ll be like when the inn’s open for business...” Whether she was consoling a restless foetus or trying to convince herself, she didn’t know. She stopped stirring and stared as she contemplated her certain future.

The old ghost saw the doubt in her eyes and fought Malky’s case from his corner, “He’s a decent sort who won’t let you down –- you have to grow up sometime, missy! Stop moonin’ about and think like a mammy!”

No, let’s make no bones about, she was getting bored. It isn't good when life gets too predictable, when routine becomes rut. She needn't worry; things were about to get very strange indeed...

St Cedric’s Institution for the Criminally Insane (SCICI): Rossington watched the sundown from his office window, a very large brandy in one hand, a cigarette in the other. It had been a bad day. The news from the board had been direct with no room for interpretation. His time had run out. The victims’ families’ petitions and writing campaigns had fulfilled their purpose, the pressure to do something had forced their hand. He had to give up Barry McKee to the authorities so an independent assessment of his condition could be made. He’d explored every legal avenue to keep him at SCICI, but there was nothing more he could do. The mob has spoken.

He was angry and frustrated, but mostly angry. He finished his brandy, carelessly stubbed out the cigarette, left his office and made for the sick bay in the high security wing. He walked quickly and purposely, collected the swipe cards from the nurses’ station and marched on, swiping through the sophisticated system of doors, along the corridors and across the walkway that led to the security ward and the room of SCICI’s most infamous inmate. Then, just as he swiped the lock, he had a moment of inspiration. He turned and walked to the staff toilet at the end of the corridor, to the mirror above the wash-hand basin; using his penknife to unscrew the frame, he carefully prised the hexagonal glass from the wall, put it under his arm and took it to McKee’s room.

“Hello, Barry,” he said, quietly closing the door behind him and turning on the lights. The sudden blaze of brightness didn’t faze McKee. Hooked up to the machines that kept him alive, long haired and bearded, he continued to stare unblinkingly at the ceiling, like a stricken biblical prophet transfixed by a vision of hell.

“I must apologise, it’s been quite a while since I visited. I’ve been busy with other patients and projects, not to mention running this establishment, you know how it is. I’ve kept abreast of your progress, though... what there is of it.” Rossington slowly crossed the floor, talking in a casual manner as he approached the bed, “Anyway, I’ll get straight to the point: I’ve received some bad news regarding your case and I thought you should to be the first to hear it.” He sat in the chair by the bed and put the mirror on his lap, “They've decided to take you off my hands, Barry. They say I’ve had enough time to prove you’re worth keeping alive. They say it would be mercy: ‘it’s cruelty not to let nature take its course’. No doubt they’re under pressure from the families of the victims, not to mention that bastard Somerville. Whatever, you’re doomed, and there’s nothing I can do to save you.”

As always, McKee remained silent and seemingly insensible.

“You've shown no significant progress since that business with Niamh and Oona 2 years ago.” He tore off the latest print-out from the EEG and indicated the flat lines across the graph, “See, nothing like the flurry of activity we recorded during those instances in 1989. Why’s that, eh?” He scrunched the page into a ball and threw it into the corner. “It all stopped when I took away the mirrors and had you moved you to this room, didn’t it? Niamh and Oona lost their connection and have exhibited no psychic abilities since. It’s no coincidence, is it, Barry?”

He stood up and held the mirror over McKee’s face, “I know you use mirrors to reach out other telepaths and psychics,” he said, looking deep into McKee’s unseeing eyes, “so I’m having them re-installed, and you can do whatever is you do. Good or evil, I don’t care anymore. I just need results, Barry. I need something to show for my work. If not, I’ll hand you over to the authorities and they’ll perform what will be, for all intents and purposes, a public execution...”

To Be Continued Next Month...

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[plaidstiel-wormstache]

Merry Christmas, Baby

Second last for my Christmas Challenge.  I bet @casownsmyass had thought I’d forgotten, but I was terrified of getting Hopper wrong.  I feel like I’ve missed the mark with both Eleven and Jim Hopper, but I really hope you can look through that and bend it to suit you.  I got no beta for this so all the crappiness is my own! Song: Christmas (Baby, Please Come Home) by Michael Buble Characters: Jim Hopper x Reader, Eleven (Stranger Things) Word Count: 1293 Warnings: a fight and some fluff

“We just can’t tell Jim, okay?” I asked Eleven, helping her with her heavy jacket. “But friends don’t-” “Lie, I know. I’m not-- I’m not asking you to lie, Sweetie, I’m just asking you to not tell him I took you out. Can you do that?” Eleven zipped up her jacket, thinking hard. I put my own jacket on, glancing at the radio. “I won’t lie. But if he doesn’t ask, then there’s no lie.” She said with a nod, hand on the door handle. I smiled at her, she was learning. 

Even though her hoodie was pulled over her forehead and almost over her eyes, I could still see the awe on her face, the wide eyes and the bright smile. Snow was coming down, keeping a lot of people inside on Christmas Eve, perfect for a sneaky tour of the Christmas Lights.

The colorful decorations, the christmas carols playing softly behind many doors, the jingle of bells somewhere in the distance, it all added to the magic of my favorite time of year. Eleven’s head whipped this way and that as different lights flickered different colors, changing their patterns, disrupting the rhythm she’d figured out.

“Are they talking?” She asked when we got to a house at the end of the street, the lights all flickering on and off at different times. “Who?” I asked. “The people in the upside down?” She looked up at me, her face curious yet sad. I pulled her into my side, smiling when she wrapped an arm around my back. “What?”  “Will’s Mom...” “No.” Realization dawning, “No, they don’t know about the upside down. These… the lights are for Christmas, to make people happy.” I explained, turning us both around to start heading home.

Eleven jumped when the church bells rang in song, marking the end of Christmas Eve Mass. She held my hand as we walked along, she listened as I told her about what my family used to do for the holidays, and shared ideas for what we should do for Jim.

We had dug up an old Christmas record and had that playing in the background, Deck the Halls, while we decorated a branch we’d brought in, covering it in string and some of my jewelry. I’d missed the shopping so had prepared a feast of roast potatoes, tomatoes, the leftover turkey and eggos, much to Eleven’s delight.

“He’s here!” Eleven said, waving her hand in the direction of the door, opening it. “Merry Christmas!” I sang as Jim stepped through. Eleven smiled wide, her nose slightly crinkling as he looked at us, the table and then the tree. “Christmas? That here already.” He asked, stomping the snow from his boots and hanging up his padded police jacket. “It’s tomorrow.” Eleven informed, making Jim smile in response. “You two did all this?” He asked, kissing my temple and ruffling the short hair on Eleven’s head. “I did the tree,” She answered, snatching an eggo from the plate and stuffing a large bite into her mouth before Jim or myself could say anything.

“So, I have a present for you both.” I answered while Eleven pulled a pillow into her lap and Jim cleared the table. “I don’t-- I thought we weren’t doing it this year.” He muttered, glancing at Eleven.  “What is it?” She asked, looking up from flicking through channels. “A surprise!” I laughed, going to the bathroom, I opened the cupboard and pulled out the two small presents I’d hidden.

“You didn’t have to.” Jim said as I handed him one, Eleven took hers tentatively. She watched as Jim opened his, her fingers copying; scrunching the paper and tearing at it. “What is it?” Eleven asked, delicately pulling the knitted scarf from the paper and looking at it quizzically. “A scarf,” I took it from her and let it unfurl, wrapping it loosely around her neck. “I can wear it when we go out, again.” She said happily, oblivious to what she’d just said. 

“Again?” Jim mouthed angrily, putting the crocheted gloves down on the table and pulling me to the side of the kitchen Eleven couldn’t see.  “What does she mean, ‘again’?” Jim hushed harshly. “I took her out fo--” “You took her out?” Jim’s voice had raised and I leaned out to see if Eleven had heard. She was sitting on the couch, cross legged, holding the ends of the scarf.  “I took her out to see the lights. She can’t just stay--” “She’s staying here for her safety. If they knew--” “No one saw us, Hopper.” His nostrils were flaring, biting at his lip and catching his stubble, the scruff rustling under his teeth. “She’s been pestering me for days, she plays static so she can get into that… so she can see Mike. She cries herself to sleep every other night. This was the easiest way to get her out and keep her safe.” I explained, reaching out for him.  “You don’t know that, they’re watching all the time.” Jim exploded, ripping his arm out of my reach, storming past me and into our bedroom.

“Were you fighting about me?” Eleven asked from the couch. “No, sweetpea.” I joined her on the couch, throwing an arm around her and pulling her into my side. “He’s angry at me.” She said, looking up at me. “No, never at you.” “At you?” “Sometimes. But tonight he’s just scared.” “He’s never scared.” “He wants us to stay safe, and he’s scared that something bad will happen, that they’re watching and they’ll find us.” I explained, holding her tight. “Why?” She asked. “Cause he loves you, sweetie. He loves you so much, we both do.” Eleven was silent for quite some time, her attention going back to the screen. “Thank you for my scarf.” She whispered, snuggling further into my side.

“She fell asleep on the couch. I think it’s the happiest I’ve seen her. Eggos and a scarf!” I might as well have been speaking to myself as I got ready for bed. “You know she thought you may have liked the tree, lights or no. She even asked me to do a big feast like in all the movies. For you.” My plan to make him feel guilty almost worked, he’d rolled over in bed to stare at me. “She knows you wanna keep her safe. But she wants to see her friends. She needs to see them.” I argued, like almost every other night, and the argument never changed.   “Don’t you think I know that? It kills me to keep her locked up here, but it’s for her safety AND theirs.” He said in the form of a long sigh, pushing himself up the headboard. It was my turn to sigh, changing into pajamas with my back to him. 

