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paulhudd · 4 years

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Spindlefreck Book Two: Pt.Five: Hooray for Hollywood

[Story so far: Malky and Brooster have been hired by veteran Irish comedian and international movie star, Oliver Laphen (or Ollie Laffin, as he was known in his 1930s hey-day) to investigate the activities of an alleged ‘poltergeist’ at Pagham House, his stately home in Kildare (Malky was reluctant, but Zindy was insistent: the money is needed to pay for the refurbishing of Odin’s Inn). Once they get there, Broo quickly discovers that there is nothing to see -- literally -- the house and its grounds are devoid of atmosphere: no ghosts, no echoes of the past -- no wildlife! In other words, it existed in a spiritual vacuum. Then there’s the arrival of Laphen’s grandson, Kris, visiting from America; he has a dark aura about him that renders Broo’s extrasensory powers inoperable and saps his strength, but most disturbing of all, his psychic link with Malky is broken; there’s nothing he can do until they leave. Laphen turns out to be an elderly, misanthropic inebriate, and as they sit down to dinner, he tries to provoke his visiting grandson with a spiteful harangue designed to embarrass and humiliate; but Kris, a young, laid-back Californian, doesn’t take the bait and laughs-off every slur...]

Slouched, sloshed, sloppy and louche, Laphen reclined in his throne-like, red-velvet-lined, high-backed dining-chair with (what Malky assumed was) the Laphen coat of arms embroidered on the velvet-headrest (two rampant pigs wearing little bowler hats supporting a four-leaf shamrock emblazoned with the the motto Laphen All the Way to the Bank). Still unshaven, he had nonetheless been scrubbed-up (probably by Herbie), his receding hair backcombed, slicked-down and darkened with oil. Typically, he was dressed to distress -- a turquoise smoking-jacket two sizes too big, canary-yellow Bermuda shorts, knee-length green-&-white striped rugby socks and a pair of well-worn purple flip-flops; it was an ensemble that lent credence to his reputation as the worst dressed man in Hollywood. Wine-glass in one hand, bulbous cheroot in the other, the pale light from an ornate candelabra casting a shadow across his face making his trademark dimpled-grin look positively demonic, he held court like an odious goblin king, drinking himself stupid and mercilessly goading his young grandson, while Herbie, eating at the other end of the table, stared straight ahead and pretended he wasn't listening. Up until now, Laphen’s intended target seemed utterly immune to every jibe. Kris ate heartily and slowly, deflecting the brickbats without losing it and sticking his fork in his grandfather’s eye; a course of action, in Malky’s opinion, that would be entirely permissible in the circumstances.

“... then you were in that pop group, what was it called, Satan’s Pooves?” Laphen sneered, looking for something to crack Kris’ resolve.

“Ha-ha-ha-hah, Lucifer’s Hooves,” Kris corrected him, tittering, turning to Malky and explaining with unshakable chirpiness, “it was a garage-band I formed in high school,” he joked, “we never got outta the garage!”

“Then there was the time you tried to start your own magazine...?” said Laphen, trying desperately to touch a nerve.

“It was a hobby! I was 10!” Kris snorted.

Laphen got all Noel Coward with a little bit of Gielgud thrown in for good measure, “What I’m getting at is this, Kristof: you’re not a renaissance man, you’re an interminable amateur -- a dilettante, a poseur – you flit from one thing to another, looking for something to get you noticed– and when it doesn’t work you move on to the next thing. You don’t care what medium you exploit to achieve your goal: celebrity. That’s Art for Fame’s Sake. That’s profane.” He sat back and continued in his usual, sarcastic tone, “This is where you and I differ, boy. I got famous cos I have Talent. When I do something I give it my all – no matter what piece of shit they put me in - I shine cos I’m true to meself and my craft. That’s how I knew I would always succeed in everything I did: because I have the unshakeable self-belief that only God-given Talent provides. That’s why I can’t take you or your silly movie seriously. It’s just the latest in a long line of look-at-me projects designed to propel you into the limelight. Pass the parmesan mill, would you...”

Kris passed the mill and snorted with laughter, explaining, “That’s what those teenage years are for, gramps, trial and error and making career choices. I’m going to be director. I’ve already made a successful documentary for a for a Film School assignment. In fact it won an award -- an award presented to me by Clint Eastwood who said I was an ‘outstanding young talent with a very bright future’... More pasta...?”

Malky looked up from his bolognese and grinned through a mouthful of meatballs. You tell him, boy.

Then, after a few seconds’ pause came the poisonous riposte aimed squarely below the belt: “Your mother made a documentary too, didn’t she? What was it called, now...? Oh yes, Annie Bell Does Bel Air! I’m pretty sure it was a documentary, it looked real enough...?”

Ouch. Malky’s grin vanished. He’d heard about Kris’ mother’s fall from grace and it was quite an unsavoury story. What a bastard! Quare Geg my arse. If I was 8-years-old sitting in the pictures laughing my head off and you told me I’d be sitting at the great man’s table 40-odd years later hating him with every fibre of my being, I’d’ve said you were mad. And yet, here I am, trying to decide what kind of murder would cause him the most pain...

This thought failed to reach Broo’s brain. He lay in a darkened corner –- as far away as he could get from the grandson -- ate his liver and kidneys and did his best to ignore the noise pollution at the other end of the room. The grandson had insisted on candlelight: “this house wasn't built with electricity in mind, dudes!” and the magnolian-gloom of the candelabras undulated with each ripple of the flames, making the chandeliers glisten like stars in the darkness high above the table, giving everything a dream-like quality. But aside from the boy’s debilitating aura and the all-too-human tension created by Laphen’s incessant needling, there was no real atmosphere here. They’d seen most of the house by now, and it was the same no matter where they went: nothing. Every noise was explicable; every shadow accounted for; the ambiance static and uncommonly hollow.

“Everythin’ all right, Mr Calvert?” asked Herbie, rousing Malky from his daydream.

“This is the best bolognese sauce I’ve ever tasted!” said Malky, with a what-the-hell-am-I-doing here look.

“Fanks very much, Mr Calvert. It’s jas somefink I rassle-ap in an ‘urry,” said the big man, shaking his head, with a what-can-you-do-it’s-always-like-this-shrug of his shoulders. Clad in a sober charcoal two-piece suit and regimental tie, Herbie maintained a dignified silence despite of the slew of bile coming from the top of the table. Occasionally though, Malky glimpsed little cracks in the façade; he’d roll his eyes skyward or shake his head slightly when something particularly hurtful was said, but by-and-large, he was inscrutable. Poor sod. Malky was well aware that Laphen’s jibes were meant for the old retainer as much as the boy: every time Ollie takes a shot at Kris, it’s Herbie who takes the bullet.

Laphen’s tirade went on, “... Is it any wonder your mother turned out to be such a dead loss when she wuz reared by a woman the tabloids dubbed ‘The Worst Mother in Hollywood’?! Stupid bloody Danish cow. No, sorry, that’s an insult to cattle –- they nurture their calves -- they don’t let them play beside unsupervised swimming pools. Shoes, now. She knows about shoes. Beyond that, she has the IQ of a dog turd.”

Kris came straight back and trilled, “Grandma? Grandma is so-oo happy these days. She’s busy with her charities, she’s in love with a younger man who thinks the world of her and, you-know-what?” he turned and winked at Herbie, “he never beats-on-her, or locks her in her room, or throws her clothes out of the window...”

“I wish I’d thrown her out of the window,” grumbled Laphen.

“Didn't you throw No.3 out of a window?”

“That was No.4. And it wasn't a window, it was a moving car.”

“I stand corrected.”

“Funnily enough, so does she.”

Malky yawned noisily. Herbie continued to stare into the middle distance.

“... So, your mother is still sober is she?” Laphen asked, feigning concern.

“Oh yes, you’ll be simply thrilled to learn your darling little Annelise is straight ‘n sober and of sound mind – she’s been running a woman’s shelter in the Valley for a couple of years now. We’re all very proud of her. She told me to pass on her regards...” he looked up as if trying to remember, “No, wait - her exact words were: ‘tell that vile old goat to hurry-up and die!’”

Malky had to stifle a laugh.

Laphen bristled, “Aye, well, you can tell that cheeky bitch she won’t get a brown penny from me when I do pop me clogs! I disinherited her when she was done for hooerin’! Anyway, sober or not – at heart she’ll always be a ditzy f**k up who bounces from one crisis to another with her knickers round her ankles!”

Herbie put down his cutlery, dabbed the corners of his mouth, cleared his throat and made sure they knew he was ready to step in. Malky gazed longingly at the decanter of brandy on the table, and for the first time in three years, entertained thoughts of jumping off the wagon and jumping into a refreshing pool of blissful oblivion... until Broo, intuitively aware of what Malky was thinking, let out a little growl to say knock it off!

Kris watched the old man pour another glass and asked in an earnest tone, “How many bottles have you had today, gramps?”

“F**k off,” grunted Laphen. “I’m very rich, very successful, I’ve worked very hard all my life and I’ve earned the right to do whatever-the-f**k-I-like.”

“Even if it kills you?” Kris replied; then after a split-second’s thought, he retracted, “Waitaminnit - open another bottle! Go on - drink up! I’ll get another case from the cellar!”

Laphen sipped his drink, sucked on his cheroot and snickered defiantly.

Suddenly, Kris turned to his right and asked in a haughty voice laced with suspicion, “Forgive me for asking, Mr Calvert, but what exactly is it you do?”

Broo snorted, Oh, this’ll be good. What do you do, Malcolm?

Malky didn’t have time to reply – Laphen was in like a shot, “I told you! He’s a plumber! He’s here to mend the boiler, OK?! Leave him alone.”

Kris winked at Malky, turned back to Laphen and said, “... and since when does the Mighty Oliver Laphen invite humble tradesmen - and their dogs - to join him for dinner? I mean, you make your lawyers eat in the kitchen with the staff -- so what gives?!” He turned back to Malky and spoke in his normal, friendly voice, “I don’t wish to cause offence to you or your dog, Mr Calvert, but when it comes to the hoi polloi -- and their pets -- my grandfather isn't known for his hospitality...?”

Again, before Malky could reply, Laphen sat forward, snapped his fingers repeatedly and took back the conversation, “Hey! Hey! Hey! Nevermind him -- tell me, boy -- who’s this backer ye’ve got? Who’s the eejit daft enough to invest their cash in yer silly wee horror picture?” He smiled smugly and winked at Malky as if to say – wait til you hear this!

Again, Malky was about to say something when Kris took the words right out of his mouth, “Oh, stop acting like a total asshole, Ollie, you’re not funny.” And yet, despite this spirited response, Malky noticed the boy flinch when the movie was mentioned. And so had Laphen. He laughed, threw back his head, blew a smoke-ring into the air and let it drift above his head like a wispy-white halo, “Asshole or not, I didn’t get to sit in the big chair without bein’ thorough. So c’mon now, who’s your Generous Benefactor?”

Putting his elbows on the table and hunching his shoulders, Kris sipped his water, looked down at his empty plate and said “I’ll tell you when you’re sober.”

Alas, the old man was intent; he sat forward in his seat, put his elbows on the table, rested his chin on his hands and enquired in faux-earnest voice, “Och, c’mon laddie, If you want to film here you’ll have to tell me sometime.” He turned and informed his faithful retainer, “See Herbie, he wants my permission to bring a feckin film-crew through here! He wants me to let a bunch of arse-scratchin’ techies to tramp on my polished floors in their hobnail boots, stub their fags out on my Persian rugs and knock lumps outta my Queen Anne furniture with their equipment –- not to mention drivin’ their trucks and trailers all over my award-winning lawns!!”

Herbie continued to stare ahead.

Kris, sounding a wee bit stressed, assured him, “The crew will be very discreet and I will take personal responsibility for any...”

“So, who’s the backer?”

Kris looked him in the eye, “Are you going to let us to film here?”

“We’ll see. Depends who I’m dealing with,” said Laphen, taking a long drag on his cigar, looking very pleased with himself that he had Kris on the back foot. “So tell me, who is it?”

After a long pause and a drink of water, Kris answered in a weak voice, “Guy Gosling...”

“Guy Gosling?! The silly twat who pissed himself on live TV?!” Laphen cried, banging both fists on the table and bouncing on his cushion like a tickled imp, “You’re f**king shittin’ me!”

The boy’s voice cracked as he yelled back, “See – I knew how you’d react! You’re such a predictable old shit, Ollie!”

“He’s using’ you to revive his career! No wonder he agreed to it -- nobody with any sense will touch him!”

Kris was losing it now, his freckled cheeks aflame, “You don’t know what you’re talking about - he’s still got a lotta respect in Hollywood!”

It didn’t matter what he said, Laphen was on a roll, “Let me see now...” he sat back, tilted his head and made a show of caressing his brow, as if trawling his memory for the appropriate anecdote. “Aye - that’s right, I made a movie with him 7 or 8 years ago. Some god-awful-big-budget-science-fiction-bollox where I played an intergalactic priest who gives him the Last Rites in the final scene. I was just there to add a bit of gravitas – 3 million for half-a-day’s work, I think it was...?” he looked to Herbie for confirmation.

Still staring into space, Herbie perfunctorily supplied the information, “A million a day for free days. And a cut of the box-office. And a car. Can’t ‘member which one. Maserati, I fink.”

