#Imagine Phil pulling up on his bike though.

[stridersdiner]

Rancher!Graves likes his bikes.

It took a while for our teenaged Phil to figure out what exactly was wrong with that ol' motorcycle his friend Hank told him about. If only Hank knew he had just unleashed a new obsession that'd follow Phil into adulthood.

Hank's father has had this thing for the better half of a decade, and when it broke down some two years ago, it was doomed to collect dust at his estate. Something about being a wealthy man meant being able to afford such fleeting hobbies, but he was charitable enough to give it to Phil so long as he was willing to put in the work to fix it.

It took months of troubleshooting and tinkering. The spare shed was in disarray; ground littered with spare parts and tools, smears of oil and grease (it was getting hard to tell what was what at this point), and a handful of mechanics guides and books. He had some sleepless nights, fueled by the interlocked hands of want and need shrouding his mind.

He often spent mornings climbing out of the shed and lugging himself onto the school bus, where Hank would give him a knowing look and insist on calling a mechanic from a few towns over to help-

"You can't keep sleeping through English, Phil. My father was only kiddin' about fixing it yourself."

but Phil knew better. Better to get the job done yourself. Feels better that way anyways.

God, was he right. He turned the key with baited breath, eyes wide as the instrument panel lit up. The motor purred to life in an instant, and when he turned one of the handles, it roared. He had never been happier, running his hand over the shiny red fuel tank, the tight upholstered leather seat. He laughed- he yawped. And Pa came rushin' over like he had heard the end of the world start from inside his own shed.

"Philly, what in the world are you doin' makin' this much noise?" "Finally got 'er workin', Pa!"

Pa's panic softened as he took a second to really listen to the motor. He circled the bike, staring down at it and back up at Phil. He was proud, honestly, as he clapped his hand over Phil's shoulder.

"Y'know, Ma didn't actually think you'd be able to fix it up. Think that was the only reason she let ya' have it."

And Phil's smile grew wider.

"I'll jus' tell 'er I'll only ride it into town." "You lyin'?" "Yup-yup."

When Ma found out, it took her nearly a year to come to terms with the fact that her baby boy was riding a motorcycle. Ever the worrywart. She frowned every time she watched him mount the bike, sighing as she watched him put on his helmet (that she made him get) and fix his riding gloves (that she also made him get).

But that bike was his pride and joy for years. He rode it to prom, and his high school graduation ceremony. He wiped it down every other day, and made sure the paint was still shiny. So when that trusty 1985 Honda Shadow finally bit the dust, he was devastated.

Cried real tears, maybe ones worse than when Joey left for the army.

And then picked himself up and started workin' hard to replace it. He drove Pa's ol' truck for the time being.

After a little while, he finally saved up enough to get a brand new bike. Could barely contain himself when Pa drove him to go pick it up- clutching onto his helmet, flipping the visor up and down like a light switch. He was thrilled to be back on a bike, and he practically left Pa in the dust during the ride home. (Phil pulled off to the side of the road to wait because he felt bad for leaving him so far behind.)

Even now, when you finally agree to take a ride with him on his precious bike, he's still just as excited as he was when he first mounted that Shadow back in high school- especially at the feeling of your arms wrapping around his middle and the side of your helmet pressed against his shoulder blade. He loves being close to you. He loves it even more when you're clinging onto him. He takes you out on the bike a lot more now that he knows you're not that scared of it anymore.

Babes that wanted to be tagged:

@mockerycrow @kivi-no

[marypsue]

Know what time it is? That’s right, time for more unsolicited fic samples from my Stranger Things ageswap AU.

...

Karen debates with herself all through dinner. This should be an easy decision, really. Cut and dried. She doesn’t owe Hopper anything. They’re not friends. There’s no way Karen would ever let herself get killed, or nearly-killed, for him a second time.

Except. It’s not for him. It’s for Joyce. And – for Karen too. She just wants to know, for sure, that she didn’t imagine it.

She just wants to know what the hell is going on.

Mike’s acting weird tonight, too, like it’s Christmas Eve and he can’t wait to go to bed so it’ll be Christmas sooner. It’s probably got something to do with whatever girl he and Joyce’s big brother were talking about in the Byers’ kitchen, after they’d tried to get rid of Karen. Obviously she’d eavesdropped after that. She’s totally curious about who it is and why Mike’s trying to keep her a secret, but – Joyce comes first. Teasing Mike about his nonexistent love life is a distant second.

Karen should ignore the note. Stay home. Do her homework. Not go mess with monsters. But instead, she finds herself biking out to the appointed place for the appointed hour. She remembered a jacket this time, but the night air against her face is still cold.

She knows something’s wrong when she hears voices, laughter and shouts up ahead. And when she pulls up to the crossing and sees five boys waiting instead of just one, her suspicions are only confirmed.

“You said not to bother telling anybody!” Karen snaps at Hopper, swinging herself off her bike as it rolls to a stop. “You said nobody’d believe us!”

“Which is why,” Hopper growls, glancing over at his little group of friends, “I didn’t tell them. Just said to meet here. With weapons.”

Karen looks over his gang, too. It’s the usual suspects – Cal and Benny, and even Bobby Newby, the one they all call the Brain, who gives Karen a smile and a wave with the hand that’s not holding a flashlight almost as big as his head. There’s also a kid Karen doesn’t recognise, a curly-haired nine- or ten-year-old with the skinniest neck Karen’s ever seen and a pair of heavy black glasses that look way too big for his face. Benny’s carrying a battered baseball bat, and Cal’s got a slingshot sticking out of his back pocket. Karen suddenly wishes she’d thought to bring something to hit things with, too.

“That’s what’s worrying me,” Bobby pipes up, with another curious glance at Karen. “Just what are you planning to show us that’s dangerous enough we have to bring weapons and unbelievable enough you can’t tell us what it is?” He tries for a laugh, but it comes out more of a spooked, wheezy chuckle. “Should we be writing our wills?”

“That brain of yours is gonna get you into real trouble someday, Newby,” Benny says, hefting his bat up over one shoulder. At twelve, he already stands head and shoulders over the other three. Jill claims he’s already had visits from university football coaches looking to get an early start on poaching him, but everybody knows Jill’s full of shit. Still, it’s not the most outrageous thing she could’ve said about him.

That monster would make even Benny look tiny, though. The bad feeling that’s been slowly growing on Karen all afternoon only gets stronger.

“We waiting on anybody else?” Cal asks Hopper, and adds, with a perfectly straight face, “Maybe the rest of the school?”

“I’m not the one who let a nine-year-old tag along with me,” Hopper grumbles, and the nine-year-old in question sputters and pouts.

“I’m ten! Almost.”

“My mom told the Callahans I’d babysit. Couldn’t get out of it,” Cal protests. He glances over at Karen before adding, “And at least Phil’s not a girl.”

“No,” Karen says, sharply. “Just a baby. Just like you.” Bad feeling or no bad feeling, she suddenly wants to see these guys’ faces when they meet the monster. “Well? Are we going?”

Hopper nods once, before starting down the tracks. “Yeah. Everybody keep up.”

Karen follows him, without a look back. She can hear his friends coming behind her, trailed by Phil’s protests that he’s not a baby, he’s almost ten, is anybody even listening?

The woods are just as creepy as they had been last night, but it’s hard to be creeped out when there are four annoying boys yelling and bickering and cracking fart jokes behind you. Hopper is at least pretty quiet, glancing over at Karen every so often like he’s checking she hasn’t run away screaming yet. But even he shoots back if one of the others starts in on him. None of them seem to be taking this seriously.

Until they find the deer.

Karen’s the only one who hears it, at first. Under the chatter, she thinks, at first, that it’s a woman’s scream.

“Shut up!” she snaps, holding up a hand with her palm out for the boys to stop. “Did you hear that?”

Bobby sweeps the huge flashlight he’s carrying over the trees to either side of the tracks. There’s the faintest tremor in his voice as he says, “If you’re just trying to freak us out…”

The sound comes again. This time, in the quiet, Karen can tell the high-pitched bleat isn’t human. It’s off the tracks, to their right, somewhere in the trees. Somewhere close.

“What is that?” Karen asks.

She isn’t really expecting any of the others to have an answer, so she’s surprised when Benny pipes up. “Sounds like a deer. Fawns cry like that, sometimes. And does if they’re looking for the fawns.” He shifts his grip on his bat. “Or if they’re hurt bad but not killed. Dad and I found one one time, got itself tangled up in a patch of old fence and half-strangled itself…”

Karen doesn’t want to hear any more of that story.

“We shouldn’t just leave it, if it’s hurt,” she says, maybe a little too fast and too loud. Hopper groans, and Cal gives her a flat, unimpressed look, but Bobby’s nodding his agreement, and Benny just shrugs.

“What’re we supposed to do about it if it is hurt?” Phil pipes up, pushing his glasses up his nose and smearing fingerprints over the lenses as he does. The second he takes his hand away, his glasses go sliding right back down. “Can you call 911 for deer?”

The twelve-year-olds exchange looks.

“Okay. Stay with the twerp,” Hopper says, at last, looking from Cal to Karen. “Benny and me’ll check it out.”

Bobby’s chuckle sounds forced. “Because that doesn’t sound like the last thing the first victims in a scary movie ever say at all.”

“Yeah,” Phil pipes up. “On Scooby Doo, when the gang splits up is always when the monster finds them.”

“On Scooby Doo,” Cal repeats, deadpan, turning that unimpressed, sardonic stare on Phil. But Hopper looks over and meets Karen’s eyes. She’s pretty sure he’s also thinking more about the second half of that sentence.

“Fine,” Hopper says, at last, like it doesn’t matter to him either way. “We stick together. But none of you better get squeamish on me. And,” turning to stare at Phil, “your mom and dad ever hear a word about what you did tonight, and the last thing you’re gonna have to worry about is Scooby Doo monsters.”

“I’m almost ten,” Phil complains, trailing along behind them as Hopper and Benny lead them off the tracks and into the trees, following the sound of the crying deer. “I meant a serial killer or something might get us. I know monsters aren’t real.”

The deer, when they find it, is lying on its side in a pile of dead leaves, its eyes rolling in frenzied terror, its sides heaving. One of its delicate back legs is caught in the enormous teeth of an ugly iron contraption, the blood puddled around it gleaming almost black in the flashlight’s beam.

“Gross,” Karen says.

“Cool!” Phil says, pushing his glasses up his nose.

“That’s awful,” Bobby says, mournfully looking down at the deer as Hopper and Benny try to pry the trap’s jaws apart. “How can something like that be allowed?”

“It’s not. Not for deer,” Benny says, with a grunt. “Must be having problems with bears out here. Can you point the light a little more this way?”

“Bears,” Cal says, like he’s disappointed but not exactly surprised. “Say, chief, what was it out here that was so important we all had to see it, again?”

“Shut up,” Hopper grumbles, hauling hard on the trap. “And I told you not to call me that.”

“Whatever you say, chief.”

There’s a tremendous creak and a groan from the trap, and the teeth finally, finally start to come apart. As soon as there’s enough space for it to get its foot out between them, the deer kicks its way free, catching Hopper in the arm with a flying hoof as it goes. The others back away as it staggers to its feet, its injured leg buckling under it –

And then there’s a blur of grey from between the trees, a soft and sickening thud, and the deer is gone.

The quiet buzz of the forest at night is shattered by a chorus of screams and wildly-waving flashlights.

“Holy shit! Holy shit, what was that!?” Benny shouts, dropping the bear trap and scrabbling for his bat in the leaf litter.

“A bear?” Cal offers, sounding rattled for Cal, and Benny shakes his head.

“Only if it was a mutant – that thing – you all saw it, right?”

Five heads nod.

“That was it,” Karen says. The relief of knowing it was real, that it wasn’t her imagination, is paling fast next to the reality of the thing. “What we were going to show you. How could it have gotten out of that basement? We broke down the stairs -”

Hopper shakes his head. He’s still glaring into the dark, between the trees, in the direction the – the monster had taken the deer. “Maybe it dug its way out. Remember, it came through the wall?”

“Through the wall?” Bobby echoes, with the faintest hint of a nervous laugh. “Well, it’s a good thing I wasn’t planning on ever sleeping again.”

“What the hell, Hop,” Benny says. He’s found his bat, and he’s holding it low but with both hands, ready to swing at a moment’s notice.

“I was just wondering the same thing,” Cal agrees drily, not taking his eyes from the dark woods as he reaches back for his slingshot.

Hopper shrugs, straightening up. He grips his arm just below the shoulder the deer had hit with his opposite hand, giving that shoulder a careful roll. “Not much to tell. I took Karen out last night to look for her friend and we ran into that thing in an abandoned house.”

Karen tries not to wilt under the questioning looks that turn in her direction. She shrugs, defiantly, silently daring anybody to say anything about her and Hopper hanging out alone. She’s not sure why he’s trying to pretend he isn’t Joyce’s friend, but that’s something to investigate further, later.

“That was a monster,” Phil says, thankfully drawing attention away from Karen again. “Right?”

He looks into the flat glare he’s getting from Cal, and shrugs. “What? We were all thinking it.”

“It can’t be – it’s not a monster,” Benny says, slinging his bat over his shoulder. He’s changed his tune, Karen notices. He also seems to be starting to relax, a little, but he doesn’t stop moving around, doesn’t stand still, keeps looking around at the trees. She wonders who he’s trying to convince – the rest of them, or himself. “Cal was right. It could maybe be a bear. If it had…mange…”

“You seen it up close?” Hopper says. He doesn’t wait for Benny to answer. “It’s not a bear.”

“So what are we going to do about it?”

Karen glances over at Bobby. He still looks scared, but she’s surprised to realise it’s giving way to determination. He hefts the enormous flashlight, and Karen squints as the light flashes directly into her eyes. “You said you were out looking for Joyce Byers. I’m guessing it’s not a coincidence that you found that instead. Or that you said to bring weapons.”

There’s a moment of awkward silence as everyone avoids looking at Karen.

“Wait, wait, you think that thing got a kid?!” Phil yells, at the top of his lungs. Karen, Bobby, and Cal all turn to shush him, and he turns the volume down a few notches, but the offended horror in his voice doesn’t change. “And you expect us to kill it?”