I crawled under the covers and turned off the lamp, curling onto my side.  Minutes passed before I felt the mattress dip and him move around behind me, his hand slid over my waist.  Another minute passed before he pulled me into him.  “It’s not like Christmas at all,” His rough whisper tickled the fair hairs of my neck, but I stayed silent. “I hate fighting, especially on Christmas Eve.” He tried again. “You remember all the fun we had last year?” I whispered back. When there was no answer, I turned in his hold, facing him. “I’m sorry I freaked out.” He said, his eyes flickering between mine in the dim light of the moon.  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.” I replied, leaning forward and pressing my lips to his. 

I pulled at him, rolling Hopper with me, his leg lying to the side of mine, an elbow holding his weight as his other hand caressed my cheek.  “Merry Christmas, baby.”

This was my first dabble into Stranger Things, so let me know what you thought. Tagging some people who might be interested: @sdavid09 @manawhaat @grace-for-sale @kittenofdoomage @wi-deangirl77 @percywinchester27 @strangerthingsdaily @babypieandwhiskey @ellen-reincarnated1967 @roxy-davenport @heartfulloffandoms @notnaturalanahi

[suchastart]

Just Another Sleepy Sunday

Stranger Things, Eleven/Mike and the whole party. For @artemisrae​ who has been holding my hand, and for @juxtaposie​ ♥

Game night, a few years into the future.

AO3

*

She arrives under cover of darkness, the way she used to when they were younger—after sunset, wearing an oversized coat with the hood pulled up, and accompanied by the growling of Hopper’s truck. They’re already late. She would’ve been here half an hour ago if he had let her drive herself, which she’s told him several times already tonight in her eternal, ongoing quest for her license. At this rate, she’s going to graduate high school first.

Hopper pulls up to the curb. There’s no more time to waste. El flings the door open and runs for the house in the space of a breath.

“You’re gonna give me a heart attack,” Hopper yells through the open window.

She’s heard that time and again. It’s been years, and he hasn’t had a heart attack yet. In seconds, she crosses the yard and knocks on the front door—three one two, habit now, solid and safe—and smiles when Mrs. Wheeler opens the door. She looks beautiful, as always, hair curled and perfect, in a long corduroy skirt and a pink blouse. She looks tired, too.

“Hi,” El says, slightly out of breath.

“Hello, Jane.” Mrs. Wheeler looks over El’s shoulder, at the prints she’s made in the clean, dewy grass, and at Hopper, tromping slowly down the same path. She smiles. “Nice to see you both.”

“You, too, Karen,” Hopper says.

A beat of silence passes. El rocks forward and back on the balls of her feet. Awkward, she thinks. It’s a good word, made for something uncomfortable, strange, itchy underneath her skin.

“Would you like to come in for dinner, Jim?” Mrs. Wheeler asks, stepping back. “We have enough pizza to feed the neighborhood.”

“Ah, no thanks, just dropping the kid off.”

“Date night?”

Hopper scratches at his beard. “Me and an empty house. Gotta enjoy the quiet while you can. You know how it is.”

Mrs. Wheeler laughs, a pleasant, sad sound that pulls at the corners of her lips but not her eyes, and then, like Hopper grumbles at El sometimes, it is good timing—there is muffled yelling from the house, and thumping from downstairs, and then Mike is there, just like that.

“El!”

It’s like magic, even after so long. Her shoulders relax. “Mike.”

“Hi,” he says, smiling, freckles crinkling across his nose. It occurs to her, sometimes, how tall he is now; he leans down to reach for her hand, and when he tries to take her bookbag from Hopper, they’re at eye-level now. There’s a second of tension—Hopper keeps hold of the strap, and Mike tugs—but finally one of them wins, relents or prevails, it’s hard to tell, the way they’re frowning at one another.

“It’s cold,” El says.

“Well, let’s get you inside,” Mrs. Wheeler says, and guides her into the house. Mike shoulders her bag, and Hopper presses a gruff kiss to her head, and then she’s free. She’s got a clear path to the basement, to Will and Max and Lucas and Dustin, to their tent and walls and table that feel like home. It’s been a few weekends since the whole party has been able to get together like this; they’ve all been so busy with family and finals that tonight feels almost like a reunion, even though she sees her friends almost every day.

She’s halfway there when Mike squeezes her hand. She’d almost forgotten he’d been holding it.

“Hold on a sec,” he says, dropping her bag by the basement door. He tugs her toward the kitchen. “I have to show you something.”

She follows, a trail after a comet, and feels just as brilliantly warm when they pass the refrigerator and he turns on his heel, pushes his fingers through her hair, and kisses her.

El hums, pleased. It’s easier to get to his face when she’s up on her toes, and more comfortable for him, too, though he’s always said he doesn’t mind travelling down so, so far if she’s the one he’s reaching for. She holds onto his waist, the thin cloth of his t-shirt, and tries not to let her grin ruin their kiss. He’s unhurried, though—happy enough to laugh, and to nudge her nose with his, and to kiss her again, and again, and again.

Someone clears their throat.

Mike pulls away first. El touches a hand to her racing heart, startled, and exhilarated.

Mr. Wheeler stands at the sink, looking down at a book of crosswords. He sips lazily at whatever’s in his ceramic mug. “Not in the kitchen, Michael.”

“Is there a room you’d like to designate—”

“Enough of that, too. Go on downstairs. Your friends are yelling loud enough to wake the dead.”

Mike huffs. He’s still standing close enough that El can feel his shoulders stiffen, like a dog raising his hackles; she’s close enough to hook a finger in his belt loop and pull.

“Come on,” she says quietly. They say it to one another often enough that it makes her feel a little smug: “Pick your battles.”

Mr. Wheeler, probably overhearing, snorts.

"You pick your battles,” Mike grumbles, putting an arm around her shoulders and guiding them both safely from the kitchen.

Whatever. She knows well enough now who the bad guys are, and how to handle them.

They turn the corner, out of sight. El sniffs. In the kitchen, Mr. Wheeler shouts in surprise, and his mug shatters on the floor. “What in the hell— ”

Mike snickers. “Enough of that. Come on, the party’s been waiting for you all night.”

*

Their basement set-up survived their transition to high school. The same worn couch rests against the wall. A few new posters have been hung. Their table has gotten a little bigger, a little better—it’s an old fold-up job that Mike and Will found at Mrs. Nelson’s estate sale last summer, and sits their whole party comfortably with more space for Mike’s maps and screens. There’s enough room, too, for everybody to write and carve and draw things all over it. DUSTIN + MS MARISSA 4EVR. Mike Sux. What’s spell casting modifier?? Why am I here????

The fort remains, too. Different blankets every month or two. Sometimes taller, wider, depending on its varied guests; sometimes smaller when the cold sets in, when nightmares crawl a little too close for any of them to manage alone.

El comes down the stairs first, and Will and Dustin cheer. Max throws popcorn kernels at her.

“And our ringer arrives!” Lucas says, tossing El’s mage figurine at her.

She catches it, looks at the little miniature, magic version of herself. The more magic version, anyway. She sat with Mike when he painted it--watched his slow, careful fingers on the paintbrush, watched him take his time with the brown hair, the dark robes, the hint of a pink dress beneath.

Mike nudges her shoulder. She continues down the stairs, places her mage gently on the map, right between the cleric and the ranger, where she knew she’d ended up the last game.

“Thought you weren’t going to show,” Max says as El finds her seat. “Hopper change his mind?”

“Drove too slow.”

“Just like a cop.”

El steals the slice of pizza on Max’s plate, chews happily as the party gets settled around her.

Across the table, Will has his face in his player’s handbook, and Lucas hovers over his shoulder, talking about prepared spells and emergency healing and the colder climate they’ve been preparing to venture into for this arc. Dustin, muttering obscenities, is in the corner, trying to find a clear radio station, while Mike sits behind his screens, scribbling intently into one of his many notebooks.

Max takes her slice of pizza back. She wrinkles her nose at a stray olive, picks it off, tosses it at Dustin’s back. He doesn’t notice. There’s a little smear of tomato sauce on his sweatshirt.

“Can we just, like, skip gym on Monday?” Max sighs. “I’m already dreading it.”

El nods. She holds her hand out for Max’s pizza. Max hands it over, and El takes a bite. She wouldn’t say no to skipping class—particularly the literal hurdles they’ll have to jump on the track right after lunch, and the awful woman that relentlessly blows her whistle at them.

Maybe they can spend the hour walking the railroad tracks instead. That’d be a much more fun use of their time.

“Okay,” El says.

Max grins. “Yeah?”

It’s enough to make El laugh, almost instantly ebullient—a word for the well of feeling, of happiness that almost bubbles free from her heart. She leans into Max’s shoulder, holds up the pizza slice so Max can bite into it. They share the crust, and El tosses the last bite at Dustin. It hits the back of his head, and he almost falls over, he spins around so fast.

“One of you,” he says, picking up the crust piece from the floor and eating it, “changed this damn radio in the past week, and you know how temperamental it is!”

“You did,” El says.

“I absolutely did not—”

“Yes, you did,” Will says.

Lucas nods. “You were waiting for Roger Lowe’s stupid new show.”

“That wasn’t—and it isn’t stupid, it’s transcendent—”

“I saw you change it!”

“Yeah, but it wasn’t on 96.3 when I got down here—”

“Dustin—”

“—I haven’t been down here since Mike’s dumb one-off campaign that we bombed!”

“You mean that you bombed?”

“You changed it to that awful AM talk radio woman before you went to bed, because you said her voice helps you sleep better,” Mike says finally, brushing eraser debris from his papers. He looks at all of them expectantly. Dustin sits, and Will puts his book down. A strange, solemn silence settles around the table. “Everybody ready?”

El likes this part of the night the best, right after kissing Mike hello, and right before their game begins. A little shiver of anticipation runs down her spine. This is their story, the story they’ve built together over months and years of fighting and teamwork and failures, after countless hours of eating pizza and conquering all odds and doing it together.

Much like real life, but slightly less dangerous. She looks around at her friends, her party, and couldn’t imagine feeling any more full.