“Hear that? 3 million and a classic sports-car to add to my collection, all for 3 days work,” Laphen turned to Malky, “it was only supposed to be one day but it became 3 when Gosling kept us all hanging around while he meticulously explored all the various ways he might kick-the-bucket! He was ditherin’-on about death-throes and whether or not he should close his eyes... By day three I just wanted throttle him: ‘DIE YOU F**ER!! DIE!!’ Cuz he’s one of those Method Actors, ain't he? I hate Method Actors.” He turned to Kris, “especially Method Actors who get famous overnight and keep you waiting on-set for hours -- then -- when they finally haul their skinny arses outta their trailer, they proceed to tell the director how to do his job!” Laphen paused then resumed in a more sober tone, “Well, what goes around comes around. He ain't got a friend in the industry now, no matter what you’ve heard.”

“He’s learned from his mistakes!” yelled Kris, desperately, “He’s committed to the project! It’s been 2 years since the pissing incident! He deserves a second chance!”

“He wants a comeback vehicle!” Laphen cried.

“The publicity will be good for us – it’ll create a buzz!”

“Aye - like flies round shite!” Laphen cracked. “Lissen, the knives are out for ‘im! The press will stitch-ye-up whether the movie is good or not! You shoulda went with a total unknown ye stupid wee shite, at least ye would've had half-a-chance!”

Herbie was watching them intently now. Broo shrank back when he saw the aura around the boy surge and almost obscure him when he screamed “F**K YOU!” and banged his fist on the table.

It only made Laphen cackle louder.

At last, Herbie cleared his throat loudly and said, “Gentlemen, please.” That seemed to do the trick. They relented, backed down and grumbled into their drinks. There was a minute of silence until Kris once again turned his attention to their guest. Nodding toward Brooster sitting in the corner, he enquired, “Does your dog usually accompany you when you mend a boiler, Mr Calvert?”

Again, before Malky could answer, Laphen’s shit-eating grin disappeared, “I told you to leave him alone!” he snapped, “it’s none of yer business!”

“Did I miss a meeting?” Kris asked Herbie, “a plumber with a three-legged dog? Doesn't this seem kinda weird to you...?”

That’s it. Malky slammed down his cutlery, stood up and gave out, “Right! I’ve had enough o’ this shite – we’re outta here!”

Herbie reached out, “Wait Mr Calvert, please...”

But Malky was resolute, “Sorry Herbie, but this isn't on! When I agreed to come here I didn’t expect to have to listen quietly while this pissed-up oul’ fart abuses his grandkid!” He took the cheque from his back pocket and slapped it down on the table, “Ye can keep yer money, Mr Laphen! Enjoy what’s left of your life!”

“Sit down, Mr Calvert!” yelled Laphen.

Malky expressed himself by presenting his middle finger as he walked to the door, “C’mon Broo. We’re leavin’.”

“I’ll double your fee!” Laphen shouted, pointing at the cheque on the table.

Malky stopped and sniggered derisively, “You can’t buy me! This isn't worth the aggravation!” Shite. I hope Zindy’ll understand...

Befuddled, Kris’ head swivelled from side-to-side as he looked from one to the other, “Whaddya mean: ’You’ll double his fee’? What’s going on here? Plumbers are a dime a dozen... What is he, some kinda super-plumber...?”

“I AM NOTA F**KING PLUMBER!” yelled Malky, shaking his fists.

Suddenly, Brooster barked loudly: QUIET!!

The fracas abruptly ceased. The men turned to see the old dog growling in the corner, eyes glistening like sparkling orbs in the shadows.

“What’s the m-matter with ‘im?” Laphen stammered in a shaky voice, as he looked up into the darkness. “Does h-he s-see s-somethin’...?”

Malky put a finger to his lips, “Shhh! He hears somethin’.”

“What the hell is going on here, people?!” shouted Kris.

“Shut up and lissen!” Laphen hissed.

Ears pricked, eyes wide, paying no attention to the rest of the room, Broo hobbled around in a circle looking upward, straining to hear. The voices were confused and shrill, like children arguing... only this time they weren’t in his head; the sounds were audible, not telepathic.

“Hear that?!” whispered Malky.

Herbie heard it too, “It sounds like kids... kids shrieking...?”

Kris cocked an ear for a moment, then murmured, “Hey... yeah!”

Laphen stared at the ceiling, “It-it’s comin’ from the room above... The t-Trophy Room...” he croaked, the rim of his glass clicking against his dentures.

Herbie took out his walkie-talkie and summoned security.

...

... at that very moment (18:50 EST), approximately 3400 miles away, at a gas station on the outskirts of Harrisburg, Pennsylvania: What is that smell? Emil’s eyes were stinging and streaming.

A youthful voice called-out, “Sir! Hey - whoa! Excuse me – sir – c’mon, man, what’re you doin’?”

Then, in a moment of clarity, his senses emerged from the murky darkness of his trance. He froze. Where am I? His head remained steady as his eyes swivelled left and right. It was daylight. He looked around: pumps, bags of charcoal, bundles of sticks, Pepsi machine..? A gas station?! A teenage clerk in an Exxon overall was approaching on his left, waving his hands emphatically, “Hey, hey, hey, man -- stop squeezin’ the trigger, man, puh-lease - you’re creating a super-crazy-dangerous situation here, dude...”

“Wha --” Emil’s eyes looked down.

Christ, you gotta be f**king kidding me...

He was still dressed in his bedtime attire; still going through the motions at the behest of an interior puppeteer – but, more terrifyingly – the Volvo’s tank was so full the gasoline was splashing-out over his sandals, forming a large puddle around his feet. The clerk made a grab for the pump gun, “Sir – gimme that, puh-leeeese!”

Emil felt the thing within him surge and take control again -- his hand relaxed and relinquished the grip on the trigger as his outer-voice said, “Sorry. Needed to fill ‘er up, kid... Got lost in my thoughts for a minute...”

The young clerk (now at his wit’s end) tiptoed over the puddle of petrol, took the gun back on the pump and whinged, “You gotta be more careful, mister! I’ll have to wash-it-all-down now! Jeez-us H... this is, like, totally bogus, dude! I mean it’s f**king Sunday -– it’s supposed to be the day of rest...”

Just then -- Emil felt the power ebb again – for some reason the puppeteer’s grip slackened -- he concentrated with every fibre of his being -- his hands shot up, grabbed the boy by the collar and pinned him to the side of the car, his real voice yelling haltingly into the boy’s face: “WHERE... AM... I?!”

Now scared out of his wits, the hapless clerk couldn't supply a coherent reply, “Hey man, easy -- ch-chill...don’t lose it, yeah?!”

Emil tightened his grip and almost screamed in the boys face, “Listen, kid – report me! Call the cops! I’m sick! I’m dangerous! They need to stop me before I go too far...!”

Alas, the words were no sooner out of his mouth when the fleeting bout of sentience ebbed and that goddawful taste filled his mouth. His hands let go of the clerk’s collar, stood back, dusted him down and said in a calm, clear voice, “Just kidding.” He reached into his dressing-gown pocket and took out his buckskin wallet, “Do you take American Express...?”

...

Meanwhile, back in Pagham House: There was a crackling sound: “*What’s your position Herb, over.*”

Herbie whispered into the walkie-talkie, “... we’re on the landing in the west wing - the intruder-stroke-intruders are in the Trophy Room; repeat, intruder-stroke-intruders are in the 1st floor Trophy Room, over.”

“*Copy. On our way. Over.*”

But Herbie didn’t want to wait. He slowly opened the door and turned on the lights. There were a series of rapid flashes as the ‘Trophy Room’ was lit to reveal yet another museum exhibit, this time devoted to the numerous awards, honorary doctorates and keys to the city Laphen had accrued over the years. The man himself crept across the threshold brandishing a baseball bat, “If there’s somebody there – I swear I’ll feckin kill ye! I’ll take yer feckin’ head off, I will! C’mon out!” Herbie took him by the shoulders and told him to keep back.

The squeaky voices continued to gabble and shriek; due to the room’s natural echo, it was hard to tell where they were coming from. Malky was intrigued, but unafraid; judging by the old dog’s subdued reaction, he knew that it was nothing to worry about. Behind them, Kris continued to express his confusion, “Somebody please tell me what’s going on...?”

Brooster left them standing at the door and made for a large glass case containing various silver statuettes in the far corner. He barked twice. Herbie and Malky approached to find what turned out to be an upturned fire-bucket; the screeches were coming from inside.“What the hell...?” said Herbie. He bent down and lifted the bucket – the voices instantly got louder. Malky looked over the big chauffeur’s shoulder and saw a cassette recorder lying face-down on the floor. “It’s a bloody tape!” Herbie exclaimed, angrily, “We've been ‘ad!”

Laphen, still shaking with fear, still brandishing the baseball bat, joined them and gaped at the offending object, “What the...” Herbie picked it up and pressed the stop button. The room fell deathly silent for a few seconds, and then the old man gasped, “Who would...” He stopped when he heard laughter behind him. They turned to see Kris, back against the doorjamb, clutching his sides in a fit of the giggles, “You should see your face, Gramps!”

Laphen was agape, “You... you set this up...?”

“... You were so spooked!!” sniggered Kris.

They heard boots on the stairs; Herbie heaved a loud, world-weary-sigh and raised the walkie-talkie to his lips, “Stand-down, stand-down, false alarm, repeat, false alarm! Over.” The communication was punctuated by a collective groan of disappointment from the hall.

Kris was wiping tears of mirth from his eyes, “I GOTCHA! Ah gotcha you goo-ood!”

The Quare Geg failed to see the funny side: “Y’ wee BASTARD!!” Laphen lashed out at Kris, swung the bat and missed – Herbie grabbed the waistband of his shorts, pulled him backward -- then, just like a slapstick gag from one of his movies -- Ollie spun like a dervish on the stretched elastic, his little-bare-legs kicking-out until one of his flip-flops flew off and toppled an ornate vase -- the baseball bat hitting a display case and shattering the glass. “Lemme at him! I’LL F**KING’ KILL ‘IM! JUST YOU W --”

He suddenly seized up, the bat fell from his hands and clattered on the parquet; he fell back into Herbie’s arms, his eyes popping out of his head, the air escaping his lungs like a slowly deflating balloon.

Kris chuckled, “Awww, c’mon gramps, you can do way better than that...”

Malky went to help; Herbie’s face was a picture of helpless-consternation, “’E can’t breeve! I think ‘e might be ‘avin’ an ‘eart-attack!!” They took him to an antique chaise-lounge beside a huge Native American totem pole on the other side of the room. “He’s hyperventilating! Get a paper bag!” cried Malky.

“He’s faking, dudes!” said Kris, exasperated, no longer laughing.

Without saying anything, Herbie pushed him out of the way and ran out of the room. Kris shouted after him, “He’s faking, Uncle Herb?!! He’s acting!”

Unconcerned, Broo sauntered over to the corner and had a lie down. Oh, a minute ago you were all for strangling him – now you want to save his life. Human beings, I don’t know...

Malky used the first-aid he learned during his time in the police, “Easy, Ollie, take it easy... take deep, deep breaths and fill your lungs, hold for a count of 5, then exhale slowly through yer nose...” Laphen’s eyes were wet and fearful, he was shaking like a leaf, but he tried his best to do what was asked of him.

Broo yawned: He’ll live: the heartbeat is strong for a man of his years, no murmurs. He’ll live.

Herbie arrived back with a plastic carrier bag, “Will this do?!”

Malky took the bag from him, twisted the neck to create a makeshift mask and put it over the old man’s nose and mouth, “This’ll make it easier – breathe-out into the bag, then breathe in...” his ministrations appeared to be having the desired effect; Laphen’s pulse was slowing, the colour was returning to his cheeks. Kris stopped pacing and grabbed Herbie’s arm, “See, he’s gonna be fine - he’s just tryin’ to get me back...!” Herbie took the boy by the shoulders and gave him a shake, “Kris, I ‘aven’t time fer no bollocks - this is fer real! Make y’self useful -– go to ‘is stahdy 'n call the doctor!”

“Rossington...” the old man hissed.

Herbie knelt and looked at him with a doubtful frown, “Surely you want yer physician, boss?”

Laphen glared and growled, “I want Rossington!”

Herbie looked up at Kris, “’E wants Rossington. There’s a button for ‘im on the phone on ‘is desk.”

“Rossington...?” Kris complained loudly, with a sour face. Herbie gave him a serious look and he reluctantly obeyed. As soon as he left the room, Laphen smiled, closed his eyes and passed out. Malky checked his pulse one last time and took the bag away. “He’s sleeping it off. It’ll be OK to move him. Is he on any medication for asthma or any other respiratory illnesses?”

“’E ain't asthmatic or nuthin’. Dr Rossington gives ‘im these ‘vitamin’ shots that perk ‘im up.”

“Why? What does Rossington specialise in?” asked Malky, as if he didn’t know.

“’E’s the boss’ shrink, ‘as been for years. ‘Aven’t you ‘eard of ‘im?”

Malky and Brooster knew exactly who Rossington was and what he did.

It’s a small world, isn't it...

2 days ago, 100 miles north in The Ivy House, Downpatrick:

Roused from his meditation by the roar of a revving engine, Jamie Jameson Lumb, the young master of the house and the new leader of the coven, arrived at the Oriel window at the end of the main landing just in time to glimpse a motorbike zoom down the drive on its way to the main gate. The rider was dressed in leathers and a black helmet, a sight that sent shiver down Jamie’s spine; even if the rider was a lot shorter than Barry McKee, it was still a discomfiting reminder of the events of 2 years before. Who the hell was that? Nobody was allowed in-or-out of the estate since McKee’s capture 2 years ago, but as far as Jamie was concerned, the danger hadn't passed. McKee had been in a coma for the past couple of years, but it was cold comfort: he could die at any moment and the demon would migrate to another host. Then there was the release of dark energy in Kildare following the exhumation of an ancient mage -- probably an ancient ‘Güül who dabbled in the dark arts -- and in spite of the fact that the local witches had declared the area reasonably safe, Jamie still sensed that the danger hadn't passed. Maybe it was the responsibility of his position; maybe being holed-up in the house for so long without any contact with the outside world had made him paranoid. Whatever the reason the rules had been broken, and there was only one person who could've invited the biker in: “Goz, you arsehole,” he muttered.

