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theericardo · 3 years

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*Part 2: “Do You Even Remember Yourself?” *WRITTEN BY: PAUL (ME). *DIRECTED BY: HOLLY MARIE COMBS RYAN *SEASON 1, EPISODE 02

Staring

· Alyssa Milano as Phoebe Halliwell

· Rose McGowan as Paige Matthews Mitchell

· with Holly Marie Combs Ryan as Piper Halliwell

· and Shannen Doherty as Prue Halliwell

Co – Staring

· Brian Krause as Leo Wyatt

· Jacob Tremblay as Wyatt Halliwell

· Sunny Suljic as Chris Halliwell

Recurring

· Brooklynn Prince as Melinda Halliwell

· Dafne Keen as Coop Halliwell

· Ivan Sergei as Henry Michell

· Iain Armitage as Henry Michell, Jr.

· Dafne Keen as Hayley Michell

· Dorian Gregory as Darryl Morris

· Victor Webster as Coop Halliwell

Guest – Starting

· LeToya Luckett as Eloise Gannibal

· Lovie Simone as Eloise Gannibal’s sister

· Paul Giamatti as William Alford

· Reese Witherspoon as Miss. Alford

· Keith David as Slave #1

· Uncredited Baby as Letitia Gannibal

· Tyrel Jackson Williams as Zygon

· Sandra Prosper as Sheila Morris

· Ken Page as Adair

· Ian Abercrombie as Aramis

· Christopher Cazenove as Thrask

· Jon Stewart as Crill

· Oded Fehr as Zankou

· Charisma Carpenter as Kyra

START

[Scene: flashback to February 27th, 1670 – Salem Village, Massachusetts Alford’s plantation – Eloise Gannibal and William Alford.]

(Elosie was a “House N***er” at that time to slaver owner to William Alford and his missis.)

(With Eloise being a “House Nigger,” she did not have to work outside like the rest of the slaves did.)

(That night, William came home, drunk.)

(Him and the misses got into an argument.)

Miss. Alford: “WILLIAM, I HAVE TOLD YOU ABOUT COMING HOME DRUNK FURTHERMORE!”

William: “YOU, DON’T RUN ME WOMEN!”

(The two argued back and forwards with each other.)

(Miss. Alford stormed off, leaving the dazed but drunk William there with Elosie, who happens to have overheard the whole argument.)

(William bolted towards and manhandled Elosie.)

Elosie: *screaming* “Let me go Missa!”

William: “Quiet N***er!”

(William dragged Elosie outside to the side of the house where he raped her tell she stared to bleed.)

(Slave #1 and Elosie’s sister found Elosie laying there.)

Elosie’s sister: *crying* “Elosie.” “Elosie, sweetie wake up.”

(Little did they know, Miss. Alford was watching from the widows’ view.)

[Scene: still in flashback but to February 28th, 1670

– Salem Village, Massachusetts – Eloise Gannibal and William Alford on the Alford’s plantation.]

(Miss. Alford demand for Elosie to not step foot back into their house.)

(Since then, Elosie has been working inside.)

[Scene: still in flashback but to October 31st, 1670 – Birth of Letitia Gannibal on the plantation.]

(It was raining hail with high gusty winds at the midnight of 31st of October,1670.)

(Eloise along with every other slave was wearing “N**ro Clothing.”)

Eloise’s sister: “Keep pushing Eloise, she’s almost here!

Eloise: *grunts*

Eloise’s sister: “She’s here Eloise!” “She’s here!”

*baby starts crying*

Eloise: *crying, tears of joy * “She’s adorable.”

Slave #1: “What are you going to name her, Elosie?”

Eloise: “Letitia…” “Letitia Gannibal”

CHARMED THEME SONG MUSIC

[Scene: September 22nd, 2017 – 11:00 pm. Living Quarters at Magic School with Chris, Melinda, Henry Jr., and Hayley.]

(Chris, Henry Jr., and Hayley are chatting among each other)

Henry Jr.: “So you’re telling me, Wyatt tried to kill you?”

Hayley: “Like, kill – kill you?”

Chris: “Yea, he actually did.” *looks over to Wyatt* “I can’t stand him sometimes, but he’s my brother, and I still love him.”

Melinda: *reads Wyatt’s mind* “He’s thinking the same thing Chris.”

Chris: “Didn’t mom tell you stop reading people mind?”

Henry Jr.: “Yo, you can read minds Mel?” “That’s sick!”

Hayley: “Neither me nor Henry didn’t come into our powers till we were 10-years-old!”

Henry Jr.: “You’re like 2, right?”

Melinda: *gives Henry Jr. a dirty look. * “Just because my birthday is on a Leap Day, doesn’t mean I’m 2-years-old stupid!”

(Chris and Hayley laughs at Melinda’s clapback at Henry Jr.)

[Scene: Still in Magic school, but with Piper, Phoebe, Paige, Wyatt, and Leo.]

(Wyatt sitting alone from the rest of the kids.)

(Paige orbs in with Piper and Phoebe)

Piper: “Wyatt Matthews Halliwell, get your butt over here now, mister!”

(Wyatt walks over slowly.)

(Wyatt approaches Piper with his head slumped down.)

Piper: “You sir, have gotten out of hand!” “You used magic in public, that one!” “You used magic on your father, that two!” “You used magic-”

(Leo steps in and cuts Piper off.)

Leo: “Piper, let him catch a break”

Piper: *exhale* “You’re grounded, for 2 weeks!” “No magic, no video games, no hanging out afterschool for anything!”

Wyatt: “But Chris u-”

Piper: “Don’t you BUT me mister!” “I mean it!”

(Piper starts chanting)

Piper: “I don’t think he comprehend.”

“He uses magic to depend”

“Child lock them for two weeks, till then”

(White orbs form centers around Wyatt.)

(The orbs shift into a form of a lock and magically goes into Wyatt.)

Piper: “When I meant no magic, I meant it.”

(Wyatt walks away.)

Phoebe: “Piper sweetie, I don’t think that was a smart idea.”

Piper: “Whenever that” *points to Phoebe’s pregnant stomach* “comes into his powers, then you can do whatever you want to do with him and his powers.”

Paige: “Uhm, I have kids.” “Matter-of-fact, they developed powers similar to yours Piper.” “Honey, I feel like you did the wrong thing.”

(Piper sits down in a chair.)

(She fixes her long-layered bangs and crosses her legs.)

Piper: “What's done is done.” “I didn’t strip him of his powers, I just put a child lock on them so he can’t use them freely.”

[Scene: Still in Magic school, cuts back to Chris, Henry Jr, Hayley, and Melinda.]

(Chris, Henry Jr, Hayley, and Melinda are still chatting among each other.)

(Wyatt walks over.)

Wyatt: “Chris, can I talk to you?”

Chris: “Yes.”

(Chris and Wyatt walk over to the side from everyone else.)

Wyatt: “You know, I never had the attendance to harm you.” “I never should have used magic on you in the first place.”

Chris: “I never should have cut you off or be an asshole to you, or even st-.”

Wyatt: “Stop it Chris.” “I was in the wrong also.” “For god shakes, I almost killed you!”

Chris: “Can we agree, not to kill each other?”

Wyatt: “I can’t make any promises.” *laughs*

(Wyatt and Chris hug.)

Henry: “Ok kids, it’s time to go to school go to bed.”

(Every child heads to a room to sleep.)

(Henry Jr puts up a biker with Henry.)

Henry Jr.: “But dad, its Friday?”

Henry: “Bed, now Jr.”

Henry Jr.: “Fine!”

(Henry Jr. walks to bed.)

[Scene: September23rd, 2017 – 8:25 am In the Underworld with Prue.]

(Prue is now out of her outfit that was covered in dust “death outfit”.)

(She is now wearing a sheer-black tank top, black high waisted pants, and Yuko-40 platform heels.)

(Prue is sitting at The Source’s throne.)

(Demon shimmers into the underworld.)

Demon with shimmering power: “Prue Halliwell.” “What the hell are you doing here?”

Prue: “Haven’t you heard,” (hopes down from the throne.) “I’m here to run this place.” *flips hair* “And you are?”

Zygon: “Zygon.” “I’ve heard about you.”

Prue: “Ahh, do tell.”

(Zygon walks up to Prue.)

Zygon: *walking circles around Prue* “The Charmed One.” “The Power of Three.” “A trio, well quartet, of sister witches.” “Destined to serve the good and good only.”

Prue: *nods her head* “Stop.” “For starts,” *flips hair* “I’m not a good witch.” “I don’t do good.”

Zygon: “Oh, Honey, do you even remember yourself?” “You’re one of them.” “But something is different about you.”

(Zygon stare into Prue’s eyes.)

Zygon: “You’re newly empowered.”

Prue: “What does that even means?”

Zygon: *still circling walking around Prue* “The Window of Opportunity, my dear.”

“Prue: “What does that mean?”

Zyon: “You, can easily be persuaded to be either good or evil.” “By the looks of it, you’re already chosen that path.”

(Prue folds her arms.)

Prue: “I got to get my hands on that book.”

Zygon: “What book.” “Are you referring to The Grimoire?”

Prue: *little smirk*“No, stupid” “It’s this book, that I keep having flashes about.” “Ritch-violet, red cover, with the named engraved into it, kind of on the smaller side.”

Zygon: “Never heard of it.”

Prue: “Maybe those women who called me their ‘sisters’ have it.”

Zygon: “Might I say, I could be some help.”

(Prue uses telekinesis tosses Zygon into a wall.)

(Prue then uses telekinesis to pin him down on the floor.)

Prue: “Thanks for the offer, but I got this.” “I’m going to look for that book.” “Regardless of what I have to do.”

(Prue gives Zygon a wink as she astral teleports out from the underworld.)

[Scene: 9:00 am – Split screen phone conversation between Darry, who is at the San Francisco Police Department. Paige, who is at Magic School.]

*cellphone rings* Darryl: “Go for Morris.” *clutches his mobile with phone with shoulder* *Paige explaining to Darryl about Prue* “Say what now!?”

Paige: *abbreviating herself* “Prue, is alive.”

Darryl: “But ho- how?”

(Paige explains to Darryl how Prue came back in further details.)

Paige: “Can you put an IP out for her?” “Just in case she shows up?”

Darryl: “Sure, Paige.”

Paige: “Thank you.”

(Paige hangs up the phone with Darryl.)

(Darryl walks out his office.)

Darryl *in a loud voice*: “Alright, we are putting IP out for a ‘Jane Doe’.” “Caucasian, black hair, green eyes, mid-to late 40’s.”

Female Detective: “Does she have any medical conditions?”

Darryl: “She, doesn’t remember herself.”

[Scene: 9:20 am- Living Quarters at Magic School with Paige, Phoebe, and Coop.]

(Paige hangs up the phone with Darryl.)

Phoebe: “So, what did he say?”

Paige: “Well, he placed an IP out for her, just in case she decides to resurface back on the Earth place.”

Phoebe: “Maybe I could sense her to see if she did.”

Coop: “Phoebe, I don’t think it would be good to use your powers to the distinctive level.” “It might induce your labor.”

Phoebe: This is my sister for god shakes, I at least have to try.”

(Paige pulls Coop to the side.)

Paige: “Piper, Leo and I are going to speak The Tribunal.”

Coop: “The Tribunal?” “Why?”

Paige *bobbing her head*: “For starters, we don’t know, hell, nobody from ‘Up there,’ knows about the book.” “Maybe The Tribunal could help.”

Coop: “Last time you all went there for help, they stripped Phoebe of her powers.” “We don’t know what they might do to Piper for finding the book, let alone for Wyatt for casting a spell.”

(Piper walks in.)

Piper: “That’s a risk I’m willing to take.” “We are all willing to take.” *walks closer to Paige and Coop* “We need answers, and we need them now.” “Even if that requires a consequence of having are powers striped, goddamnit, I’m willing to do so.”

(Leo walks in.)

Paige: “Are you ready?”

Piper and Leo: “Yes.”

(Piper and Leo hold on to Paige and orbs out, leaving Coop with Phoebe.)

[Scene: 9:48 am- Still in Living Quarters at Magic School with Phoebe, and Coop.]

(Phoebe gets into a mediation position.)

Phoebe: “I need complete quietness, please.”

(Phoebe closes her eyes and starts of sensing for Prue)

Phoebe: “I can’t sense her.”

Coop: “Phoebe, I think you should stop.”

Phoebe: “Instead of me sensing her like any other normal person, I’m going to try sensing her through are blood relationship.”

(Phoebe was able to sense her.)

(Phoebe starts to levitate)

Coop *with panic in his voice*: “Phoebe, stop.” “You’re scarring me.”

Phoebe: “I can sense her.” “She’s not in The Underworld, but where?”

(Phoebe’s eyes turn pure white as her premonition power kicks to get a glace of the area.)

(*flashes* The San Francisco Police Department.)

(*flashes* Prue walking into the station.)

(*astral premonition in an invisible form*)

Darryl: “Prue, you don’t have to do this.”

Prue: “Oh, but I do.” “If you’re going to put an IP on me,” *punches Darryl* “leave a women age out of it!” “Oh look, I got blood on your white shirt.” “To bad.”

(Darryl passes out.)

(Prue hears astral Phoebe’s thoughts.)

(Prue starts to chant.)

Prue: “What is not seen”

“Make seen”

(astral Phoebe visibly fades into a corporal form.)

(Prue gives an evil smirk.)

astral Phoebe: “How can yo-”

Prue: “- You read thoughts?” “I guess my powers are growing also.” “I don’t know where you and your *air quotes* sisters hiding, I will get you.” “I will get that book.” “And I will be the new Queen of the Underworld.” “LEAVE!”

(Premonition ends.)

(Phoebe flops back down to the grown from levitating.)

(Phoebe’s water’s breaks.)

Coop: “I told you that you should have stop, Phoebe!”

Phoebe: “Would you shut up for one second and get me to the infirmary!”

[Scene: 10:00 am- At The Tribunal’s meeting area with Leo, Piper, and Paige.]

(Paige orbs in with Piper and Leo.)

(Piper and Paige starts chanting.)

Piper and Paige: Di! Ecce hora! Uxor mea me necabit!

(The Tribunal appears)

Tribunal all together: “How may we help you this time, The Halliwells?”

Piper: “Well, I found this book while having work done at the manor and I came across this book with the title Book of Damned.’”

(All the Tribunal have a puzzled look on their face.)

(Start to whisper among each other.)

Piper: “Helllo people, we still need answer?”

Crill: “Book of Damned goes back to Salm Witch times.”

Paige: “That is why we seen Melinda Warren in Phoebe’s vision.”

Thrask: “As long as nobody cast a spell from that book, we should be fine.”

(Piper, Paige, Leo give each other a startled look.)

Leo: “Why not?”

Adair: “That book is magically linked to Letitia Gannibal.”

Piper: “I’m sorry who again?”

Crill: “Letitia Gannibal” “Just like how the Warren- Halliwell bloodline stared, the Gannibal-Bennett line started.” “She’s was the first of her bloodline to earn magic also.”

Thrask: “Instead of using her magic for good, she used it for evil.” “Starting the mythological of The Window of Opportunity.”

Paige: “What would happen if such casts a spell from the Book of Damned?

Adair: “If anyone casts a spell out of that book, will awaken Letitia herself!”

Leo: “Well we have a problem.”

Piper: “Wyatt cased a resurrecting spell, which brought back Prue from the dead.” “She doesn’t remember her and she’s using magic for evil acts.”

Adair: “Prue is going through the Window of Opportunity, meaning that she has 48 hours to choose a side to align with.”

Piper: “What the hell you mean the Window of Opportunity, she was already a good witch!”

Thrask: “By the looks of it, she self-choice evil.” “She has time to algin with good if she pleases.”

(The Tribunal looks among each other.)

Crill: “As for Wyatt, he will be held accountable for his acts for using forbidden magic.”

(The Tribunal summons Wyatt present.)

Wyatt: “Why am I here?”

Thrask: “Wyatt Halliwell, you are charged with using forbidden magic, by awaking a force of evil.”

Wyatt *with range in his voice*: “How the hell I suppose to know it was an evil book.” “Bullshit!”

Piper: “Language, mister!”

Wyatt: “I want a trial!” “I demand a trail now!”

Thrask: “Piper, Paige, I’ve just been informed that Phoebe just had her baby.”

Piper: “Paige you go back and check up on Phoebe, I’m staying her.” “There is no way in hell they are going to strip Wyatt of his powers.”

Adair: Actually Ms. Halliwell, we prefer Leo to stay while you and Paige go back to aid your sister.

(Piper rolls her eyes.)

Paige: Piper sweetie, just come on.

Piper: “Fine!” “Leo, let me know what happens.” Don’t leave any details ou—”

(Paige orbs her and Piper out before Piper gets to finish her word.)

Crill: “Let the trail begin.”

Adair: “For the plaintiff side, we have Zankou”

Leo: “Zankou!?”

(Zankou is summoned in flames)

Zankou: “Miss me?”

Thrask: For the dependent side we have Kyra.”

(Kyra is summoned in white orbs.)

Kyra*with a big smile on her face*: “I guy!”

Leo: “Kyra, I haven’t seen you since- ”

Kyra: “Since I was vanquished.” “I know.”

The Tribunal: “Let us begin!”

[Scene: 1:20 pm- Magic School’s infirmary with Phoebe, Coop, Piper, and Paige.]

(Paige orbs in with Piper.)

(Phoebe is swaddling her newborn.)

Piper: “Phoebe.” “Phoebe, are you ok.”

Phoebe: “I’m fine Piper.” “Everything is fine.”

Coop: “I want everyone to meet Ryan Victor Halliwell.”

Piper *with a smile in her face and tears forming in her eyes *: “Victor.”

Phoebe *smiling, crying*: “Dedicated after are father Victor.”

Coop: “He weighted a whooping 9 pounds.”

Paige: “Well, we know he was going to be healthy because Phoebe kept her mouth stuffed with food.”

Phoebe: “Hello, right here!”

(Everyone busted into laughter.)

Phoebe: “We got to get Prue, because she has Darryl in the Underworld.”

Piper: “That’s it.”

Paige: “What Piper.”

Piper: “She has to go.” “Paige orb me to the manor to get the book to from the attic.” “

Paige: “Piper, she’s are sister.” “You just can’t vanquish her like any other demon.”

Piper: “Are Prue died in 2001.” *in tears* “Are Prue would never attack a friend, yet alone an innocent.” *wipes tears* “She needs to be vanquished.”

Phoebe: “Hey, we are not vanquishing our sister Piper.”

(Phoebe climbs out the bed.)

Phoebe: “I got an idea.” *wipes the tears off of Piper’s face* “It requires the Book of Shadows and Sheila.”

[Scene: 2:50 pm- In the Underworld with Prue, Darryl, and Zygon.]

(Prue has Darryl pinned down in a chair.)

Zygon: “Why do you have this mortal in The Underworld.”

(Prue is sitting in The Source’s throne)

Prue: “Have you heard of touch your goddamnit nose.” *crosses her legs* “He’s leverage.”

Zygon: “Ahh, for what?”

Prue: “the Book of Damned, dip-shit.” *sighs* “I read your mind when I first meet you and know you was slow.” “But good god, I didn’t know you was this god damn slow.”

(Darryl wakes up dazed)

Darryl: “Pru- Prue?”

Prue *mimicking Darryl*: “Pru- Prue?” “Stop calling my name like that!” You wouldn’t like for me to call your name like that.” “Da- Darryl.”

Darryl: “Why can’t I move?”

Prue: “Because, I’m using my powers to tame you.”

Darryl: “What do you want from me?”

Prue: “It’s not what I want from you” “It’s what I want to trade you for.”

(Darryl brakes loose from Prue’s telepathic withholding.)

(Zygon used his powers to melt Darryl’s shoes in spot.)

Prue*walks up to Darryl*: “Poor Darryl.” now you don’t have any shoes.” “Now, shut up and SITT!”

(Darryl flops to the ground.)

[Scene: 2:45 pm Magic School’s with Phoebe, Piper, Paige, and Sheila.]

(Paige orbs back into Magic school with Piper and Sheila)

Sheila: “So let me get this straight.” *tilts her head at Paige* “You want me to roam free in The Underworld, just to use me as bait?”

Paige: “Yep, that’s the plan.” “But, trust us, we will be right there behind you.”

Piper: “Phoebe what did you want with the book?”

Phoebe: “I’m looking at the binding potion in the book.” “Something had me thinking, what if we tinker with the potion.

Piper: “Go on.”

Phoebe: “Instead of binding with Prue’s powers, we remove them, hoping it would break her from The Window of Opportunity.”

Paige: “That might actually work.”

(Ryan, who is in his bassinet, starting crying.)

Phoebe: “Oh is little Ryan hungry?” “Oh yes he is, Oh yes he is.”

(Sheila walks over to the bassinet.)

Shelia: “He looks just like Coop.”

Phoebe *bottle feeding*: “He really does.”

(Phoebe stops bottle feeding Ryan.)

(She takes him out the bassinet, burps him a couple of times, and places him back in.)

Phoebe *walks over to Coop in the other room*: “Ryan has been feed and sleep.” “I’ve pumped milk just incase he wakes back up.”

Coop: “Phoebe-”

Phoebe: “Be safe, I know.”

(Coop kisses Phoebe on her forehead.)

(Paige, who has already made the revamped binding potion, approaches Phoebe and Coop.)

Paige: “Ready, Phoebe?”

Phoebe *nods*: “Ready”

(Phoebe, Piper, and Shelia holds on to Paige as she orbs them into The Underworld.)

[Scene: 3:00 pm- The Underworld with Phoebe, Piper, and Paige, and Sheila where Prue was with Darryl.]

(Phoebe, Piper, Shelia, and Paige orbed into The Underworld.)

Shelia *running over to Darryl*: “Darryl, oh honey, are you ok?”

(Darryl mouth was shut and he was still.)

Shelia: “Honey what’s wrong?’

Prue *struts out the shadows* *mimicking Shelia*: ““Darryl, oh honey, are you ok?” “No, he’s not.” “He’s under my control.”

(Prue uses advanced telekinesis to throw Shelia.)

(Paige catches Shelia using telekinetic orbing, placing her back on the ground.)

Paige: “I don’t think that’s nice, Prue.”

Prue: “You’re right dear, let me pick on someone my own size.”

(Prue uses advanced telekinesis to create a telekinetic energy ball, and chucks it at Piper, Phoebe, and Paige.)

(Piper explodes it, midway.)

Piper: “Nice try.”

Prue: “I’m going to ask one more time, where is the book!?”

Phoebe*pulls out the Book of Damned*: “This book?”

Prue: “Yep, now be a gem and hand it over, or Darryl here will be a vegetable for the rest of his living, breathing live.”

Piper: “Now!”

(Paige throws the potion as Phoebe opens up the corked glass bottle so that she would be able to capture Prue’s powers.”

Prue: “No!”

(Prue uses advanced telekinesis to have the bottle bust before traveling her way.)

(This causes the bottle to burst in front of Piper instead.)

(The potion working biding every sister power, but Phoebe, that makes them Charmed - Piper’s Molecular Immobilization, Prue’s Telekinesis, and Paige’s Telekinetic Orbing.)

(The bottle then magically teleports back to magic school.)

Prue: “I’ve had it with the games!” *tries to use telekinesis but does not works*

Phoebe: “You know what Prue, me to.”

(Phoebe’s lounges herself using levitation at Prue.)

Phoebe: “Feel this, bitch!”

(Phoebe uses her Empath and Premonition power to make Prue see her childhood and make her experience the emotions that occurred during that time period.)

(It was enough to knock Prue out, releasing Darryl her Telepathic hold.)

(Shelia and Phoebe walks over to help Darryl)

Paige: “Ok, Let’s go now!”

(Paige orbs all of them out of there back to Magic School.)

THE END

#charmed #Prue halliwell #piper halliwell #phoebe halliwell #paige matthews #wicca

3 notes · View notes

iamkatehardy · 5 years

Note

Which Tom Hardy character would be more likely to spoil the hell out of u with gifts and stuff on a special day like your birthday or anniversary?

Any gangster boy who’s madly in love with you! I mean, I can picture Eames spreading petals all over your bed on a special occasion, but this spoiling thing sounds to me a lot like Reggie,to be honest!

————————————————————————————————

Birthdays:you get cake, you get presents, you blow out the candles, and spend time with your loved ones… Most people are excited about them, but not you; in fact, every year these celebrations became less exciting, from your point of view. You thought your existence could be celebrated any day, no special dates or obligations needed.

Reggie knew you hated them, but it wouldn’t stop him from giving you the birthday he thought you deserved, just made him be more thoughtful about how to do it.

Your birthday was probably the only day of the year when you were pretty grumpy; before you even opened your eyes you let out a loud sigh, and your hand immediately searched for Reggie on his side of the bed, but it was empty. You opened just one eye at first, then the other, looking for your boyfriend; all you wanted for your birthday was his kiss in the morning.

“Reg?” – You drowsily called, while rubbing your eyes. No answer.

Sitting upright on the bed, you tilted your head, trying to check if he was in the bathroom, getting ready to go out. He wasn’t there either. You cursed under your breath while dressing your robe and headed for the kitchen for breakfast; only coffee could make you feel less miserable in the mornings.

Looking outside the window, you saw his car arriving. You immediately walked to the front door, with your cup of coffee in hand, to greet him. Leaning against the door frame, you smiled, as he majestically walked towards you. Such a magnanimous man… Sometimes you wondered what had you done to deserve him.

