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paulhudd · 5 years

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Spindlefreck Book Two: Pt Three: Swamp Witch

Gilray Residence, Mount Merrion, Dublin

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

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

“Rossington.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A wee girl?”

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

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

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

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

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

The voice in her head laughed uproariously.

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

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

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

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

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

Ni wanted to scream.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The voice in her head laughed uproariously.

Fuck you Oona! Why did you do that?!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am going mad...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The kettle clicked off.

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

She put the little bottle back and made the cocoa.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The sergeant returned the glare with frightened eyes.

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

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

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

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

Silence.

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

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

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

“WHO IS IT – OVER?!” Scanlon barked.

Prolonged silence; crackling static.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

<‘E’s a borin’ twot, ain’t ‘e?>

Go away! I’m driving!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oona tittered, <’ere we go...>

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

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

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

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

“I’m not teasing! You look great!”

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

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

or was it?

The inside of the car brightened and everything went white

isn’t it a little girl?

12 or 13, long black hair...

That smell,

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

she couldn't breathe.

Panicking, thrashing, gasping for air

sleep came down

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

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

Back at Paddy’s kitchen:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Emil stopped chewing, “Sorry...?”

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

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

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

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

Get lost!

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Emil, I really need to sleep...?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Rossington.”

“It’s Niamh.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck you, James! I’m serious!”

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

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

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

Oona was gone.

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

“Niamh?”

“Niamh...?”

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

“Niamh, are you there...?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Afternoon delight my arse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His voice sounded sympathetic so she stopped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Dr Morgan looked to the men.

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

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

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

Scanlon glowered.

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

Charlie chuckled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It looks like she’s wakening...”

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

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

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

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

The other voice explained

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

This operation is on hiatus...>

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

She stopped. Oh God. How bad is she?

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

So, is that it? She’s out of my life?

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

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

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

Hello...?

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

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

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

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

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

“I was just testin’ his reflexes!”

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

The technicians stopped unscrewing and gawped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t do this, Herb. We go way back -- at least 20 years -- and I’ve always done my upmost -- I got Ollie off booze, I got Annelise off smack --”

“Ollie’s fallen off the wagon loadsa times since then and your ‘treatment’ nearly killed poor li’l Annelise! Not only that -- - you then proceeded to exploit ‘er!”

“Hardly! We wrote a book together! She made a lot of money and she’s fully recovered!”

Herbie pushed the muzzle hard into Rossington’s cheekbone, “That’s the reason the boss can never bring isself to pull the plug on ya. But the boss ain't the geezer ‘e used to be, see, ‘n ‘e leaves it to me to make all the Life or Deaf decisions.” He grabbed the good doctor’s tie, pulled him across the room, thrust him into his swivelling, leather throne and put the gun against his temple, “Now, sit still. This hasta look like suicide!”

Eyes squeezed-shut, Rossington begged for mercy in his native New Jersey accent, “Christ no, don’t do this!! Look, Scanlon is your guy -- he’s your loose cannon –- he’s always hated her...!”

There was a long pause, then he heard Gorringe say “We know.”

The muzzle was withdrawn, the pressure on his Adam’s-apple eased. He opened his eyes. Herbie was sitting on the edge of the desk, grinning, “That’s why yer off the ‘ook, for now,” he said, matter-of-factly, and in one deft movement spun the pistol around his finger like a six shooter, caught it by the barrel, ejected the magazine and put it in the breast pocket of his tunic, spun it again and handed the disarmed weapon to Rossington. “The boss ‘n’ me ‘ad a powwow ‘n you’re the lucky winner, Jimbo. Scanlon is indeed ‘a loose cannon’ and ‘e will be dealt wiv in doo course, but we ain’t pleased with yer work, so from now on you go back to doin’ yer normal business an’ we leave Oona alone to get on wiv ‘er life. OK?”

Rossington took the gun with a trembling hand and carefully put it back in the drawer, “Whatever you say.”

Herbie nodded, “Good. Until we decide wot to do next, this operation is on hiatus...”

The Wetlands of Bogmire, Co. Kildare, in the grounds of Pagham House:

12:45am: The clouds had opened, and as the raindrops hissed through the trees and strafed the canvas of the little shelter, the amateur archaeologists, some holding lanterns, gathered around to see what they’d found. Paddy knelt by the tarp and shone his torch on the entwined skeletons, now carefully washed down, relatively mud-free and finally exposed to the air. Shaking his head with incredulity, he turned to Ni and held up her little sketch, “You were right on the money. 100%. Exactly where you said they’d be, in the same position; one an ancient adult male, the other a child with a fractured skull -- you got it exactly right,” he said, utterly awestruck.

Ni, holding a handkerchief dipped in perfume to her nose, answered efficiently and unemotionally, “This lends credence to the legend that an ‘ancient magus’ was placed in the bog and cursed so that his evil wouldn't spread after his demise,” she explained to Emil, who was still too busy crapping his pants to take it in, let alone adopt his usual casual, cooler-than-thou attitude. But instead of raising any objection about despoiling a scene of natural beauty, he asked, tremulously, “And... you just had a dream... what...?”

