#ooow I love this book so much!

[itsyouch]

Hehe ignore the DRASTIC art style change, I kinda forgor what I was drawing xp

[e-bacellar]

Since you asked me, can I ask YOUR acosf favorite moments? 🤗 (it's the bookish-valkyrie between!)

OOOW, thanks for the question!

I have so many favorite moments in ACOSF, so many. For me ACOSF is one of the best books in the series so I am a suspect to speak.

Pretty much every moment of the Valkyries, they are in my heart and I love them. From Nesta's first interaction with Emerie and Gwyn, Nesta trying to get them to come together in training. Nesta training in the library and getting Cassian to go help her there so that the Priestess would feel safe to start training; them talking during training and Cassian getting in the way. All their moments I read with a smile on my face.

I think the representation of them and the house to Nesta is very strong and meaningful; she was looking for friends, a family, someone who would not judge and accept her and she finds that in the house and with the Valkyries.

Nesta overcoming her traumas and interacting with other people made my heart warm, especially on the solstice when she goes to talk to Lucien and Azriel, she was normally the person who was left out of the conversation group, I thought it was significant that she goes to talk to them.

Her dynamic with Cassian was also a lot of fun and I loved the dynamic between Nesta x Cassian x Azriel.

And all the Gwynriels moments that appear in the book.

[misscorn]

Day 2 Clumsy/Date

Here's my second contribution to @takaritsuweek ! I really hope yall are enjoying these, I feel like writing oneshots is kinda hard for me bc I dont want too much or too little to happen

Anyways, high school nostalgia literally gives me life so yes we're still in the past lol

***

Onodera Ritsu was currently trying to ignore how his senpai was staring at him. The brunette had his face in a book, using it as a wall of defense as he tried not to give into the temptation of looking beside him where Saga Masamune sat. However, Ritsu couldn't bear the weight of his senpai's gaze for very long, feeling his cheeks start to heat up with embarrassment. Was his hair sticking up in a weird way? Or was he having some kind of wardrobe malfunction? Or was there something on his face? It was practically killing the first year at this point, so finally he turned ever so slightly to face Saga just a tad more, not being bold or brave enough to face him straight on.

"Um, S-Saga-senpai, w-why are you s-staring at me?" Ritsu managed to get out, not meeting Saga's eyes.

"Ah, sorry, I didn't mean to. I was just thinking." Saga said vaguely, averting his gaze since it seemed to be making his kohai uncomfortable.

"Thinking about what? I-If you don't mind me asking!" Ritsu hoped he wouldn't come off as prying or nosy. If his senpai didn't want to share then that was okay!

"Just that we should go on another date sometime soon." Saga said calmly, knowing perfectly well what kind of reaction his words would elicit.

As if on que, Ritsu went red to his ears and had to stop himself from shouting 'a date?!' not wanting to bring any more attention to the two of them than necessary. However, one particular word caught his ear.

"Another?" Ritsu parroted, blinking at Saga blankly, seeming to have no recollection of a first date ever happening which made Saga frowned.

"Yes, another." Saga said. "Remember, we got lunch together? You freaked out when trying to order because of all the options." He reminded him, trying not to smirk. It was a little funny, after all, the way Ritsu got so flustered, but also kind of cute and endearing.

Did Ritsu really not remember their first date? Saga knew the brunette could be a little bit scatterbrained sometimes, but the thought of him forgetting their first date kind of...hurt. Not that Saga would ever admit that.

However, Saga's fears were laid to rest as Ritsu's eyes lit up with realization. "Yes! Yes, I remember, but I just...I d-didn't realize th-that was a...d-d-date." He admitted, struggling to even get the word out.

"What? Did you not have fun or something?" Saga asked, frowning again.

"N-no, no, that's not it!" Ritsu assured. Although it had been difficult for him to order, the food was good and he had enjoyed spending time with his senpai, like he always did. He looked down nervously before he spoke again to explain himself. "I-I guess I just didn't want to assume that senpai would want to g-go on a d-date with m-me." Ritsu said quietly. Somehow, he was even embarrassed by that confession. He felt like everything he said and did was wrong and annoying and stupid and-

BONK

Ritsu sat there stunned for a moment before realizing Saga had gently brought his fist down on to the top of his head. "Idiot. Of course I want to go on a date with you. We are dating after all." Saga said. "It's settled then. We're going on another date. Are you free on Sunday?"

"E-Eh?! W-wait-s-senpai-I don't-"

"Do you not wanna go on a date?" Saga asked, trying not to hint at his disappointment.

"N-no! I m-mean yes! I mean-" Ritsu paused and took a breath. "I mean I'd very much like to go on a d-date." He said, face completely red. "A-and yes, I'm free on Sunday." He added.

"Good. Want to get lunch again? We can go someplace else this time if you want." Saga said.

"N-no, I'm okay with going to the same spot. I don't get to eat a lot of fast food, so..." He trailed off, giving a sheepish laugh. "I'll just have to figure out my order before hand so I don't get overwhelmed." He added, looking determined now.

Saga had to stop himself from chuckling, not wanting to accidentally discourage the brunette, he was just so damn cute.

"I'll meet you there at noon then?" Saga said, his voice giving way to his excitement just a little bit, but Ritsu either didn't notice or thought nothing of it.

"Yeah! A-and maybe afterward w-we can go to the bookstore?" Ritsu suggested hesitantly.

As if Saga would say no.

"Sure." He said.

Ritsu smiled brightly, satisified with their plan and now looking greatly forward to the upcoming weekend.

---------------------------------------------------

Saga had been looking forward to this weekend too. Until he was standing alone, an hour after noon. He frowned to himself, considering going inside and getting something to go before heading home, but he continued to hold out hope that Ritsu would miraculously show up.

Ritsu wouldn't stand him up, right? Ritsu wouldn't forget about their date, would he? Maybe something popped up, some kind of emergency. Or worse, maybe Ritsu got hurt somehow. It didn't help that the underclassman didn't have a freaking cellphone! Seriously, this was the twenty-first century and if something had happened then Ritsu could have easily texted or called instead of leaving him out to dry like this. Ritsu better have a good excuse come tomorrow afternoon as to why he bailed.

Saga sighed, feeling defeated as he was about to forget the food all together and head home to sulk in his room when he heard a familiar voice call out.

"S-Senpai!"

Saga turned to see Ritsu waving and running toward him. Never had Saga been so happy to see the awkward teen. However, his relief was short-lived as a splitsecond later the brunette fell on his face.

"Oi, Ritsu! Are you alright?" Saga asked, quickly at his side and helping him up.

"Ooow." Ritsu complained as he stood from the sidewalk. "I'm fine, I'm fine, I fall like that all the time." He admitted. "I'm clumsy like that." He said, his embarrassment starting to catch up with him as he blushed darkly. "A-anyways, I'm so, so sorry for being late senpai!" Ritsu apologized quickly, a frown on his face. "I told my mother I was leaving to meet a friend and she wouldn't let me go. She just kept hounding me about details and she kept trying to keep me there by guilt tripping me about not spending time with family." He sighed. "I'm really, really sorry for making you wait, senpai. Kind of a lousy start to a date, huh?" Ritsu said, trying to joke around to lighten the mood, but he just felt like crying.

Saga wanted to tell him that all was forgiven, that he would wait for Ritsu endlessly, that he had been so happy to see him running down the street, that he was relieved that he wasn't the only one who cared about this date and wanted it to go well, and most of all he wanted to tell him that he loved him. Instead, he just ruffled Ritsu's hair. "It's okay." He assured. "We still have all afternoon. There's no rush."

Ritsu smiled up at him, his worries allevated at his senpai's words. Although Saga was quiet, sometimes even distant, he always proved again and again what Ritsu had originally thought: his senpai was so kind.

"Come on, I'm starving." Saga said, leading him inside. "Tell me what you want, I'll order for you if you wanna get us a table." He said.

Ritsu, although wanting to prove he could order, was very grateful for the offer. He recited to his senpai the order he had memorized before coming here and then left his side to go sit.

Saga waited behind a couple people, glancing at Ritsu ever so often and smiling to himself.

This would be a good second date.

He would make sure of it so Ritsu would want a third.

[sugarbabywenkexing]

@redalader​ replied to your post:

i absolutely LOVED the show but i would love it if you could expand on your tags because I want to know more about what worked better in the books (the jaskier plot kinda makes me sad im ngl i wish he hadnt written the song now)

No problem, I’m happy to expand some! Under the cut, because it got really long. There should be no book spoilers past what Netflix has already covered, just missing scenes.