“Good mornin’ Sunshine, I thought you’d still be sleeping when I came back…” – He hadn’teven walked all the front steps when he pulled you into his arms, caressing your lips with his in a warm wet kiss.

“Now yes, it’s a good morning…” - Coyly playing with the collar of his shirt, you pulled him for another kiss. – “Where were you?”

“Business, sweetie… Now let’s get inside before you get a cold, shall we?” – He seductively bit your lower lip, as he squeezed your buttocks lightly.

He closed the door behind him, and unbuttoned his shirt, loosening the collar.

“Would you like some coffee? Or are you hungry for other hot things?” – You put your emptycup on the counter and sit on it.

Reggie glanced up to the ceiling, taking a deep breath, as drew his lower lip betweenhis teeth.

“I am hungry for other hot things! But I’llhave to leave in a minute, so I guess coffee will have to do… I’ll keep your offer in mind, though. I might take it latter. I will.” – Trapping you between him and the counter, he slid his firmhands up your naked thighs, while nibbling your ear.

“Aww…”– You pouted, growling lowly.

“Don’t gimme that look, missy, that’s dirty pool.” – He giggled, frowning and squeezing your leg.

“Ok…” – You pouted again.

“Listen, I’ll be busy on the club today… I’m sending Ron to pick you up , and we meet there, what do you say?”

“I really don’t feel like…” – Before you could finish, his lips gently brushed yours, shutting you up.

“Yes, or yes?” – Laying his forehead on yours, he looked into your eyes.

“Fiiiine!” – Rolling your eyes, you pulled him playfully.

Shortly after, Reggie left again.

He was always busy, but did he actually forget your birthday? You wouldn’t mind if anyone else would, but not him. You’d be pouty for the rest of the week… Or the month, maybe.

Since it was your day, you decided to doll up, for yourself and for your man. At nightfall, your pampering session was interrupted by a loud knock on the door; it had to be Mr. Impatient Kray. After putting your shoes on, you sat in from of the mirror, gracefully sliding your lipstick across your lips; the bright scarlet made your lips look double in size, and pretty dainty.

You heard another loud knock.

“I’m going, I’m going!”

The knock didn’t stop until you opened the door, coming across Ron.

“Happy Birthday sister-in-law!” – He gave you a bouquet of delicate tulips. You couldn’t help but smiling; Ron wasn’t the most affectionate creature on Earth, so this was a really nice gesture from him, though he most likely ripped the tulips from your front garden.

How was this possible? Even Ron remembered, and Reggie didn’t?

“Thank you, Ron, I’m just going to put these on water, just a second, ok?” – You rubbed hisarm gently, before going to put the flowers on a vase on the kitchen. – “I’m ready now!”

Ron offered you his arm, escorting you to the car, and opening the door to you. It was almost too good to be Ron’s idea. When you got to the club, Ron honked a couple times, and Reggie came to the door.

“Thank you for picking up my Queen, I take it from here, Ron!” – Reggie opened the door for you, extending his hand to help you out, and holding it until you entered the club.

One of the guys from the staff brought an enormous bouquet of red roses, which Reggie delivered to you.

“One for each of my love’s springs…. Happy Birthday, sweetie.” – He kissed your forehead tenderly.

“Aw, Reggie…”- You fought your tears, of happiness because of his gesture, and of guilt for almost believing he forgot about it.

“I didn’t forget about your birthday, I couldn’t. I just wanted to make you a surprise, come!” – He held your hand, sitting on a front row table with you.

Two staff members brought a cake with your name on it and the candles for you to blow,putting it over the table as your favorite artists sang a jazzy version of Happy Birthday to you.

You were completely and utterly smitten for Reggie; he had it all figured out, sweeping you of your feet every single time, and making the whole world go away.

After everybody cheered and celebrated the First Lady of East End’s birthday, the show went on.

“Can I have this dance?”

“I’m not sure, a certain gentleman just made me week on my knees and I don’t know if Ican!”

“ I’ll be there to hold you the whole time, love.” – He rubbed his nose on yours. – “Butbefore that…” – He took a velvet box in his hands, opening it to reveal a stunning diamond necklace, made of more extraordinary rocks than you could even count.

“Reggie” –Your hands covered our mouth. – “I can’t even…”

“I know,they don’t shine as bright as you… But I thought they’d match your exquisite beauty.” - He put your hair aside, putting the necklace on you, as he kissed your shoulder gently.

You looked down, shaking your head slowly.

“What did I ever do to deserve you?

“Every little thing… You blink, and you smile, and you breath…” – He got up giggling, taking your hand and leading you to the dancefloor.

You laid your head on his shoulder, as the bland played your song and Reggie guided your steps in a slow dance.

“ I love you…”

“And I love you, (Y/N)… Every time I wake up, I’m more certain of that.”

After a long night or partying, your feet were killing you, and Reggie carried you to the car.

“I can walk!”

“And I need to practice for our marriage, no?” – He put you on your sit and planted a kiss on your lips, before driving away.

“Where are we going, Reginald?”

“Home, love!”

“Home?! How much have you actually drank? I’m pretty sure home is that way, not this way.”

“That’s the old home, sweetie…” – He smirked.

After a good 15 minute drive, he stopped the car. The house ahead of you looked almost like a castle. You just looked at him in silence.

“I bet you’re sick of hearing Ron’s orgies… And it’s time to think about the future… Our future. What do you tell me about going inside, and I take the offer you made me in the morning…”

You were actually looking forward for the future with Reggie. Sighing happily, you leaned against him and kissed him passionately.

“That sounds amazing…” – You smiled between kisses, and things started to get heated before you even left the car.

#reggie kray #reggie kray x reader #reggie kray oc #reggie kray imagine #reggie kray fanfiction #reggie kray tom hardy #reggie kray legend #reggie kray drabble #reginald kray #reggie kray x you #kray twins #kray twins x reader #the kray twins #ron kray #kray twins fanfiction

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polar-stars · 5 years

Note

🛑 Takara/Takayuki, ☠️ Hironori/Moe, 🎉 Keiko/Yasu (this sounds like a fun duo to me) :3

I hope you’ll like it and that I will do alright ovo;; (once I was home, I listened to a Calming Pokemon OST Compilation, hoping it would give me strength for you to like it)

For the first one, the idea is honestly by Kana ( @yourmoontothenightsky ) ahdhd I just couldn’t get it out of my head anymore, so kudos to her for that

Stop my muse from doing something reckless - Takara/Takayuki

“And?” Takayuki made an attempt on an unbothered voice, probably in hope to achieve the impression that he was completely sure on what the answer would be. But Takara did not fail to hear the hint of genuine curiosity in it.

She had currently taken a bite of the Xiaolongbao, a type of Chinese dumpling, he had brought her as the two were walking through the hallways of Totsuki.

It tasted great. It was warm enough to heat her up a bit but not burn her tongue. The meat-filling was prepared well and also seasoned excellently. And mind you, when it came to meat Takara most certainly knew what she was talking about.

However, she did not want to boost his ego all too soon and so she took a few more bites, putting up an extra critical act. She practically felt him getting all tense and impatient next to him. Internally she tried calculating how long it would take for him to spat something impolite.

Finally right when he was about to open his mouth, she said. “It’s good, I guess.”

“Rea- I mean…Of course it is.” Takayuki retorted then, while crossing his arms. “You could have just fucking said it outright though, instead of that haughty performance!”

Takara’s brows furrowed. “Excuse me?” Who was he of all people calling haughty, huh? Takayuki only huffed. “You heard me.”

A “hmpf” escaped Takara. She’d show that angry rage-ball who truly was the Primadonna of the two. Wanna bet he’d take over an hour to praise her work, hardass tsundere he was?

“Let’s get into one of the kitchens, I’ve got a pasta-dish to show you.” She therefore spoke challengingly. Takayuki took note of the competitive tone and was quick to respond. “PFAH, Fine by me. Though I hope you won’t feel sad when it fails to reach my leve-“ He suddenly was cut off as one of the students passing by, practically ran into him in their hectic. And being in such a hurry, the person had also already rushed past Takayuki when he was still trying to recollect himself. As he turned his head to the side to inspect who it was that crushed into him, all he saw was a bit of green hair flowing past him.

Instantly, everything in Takayuki was triggered.

He knew that shade of green.

And he associated it with one particular, overly arrogant dickwad who was always looking for trouble.

Just like he was often quick to talk, Takayuki was also quick to act. Sometimes too quick. Like in this particular situation for example, when his blood was boiling and his brain not working fast enough to satisfy it.

He swirled around, reached out to grab the person behind him and raised a fist in the process. “YOU MOTHERFUCKING DOUCHEBAG!”

Before his balled fist could fly however, Takara next to him was quick to get a hold of his shoulder and also said fist. Stopping his actions immediately. “You dumbass! What do you think you’re doing?!” She yelled.

He shifted his attention to her, responding in equally loud manner. “I am about to punch a bitch!” “You’re about to punch Tori-senpai!” Takara corrected immediately, making Takayuki snap out of his rage as confusion spread on his face.

He turned his head again and indeed, the one he faced was not the tall, male with his typical condescending smirk that jeered insults often beginning with “mid-” and ending with “-get”. No, the one he was facing was not even a male to begin with but a teenage girl, looking fairly irritated.

After two more confused blinks, Takayuki finally let go of grabbing the upperclassman while also lowering his fist.

“May I ask what that was about?” Tori raised an eyebrow, her voice cold. All Takayuki said in response was. “I….Sorry, I thought you were Eizan Shigeo.” This statement only seemed to make matters worse however, as Tori’s face visibly darkened and she spat. “You thought I was who?!” She sounded utterly disgusted. Not that Takayuki could blame her.

“Again…sorry.” Takayuki muttered and looked to the side. Tori’s blue eyes narrowed for a second before she turned around and walked on, still having things to attend to. “Maybe you need to check out an ophthalmologist.”

Takara couldn’t help but sigh, knowing that of course Takayuki could not just ignore that statement. She began shaking her head, as he roared. “Hey! Its not my fucking fault that you two share partly the same genes, aight?!”

Tori only turned her head. Her voice was pure frost.

“Die.”

“THATS SOMETHING THAT THIS FUCKER ALSO SAYS ALL THE-!”

Takara had enough and got a harsh hold of Takayuki’s shoulder again, pulling him away.

Protect my muse - Moe/Hironori

(Honestly “Moe being in trouble” is still something I gotta practice writing, so thanks for the request actually :0 ! It will possibly be a bit clunky though)

Moe Saito was barely ever in trouble.

She was close to quite a few dangerous and dreaded personas. No one in their right mind would actively try to land on the radar of Shigeo Eizan and all of his dangerous schemes, which is why there was barely anyone who would dare to harm one of the rare non-familar-related persons he actually truly cared for.

Having invisible protection around her at pretty much every given time, Moe was therefore inexperienced how to behave in any sort of racy situations.

Situations like the one she was in right now.

“You’re so cute, Moe-Moe. Did anyone ever tell you?” A classmate had gotten a hold of her hands, while simultaneously attempting to pull her closer to him. Moe tried walking backwards, not liking his grip in any way. “A lot of people did.” She responded in her usual dry manner, but if one was to listen closely, one could hear the slight shiver in her voice.

She looked around the empty classroom, a desperate attempt to spot any familiar face of Shigeo’s associates who usually were always so near. But hopeless. The only thing near to her now, was the wall behind her. The male who still held onto her hands had now given up trying to pull her towards him but rather supported her backwards-approach, in hope he could close the space between them once she had her back to the wall.

“Can I call you just Moe? Can I?” He smiled, though Moe felt no warmth or friendliness coming from it. It was rather creepy.

“That wouldn’t be very polite.” She retorted.

“And such a pretty ribbon you got.” The male merely continued calmly. Moe’s insides were thrown in turmoil when she saw the hand reaching out for her most precious, dotted ribbon. “Can I look at it in detail?”

Hironori was just strolling through the school as he suddenly heard a few underclassman eagerly chat near an opened classroom in an otherwise empty hallway.

“He’s really doing it, huh?” “He’s got guts indeed.”

Hironori hid behind a wall, a little curious on what this was about. Did some dumbass on this school do something absolutely reckless again? Had Raijin been riding through the corridors on Shelby again?!

“Let’s see if he actually manages to get this done though. He said he wants to succeed through his ‘charms’, which he barely has being honest.” A girl argued. “I still think,… this entire thing is too crass for a truth-or-dare…” A softer voice spoke up. “…Shigeo-senpai will not blink an eye to destroy the entire life of whoever he believes of being at fault for it.”

Hironori leaned in a bit closer. With Shigeo’s name mentioned, suspicion had grown rapidly. Something was not right here.

“But that’s exactly the idea!” Another voice spoke up. “He’ll snatch that ribbon-” Ribbon. “-and once he has it, we will smuggle it into Kawahara’s things and once Shigeo-senpai-” Shigeo. “-will see his most precious baby girl-” Baby Girl. “-come crying to him without her most precious ribbon, that annoyance Kawahara will be gone over the night. And all it takes is Hima getting Saito Moe’s.” - Moe.

“You disgusting cockroaches!”

With the speed of a flash, Hironori stepped out from behind the wall, his voice being as sharp as a knife and his eyes having a dangerous fire in them.

The group of middle schoolers flinched immediately and quite a few faces grew pale instantly.

Utter contempt was shown in Hironori’s gaze as he looked at them. “You’re all through and through despicable and pathetic.”

He was quick to move into the direction of the classroom, just in time as he heard a familiar high-pitched voice wailing. “Don’t touch my ribbon! It was a gift!”

As he stepped into the room, he demanded. “Let go off her this instant.”

The boy who had a crying and kicking Moe pinned to the wall, turned his head and froze instantly.

Hironori only took a step further. His tone was cold but oh so full of warning danger. “Step away from her. Or I will decorate the room with your innards.”

This gruesome thought alone paired with such a threatening voice, sent shivers through the boy and he practically jumped away, raising his hands defensively.

Hironori had to suppress not spitting him in the face. “Now piss off. And don’t you ever even think about stepping anywhere remotely near her ever again. Or I will find you and I will slice you worthlessness of a person into two halves.”

That was enough for the boy and he ran out of the room immediately.

Once the sounds of his hurried footsteps that most certainly feared for their lives vanished, Hironori turned his head to Moe, still shivering at the wall, her usually so unbothered and calm face full of tears.

“Moe-” He began, but then the much more shorter girl ran towards him, crashed into his legs making him stumble a bit backwards, pulled her arms around said legs and buried her crying face into them.

“…Thank you, Nii-chan.” She sobbed, barely audible.

He looked her for a few seconds, before he patted her head, careful to not distort her ribbon.

“But of course.”

For a hug filled with laughter - Yasu/Keiko

“There’s two major ways to interpret the beginning of World War I.” Keiko explained happily, while stuffing the smoked cheese Yasu had prepared into her mouth. “There’s positions who blame the entirety on Germany and Austria but there’s also people who say that all of them were dummy-dums for such a long time and that the situation was so overcooked that a war was basically inevitable. It just needed one event to finally let everything overbuilt and said event happened to be the shots in Sarajevo!”

“Ah..” Yasu responded while taking his notes. He had to write an essay on the war guilt for World War I tomorrow and had asked Keiko for help.

He always liked Chieko’s help as well, but he had to admit that it was a nice change to be taught something without a few occasional eye-rolls and all-too-typical complains.

“At the time, the entire guilt was put on Germany with the treaty of Versailles. Which did most definitely plague the young Republic in many ways!” Keiko continued.

Yasu gave a slight nod. “I see….” He finished the last sentence he had been writing and looked up into Keiko’s radiating, teal-colored eyes. “Well, thank you a lot, Keiko-chan. This will all be very helpful.”

A jolly laughter emerged from his companion and out of the sudden Yasu had arms wrapping around him. “But of course, Ya-kun! It was a pleasure! I love it when people ask me stuff! It’s always a joy!”

For a few seconds he sat still, a bit overwhelmed by the enthusiasm, while Keiko still giggled.

Then he began lightly patting her back.

#Other's OCs #Lea is writing #Takayuki Hojo #Moe Saito #Yasu Ibusaki #Crossoversss

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paulhudd · 5 years

Text

Spindlefreck Book Two: Pt. Four: Ha! Ha! Said the Clown

Odin’s Inn, Brodir, Co. Wicklow; Sunday, May 2nd 1991

Malky gave the big chauffeur a sideways look, crossed his arms, casually leant on the door post and refused to shake the extended hand.

Gorringe wasn’t offended, just mildly surprised. He looked at his unshaken hand and frowned. He ummed & ahhed, looked left and right and spoke hesitantly, rubbing his neck as if about to ask a contention question, “Erm... see, the boss sent me ‘ere wiv a proposition... ‘E instructed me to... that is...” he paused, stepped up so that they were face-to-face and pleaded for relief with beseeching eyes, “Lissen mate, can I use your lavvy? I’ve been on the road fer ovah-an-hour ‘n that last cuppa I ‘ad before I left the ‘ahse is abaht to bust me bladdah!”

It was an old salesman’s ploy and Malky knew it, and the chauffeur knew he knew it, nevertheless he cringed and gritted his teeth, “No messin’ guv - I’m this close to pissin’ me strides!” He seemed genuinely stricken, so after a second or two’s deliberation, Malky decided to give him the benefit of the doubt and stood aside, issuing a caution as he dashed by, “Straight in-and-out, mind. And don’t use the urinals – they’re not plumbed-in yet – use one of the stalls! OK?”

Gorringe already halfway there, “I don’t care if it’s a bucket -- I gotta go!”

Just as the door to the gents closed, Zindy walked through from the kitchen, “Who is it? Sales rep? Reporter?” she asked, wiping her oil-blackened hands with a rag, her elfin face smeared with black smuts. Malky was still at the door, looking out at the darkened windows of the Rolls, “... no, he’s somebody’s chauffeur. You should see the car he’s driving.”

Zindy lifted the waiter hatch and struggled through, “Ooow, I’ve been bent over too long, I’m all stiffened-up!” she groaned, clutching the small of her back with both hands so that her swollen tummy popped out of her denim shirt revealing an oily palm-print on the ivory-white skin of her bump. Malky closed the door, “There’s quite a draught – you can look out through the window.”

“For God’s sake a bit of sea air will do me good!”

Malky tapped her butt, “Aye, because you’re doin’ bloody auto-repairs on the kitchen table and the place stinks to high-heaven of gloss, varnish, engine oil and Swarfega! That child o’ mine must be gettin’ high on the fumes!”

Zindy made yakety-yak signs with her hand and said “I’m trying to save us some money, it’d cost us a bomb to take that van to a mechanic.”

“... because you’ve fallen out with all the local mechanics, haven’t you?” he chided ironically, “There isn’t a garage within a 30-mile-radius who’ll touch it, is there? Anyway, it’s a false economy. It’ll breakdown in the middle of nowhere and you’ll have to ring one of the garages for a tow-truck and the whole shebang will cost us three times as much as it would if we’d gone to a garage in the first place -– that’s not factoring-in the chance of an accident - or you gettin’ stranded high and dry – then whoosh – your waters break!”

“Jeezus Christ! You’re startin’ to scare me!” she cried.

“It’s a possibility -- like what if you breakdown and you fall getting out of the van -- or somebody comes round the corner too fast and hits you or something leaks in the engine and it goes up in a ball of flames...?”

“Why dontcha just swaddle me in bubble-wrap, pack me in polystyrene, stick me in an air-conditioned coffin and feed me through a tube til September! Oh I say, tally-ho, chaps,” she’d seen the stranger’s car, “a Rolls Royce Silver Shadow, no less,” she said, appreciatively, looking out of the window, “who comes to a place like this in a car like that?”

Meanwhile, Brooster was listening at the parlour door, “What’s goin’ on?” a voice whispered behind him, making him jump and almost fall over. It was Sammy, the silver-bearded, blood-spattered ghost of the inn’s elderly barman, crouching behind him with his hands on his knees. Brooster looked him in the eye and asked him with a thought: Why are you creeping about and whispering when only I can see and hear you?

Sammy stood up, stroked his beard and mused aloud, “Aye, I s’pose that’s true... Well then – I’ll just do this!” He walked through the wall, into the occupied cubicle, looked the urinator up-and-down and shouted to the old dog, “It’s a chauffeur. Big bloke. Ex-army – British army – he has a regimental pin. Big dick, if you’re interested in that sort of thing.”

Broo wasn't at all impressed by the resident phantom’s crude behaviour – one of these days the stupid old fool will walk in on a Sensitive and scare the life out of them (actually, that eventuality would be fortuitous – because escape from This Life and Ascent into The Next requires a death within the parameters of the haunting and in the three years since Sammy had been shot and killed by Barry McKee, the only candidate so far had been an elderly deep-sea fisherman suffering with angina and a bad case of hay-fever who died two days later after a particularly violent sneeze –- at home in his own bed. Sammy whined as he opined: “Why couldn't the auld eejit have snuffed-it here?! Some people have no manners at all! At this rate, I’ll have to wait for Malky to croak - and he’s got another ten years in him at least!”).

The chauffeur exited the gents and convened with Zindy and Malky. Zindy was friendly and bright and offered him a cup of tea; Malky was cagey and glum. But that’s Malky. Sammy, reclining on the couch to watch the movie, actually made an insightful comment, “He’s an Englishman and Zindy misses the company of Englishmen. She’ll bend his ear for an hour and then he’ll be off back to whoever he drives for: probably some auld oul’ banker or one of those rich pop stars who've been buying houses over here lately.” He pointed at the remote, “C’mon, turn the sound on. I love the old black and white fillums!”

The old dog was paying him no heed. He was enjoying familiar feelings of excitement and trepidation, that tingle in his pelt that told him the visitor was significant and he should prepare himself for important news. And sure enough, the chauffeur didn’t thank his hosts for the use of the amenities and return to his vehicle, he was taken to the kitchen for a cup of tea and a chat!

Sammy was still harping on, “Dog?! D’ya hear me? Hit the button that turns the sound back on!”

Oblivious, Brooster snuck down the hall, took-up position at the kitchen door and listened.

Sammy shouted from the parlour, “Ach, c’mon, you know I can’t press the buttons...?” Broo ignored him and harkened to the conversation around the kitchen table.

Once Gorringe had completed his ablutions and emerged from the gents refreshed, Zindy introduced herself and took him into the kitchen for a cuppa. They hadn't had much company lately and this was the first Englishman she’d met in ages so she was chatty and vivacious. Malky was characteristically sniffy and suspicious. He wouldn't sit down and slowly paced the floor by the backdoor and let Zindy do all the talking. She began by apologising for the engine parts on the kitchen table, told him to park his arse and have a Mikado. He took a biscuit, but kept well back from the table lest oil, paint or any other petroleum-based-product come into contact with his immaculate whistle, “Is that a Lancashire accent I ‘ear?” he asked, with a wry smile.

Zindy grinned, “Aye - Salford! ‘Ow can you tell?” she said, ironically.

“Heh-heh, two of me best mates is from Salford! Salts of the erf, they is, diamonds to a man. We ‘ad a couple of tours in Cyprus in the late fifties and then they was sent to... umm,” he suddenly stopped talking. He realised he was in the Republic of Ireland talking to a pair of total strangers about old friends serving in an occupying force and quickly changed the subject. He beheld her swollen belly and asked, sheepishly, “Ahem, ‘ow many mumphs ‘ave you got before the big day then, sweet’eart?”

“I’m due in late July or early August,” she replied, she replied, “Just wait til I’m at full-term, I’ll look like a two-legged Space Hopper in a pink-wig!”

Malky lost patience, coughed theatrically, walked forward and put an end to the sparkling repartee, “So, Mr Gorringe, what can we do for you?”

The chauffeur put up a hand and waived the formalities, “Oh, call me ‘Erbie, please, Mr Calvert. Nobody calls me Gorringe ‘cept the boss when ‘e’s in a bad mood. Everybody else calls me ‘Erbie.”

Malky sighed, “Then, what can we do for your boss, H-erbie?”

“Malky! - don’t be so rude!” Zindy snapped.

Herbie shook his head, “Nah, ‘e’s got every right to be wary, sweet’eart. I’m beatin’ arahnd the bush, as it were, I really should explain meself,” his face took on a pained expression of someone who knew that what he was going to say next would either elicit gales of laughter or get him forcibly ejected from the premises forthwith; he carefully set down his teacup, laced his fingers on his lap and spoke without looking at his hosts, “Well, y’see, my boss, see... ‘e’s not a superstitious man by nay-cha but, ‘e’s got it into ‘is ‘ead...” he sighed heavily, looked up at Malky and bit the bullet, “Look – ‘e thinks the ahse ‘as been invaded by ‘a poltergeist’ and ‘e wants a consultation. Y’know, whether you can confirm or deny, that sort of thing.”

Malky’s heart sank. He threw up his hands and whined, “Fer cryin’ out loud! Another crank! A rich crank, but a crank nonetheless!”

[In the aftermath of the Barry McKee case, there had been numerous requests for newspaper interviews, TV documentaries and even a book deal with movie-options that would have set them up for the rest of their lives, but Malky had rejected them all out-of-hand. Zindy was slightly exasperated but mostly impressed by his innate integrity and refusal to exploit his adventures - then sometimes she wished he had his price, just enough to afford a decent refit. But he doggedly kept to his Code and slowly-but-surely, the phone stopped ringing, people stopped arriving at the door and they settled into what was, in Malky’s case, blissful isolation in a place he loved as a child; for Zindy, it represented normality and domesticity, something she needed after years of living in the fast lane.]