Paddy tried to coax her into a confession, “C’mon Ni, did someone tell you about this? Is there someone out there who knows something about this?”

“I just had a vision, that’s all I can tell you. I can’t explain it. It could've been a side effect of the drugs Rossington gave me, but for some reason I knew it was true,” she said, equivocally.

“Well, I’m flummoxed,” said Paddy, standing up, pulling down his hood and scratching his head, “The older mummy is perfectly preserved! It’ll take some time to date it, but I’m pretty sure it’s thousands of years old. I don’t know whether to feel elated or afraid!”

“It’s very... exciting,” said Emil, very uncomfortable in his own skin, not knowing how to behave.

Paddy made a face and said, “Is that all you have to say? This is a monumental find! I thought you’d be overjoyed?!” He looked from one to the other and twigged something was wrong, “Did you two have a row on the drive down?”

“Oh, a disagreement over something insignificant,” said Ni, glancing at Emil.

Emil swallowed hard, looked away and said nothing.

“What about the little girl?” she asked, sparing his blushes.

Paddy hunkered down again and examined the smaller, whiter skeleton closely and shook his head, “Well, we’ll have to identity her, poor thing. In my opinion, she was definitely killed in this century; at least 50 years ago, so there must be a record of her somewhere. The murderer or murderers could still be alive.”

It struck her like a thunderbolt. She put the handkerchief over her mouth to stifle her gasp and stepped back. This time it wasn't the smell that made her recoil.

This is the little girl in the Somerville kids’ bedroom. This is the little girl she saw in the mirrors. This is the little girl she saw at the edge of the woods. This is her. There were tresses of black hair still clinging to the skull and the remains of a little nightdress clinging to the skeleton, but Ni didn’t need to see the physical evidence, she knew in her heart it was true. But why did McKee/his demon want her found?

Meanwhile, “... the question is: how did she come to be resting in the other’s arms? 5000 years apart and they’re positioned like Madonna and Child? It doesn’t make sense,” said Paddy, looking to his colleague for an opinion, “What do you think, Emil? Ever seen anything like this?”

Still distracted by guilt and embarrassment, nevermind the potential explosiveness of the situation, Emil answered diffidently, “Umm... yeah... sure looks like murder to me...”

Piqued by his friend’s semi-detached attitude and his niece’s apparent lassitude, Paddy stood up and gruffly announced, “Sorry folks, but this place will be a crime scene for the foreseeable future. Until we get this mystery sorted out, this operation is on hiatus...”

The Ivy House, Downpatrick, Northern Ireland:

01:45am: Ogden Castle, the Lumb’s rotund butler -- counsel to the New Master of the house and newly-installed leader of the coven, Jamie Jameson Lumb -- crossed the tiled lobby and waddled up the hall to the drawing room. He’d called a house meeting, although there’ll only be two members present; Lady Beth was off to her ranch in Connecticut leaving them to sort out the ‘hocus-pocus shit’. The housemates and household staff were under lockdown and warned not to venture out of the estate ‘until the Barry McKee business has been sorted’. Puffing and panting, he knocked the door and entered. “C’mon, Oggy,” said Jamie, “what’s the news? I had to put off a meditation session for this!” This was true; he was dressed in a Persian kaftan and beaded slippers, his brow and shaved head daubed with ancient runes peculiar to the coven.

Puffing and wheezing, Castle took a seat and explained, “Sorry, sir, I was waitin’ for word from the Council, it takes ages now, what with the Psychosphere still out-of-commission.” He took a deep breath and told them, “Anyway, according to the lads in Namibia, there’s the slightest hint of violet in the sunset. He’s definitely not weakening. He’s getting energy from somewhere. There are also traces of him in the Mirror World.”

Guy ‘Goz’ Gosling, Jamie’s school friend, ex-band mate, former rock star and now a successful movie actor, was slumped across one of the leather armchairs. He was also shaven-headed and bare-footed, but in his case it was a fashion choice, like his black Bowie tee-shirt and tight-fitting leather trousers. He was sick and tired of the whole affair and desperately wanted to get back to Hollywood to resuscitate his acting career, “That’s it then. Go to SCICI and unplug him. How hard can it be?”

“You know how hard it can be, dickhead, he has to die a natural death,” snapped Jamie, shooting him a dirty look. “If we kill McKee the demon will just migrate to the nearest lifeform, I don’t need to tell you that. We have to tackle him while McKee’s still alive, and to do that, we need to get close, and Rossington has him locked up safe ‘n sound in a secure unit in a high-security prison. That’s how hard it can be.”

They were at an impasse. It was times like that Jamie dreaded. Making decisions that could drastically affect the coven. It was the only time he doubted his abilities. Castle read him, “You've nothing to fear, sir, it’s only a setback. We’ll get him.”

“There is another option we haven’t explored,” said Goz, sheepishly.