So with Jaskier, I’ve just checked and I wasn’t totally accurate in my tags. He does still write a ballad after that adventure, but:

“[...] Do you know what? I’m going to tell you something.” He stopped playing, hugged the lute like a child and grew sad. “I don't think I’ll mention the elves and the difficulties they've got to struggle with, in the ballad. There'd be no shortage of scum wanting to go into the mountains…Why hasten the—” The troubadour grew silent.

“Go on, finish,” said Torque bitterly. “You wanted to say: hasten what can't be avoided. The inevitable.”

Writing that ballad will destroy the safety of the elves living there, and for Jaskier it’s just another song. He’s already a popular bard at this point, it’s not like it’s going to make a big difference to him. Geralt still has his ideas about how the elves should give up and fit in with society (which I have my issues with, but do think is primarily to do with his own desire for normality), but after they’re freed they don’t want any harm to come to the elves. And then you look at Toss A Coin To Your Witcher and the elves are a “pest” and Geralt is a “Champion” and “friend of humanity” for defeating them, which actually misses the point entirely. The elves are vilified, where in the short story they’re pitied.

The first time that Geralt and Ciri interact is after Ciri, age ten, runs away from home because Calanthe is setting up an arranged marriage for her. This is the point at which she ends up in Brokilon forest and meets Geralt, and they bond during the few days they spend together. There’s a lot of really delightful moments:

“Ooow...” the little girl yelped as she took a step.

“What’s the matter?”

“I’ve done something... To my leg.”

“Wait, Braenn! Come here, scamp, I’ll carry you pick-a-back.”

“There was once... a cat,” he began. “An ordinary tabby mouser. And one day that cat went off, all by itself, on a long journey to a terrible, dark forest. He walked... And he walked... And he walked...”

“Don’t think,” Ciri mumbled, cuddling up to him, “that I’ll fall asleep before he gets there.”

“Are you mocking me?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Know what? I can’t stand you.”

“That’s dreadful. Ciri, you’ve stabbed me in the very heart.”

“I know,” she nodded gravely, sniffing, and then clung tightly to him.

Eventually, they escape and Geralt leaves Ciri with Mousesack. This is the point at which Mousesack attempts to encourage Geralt to follow his destiny, for Ciri’s sake as well as his own.

“How do you know Ciri would want to go with me? Because of some old prophecies?”

“No,” Mousesack said gravely. “Because she only fell asleep after you cuddled her. Because she mutters your name and searches for your hand in her sleep.”

Geralt still chooses to leave at this point, but this means that when they meet again outside Yurga’s hut it’s a reunion, rather than the first time. Geralt has been searching for Ciri since he heard of the fall of Cintra, and Ciri, after being left all alone in the world, has found someone she knows she can rely on.

“You found me! Oh, Geralt! I was waiting all the time! For so very long... We’ll be together now, won’t we? Now we’ll be together, won’t we? Say it, Geralt! Forever! Say it!”

“Forever, Ciri.”

“It’s like they said! Geralt! It’s like they said! Am I your destiny? Say it! Am I your destiny?”

[...]

“You’re more than that, Ciri. Much more.”

Now obviously in the series it’s difficult to fit this in with the rest of Ciri’s storyline as we’re starting with the Fall of Cintra, but I would have been a lot happier with Ciri being introduced a few episodes in and spreading her backstory out over a longer period. I’ve seen people saying they watched the end of Something More and thought Geralt and Ciri were meant to marry each other (given Pavetta and Duny), and I think that says a lot about how little development was given to their relationship.

I don’t think I mentioned this in the tags, but Geralt and Yennefer’s first meeting in the books is when she’s incredibly hung over, craving apple juice, and in the bed of her current boyfriend. 

The stairs led to a bedroom, the floor of which was covered in an enormous, shaggy animal skin. A white shirt with lace cuffs, and umpteen white roses, lay on the skin. And a black stocking.

The other stocking hung from one of the four engraved posts which supported the domed canopy over the bed. [...]

Geralt cleared his throat loudly, looking at the abundant black locks visible from under the eiderdown. The eiderdown moved and moaned. Geralt cleared his throat even louder.

“Beau?” the abundance of black locks asked indistinctly. “Have you brought the juice?”

It’s a meet ugly in the extreme, and I don’t understand why it was replaced by the dub-con magical orgy scene. Maybe they wanted a bit more nudity or something, I don’t know.

After that, we’ve got Geralt asking for help, the mind control, the trip to prison, and eventually we get to the wish. In the series, Yennefer doesn’t hear what Geralt wished, and it’s portrayed as being some kind of love spell, which throws in the usual consent issues. In the books, we still don’t know the exact wording of Geralt’s wish, but there’s a big clue thrown in.

“It's not that simple,” the priest pondered. “But if…If he expressed the right wish…If he somehow tied his fate to the fate…No, I don't think it would occur to him. And it's probably better that it doesn't.”

Yennefer hears exactly what Geralt wishes, and isn’t bothered by it. Her biggest concern is that the whole “tying their fates together” thing will disadvantage him:

“Your wish,” she whispered, her lips very near his ear. “I don't know whether such a wish can ever be fulfilled. I don't know whether there's such a Force in Nature that could fulfill such a wish. But if there is, then you've condemned yourself. Condemned yourself to me.”

In both the books and the series we don’t see them interacting between fighting the djinn and the dragon hunt. However the relationship during that time is portrayed differently in both. In the series it seems like a number of one night stands over the years, whereas in the books we know Geralt and Yennefer lived in Vengerberg together for around a year (until Geralt freaked out and ran off in the middle of the night, which is where the antagonism comes in when they meet again).

When the breakup comes around, Yennefer is trying to choose between Istredd, who adores her, but who she feels nothing for, and Geralt, who she loves but who can’t convince her that he loves her back (because he’s hiding behind his so-called lack of emotions). For most of the story she plans to leave Istredd and choose Geralt, until she confronts him about his feelings and her own insecurities. The short stories play with fairy tales a lot, and Sapkowski uses The Snow Queen as a metaphor here:

“I’m travelling with you, Yen, because the harness of my sleigh got entangled, caught up in your runners. And a blizzard is all around me. And a frost. It’s cold.”

“Warmth would melt the shard of ice in you, the shard I stabbed you with,” she whispered. “Then the spell would be broken and you would see me as I really am.”

“Then lash your white horses, Yen. May they race north, where a thaw never sets in. I want to get to your ice castle as quickly as I can.”

“That castle doesn’t exist,” Yennefer said, her mouth twitching. She grimaced. “It’s a symbol. And our sleigh ride is the pursuit of a dream which is unattainable. For I, the Elf Queen, desire warmth. That is my secret. Which is why, every year, my sleigh carries me amidst a blizzard through some little town and every year someone dazzled by my spell gets their harness caught in my runners. Every year. Every year someone new. Endlessly. Because the warmth I desire at the same time blights the spell, blights the magic and the charm. My sweetheart, stabbed with that little icy star, suddenly becomes an ordinary nobody. And I become, in his thawed out eyes, no better than all the other... mortal women...”

Yennefer is afraid that he’ll grow tired of her, or that she’ll grow tired of him. She wants more out of the relationship emotionally, but is afraid it will ruin what they already have. Geralt thinks they’re happy as they are, so why do things need to change? But what he wants isn’t enough for her, and what she wants is too much for him, so in the end the relationship falls apart and she leaves town, refusing to choose either man.

 Despite my complaining about it here, I really do think the Netflix series did very well. I enjoy it a lot, but there are things that I find frustrating. On the other hand, there are things I think the Netflix series does better - there’s no depiction of Sodden Hill in the books and I think that was fantastically done, and they cut some uncomfortable scenes that don’t make a difference plot-wise which I really appreciate. It’s more that it gets frustrating when a showrunner regularly insists that they’re being incredibly accurate to the books and they just... aren’t.

[pengychan]

[Good Omens] Winging It - Psalm 91:4

Summary: Shockingly, attempting to destroy an angel without consulting God first comes with consequences. There is more than one way to fall, and a thousand more ways to inconvenience an angel and a demon who just wanted to be left in peace. Characters: Gabriel, Crowley, Aziraphale, Beelzebub, Michael Rating: T  

Prologue and all chapters are tagged as ‘winging it’ on my blog.

A/N: If you think I have an actual plan, ineffable or not, for where this fic is going, think again. 'Winging it’ is not just a title: it’s precisely what I’m doing.

***

Aziraphale had no intention whatsoever to open the shop that day. 