She was too taken with their visitor to dismiss the offer out of hand, “Wait til you ‘ear what Herbie ‘as to say before you go on a rant, Mr Sour-Balls!”

Malky leaned against the fridge and crossed his arms, “He can say what he likes but it won’t make a ha’penny’s worth o’ difference. We live by a Code remember?”

“’Code?’” Herbie looked from one to the other.

Zindy harrumphed and rhymed-off Malky’s charter to their bemused visitor, “Malky’s Code: he won’t have anything to do with the supernatural stuff... he won’t have anything to do with the media... he won’t write a book even though he’s been offered a lotta money...”

Malky: “-- and with good reason! Once you make contact -– you let them in! They’ll be writing begging letters, making pilgrimages to our door!”

Herbie, slightly embarrassed that he’d caused trouble in paradise, assured them, “You come very ‘ighly recommended, y’know – by the Gardai commissioner ‘isself, no less...”

Malky’s jaw dropped, “What?!” he gasped.

“Oh gawd, I knew this would be a nightmare...” Herbie muttered under his breath, grimacing like a man tiptoeing through a minefield wearing a blindfold; he elaborated in an apologetic tone, “... a couple o’ weeks ago, the boss was at one of them grand-banquet dos they ‘ave in Dublin City where the top-nobs can ‘obnob -- y’know the sort o’ fing, VIPs, the politicians an’-all-that-lot. Well, the commissioner was seated next to the boss and they got talkin’ about strange cases and your name came up, an’ when ‘e mentioned that Barry McKee business a few years ago, the boss wuz all ears 'n ‘e got the commissioner to get your address...?”

Malky was furious, “The Barry McKee case was as weird as they come, but it wasn't anythin’ to do with the supernatural -- it was to do with the fact that he’s a schizo who liked to kill little girls.”

Herbie raised his eyebrows, “So all that tawk abaht ‘im bein’ possessed is just bollocks?”

“Well, he thought he was possessed, he heard voices...” Zindy was about to elaborate when Malky shot her a what-the-hell-look. She took umbrage, “So what did happen, Malcolm? Why don’t you explain it?”

“You should know -- you were there -– we nearly died!” Malky snapped back.

“Yeah -- but who ‘elped us?! ‘Ow did the dog find them bodies in the woods? Who told 'im where to go?!”

Sensing trouble in paradise, Herbie reached into his inside-pocket and took out a large brown leather wallet, “Look, I tell you wot, if it makes it any easier,” he pulled out a folded slip of paper and set it on the table so that it stood like a little greetings-card, “the boss gimme this blank cheque ‘n awforised me to offer ya 7 grand to come up to the ‘ahse and ‘ave-a-butcher’s. If you can get rid of the spook, he’ll give you anovver free grand. That’s 10 grand! More, if ‘e’s really pleased! ‘Is pockets are deep, believe me.”

“Something strange in your neighbourhood? Who you gonna call...?” Malky sang.

“I don’t think even the Ghostbusters would get 10 grand for one night’s work?!” gasped Zindy, £-signs in her eyes.

Heartened that the hostess seemed keen, Herbie went for the hard-sell, “7 grand just to ‘ave a shufti, 10 grand if you get rid of it. What would money like that mean to you two?” he said, looking at Zindy’s bump.

Malky saw his better-half look around the kitchen, read her mind and reminded her with a wagging finger, “Don’t start...!”

Zindy wagged straight back, “The Code of Silence made sense in the beginnin’ when we wuz inundated with whackos, weirdoes ‘n’ wankers of every stripe – before we ‘ad money trouble and baby on t’way!”

Malky pointed and laughed sardonically, “Did you just say that? Who the hell are you?!”

The chauffeur turned to Malky and spoke softly, “Lissen Mr C -- I fink the old man’s barkin’ up the wrong tree too, but ‘e’s at his wit’s end – ‘e finks there’s an ‘evil spirit’ out to get ‘im! Now, I ain't seen anythin’ myself, just the aftermaff - but ‘e says fings fly across the room, y’know, ornaments ‘itting the wall, books falling from shelves, that sort of fing. E’s afraid to go rahnd the ‘ouse on ‘is own. If it goes on for much longer, ‘e’s likely to ‘ave a stroke or ‘eart attack, the poor old git.”

“Who is 'e?” Zindy and Malky asked, in perfect harmony.

Herbie paused for a second then said: “Oliver Laphen.”

“Ollie Laphen?! ‘The Quare Geg’?!” cried Malky; amazed and delighted, he duly eschewed his standoffishness, pulled out a chair and sat down at the table.

“The old movie star? The hellraiser?” asked Zindy, only slightly impressed.

“Yip, that Ollie Laphen,” said Herbie, sheepishly, as if confessing a cardinal sin.

“My God. Ollie Laphen! That takes me back a-ways...” Malky enthused, whimsically, looking up, as if viewing the memory in a thought balloon hovering just above his head, “...in Belfast in the late 50s when me ‘n me younger brother Dessie were kids, we used to see his films at the Roy Rogers’ Movie Club at the Curzon on Saturday mornings and we loved the ‘Laffin Boy’ shorts he made in the early 30s when he was still called ‘Ollie Laffin’. Jeez, we must’ve seen them all at least 10 times each...!”

Zindy left Malky to wander down Memory Lane and got down to business, “And ‘’e’s willing to pay Malky 7 grand just to look round ‘is ‘aunted ‘ouse?!”

Herbie smiled and nodded.

Although mightily tempted, Malky still wasn't moved, “Nah – it smacks of exploitation. I’m not goin’ to take advantage of an old man who’s probably in the primary stages of senility... Oh, sorry, Herbie...”

The chauffeur shrugged and nodded, “You’re singin’ to the choir guv. That’s what us lot reckoned, too - but in every ovver respect he’s fine. ‘E’s cantankerous and narky like ‘e always is, but ‘is memory’s fine - e’s workin’ on a one-man-show and ‘e don’t even ‘ave to look at the book. ‘E reads all ‘is contracts – even the small print - ‘e writes ‘is memoirs... If it is senility, then this poltergeist fing is the only symptom.” He winked, “Tell-you-wot -- why dontcha meet ‘im ‘n’ see for y’self.”

Malky had to smile. It was like being coerced by an aging Artful Dodger. He now knew how the big chauffeur had kept a job for so many years: Herbert Gorringe has made a career out of getting the boss exactly what he wants, by hook or by crook.

“Lissen, if you fink it’s all a loada ol’ cobblahs, you can tell ‘im so - take the money - and I’ll drive you ‘ome. No ‘assle. No one will ever know. Mr Laphen certainly won’t be tellin’. You know ‘ow much ‘e ‘ates the press.”

Zindy looked at Malky and batted her eyelids, “No one will ever know and you’ll have a great story to tell our kids.”

“Oh – you’re not coming?” said Malky, with a raised eyebrow.

Zindy indicated the engine parts on the table, “No time, lover –- we need the van back on the road by mornin’ cos I ‘ave to go to Arklow and pick-up the grocery order and fetch more paint from the DIY store. Incidentally, I’ll be ‘using’ t’credit card - you know the one I mean -– the one we owe £3,400 on?”

“My God woman, have you no shame?!” said Malky, semi-seriously, shaking his head with exasperation.

Herbie held up the cheque and flicked it with a finger, “A lotta lolly for a few hours’ work, my friends.”

“C’mon, Malk. Like ‘Erbie says, the ol' boy’s loaded and it’s only one night...?”

Malky stared at his paint-spattered hands and had a rethink: you’ll to get away from the smell of varnish and gloss, meet the great Ollie Laphen and have a look round his house... “Well... I suppose one night wouldn't be so bad... ?”

Deal sealed, Herbie sighed with relief, got to his feet and shook Malky’s hand. Malky looked at Zindy and shook his head, “You know you’ll never hear the end of this, dontcha?”

Zindy grinned, “Careful Ollie Laphen’s poltergeist don’t drop summat ‘eavy on yer ‘ead, chook!”

Malky held his sides and pretended to cry tears of laughter.

“Oh yeah - one other fing,” said Herbie, looking around, “The commissioner-bloke told us that you usually work wiv a free-legged German shepherd...?”

Right on cue, the beast in question nosed the door open and sauntered into the room, someone call?

[Broo and Malky had a semi-telepathic link; they couldn't communicate directly, but over the years following the Barry McKee saga, they’d developed an intuitive sense of what the other was thinking.]

Malky glared, you heard all that didn’t you?

The old dog grunted, I can hear the rats building a nest three-doors-down, you twit - of course I heard. And I must say, it’s about time we had a case...

“It’ll be a bit of a lark, won’t it?” chirped Zindy, putting Malky’s toothbrush and shaving kit into his overnight bag. She gave the once over and shook her head, “you’re a walkin’ disaster. Things wrinkled as soon as you put them on.” She lifted the comb and tried to do something with his hair.

Her other-half still hadn't warmed to the idea, “Lark? It’ll be no laughing matter for me, wandering around some creaky, chilly stately-home all night with that grumpy hound at me heel.”

Broo growled back.

She stooped slightly and pointed the comb at the old dog, “Now listen – Broo – you be patient w’ ‘im and remember that ‘e ‘ates all this kinda spooky stuff,” she turned back to her man, “and Mal, you remember that Broo is old and crotchety and prone to snarkiness.”

How dare you madam! I’ll have you know my intellectual capacity is at its peak! The father of your child is the one with questionable mental faculties, not me!

Standing on tiptoe, Zindy cupped Malky’s cheeks and gave him one of her pep-talks, “Listen, chook... take a look round, if you don’t find anythin’ or it looks like a set up, or it don’t feel right -- whatever -- I’ll understand if you don’t take the money, OK?”

Malky was confused, “Then why....?”

She put a finger on his lips, “I’d appreciate a little time on me own, OK? Nothing sinister, just some time to meself. We've been in each other’s pockets day-and-night for 2 year now, so tonight -- for one night only -- I’m gonna finish workin’ on the soddin’ van, ‘ave a bath, write a coupla letters and get an early night. Meanwhile, you get to spend the night in a luxurious mansion in the company of yer boyhood hero.”

She wants a break from you, and who can blame her.

Malky shot the dog a reproachful glance, then smiled when he turned back to his better-half, “You don’t need to explain, Zin. You've got what’s commonly known as Calvert Fatigue.”

She pushed him out onto the landing, “Now fook off. I’ll be here when you get back.”

Broo surveyed the stray cats lined long the parapet of the old burned-out cinema. They had gathered to watch the Rolls roll by, just like they had at the time of the McKee affair: further confirmation, to him at least, that this journey was significant. He resolved to pay attention to every detail and use all his powers... to get to the bottom... of (yawn)... whatever....zzzzzzz He was asleep within 10 minutes. Malky looked over his shoulder and scowled. Lazy sod.

Herbie took the scenic route and drove slowly. The hedgerows bustled-by lackadaisically, the dry-stone-walls refused to become a grey-white blur as £400,000 worth of Rolls Royce shook ‘n’ shimmied along bumpy country lanes and pot-holey side-roads at a leisurely 32mph. He was enjoying the view of the misty Wicklow mountains, and despite the nip in the breeze and the baleful skies, he wound down his window and leaned out to take the air -- which reeked of compost and slurry, but which was entirely to his taste -- “Aaaaah! Smell that?! Laaave this cahntryside, I do! Y’know, at least once a day, I stop what I’m doin’ ‘n give fanks that we landed back ‘ere and not blahdy Swizzer-land. Swizzer-land,” he sneered. “I ‘ate blahdy Swizzer-land. The boss wuz a tax-exile for a while y’see...” He went on to list the many shortcomings of the Swiss in his bouncy cockney twang. Malky repressed the overwhelming urge to shout for Christ’s sake shut-up and step on it! and tuned him out. There he was, on his way to do something he didn’t want to do for people he didn’t want to know in a place he didn’t want to be, and the longer it took to get there the more the prospect bothered him. Bloody cheek, that Gardai Commissioner handing my name & number out to all-and-sundry – I should sue! ... Bloody hocus-pocus and hoodoo-voodoo... but as usual, money talks and principles go out the window... money, money, money... she’ll be setting up a Supernatural Detective Agency next... She’ll be advertising it in the paper...

Seemingly oblivious to the ennui emanating from the fidgety heap of grumpiness beside him, Herbie continued to natter away about getting acclimatised to the snail’s-pace of pastoral Irish life after so many years spent in the fraught, hustle-&-bustle of Hollywood: “They’re as nice-as-ninepence to ya just so long as yer putting bums on seats and bags of lolly in the bank – if not - they’ll drop ya like ‘ot potatah! Fankfully, the boss is always bankable – you put ‘is name on a marquee and you’s guaranteed a profit! ‘E still ‘as a core fanbase of millions who’ll come to everyfink ‘e’s in!”

Malky grunted a hollow, listless “Oh really?”

Unfazed, Herbie whispered in Malky’s ear: “Lissen, mate, if you wanna take the edge-off - ‘ave a drop of Irish. The boss keeps a flask in the glove-compartment for emergencies.”

Malky was caught off-guard and answered in an embarrassed stutter, “Er, no thanks, I don’t drink...”

“‘Recovering alcoholic’, are ya?” Herbie asked.

Although wholly nonplussed by the man’s audacity, Malky replied without raising his voice, “Let’s just say I had a problem at one time and leave it at that, shall we?”

But Herbie continued to pry, “Don’t take this the wrong way, pal, but you have the look of a man who’s no stranger to --”

“Oi! Enough!” Malky barked (Brooster woke up with a start), “Keep yer eyes on the road, Jeeves! Just cuz yer boss is willin’ to pay 7 grand for my services doesn’t give ye the right to dig into me personal life!”

Herbie was visibly taken aback by this unexpected tirade; he pulled down the peak of his cap so that it covered his eyes, straightened up in his seat, took the car up to a steady 40, and after a brief pause, spoke in a more professional tone, “I wuz only makin’ conversation, sir. If I’ve offended you in any way, I ‘umbly apologise and beg yer pardon, sir.”

“Forget it.” Malky turned away and looked out of the window.

A minute or two passed, and as the little surge of adrenalin dissipated, so the embarrassment sank in and he decided to restart the conversation, “Did I hear you tell Zindy you were in the army?”

Still somewhat narked, the chauffeur kept his eyes on the road and gave his name rank and number with the clipped diction of a well-drilled soldier, “Queen’s Royal Irish Fusiliers, 17 years: Corporal Herbert Valentino Gorringe 2063 reporting for duty, sah.”

Malky smiled, “Valentino?”

Herbie made a face, “It was that or Rudolph. My ol’ mum was a big fan. She was in-con-sole-able when ‘e died, grieved fer days, apparently.”

Where was another protracted pause, until Malky said, “I used to meet a lot of Tommies in Belfast in the early days of the Troubles. Seen a good few murdered, too. Bad times.”

The chauffeur turned slightly so that he could look Malky in the eye, “You wasn't chucking the ol’ Molotovs, was ya? You ain’t an ex-IRA man or anyfink like that, ‘is ya?!” Au contraire. Malky told him he was an ex-RUC policeman. Herbie was very interested, visibly relieved and wholly amazed, “Really? If you don’t mind me saying so - you don’t strike me as the type...?”

“My ambition was to be a detective, but I never made it out of uniform. I quit after my partner was gunned down right beside me and I went off the rails a bit and... Well, y’know...” Malky’s voice trailed off.

Herbie shook his head, “Gunned down right beside you? That’s rough that is.”

“But surely you’ve had near-death experiences yourself, Herbie, especially after 17 years in the army...?”

“Well, I wuz too young to serve in the war. I turned 17 the day after VE day. I didn’t join-up til the September of 46. And I never did no tour of duty in Norvern Ireland neevah, I was mostly overseas in Cyprus and the Middle East. We was part of a UN peace-keeping force tryin’ to keep the tribes apart: Jews, Muslims, Christians – not to mention the Greeks and the Turks! Bit like Belfast, but wiv loadsa sun, sand and bearded blokes in pyjamas wiv machine guns. Mind you, I saw the aftermaff of a lotta bombs, I saw fousands killed in genocides... terrible, ‘orrible it was... But I never really saw battle, just ‘minor skirmishes’. Luck, I suppose. It was during a tour of Norf Africa in 64 when I first met the boss!”

“Really,” asked Malky, suddenly interested, “you met oul’ Ollie while you were still in the army? You've been with him that long?”

Herbie was back on his favourite subject and relishing the opportunity to impart his favourite anecdote to a captive audience: “Oh yeah, it was me firtiefth birthday and I was on a day’s leave, so me and a couple of the lads went to Casablanca to paint the tahn several shades of crimson... and after a bit of a pub crawl rahnd the Kasbahs, I got separated from me mates, and while I was lookin’ fer ‘em, I strolls into this dark little tavern and sittin’ there in a corner was Oliver Laphen! Would you Adam ‘n’ Eve it?! ‘E was supposed to shootin’ an adventure movie wiv David Niven about archaeologists in World War Two called Diamonds in the Dust –- but he was skivin’-off cuz he’d ‘ad a row with the director and ‘e was layin’-low -- he didn’t wanna ‘ang round the ‘otel, so ‘e’s ‘iding-out in this dark little Kasbah, trying to be inconspicuous – wearin’ a black wig, big black shades, a kaftan and a fez - but I knew ‘im the minute I set eyes on ‘im! See, our CO was a big fan. He ‘ad all the reels of the comic shawts from the late 30s and some of the feature films the boss made for Paramahnt in the 40s – he used to get ‘em sent ovah and screen ‘em for the lads on a Satur’ay night! Anyway - there ‘e is, in the flesh, so-to-speak! Oliver Laphen! Jolly Ollie! So I go over an’ I say, ‘Can I ‘ave your autograwph Mr Laphen, sah?’ and at first ‘e‘s fumin’ – ‘e goes-off-on-one! Then ‘e calms dahn and says to me – ‘’ow the eff did you know it was me?!’ and I say ‘It’s the way you’re ‘olding your drink!’ Cuz ‘e’s always had this way of curling back ‘is little finger as if ‘e’s drinkin’ from the finest choy-nah. E ‘as these delicate li’l ‘ands, see...”

As he watched the chauffeur get more-and-more animated, Malky came to understand how a sensible, seemingly-well-balanced ex-squaddie like Herbert Valentino Gorringe could forsake marriage, family and blissful conformity just to spend his life at the beck-and-call of -- if popular opinion had it right -- a detestable, despotic, volatile, cranky little egomaniac like Oliver Laphen. Well, now he knew. Herbie wasn't just a fan – he was in love with the man. The pair’s long-term relationship had outlasted all of ‘The Quare Geg’s’ marriages put together. No wonder the story was related with such gusto and attention to detail, it was, after all, an epic romance.

“.... any’ow, at 400 hours, I ‘ad to get back to base, but before I go ‘e takes me to one side an’ ‘e says – ‘’Erbie, if you quit the army ‘n become my chauffeur and personal bodyguard, I’ll guarantee you a 50 knicker a week for starters, bed-‘n’-board - all the skirt you can ‘andle – plus -- you’ll get to see the world without ‘avin’ to worry abaht gettin’ yer ‘ead blown orf!’ So I laugh ‘n’ say I’ll fink about it. I fanked him for the best night of my life and we say ta-ra. I go back to camp finking it wuz all the blustah and idle boasts of a booze-‘ahnd and forgot abaht it. But it didn’t stop ‘im. When ‘e asked for the fird and final time, I quit and I’ve been at ‘is beck-‘n’-call ever since.”

“Was it worth it, Herbie?” Malky asked.

The chauffeur thought long and hard about the question before answering. When he did, his voice was more mature and thoughtful, “E can be an ‘andful sometimes, but artistic people is prone to temperament, it’s ‘ow they’s able to do the fings they do. But I’ve learned ‘ow to balance it aht. I’ve been all over the world, visited all the major cities ‘n’ ‘istorical places... I’ve met a lotta Very Important People – besides movie stars an’ showbiz folk, there’s been world leaders, presidents, kings and queens, writers, top sportsmen – so whenever people awsk ‘’ow do you put up wiv ‘im?’ I say ‘take a look at me passport, me photos and me bank accahnt, moosh - there’s ‘ow!’” He turned to Malky and told him earnestly, “See, I’ve gotta lotta great memories. I’ve seen ‘istory bein’ made. I’ve supped Earl Grey wiv Picasso and knocked back bourbon wiv Dean ‘n’ Frank. I’ve made an omelette fer Einstein an’ cocktails for Noel Coward. I’ve played cards wiv Kate Hepburn for two straight days - and lost. No matter what the ol’ boy gets up to, I wouldn't trade those memories for the world.... Umm...” Something crossed his mind. When he spoke again, it was in a more tentative tone, “Look, before we get to the ‘ahse, I’d better mention the incident on Friday night wot started ‘im off.”

“Why? What happened on Friday night?” asked Malky, a little disconcerted.

“I was away visitin’ a lady-friend in Dublin, an’ apparently all the lights went aht and the ‘uge grandfavver clock in the lobby fell over and smashed on the floor -– the boss was frightened outta his wits -- fought it was burglars – so ‘e pressed one of the panic buttons and Charlie, our ‘ead of security, drove up to the ’ahse right away. But the power-cut musta shorted-aht the alarm system cuz ‘is swipe-card wouldn't work and the master key wouldn't turn in the lock! So, finkin’ ‘e’s under siege, the ol’ man pressed the button that calls the Old Bill, but by the time they got there, Charlie ‘ad managed to get in ‘n’ calm the old man down. Then the lights come on again – not just the lights that wuz on when the power went aht – but every single light in the ‘ole ahse including the bedrooms, bathrooms, the ballroom -- everywhere. By this stage, the boss is goin’ mental. Really, really scared.

“When I got back I got a right bollockin’ as if it was all my fault – like I ‘ad the temerity to ‘ave a night off! Any'ow, me ‘n’ Charlie searched that ahse from top to bottom; the cops ‘n’ the security lads looked round the grounds, but we come up empty... there wuz nothin’ up iv the fuse-box, no sign of tamperin’ or anyfink dodgy.”

“Would the grandfather clock be easy to topple?” said Malky.

“Well, it’s set into the wall ‘n’ it’s solid, antique Bavarian pine, 9 foot tall wiv a ruddy great bell in it; it’s got a solid gold pendulum and it weighs around a two-and-an-‘alf ton, I couldn’t pull it dahn on me own.” Gorringe coughed then said, “And that’s the ovver fing... the boss’ been back on the bottle ever since, and if you know anyfink about the boss, you’ll know that ‘e’s a bit... volatile when ‘e’s on the sawse. So, ignore any strange behaviour, if y’know what I mean.”

Malky was a trifle miffed at being apprised of these tidings so late in the day; he was about to ask if there was anything else he should know when Herbie suddenly brightened and declared, “And ‘ere we are, my beauties! My little ‘ome-from-‘ome!”

Herbie slowed the limo to a funereal crawl as they entered a particularly picturesque little village, “Ahhh, ‘ave you ever been a little place like this before?” he asked, with a little smirk that hinted at a rhetorical question.

Malky honestly confessed, “No. I’m sure I’d remember if I had.”

“You wouldn’t ‘ave. This ‘ere is a protected community, see. Only a few people know about it.”

It was beautiful, rows of whitewashed thatched cottages with black gloss doors, all flowers beds and hanging baskets with a little square with a little roundabout in the centre, bedecked with a floral clock depicting the flag of St George (?); aside from the copious vegetation, there was very little sign of life and almost no sign of the 20th century. “What’s it called?”

“Bogmire. Pretty lousy name for such a laavly little ‘amlet, innit?”

If it wasn't for the faded & peeling Coca Cola sign stuck to the inside of the window of the post office-cum-newsagent and an old bicycle leaning against the bench outside a ramshackle little country pub (the Black Water Rat), they could be back in Tudor England. Malky made appreciative noises.

“It’s like a little oasis from bygone days, innit? You feel as if you’ve slipped frew a time-warp – eh?! But the funny thing is – it ain't Irish! See, most of the people ‘oo live ‘ere are descended from English peasant stock! Most of ‘em is originally from the wilds o’ Cornwall! The Duke of Roxborough brought ‘em ovah to build Pagham ‘Ahse ‘n ‘e built these ‘ere cottages for ‘em – and believe it or not, they lasted through the rebellion cos of a pact between the Irish rebels and the Roxborough family ‘n they’ve been ‘ere ever since. When ‘e bought the ahse the only proviso wuz that we keep the staff and let the Supplicants – that’s their religion, that is – live ‘n’ work on the estate.” Herbie went on to tell of the locals’ strange customs and bizarre lifestyle in a disbelieving tone, “... and they've been doin’ it fer 200 years straight!”

Malky looked around, “And this is all part of the estate?”

“Yep, it came with the ahse!”

This didn’t surprise Malky one bit. For an Irish ex-pat, the old man wasn't renowned for his patriotism; in fact, he was a close friend of Princess Margaret and during the height of the Troubles in the 70s he was renowned for making disparaging noises about the Republican movement in Ireland from the safety of his Bel Air mansion (when Lord Mountbatten was murdered by the IRA he told a NBC TV news reporter that the terrorists in question were ‘like a bunch of weasels attacking a lion’ and that Britain should ‘string ‘em up’), he was frequent visitor to the Whitehouse when the Republicans were in office, and was often mooted to be an anonymous sponsor of various right-of-centre US politicos -- he backed Nixon over Kennedy, was close to Ronnie Reagan since his days as chairman of Screen Actors Guild, and was a frequent house guest of George Bush senior -- all of which made him a potential target for disgruntled boyos on both sides of the pond. It made sense that he’d want to live out his twilight years in a little slice of England transplanted into the heart of the Irish countryside, it suited his style: contrary to the end.

