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paulhudd · 7 years

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Spindlefreck: Pt.20: Seven Thousand Years to Midnight

2 November 1988

11:48PM GMT:

Electra Cochrane’s imagination:

“Well -- say it -- get this over with!” yelped Pritchard, gritting his teeth and grimacing, as if he expected the world to explode at any second. Grasping the sleeve of his overcoat, Electra braced herself and screamed over the howling wind and rumbling thunder, “Please, Danielle, just do it!”

Dani, as always, was in two minds: the levitating spectre currently looming over her did scare her; she felt a woeful pang of dread in her belly she’d never felt before; but she also knew if she did what it asked, she wasn't likely to survive -- uttering that word could be tantamount to committing suicide! On the other hand, Pritchard said it would save Jamie...

“Say it,” chorused the mob of mutant fairytale creatures, gnashing their teeth and making threatening gestures.

She looked up at the hovering spectre, cocked her head and shouted, “Hey you up there! Whose side are you on, anyway? Are you, like, a goodie or a baddie?”

The shimmering wraith of Zomber Blist looked down on her with eyes of gleaming sapphire and replied, “There is no good or bad or right or wrong; there is only what will be. This your destiny! You must fulfil the Prophesy!” Then his voice deepened to a baleful roar, “SAY THE WORD.”

“Say it!” hissed the abominable throng.

Dani squeezed her eyes shut, crossed her fingers and took a deep breath...

An hour ago:

Jamie was getting desperate. He’d been in the so-called ‘Secure Unit’ for nearly a week now, and although he kept reminding himself that it was all a mirage and that the passing of time meant nothing when one’s consciousness is trapped in a phantasm, he was beginning to think the doctors were right and he really was suffering delusions induced by a rare form of amnesia.

There was nothing to suggest it was a dream. This ‘reality’ was flawless. The sights, the smells, the tastes and the feel of the place were just as you’d expect in a fully functioning psychiatric hospital. The staff and the other patients’ behaviour were consistent, their conversations vivid and unrehearsed, each incidence was entirely realised, each interaction was natural and unambiguous; nothing defied logic. If this was indeed a grand illusion designed to undermine his psychic defences and render him vulnerable to demonic possession, the demon had been meticulous and attended to every detail with painstaking care; or - and Jamie considered this the more likely explanation - his consciousness currently existed in a world created from someone else’s memories; and if so, whose? Who associated with the coven would've been incarcerated in a place like this? It was nothing like the unit in Belfast where Dani spent her last few years, and as far as he knew, the only other ‘Güül ever to be voluntarily carted off to the looney bin was Goz -- and that was a rock star rehab centre in LA.!

He was almost swayed, but the circumstantial evidence surrounding his ‘case’ added weight to his gut feelings: the fact that he had no papers, no ID and no one had come forward to identify him despite ‘numerous public appeals’, was too-convenient-by-half. Plus, he still had that telltale chill in his bones he associated with being trapped in the Void. There was nothing he could do but wait and see how things played-out. Trouble was, nothing was happening and it didn’t look like anything was going to happen anytime soon. If the demon had a plan, it was taking a long time to hatch, and if this was a dreamscape, he had all the time in the world.

If this is a dreamscape.

In the meantime, he’s played things nice and safe. He’s kept himself to himself and behaved impeccably. He’s mopped the floors in the corridors, scrubbed the communal toilets (a job bestowed upon him as a way to earn money to pay for cigarettes and chocolate -- he was stony broke, and since there was nothing to read but dog-eared war novels and yellowing sports magazines, it passed the time); he’s taken the occasional jibes and good-natured banter about his alleged past-behaviour with self-effacing good humour and engaged in idle smalltalk when the occasion arose. After a few days the nursing staff was satisfied that he no longer posed a threat to them or the other patients and curtailed the constant surveillance -- no more orderlies following him around watching his every move. He’s taken his ‘meds’ (which seemed to have no affect at all except make him hungry) without protest. The only people he had any meaningful interaction with were Porter the Porter and occasionally Mr Murphy, the genial, elderly Irish alcoholic. That said, Porter was a moronic psychopath and old Mr Murphy wasn't the font of paternal wisdom Jamie encountered that first day. The old man was one third of a tight little trio of elderly back-gammon and dominoes players who barely acknowledged the other patients, including Jamie; and if the pair did happen to bump into one another in the corridor, Jamie’s attempts at an intimate conversation were cheerfully and politely rebuffed, like old Mr Murphy had said his piece and wasn't interested in taking the relationship any further.

Or is he waiting for me to prove something? Waiting for something to happen?

You see, Mr Murphy had all-but advised him to say the demon’s name. He thought it was the key to unlocking his memory: “If I were you I’d have to wonder why I’m afraid to put a name to the thing that scares me the most.” [See Part 19]

It was the only significant conversation he’d had thus far, but despite the old man’s apparent sincerity, Jamie couldn't bring himself to say it. He knew the power those syllables possessed -- especially in a metaphysical dimension -- but does Mr Murphy know? Is the old man a force for good?

Or is he the demon himself?

Whatever the existential circumstances, the lack of any stimulus whatsoever was driving him nuts. By Thursday morning he’d decided enough was enough; he had to do something break the deadlock. He had to see Mondale and arrange a consultation; preferably before the weekend. So, that afternoon after lunch, he’d approached the nurses’ station and talked to the hard-faced, middle-aged woman in the navy-blue pant-suit uniform whom everyone referred to as Sister. He tapped the thick, smudgy Perspex window and told her he felt much, much better and asked if she would be kind enough to arrange an appointment with Dr Mondale as soon as possible to discuss his ‘amnesia’.

Sitting at the counter on the other side of the glass, Sister replied without looking up from her work, “Dr Mondale has a private practise ‘n only attends this hospital on certain days,” she grunted, in her thick South London twang, “but I wouldn't hold me breath if I were you, luvvie; gettin’ an appointment with the ‘ead doctor can take weeks.”

Jamie wasn't going to argue. Not just because she was a large, formidable woman and short-tempered with it, but a quarrel with her in particular could result in him losing his cool and blowing his chances altogether. He had to keep the boat steady and speak nicely. He gripped the outside ledge tightly to ease the tension and politely persisted, “OK then, if he does come in, will you at least ask if he’ll see me? Please?” he said, effecting the most earnest expression he could muster without looking too wet.

She clearly didn’t want to know but deigned to furnish him with an explanation. She stopped writing, pointed her biro at him and fixed him with a withering stare, “Look -- Mr Jameson-Lumb -- you’ve been here less than a week, ‘aven’t you? That’s not nearly enough time for us to make an initial assessment, let alone refer you back to the doctor!” she looked-him-up-and-down, “’specially after what you got up to! Wrecking the place?! Smashing-up mirrors and frightening the life out of the older patients?! Oh, no, no, no, you need to cool yer ‘eels and take fings slow for a while, then we’ll see,” she said, fanning him away like a bad smell. Then, just when he thought all was lost, a male nurse writing at the desk at the back of the office - a tubby, squat, spiky-haired 19-year-old peroxide-blonde with the pinched face of a sunburned urchin - pushed off from his station on his swivel stool, trundled across the office floor, spun around and stopped just behind her so that he was looking up at Jamie from under her left armpit, “Mondale’s always ‘ere on a Froiday -” he began to say, in a thick Midlands drawl; but before he could finish the sentence, Sister cut him short with a curt: “Yes, thank you, Gaston!” Then she thought better of her tone, smiled affectedly and added with a playful snarl, “you’re such a helpful boy, arentcha?!” put a foot against the seat of the stool and sent him spinning across the floor, back to the desk. But the damage was done and Jamie was on her case.

“Friday? He comes every Friday?” he said, trying not to sound too excited, his nose all-but pressed against the glass.

“Not every Friday!” she barked, hooking a thumb over her shoulder, “Don’t pay no attention to young Nurse Masterson, he ain't been here long enough to know Dr Mondale’s routine,” she turned and added in an accusing voice, “in fact, I’m surprised he’s found the time to observe anybody’s comin’s-'n-goin’s what with his heavy schedule,” she jeered, “he’s on loan from another institution, see. He’s from Wolver'ampton. He’s not up to speed. ” She turned back, rolled her eyes and made a face.

