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hippychick006 · 4 years

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15.11: The Gamblers - Episode Review/Recap

This ep follows directly on from last week. The episode was very mixed, there were 2 distinct storylines that merged at the end. I had a few issues with the Castiel/Jack side of the story, which I’ll cover later, but the Sam and Dean scenes, for the most part, I was able to enjoy. I even caught myself smiling… fucking smiling at several moments, because this? This was a glimpse of what my show once was. This also explains to the “Just stop watching” brigade why I’m still watching. The brother scenes were a nugget of gold amongst the dross and worth watching for.

Thank you, Davey Perez, Meredith Glynn and Director Charles Beeson for reminding me, albeit briefly, why I fell in love with this show, and at the same time, why I dislike much of Dabb’s run, which in my humble opinion hasn’t just veered the ship slightly off course; it crashed into an iceberg in 11.21 and has been slowly sinking since then. I think last week’s episode brought us to the point where half the ship is now vertical, ready to plunge into the depths of the icy ocean...

...Anyway, enough about sinking ships, the key thing I struggled with going into this episode is the obvious fuck up from the previous week; the entire premise of the Winchester’s losing their “luck” and being reduced to “normal” people, and I want to talk rant about that for a few more minutes before we get onto this episode. If you want to skip that, I’ll put start and end of rant, so you can skip forward.

Start of rant

In order to enjoy this episode, you pretty much have to ignore much of the previous episode and… that doesn’t sit well with me. Last week wasn’t just a single scene you can forget ever existed (e.g. the trench-coat scene or Dean’s apology to Cass). What Dabb did fucked with the entire concept of the show; that the Winchesters are ordinary people who do extraordinary things. So, it’s really difficult to shake that epic fuck up off and just move on.

I just can’t ever buy in to the concept that the Winchesters were “favoured” or have more luck than “normal” people. I mean look at Sam’s life for starters; he didn’t know his mom, he was fed demon blood as a baby, was dragged up in a life he hated, constantly moving, being brought up in crappy motels and forced to train to become a hunter. The love of his life is murdered, and he becomes an orphan at 22. He died at 23 (for the first time) and then he loses the last remaining member of his family at 24. The Winchesters are far from “lucky” and if I could be bothered, I’d go looking for mentions of “with the Winchester luck” that have been peppered throughout the series. Chuck has not “favoured” the Winchesters at all and they haven’t had Charmed lives because of Chuck’s interference.

I also can’t buy into the concept that the Winchesters are anything other than “normal” in the first place. Sadly, they showed last weeks “fight” scenes during the recap and it did nothing, other than enrage me again. Sam and Dean are excellent fighters and hunters because they trained from a young age to be as good as they are. They weren’t “given” anything and certainty not a free ride and fuck Dabb once again for writing that bullshit. It was nothing less than petty because we rejected his instant Hunter!Barbie fiasco that wasted too much of season 13.

So, how do I move forward from that and manage to enjoy this episode? The answer in my opinion, is you can’t, because even with a few good brother moments, the entire premise of this week’s episode fails to make sense, because the previous episode fails to make sense. I’ll cover why that is when we get to the pool game.

End Rant

The episode opens on a recap, and I ask myself why they are using all the bad bits from the previous few episodes, before I remember there weren’t many good bits to select from. That clip of Jensen with the teeth is still funny. 😂

I love the intro again this week. The setting was good, the guest actors, the camerawork, the music choice – North to Alaska - which complimented the scene, rather than felt like nails being dragged down a chalkboard. All classic spn so far, so it has my attention.

Two men (Joey and Leonard) are playing a game of pool and you can tell this is a high stakes game from the get go. What the stakes are, we don’t yet know, but when the game ends, we see 2 coins being held in a contraption above the pool table; one glows green then dulls with the coin head disappearing, the other glows green and gets brighter with the coin head gaining in definition. I don’t think this looks good for the loser. He agrees and tries to attack the winner with his pool cue. He’s stopped from doing so by a bouncer who turfs him outside. 👋 cutie tall bouncer. There’s an absolutely great shot of the loser tossing his coin in the air and the music gets loud again (Hey, I’m here as much for the settings, lighting, music and camerawork as I’m here for the Winchesters – sue me) and then…. Splat. He’s hit by a truck. Poor Leonard, red shirt of the episode. RIP my friend.

As an aside, I like how you guys announce which pocket the 8 ball is going into, we don’t do that.

This was a great into, interesting premise that immediately sucked me in, wanting to find out more. This is my show. Great job so far.

The next scene though shows once again how useless, at least for me, the writing is around Castiel. They wrote an entire scene with him walking into the bunker, seeing a note that has been left, going down to read it “Cass, we’ve gone to Alaska, Sam”. I’m not going to rant about the twats that insist on saying Sam has spelt it wrong, I’ve already done a post about the arrogance of fans trying to tell the show that created the character that they are wrong with the spelling of that character, so I’ll save you by moving on.

This entire scene, while I liked the shots of the otherwise empty bunker, was just wasting time for me. I’ve seen people say Sam left a note because Castiel was in heaven and wouldn’t get a text message and how clever of Sam to resort to paper. I don’t know about anyone else, but I dip in and out of WiFi zones all the time and the moment I dip back in, my phone pings with multiple notifications, so I personally thought this scene was dumb. It would have been better to see Castiel appear back at the sandpit and get a text notification from Sam with the same message.

Even better, you could take this scene away and it changes nothing that happens so why include it? *Whispers* J2 wanted time off and the writers are incompetent of filling that space with something more interesting so use “filler”.

Interestingly, my computer froze on Castiel’s face for 5 minutes so fuck you Norton or Windows 10 Update for your bad timing in running something in the “background”

BROMENT ALERT

We’re finally with what I’m watching the show for. Dean and Sam are in baby and driving towards Alaska. Sam’s phone is lighting up with messages and we find out through Dean that it’s Eileen. 🙄. Oh, Eileen’s being shoved into the narrative now? Sorry Eileen, the third wheel position on the show has already been filled since Season 7. And fuck you again Dabb because I loved Eileen as a friend of Sam and it’s just yet another thing your reverse Midas fingers have screwed over this season.

Dean: Silent mode is always an option

Me: I love you, have my babies… wait, that came out wrong

Eileen thinks the plan is a little too good to be true. Sam thinks she might be right. He’s not convinced the place even exists or that it can fix their problem. Dean thinks it couldn’t hurt and he’s done with normal, including the constant heartburn.

Sam: You know if you changed your diet…. Dean’s frown 😂

Sam insists that no one other than Garth has heard of it and it isn’t in the lore. Dean believes it’s got to be there. He believes Chuck isn’t messing with them,

Dean: He [Chuck] wants us off our game, he wants us weak, ‘cos he’s coming for us Sammy, and when he does, and we haven’t figured this out, we’re DOA.

Mostly a great brother scene, apart from the forced insertion of Eileen – are we incapable of getting a broment in the final chuck damn season, without the completely unnecessary forced inclusion of a third party???! The scene ends with a great shot of baby.

Back at the bunker and Castiel hears a phone ringing, and… I’m trying not to nitpick, but the way this case comes about just annoys me. There are better ways of bringing this about, than how they did it. But moving on, Castiel answers a random phone that was ringing in Sam’s room, and it’s a sheriff (Jeb Evans) looking for FBI agent, Watts. Castiel tells the sheriff that Agent Watts is working a case in Alaska, and that he is Agent… Lizzo. I can only assume Dean gave him that alias as I don’t think Castiel would know any musicians on his own. I like Jeb, who tells Agent Lizzo, they have a homicide and the suspect is someone Agent Watts flagged into the system… and guys… Sam is back to hacking into police systems and I just… I need a moment here as they’ve remembered Sam can hack into systems!

The agent tells Castiel that the suspect is Jack Kline.

Ummm… Castiel, are you... okay? Do you… do you maybe need to use the bathroom? Oh, you’re emoting? Okay dokay then. I can’t with this. I got more out of Leo in the less than 2 minutes he was on screen than I got out of Castiel since his return in season 7.

Back with the impala, which rolls into a diner stop. Sam is asleep, and Dean whacks him to wake him up. Sam wonders why they’ve stopped at “Round up café”. Dean says it’s the last stop for food for a few hundred miles.

Sam (frowns): Grab something out of the cooler

Dean: Yeah, no, I polished off the last of the sandwiches while you were out

Sam (annoyed): We’re on a budget!

Me (sighing): platonic soulmate Husbands! 😍

Last weeks puppy dog eyes fiasco aside, Dean’s still wrapped round Sam’s fingers, they enter the diner, slap some coins on the counter and ask what they can get for $4.60. Apparently, it’s a slice of pie and a coffee, and I’m moving to Alaska when they secede from the US because that would barely get you just the coffee here.

Dean asks for two forks for the pie

Me (sighing): platonic soulmate Husbands! 😍

Long story short on this scene, they get out of the waitress there’s a local urban legend about a magic poolhall in the middle of nowhere, that if you win, you come back lucky. She says though that no one ever comes back. Turns out she knew Leonard from the intro, and he went up there because the bank was going to take his house and he met with an accident.

Sam says at least they know now what the downside is. Dean doesn’t agree, he thinks it could be great, pool is the game of champions, kings, his game, our game, and they have great memories of hustling pool

Sam: yes, because we had to… to eat!

Still not seeing the “luck” Dabb wrote about. Imagine thinking they were remotely lucky; running scams or hustling pool to put a roof over their head or food in their stomach. And this is where I disconnect with this week’s episode, because of last week’s writing. How are they going to even be good at pool, a game that takes practice and skill? The things taken away seem to be random and plot devices; lock picking, fighting, hot metal burns, while it appears Dean can still drive okay, fix baby and I’m guessing their pool is going to be okay too, otherwise what’s the point of this episode? There’s no believable rules to this “bad luck/normal” and I’m left completely drifting and because of it. It's just badly thought out and executed.

Dean: if pool is the way we get our mojo back then maybe we ain’t as screwed as we thought

Waitress: Hey, you guys drive an impala?... I think you guys have a flat.

😂

Back with Cass and sheriff Jeb, Cass has managed to set up the laptop and access a video the sheriff has sent him. The video is of Jack killing a doctor and eating his heart. 😷 Jack, no! I’ll come back to the heart eating later.

Back with the boys, another shot of baby as they pull into “Lurlenes”. Baby isn’t sounding too good and I think I missed that earlier, but it did somewhat register that she was sounding louder than normal. Good touch.

Dean walks over one of the coins as they head for the entrance which I guess might be Leonard’s from earlier. I like little details like this. Once inside, Sam points out they don’t have beer money, much less what it costs to buy into a game. Dean says they’ll figure something out and goes to the bar and orders two waters. I’m guessing that’s going to hit Dean more than health conscious Sam. Dean asks the bar person, Evie, how they get into a game. She calls Pax over and it’s the tall, cutie bouncer from earlier. Sam asks Evie if she saw Leonard and she says no, but you can tell she’s lying.

Pax takes them to his office and explains the rules of the game, that they don’t bet with money, they bet with luck. He gets Dean to touch a coin he puts down and it turns green. Pax looks at the coin and says “not great”

Dean: And that means?

Pax explains that everyone walks in with a certain amount of luck, that the green glow was Dean’s and it was “about average.” Dean thinks that sounds about right. I’m going to head-canon that Dean’s luck is about average of the people that find the pool hall, but below average in general, due to Chuck screwing around with them.

Pax says if Dean wins a game, he might see his fortunes improve.

Sam: And if he loses?

Pax says he can keep playing, but if the coin goes blank, that means you’re out of luck, and you’ve got to leave. He asks if they’ve got any questions.

Sam (a bit pissy): What is this place? Who owns it?

Pax says he doesn’t know, but if they don’t like it, they are free to leave.

Dean: When I win, can I split it (indicates Sam)… the luck?

Pax (sighing): platonic soulmate Husbands! 😍 Oh, wait, sorry, that was me

Pax: it’s yours, you can do what you want

Sam asks for a second to talk to his husband brother.

Sam: no, no, no, no, no way (complete with shaking finger)

Dean: man, I’ve been slinging pool cues since before you were born

Snarky!Sam: when you were four, really? In between snack time and nap? 😂

Dean (internally): damn, I forgot you were my brother for a second and I can’t bullshit you

Dean tells Sam that they need to do this, and that Sam is pretty much better than him, at everything, he’s not mad about it, he’s proud… but he can wipe the floor with Sam at pool. Dean takes Sam’s epic eyeroll as silent permission he can play.

Back with Castiel, he investigates the doctor’s office and finds a weird case which has a sword inside. We flashback to a previous episode with Sam tied to a chair (🙄 it must have been a Thursday). Anyway, the flashback tells us the doctor was one of the Grigori, a brotherhood of perfect beings. I’d forgotten about them and might have to look them up before I touch the heart eating thing. Note: I did look them up and it was a Claire episode, so never mind, that’s why I forgot about them.

We transition from Cas to Jack and he seems to be following someone with the same case as the doctor, so another Grigori. He follows the Grigori into an abandoned building.

Back at the pool hall and no one is biting to play with the noob. Okay, I’m ashamed to say I laughed at this next bit, Dean deliberately breaks badly and loudly proclaims that he’s rusty at this. Oh Dean. No one’s going to fall for… Surprisingly he actually gets a taker and asks Dean to rack up. Sam goes back to the bar to speak to Evie. She asks if he plays and he says not really. Sam asks Evie what the woman’s deal is that’s playing Dean (Moira). Evie says she’s been here a while and her sister is in a coma.

Sam goes into awkward question mode, and I have flashbacks to the earlier seasons. He asks about rotten eggs. Evie responds: Just Charlie… We pan over to Charlie and he’s playing pool badly. Sam then asks if she’s seen “little bundles” laying around. She says no, but she gets that he’s trying to figure the place out. Sam says places like this don’t exist for no reason, she answers that most people think it’s a godsend. She gives him information on a couple of people playing, they won at first, could have walked away winners, but kept playing until their luck ran sour. She repeats they should have walked away which is a clear warning for Sam who looks over at his brother who wins the game.

Back with Jack, he’s got an angel blade and is still after the Grigori. Unfortunately, the Grigori twigged he was being followed and now has Jack at blade point.

Back at the pool hall and Sam is trying to convince Dean they need to leave, and I’m trying not to be distracted by the picture in the scene behind them.

Dean (brandishing his coin at Sam): Come on man, I’m on a roll

Snarky!Sam: Dean, you won one game!

Sam thinks the place sucks you in and that if Dean keeps playing, he’ll lose and end up like Leonard. Dean convinces Sam who reluctantly allows him to have one more game.

Me (sighing): platonic soulmate Husbands! 😍

Dean finds his mark, which is Joey from the intro. We see Dean playing well and Joey asks what his name was again.

Dean: my name is Dean Winchester and I am going to kick your ass.

Sam: 😍 that’s my platonic soulmate husband brother

Joey smiles.

They talk as Dean clears the table. Turns out Joey used to work the bull riding circuit.

Dean (cocky smile): tell me, how was that?… corner pocket. He misses the shot

Joey (grinning): good times (he pots and all he can do is hide the cue ball behind another ball, giving Dean a very tricky shot on the 8 ball)… and some not so good.

Dean goes to take the shot and Joey challenges double or nothing if Dean misses. Sam doesn’t like it. Dean asks if Joey is trying to hustle him.

Joey: I thought you were going to kick my ass

Dean smiles and agrees to the deal, does a trick shot with the cue ball jumping over the other ball and potting the 8 ball.

Joey closes his eyes. Sam looks happy, then Joey says: a hell of a shot.

Dean watches as the coins glow green and Joey’s coin is now dull, and this is sad because even if Sam and Dean haven’t realised the implication yet, Joey is not long for this world. Joey leaves, and Sam and Dean follow. Joey congratulates Dean on the game yet again and says, “I guess you can’t hustle a hustler.” Sam’s concerned when Joey starts coughing. Turns out Joey is dying, he has cancer, he came to the pool hall to beat it, and Sam and Dean have finally caught up with me that this game sucks. This is the first time in a long time, I’ve felt anything for a character on this show that we only meet for a limited time in a single episode, so I’m going to kudos the writing and the guest star for this one. This is what happens when you actually put some characterisation into your writing.

Sam and Dean go back inside. Dean said the plan worked so they should hit the road.

Sam: What about everybody else?

Sam wants to stay and figure out how they can help them. Dean reminds him they are in a fight with God and they just got their mojo back. Sam challenges whether there’s even enough luck in the coin for them. Dean says they’ll give it a try by him going for a drive and if baby’s okay, they are leaving. End of.

Back with Castiel and he meets sheriff Jeb at the abandoned building Jack was captured in. A transient spotted Jack going into the building so called the police. Castiel asks Jeb if there are any other abandoned places around. Jeb tells him about a church.

Back with Sam and he’s talking to Charlie, who is apparently playing so his team can win the Super Bowl and part of me is 😂 and part of me is, I feel you my friend, because Canucks and the Stanley Cup, and desperate measures at this stage.

Sam: that’s great, it is, but is it really worth your life?

Me (picturing the Stanley cup being paraded through the streets of Vancouver): …Yes?!

The puppy dog eyes fail again, Charlie says “just one more game.” And goes back to playing

Evie says at least Sam tried but no one will listen. She says none of “us” are going anywhere. Sam asks if they are trapped here, if Evie was trapped here. She leaves rapidly.

Dean arrives back, baby’s dead again, he didn’t even make it out of the parking lot. Sam takes a look at the coin Dean slams down. He believes Dean should have won more luck than he did, given how many people Joey likely beat before Dean played him and all that accumulated luck should have gone to Dean when he won, but it doesn’t seem to. Sam thinks someone is stealing the luck, skimming off the top.

Dean: You mean like the house?

Sam (lifts coin showing head): her… I think

Dean takes the coin and reads: Atrox Fortvnta

Sam says she’s the Roman goddess of luck. So, Sam’s allowed to be smart as a plot contrivance this week? *cough* hot metal burns *cough*.

They go speak to Evie about who runs the place. She says she can’t help them. Sam asks why she warned him in the first place. Evie says so he would take his brother and go. Dean asks why Evie is there, does the god have something over her. Evie says she played and lost and is only alive because she lets her stay as long as she keeps working. Sam asks if the god is here, but Evie doesn’t know, she only talks to Pax and drops the revelation that Pax is the god’s son.

Back with Jack and the Grigori has injured him and holding him captive. He knows what Jack is and that he’s powerful. The Grigori wants to know why Jack killed his kind. The Grigori have their own frequency of angel radio. Me, 🙄 of course you do because easy plot device. Before his brother died, he called to the Grigori. He asks Jack if he did that to draw him out, to kill him too.

Back with Sam and Dean, Sam approaches Pax wanting to ask a question. While Pax is focused on Sam, Dean grabs him and holds him at knifepoint.

Sam (niceness gone): Where’s your mom?

Loved that bit

Pax doesn’t answer so Sam shouts “Fortuna.” Dean follows with, “We have your son”

Moira walks through the pool hall and we know she is now Fortuna.

Sam says they know she’s skimming luck and they want it back. Dean threatens to kill Pax if she doesn’t

Fortuna: well, you probably could, his daddy was human, but no

Pax (shocked pikachu face): Mom!

Fortuna: I’m sorry baby, I can always make more sons

Sam and Dean (shocked pikachu faces).

Uh oh, leverage gone. Dean releases Pax, but not before the blade cuts his throat a little.

Dean demands Fortuna to play him for it. She says she’s already played him and got a read on him. He’s just a “beach read”. Sexy, but skimmable.

Dean (how dare you face): beach read? lady, I’m Tolstoy

Fortuna laughs and says, “That’s very funny” and approaches Sam: this one here, now he could be interesting

Dean (Protective big brother mode activated): Wait, no, no, that’s…. Uh uh

Sam (I’m 36 years old Dean, not a kid anymore mode activated): Fine… Yeah, okay, but not for our luck. I’ll play for the lives of everybody in here.

Fortuna doesn’t agree, she says the deal is only for their luck and if they lose, she wants their lives. She wants to make an example of them.

The Grigori is torturing Jack, cutting his skin. Jack says he can’t kill him. There’s then expose on the Grigori feeding off souls, and this one feeds off children. I think I’m supposed to not feel sorry for the Grigori when Jack eats his heart, but I do have a few issues which I’ll come onto later. Jack looks to the side and it’s clear he catches something. The Grigori reaches for his sword and points it at Jack’s throat. He asks who told Jack that. He answers Death.

The Grigori senses someone behind him. Now given the Grigori are supposed to be elite and much more powerful than ordinary angels, I’m embarrassed for this one and have no idea how on Earth this Grigori managed to survive to being last of his kind as even Castiel despatched him fairly easily, without too much of a fight, but “new canon” I guess. 🤷‍♀️

With no tests whatsoever, Castiel releases Jack from his bonds. I’m presuming one of Castiel random powers of the week is being able to automatically tell it’s Jack. We get a Cass and Jack hug and I … don’t really care to be honest. I can’t watch Cass without viewing that awful scene in Purgatory so I’m over him.

Back at the pool hall, Sam breaks, potting 2 balls immediately. I love, love, love this next bit: as Sam lines up his next shot, we see Dean nodding in agreement, because yep, that’s the shot he would have went for too. Sam proceeds to knock down a couple more, Fortuna has said a couple of things, but Sam is focusing on the game. She asks why they need the luck so bad, girlfriend problems? Liver failure? (She looks at Dean here). Sam answers: “a curse by god” and misses the next shot.

Fortuna: Life’s a bitch and then you die

Me: Hey! That’s my philosophy!

Dean: THE god literally cursed us

Fortuna (sarcastic disbelief): You’ve met

Dean: Yeah, Little guy, squirrelly as hell

Fortuna: Yeah, that’s him… well, welcome to the club

Dean: the club?

Fortuna answers with exposition while winning the game. God created the world, but humans created the gods, kind of, which led to God creating the other gods. Dean asks why, which makes her angry and she misses the next shot. She says they were created to take the blame for anything that went wrong. That only worked for a while before his ego got the better of him, now he hides behind whatever religion pays the biggest syndication deals. She keeps talking about how pissed she is and that she’s holding a grudge. Sam meanwhile is quietly potting balls and winning the game. She realises this and shakes off her mood, “oh well, what can you do?”