Herbie pulled-up outside a dainty little general store called The Peppermint Poke. The window was full of candy jars and pastries neatly arranged on little lacy paper doilies, “Dora oo runs the Poke is an Outsider, meanin’ she’s married to one of the Supplicants so she’s allowed to run a shop. None of ‘em is allowed to ‘ave a shop or make profit from their work, so the outsiders tend to do them fings, like business transactions and that. The local garda sergeant is an outsider, too -- he lives in that li’l cottage ovah there.” he pointed to one of the gleaming residences across the square...” Herbie opened the door, “I’m just gonna go in and get the Sunday papers ‘n’ a tube of Polos... I’ll only be a sec.”

Malky wound down his window to inhale the compliment of delicious odours to accompany the view: flowers, mown lawns and more flowers, “very restful. Then he heard a rumble outside the car -- a motorcycle had pulled up alongside and its rider, wearing a helmet with a dark visor, was looking through the driver’s-side-window. What’s this? Malky shrank back in his seat....The rider casually unzipped his black leather jacket and reached inside – for a second Malky flinched -- but instead of a weapon, he produced a video camera. Malky knew a maverick paparazzo when he saw one and immediately flew into a rage – he lunged out of the open widow, shook his fist and yelled, “Piss-off ya bastard! Get that f**kin’ thing outta my face or I’ll put my foot in yer arse!”

The shouting roused Broo from his slumbers. He saw the motorcyclist, heard Malky screaming and instinctively barked loudly and forcefully -- until he sensed that the stranger posed no threat and Malky appeared to be overreacting. He stopped barking, gave himself a shake and tried to get his bearings. The cameraman was quite small, dressed in biker’s leathers like Zindy’s biker chums, but these were more expensive and unsullied by general wear-&-tear. Then, as the bleariness subsided and his eyes refocused, Broo saw something that both startled and alarmed him. At first he thought it was the motorcycle’s exhaust fumes, then he realised the figure was shrouded in what he could only describe as a purplish-halo -- whatever it was, it was unlike any aura he’d ever seen before.

Malky was fit to be tied, “I’m not gonna tell you again, friend! If you don’t fuck aff immediately I’m gonna come out there and stick that camera where the sun don’t shine!!”

“That’s a take!” The biker cried, packing away his camera, “Thank you sir! Have a nice day!” he said and roared off, leaving a cloud of blue smoke in his wake. “Bloody paps – see – this is what happens when you do somebody a favour,” grumbled Malky.

Broo was still drinking in the atmosphere and looking for anomalies. Having been in places like this all over Ireland, the old dog had noted that each dainty village and township they visited had its own peculiar little ripples of the past shining through the present. On his travels he’d heard the echoes of ancient battles in the silence of the first light of dawn; he’d seen the children of ancient tribes playing on a busy motorway at noon; he’d seen 16th century Spanish galleons off the coast at Cork -– but Bogmire was a spiritual desert: there was absolutely nothing to sense or feel beyond the here and now. It was clearly old, spotless and brightly painted, but utterly devoid of soul. And that smell... beneath the floral scents and peat smoke, lay an ever-present stench that marred the otherwise wholesomeness of the place. Even for a dog that usually salivated at the stink of putrid flesh, it was hard to stomach. Most unusual...

Just then they heard the little tinkle of a bell and Herbie emerged from the shop with a bundle of newspapers under his arm and a Polo mint in his cheek; he got back in and offered one to Malky, “Did I ‘ear a mo’orbike?” he asked, “I was chattin' to Dora and I could've swawn I ‘eard a rumblin’ sahnd...?”

“Just a guy askin’ for directions,” said Malky, “so I told him where to go...”

At that very moment, 3000 miles away, in the kitchen of a townhouse in North York, Toronto, Canada, the man of the house appeared in the kitchen doorway, barefoot in his pyjama bottoms, unshaven, hands deep in the pockets of his bedraggled dressing gown.

“Emil! What the f**k?! Go get dressed – we’re late as it is!” shouted Fran, ever the fiery redhead, dressed to the nines in her Sunday-best, rifling through her purse in search of her car keys, “I told you to get ready an hour ago!” They were supposed to be going to her niece’s christening and they were running 10 minutes late. She looked under the cushions in the lounge; she looked in and under the couch; she checked every pocket in the coat rack. “Where the f**k are they?!!”

Emil watched her, his arms hanging by his sides, and said, “I’m not going. I have the shits.”

Did I just say that? What the f**k?!

Fran, currently poking through the trash in the pedal-bin with the salad-tongs, threw her head back and mocked him in an ironic voice, “Hah! I knew it! Mom warned me – ‘he won’t go – he doesn’t even own a suit’! Well, it suits me – I don’t have to watch you get drunk and throw up in the swimming pool or make a pass at a waitress... Owww-ouch!” she’d cut her knuckle on the edge of a jagged tuna can, “F**k this!” she kicked the bin and ran to the sink to rinse it, screaming, “F**K! F**K! WHERE THE F**K ARE MY F**KING KEYS!!”

He knew exactly where they were. They were in his pocket. He was holding them in the palm of his hand; but for some strange reason he didn’t hand them over. It wasn't that he didn’t want to, it was because he couldn't. And no matter how hard he tried to communicate, his body wouldn't respond; he let her go on searching and said nothing.

She went to the knick-knack drawer in the welsh-dresser, rummaged around in the back and eventually emerged triumphant, “Ah - hah! The spare! I knew I’d put it somewhere!!” She had one last look in the mirror to check her mascara and top-up her lip gloss, “... If you go out make sure you turn on the alarm.... and if you go back to bed - don’t f**king smoke! That’s a new quilt and I don’t want it looking like somebody’s used it for target practice!” She strode down the hall to the front door; a few seconds later she came stomping back, madder than ever “You f**king asshole! You've done it again!! You've boxed me in! I can’t get my car out!”

Emil remained silent.

“Emil!” She approached him and looked up into his dull, blue eyes, “EMIL! You have to move your car! Are you listening to me?!

He stood and stared.

“Emil!”

“See you later, legislator,” he said, without smiling. It was a catchphrase he used when they said goodbye on the doorstep in those early days when they first moved in together; but here & now it just sounded weird. She gave him a sideways look, “Are you stoned?”

“Take my car.” He dangled his keys on his pinkie.

She grimaced at the smell of his breath, glowered and said, “Listen... I don’t know what the hell you’re on or what you are trying to pull, but my mother will be frothing at the mouth -– I was supposed to pick her 15 minutes ago -– this is a crisis!”

He dangled his keys.

She drew herself up and bawled in his face, “GET OUT THERE AND MOVE YOUR F**KING CAR!”

He jangled his keys.

She slammed her key down on the table and snatched his in one frighteningly limber move, “RIGHT! – I’m calling your bluff, asshole – I’m taking your beloved Porsche! You can take my Volvo -- I wonder what all those cutesy little students of yours will think when they see the delectable Dr Labatt driving through campus in a busted-up soccer-mom-mobile?!”

Emil stared back, unblinking and blank, and said, “I’ll miss you, Fran. You’re alright.”

“F**k you, asshole!” She thrust the finger in his face and stormed out.

The slamming door was the last thing Emil heard before the darkness descended...

A few miles from Bogmire, along a road that was little more than a narrow lane, they arrived at a long, narrow lane lined on one side by yew trees concealing a tall, ivy-covered, red-brick wall that contained the entrance to Pagham House (or Paggum Ahse, as Herbie called it, making it sound like a particularly nasty proctological affliction), the stately-home of Oliver Laphen. Herbie reached into the inside pocket of his tunic and produced a small remote-control which he used to open a pair of inconspicuous but heavily fortified, solid iron gates, “As you can imagine, the boss is fanatical about security,” he pointed to the CCTV cameras perched atop the pillars either side of the gate, “this place ‘as got more cameras than Fort Knox.”

Inside of course, it was different story entirely: acres of well-tended lawns as smooth as billiard-table-baizes; vast flower beds moistened by a huge sprinkler system; topiary styled to resemble the figures in the Ascent of Man leading to the entrance of an extensive privet-maze; an enormous, ornate white-marble fountain with alabaster cherubs pissing into the air. It was all very tastefully ostentatious.

Like most of the world, his knowledge of Oliver Laphen was based on sensational gossip-columns he’d read in tatty magazines in various waiting-rooms over the years and the odd interview on Parkinson. Because Laphen was such an intensely private man, there were no official biographies and he used the services of an extremely litigious LA law firm to stymie any scandalous tomes that might shed light on the mystery he’d carefully nurtured over the years – a tantalising question: where did this fiery, working class, comic genius come from? The more reclusive he became, the more public interest increased, the more speculative the press became about his private life, the more outrageous the rumours -– the more tickets he sold. His career was indestructible. Not that everything was rosy on the home front. Enigmas, especially rich, volatile enigmas, are pap magnets; a good picture will fetch upwards of $10,000 so he was tabloid fodder from the day he stepped into the limelight. Editors from LA to Tokyo dispatched an army of dedicated investigative journalists to Dublin where they pored over thousands of files in public records offices in an attempt to trace the Laphen family line, but they always drew a blank: Jolly Ollie’s pedigree remained a tantalising mystery. He was certainly an Irishman by birth but refused to say anything about his childhood other than he was ‘educated by sadistic nuns’; he never talked about any parents or siblings and nobody knew where in Ireland he was from -- his accent was hard to pinpoint and changed as often as his anecdotes, the most famous of which was the story of his emigration to America when he allegedly stowed-away on a liner bound for New York at the age of 13 in 1929. After evading processing at Ellis Island he hitched his way across the States east to west and landed in Hollywood, where, according to (his) legend, he slept on the beach and did whatever work he could find during the day. At night he’d ‘hone his art’ performing slapstick in vaudeville, readying himself for stardom; two years later, at the age of 16, he was discovered by the celebrated ‘King Of Comedy’ Max Sennett. The talkies were the new big thing, and at a time when most silent stars were finding it impossible to ‘sound funny’, Ollie’s cartoonish Irish accent was a godsend and Sennett gave him his own series of 15 minute shorts. As Laphen retold this story over the subsequent decades, the narrative was wont to evolve until the embellishments rendered it wholly unreliable.

In the mid-30s when he traded under the moniker Ollie Laffin, he was happy to mug and gurn for the downmarket rags and Pathé News presentations; then, when he got ‘serious’ in the late-40s/early-50s, he stopped playing the fool and became a semi-reclusive thesp. The post-war world was a different place: screwball comedy and slapstick was old hat and Ollie was too canny to go down with the ship. When he returned to movies in ‘46 he went under the name of Oliver Laphen, stopped doing interviews and avoided all ‘that red carpet bollox’, preferring to leave the PR to his co-stars and directors who’d either guardedly sing his praises or proffer equivocal comments that were actually thinly-veiled digs, such as: ‘[working with] Mr Laphen was an experience I’ll never forget... but I’m trying.’ (Lauren Bacall) ‘He brings a piece of himself to every role and playing the villain comes so naturally [to him]...’ (David Niven), but one vox-pop in particular had stuck in in Malky’s mind: "He kept us mere mortals waiting for 4 hours before gracing us with His Presence, we went $4 million over-budget, 4 producers suffered a collective nervous breakdown and 2 of the crew died from heatstroke, but when you hire [Oliver Laphen], you get the best and some studios are prepared to set aside a few million to ‘feed the beast’.” Regardless of what his fellow-travellers thought of him, and how big a pain in the arse he was, Ollie Laphen = Box Office Gold.

“There she is!” cried Herbie, like an enthusiastic tour guide. The Rolls had rounded a bend in the driveway and Malky got his first glimpse of Pagham House.

“Jeez –- house is too small a word, Herbie! This makes Windsor Castle look like a B&B!” said Malky, when confronted by the huge, sandstone edifice of palatial proportions, with rows of latticed gothic windows, draped with thick beards of ivy.

The chauffeur chuckled, “Impressive, eh? It used to belong to the 10th Duke of Roxborough til ‘e fell on ‘ard-times ‘n the boss made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. We rent it aht when we’re ahtta town. It’s very popular wiv the Arabs ‘n the Chinese. It’s got 30 rooms, swimming pool, gym, ballroom, sauna -- it even has its own church -- the works!” They pulled into a gravel forecourt and parked at the foot of a huge white marble staircase leading up to a tastefully-weathered, balustrade-lined terrace. But Malky’s attention was drawn to another vehicle parked to the right of the steps: namely, the same Harley-Davison touring bike he’d seen in the village, and sitting on the steps was the mysterious rider/cameraman filming them as they drew up!

Malky was furious all over again, “What’s he doing here?”

“More to the point, ‘ow the ‘ell did ‘e get in?!” said Herbie, slowly unclipping his seat belt and opening his door, “I’ll ‘andle this...” Herbie got out, straightened his cap and walked toward the diminutive figure, “Can I ‘elp you, mate...?” Malky heard him ask, and then he and Broo watched as the biker promptly stopped filming, jumped down and met the burly chauffeur head-on -- he took off his helmet, grinned, opened his arms and the two embraced like they were very pleased to see each other.

“Uncle Herb – you look great!” trilled a cherub-cheeked, heavily-freckled, copper-headed American kid in his mid-20s, brimming with childlike-enthusiasm, speaking quickly and excitedly, “Listen - we’re gonna be shooting in July! I’m here to scout for locations and do the final negotiations...!” The lad stopped short when he noticed Malky trudging across the gravel.

“Sorry, Mr Calvert sir, I got a bit distracted then,” said Herbie, putting a hand on the young man’s shoulder, “This ‘ere’s Kristof Katz, Mr Laphen’s grandson. Kris – this-‘ere is Mr Malcolm Calvert ‘oo’s come to... erm... sort out a little... plumbing problem...”

The young Master Katz took off a leather gauntlet, shook Malky’s hand, chattering incessantly, “Very pleased to meet you sir, I’m very sorry for the candid camera incident, but when I saw the car I thought my grandfather was inside and I wanted to catch him unawares but I caught you unawares and once you started to rant I couldn’t resist capturing that intense anger! I guess it’s the habit of lifetime -- Herb here will tell ya -- I’ve hadda movie-camera in my mitt since I was old enough to lift one – isn’t that right Uncle Herb? I’m a total geek!”

Malky gaped at him as if he’d arrived from another planet.

“Yer caffeinated up-to the-eyeballs again!” said Herbie, playfully clipping him round the ear and scolding him like a naughty schoolboy, “jet-lagged, ridin’ rahnd windin’ cahntry roads on a bleedin’ two-wheeled deff-trap?! Are y’ off your trolley, boy?! You coulda been killed -- there’s farm vehicles on these-‘ere roads, you coulda turned an ‘airpin bend an’ wahnd-up in the blades of a combine ‘arvester or summink!!”

Kris apologised for his over-enthusiasm and slowed down, “... anyhow, pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr Calvert,” he turned and pointed behind him, “welcome to Ollie Towers, The Laphen House -- Xanadu -- whatever you wanna call it.”

Now that he was up close, Malky saw the family resemblance; the lad was short, around 5’ 5”, the same steely-blue peepers and winsome dimples that had graced millions-upon-millions of magazine covers since 1930. Malky felt compelled to comment, “I must say, you are the spitting image of your granddad.”

Herbie was gushing again, “Not only that -- but he’s in’erited his talent too! Kris is a movie director!” he tweaked the lad’s cheek and pretended to punch his jaw.

Kris went all aw-shucks and kicked at the gravel with the toe of a leather boot, “Well, I’m about to direct my first full-length feature. I’m very excited. It’s been in development hell for 3 or 4 years and now it’s finally in pre-production.”

“’E’s like a son to me!” Herbie put an arm around Kris’ shoulders, tweaked his cheek again and beamed, “when he was a nipper ‘is mum used to leave ‘im wif me on those days when she was... erm... uvverwise occupied...”

Kris, utterly unfazed, merrily took up the slack and filled in the blanks, “What Herb won’t tell you is my mom – Annelise Katz, née Laphen - had a lotta ‘substance abuse issues’ at the time, Mr Calvert. She used to unload me onto Herbie for weeks on end when she went on a jag [Now that the lad had mentioned it, Malky recalled reading something about one of Laphen’s daughters getting arrested for possession in the late 60s. In fact, from what he could remember, all 8 of the Quare Geg’s children had ‘issues’ of one kind or another]. Thankfully she’s been clean and sober for the past 6 years and now she’s counselling other women with similar issues...” he squeezed the hand dangling on his shoulder, “So I have this man to thank for givin’ me a relatively normal childhood! We used to play on the film sets in the studios when gramps was making a movie - that’s where I got my training!”

Herbie blushed, “Ach, it wasn't ideal, but where else was I gonna take ya? You know your granddad always ‘as to ‘ave me arahnd to fetch and carry for ‘im. And watchin’ a film get made is like watchin’ paint dry, if you awsk me - it’s a wonder it didn’t put you off movies for life!”

They were distracted by the sound of paws hitting gravel. The old dog had finally exited the Rolls but didn’t join them; he kept close to the car and watched from a distance. “Whassup wiv the pooch, ‘e’s gawn a bit shy, ‘in ‘e?” asked Herbie.

Malky called out to him: “What’s the matter with you, Hopalong? What has you all cagey, huh? Come over here and say hello!”

“Aww, look, he’s only got three legs,” crooned Kris, in a childishly sympathetic voice. Broo whimpered as he watched the glowing boy walk toward him, stooped and spoke softly as if addressing a bashful toddler, “You don’t have to be afraid of me, boy, I wouldn't hurt a fly! No I wouldn't...” he reached out

Broo recoiled and whimpered: Get off me, you idiot... you’re killing me!

But Kris carried on, unaware of the old dog’s distress, “Easy, boy, I won’t hurt you...”

AARGH!!

Kris cuddled him, stroked his back and made silly noises, “Eh? Who’s a handsome fella, then? You must quite the VIP, huh? A German Shepherd who’s so important he gets to ride around in the back of a limousine...?”

Mercifully, he was rudely interrupted by a loud voice from above, “Where the f**k have you been, Gorringe?!”

The boy stopped petting and turned away – Broo (unseen) wobbled for a second then keeled over.

There was an elderly man in a gaping, black silk kimono, electric-blue satin boxer-shorts, and bright green unlaced baseball boots standing at the top of steps; he pointed at Kris with an accusing finger, “and what-the-f**k’s that wee ginger gobshite doing on my property?!”

Malky looked up and regarded their prospective client. His collar length grey hair was thinning and unruly as if he’d just got out of bed, his heavily lined face clenched in distaste; but underneath the grizzled exterior and the bizarre attire, was none other the Quare Geg Himself: the fun-loving Ollie Laphen, former Crown Prince of Comedy! Looking at him now, though, it seemed there was little to laugh about, but you wouldn't know it to hear his grandson.

“Gramps! How-the-hell are you?! It’s me, Kris!” The boy put the helmet on the seat of the Harley and joyfully bounded-up the steps two-at-a-time, “so goo-ood to see you, dude...” he embraced the frail, bristly figure - who immediately pushed him away. “Gitcher filthy hands affa me, ye wee shite!! I’m not senile yet -- I know damn-well who you are!” Laphen put his fists on his hips and sneered in a high-pitched whine, “Whaddya want from me this time? Money, is it? Well, you can feck-off back to La-La Land - this bank is closed! Go and ask that crooked auld kike of a father o’ yours – oh yeah, I forgot – he’s back in the bankruptcy courts -- yet-again -- after yet-another one of his half-assed business-deals went tits-up in the water – still - why break the habit of a lifetime, huh? Once a loser, always a loser!” he stuck his little pug nose in the air, stuck out his chin and tied the belt of his silk kimono, like a superannuated prize-fighter squaring-up at a weigh-in.

Doing his best to suppress a fit of giggles, Kris reassured him in a sober tone, “S’OK gramps, don’t have a cow, man. I don’t need any of your filthy lucre, after all -- we've got a backer! And for the record –- I’ve never asked you for anything in my life, you old goat -- and you know it!”

Laphen stepped closer, “Why are you here then?”

“To see you you...” said Kris, smirking.

Laphen went nose-to-nose with his grandson and growled, “So, you don’t need me?! Well! You've seen me! Now piss off!”

Kris put a hand on the old man’s shoulder and smiled, warmly, “C'mon, we’d better get you inside, it’s quite chilly out here and we wouldn't want you catching cold, now, would we?”

The old man swatted the hand away like a particularly stubborn piece of lint, “Stop treatin’ me like a feckin’ invalid! I’m perfectly capable of walkin’ unaided – I’m not in a feckin’ wheelchair yet!” in the same breath, he broke away, looked down at Herbie, pointed at Malky and barked, “Is this the guy?”

“Yessah!” Herbie replied, standing to attention, as if addressed by a superior officer, “this is Mr Malcolm Calvert, the, erm... consultant from Brodir.”

“Well – don’t just stand there like a spare cock at a hen-night! Bring him in!”

With that, Laphen stomped back to the house with Kris walking alongside him, chatting incessantly despite the cold shoulder.

As Herbie fetched his overnight bag from the trunk of the Rolls, Malky watched them walk off and commented, “Chirpy little git, isn't he?”

Herbie slammed the lid shut and explained in a low voice, “Don’t let the ol’ Scrooge act give ya the wrong impression, Mr C. Kris is the apple of the old man’s eye - ‘e dotes on that boy. This is the way they speak to each uvvah. There’s no real malice intended so it’s best if you just let ‘em get on wiv it. Neevah wants to admit that it’s all a big contest to see who’ll crack first –- it usually ends in ‘uge laughs all-round. Only fing is the old man’s been ‘ittin’ the bottle again. I’m afraid ‘e’ll end-up sayin’ somefink really ‘urtful to the boy and ‘e might never come back. Kris is the only grandchild ‘oo ever comes to visit, see -- so for all of our sakes -- I ‘ope they chill-aht 'n have a civilised conversation.”

“Uh-huh,” Malky grunted, distractedly. The more he heard, the stronger the temptation to hand back the cheque and book a taxi back to Brodir, but he was so hungry now he had no choice but to reserve judgement until after dinner.

As they climbed the steps he suddenly realised they’d forgotten someone; he looked back and saw that his trusty companion was finding it hard to drag himself up, “Och, c’mon Broo, they’re not as steep as the stairs at the inn -- and you manage to climb those when you fancy a drink from the bog!” said Malky, turning away.

Broo could barely stand, let alone climb a flight of steps. When the young leatherman approached to indulge in a spot of light-petting and the strange, purplish halo enveloped him, Broo was instantly numbed -- he felt a sensation akin to sinking into a vat of virulent, viscous quicksand; a toxic vapour overwhelmed his senses -– and when the boy eventually let go, the dread feeling went with him. Alas, the men were too busy to notice him collapse in a heap, having been distracted by the sudden appearance of an angry old man who smelled of cigarettes, alcohol and bathsalts. Then something strange happened: when the younger man climbed the steps -- the aura around him grew more transparent –- by the time he embraced the old man - it had evaporated completely! One second it was there, the next – nothing. This was most perplexing. And if his senses were to be believed, aside from a few passing crows, there were none of the usual creatures one would find on an estate as big as this. Just like the village, there was no livestock or wildlife in the vicinity at all. Not only that, but as his head cleared, he realised that something else was missing: there’s no sign of anything Other in the ether either, and that bothered him most of all. The sky was darkening for dusk, the shadows were lengthening and the sun was low, so why are there no apparitions in the Golden Hour? Where was the shimmering residual energy of past events that can only be glimpsed through the rays of twilight? In a land such as this, historically ravaged by epidemics, tribal violence, famine and murderous invaders, there should be at least a few ghostly children playing in the fields... And yet, there’s nothing. If the Barry McKee case had taught him anything at all, it was to Beware Spiritual Vacuums. Bad things happen in Spiritual Vacuums.

... at that very moment (12:56 US Eastern Time), approximately 3600 miles away, at a checkpoint at the Canadian/United States’ border, on the Peace Bridge at Fort Erie, between Ontario and Buffalo, New York State...

“Sir? Sir... hello...

“Sir?!

“Wind down the window, sir!”

Somewhere... off in the distance Emil heard a man’s voice and a clicking sound. Metal on glass...

It wasn't like waking up, more like someone switching on a light. He was sitting in Fran’s Volvo, at what appeared to be the US/Canadian border!

“Sir, would you please wind down your window?” the muffled voice barked “SIR?!”

In his peripheral vision, Emil discerned a uniformed figure peering through the window. A US border patrol guard?! Holy shit?! What the f**k is going on?!

But the inner-turmoil, dislocation and downright terror didn’t register on his face: on the outside, he was deadpan, ice-cool and composed. The inner-Emil watched his own hand reach out and push the button that wound down the window; he felt the crisp breeze buffet his face and arms as the glass descended. If this is a dream, it’s very vivid. The guard stooped, leaned-in and sniffed the inside of the car. The outer-Emil remained unfazed, but when he caught a glimpse of himself in the wing-mirror, he soon realised why the guard was so suspicious.

He appeared to be wearing an unbelted towelling bathrobe, pyjama pants and his XXL Jimi Hendrix tee-shirt -- the ensemble he wore when he was slouching around the apartment... Shit -- you gotta be kidding me -- no briefs?! He desperately wanted to grab the hem of the gown and tuck the tails between his legs, but his arms refused to budge!