He hadn’t even planned to stay in it, because a new Korean restaurant had just opened in Holborn and he was dying to try it, metaphorically speaking. Normally it would take some twelve minutes via the Central like - or the Piccadilly line if he felt like walking for approximately one minute and fifty-seven seconds longer from his shop - but that day, according to the radio, there were severe delays on all Tube lines due to signalling issues. 

‘Signalling issues’ meant, in that one specific case, that all screens were inexplicably showing obscene phrases while loudspeakers refused to broadcast any announcements, opting to blast out I'm In Love With My Car at full volume instead. Engineers had yet to figure out how to make it stop, as turning off all power hadn’t worked. Signals meant for train drivers kept blinking quickly, spelling out SOS in morse code over and over.

Aziraphale was… reasonably certain it had been entirely Crowley’s work, both because it would fit his style and because, the previous evening, he did tell him not to bother with the Tube. 

“No need to get underground, Angel. I’ll come pick you up in the morning,” he’d said. 

And now he would be late, most likely, lamenting the insane traffic he’d be caught in after forgetting, somehow, that traffic jams tend to happen when London’s public underground transport grinds to a complete halt.

Would he ever learn better? Aziraphale rather hoped not. He found it endearing, although he wouldn’t subject Crowley to the humiliation of being told as much to his face; and, right now, it gave him some extra time to pop into one of his favorite bakeries and have a bit of a late breakfast before Crowley got there. He’d get an extra croissant for him to try, he thought as he went to open the door and stepped out. Maybe he’d eventually get him to chew his food instead of swallowing it whole like a snake, wouldn’t that be--

Before he could finish that thought, Aziraphale fell. Azirafell, if you will. He stumbled, really, on something right at the doorway - a heap of clothes, it looked like. Not as bad as a fall from Heaven would be, but the meeting with the pavement was still an unpleasant experience. 

“Ooow! What was-- oh. Oh dear.”

What he’d mistaken for a heap of clothes left at his doorstep was, in fact, a heap of clothes. Only with a body in the clothes. Not the dead kind of body, hopefully. But really, it was a bit worrying how someone stumbling over him hadn’t even made him stir. 

Oh please, sir, don’t be dead, because then I’ll want to miracle you back to life and that is frowned upon without permission. Not that I know precisely what my standing with Heavenly authority is at the moment, but I’d really prefer not to meddle with it any more than necessary. 

Lifting himself from the pavement - he’d miracle the smudges off his clothes later - Aziraphale went to crouch next to the man, put a hand on his shoulder, and shook him. “Sir? Sir, are you-- oh.”

Aziraphale had always found the smell of blood uniquely unpleasant and if not for his angelic nature, the sight of his own reddened palm would have made him feel physically sick. But at least the man was alive, because he had felt life, beating steady in his ribcage. Who knew how he’d come to be hurt like that - stabbed, perhaps, knife crime in London was getting quite awful - but he’d come to the right place. He’d heal him, and be on his way. 

A quick glance - no, no close enough to see anything yet; but oh, how many people had walked past without even noticing him? - and Aziraphale lifted his hand to heal the man. Only that he chose that moment to stir weakly, to turn, and the blessing he’d been about to utter died in Azirapale’s throat when he saw his ashen-pale face. Or at least, a good part of it.

It was Gabriel, and not the Gabriel who occasionally delivered him a nice dinner when he was peckish but too enthralled by a book to get out to a restaurant. It was the Archangel Gabriel, passed out at his doorstep. Wounded, bleeding and absolutely, entirely, impossibly-- human. 

No. No, it couldn’t be. It was unheard of - surely, he was wrong. It was only someone who looked an awful lot like him, Aziraphale thought. But as he reached for his face, and gingerly pulled up his eyelid, he found himself looking at a familiar, distinctive purplish eye. Only that now the pupil shrank at the light, and he made a choking sound, still unconscious. His brow was covered in cold sweat, hair sticking to it. 

The blood on his back. Where his wings would be. 

Celestial nature or not, Aziraphale found himself feeling… vaguely sick. Not sick enough to return his rather delicious dinner to the world, but enough to decide he could do without croissant that morning.

“Gabriel?” he called out, mind reeling. There was no reply, except for a shuddering breath when he turned him, accidentally putting pressures on… whatever had been done to his back. Whatever had been done to his wings. 

You know what’s been done to his wings.

“Sir? Is everything all right?”

Ah, of course, the curious chap. There is always a curious chap - no curious enough to check on the man motionless in a shop’s doorway, but enough to wonder when a second man is kneeling over him and it might already be too late. With a brief shake of his hand, Aziraphale miracled the blood on his palm away and turned to glance back. He smiled. 

“All is going wonderfully,” he said, causing the man to pause and blink, his expression turning vacant. “Actually, if you could help me bring this gentleman inside and then forget everything that happened to go your merry way, that would be brilliant…”

***

Beelzebub, Lord of the Flies and Prince of Hell, looked displeased.

In itself, that was nothing out of the ordinary: perpetual brooding was only fitting their position, after all. It would be a very cold day in Hell when demons went around looking pleased, and that was not the day: temperature was holding steady at around 62 degrees Celsius, which would be 143 degrees Fahrenheit for fellows across the pond. Not quite the fiery burning pit mortals imagined, but still hotter than the highest temperature ever registered on Earth, despite humans’ clear determination to match it in the near future.

However, something was slightly out of the ordinary. Beelzebub, Lord of the Flies and Prince of Hell, looked extremely displeased.

“An angel fell.”

“So it’s been reported, my Lord.”

“And it’s not here.”

“No, my Lord.”

“Why. Is it not. Here.”

Beelzebub growled. The flies around their head buzzed. Dagon looked at Hastur. Hastur looked… very uncomfortable. Good. He squirmed. Even better. 

“I… I don’t know, my Lord. I only heard whispers, you know they never speak the names of the Fallen again--”

“Because they’re not our names anymore,” Beelzebub said with an impatient wave of their hand. “We will name it. It is ours. All the Fallen are ours.”

“But it should have-- landed here,” Dagon spoke up. “All the Fallen do.”

“Maybe it’s not Fallen?”

Two pairs of eyes, plus the fragmented ones of several flies, turned back to Hastur. 

“I mean, cast out of Heaven, but didn’t turn up in Hell? Maybe it fell, but didn’t Fall.”

A fallen angel, yet not Fallen. It would be unprecedented, an amusing puzzle to solve… and Beelzebub hated amusing puzzles to solve almost as much as they despised fly paper. 

“If it was cast out of Heaven, it’s ours. The other side doesn’t get to change up the rules now - I demand an explanation, and a new soldier for Hell,” they snapped, and stood. Not much of a difference in terms of height, but it did make Hastur step back reverently. “Bring me the Messenger,” Beelzebub ordered, their voice a low buzz.

Hastur blinked.

“... The phone, for Satan’s sake,” Dagon snapped. “Bring us the phone.”

*** 

“Come ooooooooooon.”

Crowley’s phone rang while he was in the middle of a long groan, forehead firmly pressed against the wheel. The result was a long, continuous honk that was lost in the midsts of dozens more long, continuous honks. Bloody traffic.

“I don’t deserve this,” Crowley mumbled, ignoring the fact he was the cause behind all of it and perhaps he did, after all deserve some of it. Why had he done that, anyway? He didn’t really have to do anything, with Hell doing its best to forget he even existed and thus not sending out any orders anymore. It was a matter of mere habit, at that point. Everyone is supposed to have at least one bad habit, demons most of all.

Maybe he should take on smoking, but Aziraphale would so protest the smell and-- ah, right. Aziraphale. Phone. He was late, wasn’t he? With a sigh, Crowley tapped the screen to take the call, face still burrowed against the wheel - though he muted the honk for the sake of being able to speak.

“Bit of traffic here, Angel. I’ll be there in-- give me half a hour, and--”

“I, uh, think we might have to reschedule.”

Aziraphale, suggesting they delay trying out a brand new restaurant? That alone set off more alarm bells than a gang of chimps in charge of putting out a grease fire. Or Boris Johnson in charge of managing Brexit, which was basically the same thing. 

Crowley immediately sat up straight, turning his full attention to the phone. “What happened?”

“Nothing! It’s just... oh, I suppose something did happen. You see, I was about to walk out - you know that really good bakery across the road? It opened where that Patisserie Valerie used to be, a small independent business, and they make the most delicious croissants. They use less butter than they would in Paris, they’re a bit more like an Italian cornetto, and I thought you’d--”

“Angel.”