“Well, I’ve been ‘ere for 8 weeks now ‘n ‘is green Bentley is always in its designated parking-space every Froiday...” muttered the disgruntled Wulfrunian.

She kept her eyes on Jamie, tilted her head and yelled, “Nurse Masterson! Go up to Geriatric, empty the bedpans, change the dressings and tap the drips, would you, dear?! Thank You!”

Appalled, the spiky-headed nurse pointed his pen at the clock on the wall above the desk, shook his head and protested, “Doreen did the rounds not ‘alf-an-hour ago!”

Her fists tightened until the knuckles whitened, the pained-smile intensified: “Thank you, Nurse Masterson!” she growled through gritted-teeth, in a low, don’t-mess-with-me-tone.

Gaston Masterson sighed exasperatedly, slapped his hands on the desk, laboriously hauled himself to his feet and trudged out of the inner door mumbling inaudible curses under his breath, his hands deep the sagging pockets of his baggy-blue flannels.

Jamie, wide-eyed and eager, asked again, “So... if he comes in tomorrow... will you ask him?”

She was very agitated now, but Jamie was too reasonable to be fobbed-off. After shuffling through some papers on the counter, she eventually capitulated with extreme reluctance, “Look, just to get you off my back, I’ll see what I can do -- but like I said -- don’t get your hopes up,” was as far as she would go. Jamie graciously accepted the reply and slowly and gracefully withdrew -- then, as soon as he was out of sight of the window -- he bolted down the adjacent corridor and grabbed Masterson by the sleeve of his tunic before he exited the security doors. Alarmed, the spiky-headed nurse shook off Jamie’s hand, shied-away and pointed to the sign on the wall: “No Patients Beyond This Point!” he recited, shakily, backing over the thick red line painted across the floor.

Jamie took a step backward and put his hands in the air, “Listen, dude, I’m OK, I’m fine, honestly, but this place is driving me crazy -- I need to see Mondale! Could you arrange it for me?" he whispered, trying not to sound frantic or manic.

Shaking his head, Masterson turned away and walked toward the exit, “Look, I know your story ‘n I sympathise, but I can’t get involved. You heard the ol’ bat, and she’s doin’ my report, she’d just luv to ‘ave an excuse to fail me!” he said, glancing up the corridor, making sure the object of his disaffection wasn't listening.

Jamie heard the hesitation in his voice and pleaded with him, “I just need to talk to him for 5 minutes. It’s really important -- If there’s anything you can do, y’know, it would mean an awful lot to me...?”

Masterson paused to have a think about it, but eventually the little pinched urchin-face screwed up, “For Christ’s sake, can’t you get one of your visitors to do it? Or your solicitor?!” he whinged, turning back, taking his swipe-card from his back pocket as he approached the doors.

“I don’t get visitors and I haven’t been assigned legal counsel yet! I don’t have anyone...” Jamie whisper-shouted, in an impassioned voice.

The beleaguered nurse stopped again, sighed, tapped the swipe-card on his chin for a moment or two and contemplated the pros-&-cons, “If the ol’ bitch foinds out I’ll get a bollockin’, for sure... then again, I do fancy his secretary... I suppose it’d gimme an excuse to go upstairs ‘n chat-‘er-up...” he looked up the corridor again, grinned and nodded, “OK, mate, I’ll see what I can do,” he said, thoughtfully, chuckling to himself as he swiped the door and pushed his way through.

That was all Jamie needed: a ray of sunshine at the end of a long, dark, tedious tunnel; something to cling to. He punched the air and skipped up the corridor, giving Sister a wide smile as he passed the nurses’ station.

So now he can’t sleep. He’s lying atop the covers in his room-slash-cell smoking, staring at the ceiling going over the impending interview in his head, making sure he has an answer for any question and a plan of action for any twist in the discourse. The main thing is he has to be believed. He has to get out of here. No matter if it is Real Life or not.

If this world works on logic, then I’ll take it to its logical conclusion...

...

The next morning he was up at the crack of dawn, pacing his room, wondering if he should go to the canteen wait for Masterson to come down for his breakfast and ask him if he’d delivered the request. No. He’d have to continue playing things cool, any sign of impatience could be construed as impending mania. And what if the meeting doesn’t happen.... what then?

I’ll be in a straitjacket by Sunday.

But that afternoon after lunch, after hours of chain-smoking, nail-biting and constant clock-watching, just when he thought he could take the suspense no longer, he finally got what he’d been waiting for. The tinny PA ding-donged, the hospital radio muzak cut-out and Sister’s voice crackled in the speakers, “Would Mr Jameson-Lumb please report to the nurses’ station.”

He didn’t need telling twice; he pushed his mop-&-bucket into a corner and hurried to the smudgy window. Sister looked as if she had a bad taste in her mouth as she delivered the message: “Dr Mondale wants to see you at 3PM,” she sang, in a would-you-believe-it-voice at odds with her sour expression.

Jamie smiled, “Thank you, Sister, I owe you one,” he replied, gratefully - after all, who else could have arranged it?

Her eyes narrowed with mistrust, “Oh, don’t thank me; I just took the call from upstairs. Funny. I’ve never known 'im to take an appointment as late as 3 on a Friday. Ever. He’s usually teeing-off by 1:30.”

“Aren't I the lucky boy, then?” he trilled, grinning from ear to ear.

She turned and beheld the back of Nurse Masterson’s spiky head as he scribbled away at his desk, and murmured, “Very lucky, very lucky indeed...”

At 2:55PM, the same two burly orderlies that had escorted him on his first day arrived to take him to his appointment. They took the elevator back upstairs and walked him through the dim, wood-panelled Edwardian labyrinth that led to Dr Mondale’s office; but this time they stayed back at the door and allowed Jamie to walk to the chair in the centre of the room unescorted; this time the room was in semi-darkness, the curtains on the eyebrow windows drawn against the last glimmer of dusk. The only source of light came from a reading lamp on Mondale’s huge mahogany desk, behind which he sat writing, his gold cufflinks glinting intermittently as his hand moved across the page. He eventually finished, closed the notebook and sat back in the chair so that his face disappeared into shadow until only his shoulders, upper-arms and the lower part of his face were lit. “Jamie. What can I do for you?” he inquired in a lukewarm tone, drumming the clip of his pen on the edge of the blotter.

Jamie immediately went into Job Interview Mode: legs neatly crossed, hands folded in his lap, back straight, sounding lucid and self-assured, “First of all, thank you for seeing me at such short notice, Dr Mondale, I know this wasn't on your schedule.”

Mondale held up a yellow notelet, “Yes, my secretary got an urgent request from the nurses’ office. Most unusual. They know I like to keep my Friday afternoons free,” he replied, tersely, screwing the note into a ball. “So? What is it you wanted to see me about? Have you remembered anything from your past? Something I can pass on to the authorities...?”

Jamie answered as earnestly as he could, “No, but... I feel so much better, sir -- in fact I’m completely stable. Feeling normal. My mind is clear. Whatever trouble I may have caused must have been a passing phase, and I am sorry. But I’m OK now. I don’t think there’s any need to detain me in the Secure Unit any longer. I’d like to arrange an appraisal as soon as possible... with a view to getting out...?” he was forced to curtail his carefully rehearsed entreaty when he saw the sceptical expression on Mondale’s face.

The shadow shook its head and chuckled mirthlessly, “Getting out? Really, Jamie. As I’m sure you’ve been told, it takes at least two weeks’ observation before we can make a definitive assessment of your condition. I mean, who knows what could trigger another episode? When all’s said and done, we know very little about you. And if I seem a little cynical, it’s because I’ve lost count of the men and women who've sat in that chair - people who've been in here a lot longer than you - telling me how they ‘feel normal’ and how they ‘see things clearly now’. If I took any of them at their word, the country would be overrun with homicidal psychopaths, maniacal sociopaths and dangerous schizophrenics.”