The certainties: it was daylight; he was at the border. I’m driving my wife’s 1979 Volvo estate dressed like an extra from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest! This has to be a dream! I’m gonna wake up at any minute...

Meanwhile, somewhat surprised that he couldn't smell any liquor, the guard returned to the business in hand, “May I see your passport, sir?!” he asked, acidly, in a thick New England accent. He was leaning on the roof now, the midday-sun gleaming off the chrome-plated badge on his cap; despite the dazzling flashes, Emil’s eyes refused to blink. The Inner-Emil wanted to grab his tie and shout: Stop me! I’m out of my mind! but his lips remained firmly zipped; his body remained still. For all-intents-and-purposes, he was a puppet with no mind of his own.

So who’s pulling the strings?

The guard was getting impatient; he pointed at the passenger seat, and snapped, “Your passport, sir!!

Emil’s outer voice said “Passport?”

The guard pointed, “It’s there. Right beside you, sir.”

His head turned to the right and he found himself looking down at the passenger seat; sure-enough, sitting atop an array of various official papers, was his passport. He saw his hand reach out, pick it up and hand it over. Maintaining eye-contact, the guard took the little booklet, ceremoniously shook it open and read it with a disdainful look. Emil had taken many acid trips and tried every psychedelic he could get his mitts on, but this was unlike anything he’d ever experienced in his voyages through the Doors of Perception. So what does that leave? Sleepwalking? He tried to make the fingers of his left hand pinch his thigh... but nothing.

“What brings you to the US, Mr Labatt?”

Emil heard himself say, “Doctor Labatt. I’m on my way to visit an elderly relative, if you must know. She’s very ill. Dying. It’s an emergency.”

What?!

“... Are you planning to drive all the way, Dr Labatt?” the guard asked, doubtfully.

The inner-Emil wanted to cry out: I don’t wanna drive anywhere! I don’t know why I’m here or what I’m doing! Please call my wife, Frances – she’ll come and get me!! In fact – arrest me! Take me into custody right now!!

Instead he heard his outer voice reply, dryly, “Yes, officer. Driving all the way.”

The guard handed back the passport, sighed heavily and asked pointedly, “Dr Labatt, have you been imbibing today? Narcotics, alcohol, have you taken any prescription drugs that might affect your ability to drive?”

This could work to his advantage: if I’m cheeky enough they might arrest me on suspicion of DUI! Alas, the invisible ventriloquist kept the voice calm and answered succinctly, “I most certainly have not been imbibing, officer. I’m a well-respected forensic scientist and a senior lecturer at the University of Toronto. I’m on my way to Baltimore to see an elderly relative with a terminal illness. It’s matter of some urgency. I need to get on.”

Baltimore?!

The guard handed back the passport and enquired, brusquely, “Carrying any foodstuffs, livestock including pets, liquor or sundries that may be considered contraband by the United States of America?”

“No, sir.”

“Then, would you mind popping the trunk, sir?”

Emil didn’t stir.

“Sir... pop the trunk?”

“This is my wife’s car and I don’t know where the trunk popper is.”

‘Trunk popper’?! Listen to me! Arrest me, you fool! I’m frickin’ nuts!!

Shaking his head, the guard reached in and groped under the wheel; “There she is,” and tugged the lever.

While the guard searched the trunk, the Inner-Emil tried to think logically: Could I have been inadvertently poisoned at the lab? Unlikely, he was very careful about sterilisation and wore a mask at all times... Have I ingested something in the course of my work... a fungus...? A spoor that causes one to act out in some way...? But he was ignoring the obvious: there was a taste in his mouth -- a taste that was as familiar as it was bitter and earthy that usually preceded the bouts of sickness. In fact, it had been happening ever since he’d got back from the dig in Kildare 2 years ago when they discovered the bog mummies (he’d abandoned the annual expeditions after his little fling with Niamh). Lately, he’d been prone to intermittent lapses in consciousness and bouts of short-term memory-loss. He’d find himself staring at his reflection in the bathroom mirror for hours on end. Fran thought he was smoking too much weed, but not even strongest strain of mary jane could induce blackouts like this, and nothing would leave a taste in his mouth this bad.

The trunk slammed shut. The guard returned, “Everything seems to be in order, Dr Labatt...” he leaned on the roof and spoke close, “Listen doc, if I was you I’d stop at the first motel I came to and I’d get myself a couple of hours sleep. Then I’d have a shower and a change of clothes and I’d drive the rest of the way feeling wide awake ‘n refreshed. I wouldn't want to fall asleep at the wheel and maybe kill myself or some innocent folk who were unlucky enough to be travellin’ the same road. Whaddya say to that, doc?”

An uneasy silence followed. The inner-Emil waited for his body to respond but nothing came: his eyes remained unblinking, his mouth stayed shut. He prayed that this was a turning point -- that he’d do something so outrageous they’d have to take him in -- but it never came. Finally, the guard sighed and patted the roof with the flat of his hand, “Welcome to the United States, doctor.”

Before the lights went out, Emil heard his voice reply with a curt, “Thank you. Have a nice day.” He felt his right hand release the handbrake; he felt his foot gently depress the accelerator. He watched as the Volvo taxied through the checkpoint; he paid the toll and ventured onto the open road... that was the last thing he remembered before the darkness descended again...

Malahide, Dublin: The Somerville family were going to Mass.

“Put on yer seat-belt, Cate, luv. You don’t have to sit in the baby-seat but you still have to strap yerself in,” said Somerville, getting into the driver’s seat.

In the back, Cate turned to her younger sister, “See, Cathy – he called it a ‘baby’ seat!’”

“Mommeeeeeeee!” Cathy wailed.

Pat got into the passenger seat and took control: “Ssshhhh, Cathy.... Cate don’t tease Cathy! You’ll start her off -- then baby Clare will start!” She playfully slapped her husband’s shoulder, “That’s your fault, daddy! It’s a CAR seat not a BABY seat, silly -– it even says so on the little label ‘Car Seat’ –- so-there, Miss smarty-pants-Caitlin -- you were wrong!”

“Daddy said it not me.”

“It was a slip of the tongue, Pat.”

“He didn’t mean to say it, Cathy. I’ll never hear the feckin end of this... will you be more careful what you say!”

“I’m not a baby I’m 4 and 4 months! I have to sit in it cuz I’m too wee for the seat belt!”

“That’s right! You tell ‘em Cathy! It’s a seat for small people, not babies! Cathy’s very sensitive and unassertive and I’m trying to build her confidence!”

“Daddy, what’s ‘police brutality’?” asked Cate, apropos of nothing.

“Where did you hear about ‘police brutality’?” said Somerville, looking at her in the rear-view mirror.

“One of the older girls shouted it when Sister Marie dragged her into the bogs to wash her face.”

“Toilets, Ladies, loo or lavatory, please, Cate, dear. What are bogs?” said Pat, sternly.

“Sorry mommy: ‘Bogs are Irish swamps...’” Cate sang, rolling her eyes.

Herbie led the way through the huge front door into a huge, cavernous sandstone vestibule lit by a quartet of gothic, arched windows, not unlike the narthex of a Christian church, but cluttered with precisely the sort of tone-lowering kitschy bric-a-brac that one would expect a working-class-boy-made-good to put on display -- as much a screw you to visiting nobs & snobs as it was a totem to his wealth and wilful nature, to wit: a suit of armour wearing an American Indian headdress, a deep-sea diving-suit with a stuffed monkey’s head in the helmet; a pair of large Persian vases filled with strange umbrellas. One item in particular gave Malky cause for pause: standing to the left of the adjoining Gothic archway, stood a life-sized waxwork of the Master of Mirth himself, fashioned and dressed to represent his ‘hey-day’ in the 30s; this waxen Laphen was the youthful, joyful Jolly Ollie Laffin, grinning that trademark squidgy-grin, complete with pinchable dimples, the rash of freckles across the bridge of his little pug-nose, the glassy sky-blue eyes gleaming like sapphires – you couldn't help but smile. Malky couldn't help but remark, “Whatever happened to that sweet li’l guy, eh?”

The burly chauffeur didn’t take the bait and doggedly maintained his chummy, sunny disposition, providing information with the patter of a well-informed tour-guide, “That used to reside in the foy-yer at Madame Toussauds in Lahndahn! They replaced it wiv a more recent model in the 70s an’ the boss brought the originals back ‘ere when he bought the ahse. This one was done in ’38, just after his first full-length feature: Ollie and Molly Strike Oil!” Herbie moved to the right of the connecting archway and unconsciously adopted an almost identical pose to the grinning effigy on the left, “This way, Mr Calvert. I’ll take you to yer room and you can freshen up ‘n that ‘n we can tawk about the ‘situation’ over dinnah.”

As they walked through a slate-floored lobby lit by muted spotlights, it was more of the same: a veritable Ollie Laphen museum exhibit; an autobiography laid out chronologically -- from glass-cases containing newspaper columns, magazine covers and PR stills from the slapstick days of the 1930s -- to the chin-stroking thesp (a framed headline in The Irish News: ‘Laphen’s Lear is a masterclass!’). The dark, wood-panelled walls were lined with framed photographs of Ollie pressing flesh and embracing some of the greatest movie-makers, movers-and-shakers of the past 60 years: FDR, Bogart, Monroe, Gable, Jackie O, Bing, Hope, Groucho, Einstein, Fidel, Vidal, Hitchcock, Wayne, JFK, Johnson, Nixon, Kissinger, Elvis, the Dalai Lama, the Beatles, the Queen of England and various royals – as far as the 20th century is concerned, Ollie is the OED definition of ubiquitous. As they passed through the connecting archway, Malky got quite a jolt - enough to stop him dead in his tracks. Dead being the appropriate word, for in the shadows of the dimly lit reception hall stood a menagerie of dead things ready to attack -- lions, bears, tigers, panthers -- feral, snarling, glassy-eyed, posed in a stance of attack; ugly birds-of-prey hung on wires from the rafters, talons bared, poised to swoop; and to be certain that arachnophobes didn’t feel excluded, there were a few tarantulas strategically attached to various pillars and posts.

Malky gaped and gasped, “Wow! Did Ollie kill all these himself?!”

This time Herbie did seem a wee bit uncomfortable, “Nah, ‘e commissioned ‘em from a taxi-dermist’s in Sarf Africa where they can get you anything...” He sniffed and shook his head, “I ‘ate it too, to tell the troof – I never come frew ‘ere if I can avoid it. It’s the old man’s sense off ooma, see – he likes to lull visi’ors into a false sense of security then - aargh! They get the shock of their lives,” he reached behind a curtain and threw a switch -- the animals’ eyes shone bright red and and roared in their respective voices. “The boss ‘ates animals, see –- he got rid of all the livestock ‘cept for stables when ‘e bought the ahse. ‘E ‘ates ‘orses most of all. ‘E got thrown by a donkey when ‘e was doin’ a cameo in Around the World in Eighty Days in ’55 or ’56 –- ‘e walked orf the set and refused to ‘ave anyfink to do with animals evah again! Animals and kids. If he could get ridda the crows he’d be ‘appy.”

Broo found the menagerie obscene and growled accordingly.

Their attention was briefly diverted by shouting in a room somewhere further in: “... Will you quit naggin’ me – ye’re worse than a feckin wife!”

“NO! I won’t stop til you see sense! If I don’t say it – who will!?! You’re cracking up!! You’re a delusional... egomaniacal narcissist! You’re like Stalin without the people-skills...!”

Herbie quickly ushered his guests into the lobby and closed a connecting door turning the voices into incoherent murmurs, but Malky had heard enough. Herbie’s stoic exterior slipped, he got jittery and muttered something about an ‘Inquisition’ under his breath. Malky was about to ask what he meant when he quickened his step and led the way through another archway that led to a lobby at the foot of a huge white marble staircase cleft with a dark scarlet runner. On the bottom step stood the other waxwork of Ollie dressed as a tramp holding the Oscar statuette for his role as a shady boxing promoter in the movie Knuckledusters. In an alcove in the rear wall to the left of the staircase stood an imposing, but badly-damaged grandfather clock; the glass insets covering the face and pendulum case were smashed, the hour-hand hung limp on the wheel and part of the ornate, intricately hand-carved casing was cracked down one side.

Herbie stood next to his guest, looked up at it and said, “Big f**ker, innit?”

Malky was inclined to agree that it was highly unlikely that such a huge piece of solid timber could be toppled so easily by a man as old and small as Ollie.

The bickering voices were making Herbie very uncomfortable, there was a pained expression on his big, weather-beaten face. As they climbed the staircase, he said, “Look, Mr Calvert... I don’t know ’ow to say this... what I mean to say is.... you might ‘ear certain fings whilst you is ‘ere... and I don’t like ‘avin’ to ask... but we’d be grateful if you would sign, for the want of a better phrase, a gag order.”

Malky shook his head, “Like I said, Herbie, I hate the press as much as ‘oul Ollie, but I don’t feel comfortable signing that sort of thing. Cuz if there is anythin’ iffy goin’ on – I’m not sayin’ there is – but should we detect signs of chicanery or skulduggery in the course of our ‘investigation’ -- like, say, we uncover a plot to get the ol’ bugger certified and bleed him dry or rewrite his will -- a gagging order could severely hinder an official investigation, and, when all’s said and done, I’m on the side of law and order.” He held up his right hand, “But if it makes you feel any better – as far as petty gossip and scandal-mongering is concerned -- my lips are sealed,” he turned, looked down at Broo and added, glumly, “... can’t speak for the dog, though...”

Broo grunted, still too stupefied to take anything in.

In light of such an earnest assurance, Herbie relaxed a little and explained, “Um well, the ‘Inquisition’ I mentioned refers to some recent sackin’s in the last week or two. ‘E’s fired a coupla security guards, the assistant gardener and the young gal who ‘elps out wiv the ‘ahsework on Tuesdays ‘n Fursdays!”

“Why did he sack them?”

“Cos somebody leaked some gossip to an American tabloid ‘n it could only ‘ave come from the staff, so ‘e hadda clear-aht.” Herbie took a deep breath and spoke in a half-whisper, “So you can see how bad it is ‘ere. It’s got to the point where the only people ‘e trusts is me and the ‘ahsekeeper, Mrs Sparkes - and ‘e only trusts ‘er cuz she’s from the village and they believes all this ’aunted ‘ouse bollox.”

Again they were distracted; this time it was the jingle of unbuckled buckles and the stomp of motorcycle-boot-heels on the chequered tiles below, “Uncle Herb! Is it true? He’s sacked Scanlon?!” Kris shouted from the hall, clearly incensed. The three turned and looked down; Herbie maintained eye contact but didn’t answer; his uneasy silence said it all. “He has?! Shit! Where did he go?”

Herbie lowered his head, looked at his shoes and said, “Nobody knows. He packed up ‘n walked aht wivvaht a word ‘n we’ve ‘eard nuffink since.”

The lad stamped his foot and punched his thighs with his fists in a sudden fit of anger and disbelief, pacing back and forth at the bottom of the stairs, as the implications hit him one by one, “This is such bullshit, Uncle Herb -- I was working with Scanlon -- he was helping me with the movie -- what did he do?!”

Herbie’s head dropped, “Look Kris, yer grandpaw’s been ‘avin’ a bit of bovver lately and...”

“And where’s the cat? Don’t tell me he’s fired him too?!”

“He ran away.”

“Huh?! Fey Ray ran away? I not friggin’ surprised! The entire estate is a no go area for anything with more than two legs!” yelled Kris, without realising how odd it sounded, and stomped off in a huff; a few seconds later they heard him shouting at the old man in another room.

“Do ever stop and think: ‘hey, maybe I’m the problem?’ – cuz unless you straighten-out you’re gonna die a very lonely old man...” “Ach, blow it out yer arse, ye ginger shite-hawk...!”

A door slammed and the squabbling voices became muffled and unintelligible again. Herbie put a hand to his brow and groaned to himself, “Kris, son, you couldn't-a picked a worse time to pay us a surprise visit...”

“Who was Scanlon? The butler?” asked Malky.

“No, groundskeeper, but he might as well’ve been,” Herbie replied, unhappily, “’E did all the odd-jobs arahnd the ahse. Lifetime’s service – gone - jus-like-that - phfft! Kris an’ ‘im wuz thick as thieves too. ‘E knew all the stories about this place. Kris used to sit up for hours on end listenin’ to ‘im but Scanlon and the boss never really got along – Scanlon came wiv the ahse, see, just like all the servants – but ‘e wuz a bit of a law onto ‘isself. When we checked, we found ‘irregularities’ in our finances. The boss confronted him, he couldn’t answer, ‘n that was that.”

They reached the second landing and the old retainer ushered them along a long corridor with row-upon-row of sky-blue doors with ornate brass name plates, the panelling in-between bedecked with gold and silver discs, “Were all these recorded by Ollie?” asked Malky, genuinely impressed.

Herbie, pleased to have a diversion, nodded and cheerfully slipped back into tour-guide mode, “Oh, people forget ‘e was a great crooner. In the 50s he recorded loadsa LPs and they wuz big ‘its all ovah the world - not-so-much in the US or Britain - but ‘ere in Ireland ‘n France ‘n’ Germany. Can’t walk dahn the street in Japan. We go over to Tokyo every now-‘n’-then and ‘e records all these TV commercials for ‘em. Liquor, potato chips, candy bars, mostly. ‘Big bucks for a load of ol’ bollox!’ ‘e says.”

“I know how that feels,” muttered Malky, thumbing the cheque in his pocket.

Herbie opened a door with an engraved plate bearing the legend The Wonderland Suite and put the case on an ottoman by the door. The room was weirdly magnificent, in an oversized, child’s playbox type-way. The floor was a chessboard, there were huge cushions in the shape of chess pieces scattered around the floor; the walls were decorated with blow ups of Tenniel’s drawings of Alice in Wonderland characters; an emperor-sized four-poster swathed in white satin sheets patterned with black diamonds; and a large, white tallboy with outsized, bright red knobs and drawers that were shaped to look warped and uneven, like a prop from a kids’ cartoon. “’Ere’s the TV,” he said, opening the doors of a huge white sideboard to reveal a 38” screen, “If you wanna take a walk round before dinnah -– go ‘ead, nowhere’s off limits -– oh, part of the east-wing’s locked-up, but I can get the keys from the safe and take you down later. There’s some PJs ‘n wot-not in the dresser drawer and fresh towels in the en suite. There’s the phone,” he pointed at an ornate, art deco phone, “just dial 9 for an outside line.”

Astonished by his surroundings, Malky could only gaze and nod his head.

Herbie clicked his heels and stood to attention, “There’s plenty of ‘ot-wa’ah if you wanna ‘ave a showah and a shave or wot-evah. Dinnah will be served at 8pm sharp (it was presently 5:50pm), I’ll bang the gong. In the meantime, make yerself at ‘ome 'n I’ll see you at 8,” said Herbie, brightly, closing the door behind him.

Malky sat down on the edge of the bed and examined a brass plated console next to the headboard; he pressed the first button: the curtains closed; he pressed the second: the curtains opened; he pressed a third and the lights either side of the bed came on; he pressed the fourth and the drape across the canopy over the bed rolled back to reveal a full-size, horizontal mirror. “Bit sordid for a room that looks like a nursery,” Malky opined, flopping down and looking up at his reflection, “God, I’m getting old. Remind me to close that curtain before I go to bed – if I wake up and see meself in the morning I’m likely to scare meself to death.” He kicked off his shoes and writhed in the welcoming sea of satiny-softness, like a Labrador pup in an unfurled toilet roll, “Oh, I just wanna sleeeeep... wake me up in September when the baby’s born...”

Broo growled quietly, that’s right, you have a nice relaxing catnap while your tiny, put-upon wife labours over a hot engine just so that she can get that wretched old banger of a van back on the road in order to buy provisions and decorating materials to build a nest for you and your unborn progeny.

Malky sat up, “Hmm. maybe I should ring her. This is our first night apart since we moved in together. I’d better give her a progress report.” He rolled over, picked up the art-deco phone and called the inn.

“Well, what’s Ollie’s house like?! Is it dead grand or what? I wanna know everything!”

He gave her a detailed description of the house so far, right up to and including the mirror in the canopy over the bed, “... the stories are true, though -- Jolly Ollie is one grouchy oul’ shite. I don’t think I’ve ever met such an obnoxious old git in all me life.” he said, shaking his head. “Zindy, what the hell am I doing here? This isn't me.”

Zindy had obviously been thinking about it too, “Listen luvver, this ain’t a justification or an excuse, but both of us know that there’s certain things we can’t explain away with logic. I mean, look what ‘appened with Barry McKee? Just put yer Sherlock hat on and look at it from a detective’s perspective; treat it as a sorta murder-mystery weekend. What about Broo? He should be able to let you know if there’s anything spooky about the place?”

“I dunno, he seems a bit drowsy, like he’s half-asleep,” said Malky, giving the old dog a cursory glance.

Of course I’m sluggish, you oaf -- this place is sucking the life out of me! Can’t you tell?!

But the semi-telepathic link remained infuriatingly out of order, “It was a long drive. He’s probably knackered.” Then, much to Broo’s chagrin, they forgot about him and exchanged love yous, miss yous and take cares before hanging up.

“Have you noticed somethin’?” said Malky, rhetorically, going to the en-suite and turning on the light; he looked around, “Hmmm,” he opened the bathroom cabinet: the mirror was on the inside of the door. “Whilst me ‘n Zindy were talking, it suddenly occurred to me -– there isn't a mirror to be seen around the house -- even the one above this bed is covered by a curtain.” Malky nodded, “It’s ironic, isn't it: the big Alice in Wonderland freak who doesn’t have Looking Glass –- an egotist who treats you to a personalised autobiographical stroll through his glory days but doesn’t like to look at his own reflection? I find that somewhat strange...”

5 minutes ago: Zindy put the receiver back in its cradle, sat back and winced, “Settle down, kiddo,” she said, patting the elongated face of Jimi Hendrix stretched across her bump, “I still have a gearbox to sort out before we ‘ave a nice bath ‘n go to bed.” She sat at the kitchen table, radio tuned to a classic rock station (Malky listened to nothing but BBC Radio 4) and sang along to Deep Purple’s Child in Time, wailing like a banshee as she screwed and unscrewed oily nuts and rusty bolts: très cathartic. She felt a little guilty, but surely she was entitled to a night on her own. She looked down at the bump: I mean the two of us. I’ll never be alone again

Zara ‘Zindy’ Lindsay, you see, was an accident; everybody told her so.

Ever since she could understand rudimentary English, her aunts and her mother would mention it regularly - usually after something burned down or yet another little boy’s mother had arrived at the door complaining that she was demanding dinner-money with menaces. When she was old enough to understand the mechanics of human reproduction (hard not to when you live on a farm), they’d tell her she was the result of a drunken one-night-stand with a Spanish scout master (visiting Burnley on an exchange-visit) that no one had seen or heard from since. Fortunately for Dory, the Lindsays were/are a well-to-do family with links to the cotton trade that go as far back as the 17th century, so they had the wealth and power to cover it up. After a secret birth, mother Dory and baby Zara were spirited away to a remote farmhouse in the heart of the Lancashire countryside under the care of a pair of huge, lumbering maiden-aunts. Unlike the petite and genteel Dory, Maggie and Lottie were tall, mannish land-girls with no time for molly-coddles and sentimentality -- what’s more they didn’t care what their niece got up to so long as she didn’t burn the place down or leave a gate open (she could drive a tractor by the age of 6). When she was 7, Dory married and moved out, but Zindy didn’t like her new stepdad and he didn’t like her (a snooty, middle-aged bank manager who read the FT and went to Mass twice a week). She preferred Dory’s long-term boyfriend Tam Horsham who drove the Mother’s Pride bread van; but he was too common, apparently, “He eats his dinner off a tray and smokes in the bath!” said Dory, tartly, when asked if Zindy should start calling him dad. So, after numerous tantrums, she was allowed to stay at the farm and enjoy the relative freedom of life with the ‘Looney Lindsay Sisters’ (as the locals called them). Then puberty hit, so did a lifelong passion: motorbikes. She found a broken down old ‘39 Triumph Tiger in the barn and with some help from Lottie (“It belonged to an old boyfriend who left it here in ’42 when he went to war... but he never came back for it so I assumed the worst.”) she cleaned it up and replaced the missing parts. It took 8 months of scouring scrapyards and hard labour, but she managed to restore it to its former glory. She was in the Gazette! ‘Tearaway Tomboy Triumphs!!’ Consequently, she met dozens of motorcycle enthusiasts and a lot of them just happened to be Hell’s Angels. That’s when she first got that weakness in her knees. Big, fat, hairy men. Her pals were aghast. It could've been a father-daddy complex or just a weird perversion, but she could get enough of grizzled, over-weight geezers most girls would cross the road to avoid.

In spite of her aggressive side, she was quite the artist and spent hours quietly painting and sketching the scenery behind her great-aunts’ farm. According to her second year teacher in her annual report (Zindy refused to go to boarding school and went to the local comprehensive): ‘She has shown a flair for art and is very intelligent – when she wants to work, which isn't often ... for the most part she is headstrong, opinionated, brusque and quick to temper; a girl who sees life as a big adventure ... it may be a symptom of her diminutive stature that she feels she has to be brash and contrary, but if she continues in this fashion she may face expulsion....’