Dean: we’re going to fight him

Fortuna: are you now? And when you lose?

Sam’s voice from off screen: we lose swinging

He then appears in shot and says “8 ball, corner pocket” and she realises the game is nearly over.

Sam lines up for the shot, looks at Dean briefly, then… he wins. I wasn’t expecting that, and Dean is happy too.

Fortuna (to Sam): you little minx, you got me talking!

Sam smirks

Fortuna: you’re good

Sam: I learned from my brother

Dean approaches: all right, you know the deal, even up

Fortuna offers to make it interesting, if they are going to fight God, that’s the stuff of heroes and they are going to need the luck of heroes. Hercules, some other people, she helped them all. Sam asks what the catch is. She says another game, double or nothing.

Dean: Double? That’s how the cowboy died.

Sam agrees to play, “but not for more luck,” he indicates the room, “for them. If I win, you have to let them go.”

Fortuna: I’m not stopping them

Sam: Okay, when I win, you have to give back the luck you stole, close up shop

Fortuna: What is with you and these losers? They’re nothing, they don’t matter

Sam: they matter to me

Dean: they matter to us

Everyone in the poolhall (sighing): platonic soulmate Husbands! 😍

Fortuna agrees. She breaks, and it all goes downhill from there. Sam doesn’t even get to play a shot.

They lost. There’s silence

Fortuna: you challenged the goddess of luck in her own joint, what did you think was going to happen?

Me: pretty much this tbh, I’m actually surprised Sam won the first game

Dean: well, we had to try

Fortuna: well, that was stupid

My poor boys. They leave the poolhall.

Dean: I thought she was going to kill us

Sam: well she doesn’t have to, our luck will do that on its own … Dean, we can’t just…

Dean:… leave ‘em? Yeah, I know.

Me (sighing): platonic soulmate Husbands! 😍

Dean: all right, well let’s go get WiFi and see what kills Lady Luck, we’ll circle back

Sam’s agreeing when Evie comes out, followed by the other players. They ask her what happened. She says Fortuna shut it down. They ask why

Evie: Because of you, she said she thought your kind had gone extinct

Sam: Our kind?

Evie: Heroes, like the old days

Fortuna also gave her a message to pass on, “Don’t play Chucks game, make him play yours.

She hands Sam a coin which he somewhat reluctantly takes. He holds it in his closed fist as she walks away. He opens his hand and we see the coin glow green on his skin. Dean “grabby hands” Winchester snatches the coin, getting a glare from Sam and the coin glows green in his hand too.

They get into the car and Dean fires up the engine. “We’re back baby!”

Aww, Dean called Sam baby.

Me (sighing): platonic soulmate Husbands! 😍

Also me: You can take your “Castiel is a lamp” sub zero text and whack yourself over the head with it.

They drive away. And I’m left behind wondering if they’ve got their “normal” luck back or the supercharged hero luck that Sam said he didn’t want and that’s why he was reluctant to take the coin.

They arrive back at the bunker. Dean’s scratching lottery cards and doesn’t win. So much for the superhero luck.

Sam consoles his husband brother that they might not have won the lottery, but they have no car trouble, the credit cards work again, and Dean was able to eat back to back bacon double cheeseburgers, that didn’t kill him. So…

Dean: that was beautiful by the way… I’m just saying, would it have killed her to give us a little extra?

Sam: well, she thinks we’re really heroes, maybe they don’t get all the answers

Well hopefully that conversation answered my concern from earlier.

Cass appears, looking shifty (when doesn’t he tbh). They know something is wrong and Sam asks him. He steps aside and Jack appears. Jack dorky waves hello and we all melt and immediately forget he killed their mom and did some other really naughty stuff that at the very least should get him a time out. Apparently, Dean and Sam forget too. This scene is shot with Jack and Cass at one side of the reading room and Sam and Dean on the other.

Sam: Jack?

Castiel (to Sam): it’s really him

Sam walks over to Jack first and gets quicker as he reaches him and we get a Sam and Jack hug, and since I didn’t get one in season 14, I’ll ignore the mom killing, heart eating etc. for a few minutes and enjoy the hell out of this one. Yes, I’m fickle! But I loved this nougat eating baby before Dabb ruined him.

Dean walks across more slowly, reaches and grasps Jack behind his neck, staring into his face as if checking it’s really him. I think he’s struggling to see past the burnt-out eyes which was their last view of him. He looks briefly at Cass once. To me it’s a silent thank you (headcanon for bringing Jack back for Sam in particular), and an equally silent, you’re welcome. Jack looks a little apprehensive as obviously the last time he was alive, Dean was going to shoot him, stopped only by Sam.

They all have a beer at the map table, Sam asks Jack about eating hearts, so it’s good that hasn’t been hidden. Jack said he had to.

Dean (to Castiel): and you let him?

Castiel nods (likely waiting for the anger for doing the wrong thing)

Dean (shrugs): hmmm

And… that is not my Dean. They’ve turned him into a neutered house cat and idiots are calling it “growth”. And all I can hope is that his natural instincts fight their way through, I believe it’s wrong to trust Jack is okay eating hearts, even of ones that eat children’s souls and I hope we see that develop as we progress.

Sam: you could have called us

Jack: every day I wanted to come home, but I couldn’t

Dean: why not?

Jack: because if I don’t stay hidden, if I use my powers, my grandfather, he’ll know I’m back, and try and kill me… again… he’s afraid of me, and that’s why we had to wait.

Castiel: Billy kept him hidden in the empty, until Chuck went off world

Jack: she let me out when it was safe

Dean: safe to what? Eat a bunch of angel hearts?

Jack: safe to do what I have to.

Turns out the hearts were just the beginning, they made Jack strong, but not strong enough. If Jack follows her plan, he’ll get stronger and he’ll be able to kill god.

Sam and Dean (in winsync): bitch please, this is our show!

Not really, that was just me and we end on that note. I could wish we had ended on “The Gambler” by Kenny Rogers, but season 15 music budget. Sigh.

So, I have a few other issues with this episode, particularly with the Jack side of the storyline, off the top of my head;

1) I’m hoping we aren’t sweeping what he did in season 14 under a rug, a la Castiel.

2) I’m hoping we aren’t just going to support him eating hearts (even of bad angels) without fully investigating what this supposed plan is.

3) I’m struggling with the heart thing anyway. I don’t believe an angel has a heart to eat, only the human vessel does so I’m going to need an explanation on why eating human hearts is supposedly goring to make jack stronger, and why we don’t care about the human vessel

4) I’m struggling with how a lesser god can give back what God took away, even if that lesser god is the goddess of luck, God still trumps her.

Other than that, I think Death is bad now, or at least Billy’s version of death is. I think they changed course on wanting to kill the Winchesters a couple of seasons ago when they realised they could play a part in them reaping God. Possible reason, just being tired after all this time, and wanting it all to end. And it can’t end before Chuck dies. Possible power play.

I still think Chuck will die. I still think the Winchesters will become firewalls, not sure what Jack is, other than a toddler whose power needs to be bound until he can wield it responsibly, and Castiel is going to sacrifice himself at some point. And the less we say about Eileen, the better.

Next episode is up after Hellatus the welcome break from the caricature this show has become

#spn spoilers #15.11 #The Gamblers #episode review #episode recap #anti castiel #spn critical #anti saileen #anti eileen

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jbuffyangel · 5 years

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Stolen Identity: Arrow 7x10 Review (My Name Is Emiko Queen)

Arrow kicks off their mid season with a slumpy snoozer of an episode, but there are a few golden nuggets to chat about.

Let’s dig in…

Olicity

Oliver is beginning his new career as a legal vigilante by working with SCPD as a consultant. I wonder how much that pays. Hmmm.

Anyway, Dinah is a little know-it-all about the crime scene when she tells Oliver, “Try not to screw it up.”

Source: smoakmonster

By screw it up do you mean solve all the cases the SCPD can’t? Because that’s what Oliver has been doing the last six years. He was casing crime scenes while you were in cleaning toilets in the police academy, Dinah. Actually, I don’t know if that’s true. Oliver and Dinah are pretty close in age, but I’m feeling punchy today so I’m standing by my analogy.

The forensics officer is feeling punchy about Oliver too. Apparently, not everyone is thrilled the Green Arrow is working with the police now. God only knows why. It’s not like he hasn’t saved the city from annihilation several times. OH WAIT HE HAS. Ungrateful twats. Respect your elders!

Can we have a side bar about the SCPD?

They are throwing shade at Oliver and instructing him to not screw up a crime scene, but if they did their jobs in the first place the city wouldn’t need the Green Arrow. Are we really blown away by the SCPD’s accomplishments over the last seven years? They can’t arrest anyone unless Oliver delivers them with a bow. We are given the token “good” cop every season:

Quentin Lance: great detective, but ended up working with the Green Arrow because crimes actually were solved then

McKenna Hall: shot and left the city

Billy Malone: shot and killed

Dinah Drake: became a vigilante

Curtis’ boyfriend: also shot and I can’t even remember his name

They were incapable of handling Malcolm Merlyn, Slade Wilson and Ra’s Al Ghul’s attacks. The citizens of Star City fought back with Oliver against Damien Darhk. Oh and the entire police department was corrupted by Diaz. Not to mention crime is back on the rise and the citizens are bemoaning the lack of Green Arrow assistance. Not exactly a stunning endorsement of the SCPD, so cool it with the uppity comments. You’d be dead ten times over if it weren’t for Oliver Queen.

Oliver offers to speed things up by using his “resources” do analyze the blood on a piece of broken window.

Source: smoakmonster

Meet Oliver’s resources:

Felicity has a new security system which can read DNA.

Source: felicitysmoakgifs

Uhhh that’s amazing. I want one.

Source: feilcityqueen

My babies are all made up and back to being a united team with adorable they’re-so-married banter punctuated by smush face smooches. WHAT A TIME TO BE ALIVE FANDOM!

These two fell in love over a bullet ridden computer, so analyzing DNA is their idea of Netflix and chill.

Source: felicitysmoakgifs

Look how happy Felicity is! Has a cuter cupcake ever existed? The correct answer is, “No except for your daughter Jen.” Why thank you. I quite agree.

We all know Felicity has Oliver’s DNA sequencing memorized.

Source: olicitygifs

Yes, I know the memories of the Season 4 crossover are still traumatic. If you are triggered watch the Olicity wedding to ward off the flashes and nightmares.

Oliver is a little too surprised the archer is a woman.

Source: felicitysmoakgifs

Hey! We have hands and eyes too big fella. Men aren’t the only ones who can point an arrow. Hang on. That sounded dirty.

My point (HA!) is GIRL POWER.

I love how Felicity asks Oliver to sit down and he does his patented side eye thing and asks why. Hilarious. I never tire of that reaction from Oliver.

Felicity is remarkably calm which, let’s be honest, is probably because she’s relieved Emiko is just Oliver’s sister and not another spawn from a one night stand. No offense William. Mama Jen loves you pumpkin.

Oliver, however, is shocked. Is it really a big surprise your father was a little slutty back in the day, Oliver? Apple meet tree.

Robert keeps enormous secrets and expects Oliver to fix all his “wrongs” post mortem. That’s it. That’s the show.

And yet I still love Robert Queen and so does Oliver. If Robert was alive right now Oliver would probably punch his dad, then hug him, and ask all the questions he wants. Scratch that. Oliver would hug his dad first and then punch him. Unfortunately, Robert is dead and there’s no one to really answer why. There’s no where Oliver can channel his hurt, anger and confusion. The same goes for Emiko. Or is there? Hunting bad guys with a bow and arrow is therapy in this family.

Source: olicitygifs

Felicity continues to win the award for Supportive Wife of the Year. Oliver is floundering in unknown yet familiar waters and Felicity is his life raft. She handles all of this like a pro. She’s probably used to Queen family shenanigans by now. Noah’s criminal record and Donna’s penchant for five inch heels really pales in comparison to the crap Oliver’s parents pulled.

Oliver wants whatever answers he can find before he introduces himself to new little sister. As Felicity said, Robert Queen did love a good paper trail. It seems he handed those books out as stocking stuffers. Is it the same book? Or maybe Emiko made her own book and this is some truly bizarre Queen genetic characteristic.

Oliver doesn’t have it all together and he’s spiraling a bit. Oh how far we’ve come my friends. A few years ago Oliver would have shut down and buried his head inside that hood.

And now he’s allowing himself to feel. Oliver is hurt, angry, confused, ashamed and deeply sad. He’s grieving the relationship he was cheated of having with Emiko for all these years. Yet again, Robert and Moira have acted in their family’s self interests and without much concern who they destroyed in the process.

The reason why Oliver is falling to pieces is because he knows Felicity will be there to pick them up. Oliver doesn’t need to be on top of things because Felicity is, and even better, he is letting her take care of him. Oliver no longer chooses to go it alone. We’ve come light years with Oliver Queen.

Source: felicitysmoakgifs

Oliver’s love and pride in his wife bubbles to the surface even when grappling with another earth shattering secret being exposed. This soft smile is pure you-are-my-genius-and-I’m-so-thankful-I-wife’d-you-so-hard. You can feel the relief Oliver feels over being home with Felicity, out of prison and in his own damn body. He can face anything as long as she’s by his side. Slabside didn’t cause any kind of regression. In fact, Oliver came home ready to double down on everything he’s learned over the last six years. He is holding onto his wife even tighter now. It’s beautiful to see.

Does anyone else find it hard to believe it took seven years for Oliver to discover a secret storage unit given how shady both his parents were?

At least it gives us more adorable Olicity. Felicity looking at Baby Oliver’s drawings is everything I didn’t know I needed.

Source: oliverxfelicity

This Thea mention isn’t accidental. It took time for Oliver to love Thea. I am fairly certain my sisters are still adjusting to my arrival and I’m 37. Oliver was just a little boy reacting like how many older children react to the news a sibling is on the way. However, it’s slightly applicable to what is happening with Emiko and Oliver. They will grow on each other. It will just take time.

Of course, there’s a letter from Robert Queen to Walter Steele in like the third box, sitting right on top, which explains exactly who Emiko is. This is major plot contrivance even by Arrow standards, but whatever.

Robert admits he loved Kazumi Hadachi and the daughter they had together, but abandoned them both. They were supposed to be cared for in the event of Robert’s death (translation: write a check Walter), but that never happened because of Moira.

Who didn’t see that one coming?

This has Moira “I Hide Babies And Lie About DNA” Queen’s sticky fingers all over it. If you are losing track allow me to refresh your memory:

Moira paid Samantha off and let Oliver believe she miscarried

She lied about Thea’s biological father

Kept Robert Queen’s love child hidden and in abject poverty for her entire life. (allegedly)

I love Moira and she has her good points, but man she was a piece of work sometimes.

The question of course is why? Moira knew Robert had affairs. It’s the reason she had an affair with Malcolm – a little tit for tat. Emiko is older than Thea though, so one of two things happened:

1) Walter showed Moira the letter and she found out about Emiko after Robert’s death. She refused to follow his wishes and locked up the secret in a never-to-be-found storage unit.

2) Moira knew about Emiko and Kazumi, but forced Robert to give them up. He left the letter to Walter in hopes he would circumvent Moira. It seems Walter did not do as Robert asked or he tried and Moira stopped him.

Oliver: How can I believe that he ever loved anybody but himself? How could he abandon them in the first place?

Felicity: I don’t’ think Moira gave him much of a choice.

Felicity has danced this paternity dance before with Moira Queen. So, she’s leaning towards Option 2 and I agree.

Oliver already answered the why. Kazumi and Emiko were Robert’s second family. There was another woman and child Robert deeply loved. We can multiply whatever hurt Oliver is feeling by this betrayal ten times over for Moira. Cheating is one of the worst things you can do to your partner.

I sympathize with the pain Moira must have felt after discovering Emiko and Kazumi, but it doesn't excuse what she did. Robert should have acknowledged his child and cared for both, but that would be unacceptable to Moira for a few reasons.

She would never allow Robert to make a public mockery of her. Moira would be humiliated if Starling City knew Robert cheated on her and had a second family. Furthermore, the scandal would be enormous and could damage the Queen family name – i.e. their company, which means the bottom dollar.

Moira always did whatever she believed necessary to protect her children. Thea wasn’t born yet, but I’m sure Moira viewed Oliver as the rightful heir to the kingdom. She wouldn’t want a child not of her blood threatening to take it all away or force Oliver to share it.

It’s not just that Robert cheated either. It’s about who he cheated with. The Queen family was like royalty to Starling City. Robert cheating on Moira Queen with a poor woman from the Glades. This would be another level of humiliation to Moira. Nope. She ain’t having that.

Moira was absolutely classest enough about the Glades to look down on someone like Kazumi. Hell, she was working with Merlyn to blow up the Glades at one point. Moira looking down on someone like Kazumi isn’t a stretch.

There could be a level of revenge to this. Robert hurt Moira deeply and chances are she wanted to punish Robert. He had to make a choice and he better damn well choose Oliver and her.

Not that I’m putting this all at Moira’s feet. These are Robert’s choices too. Moira can demand all she wants, but it was Robert who ultimately made the call. He walked away from Kazumi and Emiko. He abandoned them.

Obviously, it’s wonderful Robert raised Thea as his own. However, Emiko does bring another layer to the decision. Robert was denied a relationship with his biological daughter, so of course Thea gave him an avenue to a father/daughter relationship again. Perhaps, Robert’s forgiveness and acceptance was atonement too. He acknowledged his actions were no better than Moira’s.

However, if Moira refused to let Emiko be part of their lives then Robert refused to do the same to Thea. It is forgiveness Moira did not show him. She could have welcomed Emiko into her life just like Felicity welcomed William. Robert loving Thea was a constant reminder to Moira that she did not give Emiko the same love. That could be viewed as extremely passive aggressive behavior. Their marriage was so fucked up. Yikes.

Oliver: I worked so long and hard to redeem my family’s name after the terrible things they’ve done, but abandoning someone and a little girl? It’s unforgivable.

Yeah that line is no accident either. I’m quietly whistling and taking a long hard look at the flash forwards and Blackstar. If William and Roy do not know her, and she is Oliver and Felicity’s daughter, then they must have been forced to separate from or hide her. It won’t be anywhere near the same situation as Robert and Emiko, but there could be some kind of parallel drawn.

The first five years of Oliver’s story was about a son righting his father’s wrongs. Oliver is still dealing with the consequences of Robert Queen’s sins, but they’ve added another layer to his character. Now Oliver is the father. He’s had to sacrifice his family to do noble things, but that doesn’t make the pain of those sacrifices any easier.

I’m sure Oliver and Felicity will have a good reason for all of their decisions in the future, but it doesn’t make it any less painful for their children. It’s not an apples to apples comparison by any means, but Oliver may come to understand or even sympathize more with the choices his father made.

That said, it’s hard to imagine Oliver and Felicity “abandoning” their children for any reason given how strongly Oliver has reacted to what Robert did and how hard they both fought to bring their family back together. Also, this is Oliver and Felicity we’er talking about here. Oliver would loathe himself to repeat the same behavior. So, if this isn’t all a ruse, I’m expecting some seriously major extenuating circumstances.

I also want to add we may be dealing with a very broad definition of abandonment at least when it comes to William. Based on Beth Schwartz’s remarks from her latest interviews, the abandonment William is referencing in the future may very well be Oliver and Felicity sending him to board school.

Uhh... that’s not abandonment kiddo. But it’s also entirely possible another separation is coming too.

However, Oliver is exactly who Robert Queen asked him to be – a better man. Whatever mistakes Robert made with his life and children, Oliver will either avoid or fix it. Oliver is the hero and father Robert never could be. The only real certainty we have is Oliver’s love, honor, selflessness and constant striving to be better can heal whatever pain is caused. That’s just who Oliver is. It’s why we love him.

Source: olicitygifs

This is exactly what Felicity tells Oliver on their balcony, complete with shoulder nuzzle.

Source: olicitygifs

Robert committed a great wrong by abandoning his own child. Oliver can’t fix everything for Emiko, but he can offer to be something no Queen ever has- her family.

Emiko and Rene

It’s very important to the Arrow writers that we understand Emiko is just like Oliver. She chases bad guys in dark alleys, hangs them upside down and puts the fear of God into them until they talk. She has her very own book with names to cross off. (Seriously how many copies did Robert Queen hand out?) Emiko works in a super secret dilapidated lair with perfectly lit soft glow lights.

Not green though! Emiko is back lit in purple because she’s a girl. Honestly, at times it looks a little red too. Do what you will with that information, but no green lights should be your immediate tip off that Emiko won’t become the new Green Arrow. Is Arrow really that obvious? Yes, my sweet summer children. They are.

Emiko even has her own voice over talking about injustice, the broken system and how someone must stand up to stop it. The similarities to Oliver don’t end there! Emiko is also a stubborn, extreme loner with severe anger issues. I may have wiki’d Bereavement Disorder too. But darn it, Emiko has a good heart and is a hero too!

If you’ve sensed some sarcasm coming from me you’d be right. I know the Arrow writers love a good parallel. It’s their crack cocaine, but pulling major beats from Oliver’s storyline and making Emiko Oliver 2.0 felt like lazy writing to me. It’s a quick way to imbed Emiko in the story without doing seven years of character building. Oliver did all the heavy lifting and Emiko is cashing in.

She even gets shot and has to turn to her beautiful, genius, funny and IT – wait. No. Emiko goes to Rene. Not Felicity. I suppose it’s nice our couple is so iconic the writers are stealing storylines from them, but get your own damn shipper moments! I draw the line at Rene being the Felicity in any situation. Nope. No sir. Unacceptable.

I’m hopeful we’ll get more individualism from her character as she develops. I know I am typically a fan of the super obvious parallel, but it felt like a short cut this time around. The great thing about all these similarities to Oliver is they will be like two cats fighting. They’ll drive each other nuts. Or at least Oliver will drive Emiko nuts. Oliver will be more focused on apologizing for their douche bag dad and begging for a chance to get to know her.

After Rene blows one of Emiko’s ambushes she warns the next time it happens she’ll put an arrow in him. There. We found a difference! Oliver would have shot Rene now.

But Emiko wants to know why Rene is helping her.