Jamie read his mind without the aid of telepathy, “No. Not him.”

“But he can travel in the Mirror World and he has the energy to cast spells, he could tackle him from the inside...?”

Castle and Jamie considered it for all of second and then gave him a firm, “No.”

“Master Bernard is more likely to make a deal with the demon than try to stop him,” said Castle.

“That’s if he hasn’t already!” said Jamie.

Goz threw up his hands in anger and despair, “Well, what other choice do we have?! We can’t get close enough to him to curse him! We can’t attack him in the Mirror World...?”

Jamie paced the floor in front of the fireplace and bemoaned their lot, “If only Carla wasn't resting. She’d get into SCICI and no one would bat an eyelid.”

Castle was quick to correct him, “Aye, she may be able to beguile a lot of people simultaneously, sir, but she can’t beguile security cameras. And besides, Rossington’s already met her [See Book One Part 9]; he knows she’s one of us.”

Jamie heaved a heavy sigh, “Then, what the hell are we going to do?”

The prospect of enlisting Bernie Pritchard to do the dirty work was looking inevitable until there was a knock on the door and Fordham the footman entered, excused himself and whispered something in Castle’s ear. The butler nodded and Fordham left.

“Well, Oggy, what is it?!” said Jamie, impatiently.

Castle explained that an archaeological dig in Kildare had unearthed the mummy of an evil magus and broken an ancient curse releasing a cloud of dark energy into the air, “It’s so virulent that it’s rendered the entire area unapproachable for psyches like us. And it would account for the sudden surge of dark power.”

“How come we didn’t know about this? An evil magus buried in a bog? An ancient curse? I don’t remember any of this being mentioned in history class,” said Goz, getting more irritated with each development.

“It must've happened before our ancestors came home to Ireland,” offered Castle, “the curse put on his earthly remains must've been strong enough to cover all trace of ‘im. They mustn’t’ve felt anything at all when they arrived or they’d’ve dealt with it...” Castle’s voice dropped as he realised something relevant to the conversation.

“What is it now, Oggy?” said Jamie, getting evermore anxious with every disclosure.

“I dunno, it could be nothin’.” Castle told them of a residence in the immediate vicinity of the bog; Pagham House. It was built to the same specifications as the Ivy House at around the same time, “The 8th Duke of Roxborough -- Thaddeus Ravenhill -- a one time friend of Sir Arnold’s [Jamie’s grandfather], commissioned it. They were as thick as thieves back in the day, but he wasn’t one of us. He tried everything, y’know, the usual hokum: satanic rituals, virgin sacrifice, that sorta bollocks. He was executed in 1795, but Sir Arnold had nuthin’ to do with ‘im by then. He was off his rocker on mind-bending drugs. Anyway, I think the bog is in the grounds of his estate.”

“You think he could have something to do with this?” asked Jamie.

“Seems unlikely. If he did know about it, he didn’t mention it to Sir Arnold. And if anyone could see through Roxborough it was Sir Arnold. Still, it’s a bit of a coincidence them finding the mummy on his land....” said Castle, pensively.

“How dangerous can this mummy be?” said Goz, confused, “I mean, he must've Ascended when he died? If he was a ghost we’d know about it by now.”

Jamie looked to Castle, “He has a point.”

Castle sighed with fatigue, “It’s not his Soul that matters, sir,” he said, mopping his neck with his handkerchief, “he musta been beholden to the demon; only a disciple would have access to that sorta dark power. And that energy never dies; it lives on in the body. In other words, he’s as dangerous dead as he was alive.” He offered them some consolation, “On the other hand, it could take years for the demon to access it, especially in an isolated, incapacitated body. McKee could die a natural death in that time, ‘n if that’s the case, the demon will die with him ‘n none of this will matter.” Castle took a deep breath, “In the meantime, the witches can keep an eye on things. They’re the only ones who can be around dark energy and only suffer minor effects. I’ll give ‘em a call on the auld crystal ball, I just hope they’re agreeable. They can be a fickle lot at the best of times.”

“I just thought of something,” said Jamie, in a troubled voice, “as the crow flies, it’s only around 80 miles from Odin’s Inn.”

“Shite, I forgot about that ...” said Castle, groaning, putting his head in his hands, “... will it ever end?”

Goz looked from one to the other, “’Odin’ Inn’?”

“It’s in Brodir, a deserted seaside town on the coast of Wicklow,” Jamie told him, “it’s where Calvert and the Lindsay woman live; they were the couple involved in the capture of McKee. Danielle’s Soul migrated to the woman during the encounter. They’re due to have a baby at some time in the near future.”

Goz was suddenly very interested and sat up, “Jeezus! Dani? Dani’s coming back?! How do you know for sure?”

“Witches,” said Castle, tapping his temples with his index fingers, “they’re never wrong.” [See Book One, Part 21]

“But if the demon gets wind of it while all this shit’s going down, she could be corrupted all over again,” said Jamie, shaking his head at the enormity of the task ahead.

