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paulhudd · 4 years

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Spindlefreck Book Two: Pt Six: The Witch’s Promise

In a private room in Harrisburg Hospital, PA: Emil felt good. The world was blissful and peaceful. His legs, pelvis and right arm were in plaster, his face was badly cut-up, but none of it bothered him at all: bless you Sister Morphine... so cosy and warm... then he heard the whispery-hubbub of female voices, the approaching squelch of rubber soles on vinyl flooring, the swish of nylons, the click-clack-clunk of stilettos – weesh-weesh ticka-tock, weesh-weesh ticka-tock, weesh-weesh ticka-tock... then loud, familiar voices, one of which started low and became a high-pitched screech, “Oh my God! Emeeeeeeel...”

Fran! Lovely Fran, my lover, my wife, my soulmate has come to see me...!

“Will ye look at the state of him!” cried a harsh voice in an Irish accent.

Oh, Jesus no.... she’s brought her mother. That’s all I need: Broom Hilda harshing my buzz...

(Hilda Laverty, formerly of Co. Clare but resident of Toronto since 1952, was the dictionary definition of a formidable woman. Like a quilted Sherman tank in a Thatcher-wig & pink twin-set, she was a controlling, dominating harridan who despised her son in-law with a passion bordering on outright hatred.)

His eyelids eventually peeled back and a pair of flesh-coloured splodges shone through the haze.

“Look -- he’s awake!!” He felt the right side of the bed dip as Fran sat close and took his hand, her tearful, tremulous voice spoke close to his ear, “Oh, Emil how could you... I mean, what made you do this... you could've been killed!! What is wrong with you?!”

Hilda Laverty didn’t give him time to answer, she had a ready reply, her accent getting thicker as her anger increased, “He’s a friggin’ hippy – that’s what’s wrong w’ ‘im!! All that dope he smokes has finally addled his brain! Drivin’ hundirts o’ miles in his jammies like a mental patient! It’s a bloody disgrace!”

Emil watched like a supine tennis spectator, his eyes swivelling left and right as the women bickered over the bed. “Mommy – I’ve had you in my ear for the last three freakin’ hours! Gimme a break!!”

Typically, Hilda ignored her and ranted on, “I bet he was as high as kite -- look at him there -- it’s a blessing from heaven that he hasn’t killed somebody!”

“MOM! Enough! I warned you...!” Fran shouted, then turned back to her husband and looked at him with beseeching eyes, “Oh, Emil... I knew you shoulda seen a psychologist after the first time!”

“Aye -- he’s finally cracked under the weight of a guilty conscience!!”

“Shh! He’s trying to say something!”

Emil spoke in a weak whisper, “I’m so sorry, Fran...”

“Don’t try to speak, I understand...”

“No... I need to say this...” He looked down at his long-term archenemy and yelled as best he could, “Blow it out yer ass Hilda!!” It hurt a lot, but it was well worth it just to see the expression on the old bag’s face.

That face was now puce with fury; it took her all of a minute to gather her dander and deploy the wagging finger, “Don’t think you can shock me or insult me, Emil Labatt, cuz I have heard it all before – it’s not me you’re hurting (points at Fran) -- it’s her!”

Fran stood up and tried to shout her down, “Mom this is neither the time nor place --”

But Hilda Laverty was intent on saying her piece. She’d been longing for the day when Emil Labatt would be incapacitated and at her mercy. She gripped the rail at the end of the bed and gave him both barrels: “This is Divine Retribution for all yer ‘extracurricular’ activities, me laddo -- swannin’ round thon campus like Don Juan, with yer ponytail and yer safari shorts and yer convertible sports-car, pickin’-up wee lassies who have more tits-than-wit!”

Fran tried desperately to intercede, “Mom – stop -- don’t make me --”

But Hilda was in full flow – she’d been mentally rehearsing the tirade all the way from Toronto and nobody was going to stop her, “What about that redhead lab-assistant who had to have an abortion?! Or that psycho-bitch who stalked our Fran when you dumped her?! Or that wee blonde bit ye had a fling with in Ireland?!”

For once in her life Fran finally stood up to her mother; she jumped to her feet, stomped her heels, pulled her hair and bellowed at the top of her voice: “Mommeeee -– shut-the-f**k-up and GET OUT!!”

Hilda was thunderstruck. Her mouth opened and closed like a guppy at feeding time as her mind chewed it over. She looked at her daughter as if she’d just seen her for the first time, “What did you say to me...?”

For once, Fran did not waver; she pointed at the door and said, firmly, “Get out!! I mean it!”

“Why... how...” Hilda was saved from further humiliation by the arrival of an enormous black nurse in a capacious purple cardigan, who strode in and hissed in a loud whisper, “What in hell is goin’ on in here!” she said, hands on hips, her shiny black bob swishing to-and-fro as she looked from one to the other, “there’s sick folk tryin’ ta sleep down the hall! Now, y’all be quiet or I’ll haveta ask y’all to leave!”

Fran apologised profusely for the disturbance, then turned to her mother and said, “My mother was just going -- weren’t you, mom?”

Still fuming, Mrs Laverty lifted her handbag from the chair by the door, “We’ll talk later, my girl! I’ll be in the car!”

“Don’t bother waiting, I’ll get a taxi,” said Fran, icily, sitting down on the edge of the bed again, taking Emil’s hand.

Hilda turned the air blue, “Well f**k you, you stupid f**kin’ bitch -- don’t come cryin’ to me when he lets you down again -- and you, Labatt -- I hope you end up paralysed from the waist down -- that’d be poetic justice!!”

The big nurse watched Hilda stomp off down the corridor and shook her head “Well, I’ll be. She looks like such a nice, Christian-kinda lady, too...” she opined, shuffling out the room.

Fran took his hand in both hands and regarded him with pitying eyes. He squeezed her hand and whispered, “I am so sorry, Fran. I mean it. I don’t know what happened or what’s going on. I think I could have brain tumour or something...”

She leaned close, looked into his eyes and said, “Yesterday morning... when you had that look in your eyes, like a... a zombie, I should’ve known there was something deep going on. But after all the rows we’ve had, it never occurred to me you were having a breakdown.”

High and dislocated, Emil found this conclusion somewhat amusing. “Is that what you think this is? A breakdown? You think Hilda’s right? I’ve cracked under the weight of a guilty conscience...?” Then he saw a tear trickle down her cheek and sobered up. He squeezed her hand again and said, “I swear to you, I don’t know what this is or what’s happening to me,” he whispered, “but one thing I know for sure is it’s got nothing to do with you.”

She reached up, took a paper tissue from the box on the bedside locker and dabbed her eyes, “Things haven’t been the same since you screwed Paddy’s niece,” she said bluntly. The time for civility was long past.

He sighed heavily. She’d never forgiven him for that fling. After all the other little affairs he’d had, she’d stayed by his side -- more for the sake of her reputation and career than anything else -- but she hadn't mentioned his brief fling with Niamh since he confessed to it 2 years ago. She didn’t forgive him. She just went on with her life as usual without ever talking about it, even when he tried again and again to apologise. “I told you, it was the worst mistake of...” he froze midsentence and stared into space.

“What is it? You've got that look again! Oh God...” Fran groaned.

He snapped out of his trance, looked at her and gasped, “You’re right. You’re absolutely right!”

She frowned and shook her head, “What do you mean?”

“I mean I haven’t been the same since I got back from Ireland!”

...

Meanwhile, at Pagham House, Co. Kildare: Dozing on the grass outside the pavilion, Broo entered another world.

He was standing in a heavy downpour among a crowd of restive peasants in the middle of a muddy, tree-lined country road. He quickly grasped that it was the road that ran by the gates of Pagham House -- but unlike the present day, it wasn't surfaced with tarmac and marked with white lines, it was just a dirt-track slashed with puddling wheel-ruts, reduced to mire in the torrential rain. To the right there were six soldiers wearing wigs, clad in red uniforms and armed with muskets, standing to attention before a flatbed-dray, the horse whinnying and restless – as if it sensed the tension radiating from the crowd. A bedraggled, shoeless man in a soiled white blouse and baggy black stockings stood barefoot on the flatbed, his hands tied behind his back, a noose around his neck, his long, sopping wet red hair clinging to his pallid face like silky kelp draped on a porcelain bust. A cowled executioner stood to attention beside the dray holding a hood, presumably to place over the condemned man’s head when the moment came. On the opposite side of the road, sheltering under the foliage of a row of yew trees stood a trio of men in long black robes and tall buckled hats, their heads bowed as if at prayer.

Despite the high drama and the appalling weather, the old dog wasn’t in the least perturbed; in fact, he wasn't even getting wet. By now he was well-used to these visions; he knew no one could see him and he wasn't in any danger. He was just an impervious, invisible observer. But why am I here?

The shortest man with the longest wig walked into the middle of the road and read aloud from a rain-spattered scroll: “Tobias Aloysius Farley, you have been tried and convicted of theft and intent to defraud the person of Thaddeus Arthur Ravenhill, 8th Duke of Roxborough and loyal servant of His Majesty King George III. You have been sentenced to be hanged by the neck until you are dead. Have you anything to say before you meet your maker?”

“Oh aye, I have summat to say!!” The condemned man straightened up, smiled a humourless, triumphal smile, as if he’d been waiting for this opportunity for a long time. He yelled at the tallest man under the branches of the beech - a tall, gaunt man with dark eyes, sharp cheekbones and an alabaster complexion that gave him the look of a reanimated cadaver, “Go to hell, Roxborough! For I’m certain Old Nick will have a special torment set aside for wicked men the likes of you!”

A low, appreciative hubbub ran through the crowd.

The condemned man looked around the crowd and spoke with authority and sincerity, “Heed my words, my brothers - not as servants or soldiers - but as men! Men with children of your own! Brothers, I tell you with hand on heart – the man you are about to hang is an innocent man! My only crime is that I know too much and I’ve said too much and now men of influence ‘ave pooled their resources to shut-me-trap once-and-for-all! Tis another dastardly deed to conceal a series of dastardly deeds -- devilish schemes perpetrated by this man -- deeds that are an affront to God Almighty Himself!”

The gaunt man broke ranks and strode across the road, “Enough of this man’s blasphemy and desperate lies!” He pushed the man with the scroll aside, shouldered his way through the soldiers and smacked the horse’s rump with his silver-headed cane –- the nag reared and tried to bolt, knocking the executioner over -- the condemned man slid off the dray, his feet kicked frantically as the rope tightened around his neck. Everyone gasped in horror as they watched the body swing and twist on the groaning limb. It jerked for a few seconds, shuddered, then sagged. The mud-caked executioner picked himself up from the mire, tore off his mask and glared at Roxborough with a hate-filled scowl, “A dying man is entitled to be heard! History will judge his words, Roxborough -- NOT YOU!!”

There were cheers and jeers now; cheers for the executioner’s candour, jeers for Roxborough’s actions. Sensing a little rebellion in the making, the duke ordered the soldiers to close ranks around him. The soldiers hesitated, loath to open fire on an angry mob, especially since they appeared to agree with the crowd’s objections. One of the men who’d been standing by Roxborough’s side commanded them to follow the order. When they resisted, the Duke, stony faced and imperious, walked among them and announced with a look of utter contempt on his face, “Remember who I am, gentlemen. And remember where you are...”

Then, the swaying, hanged man looked down at Broo, his pale purple face streaming with rain and said, “Hey doggy --Wake up!”

“Wake up!”

Broo opened his eyes to see Charlie Noble, Pagham House’s Head of Security, standing over him. “It’s rainin’ -- why aren’t ye under cover, ye silly mutt?” The old dog wearily pulled himself up and headed back to the main house. As he crossed the cobble-stone courtyard, he was forced to stop to allow a silver Toyota 4x4 to drive in and pull up. There was an old woman wearing overalls and a headscarf sitting in the passenger seat and a pale young woman with long, silvery-blonde hair, behind the wheel. “There’s summat ‘ee don’t see every day, aun’ie -- a three legged dog!” tittered the silver haired girl.

The old woman looked at Broo and scowled, “’is nibs musta called ‘em after all. ‘E said ‘e would.”

“’Oo?”

“Ghost ‘unters. That dog is psychic. Must be ‘ere about the poltergeist thing. ‘Is nibs must be at the end of his tether,” said Mrs Sparkes, opening her door. “Thanks fer the lift, our Oona, there wuz no way oi coulda walked up ‘ere this mornin’, me leg is killin’ me...”

Still staring at the old dog, the young woman answered distractedly, “Don’t you worry none... aun’ie... Craigy wuz jast off noightshift... so oi were up anyway...”

“Well, tell Craigy oi’m sorry oi woke ‘im.”

The younger woman didn’t hear the remark and continued to stare into Broo’s eyes. After a moment, he began to feel something getting into his head, like an unwelcome thought was trying to get through...

The old woman looked from the girl to the dog, seemed to realise what was going on, and walloped the girl around the head, “Cut that out!” she shouted, angrily. The girl suddenly severed the budding connection, “Ooow!” she moaned, rubbing her head, but didn’t argue, as if she’d done it before. “Now get ‘ee on ‘ome, Oona Nevin, ‘fore I clout ‘ee again!” said Mrs Sparkes, struggling out of the car. On her way across the courtyard, she paused to have a closer look at him. After a moment’s contemplation, she bent down and said, “’Ee’s looked in the old mirror, ‘aven’t ‘ee, boy? 'Ee’s seen the children, ‘aven’t ‘ee?”

Broo, of course, could only stare back blankly, giving no indication that he could understand what she was saying, although her words sent a shiver through his pelt.

“Get ‘ee on ‘ome, Mr Dog. Soon as ‘ee can,” she whispered in a low voice with a cold smile, “cuz this ol’ house’ll eat ‘ee alive.”

As Mrs Sparkes walked to the tradesman’s entrance, the young woman drove around him, her eyes locked on his as she turned in a circle; when the car was facing in the direction of the drive, she stopped and wound down the window so she could get a clear view without rain streaming down the glass. He began to get that strange feeling in his head again -- until the old woman screamed, “Oona!! Go HOME!!” and snapped them out of their trance. The young woman glowered at him, wound up the window and sped off.

That was almost a telepathic intrusion! Is she psychic?! What is going on here?! ‘This house’ll eat you alive’...? He was very worried now. Oh, c’mon Malky, get up so we can get out of this place...

2 hours later: Malky was awoken by a firm knock on the door. He stirred, opened his eyes and looked up. “JESUS!” He jumped when he saw his reflection in the mirror overhead. He was not a pretty sight: unshaven, pale and puffy-eyed.

Knock-knock. “Are you OK, Mr C?” said Herbie, opening the door a crack, “Can I come in? Are you decent?”

Malky sat up and groaned, “C’mon ahead, Herbie, I ain’t got nuthin’ you haven’t seen before...”

