#everythin is alleged.

[anthropologist-on-the-loose]

Sometimes it is so hard to not editorialize when doing archival work. Tragic that I have to stay professional in my entry descriptions and can't add little personal comments like, "heads up: this did not age well" or "wow, this local politician was being SUPER sus in his statements, check it out."

[bunnys-kisses]

baby fever

capt. john price

cw: smut/pwp, dirty talk, breeding/pregnancy, filthy, husband!price, slight age gap (reader is early 20s, price late 30s), military formal wear, oral (m receiving), doggy style, unprotected

bunny says: i thought about built/chubby price and him in his military formals and my brain turned off. this was the end result.

price wasn't beating the bear allegations. while he wasn't a gay bear, he knew that there were a lot of women who loved his physique. dusting of hair, built but enjoyed a good sunday roast. thick fingers and broad tongue. he was a built man after his years of service.

but if price had to pin you as an animal, it would be his little chickadee. small and fragile with a cute little song. the most loveliest thing he had ever laid his eyes on. no wonder within a year of dating, you were already engaged.

price knew when he had a good thing going and didn't want to ruin it. you were still in university, but he'd never make his darling girl quit school for his sake.

"'ey, love." he said as he walked past you on your laptop. he leaned in and kissed the side of your neck, "studyin' well?"

you looked over and smiled at him, "of course, big bear." you took him by the face and kissed him on the cheek. your engagement ring gleamed in the light of the living room.

but even the brightest university students could easily crumble against a man like price. it didn't help that there was a spike in your baby fever. it was almost embarrassing when you watched price in the living room, shining his uniform boots. it also didn't help when he was making sure that formal attire still fit.

he noticed you staring, you didn't try to hide it.

he stood there in front of the full length mirror in your shared bedroom. the beret, the jacket, the medals. hands on his hips as he looked at you. he smiled, his eyes crinkled at the sight of your jaw almost on the floor.

"tryin' to see if everythin' still fit. need to go back to the gym, your cookin' is gonna be the death of me, love." he chuckled. he dragged his tongue across his top teeth and said, "now that i know, why don't ya help me get out of it."

maybe a man in uniform was your (not-so) secret kink. you've seen him in everything under the sun, but every time it still made your throat dry. you were in your sunday pajamas, paired with fuzzy slippers.

he reached out for you, "ya like when i'm dressed like this, huh?" he chuckled as he tilted his head down to kiss the top of your head.

"i mean." you said, "you look good." you blushed a little bit more and looked away from him, but he took you by the chin to look at him. those blue eyes peered into yours.

"don't be shy, love." he said, "i like when ya stare."

you held onto the front of his jacket, the thick material felt heavy in your grasp. you could feel the wetness between your legs. damn price. you said, "you look good, big bear."

he reached down and took a handful of your ass, "and you look even better, my chickadee. now c'mon, undress yer man." then licked his top lip at the sight of your delicate hands trying to undo the formal jacket. he then took you by the head again and said, "pants first." then helped you onto your knees.

you swallowed and looked up at him. if anyone looked inside, they'd see a weird power dynamic. but all price saw was an eager little birdie trying to get her hands on her husband.

"those medals look nice." you said as he reached for his belt.

he chuckled, "not as nice as your lips on my cock." then dragged a hand through your hair. the belt soon came off as his pants were unzipped. he was thankful that he knew how to get any stains out of his uniform, because he knew you were a messy girl.

you took his cock out of his slacks. it stood was full attention and even after all this time together, the sight of it was still arousing. cut, thick, a deep pink (not quite red) and almost eight inches in length. you once joked it was a "porno dick".

you kissed the underside of it with such warmth that it made the man shudder. then started the slow, small licks against the shaft. you chuckled to yourself at the feeling of his cock under your tongue. he felt like a dream.

"that's a good girl. my darlin' girl." he said with a hint of pride in his voice. he loved the sight of you on his knees. even if the sweat down his back was making the heavy jacket more uncomfortable.

you stroked the base of his cock with one hand while you put your mouth fully on the tip. you teased it with wet strokes of you tongue. you could hear the gruff noise your husband made.

you squirmed a little while on your knees and could feel a dull throb between your legs. price's cock was an impressive sight and a task to fully get in your mouth.

"ya got a small mouth, love.' he remarked jokingly, "too small for all of this. but i know you'll do your best.' he combed his fingers through your hair once more before it rested on the back of your head.

he supported your head while you continued to orally pleasure him. he loved his woman on her knees in front of him. while he held you in high regard, he thought you were the sweetest things since strawberries on cake, but there was something about seeing HIS woman like this.

you looked up at him and a groan got caught in his throat. you gave him a cute little wink before you continued to stroke him off. your other hand was on his strong thigh for support as you pleasured him.

"oh sweet fuck." he groaned.

you knew you'd never take all of him in your throat but you made the most of what you could. his cock was heavy in your mouth as you continued to move your head.

he gripped the back of your head, he felt hot all over as pleasure pumped through his veins. he loved his girl, his darling sweet angel. yeah the age difference was to raise an eyebrow at. but if they knew the angel he managed to get a ring on, they'd understand.

his little chickadee.

you looked up at him once more. the way he looked down at you with a guiding hand on the back of your head. you pulled your mouth off his cock and looked up at him with your tongue out of your mouth.

"fuckin' doll eyes." he said, "get back to what you were doin', i want to see you take every last drop."

you once again went back to orally pleasuring him. your hand dug into the meat of his thigh as you tried to take more of his cock in your throat. the noises that came from your husband made your core ache.

the bright pink in his cheeks made you smile as he messed up with hair with his broad hands. he felt so big next to you. his little precious wife doing everything in her power to get him off.

with a few more thrusts of your head with his cock nudging the back of your throat. you moved to keep the tip against your tongue as he came down your throat. you didn't want to choke on his cum but you savored every last salty drop.

maybe a man in uniform did things to you.

when you pulled away, you looked up at him. "i want you, john." you said as you licked your lips and wiped your chin with the back of your hand, "i want to have your babies." the baby fever was thrumming in your veins, "fuck me, big bear."

he raised an eyebrow, "babies, huh? i thought you wanted to be a working woman." he said cheekily.

you rose to your feet, your legs were shaky as you grabbed him by the front of his uniform jacket and kissed him deeply. you almost toppled over him but he held you by the middle for support. when you pulled away, you panted as you said, "breed me price, or i'll find someone else to do it."

his expression darkened, "don't be sayin' things like that, love." he pulled you close to him. his cock was still hard between you two, "you better not run off with some runt." he kissed your heated cheek, "now face down, ass up, chickadee."

you pulled away from him and turned towards the bed. you shredded your clothes and almost threw yourself onto the large mattress. your face against the pillow with your back arched and hips raised.

you felt the bed sink soon after with your husband's large hands on your hips and his cock rested against your ass.