“Well, you’ll have plenty of time to work on a solution, sir,” Castle informed him with a regretful frown, “cos a few of us older ones are drained after the events of the last 6 months. We need to go down below ‘n get some rest or we’ll be no use to anybody.”

Jamie was aghast, “You’re hibernating?! For how long?”

“At least a couple of years. The witches can handle things while we’re away. As far as we’re concerned, this operation is on hiatus.”

2 years later...

ODIN’S INN, BRODIR, Co. Wicklow:

Sunday, May 2nd 1991

The bar resounded with a loud banging: there was someone at the front door. Zindy shouted from the kitchen, “There’s somebody at the front door, Mal!”

Malky looked over the banister and yelled back, “...And here’s me thinkin’ the woodworm were using heavy machinery!”

“I’m laughin’ but the door’s still bangin’!”

“I’m wasted in this place,” he muttered, put down his paintbrush and got to his feet, “Ooow, me back!” He’d been sitting on the stairs varnishing the handrail for the past 90 minutes and his vertebrae had settled into an awkward curve; it took him a good few seconds to stretch-out the kink.

Meanwhile, in the parlour, Brooster was enjoying his Sunday; there was always plenty to watch: a film in the afternoon and documentaries on BBC2 at night -- unless there was sport on, in which case he’d watch Channel 4 or RTE2. He felt a little guilty lazing around like this, but after 10 years working as a RUC cadaver dog, going for runs every day at dawn and getting up at all hours to sniff for corpses in the dark, he felt he’d earned his rest. Anyway, today’s matinee featured an Alec Guinness double bill (one of Broo’s favourite actors) on BBC2: Kind Hearts and Coronets followed by Bridge over the River Kwai; just his cup of tea. He was enjoying Dennis Price committing the first murder when he heard a robust knock at the front door. It was very unusual to get visitors at this time of year, especially on a Sunday. He struggled to his feet, whimpering intermittently as his old bones ached with the effort, staggered across the floor and put an ear against the door.

The banging began again.

The kitchen door opened and Broo winced as Zindy’s voice shrieked in the hall, “Malky! The door!! I’m up to me tits in derv!” Evidently her pregnancy had not affected her vocal cords.

“RIGHT!” Malky shouted back, muttering under his breath about the abolition of slavery as he lurched through the bar and into the vestibule, and taking care not to touch the recently varnished woodwork, slid back the bolts and opened the door to a tall, sturdily-built man in his mid-to-late 60s looking up at him from the bottom step.

Clad in a neat, well-pressed, double-breasted grey uniform topped-off with a peaked cap and patent leather knee-boots, he had the bearing of an ex-military-man, and although it looked familiar, the uniform didn’t belong to any militia or security force Malky had ever seen. Then he looked across the cobbled concourse and saw an unoccupied Rolls Royce Silver Shadow parked at the kerb and realised that the caller was in fact a chauffeur. He wasn't a handsome man by any stretch, but he was tall and thick with wide shoulders; he had a long, horse-like face and teeth to match, but the tanned, heavily-lined and ruggedly earnest features lent him a certain charisma, like a US army general, or a well-travelled bouncer; tough but canny: someone who won’t take shit from anybody. And although Malky was certain he wasn't looking for a room, nevertheless he pointed out the inexpertly rendered homemade sign taped to the outside of the door that read Closed for Renovations, “Um, we’re not open til the autumn, pal. Try Arklow, 6 miles that-away.” He pointed due north.

The chauffeur looked at a piece of paper, then looked askance at the paint-spattered individual in the doorway, “Malcolm Calvert...?”

It has to be said, his misgivings weren’t without foundation: Malky was not a pretty sight at that particular moment -– unshaven with greying, uncombed collar-length hair, wearing Zindy’s ex-boyfriend’s outsized Hawkwind tee-shirt and emulsion caked M&S pyjama pants -- he looked like a hobo that’d really let himself go. “Who wants to know?” he asked, charily, well-used to uninvited attention -- usually pressmen waving cheque books or ghouls and geeks in search of the ‘truth’ about Barry McKee -- and normally, he would have slammed the door shut by now, but today he was intrigued: Who would send their chauffeur...?

The big driver took off his peaked cap revealing a dark, bog-brush silvery crew-cut (another tick in the ex-military column), put it under his left arm and moved-up-a-step so that he could shake Malky’s hand.

“Hello, Mr Calvert, ‘Erbert Gorringe. Pleased to meet ya,” he said, in a croaky, cockney rumble...