“... as the porn star said to the Pope!!” Herbie quipped, bringing in a silver tray with a slice of melon and a tumbler of freshly squeezed orange juice. He was bright ‘n’ breezy, dressed in his chauffeur’s uniform, all sparkly buttons and shiny boots, “It’s jast gawn eight firty, Mr C, an’ if you’s feeling up-to-it you’s welcome to join me ‘n the staff fer breakfast in the kitchen?”

With the bitter aftertaste of strong coffee still in his mouth, Malky took a gulp of juice, swilled it around his mouth before swallowing, “I don’t think so, Herb, not feelin’ too good,” he said, rubbing his tummy.

Herbie went to the console at the side of the bed and pressed the button that opened the curtains, “Befowah you awsk, our young master Kris ain’t up yet, what wiv the ol’ jet-lag ‘n bein’ up all night it’s unlikely we’ll see ‘im ‘fore we leave.” He went to the window and looked out, “An’ your best pal won’t be joining us neever, I’ve awsked him –- I tried to tempt him wiv bacon, bat ‘e flatly refuses to come in the ahse. I fink ‘e’s anxious to leave.”

Pulling on his pants, Malky hopped over to see; sure-enough, there was the old dog was sitting, watching the window from the top of the marble steps. It was raining heavily and the old dog was sopping wet. Malky raised the sash and called out, “Hey! Come in and get yer breakfast!”

The old dog sat where he was and didn’t as much as twitch.

“Then at least go ‘n sit under a tree?!”

The old dog stayed where he was and barked: Can we go home now?

“Och, he’s probably homesick...” Malky began to say, before a feeling of nausea hit him, “and talkin’ of feelin’ sick... Eeeuuugh...”

“Wossup?” asked Herbie, concerned, “gotta dicky belly, ‘ave ya?”

“Me guts’re doin’ somersaults... said Malky, turning a light shade of green. If I didn’t know better I’d think it was hangover...”

“Drink too much coffee last night, didja?” Herbie chuckled, “Charlie went dahn to the pavilion to lock-up this mornin’ ‘n ‘e said the machine wuz empty!”

The mention of the coffee set him off, “Here I go –-” mumbled Malky, making a run for the en suite.

Herbie shouted after him, “Lissen -- you get dressed and I’ll go dahn an’ fry-ya-up my breakfast special -- toast, a bit o’ black-puddin’ and wiv ‘ash-brahns an’ eggs in Worcester sawz - that’ll put ya back on yer plates!”

Malky threw up loudly.

“Well, maybe not...” said Herbie, smiling to himself as he picked up the tray.

“So-oo, what’s the beef, chief?” Malky asked, gingerly staggering down the marble steps carrying his overnight bag, “why didn’t you come back to the house with us last night?”

Broo was too distressed to react. The rain had faded to a misty drizzle, but not so misty as to obscure the awful truth. He still has the aura. It wasn’t as strong as the grandson’s, but he could still see it and feel it: physically deadening and psychically inhibiting. Malky is infected! He whimpered and backed up.

“Look, I’m sorry you hadda sleep outside, but we couldn’t wake you, so we let you sleep...” said Malky, misreading Broo’s reaction, before doubling up and retching.

Broo was very alarmed now. It’s so bad making him physically ill! We must get out of here!

Then they heard footsteps crunching on the gravel behind him, but instead of going to the Rolls, he approached them with a look of trepidation on his face. He pushed back the brim of his cap, “The boss is awake and ‘e wants to tawk to ya before you go... would that be OK?” he said, apologetically.

“I’ve nothing to say to ‘im, Herbie.” Malky replied, shaking his head.

Herbie sighed, looked down at his boots and said, “‘E wants to fank you personally for what you done lawst night. ‘E’s still in bed, bat ‘e’s sober an’ of sahnd mind.”

Malky straightened up and had another bout of light-headedness; and again, Herbie had to lend a helping hand, “You ain’t lookin’ any better Mr C...”

Broo yipped, getting evermore anxious by the second.

“Stop fussing! I’m fine...” Malky lied, wincing, “I’ll go talk to Laphen, and as soon as I’m done, we’ll go home, OK?” he patted the old dog’s head and walked back up the steps with the bemused chauffeur, “You an’ ‘that ol’ doggy certainly are a pair, aintcha!”

As soon as Malky’s palm touched had his head, Broo got that same debilitating feeling he got when the grandson touched him the day before: physically drained, psychically blocked. Will this ever end?! He whimpered.

When they entered the room, Malky was very surprised to find the little old man propped up on plump, ivory satin pillows in a huge four-poster bed. He looked well-groomed, his eyes were clear, he seemed calm and composed as she sipped a cup of lemon tea from a dainty china cup with his little finger crooked, his bony little hands as steady as a rock: whatever Rossington had given him, it’d worked a treat. “I want to thank you for everythin’ you’ve done, Mr Calvert,” he said, in a cheery voice.

Malky shrugged, “We didn’t find anything.”

“You’re sure? There’s nothing here?”

“Nuthin’ spooky, no.”

Smirking, Laphen nodded and said, “That’s all I needed to know. Now I can concentrate on catching the real culprit.” He gave back the cheque for £7500 that Malky had thrown in his face the night before.

Malky didn’t want it, but took it for Zindy’s sake, “I can’t say it’s been a wonderful experience, Mr Laphen, but it’s been worth it to make the acquaintance of Kris. That kid is an absolute diamond and you should be proud of --”

Laphen put up a hand and stopped him, “Before you start to extol the virtues of my grandson, will you indulge me?” He got out of bed and slipped his feet into a pair of giant yeti-boots-style-slippers. Herbie helped him on with his red satin dressing gown. Just then there was a knock at the door and an old woman in overalls entered pushing an ornate antique silver trolley. He recognised her from Kris’ description: Pagham House’s indomitable, sour-faced housekeeper, Mrs Sparkes. “’Ere’s ee’s breakfast. There’s bacon ‘n’ eggs ‘n’ kipper,” she grumbled, lifting the cloche, “Oi didn’t know ‘ow you wanted ‘em done, so oi did two boiled, two froied ‘n two poached, so ‘ee can work it out fer yerself.”

“Yes, thank you Mrs Sparkes, put it on the table and bugger off,” said Laphen, offhandedly waving her away.

“And don’t ‘ee get egg on the chairs,” she grunted, on her way out.

“You can go too, Herbie,” he said, “I’ll buzz when I need you.” Herbie gave Malky a sly wink and followed Mrs Sparkes out of the door. Laphen went to the table at the back of the room, sat down and uncovered the platter; he shook out a napkin and put it on his lap, a picture of elegance and sophistication, apart from the yeti-boot slippers. Malky followed him and sat on an antique ottoman adjacent to the dresser, 6 or 7 feet away; the minute his arse hit the velvet, he sighed with relief; then the smell of the eggs hit him and his belly flipped again.

Laphen poured himself a cup of coffee, “Coffee?”

“God no!” Malky moaned, holding his breath.

“Are ye alright, ye look terrible,” said Laphen, as if he cared.

“I just wanna get out of here...”

“Herbie tells me Kris took you round the East Wing,” said Laphen, buttering a slice of toast.

“He was great, it was very... enlightening.”

“Hmm. When he was a kid he used to explore every nook ‘n cranny of this place. Up to all sorts, he was,” said Laphen, in a suspicious tone, “you couldn’t watch him.”

“Well he was very knowledgeable, very helpful,” said Malky, fading.

Laphen sat forward and looked Malky in the eye, “Look, the boy is trouble. Always has been. He’s a compulsive liar, so-he-is. That’s the only reason I keep him close, not because he’s wonderful company, but because if he’s left to his own devices somebody’s liable to get hurt.” He went back to his breakfast, “He’s a skilled manipulator and he’s got yez all wrapped around his wee finger. But not me, oh no.” He reached into his dressing gown pocket and produced a small oblong box. “This is a voice-activated digital tape recorder. I had Charlie stick it under the table in the coffee bar when he went over to turn on the power.”

Malky was affronted, “You mean...”

Laphen shook the little recorder, “Yes, I heard every word.” He pressed the little play button:

“... 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.”

“What the ....” said Malky, unable to adequately express his outrage without throwing up, all he could manage was a feeble croak, “...what gives you the right to tape us?!”

“My property, my prerogative, I can do what I like. And Kris knows it, too,” he said, confidently, “in fact he knew I’d be listenin’ ‘n put on that wee performance to get at me. That’s what he’s like. The spiteful little bastard...”

Feeling bewildered, betrayed and used, but mostly very sick and tired, Malky laboriously got to his feet and used all his strength to give out one last time, “How’s this for a performance!” He tore-up the cheque and sprinkled the pieces over Ollie’s eggs, “for the second ‘n last time - goodbye Ollie! I hope you get what’s coming to you!” and stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

Outside the door, Malky all-but collapsed; he put his back against the wall and slid down until his arse hit the floor. Herbie, who’d looking out of the large oriel window at the end of the landing, saw him and came running. “You look like deff-warmed-up, Mr C. I dunno wevver to take ya ‘ome or take ya to casualty!” he said, putting Malky’s arm around his shoulder.

“Home, please, Herbie. If I’m gonna die, I wanna do it in me own bed,” Malky gasped, struggling to walk down the stairs, “don’t take this the wrong way, but most of all just wanna get outta this f**kin’ house...”

Meanwhile, at Odin’s Inn, Brodir, Co Wicklow: Zindy had been up-and-at-it since 5:30AM.

She struggled into a pair of black leggings, to hide her bump, she put on the most voluminous garment she could find –- namely an XXXL ZZ Top Eliminator tee-shirt that used to belong to her hulking ex -- put on her motorcycle boots and wriggled into Malky’s manky overcoat (looking like Dopey from Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs sans nightcap). She crossed her fingers under her cuffs, went out to the yard and tiptoed around the old van as if she was silently sizing up a sparring partner. “Now, I have lavished love on ya. I’ve cleaned your sparks, oiled yer pistons, greased yer nipples. All I ask is an 18 mile-round-trip. Get me there and back and ye can ‘ave the rest of the week off – eh – ‘ow would that be, eh?”

The van remained inscrutably silent.

“OK then, ‘ere goes...”

Lifting the tails of the coat, she got in making sure not to rock the suspension; she said a silent prayer and gently put the key in the ignition, took a deep breath and turned it:

Pfft.

Nowt. Try again.

Harrumph.

Pause... She prayed again and tried doing it slowly.

grumblelumblelumberrrrrrr

Hmmm, ‘... again, but faster...

FruummmmmmmmRRRRRRRRRRRRRRMMooooMMMMMMMMMMM......PUTTAPUTTAPUTTAPUTTAPUTTA

“YES!” she yelled, as the engine burst into life. Monday blues? Not a bit of it! She got out, pulled the tee-shirt over her head and sang Simply the Best while doing a little victory-dance around the yard. Then something suddenly struck her. She slowly stopped her little jig, pulled the coat from her eyes and looked up.

The parapet of the yard wall was lined with cats. They were on the kitchen roof and the coal bunker – cats of every breed and size. Just like that night McKee kidnapped her and killed Sammy. Cats seemed to turn- up when something wicked was going down. What do they want now? Were they there to warn her? What gives? She kept an eye on them as she carefully got back in the van and drove off, little knowing that when she returned, not only would the cats be gone, there wouldn’t be an animal within a twelve mile radius...

Utterly bereft, Sammy stood at the parlour window and watched the van drive down the strand, his Essence troubled, his Aspect dim. He’d seen the cats in the backyard – confirmation that things were about to change. “See? The cats and birds always first to know,” said the boy in the mirror above the mantelpiece, “now will you believe me?” The face in the mirror belonged to a fine-featured, fair-skinned blonde aged 12 or 13 sent to convince him for the last time to go to Limbo before Malky got back. The boy made it clear he didn’t like being in the Mirror World one little bit, he was jumpy and kept looking around as if he was scared, “Look,” he said, losing patience, “Go to Limbo! - because if you don’t exist at all – you’ll be even more useless than you are now!!”

“But how do we know if this ‘darkness’ or ‘badness’ -- or whatever-ye-may-call-it -- won’t harm Zindy or the child she’s carryin’? I mean to say...” said Sammy, pacing the mat in front of the hearth, “you can’t gimme an answer to that question.”

“I told you the Powers That Be just told me to get you to go to Limbo. You don’t argue. They’re always right.”

Eventually Sammy’s shoulders dropped and he gave in. The face in the mirror closed its eyes and sighed with relief, “Please go now. I’ll wait.”

Sammy obediently closed his eyes, held his nose and dropped through the floor like a man jumping feet-first into a septic tank. The mirror misted like over like a windscreen on a wet day, but in this case the film of condensation was on the inside; and as it slowly evaporated, the usual reflection of the living room gradually materialised in the glass...

...

15 minutes later, on the road to Arklow: The radio was fooked so she chatted to her bump as she chugged along the bumpy back roads, “Mummy’s still got it kiddo! And your daddy said I was wasting my time – pah! What does he know, anyway? I’m the handyman in our house! You might inherit my powers! If you’re a girl ‘n you anything like me, you might be a bit of a tomboy. But if you’re into dolls ‘n girly stuff, that’ll be OK, too. If you’re a boy -– we’ll get dirt bikes and tear up the hills! If you’re musical - we’ll get you an electric guitar!” The spell of exuberance lasted all the way to the market in Arklow; she left the motor running and collected the standing-order ASAP -- but when she reached the DIY store she had no choice but to say another silent prayer and turn off the engine.

Afterwards, when loading the cans of emulsion into the back of the van, she once again got behind the wheel went through the little ritual, but just as she feared, the engine was dead. She did everything she’d done before, but the van flatly refused to respond. “You’re not even trying!” Throttle-out, throttle in; each twist of her wrist produced a whining sound as if the van was screeching killmekillmekillme. To make matters worse, drops of rain were pattering on the windscreen and drumming on the roof. “Fook! Bugger! bollocks!!” she cried, pounding the steering-wheel with her little fists. All the optimism and good cheer evaporated, she slumped in the seat and mithered, “I’ll have to phone for a f**king tow-truck now! Shite!” She was just about to get out and have a look under the bonnet, when she glimpsed movement in the wing-mirror: someone was headed her way. Her efforts had attracted the attentions of a Good Samaritan. She watched the figure approach in the ing mirror with some degree of resentment and grumbled, “’ere we go. A Knight in fookin’ shinin’ armour is comin’ to help a damsel in distress...”

The man tapped on her window. She wound it down and almost yelled, “Look mate, unless you’ve got a carburettor for a 1978 Ford Escort van, you can...”

She stopped talking when the guy took off his shades (‘oo wears shades on a day like this?) and she realised she was looking into a pair of very familiar eyes in an unfamiliar face. A familiar voice said, “You were gonna tell me to eff-off, werntcha?!”

Zindy was agape; her stomach flipped, her heart thudded in her ears; when she finally caught her breath, she gasped: “Raspo...?” He was completely transformed: the long plaited purple beard was gone, revealing a ruggedly handsome clean-shaven face with a cleft chin; his long grey hair tied back in a ponytail, creating a silver-streaked widow’s-peak; he’d forsaken his well-worn leathers and biker boots for a black reefer-jacket, blue jeans and Cuban-heeled cowboy boots. The most astounding thing was his shape; gone was the humungous beergut, gone was the enormous arse, he looked slim and fit. The only sign of the old Raspo was the blurry-blue spiderweb tattoo on the back of his left hand.