"your uniform." you squeaked.

"i'll iron it tonight." he replied, "right now, my darlin' girl needs her pussy fucked." his vulgar language made a shiver run through you.

when he bottomed out into your pussy, you felt the air escape your lungs. you clutched onto the pillow. he got a perfect view of your backside, his gaze felt hungry against you.

"please."

"my darlin' girl." price said softly. he leaned in and kissed you on the shoulder. you felt like a tight heat around him. "my beautiful wife." price adored that you were his wife. that you decided to marry him, now he got to feel up your beautiful figure every moment.

"god, john." you moaned, "was it always this damn big?"

he chuckled lowly, "you make me hard, love. i see ya and i just go wild." he then started to kiss at your shoulders and neck.

you held onto the pillow and panted in the pillows. you felt the sweat at your back as you were fucked. you panted into the fabric and felt your husband thrust into you.

"sweeter than jam and more fuckable than a toy." he chuckled lowly as he began to pick up the pace. he could feel your heat under him, you were a dream in his eyes.

the precious wife to be a beloved captain, almost twenty years her senior. the bed creaked under your movements and the sweet sounds of your sex filled the air. it was also joined by your sweet noises that encouraged your husband to keep fucking you.

you felt hot all over as the man fucked you. the pleasure rolled through your body as you moved against the bed. you panted and moaned into the pillow and let your husband thrust into you.

"my sweet girl." he purred.

"please, john." you whined.

the sex between you two felt hot, like you were on a knife's edge as he rutted against you. you could feel the heat pool in your gut as he moved against you. sweat clung to your chest and neck. your hair stuck against your skin.

"that's it." he murmured. his cock throbbed inside of you.

your love making continued, you pushed the hair out of your eyes the more he fucked you from behind. your hands were deep in the pillow as you moaned into the fabric.

price loved the sight of you. he just thought that you looked amazing, HIS girl was like this under him. he was your big strong bear and he loved the sight of you under him. just a dream to him. his heat raced in his hairy chest as he placed more weight on you.

"shit, john." you groaned.

"I got ya. i'll be finishin' in ya soon. give ya all the babes you want." he chuckled as he kissed your heated cheek. his thrusts were quick and made you see stars behind your lids.

you were heated all over and your head was swimming. you panted wildly into the bed and with a few more strokes of his cock, you came around him.

price groaned at intense heat around his cock. he went as fast as he could and felt the sweat down his toned back. he pressed himself further into you and finished.

his cum shot to the back of your cunt and you let out a pleased noise. his pace slowed down until he stopped and pulled out. he wiped the sweat from his forehead and scratched his hairy chest, "how's that, love?"

you laid fully flat on the bed and nodded your head, "we're going to have to keep goin' though, big bear. you've done so much damage to yourself that your swimmers aren't as strong as they used to be." so you rolled onto your back and reached for him, "c'mon. fuck me again."

he chuckled as he leaned back on his heels and stroked his cock, "of course chickadee. anythin' for ya."

[punkeropercyjackson]

Re afro-dominican book!Percy and how foul and fake the fandom is with it because i can never shut the fuck up(as i shouldn't),y'all not only don't write him as a black man but y'all don't even write him as PERCY JACKSON which is what makes him work as afro-dominican to begin with

Can he call Sally Mamí?Can her and Paul be black love since he's giving dorky black sitcom dad and dosen't have an in-text race either?Can we keep Laura as her mom's name like we were originally given since it's a normal name for a latina?Can Percy be short for Perseo?Can he be transfem bigender and a black femme?Can he have black hairstyles?Baby dreads in TLT,wicks in TTC,twists in TLO,afro for most of SON as he dosen't remember what styles he likes but dreads by the finale,adding beads in MOA and long locs by the time he's 19?Can he be monoracial instead of a cringe ass instagram lightskin and work as commentary on black and latino stereotypes i.e being poor with a deadbeat birth dad and a physically abusive stepdad and how it's not the fault of black people our intergenerational trauma has been used against us by colonizers who literally made it worse for us historically?Can he overcome them by being literal royalty on his BLACK-greek's dad side and the best greco-roman hero ever in-universe?

Can part of Sally's love for the sea come from being dominican?Can she have passed that down to her Tesoro Perseo not JUST because of Poseidon but also as afro-carribean raising?Can Percy be crustpunk,afropunk,seapunk AND solarpunk because the sea does not like to be restrained?Can she be autistic with no masking game and that's another big reason she's an outcast even amongst other demigods and why her mortal world childhood was even worse than their's?Can she know how to diy things that don't even exist and play video games only on seconshands/emulators/phones for anti-capitalist principal and go to thrift stores and drink energy drinks but only the blue flavors and have a preference for the tropical ones and do deep dive research on punk culture?Can she love female rappers and punk rock and Lo-Fi beats and hipop?Can he be trilingual?Can he be a skincare and haircare king?Can he have blue durags and blue bonnets and blue hair beads?

Can y'all let the 'slutty bisexual' allegations go seeing as he's obviously demisexual?Can his type not be blondes but black women,which not only has an in-universe basis thanks to canon Percabeth and Leah Jeffries combo but is also mythological accurate as names have powers in Pjo and Percy's namesake was married to Andromeda,the princess of ETHOPIA?Can Percy and Leah be black solidarity even just platonically?Can they bond and be close and not have poor Leah be forced into 'black hair means boy and blonde hair means girl' syndrome,especially because book!Annabeth explicitly hates being blonde and y'all fake clowned her for it only to make actual darkhaired Annabeth blonde so you're automatically faker than she is cause at least she meant that shit and the universe granted her wish?Can Rachel be nigerian yoruba and them black anarchist besties at Goode High as Rachel teaches him how to do protests and takes him to charity events and they graffiti public property together and them be in love and dating for a bit and being even closer post breakup with no regrets to past Perachel?Can Thalia and Jason be black/white mixed with Jason a natural dirty blonde browneyed lightskin and Thalia darkskin with almost all of Zeus' looks as per canon so Jercy can be black mlm so it's ruined for horndog nonblack freaks and we can get even alt black rep?

