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cozy-the-overlord · 4 years ago

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Dances and Daggers

Summary: The Summer Festival is upon Asgard, as is the tradition of the dagger ceremony, where each unmarried gentleman chooses a lady to bestow with the honor of carrying his dagger for the night. As Prince Thor’s betrothed, Teki’s only goal is to accept his dagger with grace and hope that her violent stepfather doesn’t find fault with her in the process. But Prince Thor is unpredictable, and when he ignores his engagement on a whim Teki finds herself in a desperate situation. Luckily, Thor isn’t the only prince in Asgard…

Pairing: Loki x Original Female Character

Chapter 2: The Piano

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Word Count: 3,715

Chapter Summary: In the wake of the Summer Festival, Teki gets a summons to the Queen's chambers.

A/N: Here it is! Like I said yesterday, I’m going to be posting a chapter a week every Tuesday. I’m really excited for this story and I hope you all enjoy it!

Thanks for reading! :)

TW: mentions of child abuse

Tags: @lucywrites02

Read it on Ao3!

The Great Hall was roaring.

The last night of the summer festival always called for feasting and revelries, singing and shouting, shattering glasses and toasting from tabletops, and the people of Odin’s palace were only too happy to comply. Frantic servants navigated through the chaos, pressing overflowing goblets into outstretched palms. The drunken celebration consumed the room, the one time a year every noble allowed themselves to act like peasants.

Well, almost everyone.

“What a filthy display,” grumbled Osvald, glaring at a couple kissing passionately, the woman sitting in the man’s lap. He chucked another goblet over his shoulder. “If I wanted to watch sluts tonight, I would’ve gone to the whorehouse.”

Teki didn’t say anything. She dabbed at her mouth with her napkin, balancing stiffly on the edge of the bench on the other side of the table. Any other year, her stepfather would be happily participating in the debauchery engulfing the room. She knew that he was only spitting poison tonight because of what happened two weeks ago, on the first night of the festival. On their way back to their rooms, Osvald had tripped at the top of the staircase and hurt his back, cursing and spitting and moaning about how he had been pushed. He had refused to go to the healers.

“What do want me to tell them?” he snapped at her mother when she broached the subject. “That I can’t walk down a flight of stairs?” With that, he hobbled off, insisting that he was fine.

Two weeks later, he still was hunched over in pain.

It gave the family an odd atmosphere. On one hand, Osvald’s frequent foul moods had turned into a perpetual foul mood, and Teki was frequently finding herself on the receiving end of his tongue-lashings for merely existing. On the other hand, they were only tongue-lashings. She had spent enough time with an injured back to understand that her stepfather was hurting too much to be bothered to hurt her, and that brought on a tentative sort of peace.

Brant tugged at her sleeve. “Teki,” he whispered. “Can you cut my food?”

She smiled. “Sure. But first—” she scanned the table for something with writing on it, settling on the nametags marking their seats, “Can you tell me what this says?”

Brant squinted at his name, mouthing out the sounds in silence. Teki waited patiently. She had made it her goal this summer to teach her little brother to read—honestly, he should have already been assigned a tutor a year ago, but since he was so shy around others, her mother had decided to wait. She had laughed when Teki had explained her intentions, but Brant was smarter than his parents often gave him credit for.

His eyes lit up. “That’s me!” he cried out. “Brant Osvaldson!”

“Right!” she grinned. “Good job!” Teki reached over with her knife and fork to chop his meat into smaller bites. Beaming, Brant turned towards the partiers. He turned back around rather quickly.

“Teki!” he hissed, pulling at her sleeve again. “Teki, he’s looking at you!”

“What?” Teki twisted around to see what her brother was talking about, following his gaze to the raised platform where the royal family and their close friends were eating. She locked eyes with the dark-haired prince for only a second before Loki whipped his head back towards his mother.

Teki turned back to her table quickly as well, cheeks burning. She hadn’t spoken with Loki since he gave her his dagger on the first night of the festival. That was likely due to action taken by both sets of parents, who sought to cover up the embarrassment of the Crown Prince giving his dagger to the wrong girl by making certain Thor danced with Teki multiple times every night since. It was … awkward. While Prince Thor was always perfectly polite, it was painfully obvious that there were other activities he’d rather be doing than dancing with a girl several years his junior, whose head barely came up to his shoulders.

She had wanted to spend more time with Loki, but that was awkward too. Teki was supposed to be marrying Thor, as her parents made a point of reminding her. She needed to be spending time with him, not his inconsequential little brother. So, Teki played the model daughter, model princess, model queen-in-training and danced only with those her mother told her to.

But she couldn’t forget how nice Loki had been. How he had sat with her when she cried, healed her rib, gave her his dagger—she still had his dagger, stuffed under her mattress. Usually, the whole “dagger-holding” ceremony was just that: a ceremony that ended with the night. But when Teki tried to return his blade, Loki wouldn’t have it.

“You should keep it,” he said. “To remember the night. If you want, that is. I have plenty.”

Teki’s instinct had been to refuse, to insist that it was his and that he needed to take it back, but something caused her to bite her tongue.

“Thank you,” she whispered. She was relatively certain he knew she wasn’t just talking about the dagger.

Osvald was sure to lose his temper at her if he caught her sneaking weapons into his rooms, so she was careful to keep it hidden. It was rather stupid, the more she thought about it (why would she ever need a dagger? What would she supposed to do with it?) but there was also a strange kind of thrill that would come over her when she took it out its sheath and admired her reflection in the pointed blade.

Brant was back to tugging at her sleeve. “He’s looking at you again,” he whispered. “Why does he keep looking at you?”

“He’s not looking at me,” she said, forcing a smile as she poked him in his tummy. “He’s looking at you, because you’re not eating your food, even after I cut it all nicely for you! You didn’t even say thank you!”

He giggled and pulled his plate closer to him. “Thank you, Teki.”

“You’re welcome.” Teki watched him shovel food into his mouth, trying to fight the urge to look over her shoulder again. The temptation soon became too much, and she allowed herself one quick peak.

Brant was right. Loki was looking at her again.

Teki turned back to the table, keeping her features completely neutral to hide the strange warmth that seemed to be glowing in her chest.

…

Teki stood stiffly in the middle of the Queen’s sitting room, picking at the sash on her dress with nervous fingers. The servant who had led her in had told her to make herself comfortable while she waited, but she was far too tense to even consider sitting down.

The Queen had sent word to her mother that morning that she wished to see Teki in her quarters, but she hadn’t given any explanation as to why. Of course, her mother wasn’t concerned with an explanation. She spent the morning fussing over what dress Teki was to wear, how she should fix her hair, whether or not she should put on jewelry (it was decided she shouldn’t, as her mother feared giving the appearance of putting on airs before the Queen). For most of the morning, Teki had been playing the role of a mannequin as her mother draped different fabric across her shoulders, hoping that her stillness could hide the churning in her stomach.

The Queen had never asked to see her before. They had spoken many times at balls and feasts, but Teki had never been singled out for a private audience. She told herself it made sense—after all, she was of age now, perhaps the Queen simply wanted to get to know her future daughter-in-law—but what if it was something else? What if she had done something wrong? What if the Queen was angry at her? What if (and this was the “what if” making her feel as if she was about to vomit) Loki had told her about Osvald?

Teki swallowed, pulling harder at her sash. She hadn’t outright told him about her stepfather, but she was clear after that night that he knew what was going on. He had offered to tell his mother for her, but she had refused. Doing such would only result in scandal for her family, and if Osvald thought she was spreading rumors about him … all the back pain in the world wouldn’t stop him.

She tried to push the thoughts away. Loki wouldn’t have told. He wouldn’t have! She had specifically asked him not to. What kind of prince would he be if he couldn’t keep his word?

But as time went on, with Queen Frigga still not entering the room, Teki’s anxiety began to be replaced with impatience. What was going on? How much longer would she have to wait? She found herself scanning the room for the first time since she walked in.