She couldn’t adequately express her surprise, “You’re so... so...?”

“Handsome? Intelligent? Sexually attractive...?” he said, that familiar gold tooth glinting in that familiar smile.

She tried not to sound impressed, “No... I mean ... it’s quite a transformation, to say the least. When you were with me the most exercise ya got was openin’ the fridge and pullin’ the tab on a can.”

He stood back, opened his jacket and let her get a good look, “Solitary confinement and a set of weights will do that to a man. I’ve lost 7 stone! I can see my toes now!” He slowly pulled up his roll-neck sweater to reveal his heavily tattooed torso, “Beer barrel to six-pack in 4 years -- not bad for a 57 year-old slob who never walked-the-length-of-himself, eh?” He put his hands on his knees and stooped, his grey-green eyes twinkling as he looked at her hair, “I see you’re a pinkhead now. Very becoming. And you’ve put on a bit of weight, too. Suits you. In fact, you’re still wearing my old clothes, I see...”

Zindy blanched and instinctively crossed her arms over the bump and told him what she thought of him. “So they shaved 3 years off your sentence for squealin’, did they?! I wouldn’t know, see, since I ain’t a rat-fink-coont.”

Raspo threw back his head and laughed heartily before answering, “Am I to assume that I’m not exactly flavour of the month in Brodir? You ‘n the boys still mad at me, eh?”

“I haven’t seen ‘em since you grassed-‘em-up. The raid was so bad I hadda close the place up and renovate. Thanks for that,” Zindy snarled.

The winning smile vanished, “I didn’t squeal on me mates, just those bastards from abroad. It’s a shame our lot got caught in the crossfire, but in the end none of them was charged. I told Somerville to take it easy on them.”

Zindy recoiled and shook her head as if she couldn't understand what he was talking about and said, “Smokestack lost so much blood they had to do a transfusion -- Little Ted got a fractured skull! Marcus is blind in one eye from flyin’ glass! Not to mention the damage done to their bikes!”

Raspo made no attempt to justify or defend his actions he just stared at the ground and took his medicine like a big boy.

“What gets me is there wasn't a word of warning -- I visited you every week and you never said a word! Not a bloody word. You sat there, looked me in the eye 'n told me to arrange that Halloween party without the slightest hint of what was gonna ‘appen! The first I knew about it was when the riot squad kicked-in t’door ’n gave me customers a leatherin’ -- it wuz like a friggin’ warzone!”

Raspo had stopped grinning halfway through the harangue. His face became solemn, the heavily-lined brow vexed with concern, when he answered, there wasn't a hint of irony, “I’m really sorry, but Somerville made me an offer I couldn't refuse. And when-all’s-said-and-done, the men I gave up were murderers, kidnappers, pimps, Nazis and many other things besides. So f**k ‘em.” He regarded her with a pained expression, “You know me, Zin, I can’t be caged, I can’t be locked up... stuck lookin’ at the same four walls day after day, eatin’ the same auld shit, havin’ to cohabit with rapists, perverts and paedos.” He looked her in the eye, “Cuz that’s where they put you when you turn states’ evidence, Zin: the ‘secure wing’. So on top of everything else I hadda live with the worst kind of scum -- I used to beat the shit outta them just so’s I could spend some time in solitary to get me head straight.”

For a second she remembered why she loved him. The timbre of his voice combined with the accent, the same voice she found so irresistible in the first place, so deep and melodic... then her common sense kicked in. She pulled the coat tight around her and stated with conviction, “Robert (she only ever called him Robert when she was really mad at him), you looked me in the eye ‘n lied to me every day of our relationship; you treated me like a wee queen, ‘n meanwhile you’re this fookin’ gangster dealin’ smack to kids ‘n cuttin’-‘em-up when they couldn't pay -– then, when yer caught in the act, ye shop yer mates to get a commuted sentence!” She shook her head, “To think that’s the guy I shared a bed with all them years! Makes me sick to me stomach!” she said, glowering, “Now kindly get yer arm off me roof and stay the fook outta my life.”

He put up his hands and made a show of backing off. She wound up the window and instinctively turned the key in the ignition. The engine coughed and died again. In the heat of the moment, she’d forgotten her predicament and now, on top of everything else, she looked stupid. Raspo didn’t gloat or make fun; he kept a straight face and said, “Pop the hood. I think heard somethin’. I think I might know what yer trouble is.”

Of course you do. Raspo was, like her, a mechanical wizard. He could have engineered the engine-trouble while she was in the store, just so he could weave his magic and get on her good side. Unfortunately, (or should that be surprise, surprise?) on this particular occasion, his powers appeared to have deserted him. He slammed down the bonnet and went back to the window, wiping his hands on a crumpled paper-tissue, “Nah, the carburettor’s completely knackered.”

“Brilliant. Tell me summat I don’t know.”

He wiped his hands with a crumpled paper tissue, “Look, I’m here in a mate’s Transit -– there’s a length of rope in the back. I could tow you home...?”

“Oh wouldn't that be cosy, you’d like that wouldn't you!” She might be in a tight spot, but she wasn't buying The New & Improved Raspo Canning. She wound the window down a few inches and spoke through the crack, “I know yer game, Raspo. This is just too much of a coincidence. Too convenient.”

“OK, OK, just tryin’ to be helpful.” He shivered and pulled his jacket tight around his shoulders, “I’ve got a warm flat and an even warmer woman to go home to, why should I waste my time standin’ in the rain talkin’ to a hellcat?”

She arched an eyebrow.

He knew that look, “It’s true -- that’s why I’m here -– we’re decoratin’ the kitchenette and I borrowed a neighbour’s van to collect some wall-tiles and a new sink,” he pointed at a white van parked by a trolley-shed at the far end of the car park, “you can go and look if you like!” He jangled the keys.

Zindy looked away, “I ain’t goin’ anywhere in a van w’ you! In fact, I ain’t goin’ anywhere with you...” she said, wincing as a wave of nausea came over her.

“I’m not tryin’ to pick-you-up or pick-up where we left-off, I‘m only tryin’ to do you a favour!”

Zindy’s resolve was severely tested, her curiosity piqued: who is this new woman? Where is this flat? “I’m glad to hear you’re settling down,” she said, sarcastically.

Raspo smiled and said, “Thank you,” then nonchalantly commented, “it looks like you’re settlin’ down, too.”

Another pang -- this time her stomach turned over, “Erm... uh, whaddya talkin’ about...”

“I saw you in the store – you’re pregnant, aren’t ya?” He took a step forward and looked at her bump, “or have I just said the worst thing a man can say to a woman who’s put on a bit of weight...?”

She succumbed to an unstoppable wave of morning sickness. She quickly pulled down the window with both hands, leaned out and puked all over his Cuban-heeled cowboy boots.

“I’ll take that as a yes, then...”

...

5 minutes ago, 47 miles west: “Stop! –- here comes the rest!”

Herbie slammed on the brakes for the second time. Malky lurched out of the car and ran for the bushes. Sitting on the backseat, Broo whinged and whined as he watched his partner projectile-vomit into the roadside briars -- the misty aura wasn't weakening the further they got from Pagham House -- in fact, it seemed to be getting stronger!

“My, my,” said Herbie, tutting, “yer pal is very sick, ol’ boy. I wouldn't be surprised if that li’l session last night puts ‘im off coffee fer life!”

Broo whimpered and wheezed with alarm: Why is this happening?! Is this permanent condition?! I can’t live like this!!

...

15 minutes later, in a little transport café opposite the DIY store: Zindy still wasn't comfortable in his company, but it was raining and there was nothing she could do. They sat facing each other at a table by the window, Raspo, utterly at ease, sitting back, legs stretched, his arm draped over the back of his chair; Zindy trying her best to look indifferent though her insides were churning, sat with arms crossed across her bump and let him do most of the talking. First item on the agenda was an old acquaintance they weren’t likely to ever forget.

“That was a total head-f**k about Barry, wasn't it? Killing kids? Did ye ever?!” said Raspo, disconsolately, shaking his head with disbelief.

“Och, c’mon, McKee was always a creep,” she said, curling a lip, “he was too quiet, always goin’ off on his own and keepin’ ‘imself to ‘imself. He wasn't really one of the lads.”

Raspo shrugged, “I used to put up with him cos I felt sorry for him, and yer right, most of the lads hated him on sight: Little Rich Boy who dreams of being a Bad Boy; we got ‘em all the time. Most of ‘em didn’t get past the initiation, but Barry did. He took it all without sayin’ a word or screamin’ in pain, so he had a bit of cred. I was very impressed by ‘im.”

She baulked, “We are talking about the same bastard ‘oo killed poor Sammy, kidnapped me and shot me, are we? Cuz this is startin’ to sound a lot like a eulogy!”

“None of us are good people, Zara (he only ever called her Zara when he was lecturing her). I know at least 10 guys from different gangs –- people who you’ve been introduced to -- that’re Nazis with criminal convictions for rape and possession of obscene material very, very likely to offend. Let’s put it this way, just cos they don’t have horns and cloven hoofs, doesn’t mean they don’t froth at the mouth every time Romper Room comes on.”

She was genuinely shocked. “Bloody hell! Thank God I’m out of it!” she cried.

“Well then, you can’t blame me fer wantin’ them locked-up, can ye?” he replied.

There was a pregnant pause. Zindy looked out of the window; Raspo idly stirred his coffee,

“We had some good times though, didn’t we?” he said, smiling nicely.

She wasn't biting, “When I turned 40 I looked back ‘n realised ‘ow much time I’ve wasted in cop-shops and law-courts over the years, and I vowed to meself that my life would begin with a clean sheet. And y’know what? I’m happier than I’ve ever been! I’m ‘avin’ a baby with a great guy – there are developers lookin’ at the town, so things are looking up on the business front -- ‘n best of all -- there’s no two-faced cut-throats around to f**k things up!”

He sat back and made an offhand comment, “I hear the father’s Malcolm Calvert, the guy that caught Barry. Well, him ‘n ‘is three legged dog... Ex-RUC isn't ‘e...?”

She took her time answering; is he threatening me? “This has got nuthin’ to do with Malky! I’d already washed my hands of you when we met,” she said, a little shaken. “Anyway, how do you know about him?”

“We do have newspapers and TVs on the inside, y’know,” he said, matter-of-factly, “I saw him comin’ outta the hospital after he was shot. He looked like a frail old man.”

“He’s fully recovered! He has a heart condition, but he takes plenty of exercise...” She shook her head emphatically, “Why the fook am I justifying myself to you of all people?! It’s none of yer fookin’ business what I do or ‘oo I’m with!”

“Don’t have a haemorrhage, Zin. I’m just makin’ conversation.”

Zindy rubbed a space in the steamed-up window with the cuff her jacket, and looked out, then gazed anxiously at the grease-smeared Coca Cola clock behind the counter. “What’s keepin’ that bloody truck?” she muttered.

Raspo looked at his watch, “Yeah, I should be gettin’ back, meself. She’ll be wonderin’ what I’m at.” She croaked a mirthless cackle and made the whip-crack sound. He shrugged and got serious again, “Um, there is somethin’ else, as a matter of fact: my bike. I’d like to get it back.”

“Oh, NOW it makes sense,” she chided in a sing-song sneer, “NOW we’re gettin’ down to the nitty-gritty, yes indeedy-do -- your precious wheels! Yer beloved bike! I wondered when that would come up!”

An eyebrow was raised. “It’s still there, isn't it? Hasn't been damaged at all?”

“I might wanna cut your eyes out with your own blade, but I’d never take my anger out on an innocent hog,” she said, “it was impounded after Barry stole it, but I got it back a year ago, reasonably unscratched. Yer lucky he didn’t wreck it like he wrecked everythin' else. Between the two of yez, you’ve fooked-me-over good-‘n-proper.”

Raspo sighed with relief, “I knew you wouldn't neglect her. Good job too, cuz I’m gonna sell ‘er and move to America. I’ve got contacts there and they’re gonna set me up in business. I just need a wee lump sum to get me there and the bike is my only asset. I hope to get at least a couple of grand for it. That’s why we’re decorating. We wanna sell the flat ‘n get over there ASAP.”

She snorted, “You've got a conviction for dealing drugs and violence – you’ll never get a visa...” He put a finger to his lips to and told her to pipe down. She leaned closer and hissed in an angry whisper, “There’s no way you they’ll let you in, soft-lad,” then she thought twice, slapped her forehead with the heel of her palm, “Of course, silly me- you won’t be usin’ the ‘proper channels’, will ya?!”

He looked at his finger nails and conceded, “The main thing is it’ll put an ocean between me ‘n my enemies.”

“That’s another thing – aren’t you takin’ a big risk hangin’ round these parts? What if somebody round ‘ere recognises ya?! No skin of my nose, la, but aren’t you askin’ for trouble?”

“Well, you didn’t recognise me, did ya?! I walked past you three times in the store and you were none-the-wiser.” He shrugged, “Somerville told me it’d be in me best interests to leave the country ‘n I agreed.”

In perfect synchronisation, they lifted their mugs, drank deeply and stared at each other for a moment. He smirked. She scowled. She was the first to break the silence: “How long have you been out?”

“Six weeks today.”

“And you found a new girlfriend in six weeks?”

He smiled, “She’s the daughter of an auld lag who died inside. Our eyes met across a crowded visitors’ room, and when her da passed away, we arranged to meet up when I got out. She’s a divorcée... sweet, easy goin’ girl, and she’s keen to make a new start.”

“With you?” she cried, greeting the information with some hilarity, “She doesn’t know what she’s lettin’ herself in for!”

“So, about my bike...?”

Zindy sniffed, put her nose in the air and spoke offhandedly, “I don’t want you comin’ near the inn. I’ll have it transported.”

He smiled, “Why? Is Mr Ghostbuster the jealous type?”

“Don’t even try to be funny about Malky. He’s got somethin’ you’ll never have: dignity. No, I’ll have it transported.”

Raspo started humming the riff from Ghostbusters.

She put her cup to her lips, took a sip and stated, plainly, “I don’t trust ya as far as I could spit ya, Robert. I couldn't care less about your ‘new life’, but if you ‘arm one ‘air on Malcolm Calvert’s ‘ead I will find you and I will cut yer eyes out. And you know I mean it.”

...

At that moment, in a private room in Harrisburg Hospital, PA: “Hello, Gilray residence...?” said a familiar, slightly anxious female voice.

Emil’s jaw dropped – he almost dropped the phone! Just my f**king luck! Well, she lives there -- what’d you expect?

“Hello? Is there someone there,” she asked, excitedly, “Uncle Paddy? Is that you?!”

Pretend you don’t know who you’re talking to! He cleared his throat and said in an officious, disinterested voice, “May I speak to Dr Gilray, please?”