“No,” Hopper says, a little too firmly. “Don’t be an idiot. We got no idea how to kill it yet. Or if it’s got a – nest, or a den, or something -”

“Where it mighta taken the kid it ate?”

“Phil, for the love of Christ,” Cal sighs. “I told these guys you could be cool.”

“That was before the kid-eating monster was part of the picture!”

“Go home if you want,” Hopper says, starting in the direction Karen thinks the monster had gone. “Just wanted you to know, so if anything happens to me…”

“If anything -” Phil turns wide eyes, magnified doubly wide by the thick lenses of his glasses, onto Cal. “This is a prank, right? You guys are all just yanking my chain. Really convincing monster suit. Who’d you get to wear it?”

“All of you can go home, if you want,” Hopper repeats, with a glance back over his shoulder. “I don’t need you for this part.”

Then he turns and walks into the trees, out of the flashlight’s circle and into the dark.

“Oh no you don’t,” Karen mutters under her breath. And then, before she can think about what could be waiting for her in those dark woods, before she can think about what a colossal mistake she might be making, she stomps into the dark after him. “Hopper? Jim Hopper, you are not going looking for my best friend and leaving me behind!”

Hopper’s voice floats back to her. “Then keep up!”

[sahidchettair]

BROTHER

Brandon met Laji before he ever set eyes on Sahid. His father had invited him over, it was two months after the incarceration of his mother. And it wasn’t the first time that she disappeared behind bars, though this might very well be the last.

He was already starting to let go of the feeling of loss. She wasn’t lost to him, she had simply decided she was too loyal to her own beliefs to ask her ex-husband for help.

Brandon, however, was not.

“He can stay in the guest room, Phil,” Laji suggested, she was smiling. She was beautiful. Brandon could see why his father had fallen for her.

“It is okay, I am staying with some friends a town over. You’ve got enough on your hands with everything. But I appreciate the gesture.”

Phil beamed. “I know this might come off terrible, Bran, but you’ve grown up well. I wish I could take some pride in that.”

Brandon smiled kindly. He hadn’t seen his father since he was six or seven. His mother had thrown him out of the house because he had wanted them all to move back to Wheeler. He had fought many legal battles to win him back, but lost all of them. He bore his father no ill will, but at times wondered what life would’ve been like if he could’ve been raised by him instead.

“I am sorry for all you’ve had to go through, Brandon, but I hope you know we are here for you now. You’re welcome in our home at any time,” Laji said.

Brandon nodded. “Thank you, m-“

“Laji, just call me Laji.”

“Thank you, Laji,” Brandon repeated.

Food was served then and Brandon turned his attention back to his future step-mother. “How is your boy holding up?” he asked.

Laji sighed and cast a meaningful look in Phil’s direction. “As well as can be expected,” she said.

“It must be hard, moving so quickly after his father died.”

Laji nodded. “He is young, he doesn’t understand yet that his father won’t be coming back.”

“He’s a scrawny kid, he’ll get through it,” Phil commented.

Laji said nothing to that.

“The little bugger usually sits out in front of the house and waves at passerby’s,” Phil continued. “We’ve been trying to get him to eat more American food,” he added. “No meat on his bones. Different from you when you were young.”

Brandon nodded. He figured Sahid would have the same color skin as his mother, if so he already knew school was going to be an adjustment. It was one of the reasons his mother had not wanted them to move. ‘They’re all white, Bran, you will stand out like a sour thumb’ she would say. Brandon knew his father would’ve protected him. Like he knew his father would keep Sahid on his toes. And it was in that moment that he realised what he felt for the boy who now lived in a room that might’ve been his. Not kinship, but jealousy. The kind of jealousy that he hoped to overlook, but he knew was strong.

———

Brandon walked through the gate into the garden. He could see the shed where his father held all his tools, the trampoline that hadn’t been used in years, and his stepmother’s vegetable garden.

“Hey,” a voice came out of nowhere.

Turning back towards the house, he saw Sahid sitting on the porch. The small boy was reading a book, he sported a nasty bruise on his cheek, and seemed to be looking at Brandon with an intense gaze that he read as hostility.

“What happened to you?” Brandon asked.

Sahid shrugged. “None of your business,” the boy said. “Dad’s in the house if you need him.”

“Okay,” Brandon took two steps towards the house before his father already opened the door.

“Boy, where did you hide the hammer?”

“I put it back in the shed, sir,” Sahid answered quickly, already putting the book away.

“Go and get it.”

“Yes sir.” The scrawny twelve year old hurried from the porch and disappeared into the shed.

“What happened to his eye?” Brandon asked his father.

The features on the man’s face softened when he saw his son. “Ah, I don’t know, he hasn’t told me. Makes him look extra mean though, doesn’t it?” Phil said proudly. “He’s going to be the talk of the town at some point. His mom got him to audition for choir.”

“And that is supposed to make him cool?” Brandon asked with a grin.

Before Phil could answer, Sahid returned, the hammer in hand. He gave Brandon a dirty look and walked past him to hand the hammer to his stepfather. 

“Boy, go make us some tea,” Phil commanded.

“Yes sir,” Sahid said, picking up his book and going inside.

“I told Laji to enlist him for the army when he turns eighteen, should do him some good to get rid of his anger. She doesn’t want to, however. I can’t blame her. She never talks about her ex-husband, but I know she doesn’t want to lose the boy.”

Brandon nodded. Though he had seen the interactions between Laji and Sahid, he wasn’t sure if there was enough love there to suggest they hadn’t lost each other already.

“What was his father’s name?” Brandon asked, as he followed his father inside. He did feel some pity for the boy. But Sahid was always looking at him with his big pleading brown eyes, Brandon simply didn’t know what to do with him.

“Don’t remember, don’t care.”

——

Brandon threw the grocery bags into his car and the backpack with tools with it. He stretched his aching back before slamming the door closed. Then he heard laughter behind him that sounded familiar. He turned to see Sahid, who had grown from a scrawny twelve year old into a lean fifteen year old.

“Sahid,” Brandon said, walking towards the alleyway where his step brother was standing together with Sally and Theodore, two infamous kids from the same school. Laji had warned him about Sahid’s chosen friends. “Aren’t you supposed to be at school?”

The young adult turned with an apologetic smile. “Yeah, kind of. We have a free period,” he said, blinking those brown eyes of his.

Brandon nodded, but a lot about it seemed off. “Do you three need a ride?”

It was Sally who shook her head, chuckling. “No, thank you mister Walter, we are good,” she said quickly. “We have our bikes around the corner, Sahid will make sure we get back on time.”

Brandon nodded. He didn’t know Sahid well enough to be certain of that. A slight breeze passed through the alleyway and the scent of strong weed reached his nostrils. He looked the three over and understood. It was fine, they were all young. He didn’t need to tell his father what he had seen. “Fine, see you around, then.”

—-

Brandon sat in the waiting room, he had just gotten off of the phone with Nadia, who was going to come over as soon as possible because she decided he was in no state to drive. He felt like a wreck, his feet nervously bouncing around, his heart beating in his chest. He recalled the last thing he said to Nadia. “Don’t tell Cassie.”

A nurse walked towards him and Brandon stood up right away. She gestured to him to sit even before she was in front of him. “Mister Walter? You brought in Mister Chettair?”

Brandon nodded. “How is he?”

She sighed. “Alcohol poisoning, we emptied his stomach and are keeping him under surveillance. He’s unresponsive for now, so I suggest you go home and visit tomorrow,” she said. “Do you have someone to come and pick you up?”

Brandon nodded again. As he did she turned and left him standing there.

He wasn’t sure how long he remained standing, lost in his own world. He had always known something like this was bound to happen to Sahid. He knew his step brother was up to no good a lot. But why he had been in that trailer alone was beyond him. Perhaps his friends had ditched him.

He was pulled from his thoughts by the sound of voices, looking up to see his father, stepmother, and Nadia walking towards him. 

They all looked upset, but his father’s arm was bandaged and in a Mitella, and his head sported a large gauge. 

“Dad, what happened?” Brandon asked when they stopped in front of him. He already felt the anxiety rise in his chest. Don’t make me choose.

“Sahid happened,” Phil said.

“He attacked your father,” Laji explained.

Don’t make me choose.

“I’ve told the police that he’s here, it might be best if we leave, Bran.”

Don’t make me choose again.

“Come on, son. I can’t imagine what he put you through, let’s go home.”

Brandon was seven years old again. He didn’t want to choose between his mother and his father. He wanted both. He looked back to where the nurse had gone, then back up at his father. 

Sorry Sahid.

——

It was the sorriest image Brandon had seen of the young man all summer. Almost a skeleton now, Sahid patrolled the pit stop and gas station like a man possessed. Taking all the work he could find, fixing cars, fixing bikes, sharing numbers. 

Today was just like the others. That scrawny kid with little to no meat on his bones doing everything he could to earn his money. 

Brandon watched him talk with an older man who had just filled up his tank. Then Sahid grabbed his bag from the floor and got in. His heart sunk. He wanted to turn away and just drive home, but instead he found himself following the dark gray Sudan. 

It drove only a few miles before parking at a motel. Brandon stopped on the other side of the road. He saw the man and Sahid get out, and both walked into one of the rooms, closing the blinds.

Brandon found himself soon standing outside of the car emptying his guts. He had seen enough movies to know what that meant. He had seen his damned mother do the same thing. He got back into the car, considered his options, but eventually buried the knowledge. Buried it deep enough on his way home that it wouldn’t show itself again. Buried it so nothing would remind him of it so easily. Buried it till the day he was asked to stand trial at Sahid’s hearing.

——

Brandon had his arm protectively around Cassie, who had insisted on coming along, even though she had no idea what was happening. He was tired from talking with the judge beforehand, and from trying to resist saying exactly what his father had said. It had been a year, and despite his decision, the longer he watched Sahid from a distance, the more he found himself wishing he could find a midway. He felt pity, but despite that pity he had told the judge the truth. Despite that pity he had agreed with Nadia that they didn’t want Cassie to be around his stepbrother. Despite that pity he didn’t go against his father. 

But the pity swelled up as he watched Sahid sit down next to the lawyer assigned to him. His hair was neatly cut, he wore a suit that engulfed his frail appearance, and there were dark bags under his eyes. 

“Mister Chettair, I’ve reviewed your case. You’ve paid back the sum of money that you owed to your step-father Mister Walter on time, you’ve respected the wishes of Mister Walter and his family to keep a distance during this one year period, and you’ve not disturbed the order in any other way. However, multiple eye-witness accounts have notified me of having seen you visit the Roadside Motel with a number of different people.”

Brandon felt cold sweat run down his neck at the mention of multiple accounts of this. Had he hoped to have been the only one? Would that have made it better?

“This has created the assumption that you’ve taken to prostitution in order to make ends meet, is this true, Mister Chettair?” 

Sahid didn’t answer right away, instead conversed with his lawyer before nodding. “Yes, judge,” he said. 

The admittance was met with mostly silence, some people speaking in hushed tones, and Cassie asking Brandon what prostitution meant. He didn’t answer. 

“I will take this into account.” The judge wrote something down for a moment before turning back to Sahid. “I have also received indication that in the attempt to pay back the money every month you’ve severely underfed yourself.”

“Yes, judge.” 

“I would like everyone but the lawyers present and Mister Chettair to leave the room,” the judge said. 

Brandon ushered Cassie to her feet, something she was slow about. He knew what the judge was going to ask from Sahid, and he didn’t want to see it. He didn’t want the visual proof of his father’s wish for revenge. But he braved one last look before being the last to leave the room, watching the shirt two sizes too big fall off of Sahid’s small frame. He was reminded of the scrawny kid of twelve with the black eye and mean look. 

“Daddy, he looks sick,” Cassie said. “We should bring him to the hospital.” 

“I know,” Brandon agreed.

——

The trial didn’t end as Phillip Walter had wanted it to, but Brandon was glad for the outcome. He stood outside as his father raged at the lawyer they had hired. He took a deep breath and found Nadia’s eyes lingering on his face, he could sense the worry in them. They had agreed that Cassie was always the most important thing. She had to be protected. That included being held in the dark about this misfortunate family business. 

“It’s Sid!” Cassie yelled all of a sudden when Brandon was too busy looking into Nadia’s eyes. She broke free from her father’s grasp and ran towards her uncle, who was walking down the stairs next to his lawyer. 

When Sahid saw Cassie he immediately bent down to greet her, one knee on the ground as she threw her arms around her and pinned him down in the bearest of bear hugs. 

By the time Cassie let him go, Nadia and Brandon had reached them as well. There were tears in Sahid’s eyes, which Cassie wiped away with a stern look. “You have to eat more pasta,” she said. “You are very skinny.”

He chuckled. “You don’t like it?” he asked. 

She shook her head. “No.” Cassie turned back to her father, lips tight. “Can we bring Sahid home? I can make him pasta? And I want to watch the Lion King.” 

Brandon sighed, he could hear his father call them back behind him, and he could see the longing in Sahid’s eyes. “Not today, Cassie,” he said, taking Cassie’s hand and turning away from his stepbrother. Every step hurt though, he felt Nadia’s hand on his shoulder and knew she understood. 

“Bye Sid!” Cassie called back with a big smile. 

——

The dishes were piled up on the counter, and with Nadia having brought Cassie to bed the day before, Brandon knew he couldn’t have asked her to put them in the dishwasher. It was barely seven am and extremely dark outside. He was already wearing his Christmas sweater in case Cassie appeared that morning, a smile on his face as he cleaned away the dishes. 

A feeling of sadness reached him, and he didn’t need to look up to know Sahid was standing outside. He sighed deeply and walked out of the kitchen. He got his jacket and opened the door to step outside. 

His stepbrother was standing on the porch, lighting a cigarette with shaking hands. He still looked fragile, although he had gained some pounds over the past year, his skin was healthier and the bags under his eyes had disappeared. 

“I was here yesterday,” Sahid said. 

Brandon nodded. “I know. The neighbors invited us to have some hot cocoa. You know you could’ve slept in the guest room, right?” 

Sahid nodded. “I didn’t… I didn’t know if Phil and Laji would be coming over this morning.” 