It was a lovely sitting room, although not quite as extravagant as she would have thought from a Queen’s quarters. The walls were of simple wooden paneling, the furniture matching with blue and golden accents. Sapphire curtains opened into a gold-plated balcony overlooking the palace courtyard. And in the corner of the room… Teki’s breath caught in her throat.

It was a piano. A beautiful, polished, mahogany piano. She found herself walking towards it without making the decision to move. It had been so long since Teki had last seen a piano. Music had been the first thing her mother purged from the household upon her father’s departure. She had taken all Teki’s sheet music away that first day and sold off the piano by the end of the week. While Teki was never directly banned from playing music, there was an unaddressed chill in the air whenever she brought the topic up. And so, after a while, she had stopped bringing it up.

Her fingertips grazed the keyboard cover, aching to lift it so they could stroke the ivory keys. She couldn’t, of course—what would the Queen say if she found her messing with her piano without permission?— but she longed to play. She missed the thrill of dancing across the keys, that feeling when you had the instrument singing for you perfectly in tune, so much going on at once but knowing that you were perfectly in control. Teki sighed, still unable to tear her eyes from the piano. Oh, it was so tempting…

She jumped out of her skin when the door opened.

“Mother?” Prince Loki called. “Father wishes to speak with you. He—” He stopped abruptly when his gaze landed on Teki.

Her eyes dropped to the floor, sinking into a curtsey out of habit. “Prince Loki,” she murmured. For some reason, her cheeks were burning.

Her curtsey seemed to spur Loki to action; he bowed politely. “Lady Teki,” he said. “Forgive me, I didn’t expect to see you here.”

He remembered my nickname!

“No worries, my prince,” she replied, looking up again. He was smiling, albeit a bit awkwardly. “I was just waiting for Queen Frigga. She—she asked to see me this morning.”

Loki nodded. “Ah. I see.” They stood there for a few moments, glancing around the room as if searching for something to break the silence. Teki shifted uncomfortably. Say something! she screamed at herself, but it seemed her tongue had turned to lead.

Finally, his gaze landed at the instrument by her side. “Oh, do you play piano?” he asked.

“Oh-uh- I did. Or I used to,” she stuttered, shifting again. “I—haven’t, in a while.”

“My mother tried to teach my brother and me. Neither of us were very good,” he grinned. “I did better than Thor, at least, but that’s not saying much.”

Teki smiled. “I’m sure you don’t give yourself enough credit, my prince.”

“I’m sure you’re just trying to be nice. I was terrible,” Loki laughed, shaking his head. “The only piece I actually learned was this silly little duet I used to play with my mother, and even then I could only do the easy part.”

That sounded familiar. How many songs had she learned by playing alongside her father? Teki’s chest expanded with warmth.

“What duet?” she asked.

“Here, I’ll show you.” He sauntered over to the piano and rolled up the keyboard cover as if it was nothing, as if he was completely unaware of how Teki had been agonizing over that very thing minutes before he walked in. She eyed the Queen’s bedroom door. Would Frigga be upset if she found them disturbing her piano? But if Loki did it so easily, then surely it was allowed, right?

Her anxious line of thought was cut off abruptly as the prince began playing a simple melody with one hand, a string of eight repeated notes that she recognized immediately.

“Wait, I know that!” she cried. “That’s Elf Song!”

He nodded. “Yes, Elf Song. That’s what it was called. I’d play this, and my mother would do the hard part.”

Teki choked on her own laughter. Oh, this was ridiculous. “What do you mean, ‘hard part’?” she giggled. “The other part is just chords! It’s easy!”

Loki laughed too, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “I told you, I’m bad!”

“But it’s so easy—here, I’ll show you.” She sat down next to him on the piano seat without thinking about it, the notes just flowing from her fingertips. Oh, she had missed this, feeling her hands on the keys. It was over far too soon.

“See, that’s hard!” Loki protested. “You’re using both hands! That makes it hard!”

“That’s how you play piano!” Teki cried in amused exasperation. “How can you play piano with only one hand?”

“Like this!” He returned to his chopstick melody. This time, Teki was certain he was making a point of being as stiff as possible. It was becoming increasingly more difficult to control her giggles.

“Here, you do that, I’ll do the chords.” She began playing alongside him. It was terribly disjointed—Loki was completely off tempo and finished way before he was supposed to, but by the time she caught up to him they were both laughing hysterically.

“You’re the worst duet partner I’ve ever had,” she said, wiping the tears from her eyes.

“But I’ll bet I’m the most entertaining,” he smirked.

“Sure, I’ll give you that.” Teki returned the smile. It was nice, just sitting here and laughing about something stupid. Relaxing, almost. For once, she realized suddenly, she didn’t feel nervous about anything.

“You should play a real song,” Loki said, motioning towards the keyboard. “If Elf Song is so beneath you, then let’s see what a true pianist can do.”

Teki hesitated. Fooling around with what was essentially a child’s exercise was one thing, playing an actual piece in front of someone was another. She wasn’t even certain she could remember any of the songs she once had memorized all the way through. She must have taken too long to respond, because Loki was quick to backtrack.

“Or not, if you don’t want to,” he said hurriedly. “I was only jesting, I didn’t mean to—”

“No, that’s fine.” There was something in the way he was looking at her, the pure apologetic sincerity, that made her determined to perform something. “It’s—it’s been a while, since I played, so I—I’m probably rusty, but, uh, here—”

It was funny, because she didn’t remember making the decision to play one of her father’s pieces. At first, she didn’t even realize that she was playing one of her father’s pieces. It just… happened. He had called it Aster Breeze—she remembered when he was writing it, ages ago when she still had to sit on his lap to see the keys.

“Do you hear that, Teki?” he’d ask as he played a new sequence of notes. “That’s the wind in the tree branches. Can you hear the wind?”

All Teki ever could hear was the piano, but if Daddy said there was wind, then there was wind. She nodded vigorously. He laughed as he continued playing.

Now, at the Queen’s piano, the notes flowed through her as if she had never stopped playing them. She still couldn’t hear the wind, but she felt it, tugging her soul forward and enveloping her in the music. It was an exhilaration she had forgotten she missed—by the time she reached the end of the piece, Teki was out of breath and grinning ear-to-ear.

She turned to Loki, who was watching her with wide eyes. “That was rusty?” he cried incredulously.

Teki burned. “Well—I—”

“That was absolutely fantastic!” he insisted, breaking into applause. “How can you play all that from memory?”

“I—I don’t know,” she stammered. “I-my father was a court musician, so maybe I got it from him?”

“Well, it was brilliant.” Loki’s tone had a definitive air to it as he nodded. “You should play more often.”

Teki’s heart, which had been soaring high above the trees, crashed back into reality. “Oh—” she mumbled. “I—I can’t—”

“I didn’t know you played, Tekla.” Teki jumped at the regal voice, spinning around so quickly that she nearly tumbled over. Frigga stood in the doorway, her golden curls pulled back behind her head, hands clasped and smile wide.

Heart pounding, Teki sank into a curtsey. “Your Majesty.”

Loki was significantly more amused. “Mother,” he grinned, merely standing in greeting.

“Rise, child, there’s no need for formalities here,” Frigga laughed, moving to sit on the couch and motioning for Teki to join her. “After all, we are to be family sooner than later.” Slowly, Teki followed her on shaking legs.

“Mother,” Loki interjected, voice authoritative and professional. “Father’s finalizing the plans for the Alfheim trip. He wanted to know if you wished to check the dates.”

“Yes, I will,” she affirmed. “I’ll look at those as soon as Lady Tekla and I have finished here.”

Loki nodded. “I’ll tell him to wait to send them in. Mother. Lady Tekla.” With an exaggerated bow and a slight smirk as her official name left his lips, he made to leave. Teki flushed, biting her lip to hold back the giggle. Loki seemed to have a knack for making her smile when she was stressed.

Frigga turned back to her. “Please forgive me for making you wait so long. I was working out the logistics of our upcoming trip and lost track of time.”