“Erm... who is this?”

F**k it. “Um... this is Dr Labatt...?”

“Emil?!”

The second she said his name his heart leapt up into his throat and all attempts at pretence fell away, “Niamh? I’m very sorry. I didn’t recognise your voice -- how are you?!”

“Emil you sound awful – is there anything wrong...?”

“Er... uh-huh... I was in an accident... nothing to fret about – I’ll live, but I’m gonna be in hospital for a while.”

“Oh my God, Emil! Accident?! Hospital?! What the f**k happened?! Are you OK...?”

Although the voice was shrill, it was music to his ears. She was pacing, he could hear the clunk of her heels on the kitchen tiles. He closed his eyes and remembered the afternoon delight in Paddy’s bed, and despite the devastating effect on everyone involved, he didn’t regret it. And now she’s worrying about him, picturing him in plaster, upset that he might be in pain; that beautiful brow vexed with consternation, those beautiful green eyes wide with concern. To pile on the woe, he supplied a detailed summary of the accident and his injuries -- without mentioning blackouts or the voices in his head -- in a weak, gravelly voice. She listened intently and and oh-ed and ah-ed in the right places; every expression of dismay went straight to his groin.

Then her voice as it dropped an octave and became deadly serious, “Listen Emil, I haven’t seen Paddy since yesterday. No one has. I arrived back from Stockholm two days ago and I only saw him for 5 minutes, and 4 of those were spent arguing -- totally unlike him. And get this, the house is a mess -- you know how organised he is, hates the slightest speck of dust! I confronted him about it and he stormed out in a big huff and I haven’t seen him since! I heard a minicab beeping outside around 7 this morning, and I looked out and saw him get in. He wasn't wearing his jacket and he didn’t have his briefcase with him, I just hope he’s OK.”

The news was alarming, but he now he knew his theory was true, it had something to do with the dig 2 years before. “I think I have an idea what’s going on, but I have to ask you, Ni -- health-wise, are you feeling OK?”

“Yeah, why?”

“... Um... have you been ill since that dig in Kildare, y’know, when the mummy’s were exhumed...?”

“What? No...? Why?”

“It’s just that ever since I got back from Ireland -– ever since the dig -- I’ve been having these dizzy-spells. Then I had a strange blackout, like an out-of-body experience, y’know? That’s what caused the accident, I couldn't control myself, it was like someone was... using me like a puppet, y’know? I know it sounds freaky, but sounds like Paddy’s suffering the same symptoms...”

...

10:44AM, Odin’s Inn, Brodir, Co. Wicklow: As the Rolls taxied down the seafront, it didn’t take him long to notice that Brodir wasn't the town they left behind the day before. No cats on the parapet of the old burned-out cinema, no rats stirring in the empty lots, not even a seagull screaming in the sky; the crumbling masonry and general decrepitude of the strand was devoid of Spirit, the atmosphere as hollow as Laphen’s estate or Bogmire village-square. Sickly green and constantly coughing, Malky refused Herbie’s offer of a lift to the local hospital, took his bag and struggled up the steps unassisted where he stood at the front door and waved goodbye, “Very nice to’ve met you, Mr Gorringe, I’ll never forget... euuuurrrrrrgh!” and threw up down the side of the steps. Herbie got out and asked if he should wait with him until Zindy got back. Still retching, Malky waved him away, “No, go, go on Herbie... everything’ll be alright once I sleep this off...” Unconvinced, the chauffeur nevertheless thanked him again and said goodbye. On his way back across the concourse, he stopped, stooped and whispered to Broo (who was dragging his feet with good reason), "You an’ ‘is missus best keep an eye on ‘im, boy. ‘E ‘really should be in ‘ospital.” He patted the old dog’s head (again, no trace of anything adverse: the chauffeur appeared to be unaffected), and kept his eyes on Malky as he performed a u-turn around the little dilapidated bandstand at the end of the strand, stealing a rueful backward-glance at the old dog and shaking his head. As he disappeared from view, Malky staggered headlong into bar and flopped belly-first onto one of the barstools, where he hung, arms limp, hands dangling flaccidly, “I’m dying, Broo...” he squeaked.

Broo observed from the doorway, sympathetic, but unable to provide words of sympathy or even a comforting lick. Malky was a total no-go area now, and there was no way he was getting within 20 feet of him. The afflicted man lifted himself off the stool and staggered over to the jukebox gasping for air like he was climbing a steep hill against a gale. He looked at the old dog in the doorway and asked, breathlessly, “What’s happenin’ to me, Broo? I never felt like this before... Am I sick or is it somethin’... else? Any word from, y’know... beyond the grave...?”

Now their psychic link was broken, Broo could only stare back and whimper and yip to indicate that he was sorry, sad, frustrated and stumped; he turned, clambered back down the steps, sat in the middle of the cobbled concourse and howled, Help! Help! SOS! SOS!

...

10 minutes ago, outside the attic room of the Blackthorn boarding house in Enniskerry, Co Wicklow: Raspo furtively climbed the flight of stairs to the attic flat and paused at the door. He took the hunting knife from his boot, quietly unlocked the door, opened it a crack and peeked in; he’d angled the shaving-mirror above the wash-hand-basin so that it reflected the rest of the room; of particular interest was the area behind the door. Nobody there. He put the knife back in his boot, entered, took off his jacket and draped it over the back of the chair. He peeled off the polo-neck and threw it into the corner, then stood in the middle of the room and flexed his muscles. He put his arms in the air, stretched down and touched his toes, followed by a series of squat-thrusts and sit-ups to excise all the pent-up tension accrued from the little ‘reunion’. When he was finished, he washed himself down with a hand-towel and winked at his own reflection in the circular shaving mirror, “Max Cady -- eat yer heart out!” he said, rippling his pecs so that the huge tiger-head tattoo on his torso looked like it was snarling.

He was in a good mood. Phase 1 of his little scam had gone better than expected. She was angry and bitter -- she’d bristled when she heard that he had another woman. Naturally, that was a downright lie. He looked around at his cramped abode, no woman would live in a kip like this, he thought, as he watched a single drop of rain drip down from the skylight window and spatter on the bare mattress of the unmade bed. There was a fair-sized damp patch that made it look like he’d pissed himself the night before. F**kin’ shithole. He kicked the bedstead in fury, inadvertently banging his head on the sloping ceiling -- he was always banging his head on that f**king sloping ceiling! After the 3rd or 4th time he started punching holes in the plaster to vent his frustration. In fact, it was probably those angry blows that caused the crack in the frame of the skylight in the first place. But no punching the walls or kicking the furniture today. Oh no. Today nothing could jigger his joie de vivre and he decided to roll a celebration spliff to celebrate. Just as he took the box from under his bed, he heard a telltale creak on the second-last stair leading up to the flat. Even though he had a good idea who it was, he never took any chances. He lifted the baseball bat from beside the wardrobe and stood behind the door. There was a gentle rap, “Who is it?” he said.

“Felix. It’s OK, I’m alone,” said a little voice.

Raspo unlatched the door, walked back, leaned on the dresser and lit-up a Marlie. He looked his ‘business partner’ up-and-down “Well?” he asked, with a disgusted sneer,

Felix, a medium sized, balding, nondescript little man in his early forties wearing well-pressed green overalls, edged into the room. He was the bearer of bad tidings and wasn't sure how Raspo would take it, “Raspo, now, don’t get upset, it’s got nuthin’ to do with me...”

“C’mon, c’mon, just give it to me,” said Raspo, keeping his cool.

Bracing himself for the worst, Felix continued, “... The boyos in the North said it’ll be Thursday this week. The boat carryin’ the goods got seized 40 miles off Rockall and they’re havin’ to make ‘alternative arrangements’...”

“Thursday? Shite, no stock for 3 days...” said Raspo, shaking his head. “Where’s the takin’s from last week?”

Felix took a bulging white envelope from his pocket -- Raspo snatched it away, tore it open and started counting, “This better be all present and correct, nobhead...” he grumbled, “oh aye, by-the-way, I hadda put petrol in that shitty van o’ yours so I’m takin’ 20 notes outta your cut...”

Felix wasn't bothered. He wasn't in it for the money, he was in it for Raspo. And, heartened by the lightness in His Master’s tone, he felt bold enough to enquire after his day, “... So... I take it everything went according to plan...?”

Raspo stopped counting and shot his quivering confederate a dirty look, “Not that it’s any of your business, f**kface, but yes, the opening act in my little scheme did indeed proceed without a hitch.”

Felix sighed, leant against the cooker in the kitchenette and relaxed; oh, life is so great when he’s in a good mood. Sure-enough, the good cheer extended to a comprehensive account, “she’s creature of habit and sure enough, like every Monday, she was at the market, so I followed her to this big DIY store outside Arklow,” he bragged, chuckling maniacally, “I didn’t even need to nobble the motor, her carburettor was knackered already. And even if I do say so myself, I played her perfectly. Not too keen, not too blasé – the odd one liner here ‘n’ there to show her I’m still a sparkling wit...” He looked up and snarled, “And by-the-way -- the inside of yer van stinks to high heaven – it smells like you had a dead body in there -- so thank God I didn’t have to give her a lift home.” He sneered in a mocking whine, “Is that the van you used to patrol the primary schools and public parks, is it, Felix? Is it your ‘passion wagon’, huh?”

Felix looked at the floor and murmured, shamefully, “No, the garda impounded that van. And it wasn't a Transit. It was a Bedford Astramax. And I didn’t use it for pickin’ up kids -- I’ve never touched a kid in my life...”

Raspo sniggered, “Not for want of tryin’, eh? What about when ye got done for flashing in a playground!”

“I was not flashin’” Felix whined, “I was having a wee-wee behind a tree – I didn’t know they could see me from the top of the slide!!”

“Oh yeah?! And what about all ‘em them kiddie mags they found in yer van?!”

“One of the lodgers must've left them there!”

“Don’t even try to lie to me, f**k-face. Remember who you’re talkin’ to,” growled Raspo, screwing up his nose as if the little man emitted a foul odour, “Y’know, you are so lucky you’re useful to me or you’d be seagull fodder in a landfill.”

The two met in prison after Raspo was sent to the ‘secure wing’ for his own safety, meaning he had to co-habit with an array of rapists, perverts and paedos. Felix Costello was coming to the end of a 4 year term for transporting and importing of paedophilic pornography, and the last 7 months of that sentence were spent in a cell with Mr Robert ‘Raspo’ Canning, a muscle-bound former Hell’s Angel who liked to torture and kill men like Felix. But Raspo was a cut above the usual bearded monsters that spat on his dinner; and when Felix told him his mother owned the Blackthorn Guesthouse in Enniskerry, a final stop-over for widowers and elderly bachelors with no families on their way to the funeral parlour, Raspo was encouraged. The fact that it was 15 miles from Dublin and 30 miles from his old haunts made it the perfect place to hide out when he got out, and he and Felix became almost friendly. He even protected Felix from other hostile prisoners.

Then horror of horrors – with only days to go until his release -- Felix’s saintly mother had a stroke and died in her sleep. To keep up appearances, she never visited her delinquent son in prison but wrote regularly. She managed to keep his arrest out of the local paper and told the neighbours he was doing missionary work in Africa. She refused to acknowledge the gards who questioned her about Felix’s activities, screaming the place down that he was the unfortunate victim of circumstance and that he wouldn't hurt a fly. Naturally, her entreaties fell on deaf ears and she took to her bed with the stress of it all. Thank God she had Blackthorn’s long-term lodger Mr Paterson to look after her. He was a septuagenarian gentleman of no fixed accent, with a comb-over and a handlebar moustache that made him look like a retired RAF squadron leader. Despite his obvious dedication to his mother, Felix didn’t like him much. Too forward, always telling me what to do.

Felix’s mother was a psychic, though she never used her ‘Gift’ again once she found God. Felix was disappointed. He liked it when she did séances; he knew she was play-acting most of the time, but when he saw the pleasure it gave those little-old-ladies, he knew it was all worthwhile. He used to hide behind the curtains and do all the ‘special effects’. He became fascinated by the occult; he’d have a go on her crystal ball, but it never worked for him -– he tried three times to contact her after she died to no avail.

Mammy was a martyr to the various aches and pains incurred during a traumatic childbirth, “Would you believe I used to have an hourglass figure -- look at me now! I’m a balloon!” she’d joke, but Felix knew she was just putting on a brave face. She could tell him how great he was and how much she loved him till she was blue in the face, but he knew he was an unqualified disappointment. She’d take to her bed for weeks on end and he’d wait on her hand and foot – it was the least he could do for destroying her body. Through it all, she had nothing but praise for him. She called him her little Bunny Boy. Nonetheless, she went to the grave with a broken heart; her final memory of him was watching him being taken down to the cells in handcuffs, while one of the mothers shouted “I hope the big lads cut it off in the showers!” It’s a wonder she lasted as long as she did.

When he got the news of her passing, Felix wept in his cell for days. He collapsed at the funeral. They released him on licence a fortnight later and when he walked into the Private Rooms (as mammy called their living quarters), for the first time in 46 years and she wasn’t there to greet him, he wept all over again. Then, on top of everything else, he felt useless: Mr Paterson had been collecting the rent and taking care of the lodgers, so what use was he? He took to his bed and refused to get up. He brought the telly and the VHS into his room and watched all his Disney tapes 20 times each and re-read his entire Enid Blyton collection. He lived on Wotsits, jaffa-cakes, fig-rolls and Slimfast and wore the same clothes for days on end. He smelled like some of the lodgers whose rooms they had to fumigate when they got evicted or died.

Then pure joy. Rapture.

Raspo rang from the gaol and told him he was getting released and decided to take up Felix’s offer of a place to stay and for the first time in months, Felix got out of bed, had a bath, got his trusty cleaning wagon from the cupboard under the stairs and went to work! He took back the landlord’s duties from auld Paterson, evicted that old goat Kennedy from the attic room by typing a fake letter from the council saying it was too small for human habitation, and rolled out the red carpet for his Personal Saviour! All hail Emperor Raspo!

For Raspo it was a secluded garret and a steadfast, malleable servant who seemed to enjoy getting slapped-around; and today was no exception. He lunged and pinned Felix against the wardrobe doors -- putting an arm across his throat and slapping the wad of notes repeatedly on his grimacing face, “There’s only 430 quid here, dickwad?! Where’s the other 70?!”

With the wardrobe door booming behind him like an untempered kettledrum, Felix writhed and croaked, “Oh God, oh God, soorrreeee – I forgot to make-up the difference – take it outta my cut!!”

Raspo stopped slapping but kept his arm where it was and gave him a lecture he’d repeated many times before, “You can’t keep doin’ this, you stupid c**t! How many times to I have to tell ya – never, ever, give a smackhead credit. They’ll bleed ye dry if yer not tough on ‘em!!”