After searching most of the house, he eventually bumped into Fordham the footman who’d taken up the butling duties now that Oggy had gone down for a Big sleep. Fordham was carrying a Martini on a silver tray, “I suppose that’s for our guest?” Jamie asked. Fordham nodded and rolled his eyes, “he’s in the pool, sir.” Jamie took the tray from him, “Don’t worry, I’ll see he gets it.”

Guy ‘Goz’ Gosling was floating naked on a lilo in the indoor pool, reading a loosely bound sheaf of papers that looked suspiciously like a script. “Who was that?” Jamie called out, as he walked along the edge of the pool, his voice echoing around the tiles.

Goz answered matter-of-factly, without looking up from page, “A guy I met in LA, if you must know. A director. He wants me to star in a little horror film he’s making here in Ireland,” he said, cool as a cucumber, slowly turning in the water.

“Oh Yeah? And how did he get in?” asked Jamie, carelessly putting the tray down on the poolside table, irritated by his former band-mate’s blasé attitude and patronising tone. It was what he’d come to expect. Goz had been restless for some time, but up to now he’d been willing to live under the rules of the extended lockdown. “Nobody can come in unless you clear it with me or Oggy. I’m surprised that security opened the gate,” said Jamie, bristling.

“I told them he was an old friend. I told them I was expecting him,” said Goz, unaffected.

Jamie nodded knowingly, “You told them you’d cleared it with me, didn’t you?” he sneered.

“Well, I thought you were studying in the library or meditating in your room or something and I didn’t want to disturb you,” said Goz, blithely, still perusing the pages.

“For all you know he could be working for one of our enemies!” Jamie snapped, sounding a wee bit shrill.

“Don’t be so melodramatic, JJ,” chuckled Goz, talking as if consoling a difficult child, “I met him at a screening of a documentary he made a few years ago. I was very impressed. both by him and the film. He was only 21, full of vitality and enthusiasm. I told him to keep in touch, ‘maybe we might work together some day’. I didn’t get any bad vibes, not at all. He’s a like little red-headed puppy: eager to please.” He flipped another page and said, “Remember, I’ve been at this game a lot longer than you, JJ. I can spot a wrong-un a mile away.” This was Goz’s signature tune: he was never done reminding Jamie that except for his pedigree and nascent superior powers, he was still a novice.

Jamie ignored the comment and moved on, “What’s his name?”

Goz let out a heavy sigh, “Kris Katz. Believe it or not, he’s the grandson of that drunken old coot Oliver Laphen... the miserable little bastard... I made a movie with him a few years ago... f**king nightmare... Anyway, Kris called me from LA and told me he’d be in Ireland scouting for locations and if I was interested he’d deliver the script by hand...” Goz turned a page, “... and after perusing it, I’ve decided to take him up on the offer. I’ve even agreed to put some money behind it. A small independent movie is just the ticket to restart my acting career. I can’t afford to turn it down.”

“You know nothing about him. He could be in cahoots with the tabloids,” said Jamie crossing his arms and shaking his head, “worse -- he could've been sent here by the Washington coven to case the place and see what we’re up to!”

Goz finally looked up from the script and laughed, “Look, he’s harmless! And it’s not as if I’m leaving the country -- we’ll be making the movie here!”

Jamie shook his head, “Oggy needs to know about this. You’ll have to wait until he wakes and discuss it with him.”

Getting a little more animated, Goz splashed the water with his fist and shook his head emphatically, “Look -- Oggy is hibernating, he won’t wake for at least another year and we start shooting in the summer! And I’m not a f**king prisoner, remember?! I’ve stayed here voluntarily! But enough time has passed -- 2 years to be exact, and that’s a long time in show business. It’s been a great place to hide from the world until the outrage over that... situation -- a situation that you caused by-the-way -- died down. But I’m not hiding anymore.” He sighed, relaxed and went back to the script, “I’m doing this whether you -- or Oggy -- like it or not.”

“We’ll see...” Jamie muttered under his breath, and walked away.

...

2 days later at Pagham House: “... See, I saw a tabloid story about gramp’s suspected ‘poltergeist’ at the airport, so I thought I’d have a little fun with it,” Kris explained as they crossed the landing, “we used to do it all the time, y’know, tryin’ to out-punk each other; each stunt more vicious than the last, but we always made-it-up afterwards. I didn’t think he’d get in such a state...” He paused when they heard a distant buzzing sound outside, “Uh-huh, here comes the ‘good doctor’,” muttered Kris, gloomily. They walked to a porthole-shaped oriel window at the end of the landing and watched twin beams slice through the low lying clouds. The buzzing became a rumble as the doctor’s chopper hovered for a moment before descending and disappearing behind a row of billowing pines; a few seconds later, a slim, middle-aged man dressed in cricket-whites carrying a tastefully weathered Gladstone bag, ran along the path that bordered the tennis courts, across the car park and sprinted up the marble steps at the front of the house; a few seconds later he bounded up the stairs toward them – all without breaking his stride, breaking a sweat, or gasping for breath. He held out a hand, Malky straightened up and reached out to shake it, but much to his embarrassment, Rossington blanked him and went straight to Kris, “Kristof! What a pleasant surprise! Long-time-no-see-and-all-that!”

The tanned, manicured hand hung in the air, unshaken. Kris, desperately trying to express his disdain but too polite to be rude, hesitated before managing a feeble tug on his nemesis’ fingers. Rossington grasped the flaccid appendage and jerked it up-and-down with gusto, “Over for a little visit, eh? Having fun, are we?”

The boy looked at his hand as if it’d been spat on and said nothing.

“I hear you’ve literally been up to your old tricks again!” said the good doctor, tutting thrice and shaking his head.

Malky had seen the good doctor on TV, but never in the flesh. Nevertheless, he didn’t like what he’d seen, and after meeting the man in the flesh hadn't changed his opinion; what you saw was you got: the man was too smooth to be true. That’s an oddly non-specific ‘posh’ English accent, thought Malky: Cary Grant with a dash of Ray Milland; and although the tone was upbeat and cordial, each bon mot was primed with a jagged shard of spite. “You might look 15, my dear, but you’re a 22 year old adult now.”

“23.” Kris grunted.

“23! Even more reason to find a nice girl, settle down and do something worthwhile... You don’t want to end up like your mother, now, do you...?” He’d been stealing glances at Malky until he couldn't contain his curiosity a moment longer; he turned away from Kris and asked, “Sorry, but do I know you? You look vaguely familiar...?”

Malky was about to reply when Rossington cut-him-off, “NO–NO–NO, don’t tell me!!” he cried, putting a hand his brow and snapping his fingers as he scoured his memory, “I never forget a face -- I’ve written books on how not to forget a face! Now, where have I seen you before...?”

Herbie opened Laphen’s door and hissed, “Shhh!”

Rossington backed-up toward the door, staring at Malky’s face and racking his brains... “I know you... I do know you...” Before entering the room, he stopped trying to remember and whispered to Kris, “Oh, if I don’t see you later - give my regards to your mother, won’t you? It’s so gratifying to know she’s finally found her niche at long last.”

Crimson cheeked, bright blue-eyes narrowed to livid slits, the boy clenched his fists and muttered a litany of barely audible obscenities as the door closed. Malky was careful not to laugh: that’s the same expression the young Ollie Laffin used to pull after James Finlayson tanned his backside: hurt and angry, but ultimately sad. What happened to that wee guy?

The boy took a deep breath and tried to keep his voice down, “...as you can probably tell, I cannot stand Rossington. He’s like... anathema to me. He’s like Kris-kryptonite in Gucci, dude!” What followed sounded like he’d researched his subject with a detective’s eye for detail. “He’s the self-proclaimed ‘Shrink to the Stars!’ - You mighta seen him on TV. He heads-up an institute for psychos... umm... what’s it called...? ”

“SCICI,” said Malky, “St Cedric’s Institute for the Criminally Insane.”

Kris nodded emphatically, “Yeah, that’s right! It’s like puttin’ a cobra in charge of a nest of vipers!”

The door opened. Herbie looked out, scowled and shook his head. Kris lowered his voice to a whisper, “The truth is he’s Jimmy Ross from New Jersey, a former male-model and wannabe actor who went to night school, got a degree in psychiatry and reinvented himself as the suave, debonair Dr James Rossington we know and loathe today.”

The pair retired to a pair of Queen Anne armchairs in an arched recess adjacent to Laphen’s bedroom door. Broo kept well back and listened from a distance. “In the summer of ‘70 when I was like 2 years old, my mom – Annelise Katz, née Laphen – scored some smack from a dude in downtown LA and left me strapped in a car-seat outside a motel in the middle of a heatwave – I was almost poached, dudes – by some miracle somebody saw me and called the cops and they broke in. They went up to the motel-room and found mom had OD-ed – her third in as many years. My dad was serving year-2 of a 15-year prison sentence for fraud, Grandma was outta town and outta her mind on booze ‘n’ ‘ludes, so they called Gramps who went totally postal and flew back from Rome to sort things out. He was desperate to get mom help, for my sake as much as hers, so he put the word around that he’d do anything to get her straight. Someone gave him Rossington’s card. See, Jimmy’d devised a method of reprogramming drug addicts with an uncompromisingly tough regime: torture and mind control, basically – but with some New Age horseshit thrown in to make it look progressive. The literature was all this, like, flowery bullshit about ‘rebirth’ etc, but the kids were treated like laboratory rats -- two guys died and a girl committed suicide, that’s not taking into account the mental scars of those who actually made it through.” Kris sighed, “Anyway, he promised gramps he would have mom detoxed and straightened-out within 6 months, so Ollie cut him a cheque.”

“And did Rossington’s treatment work?” asked Malky.

“Oh yeah. 6 months later, just as promised, there’s Annelise Katz, clean and sober, made-over, looking hale and healthy and weeping to Barbara Walters about her drugs hell and her ‘resurrection’, hailing Gentleman Jim as her Personal Saviour! She relapsed 18 months later, mind you, but it was good while it lasted.”

“Where was Ollie when all this wuz goin’ on?”

The boy became melancholy, his tone heavy with ennui, “He was on a world tour with his one-man-show for most of it, but he’d given up on mom when she relapsed. Rossington told him she was incurable and the only course of action was left open to him was to cut all her finances and hopefully the desolation would drive her to do something about it herself. It did. It drove her to prostitution. So gramps washed his hands of her – I was all that mattered now. He got temporary custody of me.

“Anyhow, in the 80s Rossington’s rich and famous, but he yearns for something money can’t buy: a Serious Reputation. See, Jimmy wants Nobel Prizes not Daytime Emmys! He wants to be fêted by The Elite – i.e. the very people who call him a charlatan and a con man. He was a bit of a joke, so when gramps moved here permanently in ‘82, Jimmy tagged along, all-the-while plotting his next move. He met up with an old colleague who worked at St Cedric’s mental hospital in Dublin which specialised in cases involving extreme cases of aberrant behaviour and violence. Jimmy saw an opportunity: he wanted to turn St Cedric’s into an institute specialising in the psychology of the criminally insane -- a hi-tech facility where patients would be analysed by a team of crack academics from all over the world with the research going towards ‘a better understanding of psychopathic behaviour’ -- and sell a lot of books. so gramps called-in a few favours and made it happen. Jimmy’s all set! Unfortunately, the location sucks – Ireland -- a country known for its blood thirsty violence is, relatively speaking, serial-killer-free, so he has to import his cases from abroad. Do you know there are serial killers, rapists, child molesters, cannibals from all over the world passing through that place?”

“Aye, I’ve heard all about all about it,” said Malky, “In fact, didn’t your mate Gosling check-in there after that ‘incident’?”

“Yeah, like I said, ‘Shrink to the Stars’...” Then he took a deep breath, looked down and shamefacedly admitted, “Look... I know who you are, Mr Calvert. I know what you’ve been through ‘n I know what you do, but I was so intent on getting one over on the old man, I held back. I’m sorry. It’s like we met under false pretences and I wanna clear the air.”

“Uh-huh,” grunted Malky, grumpily. He was beginning to like the boy and now he felt slightly betrayed. Because if he lied so easily, who knows what he was capable of? Malky looked the boy in the eye and asked, “I have to ask you this, Kris: do you have anything to do with what’s been goin’ on in this house?”

Kris put up his hands and vehemently protested his innocence, “Hey now -- the first time I knew anything about this business was a coupla days ago when I saw that report in The Enquirer!!”

“... I mean, you make horror movies,” Malky asserted, “ye’ve got access to allsortsa props and special effects ‘n that. For all I know you ‘n Herbie -– maybe even Rossington -– could be in cahoots to put poor ol’ Oliver round the twist!”

Good God, I was wondering when you’d say that... Broo grumbled.

Just then, the door to Laphen’s room opened and Herbie emerged to give them the latest, “’is vitals is lookin’ good, blahd presha’s OK, no permanent damage, thank gawd...” Herbie clipped the boy around the ear, “You wuz lacky this time, boy! I ‘ope you take this as a lesson! No mowah practical jokes!”

...