“It’s fine, I don’t mind,” Teki said, far too quickly. “Your Majesty.”

Frigga laughed, a melodic tinkle. “Yes, I could tell. It sounded as if the two of you were enjoying yourself.”

Teki’s stomach turned to ice. “Oh, forgive me, Your Majesty,” she stumbled. “I shouldn’t have—”

“Relax, darling, I’m not angry,” Frigga soothed gently, rubbing her shoulder. “I’m glad that someone was appreciating the piano. I’m afraid I don’t give it as much attention as I’d like.” She smiled encouragingly. “And you played so beautifully—how could I be angry? I can’t say I recognize that piece, though.”

Teki forced herself to swallow. “My father wrote it, Your Majesty,” she whispered. “I don’t really think anyone else would recognize it.”

“Your father must be quite talented, then.”

It occurred to Teki that the Queen probably thought she was talking about Osvald, and her heart sank even deeper than it was before. Still, she didn’t bother to correct her.

“I’m surprised Áslaug never mentioned your gift for music,” Frigga continued on, unaware of Teki’s discomfort. “She’s always so eager to sing your praises.”

Teki cringed. The mental picture of her mother obnoxiously bragging about her to the Queen was horrifically easy to conjure.

“Mama—my mother doesn’t like music very much,” she said softly. “I doubt she’d talk about it.”

“Really?” Frigga frowned. “Well, I adore music. Perhaps you could come and play for me every so often?”

“I—” Teki stuttered. The Queen wanted her to play for her? There was something frightening about that thought, but at the same time, something deeply exciting. “If you’d like me to, Your Majesty. I’d be honored.”

“I’d be honored to listen to you,” she beamed. “But now to the matter at hand.” Teki tensed again. “The Summer Festival made me realize that we’ve done a horrible job of including you in our family.”

Norns, she had to have been talking about the dagger ceremony, wasn’t she? That’s what this had to be about. Her long-forgotten nausea from earlier came racing back all at once.

“I’m sorry about that, Your Majesty,” she whispered. “With Thor, and the dagger—”

“No.” Frigga cut her off sternly. “That was not your fault in the least bit, Tekla. Don’t let anyone convince you otherwise. It’s we who owe an apology to you.”

Teki frowned. “Thor already apologized, Your Majesty.” It had been an awkward, stilted apology, on the dance floor the night after the dagger ceremony, but it was an apology nonetheless, and more than Teki had expected.

“Good. I’m glad to hear it,” she said. “But I think it’s time we went beyond words. Asgard should learn to see you as its future Queen, just as it sees Thor as its future King.”

“But…” Teki was so confused. “What—how would that happen?”

Frigga smiled. “I think it’s time you began appearing as a part of the royal family. Taking your meals with us, traveling with us, sitting with us, and so forth. I think it would also help you and Thor become better acquainted with each other if you started spending more time together.” She studied her seriously. “Is this something you would be ready for, Tekla?”

Teki’s head was spinning. Becoming a part of the royal family—it was something she had always known to be prepared for, but that had still only lingered in the distance future. Everything was happening too fast. She wasn’t ready for it at all.

But her mother had trained her well. With what she hoped was a glowing smile, she looked straight into the Queen’s cobalt eyes. “I’d be honored, Your Majesty.”

#dances and daggers #loki x ofc #loki marvel #loki fanfic #dances and daggers chapter 2 #cozy writes

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blabriel · 4 years ago

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Basic:

Name: Gabriel Age: Super Old™ Species: Archangel Romantic / Sexual Orientation: Panromantic / Pansexual Preferred pronouns: He/Him

Abilities:

Reality warping

Conjuration

Illusions/Self-duplication

Shapeshifting

Teleportation

Time travel/manipulation

Creation (people/places/alternate universes/things)

Weaknesses:

Holy fire

Enochian sigils

Grace removal

Story:

Wiki link if you want the full breakdown, but if not here’s the sparknotes version:

Gabriel is the archangel who took a midnight train out of heaven to mingle with humans, decided he preferred it to being an archangel, and took on Loki’s identity so the party didn’t have to end. He had fun! He helped people who needed helping. He hurt people who were being dicks. It was great! Until it wasn’t. (Re-)Enter Michael, Lucifer, Sam, and Dean; who brought with them an apocalypse that Gabriel faked his death via Lucifer’s sword to disengage from. Giving Loki the perfect opportunity to avenge Odins’s death at Lucifer’s hands. Yaddah, yaddah, eight years of torture to break Gabriel down into nothing, yaddah, yaddah… Until Ketch broke him out, he got revenge on Loki, and then joined the brothers Winchester on a suicide trip to an alternate reality where he died by Michael’s sword. And that’s where the (canon) story ends and my story has him getting booted from the Empty and back into the land of the living. But even with all of that he’s still a pretty chill dude, fond of humans, less fond of other angels, and more inclined towards flight than fight–he tried the fight thing once and it didn’t go well. Dying set him back a bit; he’s leaning into the Trickster routine to the point of using it as a crutch so he doesn’t have to think too much about The Heaven Situation. But he’s also trying to be better, which mostly means fewer bodies when he leaves a town and maybe even a minor miracle or two.

Personality:

Easy-going, funny / snarky, flirtatious, mischievous, canny, clever

Capricious, cowardly, nervous, untrusting, untrustworthy

Headcanons

Old headcanons can be found here. New headcanons can be found here.

#setup; about

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too-attached-to-fiction · 5 years ago

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Needy | Loki Laufeyson Imagine

Master list here.

Word count: 831

Request(s): Hello! May I request a fic in which Loki gets jealous and becomes very clingy with his s/o?

Yoo can i request a loki x reader where the reader is rlly lovely nd touchy with their friends and loki thinks they don’t rlly love him and they have to explain that ofc they do, theyre just used to showing their friends a lot of affection as well like cuddling and hand holding and forehead/cheek kisses bonus if their best friend is thor skdjsjsjdj

Author’s note: sorry it’s been so long, I’ve been working on a sanders sides fanfic for a while so I haven’t had time for requests and I was burned out for a while. But I’m back now! Sorry to the anons that requested this and didn’t get an answer until now! And sorry this is SO FUCKING SHORT I just didn’t know how to get back to the swing of things. Thank you for requesting tho!