“Alright,” Mike says, narrowing his eyes, slipping easily into his storytelling voice. “You’re all deep in the twisting, gnarled innards of the underground titan, and you’re struggling to find your way in the dark. Your zoomer has left you in the small tunnel to scout ahead…”

*

They’re completely engrossed in the story. Things are dire. They are down half their health, and even less their stock of potions. Their most dear, wild-haired NPC has just fallen. The night is growing late, and they’re all full of soda and pizza and sadness, and Dustin is wiping tears from his face, while El—

El is cheating. She sits close enough to Mike that she can just see over his screens, and happens to catch sight of the little figurine that he’s hiding being a pencil sharpener and a few other miscellaneous monsters. It bodes ill for the fate of their party, but she can’t help it—

She’s ready when Mike amps up the tension, when he lets his words build and twist and snap, when he paints a huge cavern and terrible, shifting shadows and something that snarls in the dark—

“You blink,” Mike says, “and before you appears the Mega Demogorgon!”

He slams the figurine on the table. The floor shakes. The lights flicker. A bulb in the corner lamp bursts.

Lucas screams.

Somewhere upstairs, there’s a loud crash, and Mrs. Wheeler says, frantically, “Is that an earthquake?”

Mr. Wheeler’s voice is slow, almost inaudible. “There aren’t earthquakes in Indiana, Karen.”

“El,” Dustin says, clutching at his chest. His hat’s fallen off. His hair is in a smushed disarray. “That was not cool.”

“Not me.” El points at the figurine. “Demogorgon.”

Will exhales a shaky little laugh, and Max punches her shoulder, and Mike—he smiles at her, soft and gentle and maybe sort of awestruck, too. He tucks a curl of hair behind her ear, and thumbs his finger underneath her nose, pulls it away clean.

“Told you,” she tells him.

If anything, he looks a little more in love.

*

El holds Max’s hand underneath the table. Max, for all she cares not to care about the story, is doing a terrible job of it—she squeezes El’s fingers hard enough to hurt, and curses as their cleric falls prone beneath the Mega Demogorgon’s relentless attack.

“Can I do anything?” Max says. “Can I reach him?”

“You’ve already taken your action—”

“But can’t I dash , what’s the point of being a zoomer if I can’t fuckin’ run —”

“I’ll be fine,” Will says. He taps his pencil rapidly on his binder—taptaptaptaptaptaptap, and his other knee is bouncing against the leg of the table, and shaking everything, and El can feel his anxiety from so far away, knows he’s lying, always knows when he’s lying. He’s two death saves down, and El is every day learning the ins and outs of this complicated game, but she knows that’s bad.

Will looks unafraid. “It’s fine, Max.”

“We’ll get you up,” Lucas says, flipping frantically through the back of the manual. He’s about to bite through his lip. “We’ll do something. It’s gonna be fine.”

Dustin nods. He doesn’t look like it’s gonna be fine, but he nods anyway.

“It’s not gonna be fine, ” Max says, but there’s nothing else she can do, and they all know it.

For his part, Mike looks like he’s sorry. Not sorry enough to keep the Mega Demogorgon from moving forward, though, ever closer toward their cleric, lying broken and bleeding on the cavern floor. His steps are thunderous. His arms stretch wide. The Mega Demogorgon takes a legendary action, and El holds her breath, looks across the table at Will—

—who clenches his jaw, and closes his eyes.

It’s a little too close to home, but they’re okay. They’re all okay, and this is a game. Will reaches sightlessly for his die. Lucas and Dustin hold on to one another. Max leans onto the table. El cannot take her eyes from Will’s steady fingers, the fist he makes around his die, the way he pauses, and waits, and lets go—

When the die settles, they all look.

“Natural twenty,” Will breathes.

“Natural twenty,” they all yell, grabbing onto one another in celebration, a mess of arms and hands and elbows, upsetting the map and the figurines and a half-full can of soda. Will’s got an arm hooked around El’s neck, and she’s falling forward onto the table, laughing, reaching for them all, for Max, immediately at her side, and for Dustin and Lucas and Mike, who’s not even upset, who’s yelling in celebration alongside them—

Small victories, she thinks, taking it.

*

They give up on the campaign immediately after the exhausting defeat of the Mega Demogorgon. It’s at a steep cost, but their enemy is dead while their party is mostly alive, and that’s enough for the night.

They change into their pajamas. Mike and Will move the table and chairs, while everybody else arranges the piles of blankets and pillows and sleeping bags on the floor. It takes ten minutes to play a heated six-player round of rock-paper-scissors for the coveted couch—it’s only after extensive debate, and a quick wrestling match, that El is decided the champion.

She doesn’t feel too bad. The couch is unreasonably comfortable after so many years of it being worn down, and it gives her a good view of the television. There’s a less violent argument about what movie to watch, and she’s happy to see the opening of Ghostbusters on the screen as she gets settled with her pillow and blankets.

“El,” Mike whispers, sitting beside her. “Scoot over.”

And it’s as easy as opening her arms—he slips beneath her blankets, arranges himself instead between her back and the couch, and hugs her to his chest.

She feels safe here. Safest. Three one two, the slow-quick beat of her pulse, the press of Mike’s palm to her stomach, warm over her shirt. Sleepy and safe, in the circle of his arms and the circle of their friends.

She tries to pay attention to the movie, to Venkman and Winston and Spengler, to Stantz and Dana Barrett, to Lucas and Dustin and Max and Will all fighting for space and blankets on the floor, to the sound of their voices, annoyed and familiar and affectionate as they quote their favorite characters, the best lines.

Through the hazy threat of sleep, El listens, too, to the dim creak of the basement stairs.

She groans, shifts around, turns her back to the television and presses her face to Mike’s shirt. He’s warm, almost too hot beneath their blanket, but she noses at his collarbone anyway.

“Holly,” she says into his chest, pulling her hands free from the blankets.

And there’s a beat, a second of confused silence, before Holly Wheeler bursts from the basement stairs, her arms splayed, her voice loud: “Hand check!”

She’s just in time to find everybody’s hands raised expectantly in the air.

Her brother’s weird friends are settled comfortably in their nest on the floor, while Mike and his weird girlfriend are closely intertwined on the couch, hands raised in the air, still pressed into one another.

“Well, shit,” Holly grumbles.

“Mouth,” Lucas and Mike warn, even as Holly continues down the stairs, makes herself at home in the pile of teenagers in front of the television.

“Mom’s still worried about your sleepovers,” Holly says, yanking a pillow from beneath Dustin’s head. She wriggles herself into a spot between Will and Lucas. “Since you losers actually know girls now. But, like--how do you guys always know? Do you have some stupid camera rigged or something?”

“You’re not even supposed to be down here,” Mike murmurs against El’s head.

“You’re not even supposed to be in arm's reach of Jane,” Holly says.

Dustin pulls a spare throw pillow from underneath the game table. He hugs it close, glares at Holly: “And you’re not supposed to be up after seven.”

“Uh, my bedtime was moved to ten,” she says, and then colors. “And I don’t listen to curfews, anyway, especially on a Saturday!”

Max sighs. “Shut up and watch Ghostbusters, kid.”

So Holly does—she shuts up, and watches Ghostbusters, and makes them all just a little proud when she joins them in quoting, seriously and without hesitation, “Total protonic reversal.”

*

The TV is cold. A stretch of moonlight filters in through the narrow basement window. Holly has shuffled herself back to bed, and Mrs. Wheeler has come to make sure everybody’s safe and in one piece and not doing anything too inappropriate, Michael Wheeler, do you ever listen, we’re going to talk about this in the morning, and the basement has finally fallen quiet. Someone shifts in their blankets, or rearranges their pillow. Will bumps into the table, whispers, “Sorry.”

It feels not quite like sleeping, this drifting, so comfortable that she doesn’t really feel her body. It’s opposite of the water tank, from so long ago—that water had been frigid, and she’d been weightless and cold and all too aware of her skin, her bones, the endless gazes upon her from the other side of the glass.

This is—better. She doesn’t have one good word for it. Warm. Easy. Serene, maybe. She listens to Mike’s breathing, and blinks in and out of sleep, and isn’t sure she’s ever felt such heavy silence between them all—

“Do you guys believe in aliens?”

“Dustin, man—”

Someone shifts. Dustin cries, “Ow!”

“Go to sleep!”

“I was sleeping, but like, what if we’re not alone out here?”

“It’s pretty obvious we’re not? Interdimensional shadow monsters ate your cat and tried to take over the town?”

“Okay, Lucas, but—”

“But universally speaking, right?”

“Yes! Right? Will, my main man—”

“Please, can we not.”

“I hate you all.”

Mike chimes in. “Theoretically and mathematically speaking? There’s gotta be life out there somewhere.”

“Practically speaking?” Lucas sighs.

“Interdimensional shadow monsters.”

Their conversation lulls. A cricket outside sings. In the distance, thunder rolls quietly along the sky.

“El, you think you could see if there’s aliens out there?”

“She’s not phoning in for aliens, ” Max snaps before Mike can chime in to defend her, and his shoulders relax. “Shut up, please, I’m only asking nicely once.”

“She could! I’m just saying that she could, theoretically and mathematically. ”

El closes her eyes.

The silence lasts for all of ten seconds. Will asks, almost hesitantly, “Is she doing it?”

Dustin sighs. “She fell asleep.”

Mike feels her huff of laughter against his chest; she can sense his amusement, the smile in his voice. “She’s not sleeping. Shut up and let her concentrate.”

So she humors them—she phones it in, as Max says, and thinks of E.T. phoning home and finding home, and steps into the void. For a moment, there’s the terrifying sweep of nothing, and El thinks she’s gone too far, that she reached out into space and got sucked right into the stars.

But Mike pinches her arm, and El takes a breath.

“I saw them,” she says. “On Mars. I was surrounded by millions of little squashy guys.”