Zindy just couldn't be tamed. She was up before the magistrate on a regular basis, mostly for driving without a licence or brawling with boys twice her size. On her 18th she stood on a table in the Flat Iron pub in front of her closest friends and allies and vowed never to settle down to a life of domesticity, to forsake motherhood and be a free spirit for the rest of her life. Three weeks later, she moved in with a recently divorced woodwork teacher 17 years her senior. He proposed (‘wanna shack-up?’) and she couldn't say no. So began her lifelong ‘thing’ for older men – the daddy syndrome, probably.

The cohabitation with the woodwork teacher was as passionate as it was incendiary – he turned out to be a secret drinker – there were vodka bottles hidden all over the flat; she tried to keep up for a while, but all they did was fight. Things came to a head with the couple spending a night in the cells of Bottle Street nick. The desk sergeant told her he was a lost cause – “He’s dried-out 3 times -– and he’s still the same mess he was when I first started in here 15 years ago! My advice lady – run as fast as them wee legs can take ya – find a fit young man with a good job!” She took this advice to heart, and a in a few months she met a recently widowed sculptor at a Henry Moore exhibition –- this time 40 years her senior; tall, with long grey hair who dressed like Tom Wolfe -– and got swept up in a whirlwind romance. ‘Whirlwind’ in the sense that the trail of destruction they left behind: various foodstuffs were hurled, crockery was smashed, household utensils took flight and embedded themselves in walls. Zindy loved it. She loved him. Alas, his kids, two of which were older than her, did not approve and weren’t shy about letting her know. It was grist for Zindy’s mill; it only strengthened her resolve. She thrived in adversity; she lived to Fight the Good Fight and persevered with the relationship without a thought for the toll it was taking on the poor man’s heart. Of course, like most Spring/Winter love affairs it ended with a lonely vigil in a draughty hospital corridor listening to the impassive beep of medical machinery whilst his own flesh & blood hold his hand as he drifts over. Previously estranged siblings now united in their grief against a common enemy: “The stupid bitch is still sitting out in t’corridor.” “She’s only after ‘is money.” “She looks about 9, makes you wonder...?” She heard every word, approached and told them in no uncertain terms she didn’t want or need his money – all she wanted was to organise the funeral in accordance with his last wishes. They told her his last wishes were enshrined in his last will & testament, not word of mouth, and while they were on the subject, he hadn't left her anything. They told her he was never done talking trash about her behind her back, telling them how he didn’t trust her; that she was a little gold-digger. Meanwhile he was telling Zindy how ungrateful and spiteful his children were and how they’d never done a day’s work in their lives! She had to stand there and listen as they sneered and talked about the stranger with whom she’d spent the last 2 years. It turned out he was a compulsive liar. His wives were all basket-cases by the time he’d finished messing with their minds. All told, the heart condition came as a result of the stress of numerous love affairs and having to remember what lie he told to whom.

Zindy swore to herself that she’d never have anything to do with men ever again! She cut her hair short, dyed it blue and foreswore make-up, skirts and blouses, bought a motorbike and toured Europe with a chapter of Hell’s Angels who treated her like one of the boys. The vow was broken 5 years later when she accompanied her new pals to the Isle of Man for the TT and met a biker from Wicklow. Robert ‘Raspo’ Canning was a built like a brick-shithouse with a long plaited (usually purple, sometimes blue) beard and intense stare (hence the moniker; Raspo: short for Rasputin). He was a nightmare in a studded leather jacket but Zindy was besotted with him. Despite his hulking size, expanding waistline and intimidating manner, he was smarter than the average bear. He read science fiction and knew a lot about astronomy. They used to ride up to Donegal, sit on the cliffs and he would teach her the consolations. She was hooked.

While she was there, one of her great-aunts died and Raspo took her back to Salford for the funeral. She inherited £30,000. Then Barry McKee, one of the gang of bikers from Brodir, happened to mention that his father was selling a seaside pub and she was very interested. She could run a business - she used to do the sculptor’s book-keeping and worked behind a bar in Germany for a few weeks; plus, Brodir might’ve been a rundown town, but it was a Mecca for bikers from all over Europe -- trade would be brisk –- she couldn't see what could possibly go wrong!

But you don’t know anybody until you live with them for a while.

At first, Raspo enjoyed playing host and worked behind the bar, but he had other business interests and that was OK – she preferred running things on her own – it was her name on the licence, her responsibility. She never asked about his business, she didn’t want to know, but she assumed he was a small time dealer: grass and tabs. Then one day he said, “Oh Zin, I’m off to Dublin to do bouncer for a boxin’ match at the National Stadium!” he kissed her goodbye, got on his trusty Triumph and off he went to bounce in Dublin. She found out later that he was off to collect a sizeable debt owed to him for a delivery of coke. When the debtor wasn't forthcoming, Raspo lost his temper and took it out of his hide with a crowbar. This information came courtesy of DS Phil Somerville, who also informed her that her beloved Raspo wasn't just peddling grass, he was dealing in all the a-listed narcotics, not to mention a little sideline in video piracy. She had to sit and listen while Somerville listed her lover’s shady dealings with various Dublin-based organised crime syndicates and proscribed terrorist militias when he tried to coerce her into turning tout and aid in the apprehension Raspo’s subordinates/associates/friends etc. She flatly refused. Raspo was sent down for 7 years, but 8 months later, to shave a few years off his sentence, he did what she refused to do: he shopped most of his former associates including some regulars, and - boom – the bulk of her clientele has declared her persona non grata and boycotted the inn. Somerville told her it was her own fault; she knew what Raspo was and chose to ignore it. He was right. A psychologist would say that it was indicative of a subconscious desire not to commit to a long-term relationship... Whatever, she was alone again, naturally.

Then along came Malky and his spooky three-legged German shepherd and their notorious pursuit of the evil Barry McKee. It was a thrill-a-minute-life-or-death roller coaster ride but it nearly killed them. She took a bullet to the shoulder; Malky had a heart attack and almost bled to death (the irony: Somerville saved Malky’s life after destroying hers). And here she was, back in another hospital corridor listening to bleeping machines. Just when she thought history was repeating itself, his old broken heart kept beating, “and it’s been beating for you ever since,” he said, in an uncharacteristic show of mawkish affection.

Good ol’ Malky. He made her laugh. He was a good man and he made her feel good. They had conversations that lasted all night. OK, so he has a psychic three-legged dog who complains about the noise when I play me records, but that only makes it more fun. To put it simply, life was good. She was painting again; he’d made her a studio in the attic. (He never told what he was doing up there and she didn’t ask; he just hammered and sawed and cursed whilst she went about her business. In the end he’d put a ribbon across the door for the grand unveiling. He’d widened the skylight to let in more light and built a little podium for her still-life subjects. She accepted the keys like a gushing thesp before bursting into real tears. And although , he was hard work at times - he was sometimes taciturn and prone to moodiness – he was a good, kind man.

Then, wonder-of-wonders, she gets pregnant and her instinct, much to her surprise, is to keep it. Malky acted as if he wasn't overly keen, but she knew that deep-down he was delighted; he just felt unworthy and old.

And here we are. 2 years later and things couldn't be better. We’re broke but we ain't bust. We’re just about keepin’ our heads above water...

She went to the bar and looked out of the big window at the dirty, litter laden, windswept promenade. The council were meeting on Thursday; word on the wind had it that property developers were looking at the town with a view to redevelopment, so things were looking up. That’s good, ain't it? Lots of meetings with property developers and councilmen: all very ‘establishment’.

So 22 years later, what would she say to the silly girl standing on the table telling the world she’ll be a wild-child forever? Is she where she wants to be, where she has to be, or where she needs to be...?

Sammy couldn't read her mind but felt her doubts as if they were his own. It must be something to do with Malky. He hoped that it wasn't anything serious. Malky had grown on him. The old dog was a godsend, somebody to talk to who can see you, hear you... not that he ever feckin’ listens! But what if the auld dog died? Sammy shuddered at the thought: There would be no watching TV until 4 in the morning for a start. It was tough being a ghost. And although he knew Zindy couldn't see him, he still felt a little self-conscious about his appearance; as the old dog says: “the bloody-bullet-hole-ridden-apron makes you look like a psychopath (ghosts are stuck with what they wore when they died -- the last image The Light captures before their Soul passes), so he was discreet. He sat on the bin in the dark corner by the stove and watched from what he considered to be a reasonable distance. He’d been a bachelor all his life, he’d never met a woman he could live with, but Zindy was closest thing he’d ever had to a daughter – this, despite the fact that she was a headstrong, blue-haired English girl who dressed like a boy and swore like a docker. When she bought the inn, he thought she’d only last a few weeks, and yet, thank God, here we are.

There were very few advantages in existing between Worlds, besides the walking through walls and not having to eat or sleep or all that malarkey, his senses were heightened and attuned to the Oneness of All Living Things (well, that’s how the dog put it) –- which meant he was able to see the little glow in Zindy’s belly. It was nothing more than an amber glimmer throbbing with the minute pulsebeat of a budding Soul, but it radiated an energy that brought a ripple of warmth to his Essence. Sometimes, when she was sleeping he’d stand close – not too close – and look into her womb. Oh, but it was a joyous sight to behold, “Look at the miracle begin again,” he whispered, to no one in particular.

Zindy climbed up onto the draining board to close the window above the sink -– Sammy was jumping up and down, pulling at his silver beard, “Are ye mad woman?! Get down o’ that w’ ye!” Thankfully she performed the exercise without incident, but he still hadn't settled; as she went about preparing her evening meal, he paced the floor behind her, fussing, wagging his finger, “Look at that floor! There’s engine oil down there! Ye’ll slip ‘n’ go on yer hoop! You’d better buck-up yer ideas, lady – that’s a chile in there – not a bag o’ chips!”

“Oh, I’d love a bag o’ chips,” she said, apropos of nothing.

Sammy stood by the cooker as she toiled over the sizzling pan and talked to her unborn baby, “Your silly daddy doesn’t know what to do with himself. He hates all this spooky stuff... He hates anything that brings the world to his door -- God knows what he’ll be like when the inn’s open for business...” Whether she was consoling a restless foetus or trying to convince herself, she didn’t know. She stopped stirring and stared as she contemplated her certain future.

The old ghost saw the doubt in her eyes and fought Malky’s case from his corner, “He’s a decent sort who won’t let you down –- you have to grow up sometime, missy! Stop moonin’ about and think like a mammy!”

No, let’s make no bones about, she was getting bored. It isn't good when life gets too predictable, when routine becomes rut. She needn't worry; things were about to get very strange indeed...

St Cedric’s Institution for the Criminally Insane (SCICI): Rossington watched the sundown from his office window, a very large brandy in one hand, a cigarette in the other. It had been a bad day. The news from the board had been direct with no room for interpretation. His time had run out. The victims’ families’ petitions and writing campaigns had fulfilled their purpose, the pressure to do something had forced their hand. He had to give up Barry McKee to the authorities so an independent assessment of his condition could be made. He’d explored every legal avenue to keep him at SCICI, but there was nothing more he could do. The mob has spoken.

He was angry and frustrated, but mostly angry. He finished his brandy, carelessly stubbed out the cigarette, left his office and made for the sick bay in the high security wing. He walked quickly and purposely, collected the swipe cards from the nurses’ station and marched on, swiping through the sophisticated system of doors, along the corridors and across the walkway that led to the security ward and the room of SCICI’s most infamous inmate. Then, just as he swiped the lock, he had a moment of inspiration. He turned and walked to the staff toilet at the end of the corridor, to the mirror above the wash-hand basin; using his penknife to unscrew the frame, he carefully prised the hexagonal glass from the wall, put it under his arm and took it to McKee’s room.

“Hello, Barry,” he said, quietly closing the door behind him and turning on the lights. The sudden blaze of brightness didn’t faze McKee. Hooked up to the machines that kept him alive, long haired and bearded, he continued to stare unblinkingly at the ceiling, like a stricken biblical prophet transfixed by a vision of hell.

“I must apologise, it’s been quite a while since I visited. I’ve been busy with other patients and projects, not to mention running this establishment, you know how it is. I’ve kept abreast of your progress, though... what there is of it.” Rossington slowly crossed the floor, talking in a casual manner as he approached the bed, “Anyway, I’ll get straight to the point: I’ve received some bad news regarding your case and I thought you should to be the first to hear it.” He sat in the chair by the bed and put the mirror on his lap, “They've decided to take you off my hands, Barry. They say I’ve had enough time to prove you’re worth keeping alive. They say it would be mercy: ‘it’s cruelty not to let nature take its course’. No doubt they’re under pressure from the families of the victims, not to mention that bastard Somerville. Whatever, you’re doomed, and there’s nothing I can do to save you.”

As always, McKee remained silent and seemingly insensible.

“You've shown no significant progress since that business with Niamh and Oona 2 years ago.” He tore off the latest print-out from the EEG and indicated the flat lines across the graph, “See, nothing like the flurry of activity we recorded during those instances in 1989. Why’s that, eh?” He scrunched the page into a ball and threw it into the corner. “It all stopped when I took away the mirrors and had you moved you to this room, didn’t it? Niamh and Oona lost their connection and have exhibited no psychic abilities since. It’s no coincidence, is it, Barry?”

He stood up and held the mirror over McKee’s face, “I know you use mirrors to reach out other telepaths and psychics,” he said, looking deep into McKee’s unseeing eyes, “so I’m having them re-installed, and you can do whatever is you do. Good or evil, I don’t care anymore. I just need results, Barry. I need something to show for my work. If not, I’ll hand you over to the authorities and they’ll perform what will be, for all intents and purposes, a public execution...”

To Be Continued Next Month...

#Spindlefreck #fantasy #witchcraft #witches #psychics #irish fiction #demon #ghosts #mysticism #mystics #fantasy fiction

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krustywhore · 6 years

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things you say that make my heart go wild (ch. 1)

ask and you shall receive ;) since it seems like people want me to post my newsies shit on here! this is a sprace-centric newsies fic that is basically just a compilation of mini-fics and eventually one-shots based on sentence proompts so...here’s the first part and you can read it on ao3 here !

chapter 1 - “none of this is your fault”

Race was sitting on the steps of the Brooklyn boy's apartment building fiddling with about half a cigar between his fingers. His hat was pulled on tighter than usual, forcing his blonde curls to cover more of his face as he looked down. His knees were scraped up with holes in his trousers and blood just seeping through the holes. His exposed arms were covered in bruises and Spot stopped dead in his tracks the moment he saw him. Sure, they had been best friends since their selling days together when they were kids, but it had been ages since something like this had happened. After a while, Race got used to getting into scruffs with locals, being from Manhattan and all, but in the few years since they stopped selling, he hadn't had a problem. He had found a small apartment just on the other side of the bridge and Spot was never more than five minutes away to protect him. In a completely platonic way of course, yep, nothing more than that.

So to see the boy Spot had spent years trying to keep out of harms way, sitting beaten and bloodied on his doorstep, Spot had plenty of pent up worry to let out.

"Tony, what the hell happened t'ya?" He practically slid down in front of him and he kneeled on the pavement, taking in the boy's injuries. Every possible explanation was running through his head as to what could have possibly happened, but Race just sat there, not moving and not saying anything. "Antonio, c'mon, please say somethin'."

Race just sniffled, rubbing the back of his hand against his eyes as Spot felt his breath hitch in his throat. He took the boy's shaking hands in his own, lifting Race's chin delicately as he saw the real reason why his hat was pulled so far down his face.

"Shit, Racer, who did this?" He was trying so hard not to yell, he really was, but someone hurt his boy. Yeah, so he fucking loved him, so what? It wasn't like he'd ever tell anyone about it. He just couldn't imagine anyone having any reason to want to hurt him, especially since he wasn't selling papes anymore. Nowadays he just stayed back at his apartment working on recipes or filling his kitchen with way more food than he could ever eat himself.

"Jus' some guys that jumped me 'n this bar downtown," Race mumbled, leaning his head into Spot's hand that gently cupped his cheek. "It's nothin' bad really, I jus' didn't feel like goin' home alone again s'all."

Spot felt his heart wrench at the thought of Race sitting alone in his bathroom, cleaning up all his cuts and bruises in silence with no-one there to take care of him. But instead he went to him.

"Hey, hey it's okay. It's okay Tony, jus' come wit' me, we'll get ya' all cleaned up."

He held the boy's arm as he helped him to his feet, wary of how well me might be able to stand. Race wobbled a little, but shook his head the moment Spot stopped moving.

" 'm fine Spotty, jus' been sitting 'ere a while is all," Race spoke, not helping Spot's racing heartbeat much, but helping enough for him to get the boy upstairs. The moment they walked into Spot's apartment, Race finally felt safe. So maybe he hadn't told Spot the whole story, but he would, he always did. Besides, it always seemed like Spot was the best one to talk to. He never judged, never prodded, and most of all, never made him feel guilty if he didn't want to talk. Race loved him for that. For a lot of reasons actually, but he'd never tell.

Spot carefully walked the boy over to the sofa, helping him lay down before wrapping him in the blanket he knew Race loved to borrow when he came over, and, purely out of what felt natural, placed a quick kiss on his forehead. He walked off into the kitchen to start a pot of coffee and didn't look back.

Race could feel the heat rising to his cheeks like a wildfire as he curled the blanket tighter around him and smiled softly.

Spot barely even realized what he had done before he reached the kitchen and suddenly his face was burning. He just did that. He just kissed Race. He just kissed the one and only Antonio Higgins and didn't get slapped in the face for doing it. Sure, it was just on the forehead, but fuck he probably knows now.

So Spot took a shaky breath and pulled out two mugs from his cupboard. He knew which one was Race's favorite, he always used the same one every time he stayed over. It felt somewhat strange to be the one making Race a cup of coffee, seeing as the other was always the first one up, and therefore, always the one making coffee. Two mugs, one yellow one blue, one with sugar and the other black, and one just warm with the other scalding hot. Seventeen cautious steps that Spot took back into the living room as he handed Race his cup of coffee. The other boy curled up his legs to his chest, making space for Spot to sit down.

He sat, staring lovingly at the boy beside him and he guided Race's legs to stretch across his lap, rubbing soft circles into his thigh.

"Thanks," Race mumbled quietly, a casual smile on his face. Spot beamed back at him.

" 'Course," he said back with a smile. "But I just have to ask, Tony."

The second those words left his mouth Spot saw Race's smile fall.

"No, no, no, it's okay, yous' don't gotta' talk about anythin' you don't wanna." Race nodded, keeping his head down.

"I know," he spoke, his voice still small. This wasn't the Race he knew and that was the only thing driving Spot to push further. "But yous' deserve to know."

Spot felt a slight lightness in his chest as he continued. Race trusted him. He was scared and uncomfortable, but he trusted him.

"Last night I went out wit' a few a' the 'Hattan boys to this new bar that opened a few blocks down from the old lodgin' house. Jack n' I had been plannin' to meet up wit' some'a the boys still sellin' over there so a few of us all went down last night. It was a gay bar, Spotty," he said, his voice trembling just retelling it. Spot took one of his hands, holding it delicately as he began to rub into his hand the same way he did to his legs. "I didn't think it'd be much of a' problem, but there were these guys."

Tears fell from the corners of his bright blue eyes, drowning his freckled cheeks and breaking Spot's heart with each one that fell.

"We jus' wanted ta' celebrate 'cause it was Jack 'n Crutchie's annivers'ry, but these guys, they-they jus' started goin' after 'em and pickin' a fight. I-I couldn't let 'em just do that, Sean! I-I stepped in 'nd tried to protect 'em, but this big guy, he-he just soaked me with no hesitation! I didn't even know what happened 'cause I jus' blacked out after a coupl'a punches," he choked out, sobbing through every word. "Then I jus' woke up lookin' like this in the alley out back behind the bar. Now that I think 'bout it, I's not even sure it was last night."

With that, Spot grabbed both of their coffee mugs, placing them on the table beside him and threw his arms around the boy. His lanky frame was shaking violently and spot just pulled him into his lap. They stayed like that for ages, Spot trying to slow the other's breathing and just holding him tightly.

"Hey, hey, it's okay Tony, just breathe, you're okay," Spot murmured into the boy's ear, pressing soft kisses into his hair and cheeks.

"'m sorry," Race mumbled, the most painful sadness in his voice as he buried his face into Spot's chest.

"Antonio Higgins, I promise you, none of this is your fault. Got it? None of it. You are absolutely incredible, Tony. Not many guys would'a stood up to a group a' guys like that jus' to protect their friends like that."

Race smiled a bit at that. Spot couldn't help but admit it was nice to see his smile. God, how he loved that smile. His crooked grin and magically straight teeth. The way he somehow had two dimples on each side when he grinned real big. That smile was worth everything to Spot Conlon and he'd say or do anything to see it.

So he took a chance, feeling his heart beating out of his chest, and pressed their foreheads together. He could feel Race's breath hitch against his lips as their faces somehow got closer and closer with every breath.

"Stop me if this isn't okay," he whispered, probably less that an inch from the other boy's face.

Letting his eyes close on instinct, Spot softly pressed his lips to Race's trembling ones, feeling the boy's smile threatening to break the kiss. He almost couldn't believe his luck. Someway, somehow, the most beautiful boy to ever set foot in New York was kissing him back and smiling so wide he almost couldn't believe someone could be that happy. But he was, and Spot would be lying if he said he wasn't too.

"Fuck, Sean I' been waitin' for you to do that since the day I first saw you," Race mumbled against Spot's lips, breaking their kiss for only a moment. They both couldn't mask their smiles any longer. "I can't believe this is happenin', holy shit."

And with that breathy laughter, the boy threw his arms around the shorter of the two, eternally grateful for having someone like him in his life. Someone to hold when the days were shitty, someone to visit when you just need something to make you smile, or someone always ready with a joke when you desperately need to laugh. Sean Conlon had been all of those things for him for longer than he could remember, but now he was something else.

Now he was someone to tell him he was beautiful even with bruises across his face and dark circles under his eyes. Now he was someone to make you forget there were people out there who abandoned you because now there's one person who will never let you go. And most importantly, now he had some one to say this.

"I love you so much," Spot whispered, the pure, unfiltered happiness shining through his voice as he pressed their lips together once more. Race wanted to cry. He wanted to curl up into a ball and cry with the most overwhelming joy he'd ever experienced because it had been years since he'd heard someone say that to him. Years since someone loved him enough to say it out loud.

But he didn't. That would be reserved for later when his brain actually fully processed everything that had happened.

"Oh my god, I love you too. So, so much."

And that was that. They didn't move for a little while, both just enjoying each other's presence for a while before Spot remembered something that, awkwardly, they had both completely forgotten.

"Fuck, okay we gotta' go get you all cleaned up, love." The nervous awkwardness that filled his voice was so not-Spot Conlon that it almost made Race laugh out loud but he simply nodded and allowed his new boyfriend? to lead him to the bathroom to wash up. They were doing fine so far, and who knows, maybe Race'll go back to that bar one day and find those guys again, except maybe this time he'll be able to tell them that apparently beating the shit out of people doesn't make you any less-gay, in fact, it actually just gets you a boyfriend.

#newsies #sprace #jackcrutchie #mini-fic #my writing

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eris0330 · 7 years

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Whalien 52 - Part 9

☽M. List☾ ; 1 // 2 // 3 // 4 // 5 // 6 // 7 // 8 // 9 // 10 // 11 [END]

After the last message, you noticed the screen disappear as it got replaced by another incoming call. Your hands shaking and unknowingly unprepared, to whoever this could be, made it frighten of what could happen.

“Hell-“ Coughing to correct yourself, deciding to flee outside, where no one could possibly eardrop. Taking in another deep breath, you tried your hardest to deepen your voice as much as possible.

“Sorry. Hello?”

“Yes, is this Jungkook?” A delicate sweet voice was speaking to your ear, making your cheeks flushed. She sounded older with a formal voice, yet an innocent hue. You couldn’t recognise it, to whoever it could belong, and the urge of wanting to know build in the bottom of your stomach.

“Yes, this is Jungkook” You noticed your voice cracked along the chords, making your legs shake in fear. What if she would find out? Will Jungkook be in trouble? Her tiny giggles and background noises of other females, made you feel intimidated. As far as you knew, he would never have such a crackly and light puberty voice as yours, trying to deepen it.

“It’s Nayeon from Twice, we spoke the other day at the music bank?”

“Erhm… yeah…” Trying to sound convincing was hard enough, but imagining Jungkook stand beside this woman made you feel uneasy. He never told about another idol, but you knew, you had no rights of demanding to know about her. Jungkook was a free man, and being jealous of what he is doing, wasn’t fair.

“We talked about doing a collab together, and I thought we could meet up sometime?” You wondered if she was as pretty, as she sounded and what their conversation was like. Neither, when you mentioned it, he didn’t seem like he could put a finger on the person. Trying to devour the evil feeling abrupt in your body, you tried collecting your mind to what was most important.

“Erhm.. okay… but I’m not in Korea right now”

“When will you be?” Panicking with sweat drops, you had no idea when he would exactly be home. He never mentioned a date, and neither did you find courage to try to memorise the first info about it.

“I-I don-“

“Do you have a cold? You sound a bit weird” It felt like an interrogation. Like a hamster in a running wheel, unable to stop it.

“Y-Yea! I have a cold. Our concerts made it sound a bit off. Too much singing I guess”

“That doesn’t sound good. Will you be okay? Should I come over now?”