Jamie had anticipated this reply and countered with confidence and certainty, “My violent behaviour was an aberation brought on by fear and confusion following an extended coma, not malicious intent or psychosis, sir. I don’t have those feelings anymore. Whatever it was, I’ve got it out of my system. I’ve adjusted. I’m just a confused amnesiac searching for answers, you have nothing to fear from me.”

A golden tooth gleamed as Mondale grinned, “You state your case quite eloquently and convincingly, and rest assured we will do all in our power to help you find those answers, Jamie, but I must warn you: you mightn't like what we discover.” He sat forward so that lamp lit his heavily-lined face, took off his reading glasses and stared, “Remember, Jamie, you’re not just here because of your condition, you’re also here because the police are still investigating your case and the circumstantial evidence points to you being a drug dealer -- and an armed one, at that. For all we know you could be a murderer, too. You see our dilemma. We can’t take any chances.” He paused to let that last comment sink in, then added, “You are a walking conundrum that everyone wants to decipher, Jamie. Your circumstances won’t change until we get to the bottom of you.”

Jamie moved to Plan B: “In that case, I’d like to see a solicitor ASAP,” he asked, self-assuredly if a little impatiently, crossing his arms to hide his fists.

“Very well,” said Mondale, sitting forward, nodding magnanimously, taking a note, “I’ll make the necessary arrangements.”

“When?”

His face low and fully lit, Mondale looked over the rims of his readers, glared and grumbled as if he’d just been insulted, “As soon as my secretary gets around to it.” Then he regrouped, took off his specs, rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, sighed and confessed, “I’m very sorry. I’m a little cranky, Jamie. It’s been a long week.” He smoothed his thinning hair, sat back in his chair and spoke from the shadows again, “Look at it this way: you were found unconscious in a cold, grubby squat in a condemned block of flats in a council estate notorious for its high crime rate. Here, you are safe, you are warm, you have a roof over your head. You get three meals a day and a comfortable bed. I can assure you you will be assigned a solicitor as soon as we do our first assessment in 2 weeks time.”

Getting increasingly frustrated, Jamie lost it for a second and snapped, “I need to talk to someone today! I can’t stick this place a minute longer!” he cried, punching his thigh.

The orderlies stirred.

Jamie immediately apologised, relaxed and resumed in a more reasonable tone, “I’m sorry, Dr Mondale, but the Secure Unit is driving me up the wall. There’s nothing to do down there besides my chores and look out of the window. No good books, the TV’s only on for 3 hours every night, the hospital radio plays gawd-awful muzak all day long, there’s nobody my age who isn't a complete nutcase.... I lie awake in my room every night listening to the pipes drip and the clock tick... if I’m not mad already, I’ll go mad from the boredom...”

After a moment’s thought, Mondale cleared his throat, lowered his voice and explained, “Routine is very important to our patients, some of them are deeply disturbed; we don’t like to over-stimulate them. But I may be able get you a transistor radio for your room...” He sat forward again, made another note, then laced his hands together on the desktop, looked Jamie in the eye and asked, “There is one thing you could do for me.”

Jamie was all ears.

“Tell me that you no longer think this world is an illusion.... that this is just a dream.”

Although he’d expected it, the bluntness of the key question startled him. He swallowed the dryness from his throat and carefully considered his answer, finally settling on: “I know this is the Real world.”

The hesitation hadn't gone unnoticed: “Ahh, but do you truly believe it?”

Here we go. “Yes. I mean, what else could it be?” Jamie touched the side of the chair, “it’s tangible. When I cut myself shaving, I bleed. When I bang my knee on the bedside locker, it hurts. This is reality. I mean, the alternative is a crazy world of witches, wizards and demons, isn't it? The fever dream of a coma victim?”

Mondale stared for a moment longer then shook his head, “No. I’m sorry. I don’t believe you.”

Of course you don’t -- you can see right through me! -- he screamed inside, but on the surface, Jamie was stoicism incarnate, nodding sagely as if the doctor’s doubts were wholly justified, “I know how it seems, sir, but my brain created a world so vivid, that when I awoke, I thought this was part of the dream. I couldn't trust my own eyes, let alone believe the people around me... I suppose that’s why I lashed out.”

Leaning forward on his elbows, Mondale asserted, “If you are telling me the truth, then a few more weeks’ observation shouldn't...” but before he could go any further, there was a loud knock at the door; simultaneously the console on his desk buzzed. Confused, he frowned, lifted the receiver, listened for a few seconds, then grumbled into the mouthpiece, “Yes, I know! He’s at the door now! How did he get in?! You should have called security!! Oooh, nevermind -- I’ll deal with him! Goodbye!!” he hung-up and told the orderlies to let whoever-it-was in.

Jamie turned and watched as a lanky, middle-aged man, with a slicked-back widow’s peak, wearing a long, dark grey trenchcoat with the lapels turned-up to obscure most of his long, lugubrious face, entered the room. Jamie recognised him straightaway -- his heart leapt -- but he resolved to keep his own counsel until he saw how it would play.

“What is the meaning of this?” blustered Mondale, “my secretary told you to wait in her office until I’d finished with this patient?!”

“It’s this patient I’ve come to see!” the intruder curtly informed him, taking out his wallet and flashing his ID. He brushed past the orderlies, came and stood beside Jamie and explained in a broad-but-officious Northern Irish brogue, “Detective Inspector Harkness, RUC CID. I need to take this man back to Belfast with me on a matter of some urgency,” then he took out his handcuffs and grabbed Jamie’s wrist.

Although a little scared and bewildered, Jamie was mostly relieved. As soon as the hand touched his wrist he experienced a warm tingle and a familiar shiver ripple through his Essence. At last: a breakthrough!

Meanwhile, insulted by Harkness’ offhand behaviour and utter disregard for procedure, Mondale lost his cool, “What the -- the authorities are obliged to go through the proper channels, DI Harkness! You can’t just turn up at my practise and drag my patients off like common criminals!!” Getting to his feet, he pointed toward the door and yelled, “Now, get out!” He looked to the orderlies as if he expected them to forcibly eject the interloper. Harkness stood his ground, looked back at them and scowled. They looked at each other, shrugged an apology, but unanimously decided not to intervene.

“Right! That does it! I’m calling the Chief Constable!” barked Mondale, picking up the phone again.

While the doctor made the call, Harkness stooped, covered his mouth and whispered in Jamie’s ear, “It’s going to be alright. It’s me - Carla.”

“Carla...?”

The Ivy House

23:05pm GMT:

The shadows rippled as the candles fluttered as Lady Beth swept into the drawing room and headed straight for the vast array of liquor bottles on the long Queen Anne sideboard, grumbling about the trials and tribulations of the previous 48 hours, “Bloody Washington... then bastard Rossington... fucking wolf-men!! ...what the hell will it be next? - come home someday and find the rest of the house burning down and Godzilla stomping around the grounds?!!” She lifted a hefty tumbler, poured herself a very large malt and diluted it with a short scoot of seltzer, “Where is the maid?! Where is Fordham the footman?! -- this is the second time today I’ve arrived home to no reception,” she shouted, glancing over her shoulder.

Puffing and wheezing, Ogden Castle, the Lumb family’s corpulent butler, pulled-up-short in the doorway, leaned against the wall to catch his breath and explained in a series of short, breathless gasps, “Well...milady... the household staff is... indisposed at the minute, milady, the proliferation of negative energy is making everyone sick... And we... we... moved Master Jamie back to his room in the sanatorium... Carla’s with him now, milady... keeping an eye on him... alas,” he shook his head disconsolately, “... I’m sorry to say, it... it isn't lookin’ good for ‘im, milady, he’s deeply entranced... we might lose 'im altogether...”

Glass aloft as if about to propose a toast, Her Ladyship hitched up her tight skirt, flopped into the couch beside the fireplace, crossed her legs, threw back her head and exclaimed in a devil-may-care-voice, “Well, that’s one bloody consolation!” she crowed, “I’ll get control of the estate and there’ll be one less fruitcake at the dinner table!”