“Hm. They are, actually.” Brandon gestured to the door. “Have a cup of coffee, they won’t be here until ten.” 

“And if Cassie wakes up?”

He let out a sigh, he knew that would pose a problem but he hadn’t considered it before Sahid said it. Sahid rarely came over, and if he did, Brandon made sure either he or Nadia were around. He didn’t trust Sahid with his daughter. But he didn’t trust his daughter with Sahid either. 

“I’ll make some coffee and bring it outside,’ Brandon said. 

“Okay. Thank you.” 

Brandon went back inside. He made coffee while cleaning the rest of the dishes away. He could see the back of Sahid’s form out of the window, but his stepbrother barely moved. He wondered what the other was thinking, what was keeping his thoughts occupied. He joined him five minutes later with two mugs of coffee. 

As always Sahid didn’t say a thing, and as a result Brandon didn’t either. There was so much left unsaid between the two of them, but neither knew how to bring it up. 

“Can I come over when Phil and Laji have left?” 

“You can come by tonight, watch a movie with Cassie, she will love that.” 

Sahid smiled. “Okay, I will.” 

——

“Where is she!?” Brandon screamed. He had seen Sahid standing outside of the house, probably afraid to come nearer to it. It had been just a suggestion his father had made when coming over with Laji to help with the search. Maybe Sahid had something to do with it? Brandon remembered calling his stepbrother at some point, an hour maybe after Nadia discovered Cassie was gone. He had returned home only so he could talk to the police, he had spent hours walking around the neighborhood in the dead of night, screaming Cassie’s name, waking up all the neighbors. His house was packed by now, his father leading the search, Laji making coffee, Nadia crying. 

Fear racked through his frame and his father’s suggestion had settled in the empty spaces.

He ran at his stepbrother, grabbing his shirt in two fists. “Where is she?!” 

Sahid held up his hands quickly. “Bran, I don’t know where she is,” he said quickly. “I’ve been looking around the playground and the park, she isn’t there,” he explained. 

Brandon knew that it was the truth, but his brain didn’t want to believe him, he pushed Sahid away. “Bring her back, Sahid! Bring her back!” He could see the fear in his stepbrother’s eyes, but he didn’t cave in. 

Sahid gave him a weak nod and turned to walk away, running off to his car. 

“Bran!” Laji came outside and joined him on the lawn, she hooked her arm in his, didn’t look at her own son, instead she had only eyes for him. “Come back inside, Bran. The police will deal with Sahid.” 

As she said it two officers exited the house and passed Brandon and Laji to follow one of their main suspects. 

——

Brandon ran to the car without a second thought, threw on his jacket and ignored Nadia’s plees for him to stay. He had Sahid still on the line, or so he had thought, unaware that the call had ended. Not that it mattered, Sahid hadn’t been able to hear him. Terror gripped at his heart. 

He had never really believed his father. Phil Walter hated his stepson. Laji had no love for her own son anymore. To them it was only natural that Sahid had taken Cassie, because they read the looks Sahid had given his daughter as something predatory. Brandon couldn’t agree with that, because he saw a love similar to his own in his stepbrother’s eyes. He didn’t know how to talk with him, but he was capable of caring for him if only through how much Cassie had loved him. 

If she returned, she would want him there. 

In protecting him, Brandon was protecting the wishes of his own child. 

He thought about Cassie the whole drive, twenty minutes long he faced fear, guilt, and grief. Twice every week Brandon and Sahid went out together, handing out flyers with Cassie’s face printed on it to passerbys, hoping that her picture would make it all over the United States, hoping someone would’ve seen her. When Brandon felt down, Sahid told him to power through. They would find her. He said those things even though Brandon could clearly see in his eyes that Sahid no longer believed Cassie to be alive. 

Brandon jumped out of his car, a small crowd had gathered ten meters away from Sahid’s trailer, he saw their frightful gazes, but didn’t have time to deal with them now. Instead he stumbled through an open door and kneeled down next to an unconscious body. Gently he picked up Sahid’s fragile form, noting the blood in his ears and on his shirt, noting the dirt on his clothes. He held him close to his chest as he exited the trailer, opening the car door with one hand, and placing Sahid in the back, ensuring he was relatively comfortable. 

He called Nadia on his way to the hospital. 

“He’s bleeding,” Brandon said over the phone, his voice tight. 

“Your dad called.”

“He did this, I’m certain of it. What did he say?” 

There was a silence on the other side that almost felt touchable. “Maybe Sahid killed Cassie?”

Brandon laughed, tears streaming down his face. “You don’t believe that.”

“I don’t.” 

Brandon hung up after that. His heart was beating in his chest, he looked at Sahid through the mirror. His face looked ashen, his eyes closed, blood sticking to his ears, his hair, his neck and his shirt. He was unsure if his stepbrother was alright, he didn’t look alright. Brandon resisted the urge to call up his father, ask him what had happened. But he didn’t want to be certain of this. He loved his father, knew that if he ever needed anything he could count on him. He could count on Sahid too, however. He didn’t want to have to make that choice. Right now he needed them both. 

——

No more than a light pat on the shoulder was needed to draw Sahid’s attention. And Brandon was aware of how easily his stepbrother was startled lately. 

He sat down in front of Sahid, on the grass, watching the tired bloodshot eyes of his stepbrother regarding him with such intensity that it almost made him uncomfortable. It hadn’t been more than a month, the hearing device a constant reminder to everyone around him that this was real, this had happened. Sahid would probably never hear again. 

He handed the other a mug of coffee, not speaking. It had always been hard to talk with each other, they rarely had anything to say, but now that was even less. Brandon watched Sahid and could see how close he was to crying, constantly, every moment of the day. But he never did. It was the one thing Brandon was glad for, because whenever he felt like breaking down, Sahid would just power through, it didn’t matter what had happened and who was responsible for what had happened. 

“Have you been practicing your signs?” Brandon asked.

Sahid signed something as he put his coffee on the porch, something that Brandon couldn’t follow but figured included a whole lot of words that his stepbrother had learned. 

“Dad will come in an hour,” Brandon said.

Sahid nodded. He knew what that meant. Always the same. He could count on Nadia and Brandon, but only whenever Phil and Laji weren’t around. 

Brandon wanted to say sorry. He wanted to tell Sahid that he wished he could do more. But he couldn’t even protect his own daughter. How could he be of any use to Sahid?

Nothing now. Maybe twenty years ago when Sahid had first come to Wheeler and Brandon had grown old enough to make his own decisions. Maybe back when his stepmother had first introduced him to the scrawny boy. But he wasn’t sure if it would’ve changed anything for Sahid, everything that had happened to him was because of his own choices. 

“You can leave the mug on the porch before you go,” Brandon said eventually, and stood to walk back into the house.

[jessiewre]

Day 13

Fri 17th Jan 2020

We were up at 4:30am - oh joy of joys - and ready to go at 5am, so we headed down to the reception.

There was NO sign of a boda boda or even a member of staff.

Ahh bloody hell, we could not be arsed with this...

Phil went up to the dining area and luckily found a security dude to ask for help, and so this guy went off to find the boss.

He came back after 10 mins to say

‘I couldn't find him’

WICKED MATE THANKS.

Then he went off again.

After 5 minutes a SINGLE motorcycle arrived and Bugs the boss appeared.

ONE BIKE though.

Surely we could not fit on one bike.

What am I saying, this is UGANDA. They could fit the whole cast of Cats on one bike.

So Bugs handed us our pre-made breakfast takeaway and we BOTH had to get on ONE Boda with ALL OUR BAGS. It was a like a circus act.

The light on the boda was beyond terrible and so the ride in the dark took 50 mins all the while we were both silently clinging on, wishing the journey would just be over with. We went super super slow at one point and the guy was trying to sort of ski along the dusty road - good times - then some random dude pulled alongside us and was like 

‘You need help?’

But he had a DODGY vibe, I don’t know why, just didn’t seem genuine - then when we said ‘No thank!’ our driver stayed COMPLETELY silent which made us even more uncomfortable, like he was scared of him?? Though we can’t be sure if the early morning weird situation was just getting to our heads and making us paranoid.  

Then we got into town FINALLY and recognized the petrol station as we passed it from when we’d arrived the other day and breathed a sigh of relief that we were nearly ready to get off the bike...

But then we got to a super dark part of town where the weird guy who had followed us was suddenly there, and we realised the only bus of the day to go directly to Kabale had already GONE.

Feeling uncomfortable, I thought quickly and immediately said to our driver ‘Please take us to the petrol station actually, we go now to petrol station YEAH’

And we sped off and went to the glorious haven of a Total petrol garage.

The staff there were really nice and there was also a gloriously clean non-smelly toilet WITH LOO ROLL. Pure luxury.

We sat at the station and talked to them there, trying to work out the best plan and one guy went and got us chairs. Was so nice. We even got an early morning call from Hillary to see if we had got the bus ok (we’d asked him the night before about travel advice) and he tried to help us with advice too.

Then a boda went off and found us a bus and bought it back to us to pick us up and all in all we only waited about half an hour before we went East to a random place called Rukingara. Didn’t need to go there but it would hopefully offer us up more options for onward travel.

On that journey Phil slept the WHOLE way while we went through so many villages & in each one you could see people queuing up with their big water containers at the village water tap, children and adults of all ages trying to get some water. In one village it clearly wasn’t working as there was a huge pile up of containers and people trying to fix it. Imagine having to do that.

We passed some young children trying to wrangle like 10 goats on leads, then a man sat behind me started to touch my HAIR (it wasn’t, like, terrible as he was super friendly and maybe had just never seen muzungu hair in real life before, and wanted to see what it felt like, and ok why am I making excuses for this) and also the driver stopped at one point and got out for a wee and so did Phil and the vehicle started to ROLL DOWN THE ROAD so I grabbed the wheel and started to try and steer it while he ran along and jumped in to push the brakes. He casually looked at me smiling and was like ‘Ah, hand brake don’t work!’.

The rest of the vans customeers were loving it though, they saw my cat-like reactions and thought it was impressive I think. Ok maybe they just thought it was funny that the muzungu with the weird hair slightly potentially panicked.

At Rukingara we found another crummy bus going directly to Kabale which was great, Wow we thought we were doing amazing, it was only 9:30am. 

The bus from Rukungari to Kabale should have been about 2 hours.

3 hours maximum.

So yeah the journey took 4.5 hours and it was soooooo annoying, Phil was ready for a meltdown. It took 30 mins to leave the actual bus station despite telling us we would leave in 5 minutes (not that we ever believe it when they say that, but still), then they kept stopping constantly, sometimes for aaaaggees, lots of shouting, it would empty of people and then fill up wiith like 50 people, at one point we were nearly the only ones on the bus so they drove around shouting KABALE! to try and get more customers and honestly it was just so boring. It’s the constant stopping and waiting without any idea of what is going on. 
The real problem was that we were not just letting it be what it is, these buses are always like this and we just need to let them do their thing. But the early morning stress had put us in a far from tolerant mood so it was definitely harder to be mindful in that moment. Plus Phil had a bit of the journey with his legs bent up towards him and I think they went numb for a short while so...we’ll allow the near meltdown on this occasion.

We FINALLY reached Kabale not a moment too soon and had arranged to meet Hillary as he was in town. It was only 1:30pm at this point but felt like 5pm.

We got off the bus and GUESS WHO WAS THERE STRAIGHT AWAY.

Yes of course, the annoying taxi guy (still do not know his name, deliberately forget it every time I hear it).

Like ok this was getting freaky now, why was he EVERYWHERE WE WENT.

We ushered him and everyone else away and went to Skyline restaurant to meet Hillary.

After 5 minutes, the taxi guy appeared wandering down the street looking around and spots me and walks over all like ‘Hi where are you going, how was Ishasha’.

For frigs sake like GO AWAY MATE.

So I said ‘We will call you if we need you OK thank you bye’.

Lunch buffet vegetarian style was beans, chips, rice, potatoes and veg, some of which were sour as fook, so basically I just ate carbs. Hillary arrived and we treated him to lunch on us with a coke and he seemed pleased. We wanted to thank him for all his help. The extremely camp waiter asked me to organise him a job in England which I politely explained might not really be possible but I told him to give me a call if he managed to sort it and get to England. Good luck to the guy.

Turned out we’d missed the nice bus direct to the Rwanda border by 15 minutes so we headed to the only other option we knew about - Bizmarken Buses.

We waited at this mosquito infested bus office for over 1 hour, then a total downpour of rain arrived and we felt grateful to be inside, but then after much pressing from Phil, the bus guy revealed the bus was STILL 1.5 hours away - so we decided to call it a day and find a hotel. It was a relief to make that decision, was nearly 4pm by this point and we didn’t want to arrived in a new place super late and in the dark and blah blah.

We got a boda boda to Hillary’s recommendation of Kwanzi hotel but they only had a dorm room and there were no mosquito nets or WiFi and obviously it wasn’t private and even though we were knackered and massively couldn’t be bothered to move, we just thought Naaaaahhhhh.

But we managed to get ourselves another couple of boda boda and went to Kings Hotel Kabale which was pretty tired looking, but actually fine. No WiFi, but an amazing shower weirdly - the best so far, what a surprise - and some beautiful hanger art where they had hung 1 hanger onto another hanger which was then hung onto another hanger, on a towel peg. Wow. Really. Wow.

We walked round to the bus station to try and find a new solution for our destination-Rwanda conundrum and met another bloke called Hillary (lets call him Hillary 2) who told us he could organise a shared car for us at 8am the next morning. It’s easy to be suspicious of everyone but we decided we liked him and thought frig it, better than the other morning option we’’d heard about - standing on the roadside at 6am hoping a big bus would pass, flagging it down and hoping it had seats. No thanks.

We got a boda up to a place called Miami restaurant and Phil’s first words were ‘This looks dung’, so we walked to Cafe Barista and saw muzungus sat outside - a very cliche sign that the food is going to be ok, or at least stomachable.

The first thing I spotted on the menu was Irish Balls - NO LIE. But we ended up ordering a pasta dish, a veg biryani and then Mexican Irish potato dish plus guacamole. I don’t know what we were thinking, but basically we had a carb party and it was fantastic.