“You said your mission is personal. So is mine. I watched as my wife got shot to death by a drug dealer from these streets. And for a long time, all I saw was red. Then I met Oliver Queen and the team and they helped me channel my anger into a fight for a better life. I just want to pay that forward.”

It’s a good speech except Rene leaves out how he turned states evidence on Oliver, but that’s just details. There’s another nod to red. Someone on Twitter told me Emiko will become Red Arrow, so maybe that’s going to happen. Or it could mean nothing. Time will tell. Rene does get Emiko to trust him and she finally fills us all in on her back story.

A fire began in Emiko and Kazumi’s apartment building, but the fire department never came because it was in the Glades. The building burned down and her mother died. However, Kazumi wasn’t killed by the fire. Emiko believes she was shot in the head by Glen Morgan. Emiko is hell bent on getting justice for her mother’s death.

Unfortunately, Glen Morgan swears he didn’t kill Emiko’s mother. He was out of the country for the last two years. He’s being set up. This means Emiko is no closer to finding her mother’s killer. I have a feeling Kazumi’s murder will lead back to A.R.G.U.S. and Deputy Director Bell.

Emiko needs Oliver’s help, but they’ll have plenty of issues to work through. No shortage of drama there!

Source: felicitysmoakgifs

Felicity: I mean I’m no therapist but I’m pretty sure the technical term for that is cry for help.

Felicity is right. Becoming Green Arrow 2.0 isn’t exactly a subtle way of signaling a connection to Oliver.

Emiko put on the hood after Oliver admitted who he was and went to prison. She had to know either Oliver or Team Arrow would be curious about her identity. Perhaps Emiko thought it would be impossible to discover her identity because Oliver was in prison, she’s not in the system, and there are no birth records. Emiko Queen doesn’t exist according to the world.

Source: @smoaktechs

Hence her anger. She was abandoned by her father and then again by the Queen family after he died. Robert’s reasons don’t really matter to me. The bottom line is he chose Oliver and Thea over Emiko. At least that’s how it looks, regardless of Robert’s intentions, and I’m fairly certain this is how Emiko feels about it too.

So, it’s not all that surprising she chose to put on the hood after Oliver’s incarceration. The hood serves as a great vehicle for Emiko to find justice and she knows her identity will be fairly well protected. It signals a connection to Oliver, but also frustratingly denies him the answer to what the connection is. It is Emiko’s way of saying, “I know who you are, but you don’t know who I am,” while giving Oliver the middle finger.

However, the real reason Emiko became the Green Arrow was to steal a part of Oliver’s identity. She wanted to take something precious from Oliver’s life just like he took something precious from hers. Emiko wanted Oliver to see someone else living the identity that was rightfully his. She wants Oliver to sit in jail and watch, absolutely powerless to stop it. Just like Emiko was powerless to stop being denied a Queen.

@callistawolf mentioned this in our 7x10 podcast but it is so bang on I have to mention it here. Emiko is like Will Scarlet from Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves.

Robin lost his mother at a young age and his father found comfort in the arms of another woman for a time. Robin felt Lord Locksley was betraying his mother’s memory, so his father gave the woman up. Will Scarlet was the product of their affair. Instead of living in comfort, with a father who loved him, Will and his mother were forced to live in poverty. Will was denied the name and life that was rightfully his because their father chose Robin.

Will: It’s not a lie! You ruined my life! I have more reason to hate you than anyone, but I found myself daring to believe in you. What I want to know brother is will you stay with us and finish what you started?

Robin: I have a brother? I have a brother. I will make my stand with you. Side by side. Until the end.

It’s a great scene. I get choked up every time I watch it. No it doesn’t matter Kevin Costner could never master an English accent. Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves is the shit. Don’t @ me.

To be fair, Robin didn’t know about Will Scarlet so directing all the blame at him isn’t entirely fair. The same goes for Oliver. He didn’t know about Emiko so whatever anger is being directed at him isn’t entirely fair either. However, Will could only direct his anger at Robin because their father was dead. Sound familiar? We’ve even got the damn bow and arrows kids.

It’s not about what Oliver did for Emiko. It’s about what he represents. But as Emiko embraces a darker path with Rene, it is clear her big brother is exactly who she needs right now.

Flash Forwards

We finally see the inside of the Glades in the flash forwards and it looks exactly like the Capitol from The Hunger Games.

Everything is bright, shiny and everyone feels evil. As we predicted, Rene is a mayor.

He has spectacularly awful hair and needs to lay off the spray tan.

It’s bad friends. It’s real bad.

A man who looks exactly like Seneca Crane hails Rene as the person who single handedly cleaned up the Glades. Uhhhh okay?

Zoe is Chief of Staff, but she doesn’t seem to really care. She tries to tell Rene about the plan to blow up Star City, but Rene doesn’t seem to really care. Well, great. Good talk guys.

Rene: When the Glades needed help no one came to our rescue.

Listen up, Mr. Mayor. Oliver Queen’s mission was never about saving part of the city. The mission was to save ALL of Star City. What’s happening to the citizens outside the Glades in the flash forwards is not any better than what’s happening to the citizens inside the Glades during present day. The location of the problem is just flipped, but it’s still the same problem. Rene is no savior and he’s definitely no Oliver Queen.

Zoe wants access to something called the Archer program. It’s the security system that wiped out crime and keeps the citizens of the Glades safe. It also sounds exactly like something Felicity Smoak would invent and then name after her husband. I STAN ONE COUPLE.

In fact, Felicity is working on a new security system in present day which registers DNA (thanks to Delaney @Lane1812 for pointing that out!). That is probably the first genesis of the Archer program.

At some point this security program falls into the wrong hands - Deputy Director Bell perhaps or maybe the Ghost Protocol goes terribly wrong. According to Rene, they “barely recovered.” I’m assuming he’s talking about the Glades. It’s been a couple years since the Glades were attacked and it would make a great parallel to Star City being under attack in the flash forwards.

Rene refuses to give Zoe the codes to the Archer program and she pretty much gives him my speech (re: see above) about the days he used to give a crap about the entire city. You’re doing great, sweetie.

Dinah arranges a clandestine meeting by night with Rene and by that I mean she sneaks up on him. He refuses to hand over the codes until Dinah threatens to beat the crap out of him. Dinah would totally win. The accuracy is real.

She did try to appeal to Rene’s conscience first. Dinah tells him Felicity is dead and he seems genuinely shocked by the news. Dinah reminds Rene he is part of the Mark of Four and they owe it to Felicity to stop whatever is going to happen to Star City.

Dinah: We made a promise to always keep fighting, to be there for each other no matter what – all of us. You, me, Roy, Diggle, Oliver and Felicity.

Now we officially know the Mark of Four members. You know what name I didn’t hear? CURTIS HOLT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! YAHOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!

We have a shot in hell now of Curtis being kicked off this show at some point.

I expressed my joy about this on Twitter and I got a couple “this person isn’t on it either” as if it is meaningless Curtis isn’t included. So I’m going to head these names off at the pass.

1) Barry – there is no way the writers would include a main character from another DC show (the lead no less) to be part of a major Arrow storyline, which the Mark of Four is. Thank you. Next.

2) Bl*ck Siren/L*urel – these characters are all Team Arrow members and BS has never been part of Team Arrow. I don’t think she ever will be. At best, she’ll fill a consultant like role. The Spike to Arrow’s Scooby Gang. For whatever reason she’s not part of the Mark of Four, which isn’t surprising, but in no way compares to Curtis. He is the only Team Arrow member left off the list.

3) Thea – Willa Holland is not on the show anymore. They would not include a character that is no longer on the show.

If you are wondering why Roy is part of the Mark of Four I would buckle up and prepare for some bad Thea news. Either Roy and Thea broke up or she’s dead. Personally, I prefer dead. I don’t want the reason Theroy not getting their happy ending is because they couldn’t make it work. Upside is we’ll get to see Roy in present day and hopefully soon.

Anyway, Curtis being left of the list is significant and nobody can tell me otherwise. I KNOW MY TRUTH. I shall celebrate with glee and keep a watchful eye for a potential exit storyline.

If Diaz kills Curtis I might have to like him and that scares me.

Rene meets with Flash Forward Seneca Crane to tell him Dinah has “the plans.” So, Flash Forward Seneca Crane is the one planning to blow up Star City. Rene agreed to build up the Glades, but never planned to wipe out the city. Flash Forward Seneca Crane explains Star City is a “cancer which must be cut out.”

Finally, Rene asks about Felicity’s murder. Seneca Crane explains she was becoming a “liability.” It would seem we’ve met Felicity’s “murderer” or at least the person behind her murder. Where’s a bow and arrow when you need one?

If you’re wondering who the hell is Seneca Crane allow me to explain.

Seneca Crane is the head game maker in The Hunger Games, but Katniss Everdeen outsmarts him in the end. There is no way this half baked version of Seneca Crane outsmarted Felicity Smoak. She’s our Katniss Everdeen. Hell, she’s better than Katniss Everdeen. Felicity is alive and working undercover to stop the destruction of Star City.

I don’t believe Rene is evil either, despite acting like he has zero problem with killing Felicity Smoak. It’s either one of two things. A) He’s been working undercover with Felicity the whole time or B) Rene was unaware of what was truly going on, but now that he does he will work with William & team to stop it.

I’m going with B for now.

Dyla

Back on the other show called “The Stupid Thing Diggle Did This Week,” John offers Diaz his freedom if he hands over the terrorist financier Dante. WHAAAAAAAT?

When Deputy Director Bell asks WTF is going on (dude same) Diggle explains he and Lyla are reinstating the Ghost Protocol, which is basically a poor man’s version of Suicide Squad. Lyla is pissed because Diggle cooked up this plan without discussing it with her and then, by telling Bell, made it impossible not to back it. Lyla shut down the Ghost Initiative and swore never to reopen it. Diggle knew that. He insists it’s the perfect cover for their operation and everything will be fine, which automatically means this will be a disaster.

Lyla: And here I thought I was the one in danger of becoming Amanda Waller.

DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAMN. You want some ice on that burn Diggle?

Diggle needs to go back to Oliver and Felicity. He’s a mess without them.

Stray Thoughts

Hey! Who gave Emiko her mask? *side eyeing Barry Allen*

At some point they will need to tell us who makes the suits. This is like waiting for the identity of Gossip Girl.

Sara gave Emiko a leather jacket too. Uh oh. Don’t tell L*urel. ;)

I’d also like to know where Emiko learned to fight and shoot. Just details. No biggie.

I wish Emiko had money. I miss billionaire Oliver.

Well I said Emiko’s mother is either China White or a random character. They went with rando.

The aging makeup is extremely bad in high definition. Has anyone Arrow actually met a 50 year old? They don’t look like Rene and Dinah. Moira Queen was 50 when she died. Robert Queen was almost 50 when he died. Did they look like they’ve been left out baking in the sun for twenty years? No. Do they not have hair dye in the future? This is ridiculous. People are living until their eighties and nineties. Fifty is not that old. Get a grip makeup department.

“One of the canaries.” OMG are there more in the future? Canary, LL Bl*ck Canary, White Canary, Bl*ck Siren, DD Bl*ck Canary, ZR Bl*ck Canary. That’s at least six, but sure Jan she’s an original character.

Rene saying, “We need a person in the chair" proves my exact point about Curtis. The writers are constantly making the genius of Felicity Smoak sound replaceable and it fucking bugs the shit out of me.

Smeh. No matter how much they say they aren't doing a replacement Thea storyline that's exactly what it looks like. There was nothing in this episode that dissuaded my opinion on that matter. It sounds disingenuous to say otherwise.

Arrow is getting into a bad habit of killing mothers. This isn’t a Disney movie. Find a new theme.

Disclaimer: Any gifs on the blog are not mine. If you would like a gif removed from my reviews, please message me. 7x10 gifs credited.

If you’d like to support the blog, please buy me a cup of tea!

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obscuretickles · 5 years

Text

Sibling rivalry

Fandom: Kingsman

Characters: Eggsy, sister!reader

Summary: You’re being annoying and Eggsy has had enough. Brace yourself, bitch.

Hope you like this anon!! It was really fun to write :)

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'Hurry it up, old man!'

You fought the urge to snicker as you saw your brother, Eggsy, whip his head round the corner of the kitchen and glare at you from where you were sat at the dining table.

'I'll poison this bloody food if you're not careful'

He disappeared from sight and you could hear chopping and all manners of appliances being turned on and used in whatever mystery meal he was preparing. You were quite excited to taste it- although you'd never say it, Eggsy was a damn good cook and you always anticipated the dishes he made.

After a few minutes of sitting in silence (with only the sound of your brother fussing about in the kitchen for company) you grew bored of waiting.

'Hey, fossil!' You jeered. He was only a few years older than you but it got on his nerves to be called 'old', and as his sibling it was your human right to annoy him. 'When's the pig slop gonna be ready?'

Eggsy sauntered into the room holding two plates of...chicken nuggets and chips?

He put your plate down in front of you and joined you at the table. You stared at the food in front of you. You loved chicken nuggets, but whenever Eggsy cooked, it was always something...special. Eggsy must of noticed your disappointed look.

'What's wrong, your majesty? Chicken nuggets aren't good enough for you?' He smirked. 'Yeah, sorry I didn't cook some seven course banquet, Harry's had me rushed off my feet recently. Still, you like this kind of greasy shit don't you?'

You looked at your plate disheartendly and poked it around. 'Uhh...sure' You muttered, slicing into chicken. You and Eggsy ate in silence for a while, but once more you couldn't help but piss him off again.

'So, how much time did it take you to learn how to use the oven? I hope our modern technology wasn't too complicated for you' You couldn't hold back your laughter as Eggsy slammed his fork on the table and glowered at you. You could tell he wasn't actually angry- you'd seen that before and aimed to keep it as far away as possible.

He stood from his chair (The creaky old one at the end of the table, the one you often liked to compare to his old bones) and walked around so that he stood behind you. You'd never seen him actually act upon his 'irritation' to your wisecracks so this was new to you.

'Uhh, what are you doing back there?' You stopped eating and turned around to see Eggsy wearing a shiteating grin and before you had a chance to react he grabbed your chair and tipped it backwards. He did it in such a way that left you stunned but unharmed, and as you felt yourself fall to the floor (luckily you didn't hurt yourself) he grabbed under your arms and pulled you onto the nearby sofa.

'You bloody-what do you think you're doing?' You protested, trying to wriggle out of his grasp but to no avail.

'Fancy calling me old again, do ya? Go on, just try it' Sneered Eggsy, a mischevious look on his face. He was sitting on your hands that were now outstretched over your head.

'Ugh whatever! Get off of me!' And, before you could stop yourself, 'Wrinkly bastard'

'RIGHT!' You felt strong fingers squeeze at your ribs and you yelped in surprise before falling into hysterics. Eggsy towered over you, leaning over you as you tried to break free.

'I'd tell you to call me old again but I reckon you can't speak too good right about now, huh?' He teased. You tried to sound angry but were too overcome with giggles to sound anything other than an excited schoolgirl.

'S-St-' You stammered out, attempting to plead with the sadistic twat (aka. your brother) but he was right about you not being able to get your words out.

'Huh? You tryna talk or something?' He set his right hand to work with clawing at your stomach and his left hand dug into your sides. 'Well speak up ya little bitch!' He'd often call you 'bitch' as a term of...endearment (His excuse, anyway).

'STOP!' You cried out through hysterical laughter, trying to bring your knees up to protect yourself.

'Oh well done! Now try 'Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious'' Eggsy said casually as if he wasn't tickling you to tears and proceeded to tickle you harder.

You could feel your energy slowly being sapped and your stomach was starting to hurt from laughing so much and you knew you couldn't take much more but no matter what you did you couldn't get him to stop.

'Pleahehehse!' And to your surprise, Eggsy slowed the tickling until it stopped completley. Your arms felt lighter when he stood up and went back to his chair at the table. He resumed his meal after giving you a wink and returned to acting like nothing had just happened. You took some time to get your breath back and refused to look him in the eye.

How dare he! You had so much more jokes about his age and just him in general and now you couldn't even use them when he got on your nerves. After that day, he'd made it very clear that any more pranks or wisecracks from you would result in a much worse tickling than what you got before.

You just hoped he wouldn't tell Harry or Merlin (spoiler alert- he would).

#kingsman #eggsy #harry #merlin #tickle #tickling #ler #lee #fic #ticklefic

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honestlyjustanidiot · 4 years

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Oddd numbers xx

1 - The meaning behind my url/Spotify, SoundCloud, or Pandora? - am just an idiot really lol/Spotify

3 - How many tattoos i have and what they are/what color are your eyes? - none yet/brown and boring

5 - Piercings i have/what is your relationship status? - none lol/ single 🤙🏽🤙🏽

7 - Biggest turn offs/what color hair do you have? - dishonesty, lack of trust, being unkind etc/really dark brown to the point it looks black but it isn't quite

9 - Tattoos i want/where do you shop? - I can't commit to any bc I'm indecisive and want to find one I know am not gonna regret or dislike later/ primark mostly bc I'm a broke student lol

11 - Age/favorite social media account - 20/of mine? I like to use Snapchat. someone else's? I love Alycia Debnam-Carey's instagram

13 - Life goal/any siblings? - to be happy and in a good job/ 1 yep

15 - Relationship status/favorite snapchat filter? - single lol/ I don't really use filters so I'll be basic and say the dog one

17 - A fact about my life/how many times a week do you shower? - it's a mess lol/at least 3 to wash my hair and then whenever I need it

19 - Middle name/shoe size? - Grace/ UK size 4

21 - Are you a virgin/sandals or sneakers? - yep lol/ trainers all the way

23 - What’s your sexual orientation/describe your dream date - bisexual/ anything with the other person as long as we're together lol

25 - Someone you miss/what color socks are you wearing? - my best friends/ pink

27 - First celebrity you think of when someone says attractive/do you have a job? what do you do? - Alycia Debnam-Carey/ student athlete studying for an MPhys in physics with particle physics and cosmology

29 - One insecurity/whats the worst thing you have ever done? - I'm really insecure about my stomach lol/idek

31 - Have you ever taken a picture naked/3 favorite boy names - who hasn't/ Jacob, Finnley, Tobin (yes this is from a list of baby names o have)

33 - Have you ever kissed a member of the same sex/favorite actor? - yeah/ idk probs Bradley Cooper

35 - Have you ever danced in front of your mirror/who is your celebrity crush? - who hasn't/ Lauren Jauregui, Alycia Debnam-Carey, Alex Morgan

37 - Have you ever been dumped/do you read a lot? whats your favorite book? - not properly/ I don't normally have time but I'm reading more now even though I have the attention span of a teaspoon, my favourite book is The Silver Linings Playbook by Matthew Quick

39 - Have you ever gotten in a car with people you just met/do you have a nickname? what is it? - does a taxi count? Then yeah/ yeah I get H, Han, Blanket, Rat, and Titlash the most

41 - Have you ever snuck out of your house?/top 10 favorite songs - no lol/ think about thinks (daði freyr), sideways (Marian Hill), expectations (lauren jauregui), there she is (Frank Turner), Thinkin bout you (Frank ocean), work song (hozier), satisfied (Hamilton), escape (kehlani), more (halsey), fallingforyou (the 1975)

43 - Have you ever been arrested/what is your skin type? (oily, dry, etc) - nope/ like a mix between oily and dry

45 - Have you ever met up with a member of the opposite sex somewhere/how many kids do you want? - yeah/ I think at least 2 but I wanna adopt if I can

47 - Have you ever had a crush on your neighbor/what type of house do you live in? (big, small, etc) - yeah on one of the girls that lived above me in first year/ people say my house is big but it isn't

49 - Have you ever slept in a bed with a member of the same sex/what was the last compliment you received? - yeah/ I think I got called sweet last night by my best friend

51 - Have you ever been on a plane/how old were you when you found out santa wasn’t real? - yeah, I go on holiday out of the country once a year if I can/ like 5 I think

53 - Have you ever slept in until 3/opinion on smoking? - yeah, mostly only when I'm sick or hungover though/ I don't like it personally and I don't do it but if you do I'll stand outside with you at a club and stuff just don't blow the smoke at me ya feel

55 - Have you ever laid on your back and watched cloud shapes go by/what is your dream job? - oh yeah/ I'd love to work at CERN on the atlas or cms projects to find the non standard model higgs bosons or find some pop iii stars or trying to determine the make up of dark matter or dark energy. Less realistically I'd love to be a professional rugby player or professional karateka

57 - Have you ever played dress up/do you take shampoo and conditioner bottles from hotels? - what little kid didn't/ lol yeah all the time

59 - Have you ever been lonely/do you smile for pictures? - yeah/ not always

61 - Have you ever been to a club/have you ever peed in the woods? - literally at our su run club every Wednesday/ not that I recall

63 - Have you ever touched a snake/do you prefer chicken nuggets from Wendy’s or McDonald's? - yeah they brought a snake to school when I was in year 1 for some reason/ we don't have Wendy's here so maccies

65 - Have you ever been suspended from school/what do you wear to bed? - nope/ shorts and a t-shirt

67 - Have you ever been in a car accident/ what are your hobbies? - nope thank god/ rugby and reading mostly

69 - Have you ever witnessed a crime/do you play an instrument? - not that I recall/lol no I wish

71 - Have you ever been lost/tea or coffee? - nah/ coffee

73 - Have you ever felt like dying/do you want to get married? - lol yep/ big time

75 - Have you ever sang karaoke/are you going to change your last name when you get married? - no I hate it/ depends

77 - Have you ever laughed until something you were drinking came out your nose/do you miss anyone right now? - lol yeah and it hurts/ I miss my best friends M and E

79 - Have you ever kissed in the rain/do you believe in ghosts? - I think? I don't remember if it was raining or not in this one memory I'm thinking of that's the most likely (edit: I found the date from a snap memory bc it was a really specific day and it was hailing at one point that night so idk if it then rained later or kept hailing or stopped) / not really but sorta

81 - Have you ever made out in a park/last person you called - nope/my best friend M

83 - Have you ever glued your hand to something/regular oreos or golden oreos? - bits of paper and shit and themselves all the time bc I'm clumsy/ double stuff

85 - Have you ever gone to school partially naked/what shirt are you wearing? - lol no/ my roses 2019 shirt

87 - Have you ever sat on a roof top/are you outgoing or shy? - not that I recall/ I'm a twat when you know me and I'm comfortable around you but I'm shy otherwise

89 - Have you ever been too scared to watch scary movies alone/do you like your neighbors? - yeah all the time lol/ I like some of them lol

91 - Have you ever been pushed into a pool with all your clothes on/have you ever been high? - not that I recall/ nope

93 - Have you ever broken a bone/last thing you ate? - yeah, humorous, a toe, and 2 fingers/ burger and chips

95 - Have you ever laughed so hard you cried/summer or winter? - lol yeah all the time/ autumn lol

97 - Have you ever cheated on a test/dark, milk, or white chocolate? - who hasn't/ milk if I have to pick but I don't really go out of my way to eat chocolate

99 - Have you ever met someone who didn’t seem real/what is your zodiac sign - yeah and then she turned out to be a massive dick lol/ sun: taurus, moon: aquarius, rising: scorpio

#Asks #Ask #Anon #ask me stuff #ask me anything #ask me questions #send me asks #Bored #bored in lockdown

0 notes

bedfordrambles · 7 years

Text

2:33AM

Matty can’t really believe what he’s hearing, or seeing. Yes - he knows George can have a temper, a kind of sudden rage that escalates quickly but deflates just as fast. He knows, he’s the same - which is why they knock heads from time to time, but all in all brings them closer, a common ground.