“Right, right-- I’m getting side tracked. As I was saying, it’s a small independent business and they have it so hard these days, I figure that if needed I could give some help--”

Crowley sighed, rolling his eyes behind dark lenses and drove the car forward for a grand total of three meters before stopping again. It was the greatest gain he’d made in fifteen minutes.

“Aziraphale. I am in the middle of one of the worst traffic congestion this city has ever seen--”

“Oh, I do wonder who caused it. Clearly the work of a wily demon who did not pause to consider consequences. Or did he?”

“That’s entirely beside the point,” Crowley protested. “What I’m saying is, we are going to that restaurant. We can miracle the bakery some clients if need be, no reason to reschedule--”

“Ah, it’s not about that.”

“... No?”

“Gabriel is here.”

Oh. That arse - the utter and complete bellend who had tried to have his angel destroyed in Hellfire. The memory of his words as he believed he was sending him to his complete annihilation - Shut your stupid mouth and die already - was enough to make Crowley hiss in fury. He’d have been worried, too, if not for the fact Aziraphale’s blabbing about bakeries wasn’t the sign of someone in distress or in imminent danger. And he probably wasn’t listening to the call - maybe he was outside the shop.

“Fine, fine, change of plans - we’re meeting at rendez-vous point number 3. Then we’re going--”

“Listen, it’s best if we reschedule and you come here. Gabriel--”

“Has no business being there. Tell him to go to Heaven,” Crowley snapped. 

“Well, I don’t think he-- can.”

“... Wait. What?”

“I’m not sure why-- well, this is unprecedented.”

Crowley blinked, mind struggling to grasp what he’d just heard, and he didn’t even realize immediately that the line of cars ahead of him had begun moving. The car behind him suddenly honked, and Crowley waved his hand. The BMW’s engine died in a sputter of sparks and smoke, and the Bentley moved another couple of meters.

“Did he - Fall?” he asked. It seemed absurd - no one had Fallen in so long - and he was too surprised to have time to feel any sort of satisfaction over it. 

“Yes and… no.”

“... Did you drink?”

“Only tea. Just… try to get here.”

“All right. Then we’re heading out, because whatever happened to him we’re not rescheduling.”

“Crowley, he’s in quite a state. I can’t just walk out and leave him here in the shop like this.”

“Of course not. First you kick him out.”

“Crowley.”

A sigh. “Fine, fine. I’ll come see what this is about.”

“Thank you. I am quite confused--”

“So I can kick him out.”

“Not while he’s like this! It wouldn’t be-- nice.”

“I’m a demon, not being nice is usually my thing. And he tried to destroy you.”

A pause.  “... When he’s better, surely, it wouldn’t hurt.”

Crowley grinned. “Now you’re talking,” he said before ending the call and advancing another bloody meter, wondering just what the Heaven was going on.

***

“That is classified information.”

“Don’t classified me, Michael.”

“It is policy and you know it.”

“You were always ready to throw policy out of the window when it suited you, though. Or else this back channel wouldn’t exist.” 

Beelzebub’s voice was odious as always, buzzing through her brain, oozing malice. Michael clenched her jaw, but had nothing to retort to that other than empty phrases and falsehoods. 

Gabriel was always best at those - “There are no back channels, Michael” - and that was why, between the two of them, he was the messenger and she was the warrior. They worked well together. But Gabriel was no longer there, nor one of them: for all intents and purposes, the Archangel Gabriel had ceased to exist the moment he’d been cast out of Heaven. His duties were divided up between herself, Uriel and Sandalphon; his name would be spoken no more.

“I know one of yours fell,” Beelzebub was going on. “Don’t bother denying it. What I do not know is why has it not showed up here, in its rightful place. It’s been a long time since we got a new Fallen. We’re ready to throw it a party.”

“With sulphur involved, I imagine.”

“Our side quite enjoys sulphur.”

Not Gabriel. He would hate every second of it - but there is no more Gabriel, is there?

No Archangel Gabriel. No back channels. Michael shifted the phone on her other hand, trying to block out the memories of cries and pleas, ripping noises and ragged sobs. 

“Plus, since when do you concern yourself with what a demon would enjoy? This one is no longer your concern, and given that Crowley has gone native-- yes, Hastur? Ligur who? Oh, yes. Him. Given that we lost two demons last week, it seems only fair we claim this new one.”

And do what with him? Michael’s mind went back to the trial of the demon Crowley, of the test they had made to ensure what she had brought truly was holy water. She remembered the usher being thrown in, screaming, pleading, asking what it had done to deserve destruction.

Wrong place, wrong time.

Please! Please! No!

Michael hadn’t thought much of it, then; it was the kind of thing demons would do, and she would not flinch for the fate of a lowly hellish creature. Mercy was not for them. But now…

It hurt it hurts it hurts please stop it stop it please–  Michael, please!

“He’s not yours.” Michael’s voice rang out suddenly, sharp as glass - sharp enough to make Beelzebub fall into a confused silence for a few moments. When they spoke again, their voice was a low buzz full of anger… and what might have been genuine curiosity. 

“Oh? And how come?”

“Because he’s not like you.”

“... Do I hear an Archangel defending the honor of a demon?”

“He’s not a demon,” Michael snapped, causing them to fall silent again on the other side of the line. “He’s not one of yours. You can’t have him.”

Another few moments of silence, followed by furious buzzing. “We’ll see about that,” Beelzebub seethed. “I’m done wasting time with you. I demand a meeting with Gabriel, at least he can--”

“He is unavailable,” Michael snapped, and ended the call before throwing the phone on the ground and crushing it under her heel.

***

After putting the phone down, Aziraphale could only sit and… well, wait. 

The shop was silent, the way he liked, except for the slow, regular breathing of someone sleeping in the middle of the room, where he’d miracled a carpet into a mattress to lean Gabriel onto. His breathing hadn’t been that quiet only ten minutes earlier, when he and the… volunteer had laid him down on his stomach: it had been labored, short gasps and shuddering exhales.

Once alone with him again, Aziraphale had miracled his clothes away and he’d seen… precisely what he’d expected to see, really, but that didn’t mean he’d been prepared. 

On Gabriel’s back, over the shoulder blades, there were two gaping, bleeding wounds. Something had been torn from there, leaving behind a mess of mangled flesh and, Aziraphale was rather sure, the tiniest glimpse of exposed bone. It was unsightly and quite serious, but healing it was, for an angel, a simple enough matter. 

And he had healed them: a gesture over the wounds, and they closed… but marks had remained, dark and ragged scar tissue where angelic wings had been torn away. Those were not the kind of wounds dealt by a mortal, or a mortal weapon; those were wounds only a supernatural being - angel or demon - may have caused. It wasn’t like anything mortal could harm an angel like this, and of course the missing wings were only a part of it.

Along with them, Gabriel had been stripped of his celestial nature. It seemed impossible, but proof was before his eyes. How could that have happened? Who had done such a thing? And why--?

“Nnnhh…”

Gabriel had groaned, shifted weakly. He hadn’t lifted his head, despite having been healed; Aziraphale suspected he had not yet adjusted to his new condition. Going from angel to mortal would probably feel like going from the power of a nuclear power plant to that of a depleted battery in energy saving mode. 

“Gabriel,” he’d called out, crouching next to him. Gabriel’s barely open eyes flickered towards him, the only part of him to move, cheek still pressed against the mattress. He seemed to struggle to put him into focus, but then there was something - a spark of recognition. He’d known who he was, at least. “You’re safe here,” Aziraphale had said, like he had the slightest idea of what or who had caused it. His shop didn’t even have the defenses to keep a crazed old nipple-counting witch hunter out while he was on a conference call with the Voice of God. Maybe he should take precautions, given the fate he and Crowley barely avoided by deception.

If this had been a trap, I would have been fooled entirely. 

Gabriel had worked his jaw, but not a word came out. He’d tried to lift his head, and Aziraphale pushed it down. “No, no. Don’t try to get up,” he’d said, and glanced briefly at his back again. “... What happened?”

For a moment there was no reaction, then Gabriel’s eyes shifted back on him. He looked dazed, but this time he managed to reply. “My wings,” he rasped. “Can’t feel my wings.”

“Yes, that would be because-- er.” He’d made a vague gesture and tried to change the subject. He ought not to feel sorry for him, after what he tried to pull with Hellfire, but ah, he was soft. Maybe it was a good thing that Crowley was coming. He was the one there when Gabriel had tried to destroy him, after all. He would have more sense than him. Maybe they should kick him out before he caused them problems.  “Who did this to you?” he had asked instead.

Part of him had expected the name of… some sort of demon, perhaps; for what reason they would do this to him he couldn’t begin to imagine, because it just wasn’t how they operated, but-

“Michael,” Gabriel rasped, and Aziraphale blinked down at him, not comprehending. 