- Nox

~~~

The first time you noticed Loki was clingy was during one of the festivals on Asgard. Although, you should have noticed before.

You’d grown up with Loki and Thor by your side, and were extremely affectionate with both of them. A child of one of the palace’s servants, you had watched the two grow up as the heirs to the kingdom. Once it was clear you refused to leave his side, a marriage was arranged between you and Loki.

Still, you treated Thor just as affectionately. You often greeted each other with kisses on the cheek, sometimes being overly affectionate because of Loki’s distaste for doing “anything that shows weakness in the eyes of the Asgardians”. You’d hoped it would push Loki to speak up, and yet, it was never mentioned.

Needless to say, the god had a tendency to bottle up his feelings.

Within seconds of walking out of the palace, Loki had wrapped an arm around your waist, careful to avoid smothering your robes. Other people looked away quickly, understanding the message loud and clear. He tugged you closer, and you looked up in confusion.

Normally, Loki despised public displays of affection and yet, he seemed to be the one initiating it. You leaned into him slightly, mirroring the way he held you with your own arm around him.

“My lord.” You said quietly, just loud enough for him to hear. His head bowed slightly, to hear you better. “Come, let us watch the performances.”

You led him through the crowd, turning around every few seconds to make sure he was still holding your hand, still following you. When the crowds got heavier, your grip got tighter. Normally, he would say something, but he just let you guide him forward.

The second time he was clingy, it was at the feast in the Palace. Every warrior was in attendance, and as always, music was playing.

You’d had a dance with Thor, laughing and jumping around joyously to the music. Loki watched from afar, blood boiling when he saw you happy with someone else.

Minutes later, he lead you out to the dance floor, something that always took you a lot of convincing before he would even dare think of dancing with you. Carefully, he twirled you around and fell into step with the music. Despite his cold exterior, you smiled up at him, relishing the moment.

“I didn’t know he could be so sweet-”

“This is odd behavior, but not unwelcome.”

Any onlookers were ignored, as you two kept time. Aside from simply appearing with Odin and Frigga when necessary, the two of you were often not seen together, and if you were, you didn’t interact like this. Thor and Jane were more likely to do something sweet in public. Even when the music finished, you kept going, slow, calculated steps tapping on the stone floors. Apparently, Loki’s forced dance lessons came in handy for events like this. You danced until the hall was void of the common folk.

The third time you noticed, you two were alone after a long day of being with the people. When you didn’t have any royal duties to attend to, you’d often work with the people of Asgard. Some days, you helped the farmers plant crops, and others, you made sure their living conditions were reasonable. You hadn’t seen Loki all day until he slipped into your shared sleeping quarters.

He lifted the covers just as you were about to fall asleep, and slowly, you rolled over to face him. “My lord.” You murmured in greeting. He pulled you closer as your hands immediately tangled themselves in his hair. “I missed your presence all day.”

“I as well.” He said, and sleepily, you lifted your chin to meet his lips. “You were missing from me all day.”

“Are you jealous of the townfolk spending time with me?” You teased gently, a sleepy half-smile on your face. You tucked your head into your chest, and he took the opportunity to kiss your forehead.

“Perhaps. Perhaps I am envious of your affections directed to others.”

“I only have eyes for you, Loki.” You said softly, reaching out to cup his cheek.

“But your affections for Thor-”

“Those are friendly, Loki. Do not fear; I am no infidel when it comes to love.”

“I should wish not.” He pulled you closer, despite the two of you already being pressed up against each other, limbs entangled.

“You’re rarely this affectionate.” You said, burying your face in his neck.

“I can’t show affection?” You smiled at his words.

“It’s quite a surprise, but it is welcome. I love you, Loki.”

“And I, you.”

Even though Loki still disliked public displays of his affection for you, he made more of an effort. In time, the two of you became known as the shy and gentle rulers of Asgard alongside Thor and Jane. He tried to keep up his intimidating exterior, but around you, he turned to absolute putty.

#loki imagines #everything after the first thor didn't happen #loki and thor are still good to each other #i need them to be happy for once #and i love jane #thor #marvel #marvel imagines #loki drabbles #canon what canon #fix it imagine #loki laufeyson #reader insert #loki/reader

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kristenreggie-blog · 4 years ago

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nanigma · 5 years ago

Text

Leon Fanbook Translation: Questionnaire Results

Link to the Takumi Fanbook

Introduction

Profile

Famous Lines

Relationships

Leon&Kamui + Words of Love

Daily Routine + Cooking Showdown

Fashion Check

Dream Change

Interview

Sorry for the wait, but there was just so MUCH text involved in this update. I think I spent about 10 hours total translating this over the past weeks. It had even more text than the Takumi version, since they added some additional comments and reader answers. Just one more update to go after this one and I’ll have finished it. Gonna take a break from translating for a while after I get back to the promised translations I couldn’t do in the meantime.

Part time job is still going and paying decently well. Still, more always helps, so if you’d like to support my work, consider buying me ko-fi or two.

- All the photos on this post were taken by the lovely @zaziki7

My comments in italics

Questionaire Results

Pages 40-41

Page 40

The part were you and me talk about Prince Leon!

When we commemorated the release of our Prince Leon magazine, we also send out a questionare through the official Nintendo Dream twitter account. For 10 days, from July 13th 2018 to the 23rd, we accepted 560* filled out questionnaires and will now publish the results. We will convey the intense and simply overwhelming love that Leon's fans have for him, their explanations for it, and the heartfelt well-wishes towards him.

*Interesting to note that Takumi had 627 questionnaries filled out.

Questionary Demographic

Gender = Backed overwhelmingly by women!

Graph

Women: 89,5%

Men: 7.3%

Unspecified: 3.2%

Age = Over 80% in their teens and twenties!

Graph:

Twenties: 50.4%

Teens: 28%

Thirties: 16.5%

Unspecified: 2.8

Fourties and older: 2.1%

These are the results. The percentage of Leon's female fans almost reaching 90% is a deviation that surpasses all imagination. Surely the percentage of women is as high as it is, because we were asking for a magazine. Conversely, isn't it sort of unfair that male fans of „Fire Emblem“ do not have a character fanbook appealing to them? At least that's what we think... Gentlemen among fans, raise your voice!

They already get 90% of the figurines. I think they are more than compensated.

Q1. (Of course Leon's most attractive feature is that pretty face of his!)

“What about Leon do you like? Please choose three options.“

Graph (no actual numbers given, so I'll just approximate)

His face: ~325

His voice: ~200

His heart: ~225

His outfit: ~75

His behaviour: >75

His strength: ~125

His retainers: ~25

Everything: ~250

Q1. Picking out the other answers:

“The way he uses magic!!“

Zola: “I-is this my cue?“

Odin: “Not you. Sit down.“

Other answers: How he feels inferior to his older brothers. It's quite human./ His slight clumsiness/ When he acts like an older brother/ How he is sweet to his brother or sister, even when facing them as enemies/ How he is kind to both his family and subordinates/ His lower eyelashes/ (English comment passing through) Smart, condescending, well written character, and a great unit to boot. His design with the black and purple designs reflect light beautifully/ How he always does his best to use his wits to approach others with nonchalant friendliness and to dodge the scrutiny of his opponents./How he is the kind of man, who, while not always used to flirting and occasionally showing surprise, will take the lead when it comes down to it and spoil his partner./ First answer repeats here for some reason/ How his character, face, magic and entire existence make him the very image of a stud. But I also like his less icy character traits a lot.

Q1. Picking out the other answers:

“His lower eyelashes!!”

Aqua: “Yes... Leon's eyes are quite sharp.”

Zero: ”That’s not what you should be paying attention to...”

Page 41

Q2. (Cute? Cool? In either case, he makes you want to protect him!)

“How would you describe your feelings for Leon? Please choose 3 options.“

Graph

Cool: <400

Cute: <450

Strong: >150

Healing: ~250

Want to snuggle up to him: <150

Hope to interact with him: >50

Beautiful (and other answers): <5

Other answers: Even though he is an excellent take on the old-school, collected hot guy, I always love it when his collar is inside out./ I want to spoil him/ I want to worship him/ I want to pat his head/ I want to support his feelings for Camilla/ I want to see his sleeping face/ I want to watch him from afar/ I think it's very human how he appears to be able to do anything, yet there are many things he cannot do/ etc.