Tonight - it’s different. It’s not the typical tour bus wind up’s, the annoyance when their manager messes something up, frustrations when some part of a song, new project won’t come out the way it is in his head.

Tonight it’s something new. Tonight it’s because of his girlfriend.

Something Matty very quickly learns when George arrives home, their shared flat, well after midnight and you’re nowhere to be seen.

Confusion, surprise - when he asks where you are, more out of habit than actual concern. Knowing - you and George were inseparable when they had a break from tour or rather a break from touring in other countries. Albeit - when he catches George’s eye, all but stalking past him towards his room, he knows something’s happened.

Hints of rage, ferocity - a tension. Fingers - his arm, asking him what had happened.

“Will you for once stay fucking out of my shit, Matty.”

It’s a harsh sound - through thin lips and clenched teeth. And usually - he wouldn’t push it, but usually George told him everything. That’s what they did. Symbiotic at best.

Matty - a sigh, but managing to keep his patience. You and George had never fought much, not that Matty had witnessed anyhow, so this was new. Disquietude - replacing silence when he asks again. Matty - uneasy when George doesn’t answer, eyes fixed on some spot on the floor. But - he knows, it can’t have been anything that bad, detrimental, and he suspects you’re gone off to your own flat, or a mates.

Quiet - only the buzz of a cat video Matty had been watching, cars passing somewhere outside, window left open.

Deciding - to try and coax it out of him, thinking back to tour, if he had said anything. Sudden - remembering George’s distaste of some bloke, close friend of yours, a lot of pictures, a lot of mentioning him to George when you called. And Matty had tried his best to tell him to come off it when he voiced concerns over the friendship. Telling him the last thing he wanted to do was become a possessive dick.

But - he also knew George had insecurities when it came to you, not taking long for jealousy to root, deep.

Matty, borderline hesitate - asking if it was because of him, your friend. When there’s still no answer, Matty groans, knowing. He told him not to, warned him not to.

“Mate, you didn’t..”

“I didn’t mean to! I - it just happened so quick, we were on the way home, talking, I asked about him and it was just messing about at first then she told me to piss off then, I dunno - I lost it, I guess. Said she could find her own way home.”

A rush - words tumbling, Matty finding it hard to keep up, comprehend. He could have already guessed, put together that there had been an argument of some sort. The last of the confession is what catches his attention, causes him to blink and stare, gauging.

Brown - fleeting glances, not meeting Matty’s. Guilt - spreading, covering up the earlier remains of irritation.

“You left her?”

Silence - and he starts biting his nails. A tell tale sign. Matty isn’t quite sure what to feel now, his own recreation of events, sympathy for his best friend dissipating.

“Where?”

Silence. Autoplay was on, the cat videos changing to dogs. George - eyes on the floor.

“Why? Why the fuck would you do that? Fucking hell, G.”

A vexation building - somewhere in him. It’s half two in the morning. You and George had been coming back from visiting friends, you could be anywhere, the middle of nowhere. Unease.

Fingers - his jacket from the couch, glaring. Indignation, disbelievement.

“And I thought I was fucked up. She’s a girl, mate, your girl, and it’s half two in the morning. How could you just kick her out and drive off?”

Fire - fueling back up, George. Familiar - George liked to have the last word.

“As if you’re so fucking perfect, a model boyfriend,” - gravel, a snarl. Derision.

Virulence, words of higher animosity clawing up his throat. Natural reflexes - to bite back, harsher. A pointless defence because he knows George is right, his track record with his girl, long ago girls of interest, was far from clean. George is mostly right in these cases, that only riles Matty up more.

Staring - waiting, George. And Matty is faced with a choice. Stay and get in the last word, leave and help you, maybe even repair whatever damage had be done.

You don’t look at him. Not when he pulls up beside you, not when he begs you to just get into the car, not when he offers you a cigarette and an awkward one armed hug, not when he asks if you’re alright, not when he apologises for George.

In all honesty - Matty was the last person you had expected to venture to find you. Not that you had expected George either - you had waited long enough, just in case he might double back, regret. It was a false hope. He didn’t.

About to call a taxi - when Matty showed up. Nearing three in the morning.

It’s quiet - comfortable, warm. The only sounds - the radio, low, Matty humming along. The Velvet Underground. Quick glances - eyes on the road, hair pulled back, only illuminated by car lights, passing, a yawn. Shadows - flickering over features.

You think this is the softest, calmest you’ve ever seen him. Habitually - brash, loud, bouncing off the walls. A change. He hadn’t spoken - not since you had snapped at him, telling him this was bollocks, you were more than capable of finding your own way home. Something that was only met with a soft sound - your name, and an ‘alright, love.’

Part of you - itching, to tell him. To vent before you imploded. But - you didn’t know where he stood on the matter, what George had told him. So - you leave it on a loop inside your head instead. Not really able to find the words.

Outskirts of town - and you jump a bit, pulled from thoughts, Matty. A nearing McDonald’s, and he asks if it’s okay if he stops for a bit, telling you his eating habits are still a bit all over the place from tour.

A nod - you’re more humoured by the fact he actually asked, opposed to just doing. Typical Matty.

Fast food - lingering in the air, spreading over the familiar sent of cigarettes, worn out leather of the seats, the car. Car park. The Velvet Underground, drowned out to Pinback, Penelope.

Burgers, shared chips, chicken nuggets - admitting he’d overdone it a bit. Quiet - you don’t think you’ve ever witness him be this quiet for so long, that wasn’t Matty. Eyes catching - every now and then, small smiles, timid.

The unfortunate event - eyes on your phone, misjudging a chip to mouth, sauce smearing. A chuckle - fingers reaching over, swiping over skin, your nose. Emerald - glinting, lips curling around his cigarette.

“Alright?” - and you nod, a barely audible, “yeah”

Mirroring - your nod, turning back to the window, rolled down, smoke curling.

“Matty,” eyes flickering back to you, questioning. "Why did you come?"

A smile - cigarette to his lips, a shrug. "Just figured you'd need a lift back, I'm not a complete arsehole, y'know? Unlike like your boyfriend."

He doesn't miss the sudden tension when he says that, mentions George. And the tinge of vulnerability when you ask,

“What did he tell you?”

Flashes - earlier, George driving, growing louder and louder. Over something stupid, idiotic, irrational. A close friend, one you had since uni. Who also just happened to be male, and you suppose a bit attractive. While the boys were away, you had been spending more time with him. Something George obviously didn’t like. Irrational.

Annoyance, growing - spiraling into rage, insults, hurtful comments. Ones you knew he didn’t really mean, and you held your patience, trying to say sorry, trying to comfort him and tell him the whole idea was ridiculous. But he told you, demanded not to touch him. And maybe when he said you that you’d been a shit girlfriend lately - something snapped. Louder, harsher.

A sigh - truthful, “Not all that much. I know George is my best mate - but that doesn’t mean I don’t think he’s a right twat at times, and whatever happened, I’m not taking sides. But I do think you both need to sort it out, soon.”

About to protest - he holds up a finger, starting the car.

“I don’t mean tonight, go home and have a kip first, then when you’re both not so emotional. Don’t worry about it though, he’ll realise what a prick he’s being, he likes having you around too much to fuck it up over something stupid. I’ll talk to him, I’m quite fond of you too, innit? We have some great nights out.”

A smirk, eyes flickering. You shake your head - remembering one of the first nights, striving to impress, matching Matty on tequlia, only to end up puking all over him on the way home. An entertained sound - despite yourself, telling him to shut up.

Cigarette smoke, his smile - illuminated by car lights, overhead glow of street lamps. And you and him had never been that close - accusing you of stealing George from him for the most part.

But tonight - maybe for the first time, you kind of want to keep him around.

#hey this is rlly bad yikes #tried to tie two prompts together #george daniel #matty healy #the 1975 #george daniel fanfic

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suspiciousgay · 7 years

Note

hey, hey mx. nonnie!! wth are you doing?!?!? stop attacking Uno this way??? come to me if you have anything to say about Uno, bc what you have to say about the kid you can say to me too. stop being a big twat nugget and stop telling a child to kill themselves!!! no but in all seriousness Uno, turn of nonumous for a lil bit maybe that'll get them to shut up

shit that’s what i was forgetting to do

thanks for reminding me

#✿＼(｡-_-｡) i got yo flower #just in case

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paulhudd · 5 years

Text

Spindlefreck Book Two: Pt Two: Dream A Little Dream Of Me

Gilray Residence, Mount Merrion, Dublin

Saturday, 8th April 1989:

Paddy was appearing as an expert witness at a coroner’s court in Dundalk and wouldn't be back until late on Tuesday night, so over the next 36 hours Niamh planned to stay in bed and go on honeymoon with the Nevins. She took a slug of Night Nurse, drank a mug of Horlicks, laid on top of the duvet, turned out the lamp, closed her eyes and waited for sleep to come. 10 minutes later, she was still wide awake.

No good. Too excited. Time for the last resort.

She rummaged in the back of her skimpies drawer and took out an old box of Tampons containing a little nugget of Moroccan hash and a pack of cigarette papers that Emil had left behind the previous year. She rolled a small joint with some of Paddy’s shag and smoked it on the back porch. She wasn't used to it, the high hit her hard, but it wasn't long before that sleepy feeling came over her and she succumbed to sweet slumber...

... she walked across the bridge of clouds that led down to the sundrenched beach and the closed Magritte door. “Oona!” she called, until the door slowly opened and a blinding light shone on her face. A warm, inviting voice shouted back: “Come in! We’re in the bedroom!”

She walked in, passing through the blinding light into a narrow, darkened corridor. She felt cool tiles against the soles of her feet as she walked; she traced the velvety nap of flocked wallpaper with her fingertips as she made her way toward the brightly lit outline of a door up ahead. She gingerly turned the handle and entered, a little afraid of what she’d see.

Oona was in the midst of making love to her new husband in a nondescript, self-catering apartment in some unexceptional Spanish holiday resort. It was the middle of the day, but the curtains were pulled over an open window and Ni could hear children splashing about in the pool outside while Oona screamed and moaned in untrammelled, shameless delight, unmindful that half the complex could probably hear her. It was quite a sight to behold, but for Ni at least, not in the least bit arousing. Especially when Oona broke the fourth wall during a reverse cowgirl and addressed her phantom friend in her ‘outside-voice’: “Shall we go shoppin’ after, moy luvly?!”

Oblivious, Craigy groaned, “Anything, just don’t stop...!”

Oona giggled as she rocked, <don’t just sit there, join in...>

Ni baulked, No, I’m not in the mood for a metaphysical three-way just yet.

She was a little jealous at first, then it sunk in that this wasn't going to be a physical relationship. There would be no love affairs in the Real World. This was as real as it was going to get.

Oona read her mind and answered in her ‘inside voice’; that cool, intelligent, sexy voice that made Ni’s heart beat a little faster: <Don’t fret, my darling. Don’t forget, I can make you feel everything I feel and Craigy will be none the wiser. I can take us out of this room and up into the skies, just you and me in each other’s arms, both of us feeling what I feel now.>

The next thing she knew, she was soaring high amongst the clouds with her dream lover, naked and free, their limbs entwined, their lips locked in a passionate kiss, the thrill of ecstasy flowing through their bodies...

Two days later: The housemates sat in the conservatory to take their after-dinner coffee. As Paddy settled into his seat and took the newspaper from his briefcase, he espied a note he’d written in the margin above his crossword (a handy way to remember things), “Oh, the strangest thing - you’ll never guess who phoned me today.”

“James Rossington,” Ni replied, matter-of-factly, reading a Love and Rockets comic and munching on a Penguin.

Paddy raised his eyebrows and jooked over the rims of his nezzies, “By Jiminy! Spot on! What number am I thinking of?”

“Don’t call the Magic Circle just yet -- one of the clerks in the Dean’s office rang to tip-me-off. He’s offered me an internship, hasn’t he?” She looked up from her comic, “What do you think of that?”

He shrugged, “I dunno... What should ‘I think of that’?”

“Well, look at it this way: a week ago I went to Kildare looking for wetlands and find this secluded village; then, when I get to the bog, I’m waylaid by two of Oliver Laphen’s men, and the next thing I know, Rossington -- Laphen’s doctor -- is offering me an internship?!” She raised her eyebrows and awaited his reply.

Paddy was surprised by her reaction, “He was perfectly charming when he spoke to me, no hint of anything untoward. He asked me to ask you if you were free for an interview in the morning...” Then he thought about it for a bit, then asked with furrowed brow, “You haven’t been making trouble again, have you? I’m not so worried for myself, but when it comes to Phil Somerville’s career...?”

“Honestly, Uncle Paddy -- I haven’t said anything to anyone or done anything to put either of you in the soup since you told me off,” she replied, emphatically, “I’m just saying it’s a bit suspicious, especially in light of what Scanlon ‘n Gorringe said about him.” She took another bite of her biscuit and ruminated as she chewed, “It makes you wonder why he’s suddenly become so interested in me...?”

“Paranoia is an interesting subject for a student of Criminal Psychology, wouldn't you agree?” he winked.

“I’m not being paranoid. C’mon! Rossington? What possible interest could he have in a 19 year old pipsqueak like me... unless he has an ulterior motive?”

“Then, why don’t you go along to the interview and find out?”

“Oh, I intend to. I wouldn't miss it for the world.”

The next day: Where the suburbs meet open country, in the eastern outskirts of Dublin City, stood St Cedric’s Institution for the Criminally Insane (SCICI). It resembled an old redbrick Victorian hospital, but with thick iron bars bolted to every window and a huge disused front door, tastefully bricked-up so that it was in keeping with the foreboding façade. There was a new wing built onto the rear (donated by Ollie Laphen, naturally), but from the front it looked as bleakly Dickensian as it did back in the 1850s, especially when set against the murkiness of mizzly April skies. The perfect place for inveterate rapists, murderous perverts and prolific serial killers, thought Ni, as she pulled up to the tall, iron gates. Once the security guards had confirmed her appointment and searched her little Fiesta, she was waved through and drove along the long, tree-lined driveway, around to the visitors’ entrance in the new wing.

With her hair slicked back and ponytailed, dressed in her grey ‘power-suit’ -- bolero jacket, tight-fitting trousers with patent leather ankle boots -- she looked sharp and professional as she passed through another security gate manned by two guards, one male, one female, who checked her bag, patted her down and ran a metal detector around her from head to toe; then the male guard escorted her through another heavy door into the the new reception area.

It was a stylised, modern affair with tastefully minimalist decor furnished with white leather settees; the stark white walls were adorned with large, unframed abstract paintings lit by ceiling spotlights; and pride of place, behind the curved reception desk, was a huge blow-up of a photograph featuring a solemn-faced, sober-suited Dr James Rossington shaking hands with a smirking Richard Nixon, captioned by the legend: ‘THERE ARE NO MONSTERS, JUST MISGUIDED MEN WHO DO MONSTROUS THINGS.’ The message – you can sleep easy in the knowledge that Dr James Rossington has the ear of the Great and the Good and the Downright Nasty! – was writ large on that chiselled, mahogany gob of his. Twat, she thought, as she signed the register.

The young, good-looking, male receptionist told her to take a seat and made a phone call; a few minutes later a portly male-nurse in his mid-twenties, his hair bleached and streaked, his ruddy-cheeked, chubby face soured by a permanent sneer, arrived to escort her to Rossington’s office. He punched a number into a keypad that opened yet another heavy security door and led the way through an old fashioned, white-tiled hospital corridor - more like a cylindrical, low ceilinged subway tunnel - and entered the older part of the building. They walked under an ornate brass archway depicting a scene from The Sermon On The Mount, and arrived at the original reception area, now an empty, dimly-lit, marble-pillared lift lobby that smelled of floor polish and bleach, where they approached one of two shiny metal doors set into the rear wall. Throughout the little journey, the nurse kept looking over his shoulder and stealing glances at her, then turning his nose up and looking away, as if she was emitting an offensive odour. She returned each dirty look with bells on, resisting the temptation to call him out on it: What’s your problem fatso? He scowled as he pressed the button and the outer doors slid open; he glowered as he hauled the concertinaed inner gate aside, and grunted, “Get in.” Charming.

The elevator was one of those old iron cages in an open shaft that gave spectators a pretty good view of the passengers as they travelled upwards through a huge atrium. It was ringed by two Plexiglas-protected balconies, the lower of which was lined with around a dozen inmates/patients, dressed in pyjamas or tracksuits, who yelled obscenities, whistled, whooped and slapped their hands on the thick glass when they saw her. She fought the urge to raise her middle finger and let fly with a volley of curses and kept her cool. The chubby nurse was amused by her apparent discomfort. “You wouldn't believe it, but those eejits are outpatients – they can go home anytime they like.” He looked up, “The real bastards are on the upper floors. They’re the ones you have to watch out for. They know how to behave themselves.”

17 minutes later...

Niamh was serenity and poise personified: cross-legged, hands folded in her lap, head tilted to the left, looking haughtily efficient. Naturally, Rossington was immaculate in a pin-stripe suit, the salt & pepper hair tastefully coiffed, the dark, deep-set-eyes looking simultaneously cruel and kind: Gordon Gecko crossed with Warren Beatty dressed by Saville Row; quite dishy, if you like that sort of thing. He sat with his elbows on the desk, his fingers laced together, bejewelled wristwatch twinkling in the muted lamplight, nodding sagely, seemingly hanging on her every word. Of course, she wasn't fooled for a moment. The entire scene, from her interviewer’s transatlantic accent, to the Rembrandt lighting, was pure Hollywood. It was nine in the morning and the red velvet curtains were drawn against the daylight, otherwise, the office was entirely to her taste: A large bookcase filled with aged textbooks; a few Pre-Raphaelite paintings adding a dash of colour to the dark, wood panelled walls; a shuttered, blonde-wood Regency writing bureau set against the wall adjacent to the mahogany, leather-topped desk. It was all beautifully atmospheric. The sole incongruity was an iron bust of St Cedric -- the Lindisfarne monk, who, if her memory served her correctly, established several monasteries and churches in the dark ages -- embedded in the rear wall, giving the darker half of the room a distinctly shrine-like feel.

She told him the story of her journey to Bogmire and the encounter with Gorringe & Scanlon, but omitted any reference Oona, the wedding or the strange dreams, “... and I said to my uncle: ‘What possible interest could he have in a 19 year old pipsqueak like me?’” She looked him in the eye, “So, why am I here, Dr Rossington?”

This is brill! I feel like Lauren Bacall!

His brow furrowed, “I have to say I find your story fascinating, Miss Fitzgerald, but I’m afraid the offer of an internship comes as a favour to Mr Laphen, nothing more.” Despite his seeming confusion, Ni got the impression he wasn't being entirely honest. She watched him closely as he got up and went to the tray of bottles sitting atop the writing desk and poured himself a large brandy from a crystal decanter, “Can I get you something?”

Ni grimaced, looked at her watch and said, “It’s 9:25AM, doctor!”

He shrugged off the reproach, “I haven’t been keeping regular hours. I’ve been preparing a new book for publication and I’ve been working flat-out since last Tuesday. Deadlines, you see. By my body-clock it’s 11PM yesterday and the sun has long since set...” He snorted like a coke-fiend before necking the lot and pouring another.

He looked at her in the mirror above the writing bureau and said, abruptly, “Your story doesn’t impress me, Miss Fitzgerald. You know why?”

Caught unawares at the strange change in his tone, Ni nevertheless stayed in character, “Do tell.”

“I know exactly what you’ve been up to.” He sauntered back to the desk, brandy glass in one hand, the other casually languishing in his trouser pocket, “At first I was concerned that you went to Bogmire because you knew something,” he said, with a sly chuckle, “but having met you, I can see you’re just a nosy little girl who wandered off the beaten path.” He was fishing; patronising her to get her to blurt out the truth.

She was undaunted, “What else would I be doing there?”

“I have people in the village who tell me you met with a woman who lives there and attended her wedding in Bogmire last Saturday... and you spent some time alone with the bride.” He sipped his brandy, raised a waxen eyebrow and awaited her reply.

“You have spies in Bogmire?” she asked, slightly offended.

“Let’s just say I have an ally on site who doesn’t like what’s been happening. They tell me you’ve been getting very close to Mrs Oona Nevin, née Umbert.”

Ni wanted to jiggle her legs and say -- Oh please go on, this is riveting! –- but had to feign indifference with a patient sigh as her host took up the Noir baton with gusto and monologued like a slightly camp matinee villain, “You see Mrs Nevin is a former patient of mine and I feel it my duty to keep tabs on her ever since I was... removed from her care. She suffered a psychological episode when she was young and it required many years of therapy to get her to where she is today -- therapy I provided. But I wasn't allowed to finish my treatment. She is very fragile and an emotional crisis could prove extremely dangerous.”

“We only talked...” she began to say, then quickly took umbrage, “Wha- waitaminnit-waitaminnit -- what has any of this got to with me?!”

Rossington stooped, put his drink on the desk, leaned in and said in an accusing, angry voice: “Don’t come in here telling me you just happened to drive into Bogmire on a wing and a prayer -- you’re working for them, aren't you?!”