“Do you want me to call Michael?” he’d asked. Just what he needed, dealing with her now. Was she going to blame him for this? Of course she would. He had no intention to drop by in Heaven and face her, but maybe a quick phone call--

“Michael--!”

Gabriel had tried to rise, faltered, and fell heavily on his side. His eyes were wide open, staring at him and yet at nothing, chest rising and falling quickly. It was so uncharacteristic of him that it had taken Aziraphale several moments to recognize it for what it was: absolute, blind panic.

“No no no no no--”

“Shush,” Aziraphale had said, and he’d held out a hand in front of his face. The panic had faded and his features smoothed in a vacant expression. “Now, you’re going to sleep. And you’re going to have--” the most wonderful dream, he would usually say in such cases, but he’d held back. All right, he may be soft, but even he could tell Gabriel did not deserve wonderful dreams. “... A reasonably pleasant dream,” he’d finished lamely.

Oh, Crowley would be so disappointed. 

And Gabriel had gone to sleep, sure enough, naked from the waist up and scars on his back in plain sight. Aziraphale had put a blanket on him - so he wouldn’t get cold, he thought, but the truth was that looking at those scars made him uncomfortable - and then he’d called Crowley. 

And now he waited. As the minutes ticked by, Aziraphale leaned his chin on his hand, staring at the still, sleeping form of what had been an Archangel until very, very recently. He thought back of his expression, the name that had left him, the terror in his voice. 

Michael. Did Michael do this to him?

The thought seemed absurd, but then again he’d never truly expected her to gift Hell some Holy Water to destroy a demon; he had never truly expected his own side - no, not my side anymore - to try and destroy him with Hellfire. He’d never known them as well as he thought he did, and how could he? He was on Earth all along while they stayed in Heaven, pulling the strings of a world they did not understand or care about.

But I was the odd one out. The curious fellow who’d stay on Earth rather than take promotions to go back upstairs - Gabriel was one of them. 

Why turn on him? Why cast him out? Why make him human, instead of having him Fall the traditional way - and why would they be so brutal about it? What reason could there be? His thoughts kept going in circles and oh, that was going to give him such a headache, wasn’t it?

Well, for Heaven's sake, we are meant to make examples out of traitors.

Crowley had quoted Gabriel’s words to him with a shrill, mocking voice over a glass of wine; while the thought of what they’d barely escaped was rather chilling, it had made him laugh. It made him chuckle now, some tension leaving him. Crowley was on his way, however slowly in the traffic, and it made him… a bit less worried. They’d figure something out, they always did. 

They had worked out how to face the wrath of Heaven and Hell and come out unscathed; dealing with an ex angel who hadn’t fallen as much as landed squarely on his face on Earth shouldn’t a huge problem. 

He wasn’t wrong on that. It would turn out to be a huge annoyance.

***

"He will cover you with his feathers, and under his wings you will find refuge; his faithfulness will be your shield and rampart." Psalm 91:4

***

[Back to Prologue]

[Next]

[unknown-art1]

The Ultimate Wingmen

Summary: Pearls and Maya find a sketchbook that reveals a defense attorney’s secret crush on a certain prosecutor. What happens when these girls decided to become his best wingman? What ridiculous acts will these girls get into to help their friend Phoenix confess his love?

Pearls ran towards Maya carrying a blue book with a label on top that said Wright’s Sketchbook “Mystic Maya! Mystic Maya! What is a sketchbook?”

              Maya paused a Steel Samurai episode on the television and explained to Pearls “Well it’s kind of in the name, it’s just a book full of sketches or I guess mini drawings if you want to call them that.”

              Pearls flipped through the pages of the blue book as she asked “Umm, are most of the drawings supposed to contain drawings of the same person?”

              Maya tilted her head; and thought that’s strange, who is this person that’s worth filling most of a sketchbook with? Maya hopped up from her seat and strode over to Pearls so they could look inside the sketchbook together. It was full of pictures of the friends they encountered through their murder cases like Detective Gumshoe, Franziska Von Karma, Larry Butz, and Mr. Godot, but the person that reoccurred the most throughout the book was Miles Edgeworth.

              They continued to flip through the pages; Pearls wasn’t lying when she said there were a lot of pictures of the same person here. Every couple pages they would find a new picture of Edgeworth sometimes it would be drawn as a headshot, other times it’d be drawn as a full body pic, but occasionally there was full blown illustrations dedicated to him. Each picture was drawn with great care and Phoenix seemed to pay attention to the even smallest details, but what was so special about Edgeworth of all people that caused Phoenix to draw him this much?

              Maya mumbled out loud “What could cause someone to be passionate about drawing a specific person?”

              Pearls thought about it for a minute and responded “I think he really likes Mr. Edgeworth, they are friends aren’t they?”

              Maya pondered that statement for a moment, while yes it was true they were friends, a lot of people were friends with Phoenix, so why was Edgeworth different? She thought about it for a few more seconds and remembered about what Pearl said and how Phoenix seems to really like Edgeworth.

              And then a realization hit her and she exclaimed, “Nick likes Edgeworth!”

              Pearls gave a puzzled look at Maya’s outburst and replied “Of course he does, their friends after all!”

              Maya shook her head “No, Nick likes Edgeworth romantically! That is the only possible way to explain why he’s so fascinated with drawing him.”

              A little gasp escaped Pearls at this new development “But Mystic Maya I thought you liked Nick romantically! Aren’t you upset your feelings are unrequited?”

              How did she learn the word unrequited? That’s a big word for someone her age. Has Pearls been reading romance novels or fanfiction I’m unaware of?  Maya wondered.

              Maya responded “Nah, I never liked Nick that way. I rather go out with a burger than go out with Nick.”

              A giggle escaped Pearls at Maya’s response.

              Maya stated “But now we have an important job to do.”

              Pearls asked “What is it?”

              Maya shouted “Obviously to help Nick and Edgeworth get together!”

……………

              Later, Maya kicked down the door and ran inside the Wright & Co Law Offices with Pearls following swiftly behind her and yelled “NICK! WE KNOW ABOUT YOUR FEELINGS FOR A CERTAIN PROSECUTOR!”

              Pearls shouted “Mr. Nick, where are you? We want to talk to you!”

              They saw Phoenix nowhere in sight. So there was only one thing to do! It was time for Maya and Pearls to investigate to find the missing Nick!

              Maya pointed to the other room “You look that way and I’ll go look in his main office okay?”

              Pearls nodded her head up and down and then scurried off into the room. Maya began to search his office and immediately spotted a plant. If anyone knew who had been in this room it was definitely Charley.

              Maya began to interrogate the witness, “Did you see him Charley? Did you see Nick in this room?”

              Charley remained silent.

              She let out an annoyed sigh, “The silent treatment? That’s so typical of you Charley,” Maya cracked her knuckles,” Fine, I didn’t want to have to do this Charley, but you leave me no choice!”

              Maya grabbed the sides of the plant pot and shook it back and forth spilling dirt out onto the floor, and further interrogated the plant “Where is Nick hiding Charley? I know you know where he is!”

              Charley suffered through the harsh interrogation and remained silent, since he was literally just a defenseless plant and couldn’t do anything else.

              Phoenix asked “Did you honestly believe a plant was going to tell you were I was at? You’re acting stranger than usually today.”

              Maya dropped the plant, spilling more dirt out in the process, then spun around and found Phoenix actually sitting at his desk for once. The loud thump of the plant plot hitting the floor alerted Pearls and she ran into the room to make sure Maya was okay.

              Pearls spotted Phoenix and said “Mr. Nick! We have something important we want to talk to you about!”

              A pit in Phoenix’s stomach began to form as he saw them both wearing a determined look on their face. When they teamed up like this there was no way for him to escape whatever conversation they wanted to have.

              Phoenix asked “What do you want to talk about?”

              Maya leaned against Phoenix’s desk and said “Well your crush of course!”

              Phoenix felt his cheeks slightly warm up “C-Crush? I don’t have a crush.”

              And at that moment several psyche-locks appeared around him clearly contradicting his statement.

              Pearls brought out a Magmata “Good thing I brought this. I thought something like this might happen.”

              Pearls chucked the Magmata at Phoenix and yelled “Take that!”

              As the Magmata collided with Phoenix’s chest he let out a loud “OOOW!”