“N-NO! Don’t, I’ll be fine. You know, call up my manager. He knows when my schedule is done and all that stuff. GOTTA GO BYE!”

Facepalming off the grit, you panicked. The feeling of exposure and lies within your palms, was taking away your energy like nothing. Something made you feel relieved it didn’t get worse, but you were annoyed how such a random girl, could make you feel aware of your position. You were nothing.

Laughing at your own conversation, it felt alright at the thought of Jungkook was only a call away. He was there to take away your stress, as if he gave you a magical drink. Unaware, that whatever he said, made you blush of embarrassment, and excitement. You wished to know who the girl was, but telling Jungkook would only put fire to the fuel.

“Hey… Hani, what do you know about Twice’s Nayeon?” Blurting out a question while cleaning the floor in the old art supply shop, your co-worker didn’t seem it as a surprise. In fact, Hani was your favourite partner in work making everything seem more hilarious than it was. The both of you continued to work in the shop, despite the low cash of monthly pay offs and less costumers. It felt like a small family, meeting every day to new opportunities.

“Nayeon? I think they trended not too long ago and was on 1’st for a good amount of time and then went down to 2nd. Their music is incredible, and they only just debuted about two years ago. Nayeon is the lead singer, I believe. Incredibly cute”

Incredibly cute. Went like a loop inside your mind like a wild roller coaster, at the thought of the beauty besides the beast. The feel of something tugging at your chest, to pull your loosened body closer to the cold floor, felt irresistible.

“Why do you ask?” Held together as if god didn’t let you slip away, Hani turned her way to lean against the woodened counter to view your darkened expression change. Pondering along the question, you couldn’t get yourself to tell her about Jungkook. The thought of her not believing you, or even worse, tried to do something about it, made your bones crack. There was multiple of scenarios of what could happen, if anyone found out you had a ‘deep’ connection with a popular idol, or rather, had his personal belongings right in your pocket. The risk of harassment and scandals made your fingers shake, as you tried to pull your most convenient smile with an innocent shrug.

“Nothing special. I saw a poster of them in the hallways at college”

“Speaking of college. Did you get to socialise?” Hani poured up another cup of coffee, considering if sugar should help the bitterness to battle.

“I met someone named Jooheyon, but we didn’t get to talk a lot.”

“Why not?”

“Lunch break” You lied again, feeling the regret fall upon your shoulders. You hated lying to Hani, because you both enjoyed the honesty and trust lingering in the relationship.

“Is he hot?” Hani is like usual, wondering if the guys you meet is good looking. Being single together and socially awkward, she just wishes to meet the right one through you. If just, she knew you had someone that might fit her perfectly.

“He is, I think. I can ask him to come here one day?”

“That would be awesome! Boss is considering your idea about the local art display idea, maybe Jooheyon can get to show his off?” Boss was mainly just an old lady, who was still stuck in the past. She was this ordinary traditional lady with a pure heart of gold, as if she was your grandmother. The wrinkles and crooked back, seemed like she wouldn’t last for long. Considering you and Hani as her own children, she had wished for you both to take over. Despite the fear of her leaving the earth, she was stubborn and demanding. That’s why, you both loved to call her ‘Boss’.

“I’ll ask him again when I meet him”

“Also, maybe tell him you got a good looking single friend in the shop” Wiggling her eyebrows suggestively, you both fell into a fit of laughter. Throwing her a thumb up, you took the request with open arms.

You don’t remember how long you have been looking at the multiple of videos floating around with Twice, and interactions with BTS. Nayeon was multi-talented, and more of all, incredibly beautiful. You could imagine that any man would fall for her outgoing looks and personality in an instant, which only made the urge in the bottom of your stomach, grow heavier. She has texted you for, you don’t know how many times the last days after your latest phone call. Questions about the Collab, how you were doing, or actually, how Jungkook was doing. A lie after another, you wished everything to end. There wasn’t a lot to answer, so most of her messages was unanswered or avoided. Apparently, she enjoyed Jungkook’s company and vocals, that she wished to know more in small baby steps. Jungkook would have loved her if he talked to her more. Another hit in the stomach, making your hand clench around the mouse clicker, as you felt the phone vibrate on the table.

“About time you called me back, slow poke” You answered into the mic, listening to an enjoyable chuckle as responds.

“Excuse you, but concerts and rest took a little longer than expected. Anyways, anything new with Nayeon?”

“No, get a lot of rest, you need it. And, not really. Despite, the fact she constantly texts you. Do you have ANY idea how hard it is, to keep up a conversation, when you haven’t physically been there to overview of whatever conversation went on?” You spoke exhausted, leaning against the creaky chair, as Jungkook went to crash on the bed.

“You sound jealous?” Amused to poke the bear, Jungkook wished to hear more.

“Oh yeah, I’m totally jealous of not being able to talk to you, or join you in this conversation talking about recent comebacks.”

“So, you are jealous?” There was a tiny light in his voice, hearing his mouth turning to a smile, asking once again about it. It made you slightly satisfied, but couldn’t keep up the tone.

“It’s called sarcasm, Jungkook. Out of all people, you should be the first one to detect it”

“Pfft I totally knew that” His small laughter, assured you he didn’t. Taking the notebook beside your computer, you held a pen getting ready to note every detail.

“Tell me everything about the meeting with Nayeon. I should be ready, if she continues like this. I might get out on a wild track, if I don’t know ANYTHING.” Jungkook tried to remember every word, and even every movement. Confused and dazed, parts of his story were either full of guesses or expectations. Your hand cramped along the way, as the deep hole in your heart grew hollow and heavier. There was something about the fact they had met, but you haven’t. Maybe Jungkook was right, you were jealous. But it wasn’t something, you couldn’t control. You didn’t feel like having a privilege, to keep him for yourself. Even if you wished for it. Biting down the sorrow and hurtful imaginations of being replaced, filled your mind more than the project you were supposed to work on.

“Enough about Nayeon. How was college?” Throwing the pen away to see it roll towards the ground, you firmly watched it do so.

“Alright. Haven’t been able to concentrate, since Nayeon constantly texts or calls me” You excused, moving towards the bed to comfort your back.

“I’m sorry, I hope it’s not too bad?”

“It’s mainly my fault. I was supposed to do a project for tomorrow, and Jooheyon will kill me, when I tell him I haven’t prepared a single thing”

“Jooheyon?”

“He’s my partner in this project. He is actually the first person I talked to when I came to class, and fun fact, we’re in the same group too, so we can easily sit beside each other in different classes when we don’t know anyone else”

“Partner?” A raised eyebrow and an unsettling feeling, burning in the bottom of his stomach. Not being familiar with the term of a ‘partner’ besides romantically involvement in webtoons.

“Class-“ That’s when it hit you, sitting up to process while the smirk grew larger on your face, letting the moon light flash upon your eyes.

“Are you jealous Mr. Jeon?” There was something about it, when you didn’t hear a response for a good few seconds. You could hear him, sense the doubt on his lips. The lie of another, when you wanted to hear the right answer.

“Psh. You wish” It wasn’t a ‘no’, but you couldn’t help but feel saddened of his response. Neither could Jungkook let you know, how the thought of another man, could get this close. Even for classmates, he didn’t feel right about this Jooheyon.

“Maybe I am…” You whispered, while laying down defeated. It was a hint of annoyance and completely random, not thinking about that Jungkook could hear every piece of word float through the speaker. You were used to talk to yourself, settling your feelings and thought aside, getting better at concentrating. Realising, that Jungkook was right there, feeling flushed if he should call you out, or keep it to himself.

“Come to think of it, I don’t think you have ever told me about the incident?”

“Incident?”

“The abnormal phone switching and basically stuck with unforgivable missions”

“You’re still upset, over your not so puberty voice” Jungkook rested along the fluffy mattress, letting his phone fall to his side, as he turned around. Headphones poking in his ears, making it slightly painful but couldn’t get himself to take one ear bud out.

“Damn right I am! Do you have any idea how hard that was for my throat? And I must do it many more times! Just so you can get a future girlfriend of live collaboration” You excused, flaying your arms in the air.

“Future girlfriend? I don’t think so. Besides, she’s not really my type”

“Then what is your type, Mr. I-get-nervous-around-girls” You were curious of his answer, since Nayeon wasn’t only pretty, but smart too. A free type of girl, that probably would have a line-up of guys wanting her.

“neoneun nae chwihyangjeogyeok~ (너는 내 취향저격)( You’re my type)

nae chwihyangjeogyeok~ (내 취향저격)(You’re my type)

malhaji anhado neukkimi wa~ (말하지 않아도 느낌이 와) (Even if you don’t say anything, I have a feeling)

meoributeo balkkeutkkaji da~ (머리부터 발끝까지 다) (From your head to your toes, everything)”

It was a familiar melody hitting your ears, as you heard Jungkook sing “My type” by iKON. Facepalming deeply, he couldn’t help but laugh upon your response.

“Could you be serious for once?” You chuckled, trying not to enjoy his vocals.

“What? And let the opportunity slide? No way” Laughing together, enjoying the moment of silence while he tugged another pillow to his chest. The perfect size, of another person while smelling his own perfume gaze on the fabric. It was too soon, or at least that’s what It felt like. As for now, he could only tell the half-truth, that you were the type. His type.

“When will you be coming home?”

“Soon, I hope.” It sounded rough, but heartfelt when he answered your question. The both of you, unaware of the time spent together with just text and calls. It was a different connection, letting your emotions take over, something none of you could control.

“Do you miss your phone that much?” You chuckled, feeling your eyes slowly close by.

“Not really.” He was honest, and something inside your chest skipped a beat. It was already late at night, and it was to no one’s surprise, that secrets could easily be told this way. It’s like a cover of truths, and nothing would be weird about it.

“Speaking of your phone. You never explained how all of this happened? As for now, I don’t remember a single thing.” It was just a blurry night out, and there was black hole filling at least 98% of it the memories. Hani went home earlier with some guy, and you were too intoxicated to pay attention to anything else.

“What if I don’t remember either?”

“You wouldn’t say that, if you didn’t. Means, you know exactly what happened.” You were determent and fisting the blanket in anticipation didn’t help your nerves to calm down. You were eager to know about what happened, and if it was just a random coincidence. Jungkook, was terribly frightened of what you would think of his actions. Maybe he was just a plain idiot, who tried to be a hero on a night out, resulting in losing his most precious device.

“Do you like Jooheyeon?”

“I do.” Faintly answering and confused over the sudden change of topic, making your brows knit with a flustered chuckle.

“As in, like-like or just like?”

“What are you? Four? I like him as a friend. I don’t know him that well, to be in love with him” You giggled, feeling your cheeks feeling flushed over the way he questioned it.

“Do you like Nayeon?” There was something in the palm of your sweaty hands, that made you feel regret over asking. Did you really want to know? If the guy you have an undying interest in, likes someone else.

“I don’t know her that well.”

“So it’s a possibility?” You regret everything now. Your mouth was verbally vomiting with questions, that would create this deep hollow in your stomach to an end of nothingness.

“Hmm…” Jungkook pondered on the question, thinking about Nayeon. There was a possibility, that he could take a liking in her. But there was a problem, he didn’t get the same excitement about her, as he did with you. Just the glimpse of your name, gave him butterflies erupting in his stomach. Whenever you laughed, he smiled and wanted to see it in person. Your strong willed and stubborn personality.

“It’s not a possibility”

“But she’s pretty?” He has probably heard the same argument more than he had fingers to count, but you couldn’t help but push further about it. Was it an assurance that you had a chance, even though it couldn’t be possible in a million years.

“Looks isn’t everything. I don’t know her, like I know you” Blushed. Too much heat travelled along his cheekbones, praying that you wouldn’t have noticed. But you did, every bit of word. Did you hear, right? Probably. Biting on his bottom lip in an attempt to push his brain to work faster, so the awkward silence in the phone could stop torturing him.

"I-I mean a-as in t-that I like yo- no- wait. I mean, I like you a-as a friend. A-a-nd I didn’t take a l-liking in you because of your looks. A-as a friend.” Smooth. Or so, he believed it was. The pearls dropping from his forehead and his shut off eyes, as you tried to contain your laughter on the other end.

“I like you too, as a friend.” You chuckled along the words, but felt this slight of paint at the noun of ‘friends’. There was probably something inside you, that wanted Jungkook to realise that your feelings weren’t only friendly. But he was an idol, you couldn’t possibly stop him from persuading another idol or other female attendants, for your own selfish reasons.

“Yeah… as a friend” Jungkook could feel his heart skips beats of danger, when hearing you speak. What were you thinking? What were you feeling? Would you share? He wanted to know everything, he just wanted you. He couldn’t wait, to finally meet you when coming back to Korea. To see that smile blossom and your beauty make his knees weak. If just, he wasn’t an idol.

“I AM SO SORRY!!!” You couldn’t comprehend how many times you have repeated the same words, in a bowing apologetic motion in front of Jooheyon. A delightful smile plastered on his face, as you continued to apologise for not doing your part in the project. Nayeon have been keeping you in check, making your full attention be on her and Jungkook. More of all, you couldn’t quite explain to Jooheyon why.

“Chill Y/N… It’s just a project. Besides, we don’t get grades for it” He chuckled, trying to pull you from the floor. His hands were firmly warming your arm, making you notice how much bigger he was than you.

“But I feel so bad for letting you down… as your first partner too..” You whined, making him pat your head in response.

“Do you really feel bad about it?” Jooheyon was amused about the fact you cared this much, and got an idea in the process.

“How about you buy me a cup of coffee after college?” A light shined in your eyes as you nodded playfully at the idea, while checking your wallet for money. Saluting him, you both went back to the ordinary friendship at it has always been. You felt relieved, he didn’t think about why you couldn’t continue with your project, and be stuck in handing him a lie about not knowing Jungkook.

You got to know about Jooheyon, where he was from in the world. He didn’t have a close relationship with his parents but tried to send them letters, without a single respond. You wondered, if it was because of his career choice. Remembering that your mother wasn’t happy about your idea of becoming an artist, compared to your dad who bought you canvases every now and then. There was still a few hours before college finished, and Jooheyon carried you through the whole presentation. Walking together out of class, you noticed the rustling sound in your pocket, wishing out of all people, that it wasn’t Nayeon. In fact, you didn’t expect Jungkook’s name display on the screen in your hand.

“Hey what’s up? Finished practice earlier?” You were excited to talk with him, but it was also hard when Jooheyon was walking towards the exit.

“My body is a complete mess. I think my muscles is going to burst. How about college, didn’t you just finish for the day?” Jungkook remembered your schedule, when you told him last night on the phone. Whenever you had a day off, or where your classes were. He was unknowingly, remembering every bit of detail. When he saw the clock on the wall in the rehearsal room, he felt joy rise in his chest.

“Yeah, we just finished class”

“We?”

“Come on you sloth” Jooheyon was waiting in the door frame, tapping on his watch playfully. You waved in response, while biting on your bottom lip. Jungkook was confused, and could partly configure that the one who called, was the guy you told him about.

“Jooheyon and I are going out for coffee right now. Can I call you later?” You fiddled with the tip of your hair, as you walked towards your ‘date’.

“Yeah… Sure.. have fun”

“Rest well, all right? Bye” Closing the call you marched towards the impatient man, as Jungkook was left with an unsettling feeling in his chest. The joy of hearing your voice, was interrupted by thoughts of greed burn in his throat.

“I was actually meant to ask you. If you are free tomorrow in the evening?” You sipped on the milk coffee drink, while looking him into his eyes. The frigid air blowing in between your legs, as you walked along Han river together.

“Sure, but what for?”

“Since the shop I’m working in, is about to shut down unwillingly, a friend gave me an idea about doing local art display. Maybe do competitions, so others would be interested to get a chance to be shown to everyone? The shop is quite located in the centre, means there are a lot of people walking by.” You explained, thinking of Jungkook while talking. He was, the one who gave you the idea and even, bothered the other members to help. Without him, you would probably end up in the shop without a college degree.

“Sounds exciting, I’d love to help. Whatever it takes. Couldn’t your friend help?”

“He’s not here right now. He travels a lot, and the shop is quite in need of something new. Though, I wish I could ask him but I don’t want to be a burden”

“Someone special?” Jooheyeon wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, like Hani would do when you talked about boys. Throwing your cup away in the trash, you dug your fingers down to your pockets, feeling the sweat spread at the thought of Jungkook.

“You could sort of say that”

“Is he your boyfriend?”

“No…” You felt flustered thinking about the idea, that you could call him that. But also, your feelings were a bit on the edge, admiring the scenario of sunsets mirroring in the water.

“You should totally get him. You clearly have a huge crush on him!”

“I DO NOT” Your face was plastered with a smile and red cheeks, while Jooheyon could barely keep his laughter to a minimum, catching you ‘red’ handed.

“Say that to your strawberry face!” Jooheyon poked your cheek, making them puffed in annoyance.

“I’m not blushing!”

“Suuuure” He couldn’t help but laugh at your reaction, and teasing you was the most reliable way of getting closer.

“Yea sure. Oh shoot, I have to go, Hani is waiting for me. See you tomorrow!” Catching a glimpse on your watch, you noticed how many hours you have spent together with him, that Hani was waiting for you at the store. You could barely wait to tell her the news, that Jooheyon was going to help with promotion of the shop. Waving at him with a smile, you dashed towards the shop which was at least 10-20 minutes away by running. Jooheyon was baffled at your sudden speed, that he forgot to ask when you were going to meet tomorrow.

“Hey wait! You didn’t tell me when to meet tomorrow!!?” Without luck, you were out of his reach. Sighing in annoyance, he remembered he got your number on the first day and felt that this was an opportunity. Tapping along the screen, he huffed before pressing the send button.

*”Your” phone*

“Ah… I forgot to call Jungkook yesterday…” Working and cleaning last night, was a bit longer than expected. Texting Jungkook wasn’t a priority, when the newest launch of colours was going to be arranged on the shelves. You and Hani spent hours preparing and pricing every piece, before you could crash upon your bed. Strangely, you didn’t see Jooheyon the first class and only saw him creep in the hallway by himself. Knitting your brows, you walked towards the taller guy.

“Skipping the first class? Doesn’t look like you”

“Apparently not everyone is not what they seem like” He snapped, walking faster towards the next class. Luckily, you were in the same group, means you were going the exact same place.

“Erhm, did I do something wrong?”

“I don’t know, did you?”

“Wow, tone down the attitude and tell me what’s wrong? I’m really confused” Putting your hand on his shoulder, you felt his muscles relax in your touch. Your puppy like eyes looking at him, proved that you actually didn’t know anything.

“Either, you gave me a different phone number, or you have personality issues.” He explained, settling himself on a bench, to finally give you his attention.

“What do you mean?” You were only slightly confused, but you had a hunch something was wrong. To be fair, you wished it had nothing to do with Jungkook but life proved you wrong.

“I texted you yesterday about this promotion thing, but you texted me this?” Scanning the message screen, you felt anger boil in the bottom of your stomach. Biting on your lip, you didn’t know how to excuse this one. Protecting Jungkook, or save your friendship with Jooheyon?

“Look… I can explain… but I’m not allowed to…” You whispered, hoping Jooheyon would understand but he only tilted his head in wonder. It wasn’t good enough for him, and you knew better. After a while of convincing yourself to tell him the truth, you saw his eyes turn from calm to confused. You told him everything, from the day it all began and what relies on your shoulders when someone texts your specific phone.

“So…. You’re telling me, that you switched phones with this famous guy, and you can’t give it back. And because, he isn’t home in Korea, you both have to pretend to be one another?” There was something about his way of re-telling, that made you facepalm in defeat.

“So you don’t believe me?” You questioned curiously, already mentally saying goodbye to this friendship.

“I do. Come to think of it, it makes a little more sense when I noticed you talk with this deep voice”

“YOU SAW ME???” Jooheyon was back to himself, smiling like a fool, watching your reaction at his confession. Sometimes, you wish there was more people you could tell this secret to, but for now, one was enough.

“Erhm… so you won’t be coming for the tonight’s promotion?” You questioned carefully, fiddling your fingers while scared of whatever he could say.

“I made plans, but I’ll try to see if I can make it. No promises though”

“I understand” You nodded, while thinking of other solutions for the evenings promotion. Asking others would seem like a drag, but worth a shot. Jooheyon put an arm around your shoulder, tugging you closer to whisper in your ear.

“By the way, since you have told me one of your deepest secrets, let me tell you one of mine….”

Throwing your bag away, feeling the hard work linger on your tired muscles, you fiddled out your phone. The anger that boiled in the bottom of your stomach, was about to burst. You couldn’t believe Jungkook would do such a thing, and broke a rule.

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deactivated4179291 · 7 years

Text

Star Crossed - Part 3 (H.S AU)

As the time passes, Niall tells me all about why they moved to the U.S. It turns out that the four of them were in a band together, but after several years, they decided to go their own route with their music. They also wanted to be hidden from the glare of the public eye, so they packed up their things, and here they all are. The basement is currently being renovated into a studio so that they can record here, in the privacy of their own home. The way Niall sees it, the U.S was their escape. Though they aren’t all working together anymore they still enjoy each other’s company, and it was easier for everyone to have one place to do their own thing. The thought of freedom was short lived for them when it was declared that at least one of them had to complete the Crossing, and Niall, being the generous little Irishman he was, volunteered.

I’ve actually learned quite a decent amount about them. Harry and Niall are the same age, but Harry is younger, and the oldest yet most child-like in spirit is Louis. I decided that second part myself when I saw Louis creep up behind Liam and push him in the pool. Liam wasn’t too happy, to put it lightly. Everyone else thought it was pretty funny, though. Poor Liam. I hadn’t seen much of Harry after our awkward first encounter. He went inside a while ago and seemed to just disappear. Louis and I were talking about soccer, or as he called it “football,” when I told him the embarrassing story of my short soccer career. I played for two years starting when I was four, and I was so bad at it that my parents just decided it’d be best that I find other hobbies. He seemed to get a kick out of the story which made me feel more comfortable talking to him and the other “lads.” Eventually, amongst the buzzing of surrounding conversation and the distant sound of the music playing, I lost Niall.

I wanted to talk to him about the house...I don’t think my mother realized how expensive the house probably was when she agreed to the option - as a parent to help pay for it. I made my way back inside, and eventually wound up back near the living room and kitchen where I first entered said expensive mansion. I quickly spotted Niall and Harry sitting side by side on the middle couch. Harry’s eyes widened when he saw me as if he was a child that was about to trouble for something. His attention then flicked to his right, where Niall seemed to be losing his shit, laughing about something. I take a couple steps forward the couch and cross my arms in front of them. I can feel the amused smile creep onto my face.

“He’s drunk isn’t he?”

“Plastered,” Harry nods vigorously, laughing – clearly had a tad bit to drink, himself, but he’s not intoxicated. Niall just keeps giggling and tries to pull Harry closer to him, whilst Harry struggles to shake him off of it.

“Ah, so you corrupted him,” I point jokingly.

“Whad’ya mean?” he asks innocently, his dimples popping up.

“Niall told me everything, including the fact that he’s the innocent one.” Niall giggles at my statement.

“Pfft, Innocent my arse,” he scoffs.

"Whys he's losing his shit so bad anyway?"

"I wanted to know how drunk he was so I told a knock-knock joke. Now I've got my answer - very – ‘nd it wasn’t even my best one." He rolls his eyes, jokingly.

“Should I be concerned? Does he do this a lot?” I wonder.

“Well,” he shakes his head, “ not usually, but if he does then this is what you get to live with now too.” I laugh watching Harry’s face go from amused to slightly frustrated whilst Niall continues to attempt to hug him. When he finally gets his arms around Harry, Harry just sits there, blinking, no expression on his face.

“Unamused?” I quirk, sniggering. He smiles at that, shaking his head. His facial expression causes two dimples to appear on his face. Fuck...those are really cute.

“Alright, let’s get this little fucker to bed,” Harry rises and grabs Niall by the arm. They’re quite the entertaining duo if I do say so myself. Harry drapes Niall's left arm across his broad shoulders.

“Since you’re moving in, why don’t you come take a look upstairs?” He asks, dragging Niall past me, towards the steps to the second floor. It doesn’t sound like an innuendo, he says it very genuinely, which is why I follow him up the steps.

Once Niall was tucked in and passed out soundly asleep in his room Harry gave me what he called the “grand tour.” He acted as if he was offering a sales pitch with every new room we went to. He even showed me the empty bedrooms and told me I could “take my pick,” in his lovely deep voice with his accent. I felt a sense of guilt. The house had six bedrooms, and I didn’t think I could afford to even rent an inch of one.

Once he showed me the rest of the house, which consisted of a few other living areas – and I even got to see the studio renovation downstairs, we ended up at the bar, which I hadn’t noticed until now even though it was in the living room near the kitchen. Harry placed himself behind the bar, while I sat on the stool opposite him. He leaned forward, smiling and resting his hands on the countertop.

“So..What can I get for you?” Shit…I haven’t ever really had alcohol. Like I said, in high school, I didn’t get out much, so I never amounted to underage drinking at that time. Now that I was 18, though, I could legally drink..but I opted for a water instead.

“Ohh, don’t drink alcohol do we?” he teases, smirking at me.

“I mean, I haven’t before, no...”

“Hmm,” he hums. “Well there’s a first time for everything right?” he raises one hand, smiling cheekily. I let out a little laugh. That seems to be a common theme tonight – me laughing. I don’t get the opportunity to laugh much nowadays, it feels.

"I'm sorry if I seemed awkward when we met..my moms told me I'm pretty shy...and clearly social awkward." I break the silence.