To Be Continued Next Month in Ha! Ha! said the Clown

#spindlefreck #fantasy #witchcraft #witches #psychics #telepathy #demon #irish fiction #ghosts #horror #blackcomedy #mysticism #mystics #dreams #fantasy horror

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monkeyscribbler-blog · 7 years

Text

THE HUNDRED

Two days after getting laid off from my last job, I woke up, walked into an Irish pub five blocks from my apartment, took a seat, and didn’t leave for nine hours. It was here, after six proper pints of IPA and three shots of Jameson, I first became aware of the transcendent beauty of a bar. It unveiled itself to me, a fleeting vision of the Virgin Mary to a Mexican peasant farmer. The mysterious, moody browns in a bottle of Woodford Reserve. Patron Silver’s intimidating squat, daring eye contact. The embossed decanter – Sherry? Cognac? – peeking out of the middle shelf, evoking memories of grandma. To extend my entry into this higher level of enlightenment, I humbly ordered another shot, deciding upon Jim Beam, the fuel of blue-collar America (according to movies). With total understanding that comes only with daytime drunkenness, I watched as the bartender skillfully turned the bottle over, releasing a silent, smooth pour into the endless void of my glass.

It was the prettiest shot I ever saw.

Shot 1:

A twenty-three-ounce can of Coors Light, on the other hand, is not intended for shots. It gurgles out its beer, reluctantly, as if questioning your decision (along with everyone else you know). Immediately, my one-and-a-half ounce shot glass, the one with “Welcome to Jamaica” embossed on the side, overflows. Examining the beer that has spilled upon the wood floor below, my cat pauses, and then decides it is worth lapping up.

The shot is cold, carbonated, harsh, delicious. This is less beer than I usually consume in a single sip, and years of conditioned drinking immediately make me want more.

Taking ninety-nine of these is not going to be a problem.

•

I've never done The Century Club before, or, for that matter, any college drinking games: beer pong, quarters, asshole, that game where everyone sticks a card to their forehead and bets.

[EDITOR’S NOTE: Indian Poker. What this game has to do with Indians is still with research.]

[EDITOR’S NOTE: The editor is just a sober version of the writer.]

[EDITOR’S NOTE: The editor is unaware if you can put three editor’s notes in a row, and if so, which punctuation you use to separate it.]

While other nineteen-year-olds were exploring the vigors of fucking under black lights and constructing six-foot high bongs from root beer cans, I was hiding inside a dorm room with my Seventh-Day Adventist roommate. At the time, I considered my support of his weekend lock-ins to be a result of my ceaseless selflessness, always putting others ahead of myself. Years of reflection (aided by New York’s finest bartenders) revealed the truth to be more mundane: I was insecure, with a mild case of social anxiety.

Without intentionally trying to insult your expertise in vice, I’d like to inform any of those unaware that The Century Club involves drinking a shot of beer every minute for one-hundred minutes straight. (A Google search for “The Century Club” reveals a surprising number of disparate definitions for this club. It is a club for those who have traveled to 100 or more countries, had sex with 100 partners, cadets who have marched 100 hours, FIFA players who have played 100 or more matches. It seems the drinking beer Century Club is the least impressive club even within the realm of Century Clubs.)

The Century Club makes the most sense in college, when you have one class a week (which you miss) and compete with your roommates to find creative ways to get drunk as quickly and cheaply as possible (jungle juice). It becomes less useful as an adult, where a drunk face accompanied by passionate conversations about how awesome it would be to have Gatling guns for hands no longer entertains your roommate, now called a wife.

So why am I doing it now, at age 33? A man can only take so many baby showers, 401(k) statements, cholesterol tests, and $115-dollar-a-ticket musicals featuring singing monkeys before The Century Club becomes a self-evident way to reverse lingering regrets and stake a claim in the country of man. In fact, it may be the only way. So I bought two cases of beer, called my friend John, set up a sanctuary in my small Brooklyn apartment, and started consuming beer from a shot glass, one minute at a time.

The following is a live transcript of what transpired, written under the increasing influence of these beer shots.

•

Shot 2 - 10:

Despite my early enthusiasm, the next nine shots go down with unexpected and worrying difficulty. I can already see where the challenge will arise as I continue on my path towards collegiate immortality: Time. Minutes just aren’t as long as I seem to remember. Sure, I can drink a lot, but at my own pace. This pace is forced; a war prisoner’s march through a hot Filipino jungle, not a jaunt through the local park. I also begin questioning the amount I ate this morning. A friend who tried this before ate too much sushi before his attempt, and said it messed him up, so I didn’t really eat. But now, it seems my stomach has shrunk. By shot seven, i'm Googling “belly blow up”. Fortunately, the results assure me stomachs rarely explode, which I confirm via a linked MythBuster’s video clip in which they unsuccessfully try to explode a dead pig’s stomach with an infinite amount of Coca-Cola and cherry Pop Rocks. Did you ever see the movie Urban Legends? It wasn’t very good. I think they did something with Pop Rocks and Coke in there.

•

Shots 11 – 20:

The shots are small, but maddeningly frequent. Chinese beer torture: Shot. Pause. Shot. Pause. Shot.