The glower was as bloodcurdling as the accusation, and despite his sober suit, the man was obviously quite drunk. She thought it safest to eschew the cool blonde act and confess, “OK, look, I admit it! I wandered into Bogmire by accident -- I met a beautiful woman who invited me to her wedding -- then, when I check out the wetlands, I ran afoul of these two old geezers who were less than complimentary about you – and the next thing I know I get a job offer from you! I just wanna know what’s going on?!”

He’d noticed her rub her palm furiously as she talked -- and all-but leapt over the desk! “Lemme see that!” he cried, taking her hand, opening it and examining the little heart-shaped rash, “Tell me this -- were you violently ill shortly after this encounter -- vomiting, diarrhoea, sweating, shivering?”

She nodded nervously, “Why, yes...?”

He immediately brightened, stood tall, put on a false-happy-face and shook her hand enthusiastically. He pulled her up onto her feet, hustled her towards the door and, despite her protests, bade her farewell, “Well congratulations, Ms Fitzgerald, you will be a much welcome, and may I say, very attractive addition to our team!” He opened the door and pushed her out, “Report to the front office tomorrow morning at 8AM sharp and I’ll have matron give you the official tour -- goodbye!”

The door closed behind her with a heavy clunk. She stood on the deep-pile scarlet carpet outside his office wondering what had just happened. Then she heard a loud groan from the room behind her. She stooped and peeked through the keyhole and saw Rossington furiously throttling the bust of St Cedric like a madman...

On the last Wednesday of each month, Detective Superintendent Philip Somerville came to dinner - or as he called it ‘Gourmet Night Chez Gilray’. Paddy and Phil had been firm friends since they met in NW Donegal overseeing a mass grave in ’85 [See book One Part Two], when the younger man was still a lowly local detective and Gilray had been drafted in to oversee the forensics. The Forgotten Dead of Donegal or the Mass Grave of the Disappeared, depending what paper you read, was international news at the time and the pair were often to be seen on the TV news together hosting press conferences on the progress of the investigation. Somerville had been promoted for his work on the case, but the new position required him to move to Dublin, so he, his wife Pat and their 2 year old daughter, Caitlin, stayed at Paddy’s for a couple of months while they house hunted. They became a little surrogate family for the old boy, he loved every minute of their stay, and secretly wiped away a sentimental tear when they finally moved out.

Big Phil was a strawberry-blonde 6ft 2 hulk with a flat nose (broken in childhood and never properly fixed) and bright blue eyes with eyelashes that fluttered like moth wings when he smiled. He had a kind face and could be disarmingly polite, but had a reputation for ruthless toughness when it came to dealing with the criminal fraternity. Along with Emil, 'Uncle’ Phil was Ni’s ideal man, and told him so on one occasion when she’d had too much vino and was making a point about men who weren’t totally useless, but she soon took it back when Somerville got down on one knee and pretended he would leave his wife and children for her, “Just say the word, Twinkle! We’ll elope in my squad car! With the sirens on!” Paddy laughed himself into a wheeze. She rolled her eyes and called them bastards. Nobody took her seriously.

On this particular Gourmet Night, Ni cooked her world-famous grilled Dover sole with pappardelle noodles in lemon butter sauce, which Paddy pronounced a ‘quiet triumph’, “considering the 5 hours of non-stop cursing, kicking of furniture and broken crockery that went into its creation.” After a long discussion on world affairs (i.e. local football matches, politics, and of course, bloody cars...), the conversation turned to the woman responsible for the bulge above their belt-lines. Big Phil was frank, “Ni, that was lovely, but I didn’t float up the Liffey on a lily pad. What’re you after, Twink? I can’t give you an advance on your babysittin’ money, cos that’s Pat’s department...?”

Paddy cut to the chase, “She’s thinking of taking an internship with your arch-nemesis, Dr James Rossington, and she wants you to tell me that it’s a ‘good idea’.”

“I am not -- I just wanna know more about him,” she said, plainly. She hadn't mentioned his odd behaviour or his allusions to a possible conspiracy at Pagham House. As far as she was concerned, this was her ‘case’.

Somerville took the napkin from his lap, patted the corners of his mouth and said in his ‘official’ voice, “SCICI is staffed with highly skilled professionals -- most of whom do all the work, I might add -- who have access to the latest technology in criminology. The Taoiseach himself has congratulated Dr Rossington for its ‘excellent work in the field of Psychopathological research’.”

Ni curled her lip, “That was very pat.”

“It’s my stock answer when anybody asks me about ‘im,” said Somerville, shrugging, “I’ve learned to keep me mouth shut as far as Dr Rossington’s concerned.”

Ni tapped her nose and urged him, “Just between us?”

Somerville sighed and admitted, “He’s not my kinda guy, you know that. I mean, how many times have I sat at this table and bitched about ‘im? But I can’t argue with the statistics, it’s just his Lust for Glory that I resent him for...”

“But he’s reasonably clean?” said Ni.

Paddy put a hand on his friend’s shoulder and said, “Before you go on, Philip, may I remind you her mother will kill me if she flunks this course. First she backs out of a law degree to enrol – now this!”

Ni’s temper darkened and the usual jumble of old gripes that only got an airing when she’d had too much to drink spilled forth, “No – she blames you for not enforcing Her Will!! She’s still trying to run my life!!”

“Easy, petal...”

Ni slapped the table with her hands and yelled, “No! Every time I wanna do something for myself she has to be consulted! Well, I’m nearly 20 now, so she can shove it! I’ll do what a want!!”

Paddy took the bottle of Burgundy off the table, “No more for you little Miss Firecracker! I warned you -- you won’t get any booze if you can’t handle it!”

“It’s got nothin’ to do with the wine, it’s her...” said Ni, fuming.

Somerville tapped the stem of his glass with his fork, “Hey-hey-hey, listen to yerselves - I’ve been comin’ here for nigh-on 4 years and this is the first time I’ve ever seen youse-two fight!”

The pair backed down and apologised to Somerville and then to each other. Ni slurped a strand of pasta and got the conversation back on track, “Look, I only have to go to SCICI for a couple of weeks til I get the measure of what’s going on -- then I’ll make an excuse and go back to uni. And if I do have to stay for the entire year – well, you heard Uncle Phil – the institute is doing sterling work, I’ll be rubbing shoulders with experts in my chosen field. Everyone’s happy.” She turned to ‘Uncle’ Phil, “So, is there any reason in your mind why I shouldn't take this internship?”

Somerville equivocated, “It sounds as if you’re asking for my permission...”

“She’s asking you because she thinks you’ll back her up,” said Paddy.

“No I’m not -- I just wanna know about Rossington. I wanted to know if he has any skeletons in his closet before I accept the job, that’s all,” she said.

Somerville gave in, leant in and lowered his voice, “Well, it’s funny you should mention the word closet, cos he’s secretly gay –- still a crime in this country, whatever your opinion of the law -- and he has a fondness for young, tubby teenage boys,” he paused to clear his throat, “and just between us, he has a bit of a coke habit. But besides that, aye, he’s reasonably clean. That said, he’s got three of my most prolific murderers up there living in the lap of luxury, all in the name of research...” he took on the vexed expression of a beleaguered priest, head lowered, hands laced together, as if at prayer, “... like Barry McKee, for instance.”

“I’ve often wondered what he wants with McKee, the man’s little more than a vegetable,” said Paddy, slightly disgusted, “it’s rather ghoulish, if you ask me. The man should’ve been allowed to die long ago.”

Phil agreed and commented in a bitter tone, “McKee’s his prize exhibit, his sideshow freak: Roll-up, roll-up, see Ireland’s Most Famous Serial Killer! all that sorta muck. As a matter of fact, he’s holding a press conference tomorrow to announce a new book he’s written about ‘im.”

Ni was grudgingly impressed, as much by Rossington’s cunning as his bravado, “From what I’ve heard, he’s under pressure to quit, but instead of disappearing under a rock, he’s drawing attention to himself.” She nodded and looked into space as she pictured the scene, “I reckon he’ll make a few insinuations during his speech to send a coded message to his enemies; veiled threats, that sort of thing.”

Big Phil looked at his friend, “Is this the same wee girl that used to read at the end of the table and the only sound you’d hear would be pages turning and the occasional ‘hah!’ when she heard something witty?”

“Oh, she’s unrecognisable!” Paddy bitched like an old queen, “on top of ruining her life, dressing like a floozy and clandestine dalliances with married women, she’s been watching a lot of Film Noir. She’s turning into the female Philip Marlowe.”

“Well, from one Philip to another - care to make a wager, sister?” offered Somerville.

Ni spat on her hand (Paddy grimaced, “if your grandmother saw that!”) “Ye’re on, brother! I’ll betcha he makes, shall we say, a few ‘peculiar allusions?’”

They shook hands. Somerville watched her collect the plates and take them to the sink, “Oy, Niamh Naive, you’re not at yourself, you know that?”

What did he say?!

She saw a flash of red and got the unholy urge to scream blue murder about hating that nickname and what did he mean by it! She even got as far as spinning on her heel and glaring at him!

“We haven’t agreed on an amount,” he said, passively, but he had seen the fire in her eyes, she could tell. You can’t bullshit the human lie-detector, but here goes - she laughed it off, “Sorry – ‘tampon time’ as Paddy calls it! I’m a wee bit spiky this week, heh-heh... would a tenner be OK?”

He agreed and she went off to find her purse. Once she was out of earshot, Somerville turned to his friend, “Mood swings, change of image, eyes like two burnt holes in a blanket; y'know how my mind works, Paddy.”

Paddy nodded, “Don’t worry I’m keeping a close eye on her, and I haven’t seen any signs of substance abuse, just a lot of sleeping. Might be the after-effects of that fever she suffered a week ago.” He paused for reflection then said, “No, I think this little metamorphosis and spurt of activity may be more about ‘discovering herself’ than uncovering some grand conspiracy. She’s so head over heels for this Nevin woman, she’s not thinking straight. However, I’ve decided to let it run its course or I’ll never hear the end of it...”

After showing Somerville to the door, Paddy cornered her in the kitchen and gave her a piece of his mind – “This isn't on – you can’t get Phil involved in this little adventure of yours! For one thing, he only knows the half-of-it!”

“C’mon Paddy – what if I find some dirt on Rossington,” she protested. “Uncle Phil can open an investigation -- he’ll have Rossington exactly where he wants him!”

Paddy took off his nezzies to let her see he was serious, “You’re conniving and I don’t like it! It’s reckless and dangerous. And that little show of temper tonight -- it isn't like you at all. I’m this close to calling your mother, I mean it...”

She cuddled him, pinning his arms to his sides, “Paddy, it’s best not to fight it, go with it, you’ll be much happier in the long run!”

He gently pushed her off, held her arms and decried her lack of insight, “This is important, serious, grown up stuff that you should be discussing with her, not me...” The phone rang on the wall behind him, “-- and with any luck that’ll be her now!” He answered. His face fell. He thanked the caller for letting him know and hung-up. Before he could tell her what was going on, they heard Somerville’s car reverse back up the drive and the toot of a horn: they’d obviously both received the same call.

“Someone die?” she asked, half-joking.

Paddy’s demeanour changed, he had that disappointed-but-what-can-you-do look on his face he always got when duty called. “Aye, someone has indeed died,” he sighed, “a decapitated, mutilated body has washed-up on the beach at Sandymount, and no one else is available to put him back together again. I probably won’t be home til tomorrow, so lock all the doors and put on the burglar alarm before you go to bed.

He gave her a last reproachful look, “And think long and hard about what I said. Whatever your feelings for her, your new ‘friend’ is a married woman, Niamh. The relationship is doomed from the start. You're asking for a broken heart...”

2 hours later: Half stoned, half asleep, lying on the sofa in the lounge, Ni was walking hand-in-hand with her dream lover on a deserted beach, silhouetted against the golden glow of a tropical sunset, when their metaphysical bliss was rudely interrupted by an intrusive tapping sound.

<Do you hear that?> said Oona.

“Someone’s at the door – my door!” said Ni.

Oona immediately broke the connection and Ni woke up in the Real World. She sat up on the couch and listened. Tap, tap, tap. Like the clicking of a key on glass. It seemed to be coming from the French windows at the back of the house. Shit. She’d forgotten to turn on the burglar alarm! She turned out all the lights, went to the kitchen, pulled a steak knife from the block, tiptoed to the sitting room, approached the curtains covering the windows and asked who it was.

“It’s Rossington. Let me in!” a frantic voice hissed close to the glass. Her curiosity got the better of her and she looked out. Sure enough, it was the good doctor, clad in a jet-black licra jogging suit and matching hooded top, his lustrous hair hidden under a black beanie hat...

In the sitting room: Rossington paced the mat in front of the fireplace and chain-smoked as he tried to explain his predicament without losing his thread or his temper. Ni sat cross-legged on the couch munching popcorn, boggle-eyed, watching him walk to-and-fro, hanging on his every word. She’d planned to watch a tape of the 1946 version of The Big Sleep later that night, but the garbled, paranoiac rambling of a half-drunk neurotic faux-Freudian and (alleged) coke-fiend was just as compelling as Bogey/Marlowe and the LA underworld: “... they rang the office and told me to retract the offer of an internship -- they said they suspected you of spying and it wouldn't be in my best interest to take you on!”

“Who? Laphen? It was him who asked you for the favour in the first place?!”

“Not Laphen: Scanlon. Ollie’s off filming a movie in Europe for three months, then he’s off to Japan to tape a series of Guinness commercials. Gorringe went with him -- Scanlon’s been left to his own devices and I think he’s up to something.”

Ni couldn't help herself and spluttered, “This sounds like the plot of a bad pulp novel?!”

He stopped pacing and snarled, “It’s not a fucking joke, Niamh! Oona’s worth tens of billions! If they nurture her properly, it could be the biggest thing since splitting the atom – or it could blow up in their faces! That’s how big this is -- and how dangerous these people are!”

The accent is slipping, he’s really scared!

“In that case, let me call Uncle Phil...” she reached for the phone on the table beside the couch.

He waved his hands and cried out, “NO! Not Somerville! Jesus, no! I’m only telling you cos you’re up-to-your-neck-in-it-already and you need me! I need you! We need each other!!”

She put the receiver back on the cradle, “See that’s the thing with you James, I can’t tell if you’re acting or in the throes of some paranoid delusion due to alcohol and lack of sleep!”

He approached, looked down at her and said, “You don’t have that problem though, do you?” he said, bitterly. “You know it’s true. Oona’s in you. She knows your every thought. She can control you. She can make you feel sublime or make you walk under a bus. And they wouldn't care. You’re only important to them for as long as you’re important to her.”

“’Make me walk under a bus’...?” she repeated, appalled, “but how... Why would she...?”

He put up his hands in a consolatory gesture, “Look, your meeting wasn't kismet -- you were handpicked. Your uncle mentioned you at one of Ollie’s soirées and I jotted down your name. You were on a list of possible mentors: young women we secretly screened to act as a sort of conscience; a telepathic guide to teach her how to tell right from wrong, the ups-and-downs of the Real World. They must've decided you were the prime candidate.”

She was affronted, “What the -- nobody asked me!”

“Did you find an old map in an old book in your favourite bookshop?” he asked, lighting another cigarette.

She stopped chewing and gawped, “You mean they arranged that? It was a trap?! The fucking bastards!!”

“It was my idea and they used it. I knew you couldn't resist an adventure,” he said, somewhat proud that his little scheme had been so effective.

“You’re the biggest bastard of all!” she cried.

“Let me see the rash,” he asked. She hesitantly held out her hand; he took it and examined it closely, “She rubs a special oil into your skin – a minor irritant, completely harmless – like a concentrated nettle sting -- only it works over a longer time period and flares up when your hands sweat. The point is, while it’s there it’s a constant reminder, because she needs you to think of her. She needs to be on your mind.” He took a long drag on his cigarette and asked, “So, what method are you using – the open/closed door technique?”

“Uh huh...” She nodded distractedly, staring blankly, her head getting light, her vision beginning to blur – Oona was listening.

“Oh! Is she making contact?” he said, excitedly, recognising the tell-tale signs. He knelt by the sofa and looked up into Ni’s eyes, “Hi, Oona! It’s me, Doctor Jimmy! Tell them I’ve got your little girlfriend and we’re going to make a deal!” he yelled, his breath reeking of booze and garlic.

Ni kept eye contact and slowly retreated up onto the back of the sofa so that she towered over him. He looked up and tried to explain, “I was only – uhh!”

She’d kicked him square on his square jaw with the outside of her right foot, knocking him cold. He was sprawled across the mat like a huge, dead, 4-legged spider.

Oh God! She’d done some kickboxing in her time, but never against anyone without headgear. This could be murder!! She flew into a panic – she jumped down and tugged at his jerkin, “Oh dear God, are you alright?! – oh Jesus – please don’t be dead!!” She put an ear to his chest and listened. His heart was still beating, he was still breathing, she sighed with relief; but when she checked to make sure his neck wasn't broken, she felt something hard against her knee. There was something in the pocket of his hooded top. The remorse and anxiety evaporated immediately. She let his head drop with a dull thud and went to fetch the washing line from the laundry room...

When he awoke, he was tethered hand-‘n-foot to a kitchen chair. Niamh was sitting on a stool opposite, legs crossed, the Beretta 9mm dangling on her little finger, “Was this entirely necessary?” she asked, dispassionately.

“Personal protection – I have a permit. And you’ve no need to worry, it isn't you I need protecting from,” he groaned, rotating his jaw. He struggled in his washing line bonds, “This is insane! Let me out and we’ll talk like adults.”

This is great! If my heart wasn't pounding in my throat I’d be enjoying this!

“Look – come with me!” he cried, clutching at straws, “We’ll go to Bogmire and take her to SCICI! She’ll be safe there!”

She was so taken aback she almost fell off her seat, “Malpractice, kidnapping, false imprisonment -- this isn't Chicago in the mid-20s -- you can’t get away with that sort of thing nowadays!” she laughed.

He wasn't scaring her, so he went for the kill, “Do you know why she needs a mentor? Because she’s a child. When she reached puberty and received her Gift, the psychological trauma wiped her memories -- she’s got the IQ and temperament of an 8 year old. And like any 8 year old, she’s capricious and prone to tantrums if she doesn’t get her way!”

Ni shook her head in disbelief, “She can’t be... We talk about serious things, most of it deep, meaningful stuff...?”

“Hah! You’re talking to yourself!” he sniggered. “She gets in your head and tells you what you want to hear in a voice you can relate to -- she makes you see what you want to see -- makes you feel what you want you to feel! She has total access to all your memories and dreams and can process the data in a millisecond, that’s if you ever stop yakking long enough to listen to what you’re/she’s saying!!”

Ni was absolutely stunned. And the more she thought about it, the more she realised it was true.

He ploughed on without a thought for her feelings, “You were violently ill – that means they gave you the potion! The potion opens the part of your mind that lets her in – that means she has access anytime, night or day, awake or asleep. She’s playing it cool so far -- probably because she’s preoccupied with her new husband -- but soon, you just wait and see, she’ll be like a second head.”

“Potion?! What potion?!” she cried, shaking with fear, raising the little gun.

He wrenched his head to the side, “Put that bloody thing down before somebody gets hurt!”

“Not until you tell me what’s up doc?” it wasn't meant as a joke, it was her customary hallo when Paddy came home from work, but she couldn't think of anything else to say.

He sighed and began at the beginning, “While I was at Pagham House in ‘83 to treat Laphen for yet another dose of the DTs and clean-him-up for a film role, I got talking to an elderly gardener about herbal remedies. He showed me this root and mentioned that it was an ingredient in a ‘Love Potion’. I laughed, as you would, but he told me that in ages past a homely woman who couldn't attract a mate would select an eligible bachelor and slip it into his drink. Her intended mate gets very sick, she nurses him back to health. Then, once he’s back on his feet, he finds that he’s fallen head-over-heels for her, and they live happily ever after! When I mentioned it to the housekeeper, that old bag Sparkes, she said: ‘it only works if the woman is a witch.’

“So I asked her, jokingly – ‘where do I find a witch who can do this?’ and her sour, toothless old face closed like a fist and she went off in one of her huffs, muttering under her breath about me being a ‘nobody’ and how I should ‘mind my own business’ – a total overreaction, which in my book means: no smoke without fire. So I asked around and learned from a gossipy neighbour [Dolly Crombie] that Mrs Sparkes believed her young niece to be a witch and kept her locked-up in an attic room at her house in the village!”

Ni frowned, “And... is Oona a witch?”

"Not in the traditional sense of the word. You see, in the late 18th century, Thaddeus Ravenhill, the 8th Duke of Roxborough -- a renowned biblical scholar, but with a taste for all things arcane -- traced a little Celtic tribe living in caves on the coast of Cornwall who were rumoured to periodically produce dark-haired little girls who matured into silver haired young women gifted with psychic powers. The men though, were a backward, uncivilised, dim-witted lot who made up for their lack of brain with brawn and a propensity for loyalty and industry, which the Duke quickly put to good use. They were housed in a specially built village on the outskirts of the estate, well away from the house. Roxborough watched and waited for a child to be born with the requisite attributes. When none came, he tried breeding one of his own.

“He was a very bad man. And bad men like to keep mementos and records of the bad things they do, but not always in the first place that comes to mind. I guessed that some of his more contentious artefacts might still be hidden somewhere around the house. The Roxboroughs removed everything pertaining to the 8th Duke when they used Pagham House as a sanctuary for various European aristocrats during WW1, but the library is practically intact – presumably they deemed it too costly and time consuming to hire a curator – there are thousands of unregistered books in there.

“So, with this in mind, I searched the shelves, and after a considerable amount of hunkering on kneelers and rolling around on ladders, I found what I was looking for: at the very top of the central bookcase, behind the cumbersome tomes that no one ever reads, was a hidden compartment containing a portfolio containing some handwritten texts and a diary; amongst them was a detailed account of his experiments, including his work on the Love Potion. The Duke’s notes contend that the potion can be used to open a normal human being’s mind to psychic interaction. The diary ends around the late 1790s –- just before he was executed -- so we’ll probably never know if his experiments were successful. What we do know is that Oona Umbert is the first telepath -- the first silver-haired girl -- in three generations. But I needed to find out how to initiate a telepathic connection. I had to know if what he believed about potion was true, so I had my people analyse it.