Still wheezing, Castle leaned against the back of the armchair opposite and tried to spell-it-out, “I don’t mean he’ll die, milady, it’s somethin’ worse than that... if Young Master Jamie succumbs, we’ll lose everything, the Psychosphere will be destroyed...”

She put up a hand, clicked her fingers and cut him dead, “Ah-ah-ah! Don’t wanna know, buddy-boy! I’ve had it with this bullshit!!” she said, taking a large swig before curtly elaborating, “if it doesn’t affect This World or this house -- I don’t want to hear about it!” She kicked off her shoes, pulled her feet up under her, reclined on a plump Persian cushion and closed her eyes.

Castle waited for a moment then sheepishly informed her, “It will affect everything if the Young Master becomes possessed, milady. The demon will...”

The eyes snapped open -- she cut him dead again: “AH-AH! What I tell you? Demons aren't of This World, Ogden,” she said, drawing loops in the air with her finger, “it’s all... psychic-telepathic-mystical-hocus-pocus in your heads -- it’s got nothing to do with me!”

“Please hear me out, milady, indulge me just this once. If the demon invades the Young Master’s psyche he will infect everything -- and I’m not talking about him transforming into monster like Master Gosling, or a goblin-thing like Miss Danielle -- I’m talking about him becoming a different person altogether --- a man possessed -- manipulated from inside by something with the guile to utilise the coven’s resources to achieve its diabolical ends! For instance, can you imagine what would happen if he had access to the White House?!”

Her Ladyship arched an eyebrow and smirked, “Really......? Do tell.”

“This isn't funny, Lizzy!” he hissed, giving her one of his sternest looks, “remember what happened when he got his claws into you!” [See Part 4]

Her cheeks reddened as her blood rose; she sat up, punched a cushion and shouted, “I’m not being fucking funny!!” She pointed in the direction of the sanatorium, “Maybe demonic possession is the best thing for that twerp! Maybe that’s what we need: a cut-throat, cold-blooded, conniving son-of-bitch who’ll beat the Washington crowd at their own game! It’ll save me having to do it, for one thing! Because I’m getting mighty sick of all this cloak and dagger malarkey, matey-boy, I can tell you that!” She took another sip and then pointed a finger at the despairing, perspiring butler, “As I told you this afternoon -- before I had to rush off and snatch Wolf-Boy from Rossington’s booby-hatch -- the Washington Witches want rid of us -- and by the looks of it SCICI is in on the hit! It was written all over Rossington’s smug perma-tanned mug!!” She took a breath and thought back to the encounter then intimated with an indignant gasp, “... would you believe his chauffeur pulled a gun on me?! A gun, Ogden!! [See Part 18] First they accost me at the airport [See Part 16] -- then Rossington’s henchman pulls a gun on me! That’s how low they’re prepared to go! Sir Arnold must be spinning in his urn!”

Castle did indeed find these tidings deeply disquieting, but first things first: “Milady, if Master Jamie gets possessed the demon will have control of the Psychosphere and he will obliterate every ‘Güül on the planet -- our very Souls will be devoured by his dark energy, the coven will be wiped out within hours. The staff will die. I will die. There will be no organisation, legitimate or otherwise. No spells, no enchantments,” he gave her a sly look, “no longevity potions or reconstructive surgeons, Lizzy.... Nothing.”

She raised an eyebrow and cocked an eye: you’re on very thin ice, mister, don’t push it.

But Castle continued unabashed, “There’ll be no one left but Master Jamie: heir to the estate and the Judge’s fortune, possessed of a spirit bent on the destruction of everything on this planet. And you, of course. That’s if he chooses to let you live, which is highly unlikely, given that you’re the only one who knows what he’s up to...”

She shrugged, “Then kill him. No Jamie: no one to possess.”

“We need him, Lizzy. If the Washington Witches have indeed moved against us, we need him more than ever.”

The morbid diatribe inspired another explosion of angst. She almost spilled her drink when she punched the arm of the couch and yelled, “Jeeeeezus H. Christ! What do I have to do to get some peace and fucking quiet round here?!” jumping to her feet, she rounded the couch and began prodding him in his gargantuan gut, reminding him of her murderous caveat that afternoon, “I warned you about goblin-girl, didn’t I? I warned you to get rid of her before I got back...” she paused to take another sip............ then the poking and heckling resumed, “But no, you ignore a direct order because all you care about is your stupid Prophesy and your bloody ‘Prime Directive’! And now look where we are! You useless sack of shhh........ Ooh, hello Xavier, darling, didn’t see you there...”

The tall, dark, mute, shaven-headed, broad-shouldered figure of her redoubtable chauffeur filled the doorway, cap under arm, Ivan Cochrane’s scrapbook in one hand and the roll of photocopied hieroglyphs in the other. “Everything alright, Xav? Did you put our patient to bed?” Her Ladyship asked, in much sweeter, much softer tone.

The chauffeur looked to the butler to expound. Castle cleared his throat and officiously obliged, “Since Master Gosling has returned to his original form, I instructed Mr X to put ‘im in a room on the 2nd floor toward the back of the house and strap ‘im to the bed as a precaution, milady.” Castle brought the chauffeur in and took the scrapbook from his hand, “Ahh, so this is the notorious scrapbook, is it?” he asked, looking at the cover. Xavier stood behind him, reached over his shoulder and flipped through the pages of childish sketches and comic book clippings until he found the page edged with a series of doodles -&-squiggles; underlining a particular section with his long, dark index-finger, he then turned and pointed at the ornate Bavarian grandfather clock in the alcove adjacent to the inglenook: 11:09.

“Midnight? It ends at midnight?” said Castle, getting evermore perturbed.

Xavier stood back and nodded, solemnly.

“Oh shite...” murmured Castle, studying the notation.

Her Ladyship coughed and interrupted, “Excuse me, but what the hell’s going on now...?”

Castle was too busy studying the ‘text’ to supply a comprehensive reply, “According to this... the spell woven by Gosling and Young Master Jamie is due to expire at midnight, milady, and...”

There followed a long pause while Castle continued to scan the lines.

She thumped his arm, “... And?!”

The punch barely registered and he went on reading, pausing only to glance at the pocket watch, “I dunno... the rest is gibberish as far as I can see...” he looked up at the chauffeur and asked his opinion; Xavier shrugged and shook his head. Castle nodded in agreement, “Aye, it’s not like anythin' I’ve seen before, either.” He turned to Her Ladyship, “The only recognisable figures are these numerals denoting the witching hour, milady. If we’re right, it means we've got less than an hour to sort this out...”

“’They’? Are you referring to those ‘beings’ buried under the house?” she asked, getting evermore irritated by his lack of focus.

“Aye, milady, it was the Martyrs all along...” he held up the roll of the hieroglyphs, “from this spell in the Boy King’s tomb to the one that turned Miss Danielle into that goblin-thing!” he showed her the page containing said spell and Ivan’s childish rendition of the monster his daughter eventually became.

Her Ladyship screwed-up her nose as if the sketch smelled as bad as it looked, “Worthy of the National Gallery,” she sneered, crossing her arms and looking at the floor, “answer me this: if these Dark-Martyrs-or-whatever-they’re-called have been buried under the house for over 7000 years, then how the hell did they carve the runes in King Tut’s tomb?”

Castle sighed and spoke impatiently, as if he was talking to a boorish child, “The Martyrs’ had a band of so-called ‘disciples’ -- a bunch of human would-be sorcerers in-and-around the Middle East during the 8th century BC -- it’s more-than-likely they put it there. Trouble is, the demon was in the area at the same time, so there’s also the possibility that he could've meddled with it! Whoever’s responsible, we’re caught in a trap,” he looked to Xavier, “you heard the demon’s ‘confession’, didn’t you, Mr X? ‘My enemies will soon be vanquished. The ducks are all sitting in a row. It’s just a case of shooting them down, one by one’, he said, remember?” [See Part 18]

Xavier nodded deeply and sombrely.

“Well, it looks like the shooting is due to begin sometime in the next three-quarters-of-an-hour!”