Can Nico be black too to defy the 'black girl always has white siblings' trope and disregard him being described as 'a scrawny white boy' by Hazel since y'all disregard everythin' about Percy like seeing Nico as a little kid-HIS little kid even-to make him sexually harrass him over getting over him because your younger siblings don't love you and you creep minors in fandoms out?Can Nico,Hazel and Percy be a black siblings trio?Can he basically be their dad and Sally legally be their guardian because Hades is a fucking abusive freak?Can Hazel be explored on since she's got infinitely more going for her than any background characters y'all obssess over and Nico be recognized as the precious traumatized lil boy he is instead of just an edgecase,BOTH of which Percy sees them as canonically?????Can he have a backbone against the gods as he does,again,CANONICALLY,instead of pathetically emulating them like Luke and take direct action and fix the system himself?

Can he love latino memes and legos and Pokemon?Can he dunk on Hp fans for being geeks instead of freaks?Can he own dominican flag merch?Can he call Nico and Hazel 'Papito and Mamita'?In DC aus,can he be Duke Thomas' Super instead of being forced into Tim Drake's core cast or worse yet adopted by Batbags?And in Marvel aus,can he be a Spiderpunk Variant since like how he's not Batkid-coded but Kryptonian human hybrid-coded,he's not Peter Parker-coded but Hobie Brown-coded?Can be he brutal and unrestrained and tough yet salty sweet and gentle?IT IS 2024,ENOUGH WITH THE RESPECTABILITY POLITICS IN FUCKING PJO HCS OF ALL PLACES,I DON'T PERCY TO BE PALPABLE,I WANT HIM TO BE A NIGGA!!!!!!!!!!!

[bigupsdog]

Intro dialog for every Guilty Gear character day 3: Johnny

Sol: Your bounty is high enough to pay for my trip to the moon three times over.

Johnny: You ain't the first person to try to claim that bounty, you ain't gonna be the last.

Ky: You were also orphaned by the Crusades?

Johnny: That bloody war took many a good man's life.

May: When are you going to let me pilot the May Ship again?

Johnny: The last time I let ya drive her ya nearly crashed into Illyria Castle.

Axl: Out of curiosity what's the craziest thing you've ever stolen?

Johnny: Alright, now I wont say which, but one of the Kings of Illyria’s crown is a fake, if you know what i'm saying.

Chipp: Come on, you're wearing all black and you wield a katana, just take the full plunge and become a ninja.

Johnny: Sorry buddy, but if I became a ninja, I would just be too cool for the world to handle.

Potemkin: I'm here to retrieve stolen property from Zepp.

Johnny: What are you talking about? I haven't taken anythin from you guys… recently.

Faust: How’s… May’s… Condition???

Johnny: She’s doing a lot better thanks to you, Doc.

Milia: I work for the government now, so I have to take you in.

Johnny: I’m sure ya asked for this job personally, to see good old Johnny.

Zato: This is nothing personal, I'm just doing my job.

Johnny: And when I cut ya down, it also won't be anythin personal.

Ram: I'm confused, I thought pirates were supposed to be in the ocean, not the sky.

Johnny: Ya don't have to have such strict definitions for everythin sometimes a spade is just a spade.

Leo: A lawbreaker stands before me, and I will be the mighty judge, jury and executioner.

Johnny: I’m startin to think this ain’t no jury of my peers.

Nago: Your swordsmanship, it reminds me of samurai from ages past.

Johnny: You lookin to relive some of your glory days? Because I'm more than willin to help.

Gio: Look I have my orders to take you in, but I still owe you one, so even if I win I'll just say you gave me the slip.

Johnny: Ah that's sweet, looks like it ain't a dog eat dog world after all.

Anji: Steal from the rich, give to the poor, you’re a real Ishikawa Goemon.

Johnny: First time I heard that one, normally I get Robin Hood.

I-No: Don't even try it lover boy, I'm way out of your league.

Johnny: Damn, and I had a great witch related pick up line and everything.

Goldlewis: Outlaws like you give us cowboys a bad name.

Johnny: Nah, lawmen like you ruin the real spirit of the cowboy.

Jack-O: Is that a cowboy costume? Shouldn't you have a gun not a sword?

Johnny: It ain't no costume, I'm the bona-fide real thing.

HC: Ah the showdown, the best part of any western movie.

Johnny: In a quick draw it all comes down to who's faster, unfortunately for you.

Baiken: Put that sword down, you ain't no damn samurai.

Johnny: Cowboy, pirate, samurai, what can I say I have a lot of feathers in my cap.

Testament: I hear you've adopted many an orphaned child from the Crusades.

Johnny: I'd like to think your old man Kliff woulda been proud of me.

Bridget: Your bounty is HOW MUCH!!!

Johnny: Run along now lass, bounty hutin ain't nothin you want to involve yourself with.

Sin: Hey man, your ship looked so cool while I was riding next to it on a dragon!

Johnny: You did what now?

Delilah: Your ship was nice… um, thanks for letting me ride in it.

Johnny: Ah much alleged, good old Johnny's always willin to lend a helpin hand.

Asuka R#: I am not the real “That Man” I am simply a clone.

Johnny: So the coward made a fake to hide from his past, I see how it is.

Asuka R Kreutz: I am deeply sorry for all the pain my past actions have caused.

Johnny: Ah ain't that sweet, ya apologized, to one person who you helped make an orphan, what about all the rest?

Elphelt: Is that a noble outlaw, coming to steal this fair maiden's heart?

Johnny: Normally I'm the one who uses the cheesy pick up line, feels weird, the shoe being on the other foot.

ABA: Your ship is a whale, yet you didn't paint it blue, what is wrong with you?

Johnny: I didn't paint the May Ship, she was just born that way.

[twilightmalachite]

Raison d’être - A Premature Burial 5

Author: Akira

Characters: Shu, Mika

Translator: Mika Enstars

"(…Ah, Nazuna-nii sent me a message sayin’ somethin’ like, “you haven’t replied, what’s happening?” Sorry to worry ya…)"

[Read on my blog for the best viewing experience with Oi~ssu ♪]

Season: Winter

Location: The Itsuki's House Cellar

Several hours later. In the storage cellar of the Itsuki household villa…

Mika: Zzz, zzz…♪

(…Nnah? Oh shoot, I fell asleep!)

(I’m a bit jet-lagged from travelin’ back and forth between Japan and France, huh… It’s also strangely dim an’ quiet here, so I got sleepy.)