              And it was time for them to break the psyche-locks! The first question was who was Phoenix’s supposed crush they were referring to? This was simple enough for them to answer; all they had to do was present Edgeworth’s profile to him. The girls caught a glimpse of Phoenix’s face tinted a light red color, before he asked for evidence to back up this claim. Then Maya pulled out Wright’s Sketchbook revealing all of his drawings of Edgeworth inside and she began to smack a page of a book similar to how Phoenix would smack a sheet a paper during a trial proving a contradiction in a witness’s testimony.

              Maya and Pearls didn’t know it was possible for a human to turn as bright red as Phoenix was now. He looked like a bright big tomato, but there was still one lock on him and they had one final question they had to solve for him.

Who or what was preventing him from asking out Edgeworth?

              It seemed like a simple answer why it is probably the fear of ruining the friendship of course, but they tried that and it failed. The lock still remained on him, so it had to be some deeper more personal reason for hiding his feelings for Edgeworth along with the fear of ruining a friendship.

              Maybe it had to do with something with a past relationship, past relationships could negatively affect people in future ones, they had seen something similar like that happen on a TV show once. But had either Maya or Pearls seen him in his last relationship? In all the time they worked with Phoenix had they even seen him in a relationship in general?

              Maya whispered to Pearl “I wish we could phone a friend like on those game shows, when we didn’t know the answer to a question.”

              Pearls rubbed the bottom of her chin as she thought before she excitedly whispered to Maya “We can call someone!”  

              Before Maya could ask what she met by that the next moment she saw, her sister, Mia standing before her dressed like Pearls. Maya thought that’s what Pearls meant! She called Mia for help!

              Mia stated “I think I can handle this question from here Maya.”

              Mia faced Phoenix and whipped out Dahlia Hawthorne’s profile.

              She stated “If I remember correctly the last girl you dated was Dahlia Hawthorne wasn’t it? That woman who hated you and planned to murder you, but you never saw her true nature until much later since you were naïve and blinded by young love. Isn’t that correct? Dahlia traumatized you after that incident didn’t she? That’s why you’ve haven’t dated since that incident because you’re so scared that you will be hurt more.”

              The pit in Phoenix’s stomach grew; since Mia had been his mentor for so long she could read him like a book. He will admit he’s scared. He’s terrified He’s afraid of getting attached in the end and getting hurt even worse. That’s the real reason why he’s avoided dating for so long because he’s terrified about what would happen.

              He felt a hand on his shoulder and another hand wiping away tears from his eyes.

               Phoenix looked up into his mentor’s eyes and listened to her words “Don’t let this event prevent you from getting the things you want. Learn from it and don’t let your past hold you back it’s the only way you’ll move forward in the world. It’ll take time for you to get over that event, but you’re surrounded by friends who care for you Phoenix, don’t ever forget that.”

               Through his tears Phoenix managed to say “T-Thank you Mia.”

              A small smile spread across Mia’s face and she turned to her sister “I believe my job is done here. I think it is Pearl and your turn now to help take care of him Maya.”

              Maya hugged Mia “We will, and Mia?”

              “Yes?”

              “I really miss you.”

Mia planted a kiss on top of Maya’s forehead “I miss you too.”

              Once their hug had ended Mia left and Pearls was back in her place. Tears stained Phoenix’s face and the girls rushed over to comfort him. Maya and Pearls that day made a vow to Nick to always be his best friends and be by his side when he needed comfort. And when Phoenix was ready they would one day help him court a certain Prosecutor.  

……………

              Maya ran ahead and pointed to a small café “Here it is Nick! This is where you will be meeting Edgeworth today!”

              The café was stuck in between a sparkling boutique that displayed expensive looking clothes in their windows and a flower shop decorated with an assortment of different colored flowers in the front of it. The café itself however had a chalkboard stand outside displaying their special offers and huge windows covered most of the front of the café to allow any passersby to glance inside the establishment. It was a relatively calm time to visit the café since there was only a couple customers in the restaurant. There were two friends chatting at a table, a lady quickly typing away something at her computer and a man sipping his drink and staring out the window at and observing the people walking along the streets.

              Phoenix responded “Seems like a nice place. How’d you guys convince Edgeworth to meet me here anyway?”

              Pearls appeared next to Phoenix and replied “Mr. Nick, we can’t reveal that information!”

              A perplexed looked appeared on his face “Why?”

              Maya posed dramatically next to Pearls and stated “It is part of are wingman duty to keep our techniques secret!”

              Secret techniques? What exactly are these two girls planning for me? Phoenix pondered before he was broken from his thoughts at the sound of a new voice.

              “How are you doing pal?”

                             Pal? Why did that word seem familiar?

Phoenix glanced at the owner of the voice “Detective Gumshoe? What are you doing here?”  

Gumshoe replied “Maya and Pearls asked me to contact Edgeworth for your,” Gumshoe awkwardly rubbed the back of his head,” umm to confess your feelings correct?”

Phoenix’s face was on fire from how embarrassed he was “You told him?!”

Pearls responded “Of course so Mr. Nick! He needed to know why it was so urgent for you to meet with him.”

                Phoenix covered his burning face with his hand; this situation seemed to get more embarrassing as it went on.

              Gumshoe patted Phoenix’s back “Don’t worry Pal I didn’t tell Edgeworth about your crush on him. I told him you two have important business to discuss. It’s your responsibility to admit your feelings for him.”

              Pearls stated “I believe if anyone can do it, Mr. Nick can do it!”

              A small smile crept onto Phoenix’s face at Pearl’s faith in him “Thanks Pearls.”

              Gumshoe looked in the other direction “Looks like Edgeworth has finally shown up.”

              They all turned their attention to a silver haired man adorning his signature magenta jacket with the rest of his attire. He got out of his car and was now walking towards the café to meet up with Phoenix.

              Maya said “Nick I think this is your cue to go chase after a certain prosecutor,” before she gave him a wink and pushed him in the direction of the one and only Miles Edgeworth.

…………………….

              Edgeworth and Phoenix sat at a table near the entrance of the café sipping their drinks, when Edgeworth suddenly asked “So what important business did you want to discuss with me Wright?”

               Phoenix’s heart began to beat a little faster, he could do this. He just has to confess his feelings for a man he likes, why would that be so hard?

              He replied “Actually, it’s not about business at all,” a nervous smile appeared on Phoenix’s face as he rubbed the back of his head,” I wanted to talk to you about something personal.”

              Edgeworth took a sip of his drink and raised an eyebrow in curiosity “What is it?”

              Phoenix took a deep breath and responded “Well I wanted to confess to you that I really like-“

              Then suddenly a loud “EDGEY-POO,” interrupted Phoenix’s confession.

              Phoenix didn’t even need to look at the owner of the voice to know who it was all he could think right now was are you kidding me? This has to happen to me now?

               Everyone in the café was alerted by the yell and turned to see Oldbag running towards Edgeworth at hyper speed.

              Edgeworth’s eyes flew open and yelled “Not you again!”

              Before Edgeworth could flee the scene Oldbag wrapped an arm around his shoulder which prevented him from leaving his chair.

              Oldbag leaned in closer to Edgeworth’s face and asked “Did you miss me Edgey-poo?”

              The sudden proximity of their faces made Edgeworth extremely uncomfortable and he turned to face out the window behind him trying to silently plead to any passerby outside to help him from this insane women.

              Edgeworth stated very clearly “No, not at all”

              Meanwhile this conversation was happening Phoenix pondered what the heck just happened in the last five seconds to cause things to be like this? Is this a sign the world doesn’t want me to confess my feelings?

              Phoenix broke from his thoughts when he felt someone poke his shoulder from the table behind him. He turned around and saw Detective Gumshoe, Maya and Pearls trying to disguise themselves with comically large newspapers while they watch the event unfold from behind him.

              Pearls whispered” Mr. Nick! I read in a book once you need to fight your romantic rival for Mr. Edgeworth’s love or otherwise she’s going steal him away from you!”

              Phoenix whispered back “I’m not going fight an old lady!”

              Maya rolled up her sleeves “Then I’ll do it! In order to be the ultimate wingman for you Nick I’ll defeat her and get her away from Edgeworth.”

              Pearl stated “I’ll help you too Mystic Maya! I want to help be the ultimate wingman too!”

              Detective Gumshoe said “Count me in too.”

              Phoenix frantically whispered “Wait Detective Gumshoe you’re the law! You shouldn’t condone this type of behavior.”

              Gumshoe stated “Protecting Edgeworth is more important to me than following the law now!”

              The three of them hop up from their seats at their table and they begin their attack on OldBag. Maya and Pearls ran over to the other table and used their combined strength to pry Oldbag off of him. The old lady scowled at the two girls at their rudeness; however she didn’t punish them and attempted to go back Edgeworth when she was met with Phoenix Wright standing in her way.