A strong draught blew through the room causing the candles to flicker, the shadows to sway and the fire to crackle with a sudden burst of flame.

All three looked down at the floor.

“Will all of you die?”

“Most assuredly, milady.”

“Even Xavier?”

“Uh-huh. Every Güül on the globe will perish within minutes, milady. There’ll be Soul death on a massive scale.”

“What do we do?”

Castle looked at the clock again (11:14), “I need to study this ‘text’, see if I can work it out before midnight. I should consult with the ancient mystics and the elders down in Namibia, get their take on it, but that’s impossible what with the Psychosphere rife with negative energy and the crystal balls too hot to handle...” Just then, the walkie-talkie cackled in his inside pocket, “That’ll be Gustafson at the gatelodge, milady -- if you’ll excuse me, the reception is better by the windows...” he walked to the back of the room and put the receiver to his ear.The news wasn't good: “Oh dear, oh dear.... Bear with me a moment, will you, Gusty....” he turned back, beheld her with a hapless frown and nervously passed it on, “You won’t believe this, but apparently Detective Inspector Harkness is here, milady -- and he’s on foot. Says his car broke down. Says he had to abandon it ‘n walk the rest of the way...” he squeezed his eyes shut and winced in anticipation of the inevitable explosion:

“Harkness?! HERE?! NOW?!” she screeched, glancing at the clock (11:15), “What in the name of holy fucking-fuck is that bastard doing here at this time of night?!”

“Says he’s on official police business, milady, ‘it can’t wait’, says he,” Castle gave her a brief summary of the nights’ events, including Harkness’ kidnapping [see part 18] and McKee’s subsequent rampage south of the border, “so... will you see him, milady?”

She was flabbergasted and aghast! It took her a good few seconds to collect her thoughts, “What the fuck has his kidnapping got to do with us...?”

“Well, McKee was the man who set fire to half the house 3 years ago, milady, he could've told him something; Harkness could've made a connection... I dunno. We won’t know anything unless you talk to him, milady,” suggested Castle, timidly.

She paced the floor in front of the fireplace -- gnashing her teeth, tearing at her hair -- speechless with rage and incomprehension!

“I hate to rush you but Gusty’s waiting, milady...?”

She threw up her hands, stomped a stockinged-foot and ranted, “You might as well tell them to bring him up -- but he can bloody wait a while! I need a bath -- and it’s gonna be a long-fucking-soak!” She slugged the rest of her drink, slammed the tumbler down on the sideboard, picked up her shoes and stormed out, “Will this day ever fucking end.....?” Then she stopped suddenly, had a second thought, swivelled on her heel, stomped back, took the half-full bottle of malt from the sideboard, clasped it to her breast and stomped out again, giving Castle one last scowl before she left.

Castle made sure the coast was clear before issuing Xavier with his orders, “Go upstairs, keep watch over Master Gosling and await further instructions,” he whispered, handing over his walkie-talkie, “I’ve got four men with rifles stationed in the basement watching young Dani,” he glanced toward the window, “Carla’s in the sanatorium keeping an eye on Master Jamie, so I’ll go over there ‘n send her over here to entertain Harkness.” He put the scrapbook and the roll of photocopies under his arm, “while I’m there, I’ll study the runes, see if I can make head-or-tail of this. If not, we might haveta take drastic measures...” he looked up into Xavier’s sorrowful, deep, dark eyes, “I trust you to know what to do, Mr X. Just keep it nice ‘n quiet, OK? We don’t want the Inspector hearin’ anything that might give him cause to seek a search warrant. Got a knife on ya?”

Xavier lowered his eyes and nodded, gravely.

Castle patted his arm, “Good man,” he said, taking a last look at the clock (11:19). Before they parted, he smiled a pained smile and shook Xavier's hand, “Best of luck Mr X. One way or another, brother, this’ll end at midnight...”

A few minutes ago, in the sanatorium, in Jamie’s room: Castle’s niece, Mme Carla Infanté, clad in jeans and a grey sweatshirt, her long, silver hair strewn across the shiny black satin pillow, idly runs a long, slender index-finger along the jawline of her slumbering muse and reflects. She studies the outline of his profile intently, and, not for the first time, wonders if she’s doing the right thing. After all, it’s been 30 years since she’d turned her back on This World to embrace the more cerebral side of witchcraft under the tutelage of Ebben Blom, the most powerful psychic alive. She’d divested herself of her mortal coil’s base desires to become a fully-fledged Silver Siren: emotionless, pragmatic, instincts honed, powers at their peak; a woman devoid of sentiment or doubt. Putting her faith in a callow boy was a retrograde step, was it not?

During her years in active service she’d taken many lovers, male and female, but purely for pleasure or exploitation. She’d also bedded a veritable rogue’s gallery of royals, generals, spies and heads of state on behalf of the coven; mortals who needed guidance or diversion on their iniquitous paths. She’d walked through the dark catacombs of warped psyches and emerged with her sanity intact. She knew how they ticked. She’d killed quite a few of them, too. She’d gazed without emotion into their beseeching, bewildered eyes as the last spark of life dimmed there and died. She felt nothing for the living or the dead...

...until she met Jamie, looked into his head, and saw something that changed her mind. [See Part 8]

Taking the mirror from his pillow, she looked into her own eyes and asked herself: is my unquestioning devotion clouding my judgement? Is he truly a ‘Messiah’? Or is she kidding herself? Is Uncle Ogden right: is she seeing something she wants to see because she’s smitten? Is it because she never had children and her devotion is a belated awakening of motherly instinct? Or perhaps I am just getting old? She drew her fingernail across Jamie’s throat. If I was truly dutiful I would kill you before he takes you...

“Penny for them thoughts, ssssssssister!” hissed a voice, somewhere above her.

Startled, she immediately sprang to a sitting position and listened. She hadn't heard any doors opening or closing: this could be an incursion! Then a serpent’s head suddenly dropped down from the canopy, “scare you, did I, luvvie -- I am sssssorry,” it hissed as it coiled around the bedpost, its scales glinting like tiny wet cobbles in the candlelight.

Needless to say it was Noel, the late Judge’s 100 year-old foulmouthed, troublemaking, pet Burmese python [see part 10] and Carla was not pleased to see him, “What are you doing in here? Get out and leave us in peace!” she moaned, lying back, putting a hand to her brow and waving him away. Nobody had any time for Noel, least of all in the midst of a crisis.

“Is that a mirror on the pillow? I thought yezzz weren’t allowed to ‘ave mirrorssss after the last time?!” he asked, in that annoying, reedy, sneery voice of his.

“Go away Noel.” She looked up, “How did you get in here anyway?”

“Via the central heating duct, have to keep close to the pipes, ssssee, what with me bein’ cold-blooded ‘n all and it bein’ friggin’ freezin’ outsssssside!” he turned his head and tilted it in the direction of the rear wall. “I wanna know what’s goin’ on! Nobody elssse will tell me: Dresh ‘n Gebbit (the botanical gardeners) are in a right mood -- told me to fuck off, so-they-did! The house is like a fuckin’ graveyard -- you should sssee the kitchen ssstaff -- missserable as sssssin, they are! Sat round the hearth wringing their hands ‘n hummin’ one of them stupid chantsss! It’s like a bloody morgue down there, so-tissssss!” He descended further and looked down on Jamie, “... I suppose it’s all down to coma-boy, again, is it? Him ‘n that lizzzzardy-girlie-thingummy you’ve got locked-up in the dungeon, innit? They’re both away with the faeries, ain’t they? It’s got to do with that demon, innit? He’s got into their headsssss, ain’t ‘e...?”

Carla tried being nice about it, “Noel, please, please leave, this is not a good time...”

But Noel was undeterred and explained as he slithered down, “I’m not psssssychic, me, y’ ssssee. I’m just a talkin’ snake, me -- I can’t read yer minds or follow yer mumbo jumbo -- but I’m a member of thissss-here household, oh yessss indeed, I’m not a ssservant or a guessst -- ‘n I have every right to know what’s afoot! Yesssss?!” he said, his tongue lashing.