Walked it off by going by foot to our lovely glorious hotel and watched dubbed Indian soap operas before heading to bed hoping that Hillary number 2 was not a con artist and would come good in the morning.

[paulhudd]

Spindlefreck Book Two: Pt Three: Swamp Witch

Gilray Residence, Mount Merrion, Dublin

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

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

“Rossington.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

<Oi enjoyed that li’l story.>

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

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

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

<Are ‘ee gonna tell ‘em there’s no Santa Claus nor Toof-Fairy, then?!>

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A wee girl?”

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

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

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

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

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

The voice in her head laughed uproariously.

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

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

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

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

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

Ni wanted to scream.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The voice in her head laughed uproariously.

Fuck you Oona! Why did you do that?!

<I thought ‘ee wanted ‘im? It were one of ur fantasies, wannit? Oi was just givin’ ‘ee a li’l nudge in the roight direction.>

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

<This has to stop.>

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am going mad...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The kettle clicked off.

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

She put the little bottle back and made the cocoa.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The sergeant returned the glare with frightened eyes.

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

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

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

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

Silence.

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

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

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

“WHO IS IT – OVER?!” Scanlon barked.

Prolonged silence; crackling static.

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

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

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

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

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

<Because it’s your destiny, Oona. >

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

<The mortal remains of two people have emerged from the swamp. One is an evil seed unearthed to germinate in the open air after thousands of years of marinating in bog water and peat. The other is a little girl who met with an unfortunate end years later. She will be your Spirit Guide for a while.>

<What does that mean?>

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

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

<If it’s any consolation, your boyfriend’s back.>

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

<‘E’s a borin’ twot, ain’t ‘e?>

Go away! I’m driving!

<And ‘e smells of booze! >

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

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

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

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

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

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

<Ur picturin’ it though, aintcha! I can see ‘ee! You ’n ‘im in a tent in the woods -- that’s the big fantasy, innit?!>

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oona tittered, <’ere we go...>

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

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

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

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

“I’m not teasing! You look great!”

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

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

or was it?

The inside of the car brightened and everything went white

isn’t it a little girl?

12 or 13, long black hair...

That smell,

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

she couldn't breathe.

Panicking, thrashing, gasping for air

sleep came down

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

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

Back at Paddy’s kitchen:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

<Tell ‘im the truth. Go on –- tell ‘im ee spend ur days dozin’ ‘n playing wiv me -- playin’ wiv urself!>

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

Emil stopped chewing, “Sorry...?”

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

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

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

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

<Oh ho, ‘e’s got that look in ‘is eye!>

Get lost!

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Emil, I really need to sleep...?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

<Go ahead, call ‘im, it won’t do ‘ee any good.>

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

<I ain’t goin’ nowhere ‘n ‘e can’t make me!>

“Rossington.”

“It’s Niamh.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck you, James! I’m serious!”

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

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

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

Oona was gone.

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

“Niamh?”

“Niamh...?”

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

“Niamh, are you there...?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Afternoon delight my arse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His voice sounded sympathetic so she stopped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Dr Morgan looked to the men.

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

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

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

Scanlon glowered.

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

Charlie chuckled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It looks like she’s wakening...”

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

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

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

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

The other voice explained

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

This operation is on hiatus...>

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

<How does it feel to be free?>

She stopped. Oh God. How bad is she?

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

So, is that it? She’s out of my life?

<For now.>

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

<I may call in a favour at a later date.>

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

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

Hello...?

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

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

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

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

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

“I was just testin’ his reflexes!”

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

The technicians stopped unscrewing and gawped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Emil swallowed hard, looked away and said nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Ivy House, Downpatrick, Northern Ireland:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2 years later...

ODIN’S INN, BRODIR, Co. Wicklow:

Sunday, May 2nd 1991

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

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

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

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

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

The banging began again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[jilliancares]

All is Fair: Chapter 6

Word Count: 3.7k

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CHAPTER SIX:

Phil had a problem.

Well, okay, maybe Dan had a problem—but it was Phil’s problem too, by extension.

He’d always been a light sleeper. So far this had turned out to be a good thing, considering the monsters that enjoyed attacking demigods in the middle of the night and his cabin mates that really couldn’t be trusted for anything ever, but now he was realizing that his inability to sleep deeply was actually a bad thing.

The moment Dan had started fidgeting beside him in the bed his eyes had shot open—Phil sat up immediately, hand already going for his sword propped against the side of the bed and his heart thundering. It’d taken him a moment to calm down, to realize there was nothing around trying to kill him, before he realized what exactly had woken him up.

Dan was face down on the bed, his hips twitching downward kind of pathetically. Heat rose to Phil’s cheeks as he realized what exactly was going on, his mouth dropping open as he watched, stunned.

Now that he was awake, he could hear Dan’s panted breaths, could see his fingers clenched in the pillow by his head. And gods—it was wrong that it looked so hot, that Phil could imagine Dan clinging to a pillow like that while under him, but it was. He had to shake his head to get rid of the image, to try and figure out what exactly he was going to do in this situation.

Dan was having an… exciting dream… right beside him. Dan, who insisted he was straight but had stared at a water droplet that’d slid from Phil’s neck to the waistband of his sweatpants after he’d stepped out of the bathroom earlier. Dan, who was reserved and a bit temperamental and would probably have no choice but to jump out the window if he ever realized Phil had witnessed this.

Really, Phil was too good of a person. A lesser man might’ve just laid back down and pretended to be asleep, or possibly have woken his bed companion to stop them from continuing, but Phil just stood up and crossed the room, sinking into the uncomfortable chair there. And so he ended up waiting it out. He thought it wouldn’t be a problem, that Dan would either come or the dream would end, but it took a bit longer than he’d been expecting. Not too long, but long enough that Phil was wondering what kind of stamina this guy had anyway.

It really did end soon enough, though. Dan’s hips stuttered to a stop against the bed, his breath hitching, and then he was finally still. It was then that Phil finally returned to the bed to sleep, cursing Dan for interrupting it in the first place. And he didn’t envy Dan, either, having to wake up with that mess in his pants. Still, he was really too tired to care anymore, so he let his eyes fall shut and went back to sleep.

—

When Phil woke the second time it was thankfully morning. Soft morning light filtered in through the curtains across the room. On the bed opposite his, Emma snored loudly, her mouth wide open. And in his bed, Dan slept on, blissfully unaware that he was almost completely on top of Phil.

You have got to be kidding me, Phil grumbled inwardly, lifting his head up to look at Dan. His head was resting on Phil’s chest, one leg thrown over his waist and both of his arms encircling Phil. For someone who was apparently straight, Dan was quite the adventurous bedtime partner. Wet dreams and cuddling with a man all in one night? Wild.

Phil ended up having to curse his niceness. He was all too aware that waking up Dan would only result in his embarrassment—he’d be forced to acknowledge the fact that Phil knew he’d been clinging to him, whereas if Dan woke up on his own, he could sneak away and pretend it’d never happened. So yes, him staying in bed and continuing to lie with Dan, his own arm wrapped securely around his waist, was purely of selfless reasons. It had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that Dan felt kind of warm and wonderful against him. Nothing to do with the fact that he’d never really gotten to be this close to another person before, and it felt great.

And so he continued to lay there, wrapped up with Dan, for almost an entire hour. It was apparent that Dan was a heavy sleeper. Phil was almost worried about how the hell he managed to make it through so many nights at camp, but maybe Aphrodite’s kids didn’t waste all their time pulling stupid pranks on each other like filling each other’s beds with ants when they weren’t looking.

It was lucky that he had Phil on this quest. If he was this heavy a sleeper, and Emma was as well (since apparently her own snores weren’t enough to wake her up), then without him they’d be toast if they were to get attacked in the middle of the night. Granted, Phil hoped he was never attacked that way—he kind of hoped he was never attacked at all, really—but he was going to have a much better time defending himself when he was actually awake.

When Dan finally started to wake up, Phil just shut his eyes and let Dan figure it all out on his own.

First, Dan let out a little sleepy breath, his head turning slightly and burying itself deeper into Phil’s chest, which was probably when Dan realized he wasn’t exactly lying on the bed. Phil felt Dan’s head lift off his chest then, slightly, before he let out a quiet sound of distress. He immediately went about untangling himself from Phil (Phil had released his own grip on Dan nearly ten minutes ago, fearing this would come soon), sliding an arm out from under Phil’s shoulder and pulling his hips away from where they’d been pressed against Phil.

In moments, Dan had managed to move completely away from Phil in a way that would’ve woken any person that wasn’t fucking dead. Honestly, one would think that Dan would’ve performed that whole evacuation a bit more stealthily when he was so afraid of getting caught. It’d been difficult pretending to be asleep through all Dan’s movements and the bouncing of the bed.

Finally, Dan stood up and retreated immediately to the bathroom for a horrible morning surprise. And it was horrible, if the subsequent sound of running water was any indication. Either way, Phil felt safe in pretending to wake up after another fifteen minutes or so, although Emma continued to sleep like a corpse. Phil would’ve been worried if she weren’t still producing that ungodly sound with her face.

“Good morning,” Phil finally greeted when Dan emerged from the bathroom sometime later.

“Morning,” Dan grunted. He immediately made his way to the chair across the room, where he then sat and glowered. He muttered something and his giant warhammer appeared in his hands, which he laid carefully across his knees.

“Expecting someone?” Phil asked in surprise, and Dan just glared at him.

“We shouldn’t have been so lax last night,” he answered. “Any monster could’ve snuck into this hotel. We should start sleeping in shifts.”

“That’s true,” Phil agreed, and Dan’s shoulders relaxed slightly, as if he’d expected Phil to call him out. Still, for the rest of the day Dan was pretty cold to him, likely residual embarrassment from his unhappy awakening. It especially sucked after he’d assumed he was making some progress, having saved Dan’s life and helped his recovering-poisoned body traipse through the forest and made him laugh a couple of times in Wallis’s truck. It was nice, making Dan laugh. His entire face lit up and his eyes brightened and it was impossible not to know he was a son of Aphrodite. How could he not realize how beautiful he was?

Still, Phil figured it was only polite of him to give Dan some space. He was clearly trying to think through everything that had happened that morning—hopefully coming to the realization that he was gay (it really was a mixture of sad and annoying, watching him be in such denial about himself). And so after Emma woke up an hour or so later, her hair an absolute mess on top of her head, Phil mentioned something about scouting out the area.

There were a few run-down looking gas stations around and hopefully he’d be able to steal some supplies from them, seeing as they didn’t have any money. It obviously wasn’t in any way ideal, but Phil looked like a nice enough kid that hopefully no one would grow suspicious of him looking around a bit. Plus, Dan clearly needed the space, and Phil was willing to give it—especially if it was going to help Dan accept himself. Phil had absolutely no doubt that whatever Dan had dreamed about that night had included a boy.

When he mentioned this to Dan and Emma (the gas station plan, not the Dan dreaming about boys thing), Dan readily agreed while Emma thought it over, trying to gauge how dangerous it could be for him to be on his own. Phil managed to convince her—I’m a son of ares—and then he was on his way, his fellow demigods having promised to get him something to eat from the free continental breakfast the motel served.

Phil nodded to the woman at the desk as he passed a few minutes later—Doris, he thought her name was?—and continued out of the hotel and onto the street.

They’d ended up in a run-down, barren kind of town, which was probably to be expected when going to a city you’d never heard of named after a cardinal direction. A gas station was conveniently located on the corner across from the hotel they’d stayed in. A large sign rose high in the air, declaring the gas station’s name and the prices of gas—several lights had burned out.

Phil made his way towards it, his hands shoved into his pockets. His sword was slung over his back, though he wasn’t worried about mortals seeing it. Their minds always came up with excuses of their own—to them it would look like a baseball bat or something.

A little further down the street was a run-down looking grocery store. It was dull and the parking lot before it was small, only a few cars scattered throughout it, all looking close to breaking down.

Phil walked past the one person outside the gas station: a large, muscled man filling up his bike. He wore sunglasses, making it impossible to tell if he was watching Phil as he passed. Still, Phil ignored him just in case—other than monsters, sometimes demigods just had to beware mortals in general. Sometimes they could be as bad as the creatures from Tartarus.

A bell rung as Phil pulled open the gas station door, alerting the cashier to Phil’s presence. It was a worn out looking teenager, fitting in pretty well with this town, and he nodded at Phil in greeting, appearing exhausted. Phil raised a hand in return.

He wandered up and down the aisles, scanning them all critically, and ended up grabbing them all a toothbrush, casually tucking them all into his back pocket. He continued doing this with small essentials—toothpaste, deodorant, gummy bears—followed with things less essential, like different varieties of food. The things that he could manage to hide in his clothes wasn’t too plentiful, maybe enough to last them a few days, but ultimately they’d have to stoop to stealing again.

Finally, Phil made his way up to the counter with a soda and a candy bar, plopping them down on the counter. The cashier rang him up and droned, “Three-seventy.”

Phil made a show of patting down his pockets, wincing when he “realized” he’d forgotten his wallet.

“Dammit,” he said, frowning up at the cashier. “I forgot my wallet.”

“Uhh...”

“I’ll come back later,” Phil said, smiling sheepishly.

“Alright,” the cashier said with a nod, and Phil waved as he retreated from the gas station, pockets now full of needed goods.

He had only just made it a little ways from the gas station when he heard a weird, scraping sound somewhere around him. He frowned, taking a step forward and peering into the alley beside him.

“Hello?” he called out. There was a little girl down there, crouched down and poking at something on the ground with a stick. She turned, and—her face was just a mouth.

“Oh fuck,” Phil cursed, pulling his sword out from over his shoulder as she turned and started sprinting towards him. Where her other facial features should’ve been was just a gaping hole filled with razor sharp teeth. Phil had no idea what monster she was—he wasn’t always the best at studying up, and old monsters were evolving into new monsters every day—but he was aware that she was fucking terrifying, so.

He jumped out of the way as she barreled past, spitting and growled. She was speedy but small—it should be easy to stick his sword through her and watch her explode into a cloud of dust. Although it really was unfortunate that she looked like a little kid other than her face.

“What are you?” Phil demanded. The girl answered without words, just more growling, angry sounds, and Phil groaned in annoyance. “You’d think you’d learn to speak with that giant mouth of yours.”