              Oldbag ordered “Move out of the way whippersnapper! I was talking to him.”

              Phoenix corrected her “Actually I was talking to him first, so if anything you interrupted my conversation. And second of all, he clearly seems uncomfortable by your presence and he obviously doesn’t want to talk to you. So I think it’d be better for everyone right now if you just left.”

              Oldbag raised her left fist in the air “I’ll show you a thing or two, punk if you keep acting like that!”

              Suddenly a click sound was heard near Oldbag’s right wrist and a handcuff was placed on it.

              Detective Gumshoe grabbed Oldbag’s left hand and placed the other hand cuff on it “I’m sorry ma’am but your causing a scene in the café so I’m going have to remove you from the area.”

              Oldbag tried to break free “I’m not causing a scene! If anything, this spiky haired attorney is the one causing the scene!”

              Gumshoe dragged Oldbag out of the café and replied “No, he was just sticking up for someone he cares about.”

              Edgeworth got up from his seat and walked over to the three of them “Thank you for your help everyone. That lady was truly something.”

              Maya responded “No problem Edgeworth we were happy to help, but I think Nick still has something important to confess to you.”

              He can’t believe Maya still wants him to confess after they literally just saw Oldbag dragged out of this place in handcuffs, this wouldn’t be one of the most ordinary confession story, but none of them were normal people so if anything something like this should have been expected.

              Phoenix finally confessed “I really like you Edgeworth.”

              Edgeworth looked confused at this confession “You do know we’ve been friends for a long time Wright? I would hope you would like me as your friend by now.”

              Pearls exclaimed “No Mr. Edgeworth! I made the same mistake as you too, but Mr. Nick means he likes you romantically!”

              Edgeworth sits in silence for a moment and makes sure he heard it correctly and mumbles out “Romantically?”

              Pearls replied “Yeah! Being romantic is like when two people trust each other a lot, go on dates together, and kiss each other a lot! I think that’s what Mr. Nick wants to do with you.”

              Maya glanced over at the two blushing men not daring to meet the other in the eye “I think you broke them, Pearls.”

              Pearls let out a little gasp and apologized “I’m so sorry I didn’t mean to!”

              Maya replied “I think they’ll be fine Pearls, but our jobs as wingmen are done for today. I think Nick and Edgeworth can handle it themselves from here.”

              The girls left the café and only an attorney and a prosecutor remained. It took them a while before either got the confidence the look each other in the eye. Phoenix seemed to cover his face with his hands in embarrassment and Edgeworth seemed to stare at everything besides Phoenix’s face.

              It took a couple minutes before Edgeworth stated “I wouldn’t be opposed to going out with you.”

              Phoenix quickly removed his hands from his face to see if Edgeworth was serious, but he was still avoiding Phoenix’s gaze.

              Phoenix tried to confirm what he heard “Are you telling the truth?”

              Edgeworth turned to face him and replied “Of course I’m telling the truth, I wouldn’t lie to you.”

              A huge smile formed on Phoenix’s face and he instinctively wrapped Edgeworth in a hug. He could feel Edgeworth stiffen up at first at the sudden contact, but then after a moment he slowly relaxed in the hug.

              Edgeworth explained “I haven’t ever really done this before, so forgive me if I’m slow at this relationship thing.”

              Phoenix replied “I haven’t done this in a long time actually, so I guess we can try to go at our own pace together, but I want to ask you something important. Is it okay if I kiss you right now?”

              Edgeworth’s face tinted a light pink and he mumbled out “Yes.”

              He pressed a light kiss against Edgeworth’s lips; and both the defense attorney and the prosecutor wore a face full of blush for the rest of the day because they were really happy and excited to see where this new blossoming relationship would take them.

[paulhudd]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Herbie smiled and nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Broo growled back.

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

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

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

Malky was confused, “Then why....?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Malky grunted a hollow, listless “Oh really?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Malky smiled, “Valentino?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yep, it came with the ahse!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Emil remained silent. 

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

He stood and stared.

“Emil!”

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

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

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

He dangled his keys.

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

He jangled his keys.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

AARGH!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sir? Sir... hello...

“Sir?!

“Wind down the window, sir!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So who’s pulling the strings?

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

Emil’s outer voice said “Passport?”

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

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

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

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

What?!

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

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

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

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

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

Baltimore?!

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

“No, sir.”

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

Emil didn’t stir.

“Sir... pop the trunk?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mommeeeeeeee!” Cathy wailed.

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

“Daddy said it not me.”

“It was a slip of the tongue, Pat.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Broo found the menagerie obscene and growled accordingly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Broo grunted, still too stupefied to take anything in.  

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

“Why did he sack them?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He ran away.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As always, McKee remained silent and seemingly insensible.

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

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

To Be Continued Next Month...

[chickenstuffedwithmozzarella]

Yaaay!! Thank you Soraya's inbox, sorry i blamed you on eating the last ask😂😘. You did great. Nono, he wasnt a torero, he looked like a prince. (Which is not better bcs i dont like any of those  figures but... whatever). Ooh, talking about suits, did you see the ranking hsfashionarchive did of the suits he wore this tour? Bcn was winning, pink suit was second and Mdd was third!! (1)

[I hope this works 😜🙏🏻, bc this was TOO long, jajajaa.]

Ohhh. Your mom is the best. So supportive! Petition to give her that award. She is clearly the winner. (1D clinex? capitalism in its pure state 😂. Did they really made those? Glad i didnt find it on time bcs i would have definitely brought them as a joke to my sister or something). You are already playing Niall’s songs to her? Did she like them? Does she have anything similar to “pikachu get away” she had for SOTT?. (2)

JAJAJAJJA. Netflix always does that to me too. Dont know why. I started watching Black mirror backwards bcs of that. Did you understand anything of chapter 7 os ST? (Did you finish the show??). Yep. The 8th season is the last one, and i dont know hoe to feel about it. Dissapointed by the shows? As in with the ending?? Or how? (3)

You sound like a devoted cat lady, yes. Ooow, i have little cousins too, though they are reaching the age of “too cool to be seen with you, old girl” Of course they make me laugh. Honey is a menace and i appreciate it. JAJAJAJAJAJAJA. He ate the chorizo?? Honeeey!! 😂😂😂 that made me laugh at loud int the train and now my neighbour is looking at me weirdly. I see, you’ll never get bored with him. (4)

When i was younger and + close minded, i didnt like tattos. Considere also that the ones I had saw in real life were the tribal ones, so there’s tgat. But then i grew up and started liking them (you can partially blame larry for that). Nobody in my family (cousins and so) has one, and thats kind of a encouragement, I’d love to piss them, but my dad has threaten me to disinherit me (we dont heven have that, lol) and i dont have any tatto on mind, so i wont do it… maybe in the future, yes. (5)

I MISS LOUIS TOO! I hope he is fine. Resting and so. Im sure that creating the album that will destroy us all takes a lot of effort. (Seriously, where is heeeee?). Heeey!! I wont get bored. Or mad! I have such a great time talking to you. If i dont talk more its bcs of the character limit and bcs im always worried about pressuring or imposing. Dont be dumb. If i dont answer its bcs im busy with finals and so. Nothing more. Promise. (6)

THANK YOU FOR UNDERSTANDING. i know i know. It makes sense and its a smart move, but… i cant stand raeggeton/latino, its not for me. Sad. I havent lost hope though. Maybe ill change my mind later Yeah, i have the same problem with my friends, they only listen to trap and raeggeton and i die everytime. We mostly agree to put something neutral like pop or the radio. (Disney songs never get old😂). (7)

Ay. I just saw that i wrote “heven” instead of “even” and now i want to delete myself. I was walking while writing the asks and i didnt proofread it. I feel so dumb. Anyway, sorry for sending so many asks (today i made a record xd) and, as always, good night!!————————————————————————-Hi!!!! Yes! I saw the ranking. But it isn’t exactly a ranking. It’s more to like chose wants your favorite suit. I did it and guess what? My first choice in the Madrid one, jajajaa. Second the kilt. And third the jumpsuit. Very accurate.