Feigning interest, Carla propped her head up and stared into his beady eyes, “Hmmm, I was forgetting that. You’re really just a common Familiar, aren’t you?” she remarked, with a hint of intrigue in her tone.

Noel was affronted, “Familiar?! I’m a magic sssnake, me! I’m the Eighth fuckin’ Wonder of this world, missssy: I can talk -- Familiars can’t talk, no sssssireeeee -- there’s only one of me!!” his voice lowered to a low, hissy growl, “... what are you gettin’ at, anyway?”

Carla sat up, “Magic snake or not, I could peer inside your little skull and see your thoughts. I wouldn't need the Psychosphere to do that, would I? I could look directly into your memories -- uncover all your secrets! All I would have to do is touch you...” she said, mischievously, and began to crawl along the bed toward him, her eyes locked on his, a predatory smirk playing on her lips.

Still wound around the bedpost, Noel swung his head away, “Oi -- keep back -- I heard about you!! You’re one of them ice-queens, aintcha?! Asssssassssins, yez are! Don’t you dare lay a hand on me,” he cried, as he tried his best to uncoil and retreat, “get back, now, I mean it -- I’ll choke the life out of ya! I might be long in the tooth, but I can still ssssssqueeeeeze -- !”

Alas, Carla was too nimble for him -- in a flash -- she leapt forward, snatched him by the neck and pulled him to her. A long thumb was now pressed against his lower jaw forcing his head up so they were nose-to-snout, gazing into each other’s eyes, “Did you know that physical contact provides an instant connection with the nervous system of any living creature?” she asked, archly, grinning evilly, her teeth gleaming, “you are all mine, Mr Snake.”

Now stiff as a bishop’s crosier, Noel protested loudly in a high, panicked voice: “Fuck off! Lemme go! Help! HELP!! MURDER!!”

She put a finger on the top of his head and said, “I’m not going to kill you. But I could if I so desired. I’d just have to think it and that tiny stone of a heart of yours would stop beating...”

The old snake proceeded to bleat like a condemned coward on the steps of the guillotine, “Have mercssssy! I’m only a lowly, lonely snake with nuthin’ to do but slink round this miserable auld housssse day-in-day-out -- I’m harmlesssssssss, me!!”

“It won’t hurt. I just want to burrow into your mind for a few minutes...” she said, with an evil glint in her eye.

“Ohh no! Don’t, pleeeeeeeasssssssse...”

“Let ‘im go, Carrie,” said a voice to her right, “You know full-well he doesn’t have a Soul. You’d probably kill him.” Her uncle waddled into the chamber and closed the door behind him. “Also, he’s protected by Sir Arnold’s last will & testament. The old man was very specific: ‘no harm must befall my beloved Noel’.”

“Hear that?! -- I’m a protected sssspeciessss!! Ssssso --- lemme go, bitch!” hissed the snake, triumphantly.

Carla begrudgingly released him from her grasp. He fell from the canopy and landed in a coiled heap on the counterpane, hissing and cursing. “I was only trying to frighten him, uncle. He needs taking down a peg or two from time-to-time,” she explained, in a dull voice laden with ennui.

“He’s a right-royal-pain-in-the arse, there’s no doubt about that, my darlin’, but there are more important things to worry about than the capers of a meddlesome serpent,” said Castle, agreeably, before sharpening his tongue and addressing the python directly, “so fuck off back to the wee jungle with ye -- and stay outta trouble til this business is settled, OK?!”

Noel didn’t need telling twice and slithered away as fast as he could, stopping only to hurl a volley of obscene misogynistic expletives from a safe distance before disappearing into the darkness at the back of the room. Castle took a chair from beside the dressing table, brought it to the bed and informed her, “I’m taking over the vigil for a while, Carrie. You’re needed at the house: hostess duty,” he informed her, sitting down with a heavy sigh, “Detective Inspector Harkness has decided to pay us a visit and Her Ladyship insists on havin’ a bath before she talks to him. In the meantime, I need to study this,” he held up the scrapbook, “so you’ll haveta entertain him for a wee while until she’s ready.” He sat forward, looked down at Jamie and said, “it shouldn't take more than half-an-hour.”

“So, that is the infamous scrapbook?” she asked, wondering why he was avoiding her eyes.

“Tis indeed, my dear,” he said, putting a hand on Jamie’s shoulder and changing the subject, “how has he been? Any change?”

Carla looked at Jamie and shook her head sadly, “No, he hasn’t stirred, but his pulse and breathing are steady... although, his skin feels cold...” she said, then changed the subject back, “So, that is the book that contains the spell that cursed young Danielle?”

“Yep, this is the cause of all the recent trouble,” he said, opening the book on his lap and flipping through the pages while relating the story of Lady Beth’s visit to SCICI and Master Gosling’s unfortunate mutation. However, his explanation failed to mention the impending midnight deadline or his plans for the hapless victims should the worst come to the worst. Carla knew he was hiding something and gave him a sly look, paying particular attention to his pockets. “No need to worry, Carrie, I’ll take good care of him,” he muttered, without looking up from the page.

Still not entirely convinced, she nevertheless moved to the edge of the bed and began to undress, “What does Harkness want?” she asked, pulling off her sweatshirt and unbuttoning her jeans.

“Gawd only knows, chile. Probably something to do with this eejit McKee. That’s why I’m making meself scarce. I’m not in the mood to stand to attention ‘n keep quiet while he makes sarky innuendos.” He went on to tell her about McKee’s most recent activities, “He’s on the run in Wicklow, and according to our Mr X, the Familiar and its master are presently in hot pursuit -- he clocked them at the border checkpoint an hour ago. If they can find him before the cops - contain him - and Jamie manages to hold-out that long, the demon could be forced back to the host and a calamity could be averted... but as I’ve told you before,” he glanced at Jamie and sighed, “he’s been stuck in the Void for a long time, Carrie, the Martyrs are risen, and we dunno what they’re up to. All things considered, you may prepare yourself for the worst.”

“Jamie will surprise you,” she replied, confidently. Now naked, her pale skin shimmering in the candlelight, Carla crossed the room to the walk-in wardrobe and perused the myriad outfits on the rail, eventually selecting a slinky, tight-fitting, black Lycra catsuit. “I’ve met Harkness before, have I not? He is one of Chief Superintendent Ogle’s men, is he not?”

“Aye, but Harkness has hadda vested interest in us way-before Ogle got involved. He had a longstanding feud with Bernie, he got so close [see part 2, part 4 and part 5] we hadda take drastic measures,” he put a finger to his forehead, “one of the auld witches in Donegal wiped him, but we don’t know how effective it was; so no mind games, please Carrie. It might trigger a memory. OK?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll play it safe,” she replied, wriggling into the flaccid limbs of the catsuit. “After all, I’m merely a visiting cousin who knows nothing.” She shimmied to straighten the seams, lowered the zip to display a little more cleavage and pinched her nipples until they protruded through the skin-tight cloth.

The big butler looked up from the book, saw what she was doing and advised, “By all-accounts he’s a cold fish, Carrie, you won’t distract him with t-&-a. He’s seen it all before; he’s ex-Vice.”

“I know what I am doing. Just make sure you keep Jamie warm.” She went to the dressing table, dabbed her pulses with perfume and slipped into a precipitous pair of open-toed black pumps. Before leaving, she took a last look at Jamie and said, “Please don’t kill him, Uncle Oggy.”

“I’m just gonna sit here ‘n try ‘n figure this thing out....” Castle replied, distractedly, seemingly too engrossed in his work to look her in the eye.

She shot him a last mistrustful glance and went off to do her duty...

Archie was delivered from the gatelodge to the house in a spanking-new military jeep. The driver, a thunder-faced, heavy-set, shaven headed, beetle-browed hard man in generic fatigues, was giving nothing away despite his sardonic passenger’s incessant enquiries: “Did I spy torches shining across the fields tonight -- were yez combing the grounds for an intruder?” “Paparazzi, was it? A snooper?” “Were yez on night-manoeuvres?” Archie chimed, in the same loud, upbeat tone he used to chide suspects who’d invoked their right to silence. As they passed the uproarious kennels he asked, “Them ol’ hounds are howlin’ somethin’ shockin’ -- did something happen to upset ‘em?”