My quest to add this accomplishment to my impressive drinking resume is already becoming doubtful. I’m swallowing the shots, as I would a glass of water, which is the only way I know to consume foods and liquids. (Which gives my throat a chance to approve or disapprove of the size and type of material that shall pass its gates, ensuring I don’t swallow an entire chicken wing.) John says I should be shooting them, not drinking them. The truth is, I am too much of a pussy to shoot anything. Open the throat and pour it down, John says. I try it, start to cough, spill more beer. This is going almost as poorly as the time I tried my first beer bong, viewable on YouTube under the title “World’s Worst Beer Bong Ever”. It seems I am a decent drinker until it reaches competitive status, at which point I revert back to a terrified little school boy.

John has inherent advantages in this quest that quickly become apparent. First, he has done this before. (He was in a fraternity. I was in College Bowl.) Second, he’s big. The kind of big where a shot glass in his hand seems like a pen cap. Third, he’s from Rochester, New York. I’ve never been, so I’m not sure what that means, but I imagine if there’s anywhere where men regularly do Century Clubs for fun, it’d be there.

I’m pretty sure Alice the kitten is drunk.

•

At age 12, I developed a serious acne problem. Pimples raised off my skin like magma bubbles, and it was critical I correct this issue, quickly, as my emaciated 135-pound body, replete with heavy eyewear and history of poor fashion choices, already had me reeling in the complex social orbits of the 8th grade universe. In response, my doctor blithely prescribed tetracycline, an antibiotic he'd been using since he became a doctor sometime during the last Polio outbreak. I blame this medical failure on doctors failing to appreciate that an acne diagnosis as a youth is the emotional equivalent of a cancer diagnosis as an adult. Your fragile mind is devastated on all levels. The fear of mockery in front of Michelle (Imagine: A smoldering, four-foot-seven-inch seductress, very good at naming state capitols) or Tara (Imagine: A playful, innocent blonde with a talent for woodwind instruments) was a terror perhaps only felt by the mice my science teacher regularly dropped into the snake tank. These fears scar you worse than the acne itself, resulting in a stunted development of self-confidence, a problem never truly conquered, no matter how much money, vaginal experience, or success you accumulate.

The inherent problem with Tetracycline, beyond its utter ineffectiveness, was actually masked by an altogether different problem: as a hypochondriac-in-training, I was certain I would choke on the 50-mg pills I was prescribed. This choking fear had manifested itself throughout my childhood, such that at this point, I had only swallowed one or two pills ever. But the acne had to go, even at risk of death-by-pill-choke. I initially tried cutting the pills in half, then swallow them. This proved unworkable, as the jagged edges of the cut pill scratched my throat upon the swallow. I tried dissolving them in water. I tried eating them. Eventually, I realized if I drank a huge gulp of water with a pill thrown in I could swallow the pill, though even getting to that point took about eighteen terrifying minutes a night.

In the end, none of it mattered. The doctor's lack of imaginative, or accurate, treatment resulted in little improvement. The acne remained for another year, before the wondrous drug Acutane rid me of it forever. (While simultaneously ridding me of a functioning liver, lower pancreas, and left kidney).

•

Shot 21 - 30:

We've encountered our second serious barrier. Neither John or me are able to figure out how to count all the slashes on the napkin that is acting as our semi-official scorecard. Because drunk college kids aren’t known for their responsible administrative skills, when we looked online for rules to The Century Club, it didn’t mention anything about scorekeeping. In drunken retrospect, we agree we should have invited a third as an official counter. As this exercise has taught us, two things you quickly lose when drinking is an ability to count, and ability to make marks that you will later be able to count. The good news is I’m definitely in some sort of zone. It’s that drinking twilight period where the alcohol begins to eliminate worries and improve confidence. (In my past, this confidence has gotten me to believe that I could take a 6’8” bouncer, walk 40 miles home, and, well, drink 100 shots of beer.)

•

In college, I was a basketball referee for the university’s intramural league. This was a bad idea on many fronts, most notably that I was trying to impose rules upon people who were either my age, or older, and often times in class with me. Watch an NFL, MLB or NBA game some time. Notice that the referees and umpires are without question a minimum of ten years older than the players they are supervising. This guarantees a certain amount of respect. Granted, America is certainly no Asia when it comes to respect for elders, but there is still a lingering regard that serves as a buffer between player and regulator: grey hair means wisdom. When you strip this age gap away, you have the situation I was in. Players would ignore my whistle and continue to play. They’d call fouls on themselves. If they didn’t like my call, they’d look at me curiously and drop the ball at my feet. These disagreements would find their way into classes and parties.

I quit after the fall season was over.

I imagine this is the same reason The Century Club doesn’t call for a sanctioned referee. Unless you are able to find a fifty-year-old willing to sit and watch you drink one-hundred shots of beer, you are stuck to someone your own age. And someone your own age is probably drinking with you. This is why there has probably never been a fully accurate Century Club ever.

•

Shot 31 - 40:

The minutes are flying by. To prove my point, apparently writing “the minutes are flying by” took a minute, because John just announced the next shot. John is very non-descript when he speaks. Just informs me. Like he's telling me that my cable bill is due. To further prove my point, these are all the notes I have from those ten shots.