It takes but a second. Lucas and Will burst into laughter, while Max groans loudly. Dustin simply sighs. “An E.T. quote? Eleven Jane Hopper, I am disappointed in you. So much of space to discover, and you with a tool that you refuse to utilize for this noble quest for knowledge and connection—”

“Go to sleep, Dustin!”

*

Dreams are tricky, terrible things.

El has nightmares, sometimes, of all that nothing—just her and that empty slip-stream world, that empty void, endless and aching, stretching as far and as infinite and as painful as the universe. She is alone there. Her body floats, and she screams, and there’s nothing, nobody to hear her.

It feels terribly like home.

And sometimes her nightmares are of blood and bodies and broken bones, of sightless eyes of people she knows, of the faces most dear to her drowning in their own blood, gasping for air, begging for help. Sometimes they blame her, and sometimes they ask her why, and she is never able to find any words. Sometimes the faces belong to Mama, and to Kali, and to Papa.

Sometimes they belong to herself.

And sometimes—

Sometimes she has good dreams, too. Gentle snowfall, and messy snowmen, and old tripwires dripping with icicles. A cabin lit in fairy lights. A flickering fire in a plain hearth, and a single picture on the mantle in a crude wooden frame. It always changes, the picture: her and Hopper, and her and Mike, and her and Will and Max and Dustin and Lucas, and her and Joyce and Nancy and Holly. Her and Mama, sitting together on a sunlit porch. Her and Kali, holding hands.

Sometimes her dreams are good, and she wakes up breathing, blinking, slow and even.

Sometimes her dreams are good, and she wakes up to another kind of dream.

A soft dawn light filters in through the narrow basement windows. The world is pink, and brown, and dark.

Mike’s face is so near, and slack in sleep.

Rarely do they have the opportunity to lie together like this, during the frenetic pace of high school; peaceful and at rest, twined at the ankles and legs, arms holding one another close.

She takes her time. She looks at the curl of his dark hair. She watches the pulse at his neck, the lines of his wide lips, the quick steps of the freckles across the bridge of his nose. There’s a tangle of them at his eyebrow, too, and two spots at his jaw. A tiny white scar at his jaw, and another on his chin.

Eventually she is driven by nature to pull herself carefully from him and their couch, to go to the bathroom, to sneak upstairs to the kitchen, where she grabs a glass of water and an apple, which she takes a halfhearted bite of. She returns quietly to the basement and unlocks the side door, makes herself comfortable on the small concrete stoop in the dim morning.

It’s raining.

El likes the rain. There’s enough of an overhang off the second story roof to keep her dry. She’s wearing soft sweatpants that Nancy gave her, and a hugely oversized t-shirt from Hopper. It’s the best set of pajamas she owns—hand-me-downed, and holey, and worn, and comfortable. She rolls the hems of her sweatpants higher, and scoots her feet forward, relishing the feel of the cool rain on her bare feet.

Her toes get muddy. A piece of grass sticks stubbornly to the side of her foot. She rescues a worm from the hard concrete of the patio.

The sun peeks through the nearby trees.

“El,” Mike says, eventually, opening the back door and sticking his head through. He sounds a little panicked, and a little amused, and a little like he can’t quite tell which one he wants to be. “There you are.”

She nods.

He steps fully outside and shuts the door. He nudges her over, and sits down next to her, and they lean into one another like magnets. He’s still wrinkly from sleep--there’s a pink line on his cheek, and his shirt is twisted, and one sock is almost falling off.

It takes her a moment to realize that he’s holding something.

He digs a spoon into the bowl on his lap. “Hungry?”

El peers into the bowl. It’s a waffle sandwich, with three healthy scoops of ice cream in the middle. Neapolitan, so there’s a little bit of everything. There are sprinkles, too, rainbow ones, and it’s topped with a healthy layer of syrup.

“Erica says it counts as breakfast food if there’s syrup on it,” Mike says, holding a spoonful out to her.

And El doesn’t cry—she almost cries, and there’s another word that she knows, overwhelmed, and also enamored, and maybe just happy.

They share ice cream and waffles for breakfast. It starts to rain hard enough that it sneaks into Mike’s socks, even though he’s got his legs tucked up safely under the protection of the roof.

“Ugh,” he says.

“I like it, the rain,” El says. “I found you in the rain.”

“I found you in the rain. All muddy and scared and weird.”

She bumps his shoulder into hers. “Mouth breather.”

He blows her hair back from her face. He smells like chocolate, like morning breath. It surprises her, how some things still feel novel, even after so much time. A cold bowl of sickeningly sweet ice cream and syrup for breakfast. The rain on her skin. A friend, and a shoulder to lean on.

Mike kisses her temple, and grumbles about his socks, and El thinks, yeah, happy is just the right word.

[betweenpaperpages]

Hear Me Still - Chapter Four

A new store-front is set to open on main street in Storybrooke and with it brings new resident Mr. Gold to the center of attention. While he looks forward to this new step in business, it is yet unknown if his deafness will set him back once again.

Beta: @ishtarelisheba

Read on AO3!

[Chapter One] [Chapter Two] [Chapter Three]

Chapter Four: Home To Us

A week had passed since the antique shop opened, and while online sales were the same as always, Marcus had been pleasantly surprised at the attention it received. Since the town was so small he originally thought that first day or two would be busy but it seemed to hold their interest longer than a passing fancy. Though that could change at any time.

Jefferson and Grace had come back the next day to also help out, although, come Monday Grace had school and Jefferson had a deadline to meet with his next design project.

Marcus was on his own.

There were one or two instances that stood out to him. The first was with a older man named Marco. He was very pleasant company, clearly a staple member of the community as he owned one of the few restaurants around town. Marcus had to keep his eyes on the man’s lips the entire conversation. His speaking speed was good, but his faded Italian accent tripped him up from time to time, having to piece together what words he missed to gain the context of what was being said.

The second instance had been when Doctor Archie Hopper visited later in the week. Doctor Hopper was very polite as he browsed the shop, spending most of his focus on the selection of books. He chose three of them, however, when it had come time to pay, Marcus found the Doctor exceedingly soft spoken. Even with his hearing aids set at their highest sensitivity, it was still a whisper to him.

With the week now over, Marcus was glad to enjoy a Sunday off with his family to simply relax and enjoy themselves. The two of them had been intent in taking him around Storybrooke to better introduce him to the town he now called home.

xxxxx

Grace giggled, squirming on her dad’s back as she tried to escape her uncle’s tickling fingers on the back of her knees. “No!” she protested, releasing another giggle as Jeff hoisted her higher and more securely on his back.

“Not fair unless I can enact my revenge!”

“Is that so?” Marcus questioned, his eyebrow raised in doubt.

Jefferson nodded in agreement. “I’m afraid she is right.”

“No, no, I’m afraid she’s not,” he pointed out. “I recall in section a, paragraph twelve that there is a clear clause that states an exceptions for uncles. As seeing that I am your only uncle, I claim and reserve my right to that exception.”

“No fair!” “Yes fair,” Marcus replied, grinning at his adoptive niece.

Jefferson released his daughter, letting her slide off his back to land on her feet. “Now children,” he scolded in amusement, his smirk expression fondness.

“She started it.” “Did not!” Grace crossed her arms over her chest in a mock-pout, but there was clearly no animosity behind it.  

Marcus smiled brightly, wondering for a moment if this is the life he would have had, had he not chosen the path he did. A wife, a child of their own, living in some quiet town to make sure their little one had the best chance in life…

It was a pretty dream and one he could have had achieved if his life wasn’t such a mess, but he had chosen what was right for him at the time. If he hadn’t, there was no telling where he would have ended up, however; he was pretty sure he was where he was meant to be.

The three of them took a sharp turn as they headed into the town’s bed and breakfast known as “Granny’s” for lunch, Marcus surprised that not only was Granny a real person, yet that she insisted that everyone call such.

They sat at a table at the front of the diner, Marcus’ eyes focused out the bay window it faced to take in the pedestrians walking past. The idea of living in a town where everyone knew everyone was a new concept to him compared to where he had lived previously in Boston. There you were lucky if you knew your next door neighbor or the local barista at the coffee shop, where he lived before that was quite the same, such was big city life.

Soon enough a plump older woman greeted them with a notepad in hand, her glasses sitting low on the bridge of her nose as she studied them.

“What can I get for you today?”

“Ooh! Granny, can I have cola and a grilled cheese please?” Grace asked, leaning her head backwards over the chair to look at her.

“Of course,” she answered, poking Grace’s nose before the girl sat up properly. “Jeff?” she asked, taking on his order as well. “And yourself?”

Marcus’ eyes were focused on the menu in front of him, scanning over each item with consideration, startling when a hand grabbed his elbow. He jerked back in surprise only to catch that it was Jefferson touching him.

“Did you decide?” Jeff questioned gently, releasing his hold.

“Um…just... the same as yours.”

Granny nodded decisively. “Two ice teas, one cola, two burgers and one grilled cheese.” She wrote a strike on the pad before heading off to the kitchens.

“You alright?” Jefferson questioned.

Marcus nodded, more so to reassure Jefferson than himself. It was just yet another slip up of his condition; it wasn’t the first time it had happened and certainly not the last.

The food was actually quite good. Grace only stole two of his pickle spears when she thought he was distracted, claiming innocent when he attempted to find them. The mock-investigation had sent both her and Jefferson into a fit of laughter.

As their meal came to an end he found himself losing more and more words. He thought he simply didn’t catch what Granny had said when she came for the dishes and left the bill, as she was turned away from him. However, when Jefferson started to speak it was harder to understand him. Marcus caught the general idea of what he was saying, though his eyes focused more and more on reading his lips. Static built up in both of his ears before nearly everything around him silent.

“Uncle Gold?” Grace questioned, pulling on his sleeve when he didn’t offer her eye contact.