Precisely 3 minutes ago (18:47 EST), approximately 3200 miles away, in a roadside ditch on the outskirts of Harrisburg, PA: Emil eyes slowly opened and he found himself staring into a silvery mosaic of inert smithereens. It didn’t take him long to realise he was gazing into a smashed windscreen. I’m still in the Volvo. But his head was squashed against the compressed ceiling -- the car was upside down! He tried to move -- that’s when a blazing pain ran through his entire body. If he could catch his breath he’d scream.

He heard crackling radios and excitable male voices: “Hey! He moved! He’s alive!” “Hey! Guys! He’s alive!” “He’s alive?” “For real? Shit!”

Then an older voice shouted, “We can’t wait for the ambulance!! There’s full tank of gasoline leakin’ into the grass! We gotta move him now!” Emil moved his eyes to the right and saw a fresh faced young fireman kneeling on the long grass, ear close to the ground, helmet off, talking through the upside-down passenger-side window, “I can see you’s in a lotta pain, sir, but we have a very volatile situation here... so keep still, don’t try to move, OK? I’ll be right back!”

Oh, I’ll keep still, kid... cos if I as much as blink it’ll hurt like hell, and I’d rather die than feel that pain again, so please, please don’t move me...

The excruciating pain seemed to radiate from below his waist -- his legs were splayed and trapped between the steering-wheel and the driver’s seat, his torso was between the seats, in a very awkward and painful position. His left arm was trapped beneath him, his right jammed under the buckled steering column. Oh God, the pain... bring back the darkness... bring back the numbness... Then he felt a hand under his armpit, another groping under him looking for the other other armpit, another took hold of his ankles... the pain was unbearable. An older man’s voice purred close to his ear, “Easy... easy there, sir, I got you...”

No! If you try to pull me out I’ll come apart like scarecrow... the pain, the pain... I’m begging you...

The soothing voice in his ear implored him, “Brace you-self, suh, we gonna do our best to get ya outta there as quick as possible...”

An impatient voice yapped, “C’mon, let’s go, guys, let’s do dis ‘n get the hell outta here!”

Emil felt arms around his midriff. Oh no. Oh God no...

Christ...

“I got ‘im! You got ‘im?”

Kill

“I got ‘im.”

“OK. After 3, swing ‘im out.”

now!!

“One... Two... and Three -”

AAAAAAHHHHH!!!

He was hauled from behind and twisted from below – then his body began to move backwards – something was stopping him: “the handbrake is stuck up his ass– we gotta lift him offa it!” The humiliation, the pain, the utter helplessness.... Somehow they repositioned him and hoisted him up again -- his left hip nudging-in the cigarette lighter – again the pain flared to an unbearable degree as he began to move backwards through the passenger-side window – simultaneously, he heard the tibia in his left leg make a crunching sound as it was unceremoniously yanked from under the steering-wheel... the pain became unbearable... then, at last, the shock kicked in... the pain became cold insensibility... he was being put onto a stretcher; he saw faces looking down, fuzzy unfocussed faces... a few seconds later he heard the young fireman’s voice call out, “Hey, his papers are all over the inside of the car... his passport – everything!!” Emil heard one of the men carrying him yell, “DONNY – get the f**k outta there now!!”

That’s when the cigarette-lighter popped on the dash.

There was a huge fireball – Emil and his rescuers were thrown clear, but the young fireman wasn't so lucky. Emil’s rescuers abandoned him on the bank and went to the aid of their fallen comrade lying on the smouldering gorse, fully conscious, screaming, his body ablaze...

Then Emil got that familiar feeling of dread infest his bones, that familiar, bitter taste in his mouth, that acrid stench in his nostrils.... Somewhere in his head a little girl’s voice -- presumably the voice of his interior puppeteer -- spoke huffily: <Well, you’re damaged goods now, Emil – you’re no use to me at all. You’re gonna be confined to bed for a long time. I just hope every second of every day is as painful as this,> Emil screamed as a shock of pain tore through his pelvis. He began to lose consciousness, but managed a defiant smile before a much different, more welcoming, darkness descended.

While Herbie waited for Rossington to finish, Kris volunteered to act as tour-guide and escort Brooster and Malky around the East Wing, the only area of the house they hadn't visited yet. “It’s the creepiest part! And it’s just gone midnight, dudes - this’ll be a gas!”

Broo whimpered, yippee, we get to listen to this idiot for the next 3 hours...

Before they embarked on their quest, Herbie had to fetch the keys from the safe in the study. As he handed them over, he had a ‘little word in Kris’ ‘shell-like’. There was a lot of finger wagging from the big man and a lot of shy nods from Kris. Despite his card being marked, their guide returned as ebullient as ever, “We’ll take the scenic route through the hidden passageway to the old chapel! It’s really cool!”

“Hidden passageway?” asked Malky, intrigued.

“Oh yeah – the old Duke and his disciples had to prepare for every eventuality! The place is riddled with ‘em!”

Kris chittered incessantly about the salacious activities of the 8th Duke of Roxborough -- the same story Malky heard from Herbie -- as he led them through the shadowy hallways of the East Wing. Eventually, “Here we are!” he announced brightly. He opened a hidden door in the panelling of a long, narrow corridor, revealing a dark passage way. He stooped, made an ugly face and raised the candelabra, “Abandon hope all ye who enter here... ” he said in a croaky voice “Follow me... if ye dare!” Malky, stooped and squeezed through the little hatch. Kris noticed the old dog dragging his feet, “C’mon Broostie,” he trilled, slapping his thigh and beckoning him hither.

If he calls me Broostie again, I’ll sink my teeth into his testes and hang on until he passes out, aura or no aura.

Almost crawling, they made their way along the low ceilinged tunnel for a hundred yards or so until they arrived at another door. “Here it is!” Kris whispered, turning a key in the lock. They squeezed through and found themselves on a small balcony overlooking what appeared to be the interior of a Christian church. Kris held the candelabra high above his head and led the way down a cast-iron spiral staircase, “Nowadays this is referred to as the chapel cos it looks like a chapel -- but it ain't no chapel -- no siree!”

Malky readily descended the wrought-iron steps, but Broo held back and observed from above. Kris wasn't talking now, he was leaning on a marble pillar in the nave, watching Malky look around with a big soppy grin on his face, like a hider watching a seeker get warm then cold, then warm...warmer...

Malky had been admiring what he assumed was uniform religious statuary in the alcoves, when it suddenly struck him that the busts and figurines were somewhat less than holy, “this-here is Pagan stuff made to look Christian,” he cried, “It’s all fawns, demons ‘n naked nymphs!!”

Kris was elated, “Right! Keep looking, dude!”

Malky borrowed the candelabra and held it aloft so that it illuminated the stone carvings atop the marble pillars; at first glance it looked like your standard host of cherubim and seraphim, however, closer inspection revealed it to be a representation of a horde of little winged sprites and faeries; the painted altarpiece wasn't a depiction of the Immaculate Conception, but an intricate painting of a strange naked Lady-of-the-lake type emerging from a swamp carrying the body of a dead child; the figure depicted in the stained glass window above the narthex wasn't Jehovah in his heavenly kingdom, rather a white-bearded, horned & tailed, cloven-hoofed Satan reclining on a throne made of human skulls.

“I wasn't expecting this at all...?” muttered Malky, fascinated and unsettled. He looked up at the old dog watching from above and wondered if he sensed anything untoward, but by the looks of him there was still no cause for alarm.

Kris looked left and right and lowered his voice, “Erm, to be frank, the film I’m making is based on the true story of Roxborough’s life. I’ve had to change the names and locations, but it’s loosely based on actual events, most of which I’ve hadda tone-down to get an R certificate! I have to be discrete, y’know, The Roxborough family are still a big noise in English society and they don’t like to be reminded of their lurid family history. They’d sue the ass-off-me if they thought I was exploiting the legend.”

They went through another door at the rear of the ‘chapel’ and entered a corridor lined by a row of white doors; Kris unlocked them one by one, “These were Thaddeus’ ‘private’ rooms’ where he indulged in his little perversions. But by the time gramps bought the house, the Roxboroughs had removed anything ‘incriminating’,” he said, looking a little disappointed. “Gramps stores his antiques in here now, y’know, stuff he’s bought on the spur of the moment, or gifts he’s received from different countries over the last 70 years: lots of ugly vases, objets-d’art ‘n shit that’re too big to have in the house.” The ‘White Rooms’ were now crammed with shrouded lumps of varying shapes and sizes. Broo kept back and waited until Malky and Kris moved onto the next door before inspecting the last. He sniffed around and checked under the sheets, but the evil deeds alleged to have been perpetrated here had left no trace; each room was the same: devoid of any spiritual presence or echoes of the past.

Just as Kris locked up and made to turn back, Malky noticed a wooden staircase up ahead, “Where does that lead to?” he asked.

Kris frowned, “Oh, the old infirmary.” He made a face, “Haven’t you seen it yet? The front door is on the outside of the house.”

“It was locked and Herbie didn’t have the key,” Malky replied, wondering why the boy seemed so uncomfortable.

Reluctantly climbing the stairs, Jamie filled them in on the infirmary’s history, “It was converted during Victorian times.The 10th Duke was wounded in some African war and set it up so he and his officer pals could convalesce in the luxury he was accustomed to. Nowadays, the villagers use it as a sick bay. They don’t believe in modern medicine for the most part, but when one of them gets really sick or injured they’ll bring them here and call a proper doctor.” He stopped at the little door and shivered, “Dude, I hate hospitals to the point of nausea. I don’t really wanna go in there unless it’s absolutely necessary. “

Broo looked at Malky. This time Malky didn’t need telepathy to guess what the old dog was thinking. “Aye, we’d really like to have a look. Would you mind?”

Kris sighed, produced the key and reluctantly unlocked the door. When it opened and a poof of fusty air escaped, he recoiled and held his nose, “yeeesh – I hate that smell, dudes...”

It was just as Malky had pictured it: a large, bare room with a dozen cots, six either side; the top of the room was dominated by two ancient cast-iron radiators under the shuttered windows; the pipes along the wall behind the beds were green with corrosion. There was a treatment room at the back stocked with basic medical supplies, the high shelves lined with large, empty specimen jars. Broo smelled formaldehyde and wondered what was once kept in those jars. But creepy jars aside, as far as Broo was concerned, like everywhere else, it was psychically barren.

“Anything?” asked Kris, looking from Malky to the old dog.

“Nope. If there was, he wouldn't be long in lettin’ us know.”

Kris was very impressed, if a little disappointed, “Oh, that’s good, I suppose... hey, what’s he doing now?” He’d noticed Broo pawing a door to the side of the last bed on the left.

I hear something -- and this time it’s not a tape recorder! My fur is standing on end! Open the bloody door!

“It’s the door of the bathroom,” said Kris, as he tried various keys in the lock. Once he’d found the right one, he turned the handle but the door wouldn't budge. “Gimme a hand, will ya, the wood must be swollen and sealed it shut.” Malky obliged and they pushed until the door let out a loud groan and swung inwards. Broo crept in and looked around. It felt quite damp compared to the rest of the secret rooms, which would explain the swollen door.

For some reason, he was drawn to a full-length cheval mirror adjacent to the bath. As he hobbled towards it, he saw that the image therein was something other than his own approaching reflection. In fact there was no reflection at all, it was more like looking into a long, tall, oval fish tank filled with murky water thick with web-like weeds, the strands of which formed a net; a net filled with the inert bodies of small children, like snagged marionettes in the cloudy depths of a stagnant pool...

At that very moment an antiquated bar of soap that’d been sitting on the edge of a shelf above the bath fell into the empty tub with a loud THUD! “What the hell was that?!” cried Kris, turning on the light – blinding brightness – the old dog reeled! He turned and barked loudly! “Oh Shit! Sorry!” Kris instinctively tugged the string and made it dark again. Of course, when Broo turned back, the image had vanished. He found himself looking into his own bewildered eyes twinkling in the dusty, smutty glass.

“Well, whatever it was, it’s gone now,” said Malky.

“What do you think he saw?” asked Kris, rattled.

“Dunno,” said Malky, turning the light back on, “is there anythin’ special about this mirror? It looks a bit out of place, a bit grand for a hospital bathroom?”

“I have no idea... I’m never in here,” said Kris, looking genuinely confounded.

“... it looks as old as the house,” said Malky, examining the frame.

Shivering and shuffling his feet, Kris was getting impatient, “Erm... if that’s it, dudes, I’d really like to get the hell outta here...”

As they made their way back to the West Wing, they were distracted by the sound of chopping-rotors and twin beams shining through the huge, stained-glass windows as the doctor’s helicopter took off. They heard the front door close, the jingle of keys and then the steel-tipped heels of Herbie’s Oxford-brogues clicking as they crossed the main hall into the lobby. As the lights receded and the rotors buzzed-off into the distance, Kris thought for a moment and then said, “Y’know... there was something that happened when I was last here... but I’m not sure if it’s relevant.”

Now he tells us...

Malky shrugged, “Well, we’re at a loss, so anythin’ you can tell us would be better than chasin’ round this place like headless chickens.”

“I’d like to show you something,” said Kris, enigmatically, “but we’ll have to go to the old pavilion to see it.”

“Alright lads?” Herbie called, standing in the shadows of the lobby looking up, “The old man’s OK, fanks-be to you, Mr Calvert - it wuz a panic attack an’ you did all the right fings.”

“Oh, thank f**k,” said Kris, sighing with relief.

As they descended the staircase, Malky asked Herbie about the mirror in the infirmary bathroom. “The ahsekeeper, Mrs Sparkes, ‘ad it moved there coupla years ago,” he said, in a doubtful tone, “she was in the boss’ study late one night ‘n she said she seen a little lad watchin’ ‘er in that mirror. Screamed the house dahn. Scanlon ‘ad to give ‘er a slap to shut-her-up.”