(Ummm, ahh, looks like several hours have passed already. Anyone other than family was too much in the end, so I had t’stay back.)

(Are ya doin’ okay alone, Oshi-san?)

(But well, I am nothin’ more than jus’ a freeloader, I honestly don’t have any right to meddle into family affairs…)

(I remember this, this feelin’ slightly alienated.)

(Nothin’ I can do about that, though. I’m not Oshi-san’s family.)

Mika: (… …)

(…Ah, Nazuna-nii sent me a message sayin’ somethin’ like, “you haven’t replied, what’s happening?” Sorry to worry ya…)

(I’ll reply sayin’, “All is good~, I’m a lil’ jet-lagged and slept”.)

(“Right now, Oshi-san’s talkin’ to his family about what actually happened with his Grandfather.”)

(“From what Oshi-san’s sayin’, it doesn’t seem his Grandfather’s actually passed away, or anythin’ that serious.”)

(“Simply another of his lies, so t’speak.”)

(“But, it’s been a while and he’s still not back yet, I wonder if there’s trouble. I’m kinda worried…” …Hm, writin’ somethin’ like this will have Nazuna-nii worryin’ too.)

(“Seems like everythin’s all good here, so don’t worry too much.” …There. ♪)

(“Thank ya fer carin’ about me. Even though you have nothin’ to do with us anymore, Nazuna-nii.”)

(…Wait, treatin’ Nazuna-nii like a stranger like this might get him depressed.)

(Nnah~… I’m no good at this no matter how hard I try at it. I just wanna give a normal reply.)

(Well, that’s good, I’ll send… There. ♪)

(…I have nothin’ left to do.)

(Oshi-san told me to pass the time by rummaging through the things here as I wish…)

(But what kinda place is this? A storage room? Though I heard that when Oshi-san was a child, he sorta made it into his own room at his convenience.)

(Originally, the cellar was made for his madman Grandfather to toss any junk he collected elsewhere into. There really are quite a lotta strange things in here.)

(I also have a habit of pickin’ up and collectin’ junk too, so I feel like I understand his Grandfather a bit more…)

(Or maybe, that’s why Oshi-san told me to wait here.)

(Heheh. Allow me t’appreciate the collection of a “like-minded” fellow!)

(Ahaha, all the junk here’s is splendid… At the Antique Market, I heard somethin’ about how they often sell off valuables here.)

(Hm? Whats this, a book with a lock? Is this somethin’ like a diary?)

(What an unusual dial lock… It’s inscribed with letters instead of numbers. So it’ll open if ya spell out a certain word?)

(It’s like solvin’ a riddle! That’s interestin’. I’ll use my spare time tryin’ t’solve it.)

(Though it’s someone else’s diary, so I shouldn’t look at it. Even if I do unlock it, I won’t be able t’see what’s inside, but… Hmmm, I wonder if I can find any hints anywhere.)

(Hm~… There’s ain’t anythin’ written on the cover.)

(Oh, but there’s a book over there with the same type of bindin’ as this (alleged) diary!)

(Let’s see, this one has a title of sorts written on it… “The Taming of the Shrew”[1]?)

(I wish I were more educated, I can’t get a hint from this at all.)

Shu: —What are you messing around with?

Mika: Nnaaah!?

Y-y, ya scared meee! Don’t suddenly talk from behind me like that, I thought my heart would jump outta my mouuuth!

Shu: Hmph. If you don’t want to lose your vital organs, you better sew your mouth shut, then.

More importantly, Kagehira, things have gotten a bit troublesome… I’d like to ask for your assistance, if you don’t mind.

Mika: Nnah? Of course I don’t! I’ll always be of use to ya, Oshi-san~♪

Hm, huh? I just realized yer holdin’ Mado-nee in yer arms.

Don’t ya keep her somewhere safe whenever you gotta hurry back home like this, so ya don’t scratch her when movin’ about? Usually?

Shu: Hmph. I thought you had grown, but you’re still lacking when it comes to aesthetics.

This child here is not Mademoiselle. Although, she does look quite similar, doesn’t she?

I’d like to discuss some things with you, including that, so let’s move elsewhere. It’s unbearably dusty here.

It reminds me of when I was a child, when I was foolish and helpless, you see.

Mika: … …

[ ☆ ]

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1. A comedy written by Shakespeare. The plot depicts the story of Petruchio, the male lead, and the female lead Katherina, a stubborn "shrew" who is unwilling to respond to his courtship. The plot involves the "taming" of her through various methods to try to turn her into an obedient bride. I recommend reading a more detailed synopsis if you want to catch the small hints/references throughout the story!

[hyeahgaku]

Heyo Soy I'm glad to see you're back blogging again yay! I've missed your posts haha. Saw your theory referencing the movie Get Out! That's a cool take! I actually thought Gege referenced that movie for Megumi's situation with Sukuna and, obviously, Kenjaku's CT -> Sunken Place being the boundary between Megumi's & Sukuna's soul, and the hypnosis being the "bath" ritual. There's also the brain transplant shiet which should be the inspo behind Kenjaku's brain-hopping CT 🤭

Yo Moon-san!! Thanks so much yea its been a minute since i last updated this page. Happy to be back 👊

Woah ok wait thats even cooler why didnt i think of that?? I got the brain transplant bit too i'm sure Akutami-sensei was inspired by the film but i didnt catch the hypnosis & sunken place bits lol. While on topic of jjk, Akutami-sensei's kitchen is rly hot rn w everythin that they're cookin I'M SO EXCITED FOR NEXT CHAPTER! Okkotsu beatin the allegations thats my boy!!!

& I just found out tdy abt your X page pls dont mind me followin ya back also thanks for followin me there! 🙏🙏

[bee-kathony]

The Oath | Ch. 22 “Up on the Hill” 

a/n: thank you so much for reading! with happy results from the last chapter and a mysterious letter showing up, there’s still a lot to figure out! I hope you enjoy reading and thank you as always to my wonderful beta @lcbeauchampoftarth <3

Arc I | Ch. 16 | Ch. 17 | Ch. 18 | Ch. 19 | Ch. 20 | Ch. 21

December 14th, 2019

Yesterday, after Jamie and Claire met with Ned to review their options, they left with Madeline to spend the weekend at Lallybroch. He confirmed that they had a strong case, especially with the results of the new paternity test stating that Jamie was Madeline’s father. The mysterious letter could also be considered important evidence, suggesting that Frank had tampered with the results — or, at least, had asked someone else to do it.