His attention snapped to her. Grace gestured to her Father, spotting a confused looking Jefferson.

He pointed to Marcus before his own ear, placing his hands in front of himself, his right hand palm up while the left was palm down, rotating them so they flipped their positions before pointing back to Marcus.

Marcus nodded, slumping back in the booth with a heavy sigh. He didn’t have any spare batteries with him or at the shop, so he would have to wait until they got home to address it.

“Papa, can we go get ice cream?” Grace asked, hopeful eyes turning on Jefferson.

He chuckled, reaching over to ruffle his daughter’s hair. “Only if I can have a double scoop pistachio, and a bite of yours.”

Jefferson looked back to a subdued looking Marcus, quickly signing to ask about ice cream before heading to the park. While he knew he wasn’t fluent, he could still hold his own in a conversation, even when he had to finger spell longer words he didn't have a sign for. Even so the idea of ice cream didn’t seem to grab his friend’s interest, merely getting a nod in response.  

“Looks like its a go!” he announced.

Grace smiled as the three of them headed out of the diner, off to Any Given Sundae, stopping to walk backwards in front of her two guardians. She was still learning sign language from Marcus, having short lessons each week, but she was getting along quite well.

With a small girl walking backwards and attempting to sign at the same time it was easy for the three of them to gain others attention. Marcus felt his cheeks flush as a group of three young women walked past with their eyes on them. Catching a glance across the street only gave way to more audience.

Typically he was more than happy to help Grace or correct her when she struggled, but with what felt like too many eyes on them, he wasn’t interested in becoming a show. He only stopped for a moment to kneel down to allow his niece to climb onto his back to make the rest of the trip as quickly and as unnoticed as possible.

Chapter Notes:

Jefferson’s first sign asks if Marcus’ hearing aid batteries are dead.

The gesturing to the ear denotes the subject matter (the hearing aids), the hands rolling for the sign “dead” (think of ‘rolling over in one’s grave’), and pointing back to Marcus establishes the noun.

In ASL, nouns are often stated twice, especially when asking a question. If you do not interpret this into English, the ASL breaks down to: “Your hearing aid dead you?”

Author Note:

I personally find that ASL grammar is similar to Yoda’s speech pattern. Straightforward, easy to identify nouns and subjects, and without a great deal of filler words. (100% my opinion, not meant to be demeaning to those who use ASL or the deaf community.))

[openamenta]

Top New Games: Fall 3425

The poll is closed, the votes are in, and we here at @indiegamehawk are proud to present the final results for best new indie games, nominated and chosen by our followers!

We begin with...

#4: Parents Beware

A cute, occasionally sickeningly sweet, mostly-idle game with surprising amounts of story progression, Parents Beware lets you play as the monsters under toddlers’ beds. Your mission is to scare them and collect their screams -- but it quickly becomes apparent that the real force multipliers in this game come from having your monsters adopt the tots, and train them up to be little monsters themselves!

Mod Spacebar says: “The concept is super cute, but the ending felt a little rushed. I’m seeing people suggesting that they’re planning to release a longer paid version if this goes over well -- and I’m tempted to buy it if they do, except I’m frustrated with that as a business practice. :$”

Mod Kitten says: “Not only is the soundtrack amazingly easy on the ears to have going for hours at a time, the game itself is super easy on my CPU. Not one of those idle games that drains your battery! It’s from a southern-hemisphere team; I’m calling now that there’s a big popularity bump when northern-spring brings baby games back in.”

Where to get it: Free download here.

#3: Pocket Witch

A new competitor in the hyper-popular augmented-reality-lite genre (see “Subway Duels” and “Feud,” if you’ve been living under a rock), Pocket Witch lets you use your everything to collect orbs and artifacts from various real-life locations, and duel nearby people for control of the orb generators.

Mod Kitten says: “Augmented-reality-lite is always a tough genre for indie games -- you need a lot of player saturation before it really works -- but Pocket Witch stands out from the crowd with its puzzle components and fantastic character customization. I’ve got my fingers crossed that this one makes the cut.”

Mod Maelstrom says: “Just stay off the public chat. And turn on parental controls if you give it to your kid. I went on once and there was a whole kerfuffle about this faked-up screenshot with red hair. It was super gross and people were yelling. I wouldn’t want my two-year-old stumbling on that, you know?”

Where to get it: Get a code from the generator here and send it to your everything for a bonus 2,000 mana orbs to start with.

#2: Long Way Off

Controversial but atmospheric, this subway-hopper has nearly a book’s worth of content ... if you can get to it. The challenges there are less in the gameplay (it’s your bog-standard subway-hopper clone) and more in making the right choices in the intricate narrative -- oh, and getting through all the super-edgy jump-scares and gross-outs. Look out for the tentacle ending...

Mod Maelstrom says: “It’s an all-green game, and it shows. The game balance is wildly out of whack -- grindy between levels three and five, and then by level eight you’ve bought everything in the store -- and the tech support is nil. But it shows in a good way, too. If you can think of it more as a vehicle for finely crafted cutscenes, it really does deliver.”

Mod Kitten says: “I got so much playtime out of this one. Like, we’re talking at least a hundred hours overall. The bad endings aren’t even frustrating, because they all unlock such great content. Might have finished it sooner if I could play anywhere my family could see, but you can’t have everything.”

Where to get it: 10 ni at their website here (or wait until there’s a 20% off sale, they happen pretty often).

#1: Legions of Lava

Our top game of the season is Legions of Lava, the too-cool-to-be-true laugh-a-minute parody of classic fantasy adventure games ... that somehow manages to be a pretty breathtaking fantasy adventure game itself. Play as a Judge, a Creeper, or the pictured Duelyst (we admit it, it’s our favorite); you’ll get NPC companions of the other two classes.

Mod Maelstrom says: “Normally I can’t stand it when you have NPC followers who keep demanding you go off on side missions to help them instead of progressing the main quest, but these were actually really compelling. My biggest complaint is that you’d have to play the entire game twice over to experience all three of them, and the replay value isn’t quite good enough to justify that.”

Mod Spacebar says: “The genre shift is from parody to playing-it-straight is a little jarring, and in a professional game I’d expect to see that cleaned up a lot. It’s actually kind of endearing here, though, especially since both genres are executed so well. I look forward to seeing their future work.”

Where to get it: Buy it here, and pay the extra 15 ni for the bonus content -- it’s worth it, we swear.

[punjabfurnitureau]

Buy Royal Dark Wood golden Cushioned Double Bed

Indulge in regal comfort with our Royal Dark Wood Double Bed, adorned with luxurious golden accents. Crafted from exquisite dark wood, this bed exudes elegance and sophistication. With its plush cushioned headboard, it's a statement piece for your bedroom sanctuary.

[tv-dinhcuuc]

Những địa điểm ngắm đèn và chợ Giáng Sinh đẹp nhất nước Úc

Những địa điểm ngắm đèn và chợ Giáng Sinh đẹp nhất nước Úc

Vào những ngày này, không có gì tuyệt hơn lang thang vào một con đường rợp đèn trang trí Giáng Sinh và lặn ngụp vào không khí lễ hội của “The Most Wonderful Time of the Year”…

Nếu quý vị và gia đình đang sống ở Úc, hoặc du lịch Úc vào thời điểm Giáng sinh, có thể tham khảo những địa điểm ngắm đèn và chợ Giáng Sinh đẹp nhất sau đây.

Địa điểm Giáng sinh ở Úc: The Boulevard, Ivanhoe (Melbourne)

The Boulevard ở Ivanhoe là một trong những nơi nổi tiếng có đèn Giáng Sinh lớn và rực rỡ nhất ở Melbourne, thu hút hàng ngàn thị khách từ khắp nơi đến thưởng thức mỗi năm vào dịp này.

Từ những năm 1950, những người dân ở khu này đã có truyền thống trang trí nhà cửa, vườn nhà, cây cối, xe trượt tuyết, hang đá,…và tất cả những gì có thể gợi không khí Giáng Sinh. Mỗi năm, vào mùa lễ, người ta nô nức đến đây và The Boulevard chưa bao giờ khiến người xem thất vọng. Ngoài ra, bạn có thể thưởng thức BBQ, café, kem và âm nhạc địa phương vô cùng phong phú.

Địa điểm Giáng sinh ở Úc: Tennyson Avenue, Preston (Melbourne)

Tennyson Ave sẽ cuốn bạn vào không khí Giáng Sinh với hàng ngàn ánh đèn lấp lánh bắt mắt.

Địa điểm Giáng sinh ở Úc: 47 Gordon Grove, Preston (Melbourne)

Hơn 40,000 ngọn đèn đua nhau khoe sắc cùng âm nhạc đã khiến Gordon Grove trở thành một trong những điểm ngắm đèn Giáng Sinh tuyệt nhất Melbourne. Chủ đề năm nay là The Greatest Showman cùng với cây thông Giáng Sinh được tân trang sẽ khiến bạn choáng ngợp.

Địa điểm Giáng sinh ở Úc: Lebanon Crescent (Melbourne)

Có đến hơn 100,000 ánh đèn Giáng Sinh sống động lấp lánh mọi ngóc ngách Lebanon Crescent ở Mulgrave. Thậm chí ở đây còn có một chiếc Polar Express cùng tuần lộc, ông già Noel, dàn nhạc, bong bóng trang trí,… diễu hành quanh khu phố cực sôi động.

Địa điểm Giáng sinh ở Úc: The Boulevard, Thomastown (Melbourne)

Ngôi nhà ở số 118 The Boulevard, Thomastown đã trở thành điểm đến yêu thích để ngắm đèn Giáng Sinh từ năm 2004 – tất cả tiền thu được đều được quyên góp vào quỹ Heart Foundation.