“I don’t do the tough stuff, I take Big Marty when I go into the flats, but this guy lives in a squat on Carville Road, y’know, in the up-market bit, the ones I usually do on me own. But this boyo...” Felix pulled a sour face, “Ugggh! I couldn’t stick it in there. It stinks to high heaven, you’ve never smelt anythin’ like it -- there was a big curly turd in the corner and he doesn’t have a dog! I told him I’d be back tomorrow and ran straight out and vomited in an auld twin-tub somebody’d dumped in the front garden! I’ll take Big Marty and get it off ‘im!”

Raspo tensed his forearm and increased the pressure on Felix’s throat, “If you’re gonna front my little enterprise then you’re gonna have to buck-up-yer-ideas, Felix. The premise is very good – you deliver posing as a caretaker-slash-handy-man-slash-TV-engineer with yer wee toolbox full of class A narcotics –- but here’s your problem -- yer too non-threatening! You needa get one of these...” Raspo took the hunting knife from his boot and put the blade against Felix’s bobbing Adam’s-apple, “This is my wee persuader. I’ve carved-up guys that owed me as little as 20 notes w’ this thing.”

There was a gurgle then Felix croaked, “Sorry, Raspo, it won’t happen again.”

“You’re f**kin’ lucky I’m in a good mood cuz if there is one thing guaranteed to get me riled it’s people owin’ me money! And then there’s this!” He grabbed Felix by the scruff of the neck and pushed him towards the bed; Felix’s face was forced down and ground into the damp patch in the mattress; then his head was yanked back so that he could look up and see the source, “Erm, I’ll have a glazier look at it in the morning...?” he said, calmly, despite the indignity.

“In the morning, huh? And what about tonight?” said Raspo, pushing him away “Now, where will I sleep tonight... let me see now...?” he said, stroking an invisible beard “... a spare room for instance... a room that’s sittin’ all made-up and ready...” he sat in the chair by the door and awaited the inevitable conniption.

He wasn’t disappointed: Felix grabbed the tufts of hair either side of his bald patch and did a little dance on the spot like a kid that needs to wee, “No-no-no-no-no...” then genuflected and fell at Raspo’s feet (he was overdoing it a little, but abject pathos and cartoonish behaviour were the only way he avoided out-and-out beatings when he dared to defy direct orders), “No, please, please, please, Raspo, not me mammy’s room -- take my bed!”

Raspo lifted an empty lager can from the floor and threw it at him, “Get the f**k outta here - I’d rather kip in a skip than put my bare skin anywhere near somewhere you’ve been... eeeuggh,” Raspo shuddered, “‘my bed’, the very notion!” He grabbed Felix by the nape of the neck and growled in his ear, “I’m not feelin’ The Love, Costello. You said my wish would be your command.”

“But Raspo, you know how particular I am about my mother,” Felix implored him, “I’ve got it exactly as it was when she passed -- I even lacquered the pillows ‘n the quilt to save me washing them...”

Raspo pushed him away, “Lacquered bedsheets! Christ on a bike! You are sick! You ARE Norman f**ing Bates!”

“The settee in the living room!” Felix cried excitedly, in a moment of inspiration, “it’s very comfortable -– you’ve seen it -- it’s 8 foot long - big cushions, quilted leather -- and you’d have the radiogram -- the colour-telly -- and the video!”

“And what if somebody comes lookin’ for me?!” he tightened his grip on Felix’s neck.

“They can’t see through the net curtains!”

Raspo released his grip and considered the proposal, “Hmmm. Better than a dead woman’s lacquered duvet, I s’pose...”

“We can have dinner together! I’m making Pasta Primavera with chicken in a lemon sauce tonight... well, if you’re agreeable, like...?”

Raspo didn’t say no. After thinking it over he murmured, “Hmmm, sounds alright, sure enough...”

Felix grinned and chirruped, “See you at 8!”

“F**k-off, Felix.”

He departed the room walking on air, overjoyed that his suggestion had been approved and he’d have Raspo to fuss over for the next few days. He skipped down the four flights of stairs singing One Day My Prince Will Come. When he reached the bottom, Mr Paterson, the long-term lodger and mammy’s constant companion, was coming in the front door. Felix stopped singing and smiling.

“Good afternoon, Felix. Up visiting your new friend?” asked Mr Paterson, with more than a hint of sarcasm. Felix screwed up his nose and chimed like a little girl, “He’s my cousin, not that it’s any of your business!”

“Felix, I knew your mother 40-odd years and I never once heard her mention a relative called ‘Brian’.” Mr Paterson shook his head, “and I’m sure she would've mentioned a big brute like that.”

Exasperated, Felix crossed his arms, cocked a hip and tapped his foot, “Listen -- I don’t have to explain myself to you Paterson, I’m landlord here now, and can I rent to whoever I like!”

“He’s an ex-con, isn't he, it’s written all over that big ugly mug o’ his – I’ll bet you met ‘im on the inside,” said Mr Paterson looking upstairs. “And what have you been doin’ in the evenings, anyway?” he asked, suspiciously, “You didn’t get in until 4 on Sunday morning!”

Felix put a hand on his chest and recoiled in horror, “Have you been... spying on me? How dare you?!”

Paterson explained in a kinder voice, “As she lay on her death bed, yer mammy told me to look after you and she said...”

Sacrilege! “Don’t tell me what my mother said! I’ve only got your word for that! And anyway, I don’t need looking after by some wretched auld codger who collects model aeroplanes and goes dancing down the nursing home!”

Mr Paterson shook his head. He’d heard it all before. Felix watched him laboriously climb the stairs and muttered about nosy auld bastards. He shuffled through the mail on the hall table and found a handwritten letter addressed to his mother. He took it to the living room; the cats, sitting either end of the settee, watched him enter but didn’t stir. “Looky, looky, me loves -– mammy got a letter!” he went to the mantelpiece and got the silver letter-opener, opened it with a flourish, extracted the missive, ceremoniously shook it out, and read aloud:

“’Dear Miss Costello,

‘I am writing to invite you to an emergency meeting of the Real Irish Psychics at the home of Mrs Verity Murphy, Rottingdean Cottage, Addanstown, Co. Meath. Please attend if you can this is a matter of the greatest urgency, Ms Carmel McCool is attending and has urgent news...’”

Felix stopped reading and put a hand to his chest, “Mizz Carmel McCool?!” he gasped. The cats watched with some alarm as the man who fed and watered them pranced around the room like a caffeinated 5 year old on Christmas morning, “You know what this means don’t yez? Eh? EH?!”

The cats remained supremely impassive.

“Well, she’s a bona fide psychic like me mammy -- she’ll put me in touch with her Spirit!” he said, punching the air in triumph. As he put the silver letter-opener back on the mantelpiece, he told his mother’s urn, “Even when you were bible-thumpin’ you never questioned Mizz McCool’s psychic abilities, did ya mammy? Now I can tell you how sorry I am!”

Meanwhile upstairs: Raspo went to the little b/w portable TV sitting atop the battered tallboy and flipped the on-switch; he turned the mattress over and sprawled out to smoke the spliff; as he blew the first lungful into the air, the screen brightened to reveal a female reporter clutching a huge microphone, sheltering from the downpour under a white golf-umbrella as the anchorman chatted to her from the studio:

REPORTER: “...his niece, Niamh Fitzgerald, who is staying at Dr Gilray’s home, reported him missing earlier today. Over the next few hours it became clear that this was no ordinary disappearance – apparently he stole a car and sped off in a hurry -- bizarre in the extreme!”

ANCHORMAN: “Yes, I must say I’ve interviewed him on a few occasions and found him to be very personable, respectable man. This is totally out of character.

REPORTER: “A witness said she saw him ‘peeking into parked cars’. When the owner returned and reported the car missing, the gards took the eyewitness’ description that they realised the thief was Dr Gilray.”

ANCHORMAN: “And apart from having led many high-profile murder cases in recent years - namely the Disappeared of Donegal case in 1985 – most people will know him as the man who discovered those mummies in a peat-bog in South Kildare a couple of years ago...”

Raspo changed channels, “Oh, f**k off. I wanna see somethin’ to lift me spirits...” The picture eventually settled and a familiar, dimpled grin flickered on the screen.

“Ahh -- wouldja look-at-that -- Ollie Laffin! The Quare Geg himself! That’ll do!” He sat back and took a deep pull on the spliff. 10 minutes later he was in kinks...

...

Odin’s Inn, Brodir: A few minutes after Herbie drove off, Zindy arrived in a tow-truck pulling the lifeless carcass of the old van. As soon as she saw the state of Malky she became Nurse Lindsay and fussed over him like a clucking hen. Broo stood well back and watched her minister to her patient, making no attempt to indicate how bad things were; in any case, she was avoiding his eyes for some reason. She put Malky to bed, unloaded the van then went about the painting and decorating without coming into the parlour to see how Broo was. In fact, she was strangely reserved. No radio, no singing to herself. That was odd. But then again, everything is odd now: why should she be any different? Could it be a side-effect of the infection? Maybe she’ll get it too! And the baby... What about the baby?!

As the clock struck midnight, Broo sat to attention on the velveteen banquette by the front door, watching the old seawall through the little side-window, waiting to see if any of the the little Drowners would appear and explain what was going on. It was a blustery night, the eaves whistled tunelessly with each gust of the cold northern wind; gobs of sea-spray splattered the windows, the lighthouse beam swung back-and-forth, intermittently illuminating the bar through the brine-strewn glass; all-in-all, it was a typical night in Brodir, but no sign of life or death: still no gulls in the sky, no rats in the abandoned units, and no ghosts in the ghost town. Worst of all, the inn’s resident spectre was absent.

He had no one to talk to and no one to guide him, and for the first time since coming to Odin’s Inn, Broo yearned to see the Ghost of Sammy O'Donnell...

...

08:53 EST, Harrisburg General Hospital: Emil managed to tune his radio to an Irish station broadcasting traditional Irish music 24/7 with news summaries from Dublin on-the-hour-every-hour, albeit 5 hours ahead of EST. According to the bulletin, the garda were still looking for the missing forensic scientist, Dr Patrick Gilray; there was an appeal for witnesses, but apart from that there had been no further developments. Whatever happened, whatever the circumstances, Paddy was his best friend and he was genuinely concerned.

They met when he was still seeing Paddy’s sister, Mairead, whom he met when she, like him, travelled all the way to San Francisco in ’67 with flowers in her hair to see what all the fuss about and got to know each other when they enjoyed some Free Love amongst the junkie dropouts at Haight-Ashbury. When Mairead introduced him to her brother Paddy, they hit it off immediately and their friendship outlasted the couple’s brief love affair. Paddy was a jolly, dapper, old-before-his-time confirmed bachelor who loved antique sports cars and Gershwin; Emil was an out-and-out hippy who loved women and avant-garde jazz; to the casual observer the men were polar opposites, but they bonded over a fascination for European pagan civilisation, the Celts in particular, and would talk till the early hours about everything from Golden Age comics to Iron Age cutlery. It was no surprise to learn that they were both studying pathology -- a career path that would result in them becoming respected forensic scientists in their chosen fields -- it was as if their companionship was meant to be. When it was time for Emil to return to Canada and resume his studies, they agreed to meet every summer and embark on archaeological digs in the Irish countryside; it became as traditional as Christmas, and it went on for 22 years... until the summer of ‘89.

Niamh was Mairead’s daughter from her affair with Enda Fitzgerald, the Irish poet, whom she shacked-up with 6 months after she and Emil split. Fitzgerald died from a heroin overdose a week after Niamh’s first birthday. A few years later, Mairead married an international civil rights lawyer and moved to Stockholm. Ni was sent to an English boarding school, and when she moved to Dublin to study Criminal Psychology at Trinity, she stayed with her beloved Uncle Paddy, an arrangement that suited them both perfectly. She was intelligent and funny and shared his interest in archaeology. She’d joined them for the annual dig every year from the age of 12, but to Emil, she was just another kid. She’d sit and read a book all the way through dinner and spent most of her time in her room. And then she suddenly grew up and -- BOOM! “A 19 year-old hottie with a drop-dead-body!” He couldn't believe his eyes -- a blonde bombshell, no less! Then, miracles of miracles -- she told him she’d always fancied him and offered use of said body for a spot of afternoon delight with no strings attached! He couldn't say no! It was 22 minutes of blissful madness, but it cost him his best friend and now his marriage. After 2 years of semi-estrangement, Fran finally made the break.

She never came back to the hospital. She went back to Toronto the next morning. The crash had brought everything to a head, she said. She rang and told him she was seeing a divorce lawyer and was desperately sorry about springing this on him in his current state, but couldn't hold off a moment longer: this had to be done before he talked her out of it. His lover, his wife, his soulmate had finally wised-up and left him high-‘n’-dry without a Soul in the world.

He heard the musical intro to the news and turned up the radio, “... detectives investigating the disappearance of Dr Patrick Gilray are still searching the residence. The detective in charge, DS Somerville -- who is also a close personal friend of Dr Gilray -- has appealed to the general public to report any sightings...”

He didn’t hear the rest; he was distracted by Rowena, the big black nurse knocking the door, “Some police here to see ya, Dr Emil. You OK with that?”

“What do they want now?” he grumbled.

“All’s I know is he’s police. Now d’ya wanna see ‘im or not?” He sighed loudly and nodded. She ushered in a stylishly dressed American-Italian detective carrying a clipboard and a black-PVC sack emblazoned with the initials HBPD in bold white print. He was a good-looking guy, with a thick head of shiny black hair sculpted into a centre-parting. He smelled of spearmint and expensive cologne: Emil took an instant dislike to him and didn’t reciprocate when he offered his hand; the rebuff didn’t dint the man’s élan one iota, he unbuttoned his jacket and helped himself to the chair by the bed. “I’d say it must be hell lyin’ in here day-after-day, Dr Labatt,” he said, in a cheery voice, “I broke a leg skiing in Alberta in ‘83 and I was only outta action for 3 weeks but it drove me crazy!”

“What do you want?” Emil asked, dryly.

The young cop wasn’t fazed and politely explained, “OK, Dr Labatt, I’ll cut to the chase. I’m Detective Marty Esposito of Harrisburg PD -- I’m here to clarify a few details about the crash and give you the personal effects that survived the fire,” he held up the black bag.

Emil was his usual sarcastic self, “Do I need to call my lawyer? Cuz he’s busy handling my divorce.”

Esposito smiled a patient smile, “No, I’m not gonna charge you --”

“-- yet?”

“-- I just wanna hear your side before we --”

“-- decide whether or not to charge me?”

“ -- proceed.” Esposito, only mildly irritated, sat forward and got more assertive; he looked Emil in his good eye and said, plainly, “Dr Labatt, I find your attitude somewhat uncivil in view of the fact that you could've killed a lot of people. Because of your actions a young fireman lost his face! Now I think those people are entitled to know what happened. Don’t you?”

Emil just stared.

“Thank you.” Esposito consulted his notes and informed him, “Well, I’m pleased to tell you that your tox-screen turned up a negative result, no alcohol no drugs...”