Leon ol’ pal, there is actual support for your darkest secret out there...

Q2. Picking out the other answers:

“I envy your popularity!!“

Marx: “Who? Who could have left this answer....”

Macbeth: “W-Why are you looking at me?”

Q2. Picking out the other answers:

“I want to marry him!“

Elise: “Eh, then I want to marry him too!”

Camilla: “My... stealing isn't nice, alright?”

Am I really supposed to believe Elise is in her teens? Also, what is this family?

Pages 42-43

Page 42

Q3 (Those fleeting moments, where he breaks from his cold-hearted and unfeeling persona show Leon's true self!)

“Tell us which one of Leon's scenes and lines is the best of them all.“

1st Place (at 34.8%): Birthright Chapter 18 – Prince Leon of Nohr: His scene with Kamui after the map is cleared.

“... I lied, sister. I lied about hating you.“

2nd Place (at 20.5%): When doing a critical attack.

“Turn to dust already!“

3rd Place (at 18.2%): Prologue Chapter 1 – Nohrian Brethren: Scene with Kamui

“Eh!? My collar is inside out!? T- Then say so already...“

Other answers: Birthright Chapter 18: “The true blackness will paint over everything... your life, your future, it will all come to nothing...“/ Birthright Chapter 18: “That's quite the thing to say. If you keep looking, it should become obvious soon enough. Come on, I am already... this close after all.“/ A-Support with Odin: “It doesn't matter which world you go to, you'll always continue to be my retainer.“/ A-Support with Elise: “Yeah. Even if we only share half of our blood, even if all we are doing comes to naught.... so long as we accept each other, our bond will not be torn.“

Q4. (With the way it makes his pale skin shine, the Dark Knight outfit is far and away the most popular!)

“Tell us which one of Leon's possible classes (outfits) is your favourite!“

Graph:

Dark Knight: 79.7%

Sorceror: 0.6%

Butler: 0.4%

No percentages from here

Strategist

Dark Flier

Grandmaster

Others

Below graph box

Overwhelming approval for the Dark Knight! Straddling his horse adorned with golden ornaments, the armour carrying the elegance of the night sky, and the garments lightly dancing around his figure proudly represent the official outfit of Prince Leon! It's befitting of a king!

Translating this made me come close to crying from frustration.

Page 43

Q5 (The bond between master and servants are strong! Zero and Odin come at number one and two!)

“Tell us which character is your favourite besides Leon.“

1st Place: Zero (at 111 votes)

2nd Place: Odin (at 61 votes)

3rd Place: Elise (at 57 votes)

4th Place: Marx (at 45 votes)

5th Place: Camilla (at 38 votes)

6th Place: Takumi (at 36 votes)

7th Place: F!Kamui (at 32 votes)

8th Place: M!Kamui (at 30 votes)

9th Place: Foleo (at 21 votes)

While within the story, the bonds between the Nohrian siblings run deep, the popularity of Leon's group in general is superior even to that. But Zero has the most overwhelming support of them all. When adding in his personal history, one can't help but grin at seeing the viscously distant Zero having close banter with Leon. Surprisingly (?) big brother Marx beats out Kamui and gets into 4th place.

Pages 44-45

Page 44

Q6. (Most think he seems the type to join a social sciences type of activity like the student council! On the other hand, many also believe he wouldn't join any club at all.)

“If Leon went to a modern day school, what kind of club do you think he'd join?“

Graph

Student Council: ~70

None: >50

Literature/Literary Club: <45

Chess Club: ~35

Equestrian/Horse-Riding Club: >25

Science Club: >25

Gardening Club: <25

Wind Instrument Club: >20

Book/Reading Club: <20

Astronomy Club: >15

Tennis Club: ~15

Shogi Club: ~15

Chemistry Club: >10

Supernatural/Occult Club: ~10

Fencing Club: ~10

Art Club: 10

Other: History Club/ Basketball Club/ Board Game Club/ Mathematical Research Club/ Soccer Club/ Light Music Club/ Magic Club/ Theater Club/ Debate Club/ Broadcasting Club/ Science&Engineering Club/ Newspaper Club/ System Appliances Club/ Go Club/ Conversational English Club/ Table Tennis Club/ Tomato Appreciation Club/ Handicrafts Club/ Swimming Club/ Biology Club

Most answers we received weren't about any club activities, but the school council!! No matter the circumstances, he still gives off a regal image. On the opposite extreme, many were opting for him to not join a club at all, probably reflecting his attitude of wanting to make his own path without being tied down by other people. The other answers referred to his demonstrated rationality and reasoning with clubs such as the literature and literary clubs, or his desire to raise tomatoes with the gardening club. Within the 'Other' answers, there was certainly a theme centering around the „Debate Club“ (likely because Leon is skilled at fighting with words alone).

Q7. (So Leon really is the the indoor type? Books were his key item* all along.)

“You are going on a date with Leon! Where do you think you'll go?“

*dating sim reference

Graph

The library: ~70

An art gallery/museum: <50

Some kind of tomato plantation: ~45

A spot from which to gaze at the night sky: ~35

A high-class restaurant: >30

The cinema: ~30

A stylish café: ~25

An aquarium: <25

A planetarium: >20

A theme park: <20

Some Nohrian place: >15

His place: ~15

Others: ~140

Other answers: Watching a play at the theater/ The park/ The cinema (this was already in the graph?)/ A forest/ His home/ My Room (as in the Fates one)/ A flower field/ An antique shop/ Exploring the castle/ A place from which to watch the night sky filled with stars/ We'd have walks from the Sakurahommachi station in Nagoya, where I would drag Leon, who hates getting his feet wet, to the beach. We'd visit the Landmarktower in Yokohama and see the whole city sprawled out below from the viewing platform. Then finally, while riding a ferry's wheel, I'd want to watch as Leon would blush and become embarassed at failing to work up the courage to congratulate me on my birthday by the time we reached the top./ To an orchestra performance/ A botanical garden/ A horse ride/ A curiosity shop for tomes/ A haunted house

Some have clearly put more thought into this than others...

Leon love for tomatoes is carried by a deep knowledge of them! Speaking of, the library, art galleries and museums, are places that do the most to challenge his intellectual mind. Next is something normal people would never have thought of: A tomato plantation. Probably to go gather tomatoes. Enjoying your favourite person's favourite together must be a very fun activity. It makes us imagine Leon with a carefree smile on his face.

Page 45

Q8. (While his image is all over the place, the common feature happens to be the intellectual elite!?)

“If Leon were to enter the modern workforce, what kind of job do you think he would have?“

Graph

Something IT-related (including management): ~60

Scholar/Researcher: ~30

Lawyer: ~25

Company President/ Member of a Company President's family: <25

Company Employee: >20

On a Tomato Plantation: <20

Secretary: ~15

Teacher: <15

Company Manager: ~10

Marx's Confidant: <10

Government Employee: <10

Company director: <10

Librarian: <10

Doctor: <10

Bureaucrat: >5

Others: ~190

Other answers: Accountant/Whatever it is, he'd be wearing a suit/ Strategist/ Flower Shop Owner/ Human Resources/ System Engineer/ Diplomat/ Public Prosecutor/ Model/ Greengrocer/ Actor/ Employee at a pharmaceutical company/ Policeman/ Administrative Scrivener*/ Day Trader/ Playing in an Orchestra/ Bank Employee/ Designer/ Investor/ Translator/ Real Estate Agent/ Publisher/ Bartender/ He'd come from a good family, graduate from a famous university, find employment at a leading company and be a very promising newcomer there./ Idol/ Astronaut/ Free-lance Designer

*From Wikipedia: Administrative Scrivener(行政書士 Gyōsei shoshi)is a legal profession in Japan which files government licenses and permits, drafts documents, and provides legal advice around such interactions.

What overshadows the minority opinions are results strongly influenced by Leon's reputation as a schemer. He, who even during the plot stuck to his own methods and views, would surely acquire expertize the business world of our time and establish himself with his own abilities in the blink of an eye. Futhermore, most people see Leon at the top of some kind of organization, rather than below someone like Marx, when our previous impressions of him saw him as someone's number 2.

Q9. (The impression of him having a preferance for scientific subjects is strong! It's surprising to see English were it is... we assumed it would be German.)

So it's semi-officially confirmed that Nohrians are meant to speak German?

“If Leon was a teacher at a school, what kind of subject do you think he'd teach?“

Graph

Math: >100

Natural Sciences: >75

Chemistry: ~55

English: >45

Physics: ~45

Science: >25

Japanese ('Native Language'): ~25

History: <25

Biology: ~20

Social Studies: <20

History/World History: >15

Others: <30

Other answers: Economics/ Ethics/ Philosophy/ Civics/ Music/ Art/ Geography/ Magic

The impression that Leon is the science type was certainly shared by many, so as a result Math and the Sciences all stand at the top. His Strategist class (That is a tactician. Many have pointed out that in our age it would propably translate to being an expert speculator) also left quite the impact on these results. Although it's possible to say his love for books within the story has certainly been noticed, even when considering at answers for subjects like socials sciences, Japanese and English, the overwhelming majority still leans towards scientific subjects. While strict his methods would also be precise, so there can be no doubt he'd make an excellent teacher.