Địa điểm Giáng sinh ở Úc: 5 Wirraway Crescent, Thomastown (Melbourne)

Cũng rộn rã như những điểm trang trí Giáng Sinh khác, tại Wirraway Crescent cũng có ánh đèn lấp lánh, hình nộm phồng Giáng Sinh, tuần lộc, và những sticker trẻ con yêu thích. Bạn có thể tham quan đèn Giáng Sinh tại đây từ 31/11.

Địa điểm Giáng sinh ở Úc: Vialls Avenue, Parkdale (Melbourne)

Nếu bạn sống ở khu vực Parkdale, hãy đến Vialls Avenue nếu muốn có bức hình Giáng Sinh xinh xắn.

Địa điểm Giáng sinh ở Úc: Tennis Court, Mornington (Melbourne)

Hiện nay, Tennis Court là một trong những nơi ngắm đèn Giáng Sinh nổi tiếng nhất và đẹp nhất ở Melbourne. Muốn biết vì sao, bạn cần đến tận nơi để thưởng thức và cảm nhận.

Địa điểm Giáng sinh ở Úc: Hoppers Crossing (Melbourne)

Người dân nơi đây đã thực sự kết hợp vô cùng ăn ý, tác phẩm của họ không những là những sản phẩm đèn trang trí tuyệt sắc mà còn mang không khí Giáng Sinh thắm đượm từng ngóc ngách khu dân cư.

Địa điểm Giáng sinh ở Úc: Carriageworks Christmas Market (Sydney)

Chợ nông sản Carriageworks sẽ tổ chức một phiên chợ Giáng Sinh vào sáng thứ Bảy đặc biệt vào ngày 22 tháng 12 – ba ngày trước lễ Giáng Sinh năm nay. Bạn có thể tìm thấy những cây thông xanh trang trí và nhiều món ăn đặc trưng của ngày lễ đặc biệt này như giăm bông, bánh pudding và nhiều loại bánh hấp dẫn khác.

Địa điểm Giáng sinh ở Úc: Chippendale Christmas Market (Sydney)

Sydney đã dần trở nên quá chuyên nghiệp với biệt tài tung ra những lễ hội mua sắm lớn; một trong những sự kiện mua sắm sôi động nhất mùa Giáng Sinh không thể không kể đến là Chippendale Christmas Market. Đến đây, bạn sẽ không phải thất vọng với những gian hàng thủ công sáng tạo địa phương cũng nhưu một số món ăn nhẹ đặc biệt của Sydney.

Địa điểm Giáng sinh ở Úc: The Makers’ Nest Design Market (Sydney)

Chợ sản phẩm thiết kế này được tổ chức một năm 2 lần; và hiện tại, khu chợ đã có mặt tại Tramsheds đúng ngay thời gian Giáng Sinh. Với hơn 50 gian hàng sản phẩm thủ công địa phương bao gồm phụ kiện thời trang, đồ trang sức, đồ gốm và các tác phẩm nghệ thuật sáng tạo, The Makers’ Nest Design Market xứng đáng trở thành một trong những khu chợ Giáng Sinh tuyệt nhất Sydney bạn không nên bỏ qua.

Địa điểm Giáng sinh ở Úc: Precinct 75 Summer Design Fair (Sydney)

Cũng giống như The Makers’ Nest Design Market, Precinct 75’s SUMMER DESIGN FAIR là một thiên đường của các sản phẩm thiết kế và sản xuất thủ công xinh xắn, vô cùng thích hợp cho những ai đang bí ý tưởng cho món quá Giáng Sinh năm nay.

Địa điểm Giáng sinh ở Úc: Christmas Fare (Sydney)

Phiên chợ thường niên tại Hyde Park Barracks là nơi tụ họp của 40 gian hàng ẩm thực, nhà bán lẻ, thợ thủ công địa phương – chỉ duy nhất một buổi tối trước Giáng Sinh. Tại đây, bạn có thể mua dưa chua, thịt hun khói, trà, và các loại đồ gia dụng.

Địa điểm Giáng sinh ở Úc: Paramount Recreation Club Holiday Market (Sydney)

Ngày đầu tiên của mùa hè có vẻ là một thời điểm vô cùng đẹp để chọn quà Giáng Sinh, và có lẽ không một nơi nào thuận lợi hơn Paramount Holiday Market cho sự kiện này. Bạn sẽ tha hồ lựa chọn vô vàn sản phẩm chất lượng nhưng cũng không kém phần đáng yêu từ các thương hiệu địa phương như In Bed, Mud Australia và Dinosaur Designs.

Địa điểm Giáng sinh ở Úc: Finders Keepers (Sydney)

Đây là hội chợ thiết kế phong cách indie của Úc – hiện sắp trở quay lại tại Barangaroo Cutaway trong ba ngày. Những ai mê mẩn các sản phẩm thủ công và thiết kế tinh xảo chắc chắn không nên lướt qua khu chợ với hơn 200 gian hàng này.

Địa điểm Giáng sinh ở Úc: Watson Bay Xmas Twilight Market (Sydney)

Chợ Giáng Sinh đặc biệt này được tổ chức vào buổi chiều tà tại Watsons Bay. Ngoài các món đồ thủ công không thể thiếu, khu chợ còn được trang trí đèn lung linh huyền ảo, nhạc sống sôi động cùng nhiều quầy hàng ẩm thực, quán bar ngoài trời,…sẽ không khiến bạn thất vọng.

Địa điểm Giáng sinh ở Úc: Glebe Artisans Market (Sydney)

Phiên chợ được tổ chức hàng quý tại công viên Foley Park và thường có khoảng 50 gian hàng đồ trang sức, cây cảnh, đồ nội thất, quần áo thời trang và đồ chơi trẻ em,… tất cả đều là những ý tưởng quà Giáng Sinh hoàn hảo.

Địa điểm Giáng sinh ở Úc: Artists’ Christmas Car Boot Sale (Sydney)

Nếu bạn đang tìm kiếm một điều gì đó thật đặc biệt và khác thường, đừng bỏ qua Artists’ Christmas Car Boot Sale – một trong những khu chợ Giáng Sinh tuyệt nhất Sydney. Thay vì những quầy hàng, họ biến xe của mình thành nơi trưng bày buôn bán. Các sản phẩm đặc biệt bạn có thể tìm thấy tại đây bao gồm đồ gốm, hàng dệt may, thời trang, sản phẩm nghệ thuật và rất nhiều món đồ hay ho khác.

Địa điểm Giáng sinh ở Úc: The Big Design Market (Sydney)

Với hơn 200 gian hàng địa phương từ các nhà thiết kế, các nhà sản xuất đồ thủ công, handmade, Big Design Market Sydney không những là một nơi mua sắm Giáng Sinh hoàn hảo mà còn là nơi thưởng thức ẩm thực tuyệt vời.

Địa điểm Giáng sinh ở Úc: The Rocks Christmas Markets (Sydney)

Dạo bộ xuống The Rocks từ thứ Sáu đến Chủ nhật, bạn sẽ thấy một ngôi làng chuyên bán hàng thủ công mỹ nghệ, quần áo thiết kế và sản phẩm nghệ thuật địa phương độc đáo. Và sắp tới, để chuẩn bị cho dịp lễ Giáng Sinh, khu chợ này sẽ thêm phần lung linh và sôi động.

Địa điểm Giáng sinh ở Úc: Darling Quarter Christmas Markets (Sydney)

Hãy đặt lịch và đến ngay Darling Quarter Christmas Markets để săn những món đồ trang trí Giáng Sinh và những món quà ý nghĩa cho gia đình và bạn bè.

Nguồn: Những địa điểm ngắm đèn và chợ Giáng Sinh đẹp nhất nước Úc

[punjabfurniture]

Beds For Sale Hoppers Crossing - Punjab Furniture

[tv-batdongsanuc]

Những địa điểm ngắm đèn và chợ Giáng Sinh đẹp nhất nước Úc

Những địa điểm ngắm đèn và chợ Giáng Sinh đẹp nhất nước Úc

Vào những ngày này, không có gì tuyệt hơn lang thang vào một con đường rợp đèn trang trí Giáng Sinh và lặn ngụp vào không khí lễ hội của “The Most Wonderful Time of the Year”…

Địa điểm Giáng sinh ở Úc: The Boulevard, Ivanhoe (Melbourne)

The Boulevard ở Ivanhoe là một trong những nơi nổi tiếng có đèn Giáng Sinh lớn và rực rỡ nhất ở Melbourne, thu hút hàng ngàn thị khách từ khắp nơi đến thưởng thức mỗi năm vào dịp này.

Từ những năm 1950, những người dân ở khu này đã có truyền thống trang trí nhà cửa, vườn nhà, cây cối, xe trượt tuyết, hang đá,…và tất cả những gì có thể gợi không khí Giáng Sinh. Mỗi năm, vào mùa lễ, người ta nô nức đến đây và The Boulevard chưa bao giờ khiến người xem thất vọng. Ngoài ra, bạn có thể thưởng thức BBQ, café, kem và âm nhạc địa phương vô cùng phong phú.

Địa điểm Giáng sinh ở Úc: Tennyson Avenue, Preston (Melbourne)

Tennyson Ave sẽ cuốn bạn vào không khí Giáng Sinh với hàng ngàn ánh đèn lấp lánh bắt mắt.

Địa điểm Giáng sinh ở Úc: 47 Gordon Grove, Preston (Melbourne)

Hơn 40,000 ngọn đèn đua nhau khoe sắc cùng âm nhạc đã khiến Gordon Grove trở thành một trong những điểm ngắm đèn Giáng Sinh tuyệt nhất Melbourne. Chủ đề năm nay là The Greatest Showman cùng với cây thông Giáng Sinh được tân trang sẽ khiến bạn choáng ngợp.

Địa điểm Giáng sinh ở Úc: Lebanon Crescent (Melbourne)

Có đến hơn 100,000 ánh đèn Giáng Sinh sống động lấp lánh mọi ngóc ngách Lebanon Crescent ở Mulgrave. Thậm chí ở đây còn có một chiếc Polar Express cùng tuần lộc, ông già Noel, dàn nhạc, bong bóng trang trí,… diễu hành quanh khu phố cực sôi động.