In spite of the big chauffeur’s doubts, Broo was sure this information was significant -- it sounded eerily similar to what he’d just experienced -- but for now, he could nothing but keep it to himself and see how things developed.

“Is the power on in the pavilion?” Kris asked Herbie.

Herbie tutted, “Ach, c’mon Kris, my son, no matter what the old man says we don’t expectcha to sleep aht there tonight!”

“No,” Kris chuckled, “I wanna use the screening room to show Mr Calvert some video I shot last time I was here...”

They took a leisurely stroll through the grounds to the pavilion and Malky pretended to listen as Kris nattered away about film making. Broo continued to lag behind, too debilitated by the boy’s aura to take in his surroundings.The misty halo had become murkier the further they got from the house. Broo had to move back another 6 feet to keep out of range. When Kris asked about the old dog keeping his distance, Malky told him he was just slow: “past it” he said. Broo responded with a sharp bark. Bloody cheek. It was quite a mild night, there was no breeze, the moon was bright enough to illuminate the darker corners, but the complete silence was unnatural and unsettling. Even Kris commented on it: “... listen, you could hear a pin drop out here. It’s eerie, isn't it? Complete silence. Not even the hoot of an owl or a breeze to rustle the trees.” A moment later, as they made their way down to the walkway that ran alongside the croquet lawn, they heard the clump of boots coming in the opposite direction. It turned out to be Charlie Noble, the incumbent head of security, who informed them he’d just unlocked the pavilion and switched on the power. He asked after Laphen’s health and as Kris gave him the latest, Malky gave him the once-over. He was a stocky man of medium height with dreadful skin that made his face look like a bag of lumpy pastry. He had a northern accent – Antrim Town, to be exact -- and like Herbie, he was ex-army.

“I hear you had a bit of trouble on Friday night?” said Malky.

Charlie looked to the boy for guidance; Kris nodded, “It’s OK, he’s got Herbie’s permission.”

“You mean the night the big clock got pushed over? ‘A bit of trouble’ is about right, aye,” said Charlie, spinning a large key-ring on his index-finger like a six-shooter. “The boss was in a right state. He hit the panic button ‘n I raced up here as fast as I could -– but when I got to the door -- the swipe-card wouldnae work and the friggin’ master key wouldnae turn in the lock! I hadda climb in through a winda -- when I found ‘im he was under the stairs shakin’ like a leaf! ‘Poltergeist!’ says he, pointing at the big grandfather clock lyin’ in the hall! It’d fallen off the wall! A big thing like that! I wuz flummoxed.”

“What do you think of this fella Scanlon?” asked Malky, still suspicious that this might’ve been an inside job; i.e. a disgruntled ex-employee with access to the house, maybe.

“Scanlon...?” thrown by the question, Noble bowed his head, scratched it and said, “Well, Scanlon was one of me best mates – ex-RAF, all-round good egg, so-he-was...” Then, suddenly aware that he was in the presence of the boss’ grandson, changed his tone, giving the impression that he’d revised his opinion, “Then again... he was a like law onto himself, had the run of the place, thought he was indispensable. Took things for granted. He worked here long before Mr Laphen bought the place, see. But... stealing from the boss ‘n that. Big shock that was...” Looking uncomfortable in his skin, he looked at Kris with an expression that said ‘can I go now?’ They let him get back to his rounds and continued on their way.

Once Noble was out of earshot, “See?” whispered Kris, “nobody believes Scanlon is guilty.”

“Hmmm, that maybe,” said Malky, doubtfully,”but he’s still the prime suspect.”

After passing through another archway and following a well-lit path lined with neatly trimmed shrubbery, they eventually came upon a white building set back behind a little copse approximately 200 yards from the house. From the outside, it looked more like a large clapboard house than a sports pavilion. Malky asked why all the windows were blocked-off. “To keep out the light. Gramps had it converted into a little cinema so he could screen movies,” said Kris, unlocking the door. “He got prints of all his old comedy shorts and he shows them to visitors.” He turned on the lights, “Wait til you see inside, it’s a feast for the eyes!”

They emerged from the vestibule and stepped into art-deco-heaven. It was just like a miniature version of the Picture-Palaces built during The Depression era that Malky had visited as a child: welcoming, sumptuous and tastefully plush. Emerald green deep-pile carpets, and huge, signed prints of silent movie stars’ publicity pictures lining the walls (Louise Brooks, Douglas Fairbanks, Mary Pickford, Chaplin, Keaton and, of course, the man himself – technically not a silent star - but whose comic oeuvre owed so much the pioneering comedians of that era), furnished with armchairs a pair of white leather Hoffman Kubus sofas facing each other in a b/w 20s-style cocktail bar/café. After a quick tour, Kris took them through a projection-booth into a back-room filled with various pieces of complicated-looking electronic apparatus connected by sheaves of multicoloured cables; the lower back wall was lined with racks of film canisters of varying shapes and sizes. Kris took a cassette from a rack of video tapes, brought it into the booth and pushed it into the player. “Gramps always made his own home-movies, so when video became popular he bought all of this state-of-the-art equipment – he has to have all the latest gizmos.”

While Kris worked in the projection booth, Malky went to the theatre and made himself comfortable. Brooster slunk under a chair in the far corner (15 feet away, but still within sight of the screen) and tried to stay awake.

“It’s a tape of the exhumation of the mummies,” Kris shouted from the projection booth, “I was in Dublin when it happened, so I drove back ASAP and fetched the video camera to shoot some footage.” The screen lit up and a bright blizzard of static flickered on Malky’s face; a few seconds later an image suddenly appeared. It was a shaky film of a woodland scene, presumably the woodland surrounding the bog; a few seconds later Kris’ recorded voice sounded in the theatre’s speakers:

“It’s Thursday July 20th 19-and-89, I’m at my grandfather’s house in Ireland in the marshlands on the outskirts of the estate, and I’m on my way to film a very significant ‘n strange event -- probably historic --”

What followed was a kind of home movie taken a day after the discovery of the mummies, accompanied by a typically breathless running commentary from Kris. It showed lots of people milling around the swamp; forensics people, gards, villagers and the press, had gathered to watch the bodies being removed. “I was staying here while Ollie ‘n Herb were in Japan,” Kris explained, talking over his voice-over as he joined Malky in the theatre, “I was writing the script at the time and I went to Dublin to do research when I heard about it. I was so hyped I hadda hightail back here to film it.”

When it came to close-ups of the experts, Malky recognised a few of the faces from news reports, but one in particular was more familiar than the others, “That’s Paddy Gilray, he’s a top forensics guy from Dublin. Big Phil Somerville 'n him are good friends. Dunno who the guy with ‘im is, though.”

“Emil something. I tried to talk to him afterwards, but he told me to f**k off,” said Kris, looking a wee bit hurt. “Somebody told me he’s another forensics guy from Canada. He flies over every summer and they do these archaeological digs.”

Just then, the voice-over took a strange turn; the commentary broke off mid-sentence and the sound of Kris vomiting filled the room; the film suddenly stopped and Kris pointed at the blank screen, “When they moved the bodies there was this unholy stink like nothin’ I ever smelled before -- that’s why I threw up! I hadda stop filming and get the hell outta there!” He made a sour face, “It wasn't swamp gas – cuz I’ve smelled swamp gas – it was more like this thick, sickening miasma that made it hard to breathe, Ugggh!” he said, grimacing, “And it wasn't just me! Look, everybody is retching or puking -- even some the guys wearing surgical masks!” He used a remote to rewind the tape and freeze-framed a wide shot of the bog. He indicated a coterie of Bogmire residents standing on the opposite side, “Now look at the villagers -- they’re are fine with it, like they’re used to it. And that’s not all,,.” He sat forward, lowered his voice and spoke in a sombre tone, “There was, like, this strange kinda purple mist hanging over everything. You could see it as plain as day -- in fact most people commented on it -- but it doesn’t show up on the tape. And I checked the camera -- it’s not technical fault.” Kris shook his head, “Anyway, I couldn't get the stench out of my nostrils or the taste outta my mouth. It got into my clothes -- I dumped them as soon as I got back to the house -- but I could smell it for days after. In fact, I smelled it until I left...” He turned to Malky, “I swear to God, I smelled it when I walked into the house today. 2 years later and it’s still there. That’s 24 months and several gallons of Sparky’s wood-polish and gramps’ cigars -- and it’s still there!”

Malky shook his head, “I didn’t smell anythin’.”

“That’s what’s so weird, I’m the only one who does,” said Jamie, looking genuinely perplexed.

Broo knew the smell the boy as talking about. It was that faint, acrid odour he smelled during their little stop in the village, but it wasn't pronounced enough to give him much cause for concern, now he wasn't so sure. How could a natural smell hang in the air for so long without dissipating?

And what of the vision of the children in the bathroom mirror? Children drowned in a stagnant pool: the bog? Is it something to do with the little girl found in the ancient one’s arms? Is she now a ghost reaching out to him via the Mirror World?

So many questions...

...

The night before, in the Ivy House Library: under the light of a reading lamp, Jamie sat at a desk and scanned the attendance log of his grandfather’s long-since defunct ‘naughty-hellfire’ type club, an association that allowed renowned dignitaries and celebrities to indulge their wildest, wickedest sexual fantasies in complete anonymity. Working on a hunch, he was looking for one name in particular in the thick, yellowing pages, and although all entries were in code, his grandfather had kept a separate log to record the members real names; all Jamie had to do was find the name the to fit the code. After an hour of searching and deciphering, his finger eventually alighted on the moniker he’d been looking for:

“Oliver Laphen.”

According to the log, Laphen’s last attendance was in June 1968. Jamie wondered if it was an amicable parting of the ways, or was he kicked out? If his reputation for hell-raising was an issue, expulsion was a distinct possibility. And if he was ex-communicated, did he hold a grudge? Jamie went to the sliding steps and rolled to the central bookcase; he climbed to the top rung and took a row of three glued-together, hollowed-out tomes from the top shelf, revealing a safe concealed in the wall behind. He turned the dial on the combination lock using the numbers written on the back of his hand, opened it and removed a heavy ledger.

It contained highly compromising information of every member of the club, probably in order to blackmail any black-balled ex-members tempted to spill the beans to the authorities or the press. Predictably, Laphen had an abundance of black marks against his name, everything from securities fraud to wife beating. Then, to Jamie’s surprise, he discovered that his grandfather had added a heavily underlined note pertaining to Laphen’s purchase of Pagham House: ‘Witches -- Observe!’ it screamed from the page. The Judge was clearly expressing his alarm and wanted the Witches of Kildare to keep an eye on things. And now we know why.

Oggy talked about Pagham House before he went down for his sleep. He said it’s a mansion built to the exact specifications of the Ivy House by the Duke of Roxborough: a wannabe wizard with no psychic abilities whatsoever, who tried to create magic using standard methods: sex and human sacrifice. It was also home to the swamp where the mummy of an ancient mage was discovered 2 years ago. And now Laphen’s grandson turns up and offers Goz -- the only one of us who could be tempted to break ranks -- a part in a film he’s shooting in Ireland? It was all too much of a coincidence.

He slammed the book shut, crossed his arms and sat back. Shite. This could be the first major crisis he’s faced since taking up the mantle of Master, and there was no Ogden Castle around to guide him...

...

After screening a few of Ollie’s old ‘Laffin Boy!’ shorts to lighten the mood, Malky and Kris sat in the little cinema’s cocktail bar/café and made use of the fully functioning, antique coffee machine. They took a sofa each, sprawled-out on the white leather and talked about Film Noir for the next hour or so. When the conversation moved on to personal matters, Kris chatted openly about his relationship with “Jolly Ollie!” It wasn't bitchy in the least, for the most part he spoke in glowing terms. Nevertheless, he was still bewildered and exasperated by what he called, ‘The Purge’.”

“Whatever his reasons, I predict old Ollie will be battling a few ‘unfair dismissal’ law-suits over the next coupla years,” Malky opined .

“Any potential litigants will have to go to the end of the queue,” said Kris, “gramp’s life has been one long lawsuit, and he’s got the best lawyers money can buy.” He nimbly flipped over the back of the sofa and trotted over to the counter for a refill. Malky had to shout to be heard above the loud gurgle of a sputtering nozzle, “I can honestly say I’ve never met anyone like him in my life! If I wuz you, I’d stay well away!”

“Everybody else does keep away, I’m the only one of the family that bothers,” he said, coming back to the sofa and flopping down, “I think our little spats are a sorta communication on a deep level. Like, I can’t explain it, but it kinda opens things up –- things you can’t talk about ‘man-to-man’ can come out in one of our shouting-matches.” Kris sat up, raised his mug at the life-size picture of the man himself in his heyday hanging behind the bar, and said, “No matter what he’s done, he’s still a genius. He’s a hard act to follow. All I can do is learn from his mistakes.” Kris smiled at the youthful, dimpled face, “When I look at him now I know I’m looking at myself in 60 years time, cos that’s probably what I’ll look like if I live that long. But I won’t end my days like him, alone in a mansion miles away from his family, abandoned by his estranged kids. My grandfather is nothing if not a walking cautionary tale.”

Malky was very impressed by this young man. His mother is a drug-addict, his father is a crooked businessman, his grandfather is an arrogant arsehole, and yet, he’s a realistic, intelligent, talented, well-rounded good kid. He raised his mug to salute his new best friend, “I hope my chile grows up to be as bright and as thoughtful as you are, son.”