Unmoved, the driver kept his eyes on the road, his hands on the wheel and his lips firmly zipped.

“They have you well-trained anyway!” Archie tittered, slapping the outside of the door with his left hand.

Not that there was much to titter about. He might have been bullish on the outside, but on the inside his guts were churning, his heart was pounding one-to-the-dozen, his fibre suddenly beset by another unwelcome twinge of direst déjà vu; the same all-encompassing thrum of dread that infested his bones the night of the attack on Pascal’s Pub [See part 2] not to mention his recent encounter on the estate: the very essence of Barry McKee. The air fairly reeked of him. Of it. But if the most recent Gardai reports were to be believed the bold Barry was currently running amok in Wicklow -- 200 miles south of the border. Tell that to my gut, though. The daunting feelings only intensified as the jeep approached the mansion on the hill. An all-too-familiar shiver ran up his spine and prickled the hair on the nape of his neck. By the time they reached the courtyard he was silent, suspicious and morosely circumspect.

The notorious ‘Silver Lady’, AKA Mme Carla Infanté, was waiting for him at the top of the marble staircase. Pallid and perfect as usual, clad in a figure-hugging, black catsuit, casually leaning against an ornate brass lamppost on the patio, smoking a long cigarette in a black holder with the slight breeze gently tousling her long, straight silver hair. She cut quite a figure. A sight for sore eyes and no mistake. Archie momentarily forgot his aches & angst and took-her-in as he slowly ascended the shallow steps, taking the time to smooth back his widow’s peak, tuck in his shirt, fasten the top button and straighten his tie. She looked even better up-close: the outfit accentuated her pale skin so that her face and cleavage became almost luminescent in the muted glow of the gaslight. Of course, Archie’s suspicious mind was working overtime: I wonder if this is for my benefit? An attempt to lower my guard, perhaps...?

Smiling delightedly, she received him with a long, slender, porcelain-white hand, “Good evening, Inspector, what a lovely surprise,” she said, graciously and sweetly, in that seductive, can’t-quite-place-it, Mediterranean purr of hers.

He meekly apologised for the lateness of the hour and gently shook the hand; it was soft and dry and ever-so-slightly slightly cool. “To tell you the truth, luv, I was expecting to be met by the ol’ family butler, y’know -- Mr Castle? Gone to bed, has he...?” Archie asked, as she led the way through the dark of the cavernous vestibule into the dimly lit main hall.

“Mr Castle is busy tending to the Young Master and Lady Beth is having a bath, Inspector, she will be down presently,” she replied, amiably, “in the meantime, I am afraid you will have to make do with my company. I hope you don’t mind...?” She paused at the cloakroom and offered to take his coat but Archie politely refused and confessed he found the house quite chilly, “I suppose this place is too big ‘n draughty to keep the heat,” he commented, looking up the at the high, arched ceiling.

“Our tribe is the hardy type, Inspector,” she explained, cheerfully, “we don’t feel the cold. Some of us rather enjoy it! (big surprise, thought Archie) But not to worry, there’s always a fire in the drawing room!” She invited him into the warm, candle-lit chamber where, sure-enough, a sizeable log fire was crackling in the grate. She offered him a seat on one of the long, leather couches adjacent to the fireplace and then went to the sideboard to fix the drinks. As he made himself comfortable, Archie remarked on the row outside, “The dogs are kicking up quite a racket, I must say. Something spook ‘em, huh?”

Carla shook her head, put her hands on her hips and playfully complained, “Oh, those silly mutts! There must be a fox wandering around the kennels; that usually starts them off. They’ll soon be quiet when they go out on the midnight patrol... Can I get you anything, Inspector...?” she gestured toward the array of bottles and decanters.

Archie smacked his lips and admitted, “Now you come to mention it, luv, after the day I’ve had, I could murder a cuppa tea.”

She laughed, “Yes, if what I hear is true you’ve had quite a time of it! Drugged?! Kidnapped?! Bound and gagged and strapped to a bomb?! I am surprised you are not tucked-up-in-bed sleeping-it-off!”

“Well, I wasn't ‘strapped’ to the bomb; the door to the flat was booby-trapped. But it just goes to show ye -- good news really does travel fast, doesn’t it?” he joked, with a cocked-eye, like: keepin’ tabs on me, are yez?

Unfazed, Carla confessed with a little chuckle, “We saw it on the late-night television news -- they said you were abducted by the same man that murdered those little girls and buried them in the forest. A madman with nothing to lose! You were lucky to escape with your life, no?”

Archie smiled and replied with a wee hint of flint, “Very lucky, very lucky indeed...”

She frowned and tutted, “Ghastly business, thank the stars you lived to tell the tale,” then, as if to bring the matter to a close, she clapped her hands and went to the interior phone, “now, what would you like, Inspector? Earl Grey? Green? Oolong?”

Archie didn’t want a fuss, “No, no, that’s alright, luv, I’ll make do with a glass of water,” he said, flapping his hands.

“It is no bother, there is always a maid on duty,” said Carla, punching the extension button; after placing the order she went back to the sideboard, “I think I will have a large brandy!” she exclaimed, uncorking a large crystal decanter and pouring a few fingers into a sizeable balloon, “Are you warm enough, Inspector? Shall I put another log on the fire for you?”

Harkness didn’t hear the question, he was unselfconsciously staring - not leering exactly -- but staring distractedly at the shapely, Lycra-sheathed backside currently wagging in his direction; he eventually commented in a voice dry and wistful, “The last time I saw that -- I’m sorry, I mean: the last time I saw you, you were climbing the steps of Purdysburn mental hospital, y’know, on the day Dani Cochrane died.”

The conversation had taken quite an unexpected turn, but Mme Infanté didn’t flinch, “Really? I don’t remember seeing you,” she replied, still smiling benignly as she crossed the room, put her balloon on the coffee table and went about lighting another cigarette. “It is hardly surprising, though. It was such a chaotic day. Everything is a blur. Poor Danielle,” she said, exhaling a cloud of smoke in a regretful sigh, picking up her drink, settling into the armchair opposite and crossing her long legs, “It was such shock to us all.”

Slipping into interview mode, Archie sat forward and clarified, “Sorry, you misunderstand me, Madame Infanté -- I didn’t see you ‘in person’, as-it-were, I saw you on film. Well, y’know -- video tape. The BBC sent me their unused footage, cos remember, that was the day Dani was supposed to be transferred to SCICI [See Part 9], there was a lotta public interest, there was a protest ‘n everything, and the local news crews were there to cover the story,” he did walking-fingers across the top of the coffee table as he described the scene, “it shows you: walking up the drive - passing through the mob of photographers and protesters - through the police cordon -- right by the security guys -- straight up the steps and through the front door without breaking your stride. And it has to be said, you were very striking in your snazzy little-black-dress,” Archie paused to take her in; from her perfectly pedicured toes to her shimmering décolletage and commented, “very striking indeed...” then his extended brow furrowed, he shook his head in mock-disbelief, “but here’s the thing, Madame Infanté: none of the people we talked to could describe you with any degree of accuracy. Even the clerks at the reception desk who signed-you-in have only a vague recollection of the encounter.” Archie sat back and insinuated with a wry smile, “You haveta wonder how come such beautiful woman didn’t make much of a an impression.”

She smiled, smoked and sipped, shrugged and laughed it off, “What can I say, Inspector? Maybe I simply slipped their minds?!”

Archie stroked his lantern jaw and murmured thoughtfully, “Hmmm.... ‘Slipped their minds’, you might have something there.... Cuz if you ask me there’s been an awful lot of minds slippin’ recently. For instance: the detective assigned to investigate Dani’s assault on her doctor -- the one who oversaw the signing of he papers, remember him...?”

Her gaze unwavering, her voice steady, she supplied the answer with a regretful frown, “Yes. Inspector Volt. He became very...” she turned, stared into the embers and scoured her mind to find the right word “... vexed.”