“Ye say this letter was dropped off at yer house?” Ned asked again for clarification, going over the letter in his office.

“Yes, no return address and our address isn’t even on it.”

Ned pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and handed the letter back to Claire. “Then someone kens yer address. If I had to guess, then tis someone from the lab that has access to that kind of information.”

“Someone that maybe wants to come clean?” Jamie said.

“Perhaps that is the case,” Ned nodded. “I’ll file a lawsuit and serve a copy of the summons and complaint on Mr. Randall. The next step will be his part, if he wants to hire an attorney and respond to the allegations in our complaint”

“Thank you, Mr. Gowan,” Claire said, feeling so relieved she could have hugged him.

“Call me Ned, lassie.” He smiled and reached for her hand over his desk, squeezing it as if they were old friends.

“Thank you… Ned,” Claire smiled back. “I don’t know what we would have done without your help.”

“Like I said.” He looked between them both. “I’d do anythin’ for yer family. Anything to see that ye get the peace and happiness ye deserve.”

The only thing they had left to do now was wait.

++++++

Claire was sitting near the fire in a rocking chair that had once belonged to Jamie’s mother, Ellen, but was now Jenny’s. Madeline was staring up at her, her little hands reaching for a stray curl. “No, no darling,” Claire laughed. “Don’t tug on mum’s hair.”

Her mind was finally beginning to calm from the raging storm that had occupied her thoughts during the last week. Sleepless nights of worry and doubt had left her exhausted, so spending a few days at Lallybroch was just what she needed.

There was no doubt that Frank would hire an attorney and try and fight the lawsuit. He thought he was right, and if he had been the one to bribe the lab, then he thought he was safe as well. But one thing Claire knew was that karma always came back around, and Frank Randall had a lot of answering to do for the things he’d done.

As Claire sat there rocking, she thought of the first time she had come to Lallybroch. Not even in her wildest, craziest dreams would she have thought she would be back here eleven months later with a baby in her arms. Jamie Fraser’s baby, to be exact.

The fact that they now knew for certain that Madeline was his… well, it was everything. It was assurance that eased her, and it brought tears to her eyes to know that Madeline had come into the world to bring her and Jamie together. Without her, who knows if they would have worked out…

Of course, Claire thought about what would have happened had she not gotten pregnant. She might have bumped into Jamie sooner, or perhaps even later. But she imagined that they would talk more often and spend time together, much as they had those many months ago.

Maybe Jamie would have asked her out on a proper date to dinner or the movies. No, not the movies, you can’t really talk at the movies. Mini golf? Either way, at the end of the date, Claire imagined that Jamie would have tried to kiss her, and she would have let him.

Months later, after their 37th date, Jamie would have asked her to permanently move in with him; after all… most of her stuff was already at his place. She would say yes and bring her feminine touch to his house. Then one night, while they were eating take-out, Jamie might propose, hiding the ring in a fortune cookie. Or maybe he’d do it while taking a walk with her in their favorite park.

And she would say yes. Then, years down the road, they’d get pregnant and have a baby… and another, and another.

Things hadn’t worked out quite like that — a bit backwards, perhaps — but she wouldn’t change it for the world. It was like that old song kids used to sing on the playground: “Jamie and Claire sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G. First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes a baby in a baby carriage.”

They had their baby in the baby carriage first, then love, then marriage in just a few months.

But love wasn’t a formula, nor was it perfect. There was no right way to do anything in life. Whether you fall in love in a day or over the course of several years. Love is not a science that can be measured or calculated. It’s a feeling, and it’s also a choice.

And Claire would choose this life over and over again, for as long as she lived.

She was so deep in her reflections on all of her past choices with Jamie, staring into the warm glow of the fire, that she didn’t hear Jamie come in. He placed a gentle kiss on the top of her forehead, making her jump.

“Och, sorry, Sassenach,” he chuckled. “Didna mean to scare ye.”

“I just didn’t hear you come in,” Claire smiled warmly at him and reached her hand up to cup his cheek. Kneeling down beside the rocking chair, he kissed Madeline’s head too.

“You always do that,” Claire observed. “Kiss both of our foreheads.”

Jamie shrugged, wiping his thumb over the wet spot on Mads’ head. “I just like doin’ it.”

“Well, I’m not complaining,” Claire said. “It’s rather sweet.”

“Then I won’t stop,” Jamie responded and then kissed Claire on the lips. “Jenny said that dinner will be ready soon, I came to tell ye.”

“What’d she make this time? Not haggis.” Claire made a face.

“Nah, not today,” Jamie chuckled. “She just made spaghetti, said tis easy to make for a lot of people.”

“Mmm, I love spaghetti,” Claire grinned, already thinking about dinner, and her stomach grumbled.

“I ken ye do, and ye also like to get it all over your face.” He leaned in and started peppering her cheeks with kisses and Claire tried to push him away, laughing.

“I do not! It’s a messy food!”

“Even Madeline isna that messy,” Jamie smirked, sliding his finger into Mads’ small hand to grasp.

Claire sighed then, the glow of the fire making her sleepy.

“What’s on yer mind then?”

“What?” Claire looked at him. “Oh, nothing.”

“I can read yer face, Sassenach…” Jamie stroked her cheek with his other hand. “Ye’ve something on yer mind.”

“Just thinking about the lawsuit,” she admitted. “And everything that Ned told us.”

“Well, Ned said the lawsuit would be filed yesterday and that Frank would be served as well. I don’t expect him to do anything til Monday. That’s partly the reason I wanted to come here this weekend. So we wouldna be worrying about what was goin’ to happen.”

“You’re probably right,” Claire said, noticing the slight smirk on Jamie’s face that appeared whenever she said that. “I had really hoped all of this would be done before Christmas, but that’s not looking likely.”

“No,” Jamie sighed. He’d wanted them to have a peaceful first Christmas together, free from the mess and drama. But it might take up to six weeks to get a court date set, if that’s the route they went.

“But,” Jamie said, swiping his thumb across Claire’s cheek. “We know for certain we willna have to deal wi’ this on Christmas Day. Everythin’s closed!”

“True,” Claire laughed. “I just wanted it to be perfect.”

“It will be, a nighean,” Jamie assured her. “I’ll see that it is.”

“Oh you will?” Claire quirked her brow. “Well, if you’re all about making Christmas wishes come true, then you can take your stinky baby and change her nappy!”