“You’re gonna to be a father?!” Kris asked, excitedly.

“8 weeks from yesterday,” said Malky, smiling, but sounding a wee bit daunted.

Kris jumped to his feet and vigorously shook Malky’s hand. “That’s awesome! Congratulations, dude!”

“I never thought of the future til I heard the words, ‘I’m late’," joked Malky. He took a moment to think, then asked, “So, what do you think’s goin’ on in Pagham House, Kris?”

Kris answered straightaway as if he was expecting the question: “I have absolutely no idea. I mean, that grandfather clock -- besides the fact that I wasn't here at the time, there’s no way I could've pushed that over, let alone a scrawny old guy like Ollie. You’d need a tractor to move it!”

Malky shrugged and sighed, “Well, that’s us. There’s nuthin’ more we can do. As far as we’re concerned, the house is uncontaminated by evil spirits. I’ll just have to tell Ollie we've come up empty. If I was him, I’d leave it to the police.”

Kris looked at the old dog sitting in the corner and asked, “U-huh, I wonder what Broo makes of it all?”

“I dunno,” Malky answered, sleepily, looking over his shoulder, “like I said before, if there was anythin’ ‘supernatural’ he’d’ve let us know by now...”

But Broo didn’t know how to communicate what he was seeing. Because when the pair sat together, the boy’s aura, more opaque than ever, spread to envelope Malky. When the boy went to the coffee bar to get a refill, part of it stayed with Malky. They were both shrouded in that swirling mist that psychically shut Broo out and rendered him physically weak...

Oh God, I hope this doesn’t last. I hope it disappears once we leave this woe-begotten place...

...

Two hours later, sitting in the bar of Odin’s Inn in Brodir, the ghost of Sammy O'Donnell, the inn’s deceased barman, was sitting in the darkened bar listening to the distant sound of waves crashing on the rocks. He was very bored. Thank God the old dog’s back tomorrow, at least I’d somebody to talk to, he thought to himself. We could be watchin’ TV right now... his thoughts were interrupted by a far cry: <Samuel... Samuel... Samuel O'Donnell...>

“What’s that?” Sammy said aloud, though nobody could hear him, “well, up til now.”

<Samuel... Samuel...> a little voice cried in his head. He wasn't imagining it. It’s a thought, he thought, like the way the old dog talks me.

<Samuel... Samuel... Samuel O'Donnell...> It seemed to be a child’s voice calling his name...“Samuel O'Donnell...” He went to one of the windows and looked out. <Samuel... Samuel... Samuel O'Donnell... Samuel O'Donnell...>

Beyond the concourse, across the main road, standing atop the old sea wall, he saw the sparkling spectre of a small child. It was hard to tell if it was a boy or a girl, the clinging white dress could just as well be a nightshirt; the hair was wet and hung around its face and shoulders like seaweed: the ghost of a wee drowner, no doubt.

<Wave if you can hear me!> the little ghost yelled.

Sammy raised his hand and waved a feeble wave.

<I’ve been sent by the Powers That Be to warn you!>

“Warn me?” said Sammy, perturbed.

<Aye. From tomorrow forth your haunt will become infected!> cried the little spectre, <You’ll haveta get yerself to The In-Between until the danger passes!>

Even though he’d never heard the phrase ‘The In-Between’ before, Sammy could guess what it meant: “Limbo?! Why? I bloody hate Limbo!! It’s full of martyrs 'n murderers 'n all kinds of religious headcases!”

Talking quickly, as if he there was a time limit on his manifestation, the little spectre informed him: <You've no choice! The innkeeper is set to return from an infected place -- he’ll bring the darkness back with him! It’s a Soul-eating disease, no spirit is safe, not even us ghosts – so it’s in your best interests to bide-awhile in the In-Between until the danger passes and the house is pronounced safe.>

<But what is it...!> Sammy had so many questions, but the little spectre had begun to fade. He watched helplessly as the sparkle dimmed to a glow, then a glimmer. “NO! Wait, don’t go...!” he cried out, but the ghost had gone.

He sat down again and mulled over the message: innkeeper? They must mean Malky. But what does ‘bringing The Darkness back with him’ mean? For the first time since he died, Sammy O'Donnell was scared. If there was something wicked coming – something so dangerous that it’s fatal to Immortal Souls – how could he be sure it wouldn't pose a risk to The Living?

And what about an unborn baby?!

He couldn't – he wouldn't abandon Zindy!

To Be Continued...

#witch craft #Witchcraft #irish literature #fantasy #Ghost #Hollywood #hooray for hollywood #Mystery #poltergeist #magic #black magic #irish humour #demon

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shestillhasherquill · 7 years

Text

Way Back Home

This fic is to celebrate @word-bug and her turning a year older! Happy Birthday, Vaish, I love you! We discussed this Yeh Jawaani Hai Deewani AU at length, and I hope you like it!

I could have never perfected it without the help of my Bae-ta (ha ha!) @accio-ambition! You’re the best, thnz

“Swan, you alright?” Killian asked, crouching in front of her. She shook her head, the grin finally breaking through. “I’m going to London,” she announced, the first time she ever said the words out loud.

Emma Swan's life changed that night, and she left Storybrooke to follow her dreams. But it's time for her to find her way back home, and what better way to bring her back than for a wedding?

Find it on AO3 or FF.net

Killian grinned, watching as Ruby and Dorothy went wild on the dance floor. Their arms were slung around each other, smiles wide as they danced to the beat of the music. Dorothy laughed at something Ruby said, her head thrown back. The look on Ruby’s face made him grin wider, beyond happy that his best friend seemed to have found someone to spend the rest of her life with. He might have met her only five years ago, but it seems like he’s known her much longer.

Her and Graham, he reminded himself, grunting as his mate bumped into him hard, taking a seat next to him, a glass of scotch (he assumed) clutched in his hands. “What are you moping here for, Killian? It’s a party, mate,” he slurred.

Before he could respond with a scathing remark, Ruby pulled him out of his seat, forcing him into the crowd with her. He had to stomp down the urge to grumble, knowing how important this weekend was to Ruby. After all, it wasn’t everyday your best friend gets married in Vienna of all places.

When Ruby had first told him she was getting married, he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. However, he knew how much being with Dorothy had changed her, even mended her broken heart. She’d become someone different – someone who was proud of herself.

And so, he pushed aside his own heartache, knowing that no matter how much he hoped, the person he really wanted here with him would probably not show up. She probably didn’t even know that there was a wedding happening.

Suddenly, the music stopped, making everyone groan and whine, turning to the DJ for an explanation. Right before things got too chaotic, the other side with the stage lit up, the sound of a familiar song started up, making him suck in a sharp breath. When he could see who was on stage more clearly, his heart dropped to his gut. He felt Ruby’s talon like nails grip his arm, a whispered oh my God leaving her lips before she cried it even louder.

“OH MY GOD. EMMA!” she shouted, running to the stage to hug the blonde, just as We Like to Party by the Vangaboys came on, both girls singing it together, the whole club soon joining them. Killian, well, he was stuck in the same spot, his eyes never leaving the dancing goddess on stage, her cheeks red from laughter and golden hair flipping around.

She was back. Five years later, but she was actually back.

-/-

Five years ago

She’d met Liam Jones when she’d been home from college one weekend. He’d moved to Storybrooke about three months ago to take over as the new harbourmaster, and the man that her older cousin, Elsa seemed to have a crush on. When they’d run into him at Granny’s, it was obvious that he liked Elsa, as well. Emma couldn’t help but tease Elsa for being totally obvious.

Of course, Elsa had an opportunity to rib Emma back. When Emma’s final semester finished, and she’d graduated and moved back to Storybrooke, she’d been none too happy. She’d hoped to have heard back about her scholarship by then, and had thus not applied for any jobs, hoping to be halfway across the world by now.

And so she’d picked up a couple of shifts at Granny’s, not willing to sit at home and do nothing all day. She just had to be patient. It was during a really slow summer afternoon shift that she first met Killian. He came in wearing a shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his shoulders, leaving his bulging biceps on full display, sweat glistening off his skin. She still got embarrassed thinking about how obviously she’d ogled him, Killian having to wave his hand in front of her face to catch her attention.

They’d hit it off immediately, both of them having just finished college. He was a good few years older than her, already having received a residency position at Storybrooke General. And because his residency didn’t start for another several weeks, he was helping his brother, Liam, out. All of this she’d learned as he ate his lunch at her counter, flirting with her obnoxiously in between bites. Over the course of the next month, they’d become quick friends, Killian quickly falling in line with the rest of Emma’s friends.

Emma wiped her brow, having just finished a surprisingly gruelling afternoon shift at Granny’s. She walked the short distance to the docks, take out bag clutched in her hand. She knew that she’d find Killian there, working on his brother’s boat, getting it ready for Liam’s new idea of starting tours in the summer. She’d rolled her eyes at the idea, knowing that Storybrooke wasn’t exactly touristy enough for people to want to go on tours.

“Ahoy, there!” she exclaimed, her voice loud and startling Killian, who had his headphones in and hadn’t heard her come aboard.

“Bloody hell, Swan. You scared me,” he admonished, glaring at her, before looking down at what she was holding, his eyes quickly brightening. “Is that for me?”

She chuckled, nodding and handing him his meal over. “Granny’s best batch of onion rings, if I say so myself. And grilled cheese, of course.”

“Of course,” he mumbled, already having stuffed his mouth with a large bite of his sandwich, groaning in delight. “That is good.”

Emma swallowed thickly, the sound doing something to her - something she did not want to explore. “So, you heard about Graham’s party today?” she asked, clearing her throat.

“Yuh-huh. You thinking of going?” he asked, sitting on one of the overturned crate, patting the one next to him for her to sit.

“Of course I’m going. Graham and I have a business strategy to discuss,” she teased.

“Ah, yes. Your big plans to move all the way to Boston and open a bar. Very funny, Swan, haha,” he rolled his eyes.

“Do- do you want to come with me, maybe?” she asked, biting her lower lip.

He paused with his sandwich halfway to his mouth, his eyes wide in disbelief. “What, to Boston?”

Emma’s own eyes widened as she shook her head, quick to correct him. “No, I meant Graham’s party. He’s joking about the Boston thing. Mostly.”

Killian blinked, his surprise taken over by a much softer sort of bewilderment. “Of course I’d come with you, Emma.” Sensing the heavy tension, he, of course, turned it into something else. “Who wouldn’t want me for a date, love? A devilishly handsome lad such a meself, and a fetching lass like you - we would turn quite a few heads, don’t you think?”

She shook her head, pushing him away. “Do you ever not flirt?”

He tried to look affronted but he couldn’t stop from chuckling. “Swan, I always tell you this. Flirting is good for health. Like yoga.”

-/-

Emma was putting the finishing touches on her outfit, playing with the ringlets she’d carefully spent the past hour curling. It may be just another party at Graham’s but it felt different, knowing that she was going with Killian, and not meeting him there like she would usually. Just when she’d deemed herself ready, she heard Ingrid call her downstairs, a certain edge to her voice.

Worried, Emma rushed down the stairs, her heels clutched in her hands. “Mom? What happened? Are you okay?”

She rounded the corner and into the sitting room, where her mother sat, clutching a large envelope. “You- you never told me you applied anywhere,” Ingrid said in reply, her voice shaking.

Emma sucked in a sharp breath, her heart stuttering in her chest. “Is that for me?” she demanded, striding over to her mother and grabbing the envelope from her hands, turning it over. And there on the corner, was the University of Arts, London label.

She finally got it.

“Fuck,” she whispered. And the bell rang.

-/-

She heard her mother answer the door while she sat in a daze, her eyes roving over and over the same words. Congratulation, Ms. Swan.

It could have been minutes, hours, even days - she hardly cared. She finally got everything she’d ever wanted. She felt tears run down her cheeks, a grin threatening to burst through. She was startled by a hand on her shoulder and concerned blue eyes swimming in her gaze.

“Swan, you alright?” Killian asked, crouching in front of her.

She shook her head, the grin finally breaking through. “I’m going to London,” she announced, the first time she ever said the words out loud.

And from then, it was just a whirlwind of preparations, Emma wanting to get there as soon as she could. In all the chaos, she kept putting off telling Ruby and Graham, making Killian promise not to tell anyone. She knew she had to stop putting it off, but she had no idea how to tell them she planned on moving to another country. It wasn’t like her mother took it well either - Ingrid had actually refused to talk to her for a while, and it took a lot of convincing from Emma to forgive her.

“It’s not that I’m not proud of you,” she said. “Because I am. But you should have told me, this is a big decision.”

In the end, she never got a chance to tell Ruby and Graham herself. Somehow Liam got to know (she was guessing Elsa told him) and he asked her about it in front of them.

“You’re going where?” Ruby demanded, hands on her hips and nostrils flaring. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

“I- I never thought I’d get it.”

“But you should have told us! It’s another country, Emma!” Ruby exclaimed, throwing her hands up for emphasis.

Emma rolled her eyes, “Yes, I am aware, Ruby. Thank you.” She took in a deep breath. “Look, I wanted to tell you guys myself. It just wasn’t the right time, and I just have a lot to do before I leave. I know I shouldn’t have kept putting it off. I’m sorry.”

“When do you leave?” Graham asked, his voice surprisingly soft.

“A month, month and half, maybe.”

Both Ruby’s and Graham’s eyes widened, shock shifting to anger. “What, we weren’t important enough for you to tell us sooner? Thought you could just leave and we would understand,” Graham snapped.

“Graham,” Ruby tried to stop him, but he ignored her.