•

Shot 41 - 54:

Not sure what is happening here. It is 5:33 PM. Not sure where we are on the shots. Not sure I can type, actually. I'm definately drunk. Why is Microsoft Word underlining definately? Am I spelling it wrong?

[EDITOR’S NOTE: Yes]

This fucking spell check is like an evil fucking warlock. You can’t trust it. What is the difference between a warlock and a wizard? I wanted to say wizard but then chose warlock. What about a sorcerer? What is that? How are they different? What is a female warlock? A Warlockess? I know sorceress works. Jesus. It seems like John calls "shot" every fucking second. Seriously, he must be fucking with me. This is not every minute. No chance.

I have no chance of hitting 100. No fucking chance. I just gotta hit 70, cause that seems cool.

Amazing. Before trying this. 100 shots of beer sounded like nothing. I thought I'd have no problem. But this is definately added up. FUCK FUCK FUCK! Fucking stop underlining definitely!

[EDITOR’S NOTE: It is definitely.]

I know it is right!!!!

[EDITOR’S NOTE: It isn’t.]

fuckers.

•

When I was in fourth grade, I hung out with two middle-school kids, Scott and Eric. They introduced me to the secretive game of Dungeons and Dragons, which seemed to me akin to time travel. My parents were troubled with the arrangement. They knew as adults what I didn’t as a kid: eighth-graders shouldn’t want to hang out with fourth-graders, unless they couldn’t make friends with other eighth-graders, which would indicate some sort of social adjustment issue. Regardless, the advantage was that I had access to well-seasoned Dungeon Masters who would spend weeks planning elaborate adventures, pitting my Level 4 thief with high dexterity against the challenges of deceitful innkeepers, purple dragon knights, and beguilers with multiple spells. I spent an entire fall on one adventure, racing home after school to jump back into the world of paladins, water forests, and underground castles, which certainly beat the other world of math homework and shoveling up the dog shit in the backyard. To this day, this is the reason I have such strong opinions on the differences between shamans and duskblades, particularly after fifty-one shots of Coors Lite.

•

Shot 55 - 62:

Food is helping. Not sure if that is allowed in college level. But true Century Club means no pissing, no food, no anything. But that's bullshit. I'm 38, i Make the fucking rules. That was nice just now. Capitalizing the M in make. NOt sure why. But the .

hmm. forgot the sentence there. Jesus. Another shot. One sec. I got a second wind. but then lost it.

This is like sixteenth wind. Now I feel like i'm gonna puke.

Just got an update. shot 59.

•

At some point in college, once I ditched the Seventh-Day Adventist roommate and started experiencing the miracle of drinking, I was filmed while drunk. This was in the mid-nineties. Film cameras were around, but rarely in the hands of a broke college kid. Usually, you only saw film of yourself at important (boring) events, when parents would be filming: high school graduations, birthday parties, grandma visits. Because I had never seen film of myself living real life, I had created a vivid picture in my head of what I looked like and how I talked in these instances. During the filming in question, I was maybe six beers in, sitting at a table with two of my roommates. In my mind, we were having a clear, rational conversation about sports. I distinctly remember it being very subdued.

Then I watched the film about two weeks later. I was slurring, standing on a chair, talking loudly, and laughing. It was a completely different reality to what was in my head.

It was then that I forever became aware that the minute you think you aren’t drunk, you are.

•

Shot 62 - 72:

Hmm, not sure why I wrote 5:50. It is 5:47 Pm.

small m. I'm definately getting a small wind. I swear to all of you, those of you who read, those of you who don't read, those of the small children of people who wear undergarments, and to the walrus professors, if this fucking this underlines hmm or

definately one more time i'm gonna fucking freak. why is i'm underlined? cause it isn't a capital I? fuck this system. fucking grammar fucking nazi fucking

carpet fucker.

•

Have you ever sky dived? I haven’t. Pussies don’t sky dive. We’d spend every second in the air mortified that the parachute won’t deploy, and once proven that it did, the remainder of the time worrying that we were going to land in water and die. We didn’t play Little League as kids out of fear we’d get hit in the head with a fastball. We don’t scuba dive: Sharks! Moray eels! Regulator malfunctions! We don’t eat carpaccio (stomach worms), use public toilets (AIDS), or visit the inner city (stab wounds). We don’t like to ski (avalanche) and certainly not ski jump (obvious). We keep stickers on products that say “please do not remove this sticker”. We put trash cans in front of our bedroom doors when we go to sleep, because an intruder wouldn’t expect it.

It is with this in mind that The Century Club becomes a larger achievement. I am overcoming a fear of shots, alcoholism, hangovers and ruptured stomachs. I’m a regular Sir Edmund Hillary of drinking.

•

Shot 72 - 81:

Jesus. The benefit here is that the drunker I get the easier it is to take shots. I'm in respectable territory. 7yso shots. whoops. 70 shopts. FUCK. 70 shots. power hour accomplished. stomach doesn't feel good. lik a little gnome is digging a grave in there (i am not drunk enough to forget that gnome needs a g, unlike nome, alaska. not sure if that is right).