He raised his sword to slice the monster in two, only to stumble forward when something else launched itself at his back. Loud hissing exploded in his ear, and Phil tried to elbow the second creature off him. It clung on, and the first monster was approaching him, crouched low and dangerous. And then another one emerged from behind a dumpster, and another turned the corner of the alley, all slinking towards him.

“Oh fuck,” Phil repeated.

—

Fighting the monsters was a losing battle. There were too many of them and too little of him, all breathing hot, stinking breath towards his face which honestly didn't help with his fighting. He’d finally managed to kill the one on his back, coughing as he choked on its dust, and hacked into a second one before he realized how hopeless his situation was.

More had been coming, spilling out of the dumpster and climbing out of a sewer, making Phil wonder just what the fuck was going on in West, Texas. He’d managed to think that it’d be a pretty dumb way to die, eaten alive by faceless children, before he’d finally been overwhelmed. Instead of eating him, they’d choked him, what felt like hundreds of tiny, grubby hands squeezing his neck, making his vision go black. He’d heard a motorcycle roar past, probably that mortal from the gas station, blissfully unaware of the kid being choked to death by teeth-face monsters, before passing out from lack of air.

And so, logically, he should be very dead. Or at least very kidnapped. Instead, upon waking he found himself right back in his hotel room. He would think it’d all been a dream if not for the stench still clinging in his nose and the various scrapes all over his body, either from teeth or nails.

So how did he get back to his hotel room? And where were Dan and Emma? And weren’t they about to get kicked out of the hotel anyway? Doris had only promised them one night.

Phil had just managed to get to his feet, pausing at the dizzy feeling that overcame him, when Dan and Emma burst through the door, each holding a backpack.

“What happened?” Phil asked immediately, and they both stared at him for a moment.

“When did you get back?” Dan finally asked.

“You mean... it wasn’t you who saved me from those... things?”

“What things?”

“Monsters. I was in the alley—there were a lot of them, I—you really didn’t bring me back here?” he asked in disbelief.

“No...?”

“Are you okay?” Emma asked, frowning. Her eyes trailed over his skin, cataloging the injuries from his fight.

“Well I’m fine now, but who saved me?”

“And who paid for our hotel room?” Dan added.

Now it was Phil’s turn to be confused. “What?”

“We were just called down to the front desk. We assumed we were about to be booted but apparently a man claiming to be our father paid for our room,” Dan explained.

“And gave us these,” Emma added, holding up a bag. She tossed it at Phil, a second one already secure on his back. Phil immediately started digging through the bag, disbelief fighting against relief as he saw the contents. Clean clothes, soap, a toothbrush—

“Wait a minute,” Phil said, suddenly patting his pockets. They were empty—all of them. Sure, he could’ve dropped them in the fight, but all of them? Only for them to be replaced with something much better?

“You said you were fighting monsters?” Emma said, coming to sit on the bed across from him. “Do you think it was your hour of greatest need?”

“Does it matter? Aphrodite already saved Dan—that was the prophecy.”

They were all quiet, clouded with confusion. Gods didn’t normally just do mortals favors. Usually there was something it it for them, an ulterior motive for as to why they would bother with helping a silly demigod. But what?

Either Aphrodite hadn’t really helped them back in that forest clearing or a second god had helped them today despite it.

They ended up deciding to just let it go, the logistics of how and why they were suddenly safe wasn’t really a priority for them to be concerned about. They still had much so to figure out and their time was better spent on doing that. They couldn’t spend all their time in the hotel room, anyway, even if the mysterious father figure had paid for them to stay another night.

In the end, they did decide to stay a second night, because it was paid for and they didn’t have a real plan of where else to go next anyway. Tomorrow they could explore the town, see what it had in store for them, and after that they could figure out what their next plan of action would be.

Before bed that night, Dan specifically reminded Phil that they should keep watch, and Phil nodded, managing to not roll his eyes. He even offered to take the first watch, ending up sitting in the chair and staring tiredly at the TV, none of the programs even relatively interesting.

It was in the second hour of his watch when he heard a quiet tapping. He sat up straight immediately, looking every which way for the source of the noise. He finally tracked it down—the balcony. Currently there was a curtain pulled over it, blocking them from view, but what could possibly be out there, tapping on their window?

A shiver wracked through Phil at the thought of those child-monster things waiting out there, but he figured they wouldn’t bother knocking first. They’d probably just storm through the entire hotel entirely, ripping apart anyone they found along the way.

And so, feeling very apprehensive but forcing himself to be brave, he tip-toed across the room and twitched the curtain aside, peeking out. He nearly yelled in surprise, coming face to face with someone trying to look in. And then his mouth went dry, his eyes wide, as he took in the beautiful woman standing on their balcony. She wasn’t dressed for the weather, donned in a strappy dress with tall, clunky heels despite the chilly night air. She smiled, seeing Phil looked at her, and Phil hastened to open the door and scramble out onto the balcony.

“Good of you to join me,” she said, leaning back on the bar and raising an eyebrow at Phil.

“You’re Aphrodite,” Phil guessed, and her smile widened as she nodded.

“You recognize me?”

“Not at all.”

Aphrodite nodding knowledgeably. “I appear different to everyone that views me.”

Phil shook his head, trying to break the daze that Aphrodite’s very presence put on him. “What are you doing here?” he managed to ask, and Aphrodite’s face turned serious.

“You need to help my son,” she said.

“Er—didn’t you already do that? In the forest?”

Aphrodite scoffed. “That was nothing, just a bit of motherly love.” She laughed. “Imagine me letting my own son die without first being in love! A tragic death death without a tragic heartbreak? That’s not romantic at all.”

“Um. Yeah, I guess,” Phil said. Death didn’t really seem romantic to him anyway, but he didn’t bother arguing. Only Aphrodite could manage to delude herself into appreciating death. Oh, and Hades too, obviously.

“So you’ll help him?” Aphrodite prompted.

“I still don’t know what I need to help him with,” Phil pointed out.

“Oh, like you don’t know. You’ve been watching him all this time—you have a major crush on him, obviously. You can’t not know what he needs help with.”

“I don’t have a crush on him,” Phil said immediately.

Aphrodite scoffed. “If you think you’re just doing this for that stupid bet then you’re wrong.”

“You know about that!?” Phil gasped, half afraid he was about to get zapped right where he stood. Aphrodite ignored him.

“You need to help him,” she repeated. “He’s unaccepting of who he really is—won’t even admit it to himself—because of how he grew up. Because of who he grew up with,” she added with a roll of her eyes. Did she really dislike Dan’s father that much?

“I still don’t understand how I’m supposed to help him,” Phil pointed out.

“Just keep doing what you’ve been doing,” she instructed. “But make sure he knows that his feelings are okay.”

“So he does like me!” Phil exclaimed, before clearing his throat and looking away awkwardly. “Not that it... matters.”

“You’re not an idiot, Phil Lester,” Aphrodite said. “So stop acting like one.”

~~

next chapter 

[happyslittlegirl]

Head Over Boots

A/N: I do not own the picture above, the characters, or Kurt Sutter’s creations. I own (Y/N) and the plot. This is my first imagine, so please bare with me.

Trigger warning(s): Some curse words and fighting. 

Word Count: 1745

Based off of: Head Over Boots - Jon Pardi

-

        Here I am, at yet another SAMCRO party. In my opinion, SAMCRO parties are legendary. I’ve been coming to them for a couple of years now, maybe three or four years. Granted, they have them at least once a week, a lot of shit can happen at said parties. For example; Jax getting caught with Ima, prospects hitting on Gemma, and Tig being…. Tig. Despite all of that, who wouldn’t want to party with a whole bunch of sexy bikers? Now, don’t get it twisted, I ain’t a croweater. I don’t chase anyone in a cut, I don’t see joy sleeping with everyone in a charter. I simply come to these parties to drink, play some pool with the members, and have a good time.

           I’m sitting by myself at the bar with Phil behind the bar, he’s a newly patched Son. He was the designated bartender when he was just a prospect, but he’s the only one I trust mixing my drinks. I’m looking into space, absorbed in my own thoughts when they are interrupted. I look to my right and see the one and only, “Tacoma Killer,” Happy Lowman has sat himself beside me. I must’ve been staring longer than I anticipated because next thing I hear is him clearing his throat.

           “See something you like?” Happy asks in a voice so gruff that it sends tingles all the way down my spine.

           I blush and tumble over my words as I answer, “Uh, maybe.”

           Happy chuckles, turns to fully face me and says, “You don’t have to admit anything to me, I can just tell. For the record, I like what I see, too.”

           My mouth drops agape, “Me?” I question flabbergasted. “Really?”

           Happy gives me a smirk that almost has me dropping my panties right here in the middle of the clubhouse. He finishes off the last of his beer, stands up, grabs my hand and leads me to the makeshift dancefloor. The guys pushed all the tables towards the walls to make an open floor plan big enough for people to dance as they wish. Happy pulls me by my belt loops as close as I can possibly get while still clothed. We are now chest-to-chest and I am so close that I can feel his ever growing groin in between our bodies.

I blush again as Happy asks me, “Does that answer your question?”

I giggle as a surge of confidence rises in my body. I wrap my arms around his neck as we slowly start to sway to the beat of whatever music was playing. He grips my hips in his large hands and that lets my mind wander to what else those hands could do. I lean closer to his ear and ‘whisper’ as best as I could considering how loud the music is, “Yes, but I want more.” I turn in his arms so my backside is now pressed against his groin. I start to grind to the heavy bass of the music that was playing throughout the clubhouse. About 15 minutes pass and I’m really feeling myself. I mean I’m dancing with the “Tacoma Killer,’ who wouldn’t be feeling great? I feel Happy grip my hips, making me come to a stop so he could ‘whisper’ into my ear.

           “Little girl, I’ll be right back, Pres needs me outside,” Happy says as he nods towards the entrance. I look over his shoulder to see Jax, Chibs and Tig all waiting patiently for him.

           “Go big guy, I’m not going anywhere but back to the bar,” I smile and squeeze his bicep softly as I pull out his embrace. I start to walk away when I’m suddenly pulled back into Happy’s body as he pushes his lips against mine, hard. We stay like that for a good thirty seconds, and I’m loving every second of it. When he pulls away from the kiss, I’m a little dazed and keep my eyes closed, relishing in the remnants of kiss we just shared. Happy chuckles as he notices my expression, kisses my forehead and finally walk towards the group waiting for him.

           I walk back to the bar and sit myself onto the stool I had previously been occupying. I flag down Phil to get me another vodka cranberry and pull out my phone as I pass the time. I’m scrolling through Facebook and occasionally sipping my drink for about a half hour when I feel someone sit next to me, a little too close for comfort.

           “Hey beautiful,” he slurred as he spoke. I had never seen him before, so he must be from a different charter.

           Rolling my eyes, I give him the benefit of the doubt and reply. “Hi.” Trust me, I am only interested in one man right now and he’s currently outside.

           He gets a sickly smile on his flushed face as he leans so close that I can smell the alcohol on his breath. He asks, “What’s a pretty thing like you sitting here all alone?” I lean as far away as I could, but my back hits the wall, stopping me from getting any further. I look towards Phil, who has an eyebrow raised, watching this encounter closely just in case something happens.

           “I’m not alone,” I reply. “I’m clearly here with, Phil.”

           He scoffs, “Tsk, tsk. You could be having so much more fun with me, baby.” His tone is giving me the chills and not the good kind.

           “Listen, buddy,” I start. “I’m going to walk away now before you say or do something you’ll likely not remember in the morning.” I nod my farewell to Phil as I grab my purse and stand up to make my way towards to entrance. I make it just through the threshold when I spot Happy from across the lot. He’s standing with his brothers near the garage. I go to take a step towards them when I feel a hand wrap around my bicep. I whip my head towards the perpetrator to see that the drunken MC member had followed and grabbed me.

           “Where do you think you’re going?” he seethed as he tightened his grip around my arm.

           “Let go of me,” I practically growl through clenched teeth. I keep tugging my arm to try and release his grip, but it’s no use.

           “Do you know who I am?!” he screamed. “You’re not supposed to turn me down. You’re nothing but a croweater. A sweetbutt. Nothing!”

           I clench my jaw and go to finally rip my arm out of his grip when all of a sudden, I see the creep and Happy on the pavement. Happy had tackled him to the ground and now was leaned over top of him, continuously pounding his face in with his fist.

           I’m pulled away from the scene by Chibs as he looks over my arm to see if I need medical attention. To say I’m in shock is an understatement. I couldn’t move because this all happened so fast. It felt like hours though before Jax and Tig pulled Happy off of the creep. Chibs left my side to go pick up the creep and toss him out. As he was unconscious, Chibs left him out on the sidewalk. I blink repeatedly as I am once again aware of my surroundings and realized what had just happened. I walk slowly over towards Happy as Jax and Tig finally let him go.

           “We’ll leave you two alone,” Jax said as he, Tig and Chibs all walked back inside the clubhouse. Leaving Happy and I outside in the dead of night, alone.

           Happy broke the silence by asking, “Are you okay?” His eyes drawn to the fingerprints already forming on my bicep. I subconsciously begin to rub my arm where I know the marks are as I make eye contact with him.

           “I’m fine, Hap,” I say calmly. “He didn’t know who I was.” I walk up to Happy and wrap my arms around his torso to get close to him.

           “That’s not an excuse, (Y/N),” He exclaimed. “He shouldn’t have put his hands on you regardless of who you are!”

           I sigh in content as Happy puts his hands on my cheeks, keeping our eyes locked. His eyes are so warm, they always make me feel like I’m home. “I don’t have my crow on display tonight, baby,” I say as he starts to calm down. “I’m sorry, Hap,” I close my eyes and lean my head against his chest as he tubs a hand over the base of my neck where his crow was permanently etched onto my body.

           “Don’t be stupid, babe. You have nothing to be sorry for,” Happy says as he pulls my forehead to meet his as he looks deep into my (e/c) eyes. “We really need to stop thinking it’s kinky to act like we’ve never met before,” he chuckles as he pulls me in for a short, soft kiss. “You’ve been my Old Lady for four years. But, god damn, stranger sex roleplay is a god send with you.”