Pages 46-47

Page 46

Q10. (This is a bit biased, but it's the cool Leon we are talking about, so we want to hear his whispers full of sarcasm.)

“Tell us the one line you would want to hear from Leon.“

1st Place: “You really have the worst luck.“

2nd Place: “Turn to dust already!“

3rd Place: “I love you“*

*It shows both „Aishiteru“ and „Daisuki“ here, both of which are commonly translated as „I love you“. However, Aishiteru is a lot stronger in meaning than Daisuki. You wouldn't say that in everyday life even to your spouse of 10 years. It's inappropriate for all but the most dramatic situations. Like 'someone is dying' dramatic. This has been a language PSA.

Other answers: “How foolish“/ “My collar isn't inside out, right?“/ “My collar is inside out“/ “... Good grief, you really can't be trusted without me around.“/ “Jeez... looks like I have no choice. I'll protect you.“/ !You are pretty lucky.“/ “Eh... Sister you are sca-... Too close! You are too close!“/ “Do you want to eat tomatoes with me? Sister?“/ “I love you“/ “Are you stupid“/ “Despicable fool.“/ “Death shall be your redemption.“/“Look only at me, think only about me.“/ “I love you.“/ “Can I hug you?“/ Upon telling him his collar is inside out: “Ugh, say so earlier!“/ “I'll destroy you with black arts.“/ “Jeez, I'm no match for big brother.“/ “Pull yourself together, sister.“/ “Feel free to become Foleo's wife“/ “It's a lie that I hate you.“/ “That was well done.“/ “Welcome home.“/ “I want to eat your miso soup.“ *chokes*/ “Thank you for cleaning everyday“ (Maid setting)/ “How clumsy.“/ “You are always hard at work. I expect much from your services.“/ “Aren't these clothes inside out? Eh? That's how they are designed? Uhh...“/ “My collar is inside out!? … Tell me that sooner!“/ “Huh...?“/ “Traitors are a disgrace to the Kingdom of Nohr. Death shall be your redemption.“/ (In English) “I love you so much, please love yourself.“/ “You really can't do anything without me.“/ “Do you also want a tomato?“ (as in eating one)/ “Let's eat tomatoes together.“/ “I love it when you turn redder than a tomato.“/ “Don't say I have a woman's face.... I'd rather have you say that I'm cool instead of cute.“/ “Isn't your coat inside out as well? … Hehe, I'm kidding.“

Everyone's love is bursting from these answers. We can fully understand both the group that wants to be disparaged and the group that wants to be treated gently. Seeing just how many fans aren't satisfied with just a tsundere, but desire a cheeky little brother who verbally abuses them, we get the feeling we have found Leon's true appeal.

Kinkshame 100% appropriate.

Page 47

Takumi VS. Leon!!

Just like in this book, we also made a questionary to celebrate the release of the „Prince Takumi of Hoshido“ fanbook. Both of the questionaries included 5 questions pitting Leon and Takumi against each other. Although it appeared mostly like a popularity contest, we also gathered many responses and explanations that were overflowing with love. Although we have obviously published these answers in the Takumi fanbook as well, we will be publishing the comments that came with choosing Leon only in this magazine.

Q11. (Their popularity is almost exactly the same! Those who answered with something else mostly commented about how they „wanted to watch team X from afar.“)

“If you had to choose a side between them, which one would you pick?“

Graph

Leon: 45.1%

Takumi: 43.9%

Others: 11.0%

Q12. (Although they share many of the same habits and outlooks, it seems Takumi came out on top on this one.)

“Who do you think makes for the better father?“

Leon: 48.8%

Takumi: 51.2%

Reasons for choosing Leon: He praises Foleo from the dephts of his heart. He is able to truly accept him./ He hasn't known love from either of his parents, so he seems to put great effort into raising his child/ He seems very good at giving out praise!/ As a strategist he seems like he's be great at planning out child-rearing and lifeplans./ Because he seems to have an understanding of his child as a human being/ After apologizing to his son for rejecting him without even listening to his side, he is able to come to a mutual understanding with him/ Because he seems great at applying the carrot-and-stick method/ Because he is someone who holds his family dear. Together with his child he is able to learn from both success and failure and grow as a person./ Since he knows what he wanted for his own childhood/ He seems great at calming people down/ He seems the type to help his kids with their studies

Q13. (Just like with Question 12, Leon comes up short in the results. Could it be that he is a bit of a complex father figure?)

Could it??

“Whose son/daughter would you want to be?“

*I orginally translated this question wrong in the Takumi fanbook. The additional ansers here gave it context. I’ll correct it there as soon as I get around to it.

Leon: 43.6%

Takumi: 56.4%

Reasons for choosing Leon: While he is strict, he seems like he'd take care when teaching magic arts./ Although I also want to be Foleo's sibling, mostly I just want to be praised by Leon./ If I conveyed my love for him all sweet, I am sure he'd be grateful./ I'd have a beautiful daddy/ Because I could support Foleo no matter what his dreams were/ He seems very cold, but I think his love runs deep/ Because he seems the type to passionately devote himself to helping me study/ Human nature/ I want him to praise me by saying „That's my child!“/ He seems like he'd be a good hugger when he is in the mood to spoil/ He'd probably be a doting father/ Although he seems like he'd be a very careful father, I want to be there to see him be careless at times/ I want to see how his usually calm presentation as a father gets disrupted by his subordinates/ Because Team Leon has Zero in it/ Although he'd deny it at first, someday he'd become a father who understands his love for his child./ Because I want to have a knowledgable father/ Although cruel, he is nice to his friends and family/ It'd be fun being around Zero and Odin from a young age.

Q.14 (Their popularity is the same here, leading them to share perfectly identical results! There were several heated comments explaning the decision!

“If you could have one of them as your own child, which one would you choose?”

Graph:

Leon: 50%

Takumi: 50%

Reasons for choosing Leon: Although he'd be a bit careless, I can see him becoming a son worth boasting about./ I want to coddle him/ He'd be an obedient child growing up. Also, since he's grow up to be very beautiful I would want to dress him up a lot./ He would probably need to be helped out a lot, which is just too cute!/ Because I want to spoil Leon!!/ Because I want a well-mannered child/ I want to watch over him with a smile whenever he is clumsily rushing through life/ Because being both smart and friendly is very cute!/ Because I want to defeat Leon's unbelievable loneliness with praise!/ I want Leon to have more confidence in himself/ Until I die, I want to continue seeing Leon as an irreplacable presence in my life, more valuable than anyone else./ I hope to decrease Leon's inferiority-complex even a little/ Since he is starved for motherly-love, I want to be the one to show it to him/ Because I want to feed him lots of delicious tomato dishes/ So we can read lots of books together/ He seems to be the obedient, quiet type/ Since Leon's relationship with his mother can't be called good, I want to raise him lovingly this time around./ He|d be a smart, hard-working son to boast about/ Because I want to have him enter a boy's choir group/ He is just so cute!

Anyone else get the feeling some of these people would be better served with a doll than a child?

Q.15 (An indoor type like Leon can't hope to compete in this with an outdoor type like Takumi...)

“If you were stranded together on a deserted island, who do you think you could rely on most?“

Graph

Leon: 39.1%

Takumi: 60.9%

Reasons for choosing Leon: I bet he could do something with Brunhilde (such as harvesting fruit)/ I think Leon would be better at staying calm and make the right decisions during such circumstances. Then he'd use magic to light a fire, dig a waterway, cut down trees and gather materials to then use them to build a house/ I think he'd be able to stay calm about it/ Utilizing his vast knowledge, he'd likely be able to provide safe water and food./ Because he can grow apples/ Either of his retainers would give it their all/ Unlikely to panic, he'd be a calm guide/ He can make fire with magic/ As he is called 'Gravitymaster', he can manipulate the earth as much as he likes and provide a lifestyle that way./ Having magic that can manipulate gravity seems useful/ No matter what happens, I am sure he'd be able to use his knowledge to get by somehow. Plus, I am sure big siblings Camilla and Marx would rush in to the rescue.

So what do you think of the results of these 15 questions? We truly thank everyone who gave their answers within such a limited time. Although we think that there were a lot of unexpected questions relating to our modern way of life, but do you not agree that in this way we were able to more clearly solidify our image of Leon? If all of you continue supporting and showing your love for Leon... we can only call that the correct result.

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