“Oooo.” Jamie then grabbed Madeline, holding her out in front of him, and took a whiff. “Yeesh! Christ, what have we been feedin’ her…”

“Just the old boob,” Claire smirked, patting her chest. “And make sure you wash your hands before dinner.”

“You can count on that, Sassenach,” Jamie said with a twisted face as he tried to hold his breath, taking Madeline into their room to change her.

++++++

The next day, Claire woke up to find Jamie watching her.

“Good morning, my own.” He kissed her, pushing her frizzy hair back from her face. “I’ve been waiting for you to wake up.”

“Well…” she yawned, rolling to face him. “I’m up now.”

“Tis a beautiful day. The sun is shining and ye ken what that means?”

“No,” she smiled. “But I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”

“It means,” Jamie moved over her, both arms on either side of her body, “that I’m going to take ye ridin’, Sassenach.”

“Oooo, are you?” Claire hooked her hands behind his neck, pulling him down to her for a kiss. “Isn’t it my job to do that with you?”

A deep groan rumbled in his chest and she thought she felt his cock twitch between the layers of clothes and blankets. “A different…” he coughed, “kind of riding.”

“Get dressed, a nighean. Jenny said she’ll watch Madeline while we’re gone.” He kissed her then rolled away, already sliding his boots on.

Half an hour later, Claire was dressed and her stomach was full of a bowl of porridge — a Fraser family staple. When she walked outside, she was actually surprised to find that it was a lovely day.

“You know I’ve never ridden a horse before,” Claire said to Jamie as he led them to the stables.

“I remember, aye.”

“Do you expect me to ride one on my own then?” She had hoped not, and was relieved when he shook his head.

“Nah, Sassenach. We’ll both ride together,” he smiled. “But one of these days, when tis a bit warmer, I’ll teach ye how to ride properly.”

Claire watched as Jamie brought out his horse, Donas, and prepared to saddle him. He was certainly in his comfort zone, and Claire couldn’t help but blush when she remembered they had shared their first kiss in this very stable. Apparently, Jamie remembered it as well and came over to kiss her, his arm secure around her back.

“Took us nearly a year, but I’ve always wanted to kiss ye again here.” His hand pushed back a stray curl and he brushed his thumb across her bottom lip. “There’s something about ye, Claire. I feel as if I’ve always known ye, even back then… I knew we were meant to be.”

Claire smiled and, as cheesy as it sounded, she had felt like she’d always known him as well. “Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.”

“Brontë,” he grinned. “How apt.”

They could have stayed like that for hours, wrapped up in each other’s arms, but Donas made a sort of snorting noise behind them — as if he was done watching the love fest. “We’d best get going, then.”

Jamie led Claire over to Donas and helped to hoist her up before climbing on behind her. “Just hold onto the horn there, I’ll get the reigns.” He situated himself behind her and there was no possible room left for imagination.

Claire couldn’t help herself, so she wiggled her bottom against him, blushing as she did. Jamie slid one hand around her stomach, his fingers splayed across. “Two can play at that game, Sassenach. Don’t start somethin’ ye canna finish,” he said softly into her ear.

“You better be taking me to a secluded wood.” She bit her lip as she looked back at him.

“Oh, I’m takin’ ye somewhere secluded.” He clicked his tongue as he pressed both legs against Donas’s belly, and they set off. “You can count on that.”

The wind whipped in their faces and the scenery before them took Claire’s breath away. The Highlands had a magical quality about them, transporting you to a time long ago — where fairies and witches lived amongst the land. The sun was high in the sky, lighting up their path as Donas carried them across the rolling hills.

There was something restorative as well in the air, something fresh that filled her lungs and reminded her to breathe. Jamie’s hand was tight around her waist and the other gripping on the reigns. Claire knew she should be focused on the stunning sight before her, but she couldn’t ignore the obvious bulge pressing against her lower back. She was never more thankful for the limited space on top of a horse.

They must have ridden for another fifteen minutes before Jamie pulled on the reigns and slowed to a steady walk. Donas huffed and shook his head as they slowed down, and Claire gave his neck a soft little pat. Jamie had told her he was a bit of a wild horse, but she liked him.

“Do ye like riding so far?” he asked her, switching his hand on the reigns.

She nodded, and craned her neck to look back at him. “It’s wonderful, Jamie. Thank you for showing me.”

“My pleasure.” He kissed her temple.

“Where did you bring me?” She looked around at the grassy scene before her, but couldn’t see anything in particular that might spark her familiarity.

“It’s a place called Craig Na Dun,” he said, pressing his thighs together to prompt Donas into trotting along a well worn path. “Tis just up that wee hill over there.”

Claire spotted it then, a large hill with something sticking just above the top of it. Jamie led them to the base and soon was helping her down. Her legs felt a bit like jelly, sore from her first ride.

Jamie saw it on her face as she took her first steps. “Dinna fash, Sassenach. Yer legs will get used to it,” he laughed and tied up Donas’s reigns to a nearby tree, handing him an apple from his pocket.

“Well, I still haven’t gotten used to being sore after riding something else,” she winked, taking his hand.

They walked hand-in-hand up the hill, and with every step, Claire could see large stones rising above them.

“What is this place?” she asked, her eyes widening as she took in the view before her. Tall stones covered the top of the hill, and she wondered where they’d come from.

“Tis a sort of fairy hill,” Jamie explained. “Scottish stories tell of a woman who came up to these stones, and when she placed her hand on the largest one in the middle… she disappeared.”

“Where did she go?”

“Through space and time,” Jamie said, his voice soft as if speaking in respect for the area. “Many think that it’s still possible.” Now he was leading them to the largest stone in the middle, and Claire’s stomach did a little flip when he placed his hand on the stone.

“Would you want to travel in time?” she asked, placing her hand next to his on the stone. Nothing happened, much to her surprise.

“Only if ye’d come wi’ me.” Jamie grabbed her hand and pulled them down to sit, their backs pressed against the stone. “I think it’d be so interesting to go back to the 18th century and see what it was really like, ye ken? To see the clans in their prime.”

“I think I could go for seeing you in a kilt,” she snickered. “Which I still have yet to see.”

“I told ye, a nighean.” He slipped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. “Christmas Day.”

“It can’t come soon enough.” She smiled and rested her head against him.

They sat there, listening to the wind blow through the stones. It created a sort of buzzing sound, as if bees were traveling around the hill. Claire wondered what it would be like to travel back in time, to see the things she had only read about in history books.

“Would you be a true Scotsman?” she asked a few minutes later.