“We had plans, Em. We were going to leave this dead-end town and move to Boston. I could have finally left my step-mother’s house. We talked about this, and now it’s just easy for you to throw it away.”

“I thought you were joking about it, Graham! I mean, what did you think? That it would be easy to just move to Boston and set up a bar? Are you mad?” Emma snapped back.

He laughed humourlessly. “I guess I am for thinking you’d ever stay around. You just keep running, Emma. That’s what you’re good at.”

And with those words, he walked away, Ruby running after him, promising Emma that he’d come back and apologise. But he never did, and a month later, when she was leaving, it was only Ruby and Killian who’d come to say goodbye. Thinking that Graham was upset and realising that her best friend didn’t even want to say goodbye were two completely different things.

She’s put her final bag in her mother’s car, hugging Ruby tight. “I’ll be back before you know it,” she whispered to the brunette, tears burning the back of her closed lids. “Love you in case I die.”

“Come back soon, Em,” Ruby whispered back, hugging her tighter. “Love you in case I die.”

Emma pulled back, chuckling as she swiped at her cheeks. “I should go now.” Ruby nodded, stepping back.

Just as she opened the car door, Killian’s hand on her arm stopped her. She turned around, her heart in her throat. With how fast everything happened, they never even got time together or even figure out what they were. “Killian,” she breathed out, her hands clenching at her sides, so she doesn’t do something stupid like grab him and kiss him.

“Swan,” he nodded, smiling sadly at her. “Off to see the world, huh?”

She chuckled despite herself. “Gotta start somewhere, right?”

“Right.” He breathed deep, his expression suddenly serious, his blue eyes never leaving her gaze. He grabbed her hand, squeezing tightly, hoping to get everything he felt across. “This was the best summer.”

“Yeah.” Emma had to bite her cheek to keep from crying. She was halfway falling for him when everything changed, and she was leaving now. As much as she wanted to ask him to wait for her, she couldn’t. It wasn’t fair to him, at all.

But yet again, he surprised her. “There’s not a day will go that I won’t think of you.”

Emma swallowed thickly, tears swimming in her eyes, and blurring her vision. “Good.”

-/-

Present

With the party winding down in the wee hours of the morning, everyone started dispersing to their respective rooms, leaving Graham, Killian, Emma, Ruby and Dorothy, laughing as Emma enthralled them with yet another story from her travels. Killian still hadn’t spoken to her, not having a moment alone with her, and for that he was glad. Because for all the times that he’d fantasized about this moment, when the moment was actually here, he had no idea what to say. He wanted to hug her, he wanted to just grab her and kiss her. Tell her how much he’d missed her. Tell her about his work at the hospital, ask about her job. Tell her what he was supposed to five years ago, because damn him, but he still loved her. He swore, he loved her even more now than he did back then.

He excused himself, waving away everyone’s concern as he went to the bathroom, locking the door behind him. He sucked in a sharp breath, wrinkling his nose at the stench. Of course he’d chosen here to gather himself, not the pantry or even the supply closet with all the clean smells. He quickly washed his hands, wanting to get out of there as soon as he could. But just as he went to open the door, he heard two voices arguing, one distinctly male. Graham, he realized. And the other one - Emma.

After a heated argument, ending with Emma shouting so loud that Ruby had to come break up the fight, he heard her leave in a huff. Waiting for a moment, to ensure that no one else was outside, he exited the restroom. He had heard enough from the conversation to know just what to do. The thing he’d been avoiding the most: talking to her.

-/-

After a bit of searching, he found her at the pool, her feet dangling in the water. He took a moment, admiring her beauty in the moonlight, her skin looking paler and her hair almost white. She looked like an angel, he mused, before quickly shaking the thoughts from his head. He couldn’t go there again, not with her. Right now, she just needed a friend.

“Hey,” he greeted, sitting cross-legged beside her.

She turned to him, her gaze steady and clear as she stared at him for a moment, her expression stony, before a smile broke through, making him sigh in relief on the inside.

“I was wondering when you’d come. You were standing behind me for so long, I’d have been creeped out if it had been anyone else.” Those were the first words she’d said to him in five years. He chuckled loudly, shaking his head at her, and handing her a beer.

“So,” he began, sipping his own beer. “You married?”

Startled at his question, she whipped her head to look at him. “What? No!” she sputtered. “Why do you ask?”

“So I’d know if I should behave or if I could flirt,” he teased, a twinkle in his eye as her cheeks grew warm.

“Is flirting my punishment for not getting married?” she asked snarkily.

“Aye,” he grinned back. “Besides, flirting is good for the health, Swan.”

“Like yoga,” she finished, rolling her eyes. “You’re still so predictable.” He stiffened at her words, but did not allow her to see how much they affected him. “I’ve missed you,” she said after a long time.

“I’ve missed you too, Swan,” he replied, smiling at her fondly. He took a moment, taking her in, noticing all the small changes.

“What?” she asked self-consciously.

“You just, you haven’t changed much. Well, except for one thing.”

“Oh, yeah? What’s that?”

“You used to smile a lot more. I missed that.”

There was long pause, his words sinking in. When it was clear that she wasn’t going to say anything else, he moved to stand up.

“No. Stay.” And so he did, knowing that it would just be some time before she told him what was on her mind.

“Graham and I got into a fight,” she said finally, snapping him away from his wandering thoughts. “He said, he said a bunch of stuff.”

“Emma…”

“No, it’s okay,” she sniffled. “I was gone for five years, Killian. I couldn’t really expect things to remain the same. I just, I had to leave, you know? I’ve always dreamed about travelling, and then I got that scholarship and then I had to focus on my career. I just always thought that I could come back to you guys.”

“And you can, Emma.” He wrapped his arm around her, pulling her closer to him. “Graham is an idiot. He was drunk and he said some things he didn’t mean.”

“Except that he did. We aren’t friends anymore. I just don’t fit in here,” she confessed, making his heart squeeze painfully.

“Hush, Swan. Don’t say that.” She simply shrugged his arm off, smiling sadly at him.

“I’m going to crash,” she said, wiping at her tears. “It was nice catching up with you, Jones.”

“Likewise, Swan,” he called after her, left alone with his own thoughts.

-/-

Emma lounged on Ruby’s bed, flipping through the channels on the television lazily as the other woman kept arguing on the phone with someone. “Damn caterers,” she muttered, ending the call and turning her attention back to Emma.

“So, how’s London?” she asked, taking a seat on the bed.

“I have no clue.”

“Don’t you live there?”

Emma shook her head, continuing to flip through the channels. “I moved to Amsterdam a couple years ago,” she explained.

“You never told us,” Ruby complained, frowning disapprovingly at her. “How did you even get my wedding invitation?”

“My job kept me too busy for me to think about where I had a house, Rube,” Emma replied in way of an explanation. “And I didn’t. I got Killian’s email.”

Ruby raised her eyebrows at Emma, as if she’d said something that she shouldn’t have. “Killian emailed you?”

“Yeah. I figured he told you.” Her brows pulled together in confusion. “Although, I never responded to his email, so he probably didn’t want to get your hopes up.”

“That’s not why I’m surprised, and you know it.” Ruby shifted on the bed so she sat facing Emma. “What is going on with you two? I saw you talking by the pool last night. It looked pretty intense.”

“It’s nothing.” Emma rolled her eyes, already knowing what was coming next, and had every intention of stopping it. “Ruby, he was just being a good friend. That’s all.”

Ruby opened her mouth to argue when Graham burst through the door, informing Ruby something about flowers which had her running from the room, angrily muttering about lilacs.

Graham stood awkwardly at the door, nodding at Emma before he turned to leave. “Graham, wait.” She stood up from the bed. “I wanted to apologise. You were right, I should have tried harder to keep in touch.”

He nodded icily, arms crossed against his chest. When he said nothing, she prattled on, “I had to put in a lot of time and effort, Graham. Being a travel journalist isn’t easy and I had to focus on paving my path. It had been my dream for years.”

He scoffed. “Of course, it’s all about you, isn’t it, Emma? Your dreams, your career. Your life. Did you even stop once to think about Ruby and I? Did you know that she didn’t even expect you to turn up for her wedding?” Emma’s heart clenched as Graham just continued cruelly. “Did you think about Elsa? Ingrid?”

“Don’t you dare, Graham,” she warned him when he brought up Ingrid, her eyes blazing.

“Was your life, your career so important that you couldn’t be bothered to come back to your own mother’s funeral,” he hissed. Before she knew what she was doing, she’d slapped him, eyes welling with unshed tears.

“How dare you.”

“How dare I? How dare you! Elsa needed you, Emma. After Ingrid, you’re all she had. How could you just abandon her?”

She clenched her jaw, his every word felt like a piece of glass embedding in her heart. “Maybe Ruby was right to not expect anything from me,” she breathed out, pushing past him and running away. That was all she was good at, anyway.

-/-

Emma stuffed her camera in her bag, followed by her wallet and her phone, grabbing her coat on the way. She shuffled down the hallway, lingering for a few moments before knocking on the door she stood in front of.

“Swan?” Killian looked bemused to see her outside his room at the break of dawn. “What the bloody hell are you doing up so early?”

“Let’s go explore the city, Jones. It’s a beautiful day outside, and we have so little time here,” she announced, pushing past him and sauntering in his room. “C’mon. Let’s go.”

He blinked at her, having trouble understanding where she got her energy from so early in the day. “Bloody hell, it’s 6 am. How are you awake?” he groused, walking towards the closet to pull out a set of clothes.

“I want to leave before Ruby wakes up and drags me to yet another fitting. Plenty of motivation, my friend!”

He chuckled, promising to shower quickly and join her.

It was an hour later, and they were walking idly around the cobbled streets of Vienna, Killian sipping his large coffee, as Emma paused to click her photographs. “So, this is your life, is it? You and your camera?” he asked, smiling indulgently as she made him pose for a photo.

She shrugged, smiling back. “It’s a good life. Living in a new city every week. You don’t know that feeling.”

“There’s no feeling like home, Swan,” he said in disagreement, not noticing as she stopped for a moment, his words sitting her like a sucker punch to the gut. Shaking the voice in the back of her head, sounding decidedly like Graham’s, she kept walking.

“Trying new cuisine, almost every day,” she bragged, smirking at him over her shoulder.

He walked up to her, grabbing her camera from her hand, and despite her protests clicking a few pictures of her. “And yet, I know you miss Granny’s grilled cheese and onion rings, Swan,” he teased, handing her the camera back. It was his turn to smirk, leaving her dumbfounded.

“I know what you’re trying to do. You’re trying to entice me back to Storybrooke.” She narrowed her eyes at him.

He chuckled, dragging her along with him when she refused to move. “I’m truly not. I’m just saying, you’re not wrong to want all these new experiences, Emma. You’ve always wanted that, and I can’t fault you for that. But I’m not wrong either.” He stopped suddenly, turning to face her, a serene smile on his face. She felt her breath catch, the look in his eyes all too familiar to that last night before she’d left.

“Killian,” she breathed out, her voice softer than a whisper. “I-”

“You’re not wrong,” he cut off gently. “You’re just very different from me.”

She wanted to agree with him, tell him yes, she was different. That she would never fit in anywhere. She was too flighty, and she could never settle down in one place. She wanted to tell him no matter how much she loved Ingrid, she never felt like she belonged. She had spent so long in foster care, moving from one place to another, that that was all she knew. Even when she was adopted, that need to move, to keep moving never left her. She wanted to tell him so much, because he was the only one who’d understand her. But if she did, it would make her too vulnerable, and she wasn’t ready for that.

When he realized that she wasn’t going to dignify him with a response, he looked away. The way she let out an almost imperceptible breath of relief shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did, especially after all these years. But you can’t be in love with Emma Swan, without being in love with Emma Swan.

He clapped his hands together, startling her. “Right. We should be on our way.”

-/-

By sundown, both Killian and Emma found themselves at a near empty park, taking a seat at a bench. Killian smiled, eyes crinkling at the corners, as he took in the setting sun. The remaining glow bringing out the reds in his beard. Emma pressed against his shoulder, prompting him to lift it up and around her shoulders, bringing her closer to his side.

“I miss my mom,” Emma whispered after a long silence, her voice breaking at the end. She sniffled, tucking her hair behind both ears – something she always did when she was nervous, he knew. He also knew that he couldn’t say anything to comfort her, so he simply hugged her tighter, waiting for more. “I miss her so much, Killian. I wish I had been there, I wish I could have seen her just one last time.”

“Emma…”

“But no. I went on an assignment, and I had no reception, so of course, I got the messages a week later. A week later,” she cried, burrowing further into his side, her throat thick with restrained sobs. “I wasn’t even there when they buried my mom. I missed her last moments, all because I was chasing some- something. I don’t even know what. I still remember her asking me to come home for Christmas, and I cancelled last minute for this stupid, stupid assignment.

“After that, I couldn’t bear coming to Storybrooke. It just hurt too much; I couldn’t face any of you. So, I did what I did best,” she shrugged. “I ran, and ran and ran. Until I couldn’t anymore, I guess. But by then it was too late, and I hadn’t spoken to Elsa in over a year. I didn’t know what I could possibly say, so I said nothing. And here we are, three years later and I’m as alone as I ever was.”

“You have never been alone, and you will never be alone,” Killian protested fiercely. He made her look at him, grabbing her by her chin and meeting her gaze steadfastly. “You will always have me. Emma, I- I was always there for you. I am always here, love.”

“Killian,” she stuttered out, knowing what he was getting to. But she couldn’t let him do that, not when she couldn’t possibly reciprocate his feelings. Well, she could. It would be so easy, to love him. It was so easy to love him, if she was being honest with herself. But it wasn’t as easy to stop running, not from him necessarily, but from the settled down life, in a dead-end town, with a white picket fence and 2.5 kids and probably, knowing them, a dog. But this was exactly why she couldn’t do it – she wanted.