“You mean I wasn't high?” Emil chimed sarcastically, “I was sure I had a kilo of coke and a bottle of vodka in the glove box -– thank god there was a fire!”

“As a matter of fact we did look in the glove box -- and no, we didn’t find any narcotics or liquor -- but we did find this.” Esposito reached into the plastic bag and produced an evidence bag with something heavy inside. “Why do you keep a claw hammer in your glove box, Dr Labatt...?”

A week later: Odin’s Inn, Brodir, Co. Wicklow: After three days of tossing and turning, dry retching, and a severe dose of the shits, Malky’s fever broke and he arose bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. It was a complete transformation. He was chatty, full of energy, helping with the decorating and whistling while he worked. Broo, though pleased by his recovery, knew things weren’t back to normal. The aura was still there; in fact, it was stronger than ever, Broo had to stay in the parlour out of harm’s way. Whatever was happening, it didn’t seem to affect Zindy or the baby. She was more agreeable than usual, no friendly banter, no teasing, just attentive and kind. She didn’t even pretend to be annoyed when Malky told her he’d had torn up Laphen’s cheque and threw it back in his face. He didn’t notice she was being atypically polite and pleasant. She didn’t seem to notice that he wasn't himself, if she did, she didn’t let on.

The thing was, Malky was so upbeat and energetic he couldn't sleep and took long walks every evening after dinner to wear himself out. He never took Broo, though. Ever since they got back from the Laphen house they’d been avoiding each other, and for the time being, that seemed to suit them both fine. But as the week wore on he began staying out past midnight. Broo followed him, keeping his distance (40 yards to be exact). He had been shadowing his errant partner for a week now: Every day at dusk, when the summer sun was just an orange glow on the horizon, it was the same routine: something clicked in Malky’s head and he left the inn and wandered aimlessly for miles. Broo followed him as he walked the empty streets and explored all the derelict buildings; he visited the disused units along the seafront and the abandoned cottages where the leathermen used to squat; along the way he’d pick up pieces of litter and examine them as if they were relics of a bygone age, paying special attention to pieces of newspaper and the print on food wrappers. He walked to an abandoned house on the edge of town and stood in front of an old mirror for 2 solid hours. It was exhausting and baffling.

Zindy was usually fast-asleep by the time he got back. When she asked him where he’d been, his reply was vague, “Just round-and-about...” he’d say, as if he didn’t know but didn’t want to admit it. One morning she awoke and found herself alone; his clothes were over the back of the chair, so he was definitely in the building. She checked the guestrooms and both bathrooms and eventually found him downstairs in the bar, perched on a stool in his underwear, gazing blankly into space. When she tapped his shoulder, it was like rousing a sleepwalker: he was scared at first, then confused and embarrassed. Weird, she thought, unaware that the worst was yet to come.

On Saturday evening, while Malky fried the steak for dinner, Zindy sat at the kitchen table chopping onions and slicing mushrooms, talking about her ideal kitchen, “I’m gonna have a big range – and a big dishwasher -– one of ‘em that can take the dishes from an entire dinner party in one load.”

“Sounds wonderful!” said Malky, flipping the meat.

She stopped chopping and chuckled, “Are you takin’ the piss, Malcolm Calvert?”

Malky turned, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, spluttered, “What? No. I mean... What did you say?”

She could tell by the vacant look on his face that she’d interrupted another daydream; the ‘wonderful’ was an unconscious, atypical response, the latest in a long line of uncharacteristic quirks and tics that made her uneasy. She resumed chopping and kept an eye on him. What is the matter with him? Does he know about the Raspo situation? Nah, he was on his way back from Kildare, there’s no way he could know... is there?

The phone rang in the hall and broke her concentration. She scraped the onion rings into the skillet, kissed Malky’s cheek and went out to the hall to answer the call.

“Odin’s Inn, Brodir...”

“It’s me.”

Shit! “You couldn't have called at a worse time!!”

“It’s been over a week!”

“Waitaminnit!” She went to the kitchen door, made sure Malky was still at the cooker then quietly closed it; she jooked in the parlour to make sure that Broo was watching telly, then covered the mouthpiece and whispered, “Whaddya want?!”

“Me bike! That’s what I want!”

“I’ve been very busy painting ‘n’ decorating an’ I ‘aven’t ‘ad time to do owt about it.”

“Well, I can’t wait any longer! I don’t care who’s there, I’m comin’ to get it!”

The whisper became a dissonant hiss, “I told you –- no way are you to come within a mile ‘o this place. I’ll make the arrangements, OK?! Leave it with me.”

“Has something happened to it? It is there, ain't it?”

“It’s out-back and it’s perfectly fine! It’s packed in polythene under a tarpaulin in the big shed!”

“C’mon Zin, lemme come and get me bleedin’ bike back! I’ve got a buyer and he ain't gonna hang around while you fanny-about!”

Zindy was in a pickle. In truth, there wasn't anybody she could ask to take it to him. Her mates had all deserted her, the mechanics at the local garage had fallen out with her when she told them how to do their jobs, and having it transported was bound to cost her dough they didn’t have...

“Here’s an idea – tell me when you’re goin’ out and leave backdoors open? Huh?”

“Outta the question! I ain’t ‘avin’ you comin’ round ‘ere unsupervised! I’m still not 100% sure this ain’t some kinda trick.”

“Don’t be silly. I can come down tomorrow morning if that suits.”

“No. I don’t want you comin’ when Malky is here.”

“OK, tell me when he goes out and we’ll do it then! It’ll only take 5 minutes.”

Zindy chewed the inside of her cheek and struggled in vain to find an alternative. Finally, she conceded defeat, “OK, he’s got ‘ospital appointment on Friday mornin’. Be here no sooner than 11:15. I’ll lock-up the inn, but I’ll leave the backdoors open. In-‘n-out mind. I don’t want you ‘ere when we get back.”

“Thank you. Much obliged.”

“Any funny business and I call the cops.”

Click.

“That sounded as if it went well,” said Felix, with a hopeful smile.

Raspo blew a plume of smoke into the air, “Oh yes indeedy-do!” he chuckled contentedly, “the fish is on the hook, I just haveta reel-her-in and smash ‘er head on the deck.”

They were in the living-room, sitting opposite each other in high-backed leather armchairs in front of a roaring fire; it’s like a gentlemen’s club! Felix got the chance to show that he was an intelligent man of discerning taste, not just a lowly gofer. He lit the scented-candles on the mantelpiece and dimmed the lamps. He made Earl Grey tea and got out his best biccies. He groomed the cats so their fur was fluffy and tactile. Raspo was quite well-disposed towards Mr Minx and Mrs Jinx – but invariably referred to them as ‘Blofeld Cats’ (from a James Bond film, apparently, although Felix had never seen a Bond film; he preferred cartoons). At that particular moment, Felix was petting Mrs Jinx on his lap with a big stupid smile on his face; Raspo, stroking Mr Minx with one hand, spliff in the other, grinned like the cat that got the cream.

“So-oo... that Calvert guy is goin’ out, is he? That’ll make things a helluva lot easier,” said Felix, brightly.

Raspo went on stroking the cat and answered in a strange foreign accent, “Indeed, but it also poses a problem, Mr Bond...”

“How?”

Raspo continued in his normal voice, “... like, what if Calvert should arrive back early and catch us in the act? Nah, I’d feel more comfortable if I wuz tooled up.”

“He’s not gonna put up much of a fight, is he?” Felix tittered, “He’s got a heart condition -- I’ve seen ‘im, he doesn’t look very threatening.”

“He’s ex-RUC, dickhead -– he’s likely to have a gun for personal security.” Raspo thumbed the cat’s ear and thought it over again. “Aye, somethin’ small -- a .22 should do it. You’re gonna have to go and see Günter and make the necessary arrangements...” He thought for a moment then retracted, “no – don’t – get Big Marty on it -– if it gets out that you’re lookin’ fer a gun somebody might put 2+2 together and get me.”

“What about the dog?”

Raspo dismissed the question out-of-hand, “If it causes me any trouble, I’ll slit its bleedin’ throat. I’d enjoy doin’ it, too... three legged freak...”

With that, Mr Minx jumped off Raspo’s lap and ran into the kitchen. Mrs Jinx soon followed. It was as if they sensed things were about to get ugly.

But Felix couldn’t resist, “So... do you believe the dog might have special powers...?”

“No I feckin’ don’t! Do you?” grumbled Raspo, irritated by the question.

Felix chose his words very carefully, “See, I believe some animals, especially cats, have a direct-line to the Spirit World. They become what witches call a Familiar... erm... they see things we can’t...?” Felix stopped midsentence to make sure his guest wasn't about to punch him.

But Raspo didn’t heckle or threaten violence, in fact he took a sip of his drink, stared into the fire, nodding as if something had just occurred to him, “There was this one time the lads went to stay with a mate in Scotland who had this big ginger tom. When Barry McKee arrived the next day -- the cat took one look at ‘im ‘n bolted. Apparently he didn’t come back until we’d gone. Creepy, sure enough...”

Oh this is more like it! Felix was utterly rapt, and in the spirit of the occasion chanced to express a deeply-held and potentially controversial personal opinion, “That ties into the theory that he was pos --!”

Raspo raised an eyebrow.

Uh oh... Felix backpedalled furiously, “Well... what I mean is, y’know, there’s eejits who believe he was possessed by.... a demon...?”

Raspo might’ve been stoned and slightly pissed, but he couldn’t countenance such drivel, “Whataloadashite,” he raged, “The man was sick in the head, he wasn't ‘possessed’!”

“I’m only tellin’ you what they say,” said Felix, talking quickly, trying desperately to justify his opinion, “like there’s this guy I know who’s an outpatient at SCICI and he told me that one of the warders told him that every time McKee blinks the lights flash and the TV in the rec room --”

That’s as far as he got. Raspo reached across and slapped him lightly on the cheek, “I warned you about this,” he said, waving his finger in Felix’s face, “I told you I’d batter ye senseless if I heard ye mention any ‘o that auld demonic bollox!” He pointed at the bookcase against the opposite wall, “I know you’re into all that shite –- I’ve seen the books you read!”

Felix wanted to explain his fascination for the macabre, but it would only make things worse, so he kept his mouth shut and let Raspo rant without interruption; he had an important assignation tonight and he didn’t want to arrive on crutches...

...

30 minutes ago, at Odin’s Inn: Zindy opened the kitchen door and peeked in. Malky was still at the hob, tending the skillet; “Who was it?” he asked, innocently, without looking.

“It was somebody for me... erm... an old friend...” she said, sitting down at the table.

Her procrastination intrigued Malky, “Everything’s alright, isn’t it?”

She went to him and took his arm, “Yeah... look, luv, c’mere and sit down fer a minnit, willya...”

Malky, apprehensive and concerned, did as she asked; spatula in hand, he slipped into the seat opposite and looked at her bump “It’s not the baby, is it?” he asked, very concerned.

“No, no, no, nuthin’ like that.” She looked into his eyes and said, “It’s about Robert ‘Raspo’ Canning,- my ex.”

Malky crossed his arms and scowled, “The fat Hell’s Angel dope-dealer with the purple beard and penchant for ultra-violence? Outta gaol, is he?”

“Yeah... well, ‘e’s not fat anymore, ‘n ‘e’s shaved off the beard, but yeah, ‘e’s out ‘n ‘e wants to flog ‘is bike. He’s got a new girlfriend, see, and they’re tryin’ to raise the cash to emigrate.” She’d inserted this last titbit in an effort to put his mind at rest, but it didn’t have the desired effect.

He looked in the direction of the hall and slipped into detective-mode, “I must say, that’s a lot of information for such a short conversation. You were only on for a couple of minutes.”

He’s got me; but why the hostility? Zindy thought it best to be frank and supplied a detailed, open & honest account of the ‘chance meeting’, “... and when you came home I didn’t get a chance to tell you -– you were so ill I hadda put ya to bed, ‘n when you recovered you were in such good form I didn’t wanna spoil things by bringin’ it up.”

“Why?! How would it spoil things to be open and honest?” he asked, his mood slowly darkening.

“Look he doesn’t matter anymore -- he’s irrelevant! He means nothing to me now and once ‘e gets his bike ‘e’ll fook off outta our lives forever.”

He got up and returned to the skillet without saying a word.

She called after him, “That it, then? Crisis averted?”

When he turned back, his face was virtually unrecognisable -- eyes burning, nose wrinkled with rage, he shook the spatula at her and snarled, “It’s about trust, Zindy -– you should’ve told me! That’s what responsible adults do! They don’t have secrets! I thought you were different! But you’re sly and sleekit -- just like my ex-wife!”

She was totally thrown; this was entirely out-of-character. She held up her hands in a gesture of surrender, “OK, OK, calm down, chook...”

He banged the table with his fist, “Don’t f**kin’ patronise me, chook! Just tell me what you told him!”

Zindy, finding it increasingly difficult to keep her temper under control, answered in a strained voice, “I... I told him to come and get the bike when we’re at the cardiologist’s on Friday. I was gonna leave the yard door open for ‘im...”

He sat down again, his face blank and impassive.

“Mal?”

Behind him, the unattended skillet suddenly burst into flames. He didn’t even blink. “SHIT!” Zindy jumped up, turned ran to the sink, soaked a tea-towel in cold water and threw it over the flames -- the fire disappeared in a cloud of steam and greasefire-smoke that set off the smoke alarm.

Malky still hadn’t budged.

“Don’t you fuss yerself Malky Calvert, I’ll deal with this crisis,” she yelled, as she hauled on the big oven-glove picked up the fuming skillet and deposited it in the sink.

Malky was still in a trance. The smoke alarm continued to bleep.

She fetched the mop from the corner, stood on a chair and used the pole to turn it off. “I have to say, I’m surprised at you, Mal. I never had you pegged as the jealous type.” But he stubbornly maintained his silence and stared at the table top so he didn’t have to look at her. For the first time since they met, she lost her cool and bawled, “Hey! Soft lad! Look at me!!”

Malky continued to stare at the tabletop and replied under his breath, in a dry, sombre tone, “I’m goin’ out. If I stay here I might say something I’ll regret.” With that, he slowly got up, took off his apron, threw it onto the table, took his jacket from the nail on the back of the kitchen door and walked off down the hall.

Zindy was mentally and physically drained. She sat down at the table, patted her bump and groaned through a heavy sigh, “What the hell’s gotten into your dad, babe?”

Broo heard the phonecall. At least it explained Zindy’s unusual behaviour. When she went back to the kitchen, he listened to them argue. Her reasoning was logical. His response was not. When Malky stormed into the hall, Broo skipped into the parlour and hid behind the couch. He waited until he heard the outer door slam shut and went to the kitchen to check on Zindy. She was sitting at the table, slumped in her chair, eating a thick slice of cheddar topped with blob of chutney, “’eard everythin’, didja?” she said unemotionally, pointing at the blackened wall behind the cooker, “he burned the dinner ‘n went off in a jealous rage. What do you reckon on that, Broo?” All he could do was lick her hand to assure her he was on her side. “You gonna follow ‘im again, are ya?” she asked, stroking his head. Broo grunted an affirmative and went to the flap in the backdoor. “Well, keep yer distance, ‘ol boy, he’s in no mood for company,”she said, in a sad voice.