“The results came back – they’d never seen anything like it. it was mildly hallucinogenic but, despite some impurities, non-toxic. That’s all I needed to hear. I had one of the Redmen prepare the mixture and took it the day before. I was violently ill, but eventually the fever passed. Then I took Oona to the old infirmary in the East Wing, away from any interference, and asked her to read my mind. She did. It worked. Not only that, but it was more effective than I could ever have imagined! She wove me into her wildest dreams and showed me visions so real I felt as if I’d fallen through a wormhole into another dimension! It was mind-blowing in every sense of the word. But Oona was too infantile and inexperienced to control it. She had me on the edge of my seat, sometimes...” he winced and closed his eyes, “she’d lose patience or get angry and I’d get these skull-splitting headaches, terrible feelings of nausea, horrible nightmares -– I begged her to stop. She always pulled back, thank God, but it proved she was too immature to handle it. We did everything we could to reach her, to get her to see the world as it actually is, but she was stubborn. She needed someone her own age, someone she could look up to, to teach her right from wrong. ”

“In other words, she needed a friend,” said Ni, impassively.

“And a husband. That was her one demand: ‘‘usband!’ And not one of the local louts, either; she wanted a specific type! Now, you’ve seen her, you know she’s 100% in the looks department, but finding a suitor that could also act as a father figure and enforcer, nevermind one that was prepared to live in the village, was gonna be tough. Luckily, Sergeant Marchant, the commanding officer of the local garda needed a new recruit, so we put our heads together and looked for an old-school-man-of-the-house-type, someone she’d look up to: the tall blonde prince charming she was always on about. We found just the man: a plod from Sligo who wanted a transfer to a quiet post after a recent run-in with the local Provos. After he was recruited, we engineered a meeting.”

“Well, if it’s any consolation,” said Ni, “my presence hasn’t interfered with her conjugal duties one iota. She likes to make me watch.”

Rossington snorted as if it was par for the course, “Yes, but once the honeymoon period is over and she gets bored or they have rows, lives may be at risk, and I won’t be there to put it right.” He looked up into her eyes, “In 1986, Herbie’s pals in the CIA brought in a ‘guinea pig’ -- a renegade soldier who’d been court-marshalled and sentenced to death -- in other words, expendable. They gave him the potion and asked her to get into his head. Oona did – but when she got in, his memories and fantasies were so horrific she reacted badly –- the man went insane! He was a twitching cabbage within the hour. They thought she was a freak – they wanted to cart her off there and then – if it wasn't for Ollie’s involvement, she’d be languishing in one of their ‘facilities’! That’s how dangerous she can be!”

By this time, Ni had given up on the femme fatale pose, she felt hollowed out and bitterly disappointed in herself. “We travelled through the stars... we sat on top of Everest... we swam under the sea and made love amongst dolphins...” she mused, looking off into the distance, “it was the most thrilling thing I’ve ever experienced... Now I feel like a prize chump.”

“Just remember this: she’s a child – she’s sly and manipulative, she uses her good looks to get what she wants, but she doesn’t have the education or common sense to compete with you in intellectual terms, so she utilises your sexual fantasies to construct your ideal lover and trust that lust will override reason.”

Ni lowered the gun, “Oh God, she’s in my head... what’s going to happen next...?”

Crisis over, Rossington sighed and slumped with relief, “I don’t know. They cut me out. Ollie ‘n Gorringe think the world of her, but Scanlon wants rid of her. He wants to sell her off to unscrupulous people who’ll use her for their own ends. That’s what I’m afraid of.”

She thought for a moment, fighting her natural instinct to play it safe, “But how...?” Suddenly, she sat bolt-upright as the hair on the nape of her neck tingled, her head buzzed: an urgent communication was on the way.

Oona spoke in her natural West Country twang, <Come ‘n get me, Niamh! Oi ‘eard what Dr Jimmy said an’ oi is scared! Please, please come 'n get me!!>

Again, Rossington saw Ni’s expression change and recognised the signs, “Don’t worry, Oona! Everything’s gonna be OK!”

“OKOKOKOK! I get it, I get it!” yelled Ni, pulling at her hair and pacing the floor, “... let’s just say I was going to help you...?”

Ni put a note on the door of the fridge: PADDY, GONE CLUBBING - SEE YOU AT DAWN!! Ni, XXX

This is utter madness.

But by now everything was so surreal that to pull out now would be to miss out on the punch-line. She giggled with excitement as she pulled on black leggings and a dark blue polo-neck jersey, “might as well dress the part!” Uppermost in her mind were impure thoughts about finally having physical contact -– Oona in the flesh! And it was an adventure, no matter what Paddy once said: “You’re like an Enid Blyton heroine – only in my experience, snoopy middle-class gels who stick their noses into shady people’s businesses usually end up getting gang-raped in a disused farm house, killed, dismembered, and fed to the pigs.”

Rossington wanted to leave the way he came in. Ni insisted they leave via the front door, “I have to set the burglar alarm.” When she tried to put in the number, the alarm went off – Rossington bolted and hid behind a rose bush. She managed to get it to stop blaring, just as a black Peugeot hatchback pulled up outside the front gate and honked its horn, “Hellooooo – is this the Gilray residence?” a male voice shouted.

Rossington jumped out from behind the bush and made a beeline for the car, “Shut up Peter! I’m supposed to be incognito for fuck’s sake!!” he hissed, loudly.

“Oh! So sorrry! I’ve just been sitting outside in the dark for the last hour-and-a-half, listening to the same friggin’ Erasure tape over and over again!” shouted the voice, in a whiney, sing-song voice.

“Ssshhhh!”

The lights came on in an upstairs window of the house opposite.

Rossington jumped into the backseat and rolled onto the floor. Ni came down the drive, waved at the shadow in the window and shouted “Sorry Mrs G! Jumpy visitor!”

As she bounced into the passenger seat, Rossington grumbled from the back, “Why don’t the two of you just hire a bloody brass band and be done with it!”

The driver was a young, chubby blonde with a cheerful baby face. He shook her hand and introduced himself, “Peter Sinclair,” he said, looking around at the man on the floor in the back, “welcome to my world.”

“Just drive, Peter!” Rossington growled, “Get us the hell outta here before the neighbours call the cops!!”

The car jerked forward and stalled.

“For fuck’s sake!!”

Ni giggled.

Peter flapped his hands, “Stop shouting it only makes it worse -- you’re gettin’ me all flustered!” Once he got the engine restarted, he asked, “Where are we goin’ anyway?!”

“Bogmire,” Rossington whisper-shouted.

Peter looked over his shoulder, frowned and said, “Bogmire? Kildare? At this feckin’ time of night?!”

“We are going to collect Oona and this is the safest time!” Rossington yelled back.

“But she’s just married – they’ll be watching the house!” Peter protested.

“She knows how to get out without being seen. And they don’t know anything or I guarantee an SUV-full of goons would've intercepted us by now!”

Ni confessed to Peter: “You see, he keeps saying things like that and I can’t resist!”

He drove off and moaned, “Believe me, it wears a bit thin after the third or fourth nervous breakdown...”

2 hours later, after a lot of excruciating smalltalk about interior decor, fashion, and the lifestyles of Hollywood A-listers, they finally arrived at the perimeter of Laphen’s estate. They pulled up at a side road where Rossington knew they wouldn't be detected by any CCTV cameras. 10 minutes later, sure-enough, strolling along the road, silver hair flowing in the slight breeze, her pallid face tastefully made-up, dressed in a black lace gown and carrying a silver clutch bag, was none-other than Oona Nevin, née Umbert. “Now that is creepy,” said Peter, transfixed by the vision in widow’s weeds walking in the floodlight of the full-beam, “she looks like she just stepped out of a coffin...”

... And into my dreams... Ni undid her safety belt, ready to run into her lover’s arms -- at last a physical encounter! Then, just as she opened the door -- she felt Rossington put an arm around her throat and pull her back! She felt a sharp sting in her neck.... and slumped forward onto the dashboard, unconscious.

Rossington’s face appeared between the seats, grinning like a Cheshire cat..

“Well, well, it worked,” said Peter, slightly impressed, slightly disappointed.

Rossington patted his lover’s shoulder, “You were great, Peter, you really should think about a job on the stage.”

“I wasn't actin’, James! – my nerves are feckin’ wrecked! I only agreed to this cos you practically begged me!”

Oona climbed into the backseat and kissed Rossington on the cheek, “Oh, Dr Jimmy, ‘ee truly is a magician! You jast ‘ave to say it – and tis done!” She looked at her friend slumped in the front seat and tried to read her, “Aww, she’s down so deep oi can’t reach ‘er. Will she be all roight?”

“Just a sedative, she’ll be fine in the morning,” said Rossington, assuredly. He looked Oona in the eye, “I hope you appreciate all this, madam, it’s all for your benefit. Mr Scanlon does not have your best interests at heart, but once I have a word with him, he’ll soon see things my way.”

“Oi know, Dr Jim, oi is most grateful.”

“Right, well, we have 2 hours to get things done, so c’mon, Peter, chop-chop!” As they did a u-turn and drove back down the road, he reached under the front seat and retrieved a large walkie-talkie: “JR here. We have Oona -- and Miss Fitzgerald. Now, this is where we have to trust each other, so no ambushes in the middle of negotiations, no threats or abuse; I have a man on the outside waiting for my call -- any funny business and he goes straight to the Gardai with a list of Ollie’s crimes against humanity. Over.”

Scanlon’s voice sounded in the earpiece: “I’m a man of my word, doctor. Flash your headlights when you get to the front gate...”

St Cedric’s Institute for the Criminally Insane (SCICI):

The next day: She opened her eyes only to be dazzled by a glaring spotlight shining on her face. When she focussed, she saw that it wasn't a spotlight, it was the blazing bulb of an extendible angle-poise reading-lamp attached to a headboard. She was in bed in a white room.

A hospital room? How the...

Sitting on the edge of the cot, dressed in a dark blue Dior 3-piece-suit, white silk shirt and silver cufflinks, dark-blue knitted tie clipped with a silver pin tipped with a cluster of miniature white diamonds, was Dr James Rossington. He had an inner glow now: the silver flecked hair quaffed and shiny, the tan, healthy and vital. He smiled broadly, his deep-set, smiling eyes twinkling somewhere in the folds of his brow. “I’m back in the loop, my darling, all thanks to you,” he said, in a breathy James Mason half-whisper, “Scanlon made a deal. We’re home ‘n dry! This is A New Day! Chin-up, stand tall and greet it with a smile. Here, have some paracetamol. He handed her a small water-cooler cone half filled with water, and a tiny plastic cup containing two white capsules.

Ni was weak and dehydrated, and sure enough, suffering with a dreadful headache. She drank the water greedily -- but threw the paracetamol back in his face, screaming - “Why the fuck did you knock-me-out you fucking creep?!” She lashed out as best she could; he easily parried the feeble, slapping hands and talked her down, “It was a precautionary measure to ensure your safety!” He caught her wrist and pointed to her head, “If she didn’t like what she was hearing, Christ knows what she might have done! You were at risk! And I couldn't very well take you home, could I? So I brought you here, to SCICI, and had a nurse put you to bed. I called your uncle’s answering service and told them you turned up for work this morning and you were taken ill, but you were recovering in our sick bay. He called back half-an-hour ago. He was working all night; he didn’t even know you went out. He’s just happy that you’re safe ‘n well.”

She pulled the covers up to her chin, “You didn’t do anything else to me while I was under, did you...?”

Insulted, he stood up, arched an eyebrow, tugged at his cuffs and spoke in a no-messing, headmasterly tone, “I needed you as a bargaining chip, that’s all. Once Scanlon and I had settled our business, we took Oona home, came straight back here and put you to bed.”

Trying to keep her temper under control, she snarled, “Bargaining chip?! You’re taking a big, big risk, Rossington -- all I have to do is call DS Somerville and let him sort it out!”

He was quick to reassure her, “OK, so you were injected with a mild sedative and your feelings got hurt. Are you going to jeopardise this entire enterprise just to take me to task over that? I mean, this is ground-breaking, earth-shattering stuff we’re talking about...” he winked, salaciously, “And besides, you’re enjoying yourself, aren't you?”

“God, you’re glib,” she snarled.

“Yes, but I’m right.” His expression softened as his voice took on a more sympathetic tone, “Look, Oona promised us that as long as you’re there to guide her, she’ll restrict her telepathic activity to our experiments.”

“And what if I can’t sleep? What if all this upheaval makes me an an insomniac?!” she cried, exasperated and conflicted; her conscience telling her to find a way out, her instinct for adventure telling her to persevere and weather the storm.

“I can supply you with sleeping pills if you require them. I saw you smoke a joint last night, I can get you some medicinal marijuana...?”

“No. There’s enough crap floating around my system without throwing barbiturates or dope into the mix...” She turned away and asked quietly, “So... when can I see her?” she asked, a little shamefaced.

“Every hour of every day if you like.”

She turned back and sneered, “You know what I mean: face-to-face. In the flesh. I need to look her in the eye and ask her if she’s OK with all this. If I can’t trust the person in my head anymore, I can at least see how she really feels.”

He shook his head, “Niamh, a face-to-face meeting at this juncture would be counter-productive. This is a scientific experiment with implications that will change humankind forever, not a Dating Agency. Unfortunately, she is at that stage in her development where she relates to everything and everyone on a sexual level, that’s why she seduced you. But not to worry, your mutual attraction will eventually fade.”

“What you mean is: you want me to forget the ‘whirlwind romance’ and use my influence to brainwash her into your way of thinking?” she chided.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and groaned a patient sigh, “There are no text books on the subject, Niamh, no operator’s manual on how to handle something as extraordinary as this –- and I admit, most of the time I fly by the seat of my pants -- but if I fail Oona and this doesn’t work, she could seriously hurt someone or hurt herself. Then Scanlon will get his way. She’ll be sold to the highest bidder.”

“I suppose...” She grumbled.

He straightened up, rubbed his hands together and quietly rejoiced, “Good. We’d like you to tutor her and guide her through the vagaries of Modern Life, generally make yourself available. And look,” he reached into his inside pocket, took out his cheque book, licked a finger, flipped it open and scribbled with a gold-plated fountain pen; he ripped it off with a flourish and presented it to her with a dazzling smile, “... this should cover all the inconvenience –- and I’ve included an advance on your first month’s salary!”

It was more money than she’d ever seen in her life, but it wasn't enough to convince her that this was a good idea. She twiddled her thumbs, “It feels all wrong... there’s no way I can do this... Look at me,” she showed him the reflection of her wan, dark-eyed spoon-face in the curved chrome of a kidney-dish, “this is after a week - God knows what I’ll look like if I take any more of that ‘love potion’...” She was fudging. She desperately wanted it. It prolonged the experience and made the visions so vivid, so real, they were almost tangible. Oh yeah, I want it alright. She hated herself for it. She was a slave to her libido, and now she knew the whole truth, she realised it was the only thing they had in common. She felt dirty and guilty. She couldn't help it, the tears were on their way, “...but the Oona I met that Monday, she gave me warm vibes, she was very... she seemed so nice. Now you’re telling me she’s been stringing me along .... and I do what any sexist pig does: I objectify her!” She sobbed into the pillow, “Oh God... the one time in my life I don’t do the right thing and everything goes to shit...!”

He took a deep breath, counted to ten, patted her shoulder and affected his best bedside manner, “Listen to me. once she settles into married life and gets pregnant it will change everything, I can guarantee it. That’s her ultimate dream: to have a family. Now, that might be anathema to your right-on ideals, but in Oona’s case it’s imperative that she settles down and leads as ‘normal’ a life as possible, as soon as possible.”

“No pressure, then?”

“If you go with it, no. Technically, you don’t even have to do anything, just open the door when she needs a consultation.” He reached around to the stainless steel trolley by the bed and picked up a small cardboard dish containing a capped syringe and a phial of grey liquid.

“Oh God...” she whimpered.

“It won’t be so bad this time,” he chuckled, “most of the impurities have been removed, so no more dicky bellies or runny bottoms; I have nurses on standby night-and-day should you take an adverse reaction, but that’s highly unlikely, or you’d’ve been dead within an hour of swallowing that first cup of cocoa. They were taking a bit of a chance administering it orally, but I suppose a jab in the neck would've been a dead giveaway.”

“You are such fucking arsehole, James. You know that, don’t you?” she grumbled, as he rolled up her sleeve.

Later that week:

She phoned Paddy and told him she was now a willing participant in a SCICI drugs study and that she’d be staying at SCICI for the next week or so. He was surprised by her sudden volte face as regards the illustrious Dr Rossington, but took her assurances that nothing ‘nefarious’ was going on at face value. She’d never lied to him before, she shocked herself at how easy it was. Part of her wanted him to insist that she come home immediately, a part that was weakening with every passing hour. Her relationship with Oona went on as usual, the potion made everything as blissful as it had been at the start, only now her doubts were harshing the buzz. Thankfully, Oona was too taken with her new life to notice. So far...

One afternoon, while Ni was lying on the covers in her dressing gown, head propped up on the pillows reading the previous day’s Irish News, waiting for the next psychic communication, when she heard a voice in her head:

Niamh

She looked up. She knew wasn't Oona. It was a different feeling entirely.

Niamh

It was strange voice, no more than a faint, crackly whisper, hard to tell if it was male or female. It must be a side effect of the potion. A telepathic flashback? Whatever, she shrugged it off and went back to the newspaper.

Niamh.

The lights flickered.

Close your eyes

“Who is this?” she asked, a little scared.

Close your eyes.

The voice sounded sure and assertive, and despite an all-consuming feeling of anxiety, she did as it asked:

She was medieval peasant in the herbaceous garden of a lonely cottage, drawing water from a well. With one foot on the ground and one foot on the wall, she hauled on a thick, frayed rope with all her might. When the large, sloshing pail eventually emerged, she noticed something dark and slimy in the water. As the surface stilled, she saw that it was a strange looking creature: like a large, black mole dipped in oil, with webbed talons and a large, black chiselling-beak that looked very sharp indeed.

It kicked! The pail jumped out of her hands! The creature leapt out!

She caught it by its bill before it had a chance to snap at her - she trapped its body under her left arm, holding the beak tightly in her clenched fist! The creature was very strong indeed, it took all her strength to hold it - it thrashed and clawed at her as she fell to her knees and held it against the ground, its big, black eyes bulging in their orbits as it desperately tried to escape her clutches.

Just then, the strange, crackly voice whispered in her head:

<She’s lovely, isn't she? I call her a ‘Slimy, Blind, Chisel-Beaked, Web-Footed Corpse-Eater’, but she’ll eat anything, doesn’t have to be cadavers. It could be small animals, moles, worms, slugs... anything. In fact, this specimen has just awakened after 6 months of hibernation, so she’s particularly peckish and by the looks of things, she’s under the impression she just found breakfast!>

Niamh put her knee on its back, still gripping the bill for all she was worth.

<Hmmm... I’ve been told it’s like trying to hold-down a pitbull-terrier dipped in lard.>

Niamh’s wrists were weakening...

<Sorry, I really should get to the point, eh?

<Here’s the thing: Do you let go and hope that she doesn’t bite? I wouldn't recommend it. She’ll go all out to kill you; those little talons are designed for tunnelling and they’ll make short work of your torso. She is blind, but she smells your fear, and once she gets the scent of blood, it’ll send her into a feeding frenzy and she won’t stop until you’re dead. And I can assure you, you will feel a thing – they tend to go for the soft tissue first, so you’ll have to watch while she wends her way through your viscera to access the sweet meats further in... That’s if she hasn’t already pecked your eyes out... Slimy, Blind, Chisel-Beaked, Web-Footed-Corpse-Eaters consider mammals’ eyeballs a delicacy.>

She pressed the thing against the side of the well, took her hand off its beak and quickly grasped it tightly by the throat with both hands; it writhed and made a sound like a panicking magpie...

Sure enough, she heard the clip-clop of hooves on the road beyond the high hedgerows.

<It’s a poser, isn't it? I suppose you could wait until she wears herself out... but what if you weaken first? What if she plays possum? What if you manage to fight her off but she maims you enough to cripple you or give you a deadly infection – there are over 50 thousand types of bacteria in every bite! These are the days of leeches and the 4 humours - there ain't no penicillin, darlin’!

<... Or do you – and this is always the most popular option -- do you simply wring her neck and kill her? No one will ever know. It’ll be just between the two of us.>

She tightened her grip...

<Oh, before you consign her to oblivion, did I mention that she is the last of her kind? You’ll be causing the extinction of a long-forgotten species. But – hey - do you really want to die for the sake of an ugly old thing like this?>

The ugly old thing was still squirming in her hands showing no signs of weakening, making an eerie mewling sound, its little muscles writhing and tensing, its webbed talons scrabbling at the air, trying to catch her forearms...

Snap.

Snap.

“Hey! You!”

Snapping fingers.

She snapped out of the daydream.

She was standing at the full-length mirror in her room, her hands pressed against the glass, like a kid at a toy shop window. What the hell...

The snapping fingers belonged to Matthew Cromarty, the surly nurse who escorted her the day of the interview. “What are you doin’? Fallin’ in love with yer own reflection?” He had the ability to make every utterance sound like an insult. The unshaven, drink-ruddied jowls wobbled as he bobbled his head like a contrary teenage girl and waved a hand in front of Ni’s face, “Hello?! You do know where you are, don’t you?!” he said, in a sardonic, sing-song voice, as if he was talking to a senile patient.

She pretended she knew exactly what she was doing and snapped back, “What do you want, Matthew?”

He handed her a clipboard, “James wants you to sign this. It’s a secrecy form to stop you blabbin' to all-‘n’-sundry ‘bout what goes on under this roof.”

It was a standard NDA. She read it and gave the clipboard straight back, “I’m not signing anything until I speak to him. Where is he anyway?”

He held out pen, “Just sign the feckin’ form.”

She waved it away, “Take me to him now, please.”

“Well you can’t see ‘im!” Cromarty jeered, “He’s with Barry McKee. He gave strict orders that he’s not to be disturbed when he goes in there! And accordin’ to this,” he flipped the page, “only me, matron, two orderlies and...” his face fell, “... and N. Fitzgerald (intern)....” he looked at her as if she’d just broken wind, “...you?” He checked it again. “Why would he...?” He stamped his foot and slapped the clipboard against his thighs in a rage, “Who are you exactly?!”