Jessie is talking in Babylonian sanskrit.

[EDITOR’S NOTE:: Jessie is John’s wife who showed up midway, unamused.]

Not sure what is happening here. Concentration is difficult.

Stomach hurts.

discussion has turned to the golden anniversary, which john assures me is 75 shots. what are all of those? the diamond anniversary, golden, hairy beaver, etc. stomach is hurting,. not like in vomit level, but in like it feels like Seattle is sitting inside of

it. All of seattle. the drunker i get the better chance i have.

hey: fuck you!

•

I’m the patron saint of missed opportunities. Unfortunately, the awareness that an experience is in fact an opportunity usually doesn’t form in my consciousness until about four minutes after the opportunity has already passed. However, this doesn’t stop me from returning to the scene of the opportunity after those four minutes to see if I cannot correct my mistake and actually grab the opportunity, if it is in fact still there. Which it never is. Sometimes I’ll linger at the scene of the opportunity for hours, such as the time I hung out near the bathroom at a house party, reeling in guilt from my previous missed opportunity of talking to the most beautiful girl at the party, who was trying to strike up conversation with me, to which I was unaware, assuming she was directing her conversation to someone else, until the point where I actually had to go into the bathroom, concluding a period of very awkward gestures on my part. Despite resolving to redeem myself by looking for her the rest of the night, she had, in fact, left.

And so it is, four minutes after quitting Century Club, I resolve to re-join it.

•

Shot 82:

Drunk just happened. shot 81, but our recording has been off. stomach hurts. full, nauseus, everything.

can't go much longer. we busted out the music, hope

that helps. literally. at this very moment, right around the second l of literally, i got drunk. i am fuly drunk. can't spell or think right. hurting. not sure ican take another.

bakc in the game.

tapped out for four shots. the amount of beer cans is amazing. reminds me of stephen upstairs. taking a bunch of shots doesn't mean much. but when you see the cans you realize your accomoplishment. amazing what you can do when you put your mind to it. usually that means one-legged people scaling mt.

everest or women going to mars, but now it means

mark anderson drinking 100 beers.

•

I’ve never achieved anything of real note. Mostly, I’ve assembled a life that would’ve have been great in 1955: I graduated college, I pay my bills, I visited Europe, I’m not fat. But any real accomplishments – selling a screenplay, playing Division I college basketball, swimming the Atlantic – have not been in the cards. That isn’t to say I haven’t gotten close: I was almost on Who Wants To Be A Millionaire and got into the third interview of an available writer position for The Onion. But I’ve always been a fourth place kind of guy … that guy in line at a club that reaches maximum occupancy when he reaches the door. So rather than upgrade your achievements, you eventually learn to change them. Get published? No, but I will get drunk. Get into the 40/40 club? No, but I will get into The Century Club. And I’ll take as much pride in that as Barry Bonds did with his.

•

Shot 83 - 91:

[EDITOR’S NOTE: There are no intelligible notes for this section of the Century Club]

•

Shot 92 - 99:

i need someone other than jesus to say where i am right now. usually jesus is enough but not tongith. usually jesus is for before 80 shots. this is for past that. i need some new savior. like from the egyptians. Io. i think that is the god of the sun or something. so now, Io. Dear Io, I am hurting.

[IO’S NOTE: Be strong, like my bosom]

Stomach is full beyond capacity. Literally, this is like putting a 27 inch cock into a woman. Just can't take anymore. That's what i'm doing, only i'm the woman. Some fat greasy hairy guy is sweating on top of me trying to stick it in. and more than anything i want

him off. oh, there was a good burp, helped me. i might not do century club in 100 minutes, but i'll fucking do it you assholes. Dios Io!

I’m close.

•

When I was in the eighth-grade, my best friend at the time convinced me to join my school’s cross-country team. Now, I neither liked running nor the country, but I was impressionable, and running seemed a whole lot easier than volleyball or la crosse or the other sports in school that needed people so bad they took whoever signed up without even needed try-outs. So I bought a pair of New Balance and hit the ol’ cross country trails in the canyons of northeastern San Diego.

It wasn’t long before I realized I had a fatal flaw when it came to cross-country: The closer I got to the finish line, the less I felt like running, until I’d almost stop and walk to the end. I’ve always been content with getting close. The actually finishing is just a forethought. Which is why I’ve started fifty different hobbies over the years: trumpet, acting, basketball, but ended all of them when I got “ok”.

There is no such thing as “ok” in the Century Club. Either you cross that finish line, or you are out of the fraternity for good. Even as a 38-year-old.

•

Shot 100:

Guest blogger Jonh Graham, as I am unable to continue with my blog due to drunkennesss. I sjust ended 100 shots, and i don't think you will believe me, so i need esxplanation from John:

[EDITOR’S NOTE]: There is no explanation from John. The transcript ends here.

0 notes