This time Broo didn’t have to walk far. In a change from his usual route, Malky went along the strand and turned into the alley at the side of the old burned-out cinema. Broo waited until he was out of sight and then skipped along and peeked around the corner. He saw Malky pushing through the broken emergency-exit door to gain access; once he was safely inside, Broo carefully made his way along the alley, careful not trip on the numerous discarded beer cans and broken bottles (the leather men used to use the cinema to have parties) and lose his balance. He managed to squeeze through the doorway and make it into the dilapidated theatre without making a sound. Malky was sitting on the aisle near the back, in one of the few remaining seats, staring straight-ahead at the big black space where the screen used to be. Up until now Broo hadn’t interfered, but tonight, considering the quarrel with Zindy and this latest development, he could wait and watch no longer. He threw caution to the wind, stumbled through the charred debris and tottered up the aisle to confront his partner face-to-face, regardless of the danger.

As usual, Malky was there in body but not in mind or spirit. He was wall-eyed, slack-jawed and virtually drooling, the aura’s insidious mist drifting in and out of his mouth and nostrils with every breath he took.

Broo let out a quiet ruff to snap-him-out-of-it.

Malky suddenly burst into life - “Get away from me!” he shouted, angrily and lashed out with his foot, kicking the old dog square in his left side –winding him and knocking him over -- he rolled down the slope of the aisle, over-and-over-and-over-and-over, until he came to rest against a fallen beam. Malky sat back and resumed his terrible meditation as if nothing had happened.

Dispirited, covered in filth and fearing for his life, Broo staggered home, hurt and humiliated, his ribs aching, his head hung low with his tail between his legs.

Zindy had obviously gone to bed. The inn was very quiet. The parlour was dark.

“Pssst!”

What was that? A hiss in the chimney...?

“Dog!”

No, it wasn't coming from the hearth -– it was coming from above the hearth. He looked up and saw the slightest glimmer in the glass of the mirror, like the glow you get from a TV screen when you turn it off in a darkened room. He hauled himself up onto the couch and put his remaining front paw on the arm, stretching up and raising his head so that it was level with the mirror; it was steamed up, but the condensation appeared to be on the inside of the glass. Then a hand cleared a void in the steam and a face appeared: the familiar, silver-bearded, toothless countenance of none-other Samuel O'Donnell -- deceased barman, John Wayne fan and spectral pain-in-the-neck! The old dog’s heart leapt -- he barked a hearty hello!

Sammy was looking around him and talking at the same time, “I can’t see you but I can hear you -– well, I hear you in my head -- y’know the score. I’m sorry but this has to be a bit quick, like, cos I’m in what they call Mirror World or Glass Land or the Void, dependin’ on who you talk to, and you can’t survive here long cos it saps yer Essence...”

Get on with it you beautiful idiot!

“OK. Here goes,” and for the next five minutes Sammy told Broo all he knew as quickly as possible. “... the plan seems to be: abandon the immediate area for a while, starve it of the auld psychic energy, and hopefully it’ll die out before it spreads.”

What about humans?

“It won’t do ‘em any harm unless they have the Gift -– it attacks the psychic energy, see, and that’s why it affects you, so you gotta...” the words became distant and unintelligible, the mirror had begun to steam up again -- the image was fading. Broo whimpered and asked him to repeat the message, but Sammy was waving frantically, his voice now inaudible. The mirror misted over until the glass was completely obscured. He climbed down and pondered on what he had heard.

It only affects Sensitives? Is Malky a Sensitive...?

21:03 GMT, in a dark country lane near Addanstown, Co. Meath: “At last! Rottingdean Cottage!” cried Felix. “Thank goodness for that!” It was almost dark, another 10 minutes and it would've been impossible to see the sign at the end of the lane. It had been a long drive and he’d made a few wrong turns, but he felt as exhilarated as when he first set-off. He parked, preened himself in the rear-view-mirror, licked his thumbs to flatten his eyebrows, and teased the mousy-hair around his bald patch to make him look lovable and vulnerable. The perfect end to a perfect day! Raspo’s plan is proceeding nicely, the tenants have paid-up on time, and now I’m going to meet a genuine psychic and talk to me mammy! He had been looking forward to this all week and nothing was going to spoil it! He grabbed the carrier bag from the passenger seat, jumped out -– put a black armband over his anorak -- ran up the meandering crazy-paved path and rang the doorbell. Mrs Murphy, a tall, short-haired, homely middle-aged woman bursting out of a lilac trouser-suit, looked him up and down with a gimlet eye, “Hmm, yes, can I help you?” she asked, in a refined, unspecific Irish accent.

“Felix Costello from Enniskerry?!” he almost shouted.

“We don’t want any today, thank you.” She closed the door. Felix rang the doorbell again; she answered again immediately, “Look, if you don’t...”

“This is Rottingdean Cottage?” he said, excitedly, and held out the invitation, “I’m Betty Costello’s son!”

The homely face dropped several inches and she almost sang an apology, “Oh – I am so awfully, dreadfully sorry! I was using an old Rolodex and I must've forgotten to remove your mother’s card -- please accept my heartfelt condolences and humble apologies, I know you must've come an awfully long way, but this is for members only, so sorry...” She began to close the door again but he blocked it with his foot and quickly explained, “As you say, I’ve come all this way, and in honour of her memory,” he pointed at the black armband, “I’d like to attend this meeting, if that’s OK with you? I’ll sit at the back and be very quiet – I’ve brought my own snacks,” he rustled the blue carrier bag, “I’ll be no bother at all!” He gave her a painstaking blow-by-blow account of his journey to numb her into submission and ended by rifling through the carrier bag and presenting her with a Nestlé Black Magic Easter egg (5 Easters’ old -- he bought it for his mammy before he was gaoled), “I know Easter’s past, but chocolate’s chocolate no matter what time of year it is, eh?!”

“Yes... most kind, thank you...” she took it and grudgingly acceded, “Well, since you’ve gone to so much trouble Mr Costello, I can’t see how I can possibly refuse...” She stood aside and he scuttled into the hall, “Has Mizz McCool started yet?” he asked, standing on tiptoe, looking over her shoulder, peeking into the lounge. Mrs Murphy looked up at the ceiling and told him a quiet voice, “She’s upstairs preparing, doing her breathing exercises -– she’s very theatrical. It irks some of our older members, but in my opinion people with The Gift are entitled to their little eccentricities, don’t you agree...?”

“I entirely agree!” replied Felix, looking up the staircase, “She’s one in a billion!” he said loudly, so she might hear. “My mother had nothin’ but praise for Mizz McCool even when she was calling yez the ‘Black Hearted Spawn of Satan’!”

With that exclamation the conversations in the lounge suddenly ceased.

To cover for this faux pas, Mrs Murphy pretended to find it hilarious and cried in reply, “YES! Some of the things people shout at us are awful!” she grabbed his arm and hustled him through the bemused throng, “Now be quiet, this isn’t exactly a social occasion,” she whispered in his ear, as she took him to a crepe-paper covered pasting-table at the back of the room laden with pastries, nibbles and beverages. “Tea or coffee?” she asked.

He turned so that the room could hear him and joked, “I must say -- I was expecting spirits!”

The crowd fell silent again, turned and glared.

Felix gulped. “Tea, please.”

As she poured she announced, “This is Felix, everyone, he’s Betty Costello’s son, and as most of you know, Betty passed a few months ago, so he’s come as her representative, and is not an R.I.P. member or possessed of a Gift – except for an Easter-egg 5 years past its sell-by-date -- so please, in the nicest possible way, just indulge him if he asks a lot of silly questions, mm?”

His reputation went before him. He saw the scowls, he heard the snarky whispers. The ones that knew were very quick to inform those who were none-the-wiser. One of the older, deafer women said, “...You mean, that’s her son? The one that went to prison?” He didn’t care. He respected those who disrespected him: it showed good judge of character.

There were around 25 people besides himself: a couple of younger girls who looked nervous, one of them constantly giggling; a few Goth girls with multiple piercings who looked fierce and foreboding; lots of old women in shawls and hats of all shapes and sizes; a few podgy, effeminate men enjoying the refreshments, talking loudly about visions and ghosts in their silly, sissy-voices. Mrs Murphy introduced him to the ‘Guest of Honour’: Mrs Sparkes, a stout, buckle-faced woman in her 70s wearing a flowery pinafore over green charlady overalls. She smelled of Pledge and ammonia.

Mrs Sparkes shook his hand weakly and looked him up and down as if he was an alien species. “Is that a west-country accent I hear?” he asked, cheerfully, even though she hadn't said anything to him yet (he’d been eavesdropping).

Mrs Murphy immediately answered for her, “No, Mrs Sparkes has come from South Kildare.”

“But I have cousins in Devon who used to visit our guesthouse every year ‘n they speak just like you!” said Felix, bemused. “If I close my eyes you could be their mother!”

This time the old woman shoved the hostess aside and spoke for herself, “’Ow dare ee! Oi’ve lived in Kildare all moy loife an’ oi’ve never been near yer ‘guest’ouse’, whatever tha is! ‘Ow dare ee infur that oi ‘ave children by any man ovver than me own ‘usband -- may God rest ‘is Soul!” Her face closed like a fist and her throat made a rattling noise.

Felix was flummoxed “I wasn't inferring anything! I was just making conversation...?”

The hostess stepped between them, “Mrs Sparkes belongs to a sheltered community that don’t often communicate with the outside world, they originate from Cornwall and have customs we might find a little odd...”

“Oh, like the Amish!” said Felix, brightly.

“NO!”Mrs Sparkes barked, turned away and resumed the conversation she was having with another hardfaced old lady before Mrs Murphy had so rudely interrupted. She clearly didn’t like the hostess or Felix one little bit.

There were three sharp bumps from the room above.

“Saved by the belle of the ball...” said Mrs Murphy under her breath, as she strode to the front of the room and flashed the lights, “Ladies... and gentleman, would you take your seats, please.”

Everyone quickly found somewhere to sit, and despite his efforts to get close, Felix was jostled and hustled along until he ended up very back behind a trio of really old ladies. The room fell silent. Once she had their undivided attention, Mrs Murphy proceeded with the short introduction: “Tonight, ladies and gentlemen, as you are well aware, is an emergency meeting, Ms McCool has a lot to say, so listen very carefully, and keep your questions till the end.”

Lots of mumbling and nervous whispers.

“Now, without further ado, please welcome our chairwoman -– Ms Carmel McCool!” With that, Mrs Murphy opened the living room door, stood back and the woman of the hour entered to enthusiastic applause. It was like a film premiere! The room flashed as the sissy boys took photographs! A girl gave her a bouquet of lilies. Felix was on his feet, clapping, whistling and cheering (much to the annoyance of the old ladies in front), as the tall, slim figure stood in the doorway.

Carmel McCool was a heavily-made-up woman in her late 60s who didn’t wear anything made after 1929. The long, dark scarlet coat and flowing turquoise chiffon dress topped with a fake mink stole sporting a jet black bob; one of the sissies whispered, “She looks just like Louise Brooks in Pandora’s Box!” She acknowledged the applause with unsmiling aplomb then signalled for quiet. She might’ve looked like a silent movie star but her voice was in a class of its own. She was from Newry in Co. Down, not that you’d know it; she had a rarefied Ulster accent, her diction crisp, clear and commanding, “Thank you for your warm reception friends, colleagues, fellow Sensitives and psychics - I’m so grateful and honoured that you’ve taken the trouble to travel from all over the Island to be here tonight,” she cradled the flowers in her arms and scooped a tiny tear from her eye, taking care not to disturb her false eyelashes or smudge her mascara. “I only wish it could be a more joyous occasion, but it couldn't be more serious. Deadly serious.”

The smiles vanished. A discomfited rumble ran through the crowd.

Felix pulled the tab on a can of Tab and sprayed the old ladies in front with a short blast of carbonated brown. The grumbling stopped as everyone turned to see what was going on; the old ladies in front turned and glared at him as they wiped their sticky napes with dainty hankies.

He grimaced and mouthed sorry.

“Ahem.”

The crowd turned back.

Mizz McCool paused for a moment to make sure they were all listening before elaborating, “I have grave tidings, my dear friends. Something that hasn’t happened for many millennia is occurring in our time -– a danger I never thought we’d face in the Modern World.”

The rumble became a hubbub. People were looking at each other, totally perplexed. Utterly fascinated, Felix stared and ripped open a family bag of Maltesers.

Ms McCool passed the flowers to Mrs Murphy, “Let me explain with the help of our Guest of Honour,” she said, looking at the front row, “please stand up Mrs Sparks -- Mrs Sparkes, everyone!” she announced, clapping her hands over her head. Still bewildered, the crowd nevertheless followed her lead and applauded politely. Mrs Sparkes, looking very ill-at-ease, reluctantly set down her teacup, stood up and turned to face the rest of the room. Ms McCool stood behind her and spoke over her shoulder, “Mrs Sparkes, please tell the ladies and gentlemen why you called me.”

Uncharacteristically bashful, Mrs Sparkes clutched her hand bag to her chest, shuffled her feet, cleared her throat and explained in an apologetic voice, “Erm, well, see... I read about ‘ee in the paper ‘n I thought ‘ee sounded loike ‘ee noo wot ‘ee was talkin’ about, so I called this-‘ere lady ‘ere (Mrs Murphy), an’ she put me through to ‘ee.”

Ms McCool prompted her, “But tell them why you called me.”

“Well, oi works in this-‘ere big ‘ouse, see -- oi can’t say where tis cuz boss is very private man, see -- any’ow, I were dustin’ the boss’ study one noight -- when oi looked ‘n saw this li’l boy in the ol’ mirror -– a ghost, oi think ‘e were -- all black ‘n burned-up, ‘e were -- as if ‘e been in a foire!”

The crowd gasped. They knew the old woman was reliable witness; most of them had spoken to her earlier in the evening and found her to be reluctant and brutally honest, not the type to concoct such an elaborate lie.

Spurred on by the response, she laid it on thick, “Then, coupla weeks ago, we hadda poltergeist! The boss said ‘e seen things movin’ about of their own accord -- books, antique ornaments an’-that -– floyin’ through the air! Oi never seen ‘em floyin’ meself, loike, but oi heard it ‘n oi saw the results -- all these very expensive vases ‘n that -- smashed to pieces! It even pulled down this big grandfather clock off the wall -- a big, heavy brute of a thing -- ‘n sent it crashin’ down on the floor! Boss saw it -- scared outta ‘is wits, ‘e were!!”

The gasps became a din of dismay. Felix chewed noisily and stared, transfixed.