Địa điểm Giáng sinh ở Úc: The Boulevard, Thomastown (Melbourne)

Ngôi nhà ở số 118 The Boulevard, Thomastown đã trở thành điểm đến yêu thích để ngắm đèn Giáng Sinh từ năm 2004 – tất cả tiền thu được đều được quyên góp vào quỹ Heart Foundation.

Địa điểm Giáng sinh ở Úc: 5 Wirraway Crescent, Thomastown (Melbourne)

Cũng rộn rã như những điểm trang trí Giáng Sinh khác, tại Wirraway Crescent cũng có ánh đèn lấp lánh, hình nộm phồng Giáng Sinh, tuần lộc, và những sticker trẻ con yêu thích. Bạn có thể tham quan đèn Giáng Sinh tại đây từ 31/11.

Địa điểm Giáng sinh ở Úc: Vialls Avenue, Parkdale (Melbourne)

Nếu bạn sống ở khu vực Parkdale, hãy đến Vialls Avenue nếu muốn có bức hình Giáng Sinh xinh xắn.

Địa điểm Giáng sinh ở Úc: Tennis Court, Mornington (Melbourne)

Hiện nay, Tennis Court là một trong những nơi ngắm đèn Giáng Sinh nổi tiếng nhất và đẹp nhất ở Melbourne. Muốn biết vì sao, bạn cần đến tận nơi để thưởng thức và cảm nhận.

Địa điểm Giáng sinh ở Úc: Hoppers Crossing (Melbourne)

Người dân nơi đây đã thực sự kết hợp vô cùng ăn ý, tác phẩm của họ không những là những sản phẩm đèn trang trí tuyệt sắc mà còn mang không khí Giáng Sinh thắm đượm từng ngóc ngách khu dân cư.

Địa điểm Giáng sinh ở Úc: Carriageworks Christmas Market (Sydney)

Chợ nông sản Carriageworks sẽ tổ chức một phiên chợ Giáng Sinh vào sáng thứ Bảy đặc biệt vào ngày 22 tháng 12 – ba ngày trước lễ Giáng Sinh năm nay. Bạn có thể tìm thấy những cây thông xanh trang trí và nhiều món ăn đặc trưng của ngày lễ đặc biệt này như giăm bông, bánh pudding và nhiều loại bánh hấp dẫn khác.

Địa điểm Giáng sinh ở Úc: Chippendale Christmas Market (Sydney)

Sydney đã dần trở nên quá chuyên nghiệp với biệt tài tung ra những lễ hội mua sắm lớn; một trong những sự kiện mua sắm sôi động nhất mùa Giáng Sinh không thể không kể đến là Chippendale Christmas Market. Đến đây, bạn sẽ không phải thất vọng với những gian hàng thủ công sáng tạo địa phương cũng nhưu một số món ăn nhẹ đặc biệt của Sydney.

Địa điểm Giáng sinh ở Úc: The Makers’ Nest Design Market (Sydney)

Chợ sản phẩm thiết kế này được tổ chức một năm 2 lần; và hiện tại, khu chợ đã có mặt tại Tramsheds đúng ngay thời gian Giáng Sinh. Với hơn 50 gian hàng sản phẩm thủ công địa phương bao gồm phụ kiện thời trang, đồ trang sức, đồ gốm và các tác phẩm nghệ thuật sáng tạo, The Makers’ Nest Design Market xứng đáng trở thành một trong những khu chợ Giáng Sinh tuyệt nhất Sydney bạn không nên bỏ qua.

Địa điểm Giáng sinh ở Úc: Precinct 75 Summer Design Fair (Sydney)

Cũng giống như The Makers’ Nest Design Market, Precinct 75’s SUMMER DESIGN FAIR là một thiên đường của các sản phẩm thiết kế và sản xuất thủ công xinh xắn, vô cùng thích hợp cho những ai đang bí ý tưởng cho món quá Giáng Sinh năm nay.

Địa điểm Giáng sinh ở Úc: Christmas Fare (Sydney)

Phiên chợ thường niên tại Hyde Park Barracks là nơi tụ họp của 40 gian hàng ẩm thực, nhà bán lẻ, thợ thủ công địa phương – chỉ duy nhất một buổi tối trước Giáng Sinh. Tại đây, bạn có thể mua dưa chua, thịt hun khói, trà, và các loại đồ gia dụng.

Địa điểm Giáng sinh ở Úc: Paramount Recreation Club Holiday Market (Sydney)

Ngày đầu tiên của mùa hè có vẻ là một thời điểm vô cùng đẹp để chọn quà Giáng Sinh, và có lẽ không một nơi nào thuận lợi hơn Paramount Holiday Market cho sự kiện này. Bạn sẽ tha hồ lựa chọn vô vàn sản phẩm chất lượng nhưng cũng không kém phần đáng yêu từ các thương hiệu địa phương như In Bed, Mud Australia và Dinosaur Designs.

Địa điểm Giáng sinh ở Úc: Finders Keepers (Sydney)

Đây là hội chợ thiết kế phong cách indie của Úc – hiện sắp trở quay lại tại Barangaroo Cutaway trong ba ngày. Những ai mê mẩn các sản phẩm thủ công và thiết kế tinh xảo chắc chắn không nên lướt qua khu chợ với hơn 200 gian hàng này.

Địa điểm Giáng sinh ở Úc: Watson Bay Xmas Twilight Market (Sydney)

Chợ Giáng Sinh đặc biệt này được tổ chức vào buổi chiều tà tại Watsons Bay. Ngoài các món đồ thủ công không thể thiếu, khu chợ còn được trang trí đèn lung linh huyền ảo, nhạc sống sôi động cùng nhiều quầy hàng ẩm thực, quán bar ngoài trời,…sẽ không khiến bạn thất vọng.

Địa điểm Giáng sinh ở Úc: Glebe Artisans Market (Sydney)

Phiên chợ được tổ chức hàng quý tại công viên Foley Park và thường có khoảng 50 gian hàng đồ trang sức, cây cảnh, đồ nội thất, quần áo thời trang và đồ chơi trẻ em,… tất cả đều là những ý tưởng quà Giáng Sinh hoàn hảo.

Địa điểm Giáng sinh ở Úc: Artists’ Christmas Car Boot Sale (Sydney)

Nếu bạn đang tìm kiếm một điều gì đó thật đặc biệt và khác thường, đừng bỏ qua Artists’ Christmas Car Boot Sale – một trong những khu chợ Giáng Sinh tuyệt nhất Sydney. Thay vì những quầy hàng, họ biến xe của mình thành nơi trưng bày buôn bán. Các sản phẩm đặc biệt bạn có thể tìm thấy tại đây bao gồm đồ gốm, hàng dệt may, thời trang, sản phẩm nghệ thuật và rất nhiều món đồ hay ho khác.

Địa điểm Giáng sinh ở Úc: The Big Design Market (Sydney)

Với hơn 200 gian hàng địa phương từ các nhà thiết kế, các nhà sản xuất đồ thủ công, handmade, Big Design Market Sydney không những là một nơi mua sắm Giáng Sinh hoàn hảo mà còn là nơi thưởng thức ẩm thực tuyệt vời.

Địa điểm Giáng sinh ở Úc: The Rocks Christmas Markets (Sydney)

Dạo bộ xuống The Rocks từ thứ Sáu đến Chủ nhật, bạn sẽ thấy một ngôi làng chuyên bán hàng thủ công mỹ nghệ, quần áo thiết kế và sản phẩm nghệ thuật địa phương độc đáo. Và sắp tới, để chuẩn bị cho dịp lễ Giáng Sinh, khu chợ này sẽ thêm phần lung linh và sôi động.

Địa điểm Giáng sinh ở Úc: Darling Quarter Christmas Markets (Sydney)

Hãy đặt lịch và đến ngay Darling Quarter Christmas Markets để săn những món đồ trang trí Giáng Sinh và những món quà ý nghĩa cho gia đình và bạn bè.

Nguồn: Những địa điểm ngắm đèn và chợ Giáng Sinh đẹp nhất nước Úc

[jeremystrele]

Eco House Western Australia

Eco House Western Australia

Homes

Anna Flanders

Inside the WA home of Tanya McKenna, Peter Chadwick and Henri the boxer. The forest green bottle grinders by Menu were gifted to Tanya by her best friends; the vintage amber wine glasses were found at the local tip; the original 1970’s teapot was gifted to Tanya by Peter in Copenhagen; and the handmade hanging plywood light was by Peter. Photography – Dion Robeson, styling – Anna Flanders.

The height of the interior coupled with the soaring window ‘mosaic’ give the home it’s airy, relaxed feel. The forest-green door was purchased privately by Tanya and Peter from a demolition sale (and is said to be from a mansion once owned by Alan Bond). They painted it Forest Green to match their living room wall. The woven baskets were gifted to Tanya by Carla; the white metal coat hanger was sourced from France on Ebay; the staghorn plant was gifted to Tanya by her parents and reinforced to eco-ply sheeting by Peter. Photography – Dion Robeson, styling – Anna Flanders.

‘This is our urban retreat away from the hustle and bustle of life, but still close to everything we love and need. We’re always on the go with busy lives, but we’re always relaxed at home. We love to cook, put on a record and just relax, or host long-table dinners in the courtyard. It’s nice having a smaller space that doesn’t require as much maintenance, too,’ says Tanya. Photography – Dion Robeson, styling – Anna Flanders.

The kitchen is made from custom pre-finished plywood cabinetry designed by Carla at Etica Studio and made locally by Raw Edge Furniture. Tanya and Peter sourced the Oregon benchtops from a salvage yard. Fridge and appliances are by Smeg and Miele. The oregon staircase and custom metalwork balustrade are by Customised Metal Works , while the light was designed and handmade by Tanya and Peter. Original Danish wall sconces and rattan stools were sourced privately by Tanya, and white tapware is by Astra Walker. Photography – Dion Robeson, styling – Anna Flanders.