“Hmm?”

“If we went back to the 18th century and you wore a kilt…” she blushed.

“Oh.” His cheeks turned pink, as well as his ears. “Well, if ye must know, I dinna wear anythin’ under the kilt now. So aye… I would be a true Scotsman.”

“Jesus H. Christ,” Claire sighed. “Now I really can’t wait for Christmas.”

Jamie laughed, turning his body slightly towards her. “Well if all ye want to see is that, ye don’t have to wait until Christmas.”

He pressed his lips against hers, all while pushing her to lie back down on the ground. Both his hands were on either side of her head and he leaned back to look at her. “Yer so beautiful, Claire… so beautiful, it nearly breaks my heart wi’ how much I love you.”

“I love you, Jamie.” Claire placed both hands on his face, amazed at his own beauty. “So much, it hurts sometimes.”

“I’ll make the hurt go away,” he said softly and leaned down once again, capturing her lips. Settling himself in between her legs, he fit perfectly. It was still rather cold, with a crisp chill on top of the hill, so they only pushed their pants down to give them access to what they both craved.

Jamie took hold of himself and guided his cock into her, watching as her mouth parted and a moan left her lips. When he was fully inside, he started to rock gently, savoring the warmth of her.

“My God, Sassenach… I never want to leave ye when I’m inside of ye.” He pressed his lips to her neck.

“I don’t want you to,” she panted, her hands clinging onto his back, bunching up the material of his jacket. His hips were slow but steady as he rolled them once, twice, and three times.

They made love on top of that hill. Their breaths mingled and their sighs dying in each other’s mouths. The wind blew across them, making them both shiver and laugh. Jamie looked down at her, wiping a wind-blown tear from her eye, and then kissed her as he thrust into her one last time.

Chapter 23: Red Red Rose

[sexydeathparty]

'He's In Trouble': Have Rishi Sunak's Tax Controversies Ended His Leadership Hopes?

Sunak believes that attacks on his wife's tax affairs are "unpleasant smears".

At his peak, Rishi Sunak was the most popular politician in the country.

It was a reputation forged after the “crisis chancellor” rose to the challenge of the Covid pandemic — splashing billions on furlough and business support and later the “eat out to help out” scheme to keep the fledgling hospitality sector afloat.

Now, the image of Sunak as a sympathetic chancellor who is in touch with the needs of ordinary people appears to be in tatters — and the same could be said of his ambitions to succeed Boris Johnson as prime minister.

Revelations that his billionaire wife Akshata Murty had “non-dom” status — before being forced into a screeching U-turn on Friday night — could hardly have come at a worse time for Sunak.

Shortly afterwards, the chancellor was also hit by claims in the Independent that he has been listed as a beneficiary of tax haven trusts linked to Murty in the British Virgin Islands and Cayman Islands.

Pat McFadden, Labour’s shadow chief secretary to the Treasury, said the allegations were “extremely serious”.

“We need full transparency about this and the other stories about the chancellor emerging over the past 24 hours,” he said.

Murty always paid UK tax on any income she earned here, but under the non-dom arrangement, domestic rates did not apply to the vast majority of her foreign wealth, derived from her stake in her father’s Indian company Infosys.

It reinforced the already damaging perception that it’s “one rule for them, one for the rest of us”.

Reports suggest that Murty’s non-dom status, which is perfectly legal, may have allowed her to avoid millions in tax — just as Sunak increased national insurance contributions for working people during the worst cost-of-living crisis in decades.

Following Murty’s U-turn, one Labour insider quipped: “Rishi Sunak has realised that being a total hypocrite doesn’t wash with the British public.

“It’s great that the exchequer will see the benefit of his wife’s fortune, but how about the last eight years?”

One former minister admitted to HuffPost UK that the stories emerging about Sunak had put him in “a lot of trouble”.

“It looks like a coordinated campaign and that there will be more to come. Also, there’s not much support being expressed for him publicly.”

Discussing the chancellor’s leadership prospects a few weeks ago, one senior Tory backbencher said that while they liked Sunak, he was not a “political operator” like the foreign secretary, Liz Truss, and questioned whether he had any allies in the Conservative party.

“Who are his allies? I don’t know who they are.”

Chancellor of the Exchequer Rishi Sunak alongside his wife Akshata Murthy.

Another Conservative said that while the chancellor may be feeling the pain now, it was only just the beginning — as Labour knows only too well.

“Everyone is talking about the cost of living,” one Labour source said.

“It’s a massive issue. Rising bills, rising taxes, the cost of food and fuel — the cost of petrol is in the minds of most people you speak to. They can tell you the price they last paid to the half penny.

“The Tories are of course making the chancellor the scapegoat: rule number one in the current Tory party is protect Johnson.

“But voters don’t seem to blame Sunak when you speak to them. They blame the government.

“They know there’s a stink but it’s from a steady and constant flow not from one single burst pipe.”

Sunak, who is known for being more media shy than many of his fellow leadership contenders and Cabinet colleagues, was quick to defend Murty’s tax’s affairs, launching a spirited defence of his wife in an interview with the Sun on Thursday evening.

He claimed the couple were the victim of “unpleasant smears” and that those responsible were wrong to target her as a “private citizen”.

“She has had her own career,” he said. “She has her own investments and is paying the taxes that she owes in the UK.

“She is 100 per cent doing everything this country asks of her.”

Some of Sunak’s colleagues rallied to his defence, also suspecting he is the victim of an orchestrated campaign to undermine his credibility.

Alec Shelbrooke, who represents a constituency in Yorkshire, said it was “disgraceful that the chancellor’s wife should change her life, just because of her husband’s job”.

“She hasn’t done anything illegal, she has followed the law, but people are trying to say she should be subservient to her husband’s choices — any feminist attacking her, needs to find a dictionary.

“It’s nasty politics at all levels and its fundamentally sexist. The people attacking are, at best, confused on feminism and inconsistent on tax policy.

“Good smear campaign for them, but vacuous politics.

“Rishi has my full support.”

Another backbencher said: “I think this is quite smeary — Labour looked at non-dom when they were in power and decided to keep it with a fee, which we then jacked up when we were in charge.

But they added: “Notwithstanding that, it’s still politically damaging for him.”

Rishi Sunak places an "eat out to help out" sticker in the window of a business during a visit to Rothesay on the Isle of Bute, Scotland.

What is also worrying for Sunak is the confirmation that he held a US green card for the first year of his role as chancellor.