“.... anyways, oi tol’ the boss ‘e should get professional ‘elp and ‘e were so desperate ‘e agreed so I rung this-‘ere woman (she pointed at Mrs Murphy again) ‘n she called Miss McCool. Tha’s me story,” said Mrs Sparkes, ending abruptly, “may God strike me down if oi tell a loie,” and went to sit down; Ms McCool put a hand on her shoulder to stop her -- the old woman looked at it as if it was a white tarantula. “Now I can’t speak to the house’s history, but the poltergeist is indicative of a larger problem,” Mizz McCool informed the room, “the land on which the house was built in the same area where those bog mummies were found a few years ago.” She paused for a second or two to let the tidings sink in, then delivered the coup de gras: “This poltergeist activity is proof that exhumation of those bodies has unleashed a destructive force that is about to wreak havoc upon us all!”

In the uproar that greeted this announcement, Felix took a big swig of Tab and belched loudly. The rude ejaculation silenced the crowd and finally drew him to the attention of Mizz McCool.

“What’s your name, friend?”

His heart leapt. He nodded slowly and answered nervously through a mouthful of Maltesers, “Felix. Felix Costello, M-Mizz Mc-C-Cool. I-I wrote to you about my m-mother.”

Mrs Murphy had a word in her ear. Ms McCool raised a pencilled eyebrow, “Mr Costello, of course. You do indeed write me letters. A lot of letters.”

“One every week for 6 months!” cried Felix, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Mizz McCool, put a finger on her cheek, looked skyward and intoned the name wistfully, “Betty Costello. Betty Costello. She was very gifted. Her Gift was as strong as mine, you know. But she misused it. She took to the Christian church and turned her back on us and denounced us as Satanists. Very galling, I think, coming from a fellow Sensitive; especially someone whom I befriended and treated with the utmost respect. I can only hope that now she has Passed Over she realises the hurt she’s caused.”

Hear-hears all round and a short ripple of applause.

The little speech hadn't wiped the smile off Felix’s face; the delivery was so disarming that he tuned-out after the compliments and just listened to the sound of her voice; when she stopped he just kept nodding and said “Thanks very much, I appreciate it and so will she!”

Ms McCool looked at him askance, then shook her head and said “idiot” under her breath. “Nevermind, what’s past is past and after all, it is all in the Grand Design, I choose to forgive and forget and move on.” She quickly got back on track and turned her attention back to their guest of honour, “Tell us what happened to your cat Mrs Sparkes, your long-term companion that never left your ankle?”

Surprised by the question, Mrs Sparkes hesitated then answered, “’Umm... ‘E ran away, so ‘e did...”

“Yes! He ran away!” cried Ms McCool, making everyone jump! “Felines are highly Sensitive. They may seem indifferent to the untutored eye, but that’s because the Spirit World is as real to them as the Material World is to us,” she explained enthusiastically, “they see all and they hear all and when something like this comes along, they sense the danger and flee the area. And not just cats, though, eh, Mrs Sparkes?” She asked rhetorically, “in fact, there isn’t a bird or an animal within 12 miles of the house, isn't that right?”

Mrs Sparkes nodded, “Not even a crow.”

Another collective gasp.

“You see what we’re up against?” Ms McCool shook her head and looked around the room like an excitable school teacher, “You see how destructive this power is? The dark magic of an ancient wizard unleashed into the atmosphere?! If it spreads there is no telling what it could do!!”

The crowd were about to explode, but she put up a hand to appeal for silence; when it came, she looked at the floor and mournfully shook her head, “Alas, my friends, I cannot go to a police station and give a statement. The media treat me like a crank,” she looked around the room, “so it’s up to you, my friends -- my allies -- be vigilant. I need you to be my eyes and ears. Watch out for strange behaviour in your neighbourhood –- anything at all -– especially amongst the animal population -- and report back to me. The more evidence I have the more chance I have of proving my case.” She put a hand to her brow and wilted, like a swooning damsel in distress, “As for me, I must save my strength for the final battle. But I can assure you of this, ladies and gentlemen –- I am prepared to fight to the bitter end.”

Utter upheaval! The old ladies’ dentures were clacking, the Goths were clucking, the sissies were squealing, the young girls were too dismayed to do anything other than silent Scream impersonations, all of them asking questions beginning with w. Ms McCool turned away as if she couldn't bear to witness the clamour she’d created. Once Mrs Murphy had calmed them down, there was a brief Q&A, mostly concerning her definition of ‘negative forces’, then the meeting came to a close. As each member filed out, Ms McCool stood by the front door shaking everyone’s hand as they left. Felix straggled until the last disciple had departed, and finally got his face-to-face with his hero. “Mizz McCool, I must say, I thoroughly enjoyed myself this evening!”

She looked over his head with hooded eyes and sneered, “It’s not a ‘show’, Mr Costello. I am not an entertainer.”

He thought for a second and came up with what he thought was the perfect response, “Well, I was utterly hypnotised!”

She cleared her throat, “Mr Costello, I won’t waste time with smalltalk and hypocrisy is not in my nature, so I’ll get straight to the point: true psychics do not do ‘readings’ -- no tarot cards, no séances, no astrology. Your mother used those tropes to perpetrate a fraud and blacken our reputation. I’ve nothing to say to her, in this life or the n...” She suddenly stopped, realised that she would get nowhere by being blunt and adopted a more sympathetic attitude, “Look, if you wish to contact your mother you can talk to her anywhere, she’ll hear you, I promise,” she said, turning to go.

“But I need to apologise and put things right!” said Felix, getting desperate, “I need to hear her say she forgives me! Please, it’s very important.”

“Things change in the Next World: earthly worries and personal woes no longer trouble her now,” she groaned, “there are no vengeful or scornful Spirits on the Other Side and earthly matters no longer concern them. You can rest assured she forgives you -–” She turned away, “Now, if you don’t mind...”

“Out you go!” said Mrs Murphy, grabbing him by both shoulders like a nightclub-bouncer and propelling him out the door -- he tried to say goodbye but the door slammed in his face -- then it immediately opened again -- Mrs Murphy shoved the Black Magic Easter-egg into his hands and slammed it shut again.

He was very impressed. And do you know what? He felt better! He could talk to his mammy wherever he went! She doesn’t care what I do anymore! “Hey you!” an angry voice called out. It was that Mrs Sparkes woman standing at the end of the path, “’Ee’s blockin’ the road! We can’t get past!” she yelled. “Crabbit auld bat,” Felix harrumphed, and looked for his keys in his anorak pockets and went out to the van. When he saw the car waiting for her, he was very surprised indeed: “Wow! A chauffeur-driven Bentley!” he exclaimed to no one in particular. Bit swish for a housekeeper. Hmmm. She said her boss was a very private man. I wonder who he is... He drove the van onto the grass verge at the side of the road and let them pass. He was very curious. Who does she work for? As soon as the car rounded the corner, he looked at his reflection in the rear-view-mirror and said: “How about talking the scenic route, say, via South Kildare?”

...

Carmel McCool and Mrs Murphy were saying goodnight in the hall. “Oh, Mrs Murphy,” Carmel sighed, “I must take to my bed. This evening has drained me so.”

“I’m tired myself. I’ll go to bed once I’ve tidied the room,” said Mrs Murphy, with a kind smile.

They said goodnight and Ms McCool hitched up her dress and climbed the stairs to her room. Mrs Murphy went into the lounge where she stood behind the door and waited till she heard the guestroom door close. Once the coast was clear, she tiptoed back into the hall and opened a locked drawer in the telephone table, and consulted the well-thumbed, yellowing pages of an old address book...

100 miles North, in The Ivy House: Jamie was reading in bed when he heard the phone ring in the great hall. He put down the book and listened. It’s a bit late. I wonder who it could be? It was answered by Fordham the Footman (Jamie recognised the sound of his shoes on the old stone floor) who immediately, and without explanation, transferred the call to Jamie’s room.

“Can I speak to Ogden Castle?” a voice whispered in the earpiece, “it’s me, Mrs Murphy.”

Who the hell is Mrs Murphy? Oggy didn’t mention a Mrs Murphy?! “Ummm... he’s not here at the moment...” he said, confused, “this is Jamie...”

The educated, middle-class tones disappeared and the whisper took on a guttural, rural Irish accent, “Ooh, Jamie Jameson Lumb, is it? Aye, I’ve heard of you, alright. You’re the new Master, aren't ye?” she all-but sneered.

“Listen missus, I have no idea who you are but...”

“You lissen to me!” she hissed, “I’m a Witch! One of them Witches South ‘o the border -- y’know, one of them that auld Castle told to keep an eye on things?!”

Still unsure of whether or not this was a ruse, Jamie decided to hear her out, “Go on...?”

She tutted as if she was talking to an idiot, “Well, there’s been a big resurgence in negative energy round Kildare ‘n it seems to be spreadin’ so it looks like the things auld Castle was worried about have now come to pass!”

Jamie’s jaw dropped, “Shite...”

“Aye, shite.” She took a deep breath and continued, “See, I hadda meeting for some deluded eejits who think they’re psychics -- we haveta keep an eye on ‘em, just in case they accidentally stumble into somethin’ they’re not qualified to deal with. It’s usually a gaggle of quacks and impostors, but tonight the guest of honour was this auld housekeeper who told a story about a poltergeist hauntin’ the place where she works. You know where she works?

“Erm... no...?”

“Pagham House, that’s where! The very place where them bog mummies were dug up!”

His fears were wholly justified. “Oh God... Oggy was right... it’s starting all over again...” he said, worriedly, contemplating the implications.

Mrs Murphy went on to explain she had a houseguest who was causing the fully fledged witches some trouble, “Carmel McCool. She’s from Newry; I invited her down here so we could check ‘er out. She’s only a wee bit psychic, but she’s got enough of a Gift to sense the auld negative energy -- and if a minor Sensitive like her can sense it -- things must be bad! But here’s the worst of it: she’s one of these theatrical types, y’know, one of them that likes to be the centre of attention -- and she’s gotta big mouth on her! She actually went to the Gardai ‘n the papers ‘n tried to tell ‘em all about it!”

His mouth dry with apprehension, he asked “What... what do we do next?”

“Don’t ask me! We've done our bit! We were told to keep an eye on things and report back to you -- it’s up to youse to sort it! After all, you’re the Master now, aren't ya? Ye have the power ‘n all that, dontcha?!” she said, in a mocking voice.

“But... but I don’t have anybody to advise me! Oggy and Xavier and most of the staff have gone down for the Big Sleep......”

“Oh aye? Well, ye better get yer act together ‘n think of somethin’ quick!”

She hung up without saying goodbye. He put down the phone and stared into space. What am I going to do? He’d tried everything bar waking the sleepers; he’d tried to find out something about the mage exhumed from the bog, but now that the Psychosphere was unusable, he couldn't consult the Collective Memory, and there was nothing in the ancient annals in the library. He had no idea whom or what he was dealing with! What the f**k do I do?!

Desperate for help, he went back to the huge crystal ball in the centre of the room and once again tried to contact Ebben Blom in Sweden (the commune didn’t have anything as modern as a phone), but it was useless, the glass was hot and completely fogged-up: interference that can only be created by the presence of negative energy; yet another sign that all was not well and was about to get worse.

It was then he glimpsed a glimmer out of the corner of his eye. He turned his head slowly and looked around the room until his gaze settled on the full-length mirror set against the rear wall. The mirror was misted up too, but in this case the glass was glowing. He watched as the mist slowly parted and an image manifested in the frame: an all-too-familiar figure dressed like a Film Noir private eye walked out of the swirling fog and stood close to the inside of the glass. He pushed back the brim of his fedora and winked.

Jamie’s shoulders dropped. “Bernie bloody Pritchard,” he said, in a voice dripping with irony.

The phantom grinned, “Hello, big brother. I hear you’re havin’ a spot of bother...”

...

The Bentley turned left and disappeared behind a row of yew trees. Felix waited for the lights to disappear from view, then taxied along until he came upon a huge wrought iron gate, the apex of the granite archway laden with razor wire, like a prison. He listened until he heard the car disappear into the distance, then pulled in a few yards up the road, got out and went back to investigate on foot. “Who lives in a house like this?” he asked himself, in that funny voice everybody does. He was looking through the bars, trying to see the house in the distance -- when someone leapt on him from behind, got him in a headlock and forced his head down! “Easy, easy, now, li’l fella or I’ll snap yer fackin’ neck –- so don’t straggle or it’s crunch-time!”

Felix squeaked from under his assailant’s muscular armpit, “Sorry... I got lost... I saw the car pullin’ in and I thought I could get directions...”

The voice growled in his ear, “Wot?! Wiv yer lights off?! Nah, you’ve been tailin’ us since we left that cottage – wot’s your game, pal, eh? Casin’ the joint, is ya, eh? Paparazzi?! Stawkah, is ya?!”

“No, sexual deviant, actually....”

Without warning, Herbie took his arm away, threw Felix to the ground and kicked him four or five times in the midriff and once in the face, bloodying his nose. Herbie watched him writhe in the long grass for a second or two then pulled him up by the ears and shouted into his bloody face, “I don’t wanna see you anywhere near this place again, awright, or next time I’ll tear off yer fackin’ gonads ‘n stick ‘em up yer arse -- got that?! You li’l fackin’ weasel-faced cant!” he picked Felix by the scruff of his neck and the seat of pants and tossed him into the van. “Now fack off!”

Coughing, bleeding and clutching his ribs, Felix struggled to sit up and start up the van. The chauffeur stood and watched until he drove off. “Big bully... Raspo would eat him for breakfast...” he moaned, as he mopped the blood from his nose with a paper hankie, wincing with pain every time he changed gear. He was about to turn off the lane to get back onto the main road when he glimpsed a little figure standing in the trees up ahead.

Hmmmm, what have we here?

It was a little girl. She was cast in shadow so that only the bottom half of her body was illuminated by the headlights, but he could see she was barefoot and wearing what looked like a ragged summer dress.

Very nice.

His aches and pains were momentarily forgotten, this was too good an opportunity to pass up. He threw the hankie onto the floor and slowed to a stop, all the while looking back along the road to make sure no one was watching. When he was certain they were alone, he wound down the window and asked in his nicest voice, “Hello, are you lost?”

No reply.

“It’s very late. Does your mammy know where you are?” he said, squinting into the darkness.

No reply.

“Would you like me to take you home?”

The little girl walked out from under the trees and stood in the twin beams of the van’s headlights.

Felix screamed.

She had no face, just a pair of wild eyes staring out of a blackened skull -- her clothes were no more than charred rags -- her emaciated arms open as if to elicit an embrace -- her mouth gaping as if echoing his scream!

Without thinking, Felix floored the accelerator -- the wheels spun under him --the van lurched forward as it sped off! He closed his eyes and braced himself for impact -- but there was no sound of anything hitting the bumper -- nothing dragging beneath the wheels! He looked in the rear-view mirror and saw her standing in the same place, in the same pose, as if the van had passed straight through her! Felix screamed again...

To be Continued....

#witchcraft #Magic #irish fiction #black magic #spindlefreck #irish literature #ghosts #demon #mystery #mystery thriller #mysticism #witches #saga #IRISH HUMOUR

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