           I laugh and nod my head in agreement. “We can always come up with a new roleplay that’s just as kinky, baby. It can’t be that hard,” I say as I smile up at my Old Man and silently thank God he’s all mine. “I’ve always been in the long haul, Hap.”

           Happy beamed as he replied, “Me too, little girl. Forever. It’s going to be you and me beside each other in rocking chairs when we are old. Talking about shit like the weather on our front porch.”

           I hum in agreement and lean up to kiss him harder than before. I pull away slowly and whisper against his lips, “Take me home, Happy. Show me just how kinky you can be.”

           Happy gets a sexy smirk on his face as he reaches down to pick me up by the thighs, so I’m currently tossed over his shoulder. I let out a yelp of surprise as he smacks my ass and Happy just chuckles. He walks us towards his bike to drive us home, taking his sweet time with me over his shoulder. As he sets me on my feet on the concrete, he reaches for my helmet. Happy clips my helmet on my head, he looks at me lovingly and says, “I’m head over boots for you, baby. Let’s go home.”

[soaimagines]

Forbidden

Request: Imagine Tig falling in love with a prospect but they have to hide their love from the club. In the end they all find out and they're all cool with it.

Note: To the person that requested this; I hope I have done the request justice. Im sorry its not my best writing. Please let me know what you think 💕

Also I have no idea what sorta timeline I was going with here so bare with me.x

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Juice, I want you and the prospects to head up to the warehouse. Keep watch.” “I cant be up there all night man, Roosevelts on my case with these piss tests. Gotta get one in by the end of the day.” “Shit.” Clay took a drag of his cigar. “I’ll head up there in a few hours, take over.” Tig offered. “You sure?” “Yeah, I got this brother.” Clay nodded and turned to Jax. “You and Ope set a meet with Laroy. Make sure he ain’t gonna make a move without our say so.” “Juice after you see Roosevelt I want you to find out what you can about the Mayans supplier.” “Yes sir.” Juice nodded. “Chibs and Bobby, your with me. No body makes a move until I say so, is that clear?” Heads nodded around the table and Clay banged the gavel against the desk. You watched the doors open and your brothers-to-be file out of Church. Tig pulled his pouch of tobacco out of his pocket and began to roll a cigarette as he walked towards you, Clay beside him and you stood to meet them. “Wheres Phil and Miles?” Clay asked. “Outside, helping Gem get Abels new carseat in the car.” Clay nodded and pulled a .22 pistol out of his kutte and handed it to you. “Your on watch. It’ll be a long night. Don't fuck this up.” He slapped your shoulder and headed out of the clubhouse, Chibs and Bobby on his heels. Opie pulled out his cell phone and dialled a number as he and Jax headed for the door as well while Juice headed for the bathroom. That left just you and Tig in the clubhouse and he turned to you as he licked the rolling paper and folded it over. “I’ll be at the warehouse in a few hours, taking over from Juice.” You raised your eyebrows and a smirk came to your lips. After quickly glancing around the room to ensure you were alone you grabbed Tig by his kutte and pulled him closer to you. “Just cant stay away, huh?” “Something like that.” Tig said. He lifted your chin with his hand and pressed a kiss to your lips. A low growl left your throat and he smiled against your lips. “I gotta head out.” He said, his voice barely above a whisper. You nodded and tugged his leather once more, pulling his lips to yours. He pulled away and licked his lips, just as the flush of the toilet was heard through the bathroom door. You met his eye and with a slight nod you shared a silent goodbye. He slapped your ass as he walked past you and you laughed just as the bathroom door opened and Juice walked out. “Whats funny, prospect?” A blush rose to your cheeks and you shook your head. “Nothin, man.” Juice raised an eyebrow and shrugged. “Come on, man. Tell Phil to pull up the van.” You nodded and headed out of the clubhouse.

~

The sun was starting to set and you sat on a stack of old tires, your back leant against the old wood of the warehouse. “You seriously gotta Blastoise?” Juice asked. “Yeah man. Took me ages to get 100 squirtle candies though.” “Whos squirting?” You both looked up as Tig walked round the corner, a wild grin on his face. Juice laughed and shook his head. Tig rolled his eyes as he saw the cellphones in both of your hands. “Seriously, that pokemon shit again? How old are you two?” “Dont be jealous, grandpa.” You laughed. “Nah we should be the jealous ones, (y/n). Tiggy grew up with real life dinosaurs.” You both laughed. “Yeah yeah yeah, let me know when you hit puberty.” Tig punched Juice on the shoulder. You sniggered and slid your phone back into your pocket. “See ya later man.” Juice nodded to you before he slapped Tig on the back and headed off towards  his bike. You pulled your cigarettes out of your pocket and offered one to Tig, which he accepted. Both of you lit up as you watched Juice get on his bike and Tig waited for him to ride outta sight before turning towards you. “Grandpa, huh?” You smirked and took a drag of your cigarette. “The daddy kinks getting kinda boring.” Tig raised an eyebrow and stalked towards you, those piercing blue eyes burning straight into you. He stood between your legs and placed one hand on the wall right beside your head. His lips crashed against yours and the nicotine on your tongue mixed with the faint taste of whiskey on his breath. You breathed him in, your tongue pushing against his in a playful battle. You flicked your still lit cigarette into the dirt and ran your hands through his black curls, holding his face to yours. A primal growl rumbled in Tigs throat and you smirked against his lips. He broke away first but kept his face close to yours. “How often have they been coming round the back?” Tig asked, referring to Phil and Miles who were keeping watch at the front of the warehouse. You shrugged and reached for Tigs cigarette. “Every half hour or so.” Tig sighed and you passed the smoke back to him. “We shouldnt, doll.” He whispered and pecked your lips before stepping back, adjusting his pants with one hand. “Who cares, Tiggy? They're gonna find out eventually.” “Dont.” He took a long drag before tossing the butt to the ground and crushing it with his boot. “You know its too soon.” “Its been four months.” You whined and slid off the stack of tires. He ran a hand through his hair, a frustrated look on his face. “I know, baby. Once you've got your kutte we can.. be more open.” You sighed and walked towards him, draping your arms over his shoulders. “I dont wanna wait that long.” You pouted. Tig drew you in for another kiss before pushing you away gently. “Its not forever.” “I know.” You whispered against his lips. “I love you, Alex.” “I love you too, (y/n).”

~

Three days had passed since the night you'd spent at the warehouse with Tig. He had tried to resist as much as he could but eventually he caved and you'd spent most of the night kissing under the stars. Until Miles had almost caught you. You'd both been so engrossed in each other you barely noticed the sound of footsteps approaching and you'd only just managed to seperate in time. Ever since then Tig had been keeping his distance. He was pushing you away, scared that one wrong move would out your relationship to the club. He had sent you and the other prospects to watch the warehouse again last night, without supervision from a full patched member and you hadn't been all too bothered. Until you'd turned up at the clubhouse in the morning to find the remains of a SAMCRO party. It hadn't been a big one, but you and the other prospects had still been left to clean up the mess while the rest of the Club headed out to Lodi. Thankfully you had avoided the bathroom, where Phil was now scrubbing some croweaters vomit off the tiles. Miles was sorting out the empty bottles into the recycling while you swept up the shattered glass and the cigarette ash scattered over the floors. You were tired, and slightly pissed that you'd missed the party and when you heard the roar of the bikes signalling the return of the Sons you swore under your breath. You knelt and swept the pile you'd made into the dustpan, and headed for the trashcan. “Seriously man, what was that crows name?!” You heard Juice exclaim. You tucked yourself out of sight in the kitchen. “Which one?” “The one that was with Tig, damn I haven't seen her before.” You jaw clenched. “Ah the one with the big titties.” Chibs chuckled. You stepped out of the kitchen, the broom still in your hand. No one noticed you, no one except Tig and his body straightened when he saw you. His face went hard and he looked away. “Seriously man, what was her name?” Juice asked again. “I dunno, man.” Tig said. “Nah what was it? Jess or something, right?” “Drop it.” Tig snarled before stalking out of the clubhouse. Juice raised his hands in defense, his face full of confusion. You dropped the broom and followed TIg, not bothering to care who noticed.

The door slammed shut after you and Tig turned, shaking his head when he saw it was you. “Jesus christ.” “What the fuck was that, Alex?” “Nothing.” He shrugged. “It was nothing.” “Are you that fucking embarrassed to be seen with me?” You walked towards him, anger fuelling your steps. “Not here.” Tig warned. You ignored him and grabbed him by the cuff of his kutte. “Do you want to be with me or not?!” He was breathing heavily, his blue eyes filled with an ocean of emotions yet his facer was cold. Your face was only inches away from his as you stared into those eyes that drowned you, and with each breath he took you felt the fire inside of you growing. He must have felt it too. He crashed his lips against yours, his hands holding your face and the cool metal of his rings pressing against your warm cheeks. You pried his mouth open with your tongue, yet the moment your tongue touched his he caved, a low moan rumbling in his throat. “What the fuck is going on?!” Clays voice boomed. You leapt apart, your eyes wide in shock as Tig closed his, tilting his face to the sky and covering it with his hands. “Church. Now.” Clay growled. He turned in your direction and you shrunk under his cold glare. “You too.”

~

“How long has this.. thing been going on?” “Few months.” Tig answered. He stood next to you at the back of the room, while the rest of the club sat around the table. You couldn't help but feel like a naughty school kid being scolded by the school board. “Look, guys. I-“ “Dont.” Tig interrupted but you ignored him, throwing him an apologetic glance before continuing. “I love him. I don't care if this ruins my chances of getting a kutte. I care about him.” Clay stared you down, his face blank. You glanced at Tig but he was focused on Clay. “This.. Whatever this is.. It doesn't interfere with your role in the Club, understand?” Tig nodded. “Absolutely, brother.” Clay nodded slowly before turning to you. “You still want that top rocker?” You nodded. “Dont think we’re gonna go easy on you. Your gonna have to work extra hard to prove yourself.” You nodded. “What goes on behind closed doors is between the two of you. But I want it to stay behind closed doors.” “So thats it?” Tig asked. “You really don't care?” He reached for your hand and squeezed it tightly. “We’ve never givin’ a shite where ye sticking your dick, brother.” Chibs said. The rest of the club nodded and you smiled at Tig. “I dont wanna see you making out or whatever it is you two do.” Piney spoke up. “But as long as you don't come on to me then I don't care.” Tig smirked and you clutched your hands to your heart in mock hurt. “Dammit, Piney. You know that oxygen tank really turns me on.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

@i-want-to-be-watered-by-roger @danleto97 @ichimaruai

[butterflyphil]

And Marigolds All in a Row (Chapter 5: Snapdragons)

Summary: Dan is angry. Angry at the world, angry at his parents, angry at his classmates who treat him more like a punchline than a person. New to Brookwood Academy, he does his best to keep his head down and take advantage of his opportunity at a fresh start, but getting through sixth form unnoticed proves harder than expected. Then, one day, he wanders into a garden with as many secrets as flowers and meets a boy who has managed to do just that.

Warnings for this chapter: swearing, death mentions

start from beginning, previous chapter, read on ao3

It’s raining. Not a violent downpour like the day Dan retrieved his bike, but a steady almost-mist, the kind too quiet to hear over the croaking of frogs and too fine to see except in the spots it leaves on clothing, the rings it makes in water.

Dan watches those rings now on the surface of the pond, cattails brushing his back and Matt Bellamy crooning in his ear. His arm aches from holding his umbrella for too long, and his feet are cold, though not as cold as they should be given that they’re submerged in should-be-icy water on a drizzly November afternoon. Yet another spark of magic he has simply come to accept as part of the garden in the weeks since he first found it.

Another minnow nips at his toes, much to Dan’s annoyance. He looks over to the pale-pink feet dangling in the water next to his own and feels even more annoyed; as far as he can tell, the minnows never pester Phil. But then his eyes trail up to the rolled-up-but-somehow-still-damp jeans, the spindly fingers threaded in dewy grass, the upturned chin and closed eyes and soft smile, and his annoyance is forgotten.

“I liked that one,” Phil says, and it is only then that Dan realises that the last song on the album has ended. Phil removes the earbud Dan offered him and drops it into Dan’s outstretched palm, careful not to touch, as he always is. It’s something Dan noticed shortly after he and Phil met, and though he often wonders exactly what might have happened to Phil to make him so unwilling to touch people, he never asks about it. In return, Phil never asks Dan about home or school or the reason Dan flinched the one and only time Phil called him Daniel. It is their unspoken rule that the garden is to be treated as a sanctuary, an escape from the outside world where nothing matters but the bees and the flowers and each other, and Dan has no desire to break the spell.

“Likes Muse,” Dan says, nodding to himself and putting his earbuds and phone into his backpack before tossing it to the side. He closes the umbrella and throws it to the side as well; now that his electronics are safe, he doesn’t mind getting rained on a little. “We’ll make a music buff out of you yet.”

Phil makes a happy sort of humming noise as he flops onto his back, seemingly unperturbed by the wet grass beneath him. “That’s probably the first band you’ve shown me that hasn’t confused me, scarred me, or made my ears hurt. Don’t get your hopes too high.”

Dan laughs before copying Phil, folding his arms behind him before lying all the way down. He turns his head so the rain doesn’t fall directly into his eyes, and his gaze lands on Phil. It seems that it’s doing that more and more lately, soft skin and sharp bones pulling at his attention the way the earth pulls at apples, natural and unstoppable and feeling very much like falling.

Phil, for his part, never seems to notice the way Dan sometimes studies him for long stretches of time, unable to look away. He certainly doesn’t notice now, with his eyes closed and his face upturned, letting raindrops speckle his cheeks like new freckles, the corners of his lips tilted almost imperceptibly upwards. It isn’t uncommon for them to spend afternoons this way, especially when the sky is grey and dreary as it is now. On nicer days, they sit in the tree or walk along the cobbled path to admire the garden. But on days like today, Phil tends to close his eyes, likely finding beauty in his own imagination.

Dan prefers to look at Phil.