Green card holders must pay US tax on their worldwide income and declare the US as their permanent residence.

The Liberal Democrats have demanded that the cabinet secretary, Simon Case, open an investigation into the claims and whether Sunak broke the ministerial code.

Sunak’s spokeswoman said: “Upon his first trip to the US in a government capacity as chancellor, he discussed the appropriate course of action with the US authorities,” she said.

“At that point it was considered best to return his green card, which he did immediately.

“All laws and rules have been followed and full taxes have been paid where required in the duration he held his green card.”

For some Tories this is where the real danger lies.

Asked whether the drip of revelations meant it was all over for Sunak, one former Cabinet minister said: “For his leadership ambitions, certainly, and probably for his current job. The green card stuff is incredible.”

A backbencher added: “Not over non-dom, but if this green card stuff is true, then I expect it is over for him. Probably even as an MP.”

At a press conference on Friday, the prime minister was repeatedly dogged by questions on Sunak’s tax affairs.

Asked whether he was behind the briefings, the prime minister said: “If there are such briefings they are not coming from us in No 10 and heaven knows where they are coming from.”

“I think that Rishi is doing an absolutely outstanding job.”

The question now is whether Sunak can make that sell himself to a weary, cash-strapped public who are feeling the pinch like never before.

Related...

Priti Patel Squirms As She Is Asked To Apologise Over Ukrainian Visa Delays

Rishi Sunak Hits Out At 'Smear' Over Wife's Non-Dom Controversy – But It's Not Clear Who To Blame

Rishi Sunak's Wife Torn Apart For Using 'Most Obscene' Tax Loophole: 'What A Total Joke'

from HuffPost UK - Athena2 - All Entries (Public) https://ift.tt/f3DhmaH via IFTTT

[seven--secrets]

Everything Is Happening So Much || Kenta || Trial 1.2 || RE: Miku, Wakaru, Koune, Ran, Willow, Riley, Ei, Yuuto (A lot! Again!)

[cw: burns]

Kenta already knows he can't help them actually solve anything. His head isn't on right normally, let alone when he's emotional like this. But there's little things he can do, and he needs to do those things. Because if he isn't being useful, what's the point?

"M-Miku-san..." He hates this. His friends aren't supposed to get in trouble. Or maybe, Miku thinks he was trying to take credit for her nice idea? Because it definitely wasn't his. But everyone was mad. He's never really been in a situation quite like this... "I-I... I dunno... If I'm supposed to give i-it back or not, I-I..." He feels himself starting to sob again and the fact that he's even crying makes him want to cry. Why can't he just... "'m sorry..."

They're right, this has nothing to do with anything. It's not helpful. Kenta is being as stupid as always. So he shuts up and tries to fight the tears until there's another point where he might need to say something.

"...U-Uh..." He speaks up. "I-If you're looking for scratches, a-and stuff, I have lots..." Kenta rolls up his sleeves, and sure enough, his arms are spotted with the occasional sporadically-placed cut and bruise. Some are covered with bandaids, although the majority are faded. It doesn't look any notably different from when he went without his bandaids at the pool party, though.

It's not nearly as bad as Yaldabaoth's hands, and Kenta's eyebrows raise at the sight, filled with concern. Mmm...

"...It might be i-important, so, um..." Kenta reaches for the bandaid on his right cheek and peels it off, revealing... what looks like a burn scar. "I-I dunno if it matters, b-but I didn't wanna miss somethin' 'cause I didn't take it off..." He gently taps the bandage back into place, eager to keep it protected. "I-I got it more than a month ago, like I told Fujimori-san before, b-but I didn't know if w-we were lookin' for somethin' specific when we're lookin' for scratches and scars and stuff... S-So... I hope it helped." It didn't, but thanks, Kenta.

And then Koune is saying it's... Willow? No, no, it can't be!

And then Riley is saying Yuka? His deskmate????? He hopes his deskmate isn't too deterred, because he is absolutely not going to initiate any physical contact. Who is he to do that? Yuka might hate him if he did.

"I-I dunno... E-Everyone has reasons to think it's someone, right? But.. I-I dun' get how i-it's supposed to be anyone..." So be quiet and let the smart people talk, Kenta.

He pulls back and instead focuses his thinking on things other than the alleged culprit, like figuring out how things happened.

"Th-The book..." Kenta speaks up. "M-Miku-san might be right... I-I think... The last person to sign it was Inaba-buchou... A-And, um, 'cause I-Inaba-buchou is all about mysteries... The note, like Minegawa-san and Shiratori-san said... Maybe Inaba-buchou found the note, a-and... was ch-checking to see who wrote it...? By looking at the handwriting... S-So she took the book, but dropped it, for some reason... B-But, if that's what happened, why wasn't it picked up by wh-whoever cleaned up everythin'...? I dunno..."

[paulhudd]

Spindlefreck Book Two: Pt.Five: Hooray for Hollywood

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I stand corrected.”

“Funnily enough, so does she.”

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

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

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

Malky had to stifle a laugh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Herbie continued to stare ahead.

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

“So, who’s the backer?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He wants a comeback vehicle!” Laphen cried.

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

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

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

It only made Laphen cackle louder.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sit down, Mr Calvert!” yelled Laphen.

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

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

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

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

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

Suddenly, Brooster barked loudly: QUIET!!

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

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

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

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

 “Shut up and lissen!” Laphen hissed.

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

“Hear that?!” whispered Malky.

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

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

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

Herbie took out his walkie-talkie and summoned security.

...

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

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

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

“Wha --” Emil’s eyes looked down.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

...

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

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

“*Copy. On our way. Over.*”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Rossington...” the old man hissed.

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

Laphen glared and growled, “I want Rossington!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s a small world, isn't it...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

...

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

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

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

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

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

“23.” Kris grunted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Christ...

“I got ‘im! You got ‘im?”

Kill

“I got ‘im.”

me

“OK. After 3, swing ‘im out.”

now!!

“One... Two... and Three -”

AAAAAAHHHHH!!!

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

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

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

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

<You can smile all you like, Emil. But I’ll be back... I’ve got all the time in the world...>

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

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

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

“Hidden passageway?” asked Malky, intrigued.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now he tells us...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So many questions...

...

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

“Oliver Laphen.”

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

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

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

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

...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

...

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sammy raised his hand and waved a feeble wave.

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

“Warn me?” said Sammy, perturbed.

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

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

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

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

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

And what about an unborn baby?!

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

To Be Continued...