She was beginning to wonder herself...

The next day: feeling very pleased himself at a job well done, Rossington reclined in his antique leather swivel chair, turned up the Rachmaninov CD with the remote control, put the brandy balloon to his lips and supped ---

“James...?”

--- and duly spat it all over himself! He leapt to his feet, “FUCK!! Shit! Don’t do that!!” he yelled, “Jesus H Christ Almighty you scared the absolute living shit out of me, you stupid bitch!” He quickly turned off the stereo and reached for a rectangular silver box on his desk, pulled a wad of paper handkerchiefs from it and began to dry his shirt, “Dammit - $280 worth of Cardin spattered with $900 cognac...FUCK!!”

Hands in the pockets of her white-flannel bathrobe, her usually vital rosy-red cheeks pallid, her long, uncombed hair mussed-up on one side, Ni cut a gloomy, forlorn figure as she trudged in. She sat on the edge of the big red leather couch and grabbed her ankles, assumed the foetal position and rocked to-and-fro, “James, it’s the dig in a month or so, and while I’m there I was wondering if you could set up a meeting with Oona? I promise -– it’s just a face-to-face, out-in-the-open conversation, no bodily contact. It’s important to establish trust.”

Rossington sprang to his feet again –- splashing brandy over his cuff -- this time he was too incensed to care, “What?! What are you talking about?” he said, his eyes boggling.

Here we go again. She was beginning to see why Peter, his ‘Flatmate’, was so jaded for one so young. “What’s the problem, James? I’ll be careful not to upset her or the project...?”

But Rossington wasn't concerned about a tryst, “What dig?!” he asked, dismayed.

“Our dig. The old bog. Laphen gave us permission,” she told him, confused, “Scanlon must've told you about it? It’s what brought me to Bogmire in the first place. I was looking for a site and bogs like the one on the Pagham estate are catnip to people like us -- it’s like an ancient, organic stew; a huge culture that has been left to moulder for thousands of years...”

“YEAH, yeah -- (Careful! – Temper! – Accent!) -- yes, yes, I don’t need a biology lecture! I know what a fucking bog is!” He thought about it then came around the desk and put a hand on her shoulder, “Listen, Niamh, can you get it called off?” he asked, as nicely as he could.

“No! What? Why?” She pulled the hand from her shoulder, stood up and defiantly put her fists on her hips, “Listen buster, my uncle is suspicious enough as it is -- I’ve told him I’m doing some sort of ‘drugs-trial’ for you –- which is half-true -- but if I call off the dig he’ll suss that something’s up and he’ll call my bloody mother! And if that’s the case, you won’t have a mentor -- cos I’ll be on the next flight to Stockholm!”

He relented. The deep-set-eyes became pensive slits; he massaged his chin as he mulled and mumbled, “Scanlon didn’t mention it at the meeting, I wonder why...?” He paced one way –- frowned -- then paced back, “Bastard! He’s set me up again!” Then he smiled as a more agreeable notion occurred, “Maybe he doesn’t know about it...?” After much deliberation, he walked to the window, pulled back the curtain and stared out at the weeping willow in the little green at centre of the courtyard carpark. “What exactly do you do at these digs?”

Still slightly annoyed, she replied, “We won’t interfere with any naturally-occurring phenomena or wildlife. We use state-of-the-art equipment and we’re very careful to leave things as we found them...” Then the realisation struck her, “You’re worried about the bog, aren't you? The potion. Its bog water, isn't it?!”

“... apart from a few roots ‘n herbs, I suppose it is 90% ‘organic stew’, yes,” he admitted, slightly ashamed.

“And you’re worried we might spoil it?”

“An excavation could ruin the natural balance...” Rossington looked at her for a moment, as if deciding whether or not to let her into a secret. Finally, he locked the door to the office, went to the writing bureau, unlocked it and took out a buff A4 envelope. He removed the contents and spread them out on the desk, “These are photocopies of Roxborough’s diary. It’s written in a crude code and almost illegible, but I had an expert decipher it.” He pointed to a page with some rough drawings of a giant standing over a crowd of frightened peasants. “The locals believe the bog contains the remains of an ancient magus -- an ‘evil shaman’, ‘magician’, ‘sorcerer’ or whatever you want to call it -- whose body was interred there 5000 years ago. Legend has it that the peasants who executed him couldn't cremate the body, fearing that the smoke and ashes might pollute the air and kill them or their livestock; they couldn't bury him in a crypt or a mound because he’d be a highly desirable commodity for body snatchers and the tomb would have to be guarded day-and-night. So they consulted with other mystics who told them to weigh him down with a large rock and sink him in the deepest bog they could find. They supposedly put a spell on it to ‘contain his evil spirit’ and make it safe, but it’s reputation stuck, the legend endured. The local populace stayed clear and kept it a secret until 5000 years later when Roxborough visited Kildare and learned about it. It was his main reason for buying the land in the first place.” He showed her another entry, “He believed that the body’s presence in the bog created this miraculous ‘font of mystical power’, not realising that it contained a hallucinogen. He and his little coven drank it in their demonic rituals, completely unaware that they were totally off their heads. That’s where the coherent narrative ends. He consumed the stuff every day for almost 13 years. He must've been out of his mind by the time they hanged him.”

“So that stuff Scanlon said was true: Roxborough was a Satanist?” she asked, fascinated, looking through the pages.

“He saw the occult and its rituals as a legitimate branch of science. Trouble was, to raise hell he had to raise hell, and got up to all kinds of unsavoury mischief to gratify Old Nick’s thirst for depravity. It was a dreadful scandal. The family kept a lid on it. When the 9th Duke inherited the house he destroyed all trace of his father’s ‘evil work’ and the local dignitaries were only too happy to brush it under the carpet.”

Ni read as much as she could, “Shit -- he talks about having orgies with children?!”

“Hmm, it’s not light reading by-any-means. Suffice to say he was an ardent disciple of De Sade. There’s a signed copy of Justine in the library,”

She looked through the larger pages containing a dozen-or-so rudimentary pen & ink drawings of the wood and the wetlands. The last page featured a crude woodcut depicting a child emerging from the bog and sharing a loving embrace with a horned & hoofed devil. Behind them, standing on the bank, is a white-haired woman with her arms outstretched, as if bringing the two together. A shiver ran down her spine.

“But there’s another reason why I find it odd that Ollie should give you permission,” he said, as if still trying to work it out, “there could be other bodies.”

Ni stopped reading. “Other bodies?” she asked, a little shocked.

“There was once an orphanage on the estate that was destroyed by a fire in the 1920s. The locals believe the proprietors dumped the bodies of dead children in the bog. If it’s true, the discovery could cause a sensation and put the village’s privacy at risk.” He paused and thought about it, “Unless, for some reason, he wants them to be found...?”

Ni was quick to explain, “If we find anything untoward, then the site will be a crime scene and more than likely any forensics would be overseen by Uncle Paddy. He’ll be discreet, but he’ll have a lot of questions, ‘specially when children are involved.” She looked at him askance, “Which reminds me, why have you given me clearance to visit Barry McKee?”

Rossington sat down at his desk, cleared his throat and carefully considered his reply; eventually, he put his elbows on the desk, laced his fingers together and replied in an earnest voice, “I’m aware that your uncle and DS Somerville doubt my intentions as regards our Mr McKee, so to let you see that that I’ve nothing to hide -- that I’m trying to help him, not exploit him -- I’ve granted you 24 hour access to his room, and you will be privy to my manuscript before it’s dispatched for publication.”

“That’s pretty magnanimous of you,” she said, with a suspicious frown.

“I’ve nothing to fear, nothing to hide,” he said, without emotion.

After a sizeable pause, she shook her head, “James, I’ve only known you for a week and by the looks of things you’re an opportunist who exploits everybody you meet, and I can’t shake this horrible feeling that I’m just the latest in a long line of baffled patsies.”

He gave her a world-weary look, took a key from his pocket and set it on the desk, “Here, that opens the door to my private quarters. I’ll be away for the weekend, so you can make yourself at home. Have a bottle of wine, listen to some music, smoke a joint, watch videos, whatever you youngsters get up to nowadays...”

Paddy Gilray and Phil Somerville, both wearing sunglasses, sleeves rolled up to the elbow, shirts opened to the waist enjoying the Spring sunshine, were sitting in deckchairs either side of a beer-barrel table in Paddy’s back garden, sipping real ale and chewing the fat.

“How’s Ni getting on at SCICI?” Somerville asked.

“She’s losing weight. Pale and panda-eyed,” said Paddy, tutting. “She came home yesterday for a short visit to get some clothes and she nearly frightened the life out of me! Moody, too. Makes you wonder what they’re doing up there.”

Somerville shook his head, “There’s nothing I can do, Paddy. After shootin' my mouth off about McKee last December, I’ve been warned to keep it shut ‘n keep away from the place or face disciplinary action.” He considered it for a moment, “I s’pose I could send Dermot Malone over there; he’s a right obnoxious wee bollox, he’ll rattle a few cages if nothing else?”

Paddy politely refused the offer, “No I don’t want anybody –- I mean it Phil -– nobody is to go near that place while she’s there or she’ll never trust us again.”

“What is it they’re giving her, anyway?”

Paddy lowered his voice and intimated, “Well according to a fellow who used to work for me -- he now heads SCICI’s toxicology department -- it’s just a mild hallucinogen, like magic mushrooms. It’s connected to some top secret research into anti-psychotic drugs, y’know the sort of thing.”

“So, what’re you gonna do, then? Phone Mairead and ask her advice?”

“Nah, she’s incommunicado, writing pot-boiler 435, or whatever. She left a number for emergencies, but I don’t know if this qualifies.” He took a sip and asked for some fatherly advice, “Is it just a teenage thing, Phil? Do you let them find their own way by learning from their mistakes? Guide them from a respectful distance? Intervene when you know for certain they’re headed for a fall...? I mean, how do you tackle it? ”

Ashen faced, staring into the middle-distance, Somerville groaned, “Oh jeez, Paddy, you’re describing the next 30 years of my life... and if my girls take after their mother, God help me...”

That weekend, in Rossington’s private quarters:

It was getting late, and aside from the snap, crackle & sizzle of burning logs and the metronomic tick-tock of the old grandmother clock, Rossington’s inner-sanctum was deathly-quiet. It was window-less and gloomy, but it wasn't in the least portentous. If what they say is true that rooms absorb the emotions and actions of its previous inhabitants to develop a particular ambience, then the scholars who studied here in years past must've been a very easy-going, sedentary lot. And like everything else in the old part of the institute, Rossington had decorated it with Victoriana: Creepy little dolls; a threadbare teddy bear with a missing eye; a framed poster for a late 19th Century hypnotist show, ‘Sandor the Mighty! Mystical Master of Men!’; and a huge mahogany fireplace laden with various antique bric-a-brac, dominated by an ornately framed oval mirror attached to the chimney breast.

If I could sit in this room for rest of my life reading every book in that library and getting my meals by dumbwaiter, I’d be as happy as a pig in poo. Nothing to worry about. No one to entertain.

Ni had decided she wasn't in love anymore; at least, that what she was telling herself. Rossington’s description of their relationship (“You’re talking to yourself!”) had made everything, apart from their initial meeting, ring hollow. She couldn't trust her own mind anymore, nevermind her emotions. Oona was in total control of the situation: she couldn't read Oona’s thoughts, but her own psyche was an open book. She still 'sees’ her dream-lover on a daily basis, of course, only now she sees through the sexy, well-spoken, intelligent persona, to the silly, oversexed little girl using her subconscious as a playbox/props department. And like any child, she was demanding and self-centred, everything had to be on her terms at a time of her choosing. The worst of it was, there was no escape, that feeling of disassociation caused by the potion was her normality now; she couldn't do anything but sleep and doze, then sleep again, always at the Siren’s beck-and-call. It could come at any time, day or night. And every time Ni closed her eyes and tried to initiate a meeting to discuss their relationship, the Magritte door on the sundrenched beach remained firmly shut. Sometimes there’d be a sign hanging from the handle: Do Not Disturb.

How do I get out of this without hurting her?

She lay supine on the green, antique leather couch in her usual pose: unconsciously crossing her hands across her chest like a corpse, closing her eyes and projecting. She eventually dozed and walked down the bridge of clouds onto the beach: “Oona, we need to talk!” she shouted at the closed Magritte door.

Silence. The door remained shut.

“Oona!”

Silence.

“We need to talk!”

Suddenly, the door spoke: <Oi know what ‘ee’s been thinkin’! ‘Ee don’t want me anymore!> she screamed, in her ‘outdoor voice’ .

Ni instinctively covered her ears and yelled back, “Oona, if you can feel how I feel, then you should understand...”

<SHURRUP! >

Ni rocketed upwards through the summer clouds, through the atmosphere, through the stratosphere and into outer space, where she spun like a human frisbee in star-spangled darkness as Oona bitterly unloaded, <Oi know what ee’s gonna say before ‘ee says it, remember - so oi’ll answer the question ‘ee ‘aven’t asked yet: Arr, oi do luv ‘ee, I luv ‘ee wiv all moy heart! But ‘ee’s changed since that noight ‘ee came to Bogmoire w' Dr Jimmy. You’ve gone off me!>

“Oh, Oona, this has all landed in my lap and I’m finding it ultra-hard to adjust, I’m afraid of letting you down... “

“I’m not lying...!” she answered, unconvincingly.

“You’re obviously being very selective in your approach, you’re seeing things out of context – everyone has their own inner voice debating life-changing decisions -- you’re only listening to one side of the argument!”

<Aaaaah! ‘Ee twist ‘n turn loike a slippery eel! Oi can’t take this...!> the voice dropped to a more reasonable pitch and growled: <Dr Jimmy is usin’ 'ee y’know. Oi know so much about all of ‘em – they’re up to all sorts! And if oi wanted to, oi could tell Craigy ‘n 'e’d ‘ave ‘em all arrested! Cos Dr Jimmy ‘n Scanlon reckon oi’m stoopid -- and now so do you! WELL – I hope youse’ll all be very ‘appy togevver!!>

“Oona...?”

She plummeted back to earth -- the bridge of clouds crumbled -- the sky darkened to grey -- a huge wave crashed on the beach and swept her out to sea -- she was sinking in a swirling whirlpool, then

silence. Darkness. She woke up.

She held her head in her hands, How the hell did I get into this?

<... That’s the trouble when you can read minds -- you’re saddled with a lifetime of disappointment,> whispered that other voice in her head. <Think of all the millions of people she’d have to meet to find someone so utterly devoted to her, mind, body and Soul. She doesn’t want much, does she? Just perfect, unconditional love.>

Ni sat up: “Who is that...?”

No reply in any sense, and yet she had the strangest feeling there was someone in the room with her. She suddenly felt very clammy; at the same time the skin of her back tingled with wave upon wave of cold shivers... She sat up and looked around. Something caught her eye: The mirror above the fireplace was aglow, like the ethereal radiance of a TV screen that’s just been switched off in a darkened room. She got up and saw that it was slightly misty, there was condensation gathering on the glass.... and then, when she tried to write her name with her finger, she discovered that the mist was on the inside.

Curiouser and curiouser...

A sudden, peculiar thought struck her. She had an overwhelming urge to visit Barry McKee. So, putting on her dressing gown and slipping into her slippers, she made her way to the nurses’ station. She walked from the antiquated environs of the old block to the brightly lit sterility of the new wing. When she got there, she was met by a a particularly unwelcome sight.

Shit! Cromarty! Does he ever go home?!

The pudgy medico, feet up on the desk, briefly glanced up from his Hello! magazine and sighed, “James isn't back yet. He’s at a party at Mick Jagger’s house. Piss off. In fact, piss off, pack-up and go home. Bye.”

“He said I could see Barry McKee any time I liked, so, if you would,” she said, officiously, crossing her arms.

“At this time of night?!” he barked, grimacing, as if she’d asked him to jump off the roof.

“Yes. If it’s not too much trouble,” she said, calmly.

Maintaining eye-contact, the big galumph slapped the magazine down on the counter, wearily rolled his chair back and took a ledger from under the desk, “You have to sign in, that’s not a problem is it?” he said, sarcastically, in reference to their previous encounter. She signed on the line with a flourish and flashed him a wry smile, “You are such a treasure, Matthew. I’m sure your mother is very proud.”

“My mother died when I was 5. I was reared by my father who beat the livin’ shit outta me every day and gimme this as a memento,” he pointed to a small-but-deep scar on his upper-lip.

Well hush my mouth.

He led her along the corridor to the room, shuffling along in his trainers like an old lady. “I heard you met the wonderful Peter Sinclair?” the name was pronounced in an exaggerated, effeminate chime.

She had a pretty good idea why he was so jealous and wound him up, “Yes, we’ve met. He’s very nice, as a matter of fact. Very grounded person, considering what he has to put up with,” she opined in an upbeat tone, as they reached an outer door with an Authorised Personnel Only sign on it. Cromarty continued to bitch as he typed a code into a key pad on the wall, “His brother, Cillian, is a smack-head, you know. He lives in a pit of his own filth. And the two of them are from a well-to-do family of musicians ‘n actors -- that just goes to show ye how fucked up they are!! Peter’s not gettin' any younger and Cillian is always borrowing money. James’ll get tired of ‘em eventually and the ‘lovely Peter’ will end up back where he started – here, as a nurse,” he smiled, evilly, “and when he does scurry back w’ his tail between his legs, I’m gonna make his life a feckin’ misery.” He opened the door to McKee’s room, “You can tell him that from me.”

“Such heart-warming camaraderie amongst our male Florence Nightingales, so inspirational in this age of cynicism and... Oh!” She was abruptly silenced by the inglorious sight of SCICI’s Star Guest.

Barry McKee was laid out on a bed in the centre of a large, high-ceilinged, dimly lit room, his head slightly raised on a bolster so that his long black hair spread out across the white pillows like silver-streaked raven-wings; his face was gaunt and cadaverous, his head shaved into a tonsure and wired to three blipping monitors, his thin arm plumbed into a saline drip, a feeding tube inserted into his right nostril. Suspended from the ceiling above him was a rack equipped with six two-way-mirrors attached to cameras, all trained on that unshaven, expressionless face; his black, unblinking eyes open, as if gazing at his reflection in the mirror above him. She heard him slowly inhale and exhale, she saw the slow rise and fall of his chest, like a wild animal under heavy sedation. She’d once been on hand to witness a tiger having a tooth removed under anaesthetic, and it was just like this; no matter how sure she was of its unconscious state, she couldn't shake-off the fear that at any given moment it could burst into life and bite her head off.

“Pathetic, isn't he?” said Cromarty, curling a lip in distaste.

She shook her head, “Pathetic is in ill-used word. It means to engender sympathy. I don’t feel any sympathy for him. Not at all. Even so, is all this necessary?” she asked, looking around at the numerous mirrors and monitors.

“James’ orders,” Cromarty replied, “he wants every second of every day recorded. I don’t know why he needs all these mirrors, but he’s the boss. He must have his reasons.”

“Does he ever close his eyes?” she said, moving closer.

“He blinks every now and again but that’s it. Exciting, eh?” Cromarty made a show of checking the various dials, although it was obvious he hadn't a clue what any of them did.

“You can go, Matthew, I just want to sit with him for a while,” she said, getting impatient.

Cromarty cocked his head, curled a lip and defiantly crossed his arms, “Why? Wotcha gonna do, sing ‘im a lullaby?”

On the ‘by’ of the word lullaby, Ni saw Barry blink -- simultaneously, the lights flickered and two of the machines started bleeping and buzzing! Cromarty went into a tizzy, “what the feck have you done?!”

“Nothing -- nothing -- I haven’t moved...” she was about tell him about the blink, but decided not to. “It’s probably just a glitch in the grid, that’s all.” She went to the machines and hit the reset buttons. Cromarty was begrudgingly impressed. Then he looked down at McKee and said, “Well, I don’t know how you can stand to be alone with ‘im. Fucker gives me the creeps. To think what he did to them kids. Makes me sick...” he paused and added, “Y’know, they say he’s possessed by a demon.”

“So I’ve heard,” she said, rolling her eyes.

“Matron believes it. She won’t come in here without her crucifix or her rosary beads,” he said, as if there was no higher authority, “she says a prayer every time she has to touch ‘im.”

“Some experts diagnosed him with schizophrenia after the fact, they said he could've heard voices that led him to believe he was possessed, but that doesn’t mean...” She was too distracted by her escort’s utter disregard for human rights to finish the sentence. Cromarty was casually and repeatedly prodding Barry’s crotch with his index finger, “If he is actin’, he’s very good,” he edged-along the bed and flicked Barry’s nose, “see?”

Barry didn’t blink.

“Can I be alone with him please?!” she snarled, slapping the chubby hand away. “OW!” he yelped, scowling like a petulant child. She pointed at the door, “Out!”

“Cow,” he sniped, then flounced off, yelling over his shoulder, “I can’t wait til we start the auld shock treatment! Lookin’ forward to that, eh, Barry?! That’ll get things goin’, huh?!”

She waited until the door closed behind him, then brought a chair and set it beside the bed. It was the mirrors that interested her. Why would Rossington surround him with mirrors? And has it anything to do with the glowing mirror in the study...? She sat down, put her head as near to McKee’s without actually touching him, and looked up to see what he could see. The mirrors reflected his face from every possible angle; it was totally intrusive.

So, why should I care?

<Because you’re a decent human being and this is abuse,> said the androgynous, whispery-voice between her ears.

She flinched. “Oona... is that you...?” she whispered, looking up and around, as if she expected to see her ghost hovering over the bed.

<No. Oona is fast asleep. You see, that’s the thing with opening lines of communication, you never know who might tune into your channel. However, there’s no need to be alarmed, I come in peace.>

She wasn't alarmed, just scared to death! If this encounter was going to anything like the daydream she had the other day, it was sure to be highly unpleasant.

<It’s not me you need to be afraid of, Niamh. It’s her. And I can show you how to keep her out,> the voice reassured her, <I can close the door forever. All this madness will end... But first, I want to show you something, so I’m going to ask you to close your eyes. Will you do that for me? Close your eyes? Don’t worry, you won’t be in any danger...>

“Yes,OK...” she said, dreamily. And as soon as she did what the voice asked...