Oh, you’re telling me! My family bought me a bunch of 1D merch (unofficial all): the clinex, a hair brush, a bracelet, 2 books!, one perfume (this I love it, it smells so good), a make up box… I can’t even remember everything. Ah! A birthday card too!! Where they talk when you open it. I always use to wish happy birthday to people (the audio) 🤣🤣🤣🤣. I had to tell them to please stop wasting money on those things. I don’t even know where I have it. And if a can ask, I’d rather they give me the money so I can go to their concerts,jajajaja.EDIT: I can’t believe I forgot the poster!! I have it beside my head right now,jajaja, and I only realized it was there when I looked at the boys to ask for inspiration,😅😅)

Oh, my mom loves Niall’s album too. But I don’t think she “knows” any of the lyrics,jajaja. Though, she knows the hmmmm in This Town. But that’s all. She and my sister, both separately were like: “oh! who’s him??” When they heard Fire Away. And I was like: “ehhhhh, it’s Niall’s album, so guess who’s it?? What, you like it? See, Harry’s not the only one who can sing…” jajajajja. It’s because of comments like this, that they think I don’t like Harry. And I get so offended when they hint at it! Like, of course I like Harry. But I like all of them too!! God!! I love Niall’s album so much (I’m hearing it right now, bc I couldn’t remember what song was the one they liked it so much, and now I can’t stop 😅). Harry’s and Niall’s albums have been lining in my car since they were released. I had Harry’s playing in a loop till I got Niall’s one and I interchanged them. Then Harry’s came back a month or so before his concert. And now it’s time for Niall’s again. (You can’t imagine how hard it’s being writing this with honey laying on my arm!! Jajaja, I can’t barely move my fingers😅).

AND WHAT DID YOU DO WHEN YOU REALIZED YOU WERE WATCHING BLACK MIRROS BACKWARDS??? I’ve watched canter 1 and 2 of ST afterwards, but I hadn’t gotten to watch the whole thing yet. I can’t stand to be looking at a screen for 50minutes without doing anything. And don’t get me wrong, lol, I can be on tumblr for hours, jajaja, but a have to move my hand, and I can go from a blog to another… y'know, jajajajaja. And when I watched chapter 7 of ST i was like, okay… now they have to investigate what happened… or a guessed they would be doing flashbacks… jajajajajaja. Then I realized my mistake and thought I was stupid, 🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣“I see you from a different point of view🎶🎶” ( sorry, that’s me singing,jajajaja, Seeing Blind. I LOVE that song)And shows have disappointed me in the sense that they turn out to have an awful ending (seriously, I know you do it for the audience, but end a show how it deserves it, don’t turn it into shit just for a handful of money); or bc they just end it bc they don’t have enough audience. It’s always a matter of audience,jajaja.if they have a lot, they want to explode it. And if they don’t have enough they finish it ASAP. 😒

Honey is a menace, yeh, I couldn’t love him more,jajajaja. He can’t see me petting Liam, he gets jealous and comes to me and headbutt my hand so I pet him too. And Liam is so patient with him. They’re totally like liam and Louis, jajja. Hey! did I tell you the story about when I got Liam? no!! Well, someone gave my dad 4 kitties (they were sooooo small). So, guess their names (it was post March 25, 2015…) yes!! They were named (by me) Louis, Niall, Harry and Liam, jajajajajja. But Harry died a couple of days later, because he was really really young. He couldn’t survive without his mom ☹️. And the other three, my dad took them to a place we have were he has a little garden (?) with vegetables and chickens and proper farm-y, jejeje. I wasn’t too (any) into cats back then, so… Then he brought home one of them, to have our home free of mice. AND IT WAS LIAM!! And I adopted him. I took care of him. We started loving each other. And he became useless with mice, jajaja. He’s totally domesticated now 😝. And that’s his story. The rest? Louis became a big alpha male at their new home. But s car ran him over last summer, and he died 😔. And Niall is a female, jajajajaa. And I hate her. Because she hasn’t been able to keep her kitties alive once!! (She’s pregame again, and we’re praying this time she knows who to be a mom🙏🏻) Ah!! And Honey had siblings the other day!! The guy who gave it to my dad is my brother’s friend and he show him a pic. There are two white cats!! I WANT THEM!!! But they don’t let me have anymore cats! Jajajajaja.

Hey, we might have in common the reason why we started liking tats, jajajjajaa. And, well, to piss off the family is as good a reason as any other,jajajaja. And why are dads like that?? When my sister and I got our lips pierced he went to pick up at the train station and as soon as he saw us he turned around and walked to the car without saying a word,jajajajja. I HAD TOLMY PARENTS WE WOULD BE DOING IT!! I asked my mom:hey mom, if a get a 10 in maths, can I get a piercing?? And she say okay. So I got a 10 (I might cheated or not on this, bc I already knew I had a 10, but wel…), and I got a piercing.my sister only got it, bc I was 16, she had to go with me as an adult, and giving she was already there, she got one too,jajajaja. (My granny almost kill us 😅)

Oh, louis has a BIG responsibility on his hands. He will be killing a lot of people when he puts out his album. He has to chose the proper songs to do it. It will be considered a massive destruction weapon, so he better be careful. But god, for real, when will Louis and Liam release their albums. At this pace, Harry and Niall will be releasing their second one before LiLo has finished their respective tours. And when they finish, Narry will have release their second one, and will be promoting them. So Lilo will start working in their seconds one. And… and… AND ONE DIRECTION WON’T COME BACK EVER BECAUSE THEY CAN FIX A DATE WHERE ALL OF THE BOYS HAVE NOTHING TO DO, AND WHAT WILL I DO??? 😭😭😭😭😭 (sorry, I panicked a bit there,oops).

Uggggg, I can’t stand raeggeton either. I can’t stand the music, argggg. Or the culture of it (the how it treats women, and glorifies sex). I can’t I can’t.and you can’t go out without hearing it. My friends and I went on road trip once. And it was my friend’s car. And she only listens to raeggeton. And after 10, 15, 40? minutes I had to ask her “will this song ever end???” And she told me it was already a different one. And I swear I almost jump out of the car,jajajajaja. We were crossing a bridge, and I wanted to jump out of the car!!!!! I couldn’t listen to that any more!!!!!  Ejkbvwirbfeuirnfrvoieefvnv The she caved and we switched to movie’s soundtracks,jajajaja.

Ha! Don’t worry about sending a lot of ask, I learn something, you’ll see,jajajajaa.Also, I forgot to ask early. Is your sister a 1d fan too, then? She goes to concerts and knows the song… how lucky! you have someone to talk about all the gossip!! (And they know what you’re talking about…) or is she a “casual” fan, and doesn’t get into fandom drama? She just likes the music and doesn’t care about their lives?are you both into drama?? God, I don’t discuss drama very much online, but if had someone face to face to talk about it… I would be the happiest person in the world,jajajajaa (what an exaggeration 🙊).

I think this is all. I LOVE ORPUR CONVERSATIONS!! Jajajaja( I hope I did it correctly and all this is under read more, jajaja)Byeeeeee!!!! 😚😚😚😚

[e-bacellar]

(my axotar blog is @thebestfoxyboylucien) I just wanted to let you know that I appreciate how ardently and genuinely you care for and defend Lucien and do not instantly jump down Nesta's throat. Thank u💕

Ooow, thank you for always defending Lucien (my love) and Nesta, I follow you on this account (@thebestfoxyboylucien) and love what you post.

I actually love Nesta, always have, I find the hate people have for her a bit exaggerated. I understand those who don't like her since we read most of the books with Feyre's pov, but they are fictional characters, some people take it too seriously and hurt real people in the process.

I understand Nesta's character and her pov because I identify with her, for many times I was Nesta, now I do therapy and I am improving in the points where I think I need to improve, but it was a long way until I understood that I needed help and that just myself was not enough.

I stay away from the fandom mainly in relation to Nesta because some judgments hurt me, as I said I have been Nesta in several moments and just like her I did not react to certain actions as people expected or I said things without thinking to people and then I saw what I had said, not because I wanted to but because I was sick and unfortunately when we are like this we only find judgments, rejection and many people trying to shame you for being that way.

Just like her, I felt inadequate. Unworthy of receiving love, unworthy of having someone who loves me or knows me by my side, I built several barriers and kept myself distant, not because I didn't like people but because I didn't want to hurt myself any more than I was already hurt. Just like her I self-punished myself, thought about killing myself and isolated myself as much as I could.

I believe that we only don't judge so much when we go through similar situations and unfortunately the fandom with this hate can be hurting people who just like me have the same problems as her and are here to escape their feelings/reality.

If someone from the fandom has the same reactions as Nesta or identifies with her you are not a bad person, you are not a monster! If you are going through some problem or identified that you react in some way due to a trauma find help, do it for you, we all deserve to be happy, we all have the right to love and be loved. Know that you are not alone and if you need someone to talk to I am here.

"For every Nesta out there - climb the mountain" - SJMaas