He chuckles. He then reaches underneath the bar, opening one of the cabinets I presume.

“I’ was fine, love," he groans pulling a red wine bottle out from under the bar, "Honestly I feel bad that you're surrounded by all these people that you don't know since you feel anxious about it. Now, if you promise not to tell the lads where 've been hiding my good wine bottles, I know somewhere we can go away from all these..loud..people." He grimaces because of all the noise... I'm left with a decision. Be smart, and say no because I don't know this strange boy, OR be me and say yes because I'm turning into Robin - trying to see the good in everyone. There really does seem to be good in Harry.

"My lips are sealed." I pretend to zip my lips and give him the invisible key. He laughs again.

" a'right," he winks and cocks his head to the side pointing in the direction he wants me to go, as I follow him.

Seeing him wink made heat rise to my cheeks. If his intention is to get me drunk, he doesn’t need the alcohol, I am already intoxicated by him. His unwavering kindness and compassion make me feel like I can finally trust someone.

Then he leads me to a random spot in the backyard, passing all the scattered bodies until we were standing on the outside of the garage. He just looks at me and smiles, waiting for me to say something.

“This is your special spot?...behind the garage?” The only other noise to be heard is the light hum of the speakers on the complete opposite side of the house.

“Oi, who said anything about being behind the garage?” His eyes flick up to the roof, then back to me. Wait a second..the roof.

“The roof?!” I whisper-shout, my eyes widening as I am not the best with heights.

“What, you afraid of heights or somethin’?” He laughs a bit, before realizing I really am scared of heights. His eyes widen, and his face growth sympathetic.

“Shit,” he mumbles, “ ‘m sorry love, I didn’t know.” He shakes his head.

“Listen, I’ll boost you up, okay? ‘s not that high up I promise.” I gulp silently, before sheepishly nodding. He places the wine bottle on the concrete then leans forward, and knits his fingers together, signifying he wants me to step on his hands. I kick off my boots – I am not about to do this in heels. I get close and place my right foot in his hands, grabbing his shoulders for balance and he pulls me up. I grab leverage to get onto the roof the second both of my feet are off the ground.

Once I am up, I sit on the flat part of the roof, grabbing the wine bottle from him and watch as Harry effortlessly jumps up, and hauls himself up. He plops down next to me, then sends me a smirk.

“Not all of us are fucking 8 feet tall, okay?” I sass. His eyes screw shut, and his face wrinkles as he laughs.

“how tall ‘re you anyway?” he asks me, his normal dimpled smile returning to his beautiful face.

“5’2” He hums in response.

“For the record ‘m not actually 8 feet tall, I am only 5’11. ‘ve just been jumping up here a lot longer than you have.”

“That’s true,” I nod.

I sit on the flat rooftop, my legs outstretched but bent at the knees, with my arms wrapped around them lightly. I can’t help but look up and stare at the stars. They seem to be shining brighter than I have ever seen them. I hear a pop noise, and immediately know that Harry has opened the wine bottle. He smiles and offers it to me, raising an eyebrow. I think back quickly to the files stored in my brain from what Niall told me, and think of Harry’s last name.

“Alright, fine, Styles,” I roll my eyes, “I’ll take my first ever sip of alcohol if you share with me that knock knock joke that left Niall in hysterics.” A cheeky smile tugs at his lips at my words.

“Knock knock”

“Who's there, Harry?”

“Little old lady”

“Little old lady who?” He smirks and giggles, and then I realize where this is going. “oh my gosh” I mutter, shaking my head.

“I didn’t know you could yodel!” He sniggers.

“Ya I definitely need a drink after that.”

“Fair ‘nough” he shrugs.

I press the rim of the bottle to my lips and tilt it backward, sending the wine into my mouth. It’s bitter, but also has a kind of unique flavor to it. My face I lick my lips to rid any leftover wine on my lips and hand the bottle back to Harry. Determining that I’m not the biggest fan of it, my face scrunches slightly. I hear Harry’s beautiful laugh pierce the silence once again.

“ ‘s not for everyone,” he shrugs, drinking from the bottle himself. He gulps down the substance relentlessly. Quite frankly, I’m impressed by his ability to do it so effortlessly. He then places the bottle between the two of us, so that it’s to my right. As he’s reaching over to put it down, he gently grabs my hand, causing me to turn my head back in his direction, with slight surprise. He stares at the sign on my wrist, and traces it with his finger, furrowing his eyebrows again.

"So which one is this?" he looks back into my eyes.

"Uh, Taurus. My birthdays may 20th...what's yours?"

He looks kind of distant as if something is bothering his thoughts, but reluctantly rolls up his right jacket sleeve enough for me to see his sign and a slew of other ink on his wrist. I had only vaguely noticed all of his tattoos when I first encountered him. Seeing them so up close was an entirely different story.

“Aquarius,” I say. Pursing his lips, he nods. He grabs the bottle with his left and starts to down more of the crimson liquid.

Aquarius..as in air…as in not earth.

“Well,” he sighs, “we better get down from ‘ere before I get too drunk” I nod, but as soon as I look down from the top of the roof, fear overtakes me.

#Harry Styles #harry styles imagine #harry styles preferences #harry styles au meme #harry styles aquarius #harry styles au #hs1 #Harry styles album hs1 #harry edward styles #harry styles romance #harry styles fanfiction

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themyskira · 7 years

Text

THAT Wonder Woman script, part 1 of what the fuck did I just read

Around 2005, Joss Whedon, who has recently been attached to an upcoming Batgirl movie, was hired to write a Wonder Woman movie that never got off the ground.

In an interview, Whedon described the movie he’d envisioned thusly:

She was a little bit like Angelina Jolie [laughs]. She sort of traveled the world. She was very powerful and very naïve about people ... [a]nd ultimately her romance with Steve was about him getting her to see what it’s like not to be a goddess, what it’s like when you are weak, when you do have all these forces controlling you and there’s nothing you can do about it. That was the sort of central concept of the thing. Him teaching her humanity and her saying, OK, great, but we can still do better.

Some years after the project got canned, a 2006 draft script was leaked, and proved to be every bit as terrible as Whedon described and worse. I skimmed it a few years back, and with all the renewed talk around it in the wake of the Batgirl announcement I foolishly decided to try to actually read it for real.

And oh, do I have some notes.

We open with the following text:

IN THE TIME OF THE ANCIENT GREEKS, THE MOST POWERFUL WARRIORS ON EARTH WERE THE AMAZON WOMEN. PROUD, MIGHTY AND CUNNING, THEY WERE NEVER DEFEATED IN BATTLE.

LEGEND TELLS THAT ARES, THE GOD OF WAR, GREW JEALOUS OF THEIR POWER AND HAD THEM IMPRISONED, THEIR WRISTS BOUND IN MYSTICAL CHAINS — CHAINS THAT ROBBED THE AMAZONS OF ALL THEIR POWER.

SHAMED AND IMPERILLED, THE AMAZON QUEEN HIPPOLYTE PRAYED TO ATHENA, GODDESS OF WISDOM, FOR DELIVERANCE FROM THEIR SLAVERY.

THE AMAZONS VANISHED FROM THE EARTH.

Okay, so… there are already a few things I’m not a fan of here.

One: right from the outset the Amazons are being defined solely as warriors. All of their qualities are linked to their martial prowess — “proud, mighty and cunning”. The Amazons of Wonder Woman comics have always been powerful warriors, but it’s a skill they’ve cultivated alongside their prowess as scientists, makers, artists and priestesses. I’ve found that when Wonder Woman writers choose to define Amazons as fighters to the exclusion of all other interests, the result is a very militant, xenophobic and primitive people with a distinct whiff of straw feminism.

Two: really, Joss? Of all things, you had to keep the “Wonder Woman loses her powers when her bracelets are chained?” bit?

Three: “the Amazons were the best until things went wrong and they had to pray their way out of it” this origin story is boring as shit.

But enough of the Amazons. It’s time to meet the real hero of the story. The one we’ve all been waiting to see. Ladies and gentlemen, give it up for…

EXT. SKY - DAY.

We see the roiling grey fury of a storm — and an old twin engine prop plane roars into frame from above us.

She bucks bravely amidst the wind, rain and crackling flashes of lightning. We can hear her practically shaking apart.

INT. PLANE - CONTINUING.

Inside, the noise is even worse. Boxes of cargo, most with a red cross, shake and pitch with the plane.

The pilot holds the steering column as it bucks. Maybe 30, kind, determined eyes in a workingman’s face.

…LAAAAAAAME DUUUUUUCK!

I’m not being a smartass, that is Steve’s actual call sign, which he uses as he shouts into his radio trying to hail his guys on the ground. He’s getting only static in return.

STEVE This is Lame Duck, I got a force gazillion hurricane in my face! Visibility is zero and my readings are… […] …they’re shot! My instrument panel’s having serious emotional issues; I am lost at sea.

As the storm batters his plane, the voice of a South African bloke called Ben crackles through on the radio to advise Steve that he may be heading towards some bad weather. Ba-dum-tsh.

Steve deadpans at Ben and then the communications cut out with a “scorching pop” and lightning hits the left propeller. Being the hero of this story, Steve “stubbornly” hangs on, but the plane is bucking wildly and there’s no mistaking it— he’s going down.

Then suddenly he’s out of the storm, the rain and the clouds clear and spread out below is a lush, pristine island. Our rugged hero shakes off his bewilderment and manoeuvres the plane towards a river, “the thing most resembling a landing strip”.

It’s a messy landing; the plane skids along the river and slides out of control down a hill before hitting a couple of big trees mere inches ahead of a near-bottomless ravine. Steve’s wrist is broken and one leg is caught under boxes, and as he’s trying to figure out his next move, there’s a thump on the roof.

The door is tugged clean off its hinges. A silhouetted girl stands in the newly-made opening.

CLOSE ON: THE GIRL.

To say she is beautiful is almost to miss the point. She is elemental, as natural and wild as the luminous flora surrounding. Her dark hair waterfalls to her shoulders in soft arcs and curls. Her body is curvaceous, but taut as a drawn bow. She wears burnished metal bracelets on both wrists, wide and intricately detailed. Her shift is of another era; we’d call it ancient Greek. She is barefoot.

BARF. Just go back and compare this to the way Whedon describes Steve — “Maybe 30, kind, determined eyes in a workingman’s face.”

When Whedon introduces Steve, the main thing he seems to want us to take away is that this is a Good Man trying to do right. When he introduces Diana, the actual titular hero of this movie, he just blathers like a hormonal teen about how fucking hot she is, except not just hot because who could use such crass words to describe a woman as spectacular and— and elemental as she?! She is nature itself, friends, wild as the luminous flora! her dark hair a waterfall! the taut curvaceous girl of my manic pixie dreams!

Like. Are you even listening to yourself, Joss?

Anyway, The Girl looks about curiously; apparently she’s never seen anything like a plane before. “It’s hollow…”

She’s wary when she notices Our Hero, who babbles a bit to the tune of ‘hey do you speak English, could you get to a phone and call for help, my leg is pinned’, before The Girl casually pulls the boxes off him one-handed, studies him for a moment and concludes, “You look horrible.”

Not because he’s injured, mind. It’s because of his stubble. She’s thoroughly perplexed by it, since as we know gender is a strict binary and women never have facial hair of any kind especially since obviously Amazons have a strictly 21st century Western concept of female beauty except oh wait.

Then the realisation hits her.

She reaches for his face, touches it. Realisation breaks her face into a wondrous grin.

DIANA You’re a man.

STEVE Wow. No gettin’ anything past you…

But he’s as mesmerised as she, neither of them moving as her fingers sensuously trace his face.

THE ROMANCE. She is captivated by his masculinity, he belittles her, and they are both entranced.

They trade names, the plane lurches ominously over the ravine, and Diana scoops him up and tosses him to safety. “You feel safer now?” she asks, as he lands hard on the grass.

ANGLE: STEVE has fifteen sharp, gleaming spears in a semicircle around his head.

They are held by fifteen women, armoured and helmeted in the greek style. Backlit enough to be dark and almost inhuman.

STEVE Nnyeaaybe…..

Ha-ha! Champagne comedy!

Also: what’d I tell you? Militant, xenophobic and primitive. How long d’you think before the straw feminism rears its head?

Next scene! Steve is marched into the Amazons city, accompanied by Diana and encircled by a grim company of Amazons. Steve’s hands are bound with rope, the other end of which is held by “the enormous, austere HEPHESTIA, captain of the guard”.

Steve tries to ask if he can use their phone, and Hephestia responses by yanking the rope and sending him sprawling. Diana rushes to help him up, but Hephestia ignores him entirely, admonishing, “It is not to be spoken to.”

YEP HE WENT THERE. WHEDON’S AMAZONS ARE ANGRY IRRATIONAL MAN-HATERS WHO REFER TO MEN AS “IT”.

Hephestia goes on to berate Diana for breaking the “First Law”, telling her that “By all rights your fate should be his” and “You should have killed it.”

Fuck’s. Sake.

Then Steve gets his first sight of the city.

THEMYSCIRA. It’s a vision of a city, nestled in the lush green hills. Greek in many aspects, it has an organic look that is particular to the Amazons — not just straight stone columns.

More than a hundred women are visible, walking, talking, weaving, forging — there is an arena near the bottom with women training at games and swordplay.

Hey, look at that. First indication so far that the Amazons are something other than primitive sword-wielding thugs.

STEVE (continuing; whisper) Where the hell am I?

DIANA This is Themyscira. Home.

STEVE Whose home?

DIANA The Amazons.

STEVE (looking at her) The Amazons are a legend.

DIANA We are? (considers) Good. We should be.

GOOD LORD THIS IS TERRIBLE. And what the fuck is with Diana’s casual arrogance here?

They walk through the city, attracting stares wherever they go. A friend of Diana’s, Aethra, hurries over and falls into step with her. After ascertaining that, yes, this is a fabled man-creature and they are taking him to the Queen, what do you think her first question is?

She falls into step, whispering into Diana’s ear. Diana looks briefly shocked.

AETHRA (continuing) Well, I would’ve. While you can…

SHE ASKS IF DIANA FUCKED HIM.

WHAT THE ABSOLUTE SHIT.

Cut to the Queen’s chamber.

HYPPOLYTE is every inch a queen: noble, beautiful, thoughtful. She is middle-aged, but very much in her prime.

Apparently being attractive is a prerequisite for being a queen now. Also, Whedon has trouble settling on a spelling for her name, as we’ll see.

She is approached by CIRCE. An older woman, Circe is honest and humble, but her eyes pierce well beyond common sight.

(No, it’s not that Circe. I don’t know why Whedon gave her the name of one of Diana’s most prominent rogues.)

CIRCE The Guard returns, my Queen.

HIPPOLYTE Is it what we thought?

CIRCE (nodding) A man.

HIPPOLYTE All this time… and the Gods still mock us. Alive?

CIRCE (nods) Hephestia would have killed him on the spot, but… she was not the first to find him.

This news tightens the corners of Hyppolyte's mouth.

Groan. Yes, Hippolyta, the gods are mocking you by inflicting man on you. That is what’s happening now.

Wait, no, I take that back. Somebody is definitely mocking you right now.

Cut to the throne room. Hippolyta’s on her throne, Steve on his knees before her under Hephestia’s guard. Diana stands by him, and women crowd about the room.

Hippolyta binds Steve with a familiar-looking lasso and interrogates him. The one thing she wants to know: if they fix his plane and help him on his way, will he promise never to speak of the Amazons to anyone? Steve says he won’t, but when Hippolyta presses — what if you were offered money? power? what if you were tortured? — he admits that he could not stay silent if his friends or family were threatened.

Anyway, it doesn’t actually matter because it turns out that Hippolyta was only exploring this line of questioning to demonstrate why there is no solution other than to kill Steve (and I guess so that we could see what a Pure and Heroic Hero Steve is). It’s his life against thousands of Amazons, which is why the First Law says that any man who sets foot on the island has to die, obviously.

At which point Steve gets his self-important on and is like ‘UM EXCUSE ME YOUR MAJESTY but if I don’t get the supplies on my plane to the refugee camp I was headed for, then a fuckton of sick and starving refugees will die, YOU MONSTER.’

Hippolyta considers this, and asks him what he’d say if she could guarantee that the supplies get to their destination — after she murders him. Steve stares at her a moment, then: "Deal.”

So Diana’s like “MOTHER NO!” and Hippolyta is like “MOTHER YES”. Except then for some reason she instructs Circe to take Steve away and feed him and tend to his wounds because I guess she’s too tired to murder him tonight, no need to rush the process.

Then Hippolyta kicks everyone out so she can argue with her daughter.

HIPPOLYTE We came here to escape the tyranny of men.

She holds out her hands as she speaks and Diana places hers begrudgingly in them — Hippolyte turns them palms up as the light glints off Diana’s bracelets.

HIPPOLYTE (continuing) Your wear the symbols of our subjugation but you don’t know what it was like. When these were bound, and we were powerless. The pain, the shame… no Amazon will ever be bound again. […] Steve Trevor may be an honest man but he connects us to a world more brutish and mad than the one we fled. […] He cannot peaceably stay and he cannot be allowed to leave. Do you not see?

DIANA (eyes locked on Steve) I see only murder.

HIPPOLYTE (sees Diana staring) Your eyes are clouded.

DIANA They are clear, mother. Maybe for the first time.

She starts to leave.

HIPPOLYTE I envy the luxury of your clarity. (Diana stops) I am Queen of Themyscira. My responsibilities weigh heavily on me. It’s simpler for those who’ve never had any.

so yeah basically this scene is all about Our Hero and how his heroic heroism puts Diana on a path to becoming Wonder Woman. She’s been living a life of blissful naivety on her island, and then this man comes along and is ready to die so that innocents may live, while Diana’s isolationist people would rather kill to save themselves, and in an instant her eyes are opened “maybe for the first time” and GOSH AREN’T YOU LUCKY A MAN CAME ALONG TO TEACH YOU HOW TO BE A HERO.

Nighttime now. Steve is gloomily pacing his ‘cell’, which is actually a big, comfortably furnished room. Diana, doing a Batman, steps out of the shadows behind him.

DIANA Why don’t you care?

He turns, not particularly surprised to see her. She comes close as she talks. There is an attraction between them that neither of them mentions — or possibly even knows about.

UGH GO AWAY JOSS.

She wants to know why he’s so willing to throw away his life. She wants to know about his world, and what it is he believes matters more than saving his own skin. Steve is uncommunicative; he doesn’t know what she wants him to say.

DIANA (thrown) I… I wonder if there’s a reason. For your coming. Some sign, something for me to learn.

STEVE So my imminent death is, wow, all about you. You know I really should rest up, though, for the dying — why don’t [we] do this another time?

DIANA But we—

STEVE (ushers her out) I’ll call you. I mean it. Let’s keep in touch.

This is a recurring theme in their interactions. Diana reaches out, trying — often somewhat ignorantly or naively — to understand or to help, and Steve bites her head off for being a spoiled, selfish little princess who knows nothing about the real world.

Speaking of which!

DIANA I don’t like your manner.

STEVE And I don’t feature spending my last night on earth playing Discovery Channel for some bored debutante.

DIANA I’m just trying to understand.

STEVE Understand what?

DIANA You. Your world.

STEVE You can’t.

DIANA “Can’t”?

STEVE Can’t. Is that another new word for you? Means ‘are unable to’.

DIANA But you won’t even—

STEVE You and I have nothing in common.

He crosses to the banquet table.

STEVE (continuing) Has there ever been a day when you didn’t have everything you wanted? Have you ever been hungry? (chucks the pear to her — hard) Been cold? Worked twenty hour days underground for no pay, been spat on, stepped on, shot at… (approaches her again) Your mom is Queen of Crazy Town but she’s right to be scared. You wanna stay as far away from the real world as possible. They’d eat you alive, Princess.

DIANA I am an Amazon.

STEVE Yeah yeah, bend steel with your bare hands… in my world, you wouldn’t last a day.

UGH.

So Diana wanders out of Steve’s cell and towards Athena’s temple, “lost in unhappy thought”. Aethra catches up with him and — you guessed it — SHE STILL WANTS TO KNOW ABOUT STEVE’S DICK.

AETHRA (behind her) At least tell me you looked at it.

Aethra wants to know why Diana comes to Athena’s temple every night. What is it she asks the goddess for?

DIANA I… I ask what to ask. To know… what I want, to be content… (quiet passion) I am not what I should be. I can be more, I was meant to be more, I know it. To do something worthy. (looking off) I ask Athena what that is.

AETHRA And you think she’s answered.

DIANA (turning, urgent) Can it be coincidence? That a man should drop straight from the sky after all this time?

So, if we’re following this logic… Diana asks the goddess “what [she needs] to be content” and to be the person she was “meant to be” — and the goddess responds by dropping a man in her lap.

Joss Whedon is such a Great Feminist Writer, y’all.

Also, Aethra’s response to this?

AETHRA (smiling) You really think you’re the only woman on the island thinks that was her prayer being answered?

Because evidently Whedon’s Amazons are deeply heterosexual and desperate for cock.

Diana confesses her unease, and Aethra gives her some completely meaningless advice.

AETHRA Then don’t be a child. Don’t ask for guidance, for permission; don’t ask for anything. Tell Athena what you want. Maybe then you’ll hear her reply.

yes because making aggressive demands of the gods and failing to observe proper respect has always historically gone well for the greeks.

Diana spends the entire night praying. In the morning, a falcon (which isn’t Athena’s bird, but who cares about research) alights in front of her and she stares at it.

Our Hero is led into the royal hall, bravely prepared to meet his death. As Hippolyta prepares to mete out his sentence, the proceedings are interrupted by a stampede of animals. Screeching falcons swoop into the hall and land on Hippolyta’s throne. Huge snakes carve a path through the crowd, followed by a pair of giant panthers and no I have no fucking idea where Whedon is going with this either because he never follows up on it at all.

Diana enters behind the panthers, cloaked and hooded, and announces that she is invoking the “Right of Trial”.

STEVE Trial by what?

Diana pulls off her robe in one swift motion.

AETHRA Combat, of course.

Beneath is the outfit: the burnished eagle breastplate, the deep red of the cloth bodice, the skirt, a greek’s, leather strips low in the middle and cut higher at the hips, dark blue with diamond-shaped silver inlays. The gold sandals matching the wristbands and tiara. A sword is on her hip, which she pulls, pointing at Steve with it.

DIANA (to the assembled) This is the law. If I can defeat Themyscira’s greatest warrior in single combat, judgement on this man will be mine to render. He will live, return to his world… and I will go with him. […] If this world of his is truly mad, I would know why. I would know what it is we all fear so terribly. (pointedly, to Mom) I consider it… my responsibility.

And who is Themyscira’s greatest warrior? Well, I think we all know the answer to that.

So Diana has to fight her mother to save Steve’s life.

But it’s more fucked up than that, because Joss has made Hippolyta the symbol of all of Themyscira’s insular, xenophobic, backward tradition, while Steve represents the hero Diana aspires to be — all-American, prepared to sacrifice himself to defend the helpless.

So in practice this reads as Diana choosing to reject her people’s (primitive, wrong) culture and embrace the (good, heroic) American Way.

Anyway, Hippolyta hefts her sword and they fight. Steve continues to be a smartass.

AETHRA This must seem strange to you.

STEVE No, my mom and I did this all the time.

The fight is relentless — “In Amazon training,” Joss tells us, “they don’t teach retreat”. What with the Amazons being ruthless savages and all. Hippolyta gradually starts to get the upper hand, sends Diana to her knees and brings her sword down “with all her might” on Diana’s shoulder. It shatters on Diana’s skin.

For a moment, only the clatter of the shards on stone.

Then Diana is back up in a flash, swinging at her mother with brutal force — Hippolyte blocks and pulls Diana close.

HIPPOLYTE In his world, it may not be the sword that will break. You will be weakened, and reviled, daughter: death is out there. Here you are safe, you’re strong, you are a princess and there they will make you nothing now will you yield?

Diana looks at her with intensity, but no malice.

DIANA I can’t.

HIPPOLYTE. (quietly) I know.

She steps back, throws her broken sword down. […] Hyppolyte grabs Diana to her and embraces her fiercely, both women exhausted and emotional.

Hyppolyte kisses her head, takes it in her hands, inches from her face. She whispers ungently:

HIPPOLYTE (continuing) Remember who you are. They will take everything from you but that.

…aaaaand I guess that’s that, then? Hippolyta breaks her sword on Diana’s shoulder, fights her to a standstill, and then, “give up now? what, you don’t? oh okay well I guess I give up instead, then”.

Steve and Diana fly out. Joss takes the time to tell us that Diana is wearing “a simple white tunic (which on her is anything but simple)” which oh my god keep your boner to yourself mate.

Also let’s just pause to note that at this point Diana’s only motivation beyond a vaguely-articulated desire for direction is The Boy. In most modern versions of Wonder Woman’s origin, Steve is a catalyst rather than the motivating factor in Diana’s journey forth into Man’s World. Rucka’s Amazons recognise the gods’ hand in Steve’s arrival and realise that greater forces are on the move; this spurs them to choose a champion who will be both ambassador and protector. Pérez’s Diana actually wins the mantle of champion and the responsibility of defending the world against Ares before the war god’s machinations bring Steve’s plane down.

Whedon’s Diana has no mission or calling. She just met a boy and decided to follow him home.

#whedon does wondy #this is long and painful and i am sorry #wonder woman

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