... she found herself in the woods, in the dead of night, in the dead of winter, under a colossal full moon. She knew where she was: in the woods at Laphen’s estate, still dressed for bed, she should’ve been freezing...

This was the most realistic dreamscape she’d ever experienced. No unearthly haze around the edge of the frame, no surreal incongruities like those that manifested in Oona’s fantasies, she felt as if she was actually there.

And so, numb to the frigid, gnarly woodland-floor beneath her feet, she trudged through the trees, until she reached an open space and the shore of the water-logged bog. The frozen water sparkled in the moonlight, like a lake of frosted glass with occasional clumps of rime-stiffened reeds sprouting through the silvery surface.

She stepped onto the ice and walked until the voice told her to stop.

<Now, have a good look around. Do you think you’ll remember this spot?>

Niamh turned around a few times and took in various landmarks – a branch shaped like jackdaw claws; a fallen tree trunk; a clump of spiky sphagnum-moss on a nearby rock that looked like a partially submerged hippo sporting a green Mohawk, and eventually said, “Yes, I’ve got my bearings.”

<Good.>

-- Suddenly, the ice cracked and she plunged into the icy, murky water –- it felt like unseen hands were hauling on the tails of her dressing gown -- pulling her down through the inky darkness of the water, through the slime underneath, through the layer of mud, until she penetrated the peat at the bottom!

<Don’t panic, it’ll soon be over...>

Everything was dark. Then, after a few moments of turning around, she discerned an unearthly glow up ahead. It illuminated what appeared to be a body: A bog mummy! The legends were half-right, at least... Then, as she got closer, she saw that it was in fact two mummies: a larger, older body holding a smaller body to its bosom; but the smaller body wasn't as decomposed –- the skeleton was creamy-white against the tanned hide of the other; the skull showed signs of acute trauma; whomever the child was, it had been bludgeoned to death...

Just as she was about to ask for an explanation, the voice announced, <You have company. Tell no one about this little dream, but remember it well...>

Within the blink of an eye she was back in the room, staring into those intense, unblinking, black eyes in the mirror.

“Good evening...” said a familiar voice from the back of the room, followed by the squeal of rubber-on-rubber as the door closed. She jumped up, “Oh, James! You gave me a start!” she gasped, still shaking from the weird experience.

“...or should I say good morning, it’s almost 2AM, after all,” said Rossington, throwing his overcoat over the back of a chair. As usual, he was dressed to kill in a black tuxedo and white bow-tie, a white scarf draped over his shoulders, his hair slicked back to give him that reptilian look he reserved for parties: like an old-school vampire. “Getting to know you, getting to know all about you...” he sang in a playful voice, as he danced out of the shadows and stood by the bed. “His eyes are very hypnotic, aren't they?” he said, stooping, looking at McKee’s face. “I spend hours just sitting here, staring into those bleary, expressionless eyes, wondering: what must he be thinking? Because as we all know, he can think. He thinks therefore, He Is.”

She sniffed, grimaced, and waved a hand in front of her face, “Pheeeeew, you’ve obviously been having a good time at His Majesty’s Request!”

“It was most convivial evening, thank you. Mick and I get on like a house on fire. I met him in LA back in the mid-seventies when he was still married to Bianca.” He turned to Ni and asked, “So, what brings you down here at this ungodly hour?”

“I dunno,” she replied, still a bit foggy, “I got a sudden impulse. I can’t describe it.” She was going to tell him about the mirror in the study, but thought better of it.

He walked around to the other side of the bed, and asked, apropos of nothing, “Do you know what a Sensitive is, Niamh?”

“Do you mean in the [she made apostrophe-fingers] ‘psychic sense’? A person who receives messages from beyond the grave...?” she replied, unsure where this was going.

“Yes. There are folks who believe Barry was Sensitive, that he could speak to the dead, and the bodies of the children he killed were used in the execution of satanic rituals.” The booze had obviously loosened his tongue.

“I thought you’d banished all mention of demons as far as Barry is concerned?”

“Only because some of the staff is superstitious and frightened of him, and superstition and fear have no place when dealing with the mentally ill. No, I’m talking about legitimate scientific investigation into the ‘supernatural’. Barry had a penchant for magic, there’s a mountain of evidence that he indulged in, for the want of a better word, witchcraft.”

“Sounds a bit far-fetched if you ask me,” she scoffed.

“So was telepathy before we discovered Oona,” he said, with a wink and a smirk. “If I were to tell you I have witnessed ‘magic’ being performed, what would you think?” [See Book One Part 17]

“I’d say you were either duped or drunk.”

“Oh, I was pragmatic and sober, it was very unsettling,” he said, confidently, “there was no other explanation for what I saw. The strange thing was, it was shortly before Mr McKee’s capture and I believe he was involved in some capacity. I have evidence. Concrete evidence,” he touched Barry’s cheek, “I just need to know what it all means. That’s the reason I’m so interested in his survival; he’s the key to solving the mystery.”

She thought for a moment. Another notion occurred to her, “You want Oona to look into his mind, don’t you?” she said, confidently.

<Bingo.>

Looking as if he’d been rumbled, Rossington set aside the sangfroid in favour of a more humble approach, although in his current state, he couldn't help but make it sound sleazy, “Well... I thought you of all people would be interested to see into the psyche of a serial killer? I mean, we could give him the potion, Oona could read his mind, you could interpret and we might uncover all his dirty little secrets. It would be a sensation.”

She frowned and shook her head, “You know, if I didn’t know better I’d think you engineered my meeting with Oona just so that we could arrive at this moment.”

He scoffed and pretended to be surprised by the accusation, “The thought didn’t occur to me until I sat with him the other day...” he lied, “but think about it. It’s the perfect opportunity...”

She didn’t hear him, she was lost in a daze of conflicting emotions, “It’s as if I have no control of my life anymore... I just get swept along like driftwood...” she mumbled, in a voice comprised of doubt, fear and incredulity.

“What better way to unveil Oona’s talents to the world?!” Rossington broke into PT Barnum mode, raised his arms and announced, “We could make it a live event! We could televise it! We could ... umm, where are you going...?”

She was on her feet, headed for the door, “Home. The YWCA. A ditch. Anywhere but here....”

“Niamh, don’t go -- sleep on it –- then tomorrow we’ll sit down and talk-it-out, whaddya say...?” he pleaded, walking after her with outstretched arms.

<Don’t listen to him!>

She stopped at the door, squeezed her eyes shut, put her hands over her ears and screamed, “I’m not listening -- this is sick! He’s sick! You’re sick! The whole fucking thing is sick, sick, sick! I can’t believe I even considered getting involved!!”

<That’s it! Now walk out! >

“Niamh, listen to me! You’re still under the influence of the potion -- you can’t go back to your uncle like this!!”

“Go to hell, James. I’m going home!”

Paddy kissed her brow on the doorstep, gave her a big hug and dried her tears. Then they went to the kitchen and he made her a big mug of Horlicks and grilled a few muffins.

“It feels so good to be home,” she said, trying to sound cheerful.

He saw the sorrow in her glazed eyes and told her she didn’t need to tell him anything. She nibbled, sipped and white-lied that the drug test ultimately didn’t agree with her, “After a while it’s s bit like being on a merry-go-round too long; you start feeling queasy and you just wanna get off. Speaking of which, I’ll probably be pretty ill over the next few days, but it’s just my system flushing. Take no notice." She quickly changed the subject, “What about that decapitated body they found on the beach?”

He informed her that (what was now known as) the Case of the Headless Body Builder had been solved, “They found the head in a microwave oven in the kitchen of a flat near the beach. The gard that discovered it passed out on the floor. It had been stuffed in sideways and cooked on full power for almost an hour. You should’ve seen the state of it. Lover’s tiff, in the end. They were both using steroids, which would explain the ferocity of the attack. You wouldn't think gay men would be capable of such barbarity.”

Following a considerable pause, she said, dolefully, “After this year’s dig, I’m going to stay with mum in Sweden.”

Paddy recoiled theatrically, blinked twice and raised his gingery-eyebrows, “Sweden? In the summer? With my sister? Your mother? Things must be bad!”

“Understatement of the century, Patrick.” She held her mug in both hands put her elbows on the table, looked over the rim and intimated in a low voice, “I’m gonna tell you something and I want you to hear me out before you express an opinion, OK? This is serious. I’m serious.”

Intrigued, Paddy put down his mug, “Sounds ominous, Twink, but I can’t promise anything until I hear what it is.”

“I think there are bog mummies in the bog on Laphen’s estate. I know exactly where they are. One of them is a child. It’s skull shows signs of acute trauma. The other is much, much older, but here’s the thing: the older one is holding the smaller, younger mummy in its arms.”

Paddy as dumbfounded, “Did you say you’ve seen these bodies?!”

She couldn't tell him that she was involved in psychic research and she suspected Barry McKee had showed her via mirrors; anyway, he’d never believe her. So she put down her mug, put her hands over her eyes and said, “I’m not gonna bullshit you, Paddy, that’s as much as I can tell you without sounding like a crank.”

Paddy frowned, “Ni, I’ve told you before, if we ever find anything contentious on one of our jaunts, I’m obliged to inform the authorities.”

“Well, Sergeant Marchant of the local garda station lives in the village and seems sound enough – can’t you contact him and work things out?” she asked, almost begging, “a full-sized investigation would bring Bogmire to the attention of the world, and I’d like to avoid that. Couldn't you supervise the excavation under the auspices of an archaeological dig, remove the bodies for study and leave the village out of it?”

He recoiled, “Jesus, you’re not asking for much are you?! I mean, how did you find out about it? Did someone tell you?”

She looked into her cup, “Like I said, I can’t say. I just know, and I want you to dig deeper than usual to prove it.”

He was still very doubtful, “But if we don’t find anything, we’ll have disturbed the integrity of the site for nothing. It goes against everything we stand for.”

“You know I wouldn't do anything to jeopardise the dig unless it was important. Can’t you say you’ve had a tip-off or something?” She tilted her head and batted her eyelids, “Try, pleeeease...?”

He sat back and folded his arms, “Has this got anything to do with that woman? The Bride?”

There was a moment’s hesitation then she said “In a way, yes.”

They stared into each other’s eyes for a while. Then he said, “I had a long term relationship with a young lady when I was in my 20s and we almost made it to the altar but for the reappearance of one of her lovers at the 11th hour. She took off and left me without as much as a second thought because she wanted to chase a dream she once had, and you know, this fellow was a crass, low life up-to-his-neck in all sorts of wickedness with a mouth like a docker. But she loved him and there was nothing I could do. Nothing. I never talk about it, but it hit me at my very core. Did you know?”

“Mum told me,” Ni admitted, “it was one of her friends. ‘Dictionary definition of a flibbertigibbet’, she said.”

He nodded, “As I cancelled the catering and the honeymoon, I vowed – never again! And I’ve been as good as my word. But it’s been easy for me. I’m a very busy man, and fortunately or unfortunately, I’ve no time for anyone now, no matter how lonely I get.” He put a hand on her arm, “I just don’t want you to end up the same way.”

She got up and kissed his cheek, “Oh bless you Paddy, but I’m not lovelorn. If anything I’m in the process of trying to escape.”

He clucked his tongue and gave in, “OK, I promise you I will do all in power etc, etc. But you haven’t taken Emil into consideration, have you?”

She slumped and let her forehead land with a bump on the tabletop, “Gawd, Emil. I forgot about him...!”

“That makes a change! You’re usually counting the days!”

“Please, I can barely remember my name at the minute.”

“Well, he’ll be arriving soon -– you’d better have a good explanation or he’ll go 'apeshit’!”

Earlier that night, at Pagham House: Scanlon heard another scream and took to his heels, “Bloody woman!” he growled to himself. It came from the other end of the house, but there was no mistaking Mrs Sparkes’ trademark screech: manly but shrill. As he ran across the lobby toward the kitchens, Laphen’s current guest, a Saudi prince, hailed him from the balcony, “Scanlon – what is that screaming?! Are we under attack?! I never heard such a terrible noise!”

Scanlon stopped and bowed before answering, “My apologies, Your Highness -– it’s just the housekeeper, she’s probably seen a mouse.”

The Arab put his hands on his hips, “You know, Scanlon, we came here as Mr Laphen’s guests because the last time we stayed in Dublin our hotel room was ransacked and my wife’s jewellery was stolen,” he said, pointing in the general direction of their rooms, “she was very, very upset, so Mr Laphen offered me his house for any future business I might have! He assured me that it was the safest house in Ireland!”

Scanlon tried to reassure him, “Everything is in hand, Your Highness, please go back to bed...”

But the prince hadn't finished and took the opportunity to complain about some other things that were bothering him, “These servants you employ are very uncouth –- they smell as if they need a good wash -– and they are serving our food?!” They heard another scream. “Now screams in the middle of the night! My wife is praying for her life with tears in her eyes! I am not happy.”

Scanlon tried to smile and sound confident, “I can assure you Your Highness that Mr Laphen is quite correct in his assertion that is the securest place in Ireland, staffed by local people who are diligent and above suspicion...” They heard a particularly bloodcurdling scream. “I’m very sorry Your Highness, but I need to see to this, she must be in some distress.”

The prince waved him away, “Go! But report back to me!”

“Yes Your Highness!” Scanlon walked off, scowling, muttering fuckin’ towel-headed twat under his breath. He went to the kitchens: she wasn't there. He checked the rooms in the south wing, no sign. Then another screech -- “The study!” -- he ran back upstairs and found her on all-fours under the boss’ desk, cowering like a frightened child.

He approached the desk, stooped and peered in, “What the hell is the matter with you, woman?!” he cried.

“In the mirror - in the mirror!! E’s in the mirror! E’S IN THE MIRROR!”

Scanlon turned around, “Which mirror?!”

“The tall one! The one ‘is nibs got brought up frum the basement!!” she replied, pointing at the back of the room, “that one!”

“The cheval?” He walked over and stood before it, “There’s nothing there but my reflection and your ugly mug peeking out from under the desk!”

The old woman crept out and saw for herself, “’You mean, 'e’s gone...?”

“There was never anybody there!” Scanlon lit up a cigarette and took a deep drag, “You need to pull yourself together woman! The Prince is very upset!”

She got up, stood behind him and peeked at the mirror, “It were a wee laddie, tha’s all oi can tell ‘ee, cos his face wuz all burned black wiv these starin’ red oys -- starin’ rioght into my very Soul, they wuz! Oh sweet Jeezus, it musta been one the orphans ‘oo doied in the foire – oi’m sure of it!”

He pointed to the huge clown’s head (originally acquired from the entrance to a fairground attraction) on the wall behind the desk, “It’s probably been the reflection of that you saw! And look, the mirror’s steamed up -– that’s why it looked distorted!” He took the dust cloth from her apron and rubbed the glass. “That’s funny... The condensation seems to be on the inside...?”

“Tis is an evil sign, this is!!” she cried, getting evermore upset, “Tis the children comin’ back to take revenge!!”

In one swift movement, Scanlon turned and slapped her hard across the face.

She looked away, bowed her head and thanked him for it.

He grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her, “Now pull yourself together, you stupid auld bitch! This has got nothing to do with anything other than idiotic superstition! Concentrate on you duties! The Arab is complaining about the state of the maids. He says they stink!”

“Oi’ll attend to it first thing in the mornin’ sur.”

“Aye, see that you do.” Scanlon took a drag and blew the smoke in her face, “And tell that fuckin’ niece of yours I’m watchin' her. Just because that bastard Rossington is back on the scene doesn’t mean that she isn't likely to do something stupid.”

Mrs Sparkes didn’t answer, it wasn't her place.

Scanlon flicked his ash on the floor and pointed to her temple, “If you want to know why you’re seeing burned-up little boys in the mirror, it’s because she puts the notion in your head.”

Again, Mrs Sparkes said nothing and clenched her face tight so that he couldn't tell if she was crying, smiling or scowling.

“Pathetic,” he sneered. “Me da was right about you bastards; you’re up to all sorts of devilment. Sure – even the feckin animals and birds steer clear of this place!”

“Can oi go, sur?”

Scanlon waved her away, “Piss off. And tell those maids if they don’t come in smelling of roses, I will have them hosed-down in front of the house tomorrow morning to prove to that puffed-up camel-jockey that I’m a man of my word...”

That Wednesday’s Gourmet-Night: It was Paddy’s turn to cook, and as always, he made his own speciality: seafood and lager. He was at the sink in a butcher’s apron washing shells whilst Somerville and Ni sat at the table and talked. It was obvious they were relieved to have her home, but despite her assurances to the contrary, they weren’t convinced that Rossington had her best interests at heart. When Somerville pressed for details, she told him she’d signed a comprehensive NDA. She quickly changed the subject and teased Paddy, “You and your bloody oysters – it’s only an excuse to drink beer!”

“It was all that sea-air I inhaled during the Headless Body-Builder case, it got me juices flowing,” Paddy joked, mordantly.

“Well-done-to-us, another case closed!” said Somerville, raising his glass.

“Well, the head was well done. The torso - although well tenderised - was a tad on the rare side,” said Paddy, sardonically.

They both laughed. Niamh didn’t find it at all funny, “Do I have to remind you that you’re talking about somebody’s son, you ghouls!”

“Gallows humour, darling, it’s the only thing that keeps us lawmen sane!” said Paddy, tittering.

She turned to their guest, “Uncle Phil, about this week’s baby-sitting gig... well, listen, I know I promised...”

Perfectly aware of the impending rejection and intent on derailing it, Somerville put a hand on hers and interjected by expressing his heartfelt gratitude, “Oh, ye’re a lifesaver Twink – it’s just for a couple of hours while we put in an appearance at Pat’s friend’s birthday party. Won’t be late. She’s due any day now and this will be last time e ask before the birth...?”

She made a sour face and shook her head, “You’re an utter cad, Somerville.”

He batted his moth-wing eyelashes, “You know how much Cate and Cathy love Princess Twinkle...?”

She rapped the table with the handle of her knife and announced to the room, “That’s another thing: I think it’s about time to stop calling me Princess Twinkle or Twinkle, or Twink or – in Emil’s case – Li’l Twinkie. It’s a bit twee for someone who’s about to be 20, isn't it? I know I demanded that everyone call me by that name when I was 3, skipping about the place with a pair of wings clipped to my back, waving a magic wand, but I think the joke’s played out now.”

The men looked at each other across the table, reached out and linked hands. Paddy mock-sobbed and bit his knuckle, “Our wee girl’s grown up, Phil. She’s a woman now.”

Big Phil rubbed his eyes as if wiping away a tear, “I always knew that one day it would happen, but you’re never ready for it when the day finally arrives.”

Paddy sighed, “If that is your wish, princess, so be it.”

The men chuckled and resumed eating. She made a face, sipped her beer and watched the candle flame flicker for a few seconds, then Somerville said, “Oh – before I forget,” he stood up, pulled his wallet from his back pocket and gave her a tenner, “That’s for winning the Rossington bet: he did indeed make various bizarre references, such as -- ‘those that doubt me’ and ‘unseen forces trying to undermine the value of my research’ -- I got the distinct impression he was hinting at something. Well done, Ni. When you’re a qualified Criminal Psychologist, I for one will be availing myself of your services.”

She was chuffed, but had other things, quite literally, on her mind, “Well, thanks... It’s sort of ironic now since I’ve got to know him...”

Paddy slurped an oyster from its shell and looked up over his nezzies, “And...?”

“... he’s a very complicated man – probably because he has so many plates spinning at the one time he can’t remember which one needs tending to next.” She looked at Somerville, “I will say this -- the work he’s doing is important, Uncle Phil. I wouldn’t’ve been involved otherwise.”

Big Phil drummed his fingers on the table and said, “A little birdie tells me you were on the guest list to see Barry McKee.”

Paddy grinned, “Here we go – ‘Big Phil Somerville and his ubiquitous little birdies’.”

Ni took another sip and looked from one to the other, “He said it’s so I could give the two of you an honest report on his progress.”

“And, what is your report? Is Barry lookin’ well?” said Somerville, mordantly, “Playing tennis? Skiing? I betcha he’s a whiz at back-gammon!”

A little irked by his offhand attitude, she answered tersely, “What is there to say? He just lies there, surrounded by mirrors, machines and monitors.”

Paddy tutted, “Ni, you’re bristling.”

She forced a smile, “Yes, I am. Sorry. That’s Rossington for you; you get this perverse loyalty to him because you sense his vulnerability.”

Somerville changed tack, “I was just going to say that he seems to have taken quite a shine to you.”

Oh God, not you, not now!

“Yeah... honestly it was very instructive, and despite rumours, he does know what he’s talking about a lot of the time.....”

<Arr, it’s me, oo’d you expect... Emil? I know you’re lookin’ forward to seein’ Ee-meeeel! Oo’s this big lout then? Oh – wait – oi seen ‘im on the TV noos - Craigy talks bout ‘im all the toime – ‘e just solved the case of the ‘eadless queer boy, innee?! Detective Somerville!> the voice between her ears snickered. <He’s anovver of ur fantasies, innee? Princess Twinkle!>

“So, what about Thursday night -- are you drivin’ or do you want me to pick you up?” asked Somerville.

“Erm...

Fuck off Oona! I warned you what would happen if you did this!!

No, I’ll drive...”

<Goin’ babysittin’, are we? Great!! I luv kiddies, me!>

Shut up!!

Paddy sensed her unease, “Is everything all right, Ni...?”

She was confounded. She couldn't go to the Somervilles with Oona in her head, the prospects for disaster were too numerous to consider! “... Umm, I dunno, I still feel a bit yucky, Uncle Phil...”

Somerville stubbornly went on as if he hadn't heard her, “I’ll lay-on some popcorn and the girls have got a video of the Wizard of Oz -- that’ll keep ‘em quiet if you wanna study or somethin’...?”

Ni sighed and reluctantly gave in, “Of course, I’d love to...”

To Be Continued Next Month in Swamp Witch

#Spindlefreck #fantasy #fantasy horror #black humor #black magic #mysticism #mystery #mystics #witchcraft #witches #dreams #demon #demonic possession #comedy #irish fiction #irishhumour #dream a little dream of me

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