More and more often, they talk very little. Phil has been rather quiet from the start, and while Dan initially felt the need to fill any silence longer than a few seconds with mindless babbling, that urge faded with time and without effort. That’s when you know you’ve found somebody really special, he thinks. When you can just shut the fuck up for a minute and comfortably share silence.

He doesn’t realise that he has spoken aloud until Phil asks, “Did you just quote Pulp Fiction at me?”

Dan raises his eyebrows, though Phil doesn’t see it as his eyes are still closed. “You’ve seen Pulp Fiction?”

“Of course I have. It’s a classic.”

“Oh, that’s a classic but Gold Digger isn’t. I see how it is. You had me thinking you were this magical nature boy who’s too busy taking care of his plants to bother with frivolous human technology, but really, you just hate music.”

“I don’t hate music,” Phil argues, though there is laughter in his voice. “So I don’t keep up with the top forties. Sue me.”

“Maybe I will.” Dan raises his hands in the air, spreading them apart as though framing an invisible headline. “Dan versus Phil. It’ll be the trial of the century.”

“Howell versus Lester, you mean,” Phil corrects. “I think they usually use the last names.”

“Been sued a lot, have you?”

“I have my secrets.” He cracks his eyes open, gives Dan a sideways look, and grins.

They fall back into companionable silence. Phil closes his eyes again, and this time Dan does the same. He tries to feel what Phil feels, focuses on the individual pinpricks of icy water on his face until they start to fall slower, gentler, and finally stop.

“You are, by the way,” Phil says suddenly.

Dan lifts his head. He raises an eyebrow that Phil can’t see, but his friend must hear the unspoken question anyway.

“You said you can only share comfortable silence with someone very special.” His eyes open, wide and earnest and bluer than cornflowers. “You are.”

Dan doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he just turns his head, hoping the action is enough to hide his cheeks, which are surely too red to be excused by the cold. His eyes find the sky, where the clouds have gone pink and parted to reveal deep blue interrupted by rays of sunflower gold.

“I should go,” Dan says. With the end of Daylight Saving, he hoped he would finally be able to stay long enough to watch the sunset with Phil, but he can only ever stay for the very beginning. One day, he promises silently, and he pulls his feet out of the water. Phil follows suit even though he doesn’t have to—as far as Dan can tell, he doesn’t have a curfew—and tags along while Dan puts on his shoes, collects his backpack, and climbs onto his bike.

“See you tomorrow?” Phil asks. He asks some variation of this question every day, seemingly never sure that Dan will actually come back, though Dan’s response is always the same.

“Of course.”

                                                       ❁❁❁

Dan knows he’s in trouble when he sees his mother’s car parked in the garage.

“Shit,” he mutters and leans his bicycle against the wall as quietly as possible. He pulls off his shoes—still damp, as he didn’t properly dry his feet before putting them on—and carries them into the house, tiptoeing, praying that his absence has gone unnoticed.

He manages to hold onto hope until he passes the kitchen.

“Ahem.”

“Mum!” Dan says, dropping his shoes and turning towards the kitchen entryway, past which his mother sits at the table, eyebrows raised, arms crossed. “You’re home early.”

“Slow day at the office,” she replies, tone unnervingly even. For a moment, she reminds Dan of his school’s headmistress, except that her anger is veiled far more thinly. “You’re home late.”

“Yeah.” Dan shifts his weight between his feet, staring at the wall behind his mother’s head. “I…erm…had detention.”

“Detention.” She nods in a way that indicates she doesn’t believe him for a second. “For three hours?”

Crap, Dan thinks. “Well…it takes a while to bike home, and—”

“Dan.” Mrs Howell sighs, pinches the bridge of her nose, tries to stay calm. “I have known you for all sixteen years of your life. I know when you’re lying.”

“Do you?” Dan asks before he can stop himself.

She opens her eyes, near twins of his own in both color and stubbornness. “Yes,” she states. “I do.” A beat. Then, harshly, quietly, “I was worried sick when I came home and you weren’t here.”

Guilt twists in Dan’s gut. He drops his gaze to his soggy socks. “I’m sorry.”

“Just tell me where you were,” she says. She doesn’t sound as angry as Dan originally thought she was. Mostly, she sounds tired.

Dan shrugs. “I was just hanging out with a friend.”

Even with his head down, Dan can practically see his mother’s eyebrows shoot up. “A friend?”

Dan crosses his arms over his chest. “Don’t sound so surprised.”

“I’m not,” she insists unconvincingly. Dan raises an eyebrow at her. “Sorry. I just…what’s their name?”

Dan is quiet for a moment, debating. Finally, he mutters, “Phil.”

“Phil,” she nods. “And is he—”

“It’s not like that.”

“I was just going to ask if he was nice.”

Another stab of guilt. Dan swallows thickly. “Yeah,” he says. “He is.”

His mother smiles. “I’m glad.” The smile fades. “But next time you go over to Phil’s, let me know, okay?”

Dan almost corrects her but stops himself. He can’t think of any real reason not to tell her about the garden—it’s not like he’s been doing anything dangerous or illegal there—but something about it seems too sacred to speak of. “I will,” he promises. It isn’t exactly a lie.

The smile returns. “Good.” She stands up, crosses the room, and envelops Dan in a tight hug. He hesitates, more surprised by the physical affection than he is by the fact that he isn’t being yelled at, before slowly bringing his arms around her waist. “It’s good that you’re making friends.” She pulls back so she can look him in the eye, but she keeps her hands on his shoulders. “I know you must have been lonely lately, what with the new school and me working so much and…well. I…I wish I could promise that I’m going to start working less, but I’m afraid, for now at least, I can only promise to try to spend more time with you when I’m here. And I’m glad that you have a friend to keep you company the rest of the time.”

“I’m fine,” Dan insists, squirming under the unusual attention he’s getting.

Mrs Howell gives him her disbelieving look again, but she lets it go anyway. She hugs Dan once more, tells him dinner will be ready in half an hour or so, and nods when he asks if he can go to his room now.

“And Dan,” she calls after him when he is almost out of the kitchen, “bring me your laptop. You aren’t allowed to use it for anything but schoolwork for a month.”

Dan stops in his tracks. “What? What happened to being glad that I made a friend?”

“I still am. This is for lying about where you were this afternoon.”

Dan hangs his head. “Yeah, okay, fair enough,” he grumbles. He can do pretty much all of his browsing from his phone anyway.

As if reading his mind, his mother says, “And don’t even think about using the internet on your phone. As soon as possible, I’m changing the Wi-Fi password, and don’t think I won’t notice if you’re using data.”

“Now that’s just evil.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Would you rather be grounded?”

Dan almost says yes; normally, he would rather be confined to the house than lose his internet privileges. But then he remembers Phil, and he realises what his mother is doing. He rushes back into the kitchen and places a soft peck on his mother’s cheek. “You’re a good mum,” he whispers.

“I’m rather fond of you as well, sweetheart,” she says. She gives him a wide smile, eyes crinkling in a way they haven’t lately.

Dan mirrors the expression and, for the first time in months, feels like he belongs to a family again.

Then, her grin still intact, Mrs Howell says, “But you still have to bring me your laptop.”

                                                       ❁❁❁

Dan might not be able to use his phone for the internet, but at least he can still text.

Louise my mum banned me from the internet entertain me

Louise replies almost instantly.

That’s not in my job description

You arent my guidance counselor anymore

Touche

And then, a second later:

What’d you do to lose your internet privileges

I might have stayed out late without asking first…and then lied about where i was

Dan expects another lecture. He knows he deserves it. Instead, Louise just asks,

Were you safe?

He smiles at his phone. If only all adults were more like Louise.

Yeah i was just hanging out with a friend

Okay, now that’s out of the way, stop lying to and worrying your mum!

Ah, there’s the lecture.

His phone buzzes again.

Wait…friend?

Why is everyone so shocked to hear that i socialize with other human beings

Sorry, sorry, just…a bit surprised to hear you talking about a friend instead of an enemy, is all. I’m happy for you. Who are they? What are they like? Do you have many classes together?

His name is phil. Odd but in a nice way. No classes together, he doesn’t even go to my school

Actually, he goes to blue coat. Maybe youve seen him

Surely you don’t mean Phil Johnson in year 13??

No his last name is lester. He actually transferred there around the same time i left

Louise doesn’t respond for two whole minutes.

We haven’t gotten any transfers lately

Dan stares at the message for far too long, not quite able to process its meaning.

Hes pretty quiet, maybe you just havent noticed him

He waits for a response. When one doesn’t come right away, he stares at his phone screen until it falls asleep.

He wishes he could do the same.

A soft pattering sounds on the roof. The rain from earlier is back, Dan realises, and it soon picks up speed. If the night was not quite dark before, it certainly is now.

Just as Dan thinks this, the room is illuminated by a flash of lightning, eerie purple-blue interrupted by the gnarled shadows of tree limbs. The trees here, he has noticed, aren’t nearly as friendly as the ones in the garden. He pulls the duvet up to his chin and doesn’t dare look out his window.

The house is shaking with the force of a particularly loud clap of thunder when his phone vibrates again, so Dan doesn’t notice that Louise has finally texted him back until the rumbling stops. She only texts one word. A fairly innocuous word, but Dan’s stomach drops all the same.

Maybe.

                                                      ❁❁❁

Technically, Dan could be on his way to the garden right now. The school day is over, and there is nothing stopping him from opening his phone, texting his mum that he is going to Phil’s, and spending the rest of his day the same way he has for the last few weeks. Minus an internet connection, of course.

Yet here he is, rooted to the spot in front of the headmistress’s office as the last few students without afterschool activities filter out of the building.

“May I help you?”

Dan jumps, letting out a noise that could generously be described as a yelp but more realistically described as a squeak. He spins around to find the headmistress looking at him in a way that feels very much like looming despite the fact that she is nearly a head shorter than he is.

“But…” Dan looks back to the wooden door with her name on it to make sure it is still closed, points at it dumbly, looks back at her.

“Believe it or not, Dan, I don’t actually live in there.”

“Oh,” is all Dan can think to say.

“Is there something you wish to discuss with me?”

“No,” Dan replies automatically. He hunches his shoulders, shuffles his feet. “I mean…maybe. Sort of. It’s…not important.”

Before he has a chance to make some excuse and dash out of the building, she is skirting around him to unlock her office door, striding to her desk, and sitting down at it with purpose. For a moment, they simply watch each other from opposite sides of the doorway.

“Well?” she says when it becomes clear that Dan isn’t going to move anytime soon. She raises a razor-sharp eyebrow, folds two razor-sharp hands.

Dan enters the room slowly, carefully, having the strangest feeling that he’s the unfortunate first victim in a horror movie. He stands behind the proffered chair instead of sitting in it, gripping the back with all his might.

Ellington doesn’t mention it. She doesn’t mention anything. She spoke her piece, and now she sits. Watches. Waits.

“I made a friend,” Dan announces, unable to take the silence any longer.

If Ellington is surprised, she doesn’t show it. She nods. “Would you like to tell me about them?”

It’s an out, Dan realises. She’s allowing him to change the subject, to make an excuse and leave.

He moves around to the front of the chair and sits.

“We…we didn’t meet at school. I crashed my bike, and I think he might have fixed it for me.”

“Might have?”

“We’ve never really talked about it.”

Ellington nods as though she understands.

“He told me he used to go here. Maybe you know him?” He doesn’t intend for it to come out as a question, but it does.

“Probably.”

“His name is Phil Lester.”

For the first time since Dan met her, the headmistress’s outer confidence melts away. Her eyebrows come together in confusion, and there’s a look in her eye that might be interpreted as concern.

Or fear.

“When was it that he said he went here?” she asks.

“Up until a couple of months ago, right around the time I transferred.”

Oh god, he’s secretly forty, Dan thinks, and he waits for the headmistress to confirm it. What she actually says, though, is so much worse.

“Dan,” she says, and she sounds careful, and that might be the most troubling thing of all. “I’m not sure who this friend of yours is, but I think it’s best you stay away from him. He’s not who he says he is.”

Dan opens his mouth to reply, but no words come out.

“I’ve worked here for almost a decade,” she continues. “I know every student who passes through these halls, if only by name. I’ve only ever known one Phil Lester. And, I assure you, your friend is not him.”

“H-how do you know?” Dan asks, heart racing.

She purses her lips, considering, then shakes her head. “Because Phil Lester died two years ago.”

next chapter

[drlindamurraytenacity-blog]

Dr Linda Murray

Direct Disobedience---Father was very strict with rules about our behaviour. There were two dominant classifications of bad behaviour. Direct and non-direct disobedience non-direct disobedience were stupid things that we did and had not been told specifically not to do. Direct disobedience, on the other hand, were behaviours that we had been specifically told not to do. Direct disobedience was the greatest of the crimes and punishment was of significant magnitude to fit the crime at hand. We were all usually careful with directly disobeying either of them but especially my father. If he had told us not to do something then he considered us warned. Lieing in any form was also deemed direct disobedience. I rarely faced my father’s wrath and anger but the boys faced it frequently. Kevin took the worst of it though. I followed the rules as well as I could the majority of the time. This is part of the reason that Desy hated me so much. He had no idea what was really going on I behaved because if I didn’t she would make my father pay. I was especially careful of not breaking the stepmonster’s unspoken rules. Discipline was swift if we ever got out of line. If were disciplined at school, and my father thought the school representative was correct, we would get twice the punishment at home since this was also considered to be direct disobedience. Like I have said this never happened to me but for the boys this could get ugly. More on this later,  if he thought the school representative was in error. God help them.

Punch in My Stomach---When I was about nine to eleven years old I had a bit of a pot belly of baby fat. My father was not happy that I had this pot belly and decided that it was because my stomach muscles were weak. So made a habit of punching me in my stomach with this knuckles whenever he saw me not controlling my stomach muscles. I learned that I needed to keep my stomach muscles hard all the time I was with him. I hated it. But I did learn not to let my little pot belly show. Eventually, I out grew the baby fat. In grade six I grew six inches in the year and all of my baby fat was gone and he stopped hitting me in the stomach. In the mean time I had developed a strong set of gut muscles. In fact, when I was a bit older, I could actually have my father stand on my stomach muscles and I would move his entire weight up and down with flexing my stomach muscles. He was proud of me for being able to do this but I think that there must have been less painful and abusive method to teach me this lesson.