Next update will finally be the last. It may take a bit to get out, but it should happens faster than this. I just realized I’ve spent over half a year on this project...I want to sleep 100 years..

#nanigma translates #fire emblem fates #fe14 #leon #fanbook #fire emblem leon

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ask-miraculous-luciano · 5 years ago

Note

"Hej! You are Libellula right? I've heard so much about you maybe you can tell me what's going on!" Odin smiled wide as he looked up at the older hero, full of wonder Nd, some confusion. (@ask-miraculous-norway)

Libe looked at the kid in confusion at first. Then his eyes widened in shock, relief, and a bit of sadness as he looked at the kid. “O-Odin?? B-But... How?? Y-You were... They said you where...” Before he was a hero himself, Libe had heard from the news that the poor kid had been killed... Yet here he was in front of him... Alive and well... Libe walked over to Odin and embraced him in a hug. While he never knew him personally until now, it hurt him whenever he heard an innocent young life had been cut short.

@ask-miraculous-norway

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saltandlimes · 6 years ago

Text

Fic year in review 2018

This version of the meme is from alaeaureae. I’m only looking at fics I posted on Ao3. If anyone else wants to do this version, I’d love to see your works!!!!!

Total Word Count: 206,566 Total fics written: 18 Fandoms written in: marvel comics, mcu, and star wars

Chronological list (by date completed):

January:

forty dollars a night, 7k, E, thorki, post-ragnarok

claims, 5.7k, E, thorki, pre-canon

February:

you know why, 4.3k, E, kylux, post-The Last Jedi, for @techiehux for the kylux valentines exchange

as I lay sleeping, 21.6k, E, thorki, post-The Dark World/AoU

a gift fit for a lover, 5k, E, thorki, canon-divergent valentines fic

of brothers and lovers, 9.5k, E, thorki, pre-canon, leiana’s prompt from the thorloki prompt meme

March:

and in grief shalt thou homeward go, 6k, WIP, E, thorki, mob/assassin au

April:

broken toys and tin soldiers, 4k, T, thorki, pre-Avengers

games with ghosts, 4k, E, thorki, post-Infinity War

May:

Satisfaction, 5.5k, E, thorki, post-Infinity War chubby thor

July:

Retcon, 90k, E, thorki, Infinity War fix it

Homeland, 4k, E, thorki, jotun!thor and jotun!loki, good!dad!laufey

August:

the rites of spring, 4.8k, E, thorki, fertility god jotun!thor with @thors-soft-cheeks

October:

quid pro quo, 1.8k, E, thorki, pre-canon

November:

half myth, half truth, 19k, E, thorki, fairy-tale au for the thorki big bang

party boys, 4,7k, E, thorki, a/b/o modern au for @cuppyren

December:

pizza and chill, 4.7k, E, thorki, chubby thor modern au

The Witch and the World-Tree, 3.8k, WIP, E, thorki, fairy-tale au for @ifall for the thorki secret santa

Did you write more fic this year than you thought you would, less, or about what you'd predicted? About what I predicted. 2017 was a very bad year for fic writing for me, so I really just wanted to recover, and that’s what I did.

What's your own favorite story of this year? Probably either Retcon or half myth, half truth. Both felt like full stories when I was writing them, true pieces of character development and plot where the characters took on lives of their own.

More thoughts below the cut:

Did you take any writing risks this year? Absolutely! I posted a/b/o thorki to Ao3, and I posted several chubby kink fics, which I really wanted to do, but wasn’t sure would have an audience. I also allowed myself to let go a little in how much I control my style, and I think my writing really improved as a result.

Do you have any fanfic goals for this year? To finish The Witch and the World-Tree, write the very long Trucker!thor au, and write the ballet au fic I’ve been dreaming of. I also want to write more things outside my comfort zone, like fantasy and hard sci-fi, especially because I’m always pleased with the results when I do.

What was...

My best story of this year: I’m not sure! Homeland has wonderful world building, and The Witch and the World-Tree is beautifully written, but Retcon is a fully formed novel.

My most popular story of this year: Retcon! I honestly never expected this story would get so much support. I remember running around excitedly when it hit 500 kudos, and staring dumbfounded at 2.5k. I poured so much time, energy, and feeling into it, and it was incredible to know people appreciated that.

Story of mine most under-appreciated by the universe (in my opinion): Of this year: half myth, half truth. I think it got a bit lost because it was a TBB fic without art, and it really made me sad, because I honestly think it’s beautiful, and I worked my butt off to write it.

Most fun story to write: the rites of spring, because I got to collab with @thors-soft-cheeks!

Hardest story to write: broken toys and tin soldiers. It was a prompt on tumblr where anon asked for loki hallucinating from thanos’s torture, and I think I cried while writing it.

Biggest disappointment: you know why. I was so terribly proud that I’d finished a post-TLJ fic, and then it got almost no reaction. And I guess it showed me that I was out of touch with what the kylux fandom wanted, which was really disappointing.

Biggest surprise: Satisfaction! I’m SO happy that a chubby thor fic did so well!!!!! It encouraged me to write more, and made me really delighted with the thorki fandom.

Favorite opening lines:

The king of Asgard is sick. He has been, for many a year, and all the sages in the land are not able to cure him. They have come and gone, murmuring incantations and strewing bags of foul smelling herbs about his room. Some have insisted that Odin eat the first fruits of summer, and some have said that nothing but a pear plucked during the depths of winter will suffice. Doctor and apothecaries, barbers and leeches, they have all come and gone, and then given way to the hedge wizards and the gnarled herb peddlers, all promising miracles.

-from The Witch and the World-Tree

Favorite closing lines:

“I don’t think I’ll ever stop wanting you,” Thor admits in a small voice.

Loki turns to look him straight in the eye, their faces so close that their noses almost touch.

“You mean that? You want me for more than this?”

“I want you for everything,” Thor admits.

Loki kisses him.

His lips taste of truth.

-from the rites of spring

#my fic #thorki #kylux #year in review

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hopelessly-hailey · 6 years ago

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Valentines Day

Njord walks around his newly built library filing books when the one he promised Vaina falls to between his feet. He smiles and chuckles at the book before bending down to pick it up. He turns the book over in his hands before he calls for a guard and tells him he is to take this book to the consort of the king or the king in the next kingdom and tell him that this is to fulfill a promise. The guard nods and turns so he may leave before sundown. He carries others out of the library and back to his room. He plans to have a night of studying and writing in his book updating the spells. Odin is gone on a hunt and isn't expected back for a few days. Njord sighs as he does miss his husband when he is away but doesn't vocalize such things for fear that is he did Odin's horse would never be able to carry him again with the size of his ego. He stops at his door and shoos away the guards as he wants to be alone once they are gone he walks in only to be greeted by a naked Odin laying in the middle of their bed. "Odin!! Where are your clothes!? You were supposed to be away on a hunt with your men. Why have you returned so soon?" Njord asks but doesn't look away from his husband and he is still a beautiful sight to behold. Not that he will ever say that to him for fear that soon his head won't fit in his helmet again. "Do I need a reason to come back to see my dashing husband? Especially with what day is upon us now? The day that Freya has put aside for lovers." Odin says as he walks over to Njord clearly proud of how he looks. "Or would you rather me anger the gods and be away from my heart for this day?" Odin teases the more religious man.

"No!" Njord exclaims and not just because it would slight the goddess but also because the sight of his husband and lit the fire in him again and he plans to stroke this flame. He drops his book forgotten on the floor and goes over to his husband.

"I would like to keep you here with me. But I fear I may be overdressed for the occasion." Njord teases and Odin smiles before pulling him closer.

"I quite agree you are~" Odin takes his husband to their bed undressing him as they go with Njord's mind pulled off his book and his promise. In the next kingdom, a delivery has been made to a very embarrassed Bjorn. He was waiting for Vaina to come back from the market and when the messenger came and asked for him he told them he was his partner and the king so he would take it and the messenger told him that it was to fulfill a promise made by Njord to him and he nods more curious now and when the messenger leaves he opens the book wondering what this must be and the pictures make his face turn red as a beet. What could he sweet Vaina want with something like this?!?! Bjorn hears footsteps and he hides the book quickly from the prying eyes of his advisors who don't approve of his union with Vaina so he will not give them more reasons to disapprove. He sits in the meeting just waiting until he can talk to his little flower. Later Bjorn is finally alone in his room waiting for Vaina and the door opens and his head snaps up to see Vaina walk in with a smile.