She wanted that life so much, and she could never have it and be happy. Soon, she would have that urge to leave, and she would end up hurting everyone, again. That was why she came here, to say a final goodbye, even though the others might not really know it. She was finally given her own show on a network, which meant more travel – everything she’d ever wanted. So, no, she couldn’t let him do this, she couldn’t break his heart.

“Emma, I just need to say this.”

“Killian, wait,” she shushed him, taking a deep breath. “I’m leaving.”

He froze, staring at her with a clenched jaw and wide eyes, before he quickly composed himself, chuckling slightly. “What, now?”

She shook her head. “No. I mean, after the wedding.”

“Well, we all are,” he tried joking, but her pursed mouth gave him pause.

“Killian,” she almost whined. “I’m leaving, for Paris, and probably Germany from there. And then Russia.”

He swallowed thickly, refusing to listen to his head as he pressed further. “What does that mean?”

Emma let out a shuddering breath, squeezing his arms as she leant her forehead against his. “It means that I am getting my own show. It means no more desk duty. It means more travel.”

“It means you can’t come home,” he finished for her, pulling away. The sudden distance between them made Emma’s heart clench.

She shuffled towards him, the bench only allowing him to create so much space. “Hey, look at me,” she urged, framing his face with her hands and turning him towards her. “Please,” she begged when he refused to meet her gaze. And of course, that got his attention - he was never very good at denying her. “I want everything you want, Killian. Trust me. I just- I don’t know what to do.”

Killian squeezed his eyes, biting his bottom lip hard. “Stop it, Emma,” he gritted out. “You can’t do this.” He opened his eyes, hands grabbing her wrists and pulled them away. “You can’t say things like this and then fly away.” He stood by, starting to walk away, when she called him.

And of course, he stopped.

“Killian, I-”

He whirled around, cutting her off. Emma had to stifle a gasp at how wrecked he looks, his jaw clenching and eyes rimmed with red. “I can’t spend another moment with you, love. Because if I do, if I keep letting myself indulge in this fantasy of us, I will find myself falling in love with you, all over again. And you wouldn’t love me back. Again.”

Emma couldn’t bear the thought, realizing that he never fully understood her feelings for him, just how strong they were. She surged forward, pulling him by the lapels of his jacket as she slanted her lips over his, pouring everything she felt into the kiss. She might not have been able to say it yet, but she could show him. After a second’s hesitation, he kissed her back, a whimper raising from the back of his throat, making her heartstrings pull.

“Emma,” he murmured against her lips, breathing hard. “Gods, I’ve waited for so long for this.”

“Me too,” she confessed, smiling softly, her eyes still closed. Things seemed to finally look up. Which was why she grew confused when he pulled back. “What is it?”

“We shouldn’t,” he breathed out, his eyes never leaving her lips.

“Why not?” she challenged, pressing up against him. “We both want it.”

And before they knew it, they found themselves coming together in her hotel room, their clothes spread throughout the room. If this was going to be their last night together, Killian was going to make sure it was the best night that she had.

-/-

Emma was startled awake by a loud pounding on the door, her bedmate groaning loudly. She hid her smile against his shoulder, snuggling closer to him.

“Not how I pictured waking up next to you, Swan,” Killian complained, pulling her almost on top of him, burying his face in her hair.

“You pictured waking up next to me, huh?” she teased, folding her hands on his chest and balancing her chin on them.

He hummed, running his fingers down her bare back, making her shiver. “Of course. It was my favourite dream,” he said, a bittersweet undertone to his voice than made her bite her lip.

“Would you say all your dreams came true, then?” she asked, diverting his mind.

And at that, he smiled so bright, she was sure that the sun couldn’t compare. “No.”

“No?”

“No, this is better. Because you’re still here when I wake up.”

Tears pricked the corner of her eyes at his words. She pressed her lips to his, the kiss soft and sweet, much different than the ones from last night. They were brought out of their little bubble by another series of knocks, this time more insistent.

“Come on, Emma! Wake up, wake up, wake up!” Ruby bellowed. “It’s my wedding day!”

They both chuckled quietly. “Happy Ruby’s wedding day, love,” Killian teased.

“Happy Ruby’s wedding day,” she grinned, kissing him chastely before getting out of bed, wrapping the sheets around her. “I’m going to get ready,” she gestured to the bathroom, suddenly feeling awkward.

He scratched behind his ears. “Right. I should get going as well.” Pulling on his pants, he looked up at her, something heavy behind his gaze, as if he was memorizing her like this, properly fucked and with the sheets surrounding her.

“What?” she asked self-consciously.

“Nothing,” he replied, too quickly, shaking himself from his reverie. “You look beautiful, Swan.”

His words sent a rush through her, as she went red. “I’ll see you at wedding, then?”

“I’ll save you a seat,” he promised.

-/-

Emma grinned, happy tears in her eyes, as she watched her best friend marry the woman of her dreams. She leaned back in her chair, feeling Killian’s arm on the back of it, a kind of comfort in his presence. She looked up at him, only to finding him already looking at her. They both exchanged sweet smiles, even as Emma felt there was something off about his smile.

Soon enough, they found themselves at the reception, all of them dancing together, Emma’s arm draped over Ruby’s, laughing at Graham’s ridiculous dance moves. After a while, in desperate need of a drink, Emma sat at the bar, smiling widely as she saw Ruby and Dorothy dance, lost in each other.

“Hey,” came an accented voice next to her ear, making her jump.

“Hey,” she responded, turning in her seat to look properly at Graham, her smile still in place.

“I’m sorry,” they both said at the same time, laughing slightly afterwards.

He shook his head, taking a seat next to her, unbuttoning his jacket. “I’m sorry I said those things, Emma.”

“No, you were right. I- I should have been here.”

“Yeah, but I was still a right arse for blaming you. You didn’t abandon us,” he sighed, grabbing her hand.

She sniffled, smiling a watery smile at her best friend. “I am still sorry for not keeping in touch. I’ll be better, I promise.”

He raised his champagne glass to her, “Here’s to new adventures?” he offered.

“I’ll drink to that,” she laughed, clinking her glass to his own. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too, Swanson,” he teased.

She huffed, “Would you ever let that go?”

“Forgive me, but I took a pact to remind you of that as many times as I can,” he replied, pseudo-seriously.

“It was years ago!” she exclaimed.

“You dressed up at Ron Swanson for Halloween, Emma. You deserve this.”

She shook her head, chuckling. It was only when she looked up did she notice Killian staring at her from across the dance floor, a strange look in his eyes. Her apprehension only got worse when he turned away when she beckoned him over. Giving some excuse to Graham, she walked over to Killian, grabbing his arm.

“Hey, what’s up with you?” she asked, gaze shifting over his face.

“Nothing, love. I’m fine.”

Her brows almost shot to her hairline at the obvious lie. She scoffed, crossing her arms, “Sure you are. Now, really. What happened? I thought we were good.”

“Maybe now’s not the best time, Emma,” he whispered. “Would you care to dance?” he asked, abruptly changing topics, and throwing her off. And before she could protest, he’d dragged her to the dance floor, pulling her closer by her waist. Her arms automatically went around his neck, as they both swayed to the soft music.

Emma felt his steady heartbeat under her ear, smiling as she rested against his chest. She knew they had a lot to talk about, but maybe, now, she could finally admit to him what she’d been feeling. She could finally admit to herself. Maybe they could figure things out later, maybe – just maybe, it would all work out.

But of course, before she could, things went south.

“Emma, I love you,” he confessed, his breath warm in her ear. She smiled at that, ready to say the words back, finally. Unfortunately, his next words gave her pause. “But saying ‘I love you’, that’s just the beginning, isn’t it, love? Because, what happens next, is the two people can’t handle what those three words mean.”

Emma froze in his arms, pulling back to look at him with tears threatening to fall. “What are you doing? Why are you saying this?” she demanded, her voice cracking.

“Shh, Swan. I’m not trying to hurt you,” he promised, gathering her in his arms.

“What did I do wrong?”

“Nothing. You’re not wrong, Emma. I promise. You’re just very different from me.”

“Killian,” she whimpered. “Stop, you’re scaring me. I love you.”

She felt more than heard his breath catch in his throat with how tight they were pressed together. “Gods, how I longed to hear you say these words.”

“If you want me, then why are you pushing me away?” she questioned, her hands fisting in his suit.

“Because I can’t watch you leave,” he said, honestly. “You know what I want to tell you? ‘Don’t go to Paris. Give up on your dreams for me. Don’t leave me, because I can’t follow you when my life is in Storybrooke. My brother, Elsa, Ruby – my job, everything else but you, Emma. So, don’t go.’ That’s what I really want to tell you.

“Or maybe, I could say, ‘Go to Paris, follow your dreams. But come back after that, and never leave again.’ But I can’t ask that of you, either, can I?” Killian let out a harsh breath, burrowing against her neck. “Gods, this is hard, Swan.”

“Then stop it,” she begged, holding on tighter. “Let’s just stay here, in this moment.”

“The moment is already gone. Emma, darling, please,” he implored. “I cannot make you give up on your dreams for me. But I can’t keep holding on to the hope that you’ll ever want me more than you want to leave me.”

“What are you trying to say, Jones?” she bit out through her tears.

“That we should forget about each other,” he said, all in one breath. Emma’s heart felt like it was turned to ice, and everything seemed to stop for her. “We have until the end of this song, and then we move on, yes?”

“No,” she whined, because song was ending, and she wasn’t ready to let go. “No,” she said more firmly.

“Emma.”

“Five more minutes,” she pressed, nails digging into his neck with how strong her hug was.

“Emma.”

“Five seconds, please.”

And before she could take her next breath, five seconds were over. And so were they.

-/-

Elsa Fisher had always hoped that her cousin would return home one day. She’d imagined a number of scenarios. Emma would come barging in on Christmas morning, waking her up at an ungodly hour. Or Emma would drop in on Thanksgiving at Liam’s house, as was their long standing tradition, even before her Aunt Ingrid had passed. Or maybe even come stay with her on the anniversary of Ingrid’s death, so they could remember and mourn her together.

No matter how much Emma’s silence cut her at her soul, Elsa could never get mad at her. Because Elsa had Anna and Kristoff, no matter how far away they were, she had them. But Emma had loved Ingrid beyond anything; and so, she could understand why Emma never wanted to come back to Storybrooke. She’d wait patiently for her, knowing that Emma would soon find her way back – just as Aunt Ingrid had promised her. But nothing could have prepared her for the sight that greeted her two weeks after Ruby’s wedding (She was invited of course, but Liam had to stay behind, and she didn’t want to leave him alone).

“Emma?” Elsa gasped, taking in her cousin’s ragged appearance and tear-stained face. “Oh god, are you alright?” she exclaimed, pulling the other blonde into the house, and out of the harsh Maine winter.

“I’m so sorry,” Emma sobbed, throwing herself at Elsa, forcing her to balance the both of them. “I’m sorry I never came back. It was just too hard, and I’m sorry I abandoned you.”

Elsa ran a soothing hand down Emma’s back, hushing her with softly whispered words of comfort. “You’re home now. That’s all that matters.” And her words resonated within her heart, igniting a spark that had long since diminished. She’s home now. That’s all that mattered.

-/-

Elsa placed a mug of hot chocolate in front of her cousin, dousing it in generous amounts of whipped cream and cinnamon. “You ready to talk now?” she asked, after Emma had taken a few sips of the warm beverage.

It had taken a while for Elsa to calm her unusually hysterical cousin, unable to understand her garbled words through her tears. Hopefully, she could finally find out what drove Emma home.

Emma shrugged, her face forlorn. “I don’t know where I should start.”

“The beginning, as always,” Elsa smiled encouragingly, her hand squeezing Emma’s, letting her know that she was there for her, whatever it may be.

And so, Emma began her tale, starting from when she went to Vienna, to now. “I just, I really love him, and I don’t know what to do, Elsa. He said we can’t keep doing this back-and-forth thing; maybe he’s right.” Emma sighed deeply, her heart heavy.

“You know what you need to do, don’t you?” Elsa asked once Emma was done, a smile blooming on Elsa’s face. When Emma stared at her, nonplussed, Elsa’s grin only grew wider. “You are finally back home, Emma. You needed comfort, and you came back here. To your home. That’s what you’ve been searching for all these years, right?”

Emma gaped at her, her eyes widening in surprised as if she’d never realized it before. “I- You’re right…” she trailed off. “I never thought I’d want to come-” She cut herself off, standing so quickly, she scared Elsa.

“Where’re you going?” Elsa exclaimed as Emma grabbed her coat, rushing out the door.

“There’s someone I need to see. I’ll be right back!” she shouted behind her, the door slamming shut. Elsa shook her head, smiling to herself. Emma Swan is finally home.

-/-

Emma pounded on the door in front of her, bouncing on the balls of her feet nervously. She was sure she was flushed, her joy overcompensating for her previous sorrow. “C’mon, c’mon,” she muttered, banging on the door again. She heard muffled cursing, before the door was wrenched open.

Killian’s annoyance faded to shock to awe in a matter of seconds, his mouth hung open. “E-Emma?”

“Killian.”

“Wh-what are you doing here?” he stuttered out.

And at that, she smiled so bright, he was sure that the bloody sun couldn’t compare. “I’m home,” she breathed out. “I am home.”

#cs ff #cs angst #cs movie au #bollywood movie au #yeh jawaani hai deewani au

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