"Children can’t predict the consequences of their actions . . .  How long do you have to pay for this? . . . You have to forgive that 9 year-old girl for not being able to carry a burden or a responsibility that she should never been assigned in the first place.” Dr Phil

Kevin and Lying----My baby brother Kevin just couldn't win. He was only one when my mother committed suicide. I did the best that I could being only five myself. I did dishes, bottles, and diapers and was still my brother’s keeper when I was eight. After all he was my ‘birthday present’ and ‘my responsibility’. I tried hard at least. Kevin took forever to walk and my father said that he was just lazy. The kid was just not a winner in everything. He started so far behind that I doubt he could ever pleased our father. When he started school it became evident very early that he was having difficulties. He struggled. He just couldn't do anything right as far as my father was concerned. Finally they realized he had a vision problem and required ‘coke bottle’ glasses. Great, now he  had really ugly glasses with which to contend. Kids can be cruel but having my father use this to ridicule him must have been even more devastating. Kevin, like me, wet the bed into his teens. I had the same problem but I didn't get reamed out from my father. Kevin would hide his wet pajamas under his pillow. He was so ashamed and my parents tortured him about it. Kevin also lied about everything, including situations where there was no doubt he had done something wrong. He used to lie with such conviction. I used to be able to tell when he was lying but he did it so often that my father assumed everything he said was a lie. My father used to call him the 'lying four eyed piddler'. Whenever Kevin lied, or my parents thought he was lying,  about anything he would be punished (spanked with a slipper or belt). My father would tell him he was going to get two hits for the ‘crime’ and one for each time he lied about it when questioned. I remember on one situation clearly. I was standing in the kitchen close to Kevin and my father was sitting at the kitchen table. Dad would keep track of the number of times he lied and he would get one extra stripe for each lie. He would even write them down on a piece of paper so Kevin could see what was coming. I’m not certain how long this would go on but I think it stopped when he reached a maximum of 20 stripes. Im not sure of this limit though. When the inquisition phase was over, and he had been found guilty of the crime, he would get sent to his room to wait until my father came in to administer the punishment. Then he would have to get on his knees and lean over the bottom bunk of the bed and my father would hit him on the bottom with a belt or slipper the exact number of times he was told he would be hit. My father would count out loud each time he hit his bottom. My father left the door open to the boys room when this was happening as a warning to the rest of us and to maximize the embarrassment for being punished. There was never any significant ‘physical damage’ done to my brothers on these occasions. Their bottoms probably hurt for a while. I think the majority of the damage was psychological. This whole process was carried out in a very calm systematic manner. It was not like my father went into a rage or anything. He never hit the boys anywhere but on their bottoms. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not condoning this punishment but corporal punishment was an accepted form of punishment at the time and I still think it can be used to terminate really bad behaviour if used judiciously. I would always wince and cry on the inside whenever heard Kevin being tormented and there was nothing I could do about it. I feel guilty, I didn't protect him better. But I was also just hanging on to sanity by a fine thread. I was close to losing control of my life let alone his. I can't imagine how life was like for him. At least I did well in school and was clearly my father’s favourite. I payed for this with the stepmonster though and when she disciplined me she would take it out on my father or slap me hard on the face. It was wrong but that is how it was. I could not understand why he continued to lie. He knew he would be hit only twice if he said he did the crime but he kept lying until he reached the maximum penalty. Why? He was not even bright enough to minimize his punishment! He must have known that he would be found guilty, all the time, or my father would not have accused him of the crime in the first place. My father would know the ‘truth’ of the situation before the inquisition. I think Kevin may have been displaying some early signs of some form of dissociation.  It's no wonder he was a bit fucked up. I do not remember hearing I Love You or getting a real hug from either of them. More on this later.

“Memory is a complicated thing. A relative to truth but not its twin.” . . .Barbera Krigsoffer (sp)

Wednesday Nights------When we were kids dad had this ritual thing on Wednesday nights. We all had to have a shower/bath twice a week at a minimum. We had to bath on Sundays and Wednesdays. After our baths he would cut our fingernails and clean our ears. This continued until I was about 12 as far as I can remember. I would hate this I was a nail biter and I would not have nails to cut off. I would get into trouble each time. He would give me shit every time and tell me that it was a dirty habit. It was something I just couldn't stop doing. It was almost compulsive in nature. I would maintain this behaviour for a long time without understanding why I did this. Later, when I was taking a behaviour modification course I realized why this behaviour was maintained. It is possible that this was the only thing in my life that I could control at the time. Desmond had the opposite problem. My father was always ragging on him to cut his nails and come to the dinner table with clean hands. Finally my father came home with a petri dish. He scraped under Desmond's nails and put the scrapings into the dish and put the dish away in a cupboard. About a week later he pulled the petri dish out of the cupboard and showed us all of the things that grew in the dish. It was gross, but it didn't seem to impact Desy at all.

The Bike and the Principal----I completed my elementary education in St. Avila School. The school was close to home and the principal was great. So were most of the teachers. I had begged to bring my brothers bicycle to school one day and my father had given me permission. When I was in fifth grade I was coming home at lunch I ran into three boys who were pushing me around and messing with Desy's bike. The worst of the two was Jeff. He bullied everyone he could. The other two boys Willis and Chris I had never had any trouble with before. It almost seemed out of character for them. They managed to tear off the licence on the bike and bent a spoke on one of the wheels. I was in tears as soon as I got away. Not so much that they had picked on me but because Desmond's bike had been damaged while in my care and this would probably mean that I would never get to use it ever again. When I got home my father was very angry about the damage and the boys picking on me. He got all of the information and told me it was up to me if I wanted to report the behaviour to the principal. He explained that it could get worse or it could stop the bullying. I said that I was angry now and wanted to talk to the principal. So after lunch we walked to the school and had a conversation about the incident. Then I went to my class. Shortly after classes started for the afternoon the intercom summoned Willis, Chris, Jeff, and I to the principals office. The principal pulled Willis and Chris in first and I could hear them getting strapped 3 or 4 times. Once the Principal was finished with them he then called Jeff and I into his office. He then proceeded to strap Jeff on the hands until he cried in front of me. I don't remember Chris and Willis getting into more trouble all the way through to high school. Jeff on the other hand turned out to be a hell of a bully. But he never bullied me again. I met once again when he was in his late 20s and he had not forgotten the event.

[devils-gatemedia]

It’s almost like someone carefully planned that Steel Panther would hit these shores in January. A week or so until payday, bills from Christmas landing on the doormat, it is bloody freezing, and the country has ground to a halt. Judging by the warnings from the met office, the police, and the transport minister, venturing out after a certain time will result in apocalyptic scenarios rivalling ‘The Day After Tomorrow’. The crowd lining up outside the O2 Academy obviously didn’t get the message, as although it’s sub-zero, there’s a vast amount of naked flesh on display… and that’s just the male of the species. Lycra leggings, mullet wigs, crop tops, and beer bellies can only mean one thing; Steel Panther are in town, and for a few hours, the January blues are forgotten about. The added bonus of two much-touted up and coming UK rock acts is a master stroke, and the net result is a sold out venue.

The job of kicking off the evening fell to Wayward Sons, the new band featuring Toby Jepson, one of the most respected artists in the British rock scene over the last few decades. Jepson and Thunder being the two mainstays from the first coming of a new wave of British classic rock back in the late 80’s early 90’s. Ironic then that years later, Jepson and his fellow Wayward Sons have produced a debut album that gives the youngsters a run for their money. Much heavier than his most well known band, Little Angels, Wayward Sons play a infectious brand of hard rock that has the crowd bouncing from the off. They’ve also brought in some of their own fans as after the intro tape of ‘Folsom Prison Blues’ by Johnny Cash fades into opening track ‘Alive’. Heads are bobbing, arms are in the air, and more importantly, people are singing along. Jepson is sporting a rather nifty looking Flying V as he takes over the role of ring leader, cajoling those unfamiliar with Wayward Sons into clapping along and making some noise. The band are incredible too. Fellow guitarist Sam Wood looks every inch a guitar god in the making, and Nic Wastell plays his bass slung low like every punk wannabe from the good old days, difference being, he can play. Drummer Phil Martini is crucial to the sound as he puts in an almighty shift at the back, driving the likes of ‘Ghost’ and ‘Until The End’ along at a fair old pace. Clem Burke from Blondie is one of my favourite drummers, and I see a lot of Burke in this fella. Check out his intro to ‘Killing Time’… smashing, great, nice, super. Jepson is more experienced than most at this lark, and looks at home in front of a huge crowd. He knows how to work them, and he knows that a lot of those in tonight won’t be familiar with his previous work. His voice shows no sign of wear and tear from the last few decades, if anything it sounds stronger, hitting the high notes on ‘Killing Time’ with ease. After a short 30 minute set, Jepson announces that the band will be back on a headlining tour in April. With gems like ‘Crush’ and ‘Be Still’, you would be a fool to miss them.

Any band that takes to the stage using the theme tune to the classic TV show ‘Superstars’ is fine by me. Laying down a marker that says they are ‘superstars’ in waiting, or a tongue in cheek response to those that hail them as ‘the next big thing’? You decide. Either way, it did raise a wry smile from those who remember Kevin Keegan tumbling from his bike back in the ‘70’s, none of that health & safety malarkey back in them days. After the band take to the stage, the larger than life figure of frontman Nathan James ambles on. It’s hard to miss him really, he’s the one with a mane of long blonde hair and wearing the glittering jacket. Shy and retiring are two words never to be used when describing Nathan James. Frontmen should be confident  by nature, but James takes it to the next level. Thankfully, he has the voice to match his persona. He knows that Inglorious are onto something, and the response from the crowd shows they agree. Possibly the best reception that I’ve witnessed a support band receive in quite some time. Set wise, it’s a great mix from both acclaimed albums, the self-titled debut and last years follow up, ‘Inglorious II’. ‘Read All About It’ has a killer groove to it thanks to the powerhouse drumming. Phil Beaver is truly a beast behind the kit, and along with bassist Colin Parkinson, provides a fantastic foundation for the guys upfront to do their thing. The faster paced ‘Taking The Blame’ has the dandruff flying in the crowd, and a few pints can be seen flying up in the air. It must’ve been the free tap water, as no ‘sweaty’ would waste a pint at these prices, trust me. ‘I Don’t Need Your Loving’ just makes you want to bounce, the beat and the groove is perfect for bouncing, and if you time the bounces correctly, then by the time it finishes you’ve made your way to the barrier! One of the stand out tracks from the debut was ‘Holy Water’. The slower, bluesier side to Inglorious showcases their talent as players, and live it only amplifies this statement. The guitar work from Andreas Eriksson and Drew Lowe is, at times, staggering. Next step for Inglorious? Opening arenas for an act like Whitesnake, or the recently announced Def Leppard/Cheap Trick tour. They’ve got the fanbase in place, someone just needs to take the risk that Inglorious won’t blow them off the stage.

The fact that Steel Panther have been doing their exaggerated comedy-glam-metal-mashup since the early 2000’s, and are still pulling in quite a crowd, is amazing. Even more amazing is that they can still, in current times of various hashtags, the ‘snowflake’, and basically an age when it’s actually harder not to offend anyone than it is to rankle someone… but then again, we do live in a time when Michael McIntyre can sell out multiple nights in arenas up and down the country, so go figure. Maybe the appeal of Steel Panther is that perhaps people are sick of being told what is offensive or not, and sick of not a day going by where someone is on social media apologising for offending someone somewhere. Steel Panther are offensive if you want them to be, but thankfully they don’t apologise. It’s hard to imagine that anyone takes their schtick seriously in 2018, but I’m sure that there are people out there who would baulk if they heard ‘Asian Hooker’ or ‘17 Girls In A Row’. Did anyone ever find out what Tiger Woods thought of their tribute? So, when you walk through the door at a Steel Panther gig, best leave the PC button switched off. You’ll laugh at jokes you probably shouldn’t, but then again you will laugh, and if you go with the flow, you’ll also enjoy some well crafted cheesy hair metal.

Before ‘Supersonic Sex Machine’ opens the show, frontman Michael Starr is over in the wings making hand gestures at someone on the other side. It looks like it’s guitarist Satchel that is on the receiving end of some banter, and that really sets the tone for the show; four guys taking the piss out of each other in the way that only guys can. The crowd are also in for some abuse as well. In the same way that someone sitting in the front row at a comedy gig knows that they will be picked on, if you sit on someone’s shoulders at a Steel Panther gig, you know that you will be singled out. Like the person that Starr points out by saying “Shit, look at the tits on that bitch in the white… fuck!… it’s a guy!” Then said guy lifts his shirt, and wobbles like a human lava lamp. Bassist Lexxi Foxx is the usual butt of most jokes from Starr and Satchel, mainly because of his pout and his habit of checking himself in the mirror. Drummer Stix Zandinia sits atop his riser taking in all the madness that surrounds him. In between all this banter back and forth, Steel Panther actually play some music. ‘Asian Hooker’ and ‘Death To All But Metal’ are still hard to beat, but ‘Tomorrow Night’, ‘Poontang Boomerang’, ‘That’s When You Came In’ (love the acoustic intro), and the mass sing-a-long that is ‘Community Property’ are all special moments. It isn’t a Steel Panther gig until the stage is filled with girls from the crowd for ‘17 Girls In a Row’, and I’m sure that on this occasion I saw someone who looked like Wee Jimmy Krankie in a red wig up there?! It’s not all bawdy lyrics and crowd participation though, Satchel gets his moment in the limelight as he tears through some metal classics during his guitar solo. Satchel played with Rob Halford in Fight, enough said. If he’s good enough for the metal god…

It’s not often that you go to a gig and the entire audience is howling with laughter… unless the band really sucks. Steel Panther do not suck. They are however on tour throughout Europe until mid February. Turn up and let yourself go. Leave the inhibitions at the door, though.

Review: Dave Stott

Images: Dave Jamieson

Live review: Steel Panther – O2 Academy, Glasgow It’s almost like someone carefully planned that Steel Panther would hit these shores in January. A week or so until payday, bills from Christmas landing on the doormat, it is bloody freezing, and the country has ground to a halt.