"Bjorn! How was your meeting?" Vaina smiles at him which makes Bjorn smile as well. He nods that it was good to Vaina and Vaina sits next to him and takes his hand.

"I got you some of your favorites in the market today. I wish you could have come with me." Vaina keeps telling Bjorn about his trip but Bjorn can't concentrate because of the book he is sitting on right now and Vaina notices this quickly.

"What is wrong Bjorn? Have I done something to upset you? You didn't kiss me when I arrived like you normally do..." Vaina says sadly and looks down

"No! It's n't ye I got a d'livery for ye today 'nd..." Bjorn holds out the book to him and sees Vaina turn many shades of red as he takes it from him.

"The m'ssenger said it w's because of a promis' that ye g't this b'k." Bjorn says and it almost sounds like a question. Vaina is still blushing but he chuckles

"When you got hurt and we were in that barn with them Njord said he had read a book about how you and I could be closer... If you wanted that anyway..." Vaina look at him with his big eyes and Bjorn blushes as well.

"I w'uld like that more th'n ye can imag'ne," Bjorn says and kisses Vaina tenderly which is quickly returned with a smile back on Vaina's face and he holds his hands tighter before pulling back some.

"With this book, we can truly be one. We can have almost everything regular couples have. I wish to share everything with you and no other." Vaina whispers still holding on to Bjorn tight. Bjorn kisses him as a way to tell him that this is all he wants as well. Bjorn pulls him back into the bed with him and cuddles Vaina who takes the book and lays back with him blushing but reading it as well as it is in the common language something that both of them have been working on together. Now they share in this new knowledge that they plan to use soon all thanks to someone that was once their enemy.

(This is an au my partner and I created and I made this for her)

#hetalia #sweden #finland #sufin #denmark #norway #dennor

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the-firebird69 · 2 months ago

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this looks a lot like him and the two dogs his. are german shepards no well ok close. nd are his wolves Fennis and Wife and are the size of the one in the movie Thor ragnarok with Hella nd Hera helps her and the chracter hers. no. but this is our son. and daughter is near as always.

Thor Freya

post it now ok find it

Hera

good and this the size teh stone ws ten inches by six by six or so and stn could not lift it. no and my husband did so with one hand. and the hammer handle is as depicted but made of Thorium as well. the metal some think king david cut.

Frigg

and it does bear a mark that very closely resembles the real thing the mark of Odin an it is the Valknut and means knot of the slain similar to six six six and for us ours. and it is greatness. and the mark you shall find in the front yard. however, is the hammer that ruined the actul chevy parked almost directly above it and they attempted to meld the engine and tehy failed. severl times i think five. and it was used in combat much like the morning star. when you see it it is very close to the dimensions of the hammer head in the movies with your version of thor. tiny guy. small ok. not so big compared to myself as my namesake

Odin

and yes the hammer does bear that mark and it is very similar i saw it put them there. tons fight over it and the circles here. nd we see could be in trouble davids sons daughters. we work now.

and ok mb they were promscous. too much hormone in a uge load

mac daddy

Olympus and it his his hammer our sons

yours and be proud and i know you are ok

Frigg

and hahah ok Hera almsot and she said no nd good

Thor Freya

Zig Zag good

and we see it help him now good we shall and good.

Atlas and Goddess Wife

we all shall cherish this day so p rint now

Olympus

0 notes

flameontheotherside · 6 years ago

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Vanessa, My Higher Self And Inner-asshole

Inner-asshole because she has almost no sense of humor. My mom reminded me when I had the face mask on courtesy of Vanessa's encouragement. She joked about the "shit on my face" and I just looked at her like... 😑. Normally I would joke back but my higher self wasn't having it either. I've been taking her advice and guidance.... And arguing with her.

She's the part of me that has fashion sense, knows what looks good and what is "best for me" 😑... Because being tomboy is "no longer necessary". Well excuse me ma'am just because you are who you are in the realms don't mean squat.

I stand corrected.

She is on my ass about following her, God and Erik's guidance. Even though I basically want nothing more to do with it any more. Today I dealt with Vince and Isaac only to end up pissed off. I learned my lesson and that's the only way I have to look at it. I can't move on as long as Vince still has my cat. It hurts. Vince sent me pictures of him and Odin in bed like he used to be with me. Odin is supposed to be with me. 😕 I have to stop and suck it up until the next step whenever that is and what ever that will or won't be. Anxiety is so bad that I've lost so much hair.

Grabbed a bunch of new clothes...

Even 😂👌DRESSES AND SKIRTS. I realized that skirts are pretty effective in Florida heat. Unlike shorts I don't get that nice breeze. 🤣👏🏼👏🏼👏🏼 Seriously I donno why it took me so long to add these to my wardrobe. Don't get me wrong I'm still wearing my cat shirts. I won't get rid of them. I look pretty damn good with the new clothes I've gotten and following Vanessa's guidance and attention to detail. It's kind of becoming more of a habit now.

I'm itching to go to Victoria's Secret just to have a look... 🤣 Not my usual but my pajamas are trashed and since I lost so much weight my good stuff is ummm... Not good anymore. Lmfao! I'm almost surprised Isaac never dragged me through there while he took me clothes shopping. Then again, it's not like he was ever going to see me skantly clad like that ever again. I'm saving myself. For God knows what but then again, I feel so rusty that I may as well just say I'm a virgin. Okay okay I'm done. 🤣😂🤣😂👏🏼👏🏼👏🏼 Im going to laugh so hard everyone will wake up.

(ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:・ﾟ✧Don’t forget to take a look at Erik’s blog ran by his amazing mom Dr Elisa Medhus. Lots of stuff about his afterlife and 💩 at channelingerik.com.

(◕‿◕)♡ Social: Twitter Tumblr Instagram YouTube

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paulhudd · 6 years ago

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Herbie smiled and nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Broo growled back.

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

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

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

Malky was confused, “Then why....?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Malky grunted a hollow, listless “Oh really?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Malky smiled, “Valentino?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yep, it came with the ahse!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Emil remained silent.

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

He stood and stared.

“Emil!”

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

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

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

He dangled his keys.

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

He jangled his keys.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

AARGH!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sir? Sir... hello...

“Sir?!

“Wind down the window, sir!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So who’s pulling the strings?

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

Emil’s outer voice said “Passport?”

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

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

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

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

What?!

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

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

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

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

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

Baltimore?!

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

“No, sir.”

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

Emil didn’t stir.

“Sir... pop the trunk?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mommeeeeeeee!” Cathy wailed.

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

“Daddy said it not me.”

“It was a slip of the tongue, Pat.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Broo found the menagerie obscene and growled accordingly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Broo grunted, still too stupefied to take anything in.

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

“Why did he sack them?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He ran away.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As always, McKee remained silent and seemingly insensible.

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

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

To Be Continued Next Month...

#Spindlefreck #fantasy #witchcraft #witches #psychics #irish fiction #demon #ghosts #mysticism #mystics #fantasy fiction

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