Carla designed the pantry and Raw Edge Furniture crafted it. Tanya and Peter had it painted Forest Green to bookend each side of the open-plan living area. The Smeg fridge is a smart inclusion in this area, topped with greenery from Tanya’s nan and overlooked by original 60s Danish sconce lights purchased privately off Ebay and rewired by Peter (an electrician by trade). Photography – Dion Robeson, styling – Anna Flanders.

Tanya and Peter sourced the amber glass and vintage windows to create this soaring mosaic of windows. It beautifully works with the recycled rammed concrete (made using crushed concrete rubble from building sites and demolitions) to give a soulful, yet contemporary, backdrop. On the table is a retro vase was gifted to Tanya by her best friend. Photography – Dion Robeson, styling – Anna Flanders.

This area is one of the most beautiful areas in the home, where light floods into the space and hits the clean surfaces to add a wonderful warmth. Tanya and Peter bought the original 1960s table from Roofpocket; the pendant light was made by Kira and Kira; and the chairs were sourced privately by Tanya and Peter. Henri also gets to eat in this area, where you can see his dog bowl by Mog & Bone. Photography – Dion Robeson, styling – Anna Flanders.

The Forest Green walls and white resin flooring bring out the aged, but beautiful, warm timbers in the furniture. ‘It’s a very calming space with lots of warmth. It has soul. The pop of greenery in every room contributes to the soothing atmosphere,’ says Tanya. Photography – Dion Robeson, styling – Anna Flanders.

Original 1960s bricks were sourced from a demolition site, then painted white. A concrete plinth has been incorporated into the wall to soften the architecture with displays. The print of Monstera delisiosa is by (By) Garmi from Norsu Interiors and the real interior greenery is by Tanya. The wood fire is by Nectre from Subiaco Restoration. Photography – Dion Robeson, styling – Anna Flanders.

The main living area is filled with natural materials and a wonderful collection of pieces that have been sourced, handed down and found… the natural jute rug is from IKEA , the original mid-century Danish armchairs from INTOO Collectibles , the 1960s nesting tables were made by Tanya’s late-grandfather and gifted to the couple by their Nana, and the wire chair, vintage speakers and Danish sideboard were all sourced privately. The original Danish retro leather sofa was bought from the now-closed Revival Hill store in Perth. Photography – Dion Robeson, styling – Anna Flanders.

Natural light and cross ventilation were designed into the southern side of the home through a custom-made timber hopper window. Peter built the pine shelf above that provides a subtle break into the white-painted brick wall. Photography – Dion Robeson, styling – Anna Flanders.

The kitchen benchtop was made from locally sourced recycled oregon, which was originally from a pub in Northam, WA. It was carefully repurposed by Raw Edge Furniture into a benchtop. The stairway and grid mesh balustrade was designed by Carla and made by local tradesmen. Photography – Dion Robeson, styling – Anna Flanders.

The study space sits above the kitchen and dining areas on the home’s mezzanine and is filled with natural light through the home’s two-storey window ‘mosaic’. It’s screened with 1960’s breezeblocks and is incorporated into a long stretch of cabinetry, which was made by local makers Raw Edge Furniture. The lamp is from Angove Street Collective and the vintage rattan stool was purchased privately. On the floor are salvaged Baltic pine floorboards from the original Melbourne Town Hall. Tanya and Peter found them on Gumtree and carefully restored them with local woodworkers. Photography – Dion Robeson, styling – Anna Flanders.

Peter handmade the plywood bed to perfectly fit the bedroom space. The vintage amber lights were sourced privately by Tanya and Carla and fitted by Peter. Timber windows were custom made by Furntech Joinery and the bed features the couple’s preferred organic cotton linen bedding from IN BED Store. Photography – Dion Robeson, styling – Anna Flanders.

There are two guest rooms in the home and each have the same retro vibe. This one features an original 1970’s double bed sourced privately off Gumtree by Tanya and Peter. They prefer to use organic cotton linen bedding by IN BED Store and have mixed it on this bed with velvet olive green pillow cases by Kip & Co from Remedy in Leederville. The poster is from a bar in Copenhagen and the travel books are a collection of Tanya and Peters. The woven baskets were gifted to Tanya by Carla. Photography – Dion Robeson, styling – Anna Flanders.

This is one of Tanya and Peter’s favourite views in the home – looking out through a window to a section of their green roof featuring philodendrons and mother-in-laws tongue. ‘Having greenery permanently in our bedroom is beautiful and calming — it’s a huge credit to Carla,’ says Tanya. Photography – Dion Robeson, styling – Anna Flanders.

The bathroom is a lesson in simplicity… Cabinetry is by Raw Edge Furniture and tapware by Astra Walker. The mirror cabinetry was fitted by Peter. The couple prefer to use locally made vegan body products by Clean Slate . Photography – Dion Robeson, styling – Anna Flanders.

This was a lucky find! Tanya managed to source a 1970s forest-green bathtub with matching basin from Adelaide for the ensuite. The tapware is Astra Walker and greenery by Tanya. Photography – Dion Robeson, styling – Anna Flanders.

The northfacing courtyard utilises 1960s breezeblocks and white-painted recycled bricks. The table was made by Peter out of recycled oregon timber to match the interior benchtops and the vintage chairs were purchased secondhand from a salvage yard and repurposed with plywood seats by Peter. The outdoor lighting was also purchased second-hand. The permeable paving and courtyard design are by Tanya and Peter. Photography – Dion Robeson, styling – Anna Flanders.

The rear-lane access features a Forest Green roller door in keeping with the theme of the home. You can just spy the green roof, which was installed on two levels of the roof by Deep Green Landscaping with cladding by Scyon , timber window frames by Furntech Joinery. The permeable paving was sourced and installed by Peter and Tanya and the concrete planter made by Peter from left-over concrete in a previous renovation. Greenery by Tanya. Photography – Dion Robeson, styling – Anna Flanders.

Tanya McKenna and Peter Chadwick are self-confessed ‘passionate renovators’. She’s a sustainability consultant, and he’s a trades manager for a Perth renovation company. Together they are a savvy sustainable-design force… especially teamed with Tanya’s equally as eco-focused architect sister Carla Karsakis of Etica Studio.

It was 2014 when Tanya found the 200sqm urban infill block their home sits on today. At the time, she and Peter were half-way through a two-year renovation of a 1920s cottage, and had just returned from a two-month holiday in Uruguay and Brazil. It was also at this time that Carla launched her architectural studio, so the timing seemed right for a new project.

‘We worked really closely with Carla to maximize the small space into a three-bedroom, two-bathroom home with a huge open-plan living space, dream kitchen and leafy courtyard,’ explains Tanya. ‘We are really close as sisters and we worked well together, bouncing ideas off one another.’

The result is a two storey (or one level with mezzanine) home the couple refer to as ‘The Nature-Inspired Eco House’. They live here with their nine-month-old boxer Henri, a family of indoor plants and the occasional Airbnb guest. This home, however, is as much a place to live, as is it a physical manifestation of the couple’s life philosophy.

‘How we live is not only important for us as human beings, but also for the world,’ says Tanya. ‘If we design living spaces with a lesser environmental footprint – with the earth and our comfort in mind – we’re not only creating beautiful healthy spaces, but we’re doing our bit for the climate. For us, our home demonstrates what is possible.’

Concrete (crushed and repurposed rubble), brick (1960s breeze blocks and reclaimed bricks), timber (revamped Baltic floorboards from the original Melbourne Town Hall fit-out and 1960s windows, doors and skirting boards) and low-VOC paints in Forest Green and white on the walls, with a white resin on the floors, set the palette of the home.

One element that is not seen, but incredibly important is a green roof by Deep Green Landscaping. Solar panels, a solar hot-water system (both by Infinite Energy) and greenery are packed above the house, which is fitting given Tanya is an advocate for the 202020 Vision – a national campaign to increase urban green space by 20 per cent by 2020.

‘As the global population grows and more people live in urban areas, there will be a greater need for the green roof as a heat sink in a warming climate, pollution reduction method, purifier of air and filter system for stormwater runoff, and a space for flora and fauna to increase urban biodiversity,” Tanya explains. The roof is accessed via a Danish-designed Velux skylight thanks to her parents’ company  and she hopes it stands as an example of how residential homes can incorporate such a feature.

When it came to the home’s look and feel, the couple wanted to mix the brutalist aesthetic they had seen on holiday in South America, with the ‘hyggelig’ interiors they had experienced on a six-month visit to Denmark in 2011.

With the reclaimed materials and architectural design taking care of the Brutalist aspect, it was the ‘hygge’ they had to bring in, through furniture and accessories. Pieces throughout the home are a mix of custom designs; family objects, such as the nest of coffee tables made by Tanya’s grandfather and gifted to them by her nan; buys from mid-century stores in Perth; Gumtree finds; and other pieces the couple have sourced over time.

The soaring windows, which are a mosaic of reclaimed 60s clear and amber panes, and an oversized set of French doors, flood the largely white space with natural northern light, creating more of that warmth they were after. The light flows into the bottom and top floors, heating them up in winter and providing views over the neighboring roofs and treetops.

The couple say the home is relaxing in the morning, bright and airy through the day and calming in the evenings. They point to the natural light, fresh air and living greenery throughout the home as the element behind that. Of course, it’s also to do with the soulful materials palette, collections of furniture and objects and the passion and consideration that have gone into the design and build of this project.

‘Our home represents everything about us. There’s something to be said about living in a space that you worked so hard to create – every single thing was thought out. Together with the inner-city location and beautiful outlook, we couldn’t really ask for anything more,’ says Tanya.

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