“Vexed?! You should hear him! He’s aff his friggin’ trolley! Makin’ all sorts of wild accusations, he-is!” Archie snorted, “The boss hadda put him on the sick for his own good!” He winked again, sat forward, tapped the tip of his nose with his finger, lowered his voice and confided, “I shouldn't say anythin’, but wait-til-ye-hear-this -- poor ol’ Jerry thinks you were sent by the Lumbs to mess with his head. He thinks you, like, mesmerised him. Whaddya think of that?!”

“Are you insinuating that I am in some way responsible for Mr Volt’s mental breakdown, Inspector Harkness?” she asked, blowing a plume of smoke in his direction.

Archie waved away the cloud and snorted, “Naaah, don’t be silly now... You’re not a hypnotist, are you?”

She smiled that beautiful wide-mouthed, toothpaste-white-smile; her eyes twinkling as she replied in a warm, amused purr, “Is this an interrogation, Inspector? Do I need to call a lawyer?”

Archie tilted his head and feigned surprise, “Why, Madame Infanté? Have you something to hide?”

The smile faded but she remained unruffled and answered plainly, “I am unfamiliar with the laws of this country. If this conversation is pertinent to your investigation, I will need to consult with legal counsel. I would not wish to incriminate myself...”

She paused to take a long sip of her drink and a long pull on her cigarette, but inside her heart was racing -- it was all she could do not to cry out in surprise! Not because she was shaken by his questions or caught in a lie -- but because she’d just glimpsed a telltale glint of something peculiar-yet-familiar in his eyes and the shock of realisation was almost too much to contain! Unfortunately, the situation was too delicate for any sudden gasps of amazement; she had to maintain the sangfroid façade a little while longer and choose her moment.

Meanwhile, Archie, astute as ever, had noticed the slight change in her demeanour, but he was getting tired and there were bigger fish to fry: Her Ladyship, for one; that shifty butler for another. He relaxed, rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, adopted a lighter tone and confided in an intimate aside, “I’m sorry if I come across as a wee bit brusque, Madame Infanté, but, I have this terrible affliction, you see. It’s cost me three marriages, most of me mates and nearly put me outta my job. You know what my sickness is, miss?”

She shook her head and continued to stare into his eyes.

He took a deep breath, sighed and confessed, “I can see right through people. I’m a walkin’ lie- detector, I am. I can smell a rat in a matter of minutes, and although it’s a blessin’ in my line of work, it can also be a friggin’ curse. Cos I can’t switch if off. I’m a real pain-in-the-neck. I havetae get to the bottom of everybody I meet, and most people take exception when you pick ‘em apart to figure-out what makes ‘em tick. Especially people with somethin’ to hide.”

They gazed unblinkingly into each other’s eyes for a few moments as the fire crackled and the grandfather clock tick-tocked (11:39PM) in the darkened alcove behind him......... Then, all of a sudden, he began to feel slightly woozy; the heat of the fire, the candlelight and the heavy, smoky atmosphere seemed to conspire to make him drowsy...

Without breaking eye contact, Carla swirled her brandy and almost crooned, “You've been through hell today, Inspector Harkness. You haven’t eaten; your blood sugars are low; your reflexes are slow. It’s time to rest. Relax. Let go.........”

The words echoed around the inside of his skull like a chorus of overlapping whispers... and the longer he stared into her eyes, the more he seemed to lose focus. Was it his imagination or were her eyes changing colour? It was probably an optical illusion, but the irises seemed to sparkle like the glistening facets of spinning gemstones, each colour slowly fusing into the next; from gleaming emerald, to bright azure blue, to glimmering amethyst...

Now that her subject was slightly beguiled, Carla broke away to douse her cigarette in the large marble ashtray and subtly took control of the conversation, “Tell me Inspector, when you were abducted, how were you rendered unconscious?” she asked, nonchalantly.

“Hypodermic in the neck,” moaned Archie, letting his head roll back on his shoulders, closing his eyes and rubbing his throat, “gawd knows what the bastard put in it, but whatever it was, it put me out like a light... Next thing I know I’m blindfolded, bound ‘n gagged ‘n taped to an ol’ radiator in a smelly ol’ flat. Quite an evening, all told... It’s funny though...” he said, as he turned and looked up at the huge Art-Deco mirror above the mantelshelf.

“What is funny?”

“When Malky -- that’s the guy who got me out -- when he took off the blindfold... it was like I was in a scene from some ol’ daft auld horror movie. The room was flashing with the blue lights from the squad cars outside... 'n all you could see was shattered glass from the broken mirrors...” Archie half-whispered, dreamily.

Fascinated and enthused, Carla sat forward and begged him to go on, “Mirrors, you say?”

Archie nodded and dreamily elaborated, “Aye, that’s right, mirrors... dozens of ‘em. All shapes 'n sizes... all over the walls... But all broken, y’know, smashed...?” For a moment his mind was filled with distant memories; a flickering montage of inexplicable images and disembodied voices; i.e. the ‘talking mirrors’ in the pub in Donegal... McKee’s rasping voice whispering in his ear... Jamie’s voice in his head......... then one of the logs cracked loudly in the grate and snapped-him-out of his trance. He sat up, cleared his throat and looked around, “Ummm... where is Master Jamie, by the way?”

“He felt unwell and decided to have an early night. Please tell me more about your ordeal, Inspector, it is most enthralling,” Carla replied, finding it increasingly difficult to hide her excitement and keep her voice steady. Time was short, she needed to know something in particular and there was only one way of finding out for sure: physical contact. She needed to touch him, and soon. “Oh, it is hot here by the fire,” she puffed, fanning her face with her open hand, “you don’t mind if I join you,” she asked, putting her drink on the table, slipping out of her shoes and curling up on the opposite end of couch,

Archie was a wee bit wary but raised no objections and moved up. “I wonder where that tea is?” he murmured, looking at his watch (11:42).

“It will be here presently... but please, do go on.”

Now feeling a bit hot under the collar himself, Archie straightened his tie and politely demurred, “Now, now, I’ve said too much already, miss, I haven’t even been debriefed by the detectives in charge of the case yet.”

“Oh, please don’t stop, it is most exciting and unusual thing I have ever heard -- I promise I won’t tell anyone,” she pleaded, in a conspiratorial, kittenish-whisper, moving closer, “was there anything else other than mirrors...?”

For some reason Archie couldn't see the harm in indulging her with one last detail, “Well, there... there was this sorta shrine as well,” he shook his head, “well, when I say ‘shrine’ what I mean to say is it was a load of ol’ tat rigged-out to look like a shrine...” the thought of it made him shudder, “brrr -- very creepy, all-the-same, made my skin crawl, sent the ol’ proverbial shiver up me spine. Like I said, it was like somethin’ from one of them daft ol’ horror movies... like one of them video nasties me daughter watches... McKee must be outta his mind...”

She shifted even closer; he felt her hip against his thigh, “A shrine, you say?” she gasped, her eyes widening, her lips pursed into an o, “this is most fascinating! What sort of shrine? You think maybe McKee is a Satanist?”

“Not unless the devil is a dog,” Archie hazily replied.

“A dog?”

He turned, gazed into those twinkling eyes again and confided in a low whisper, “It was an old, rusty coat-rail with a skeleton suspended from it on wires, y’know? Like some sorta gruesome puppet. Malky said it was a whippet,” he suddenly remembered, “oh yeah, come to think of it, it had a nameplate on it, but it wasn't a name I’ve ever seen before... A strange word, it was. Burned into an auld piece of wood... What did it say? What was it now...?” he frowned as he tried to remember...

... and then, just as it reached the tip of his tongue -- a long, slender finger planted itself firmly on his lips, “Don’t say the name, Inspector. Never say that word,” she warned, in a low, husky purr.

As soon as the fingertip made contact, Archie’s mind was delightfully blown. His head began to spin and swim as his cerebrum was filled with an ecstatic maelstrom of flashing colours, wonderful images and joyful thoughts. His eyes rolled back, his mouth fell open, his body slumped as he gave-himself-over to blissful, carefree abandon. Carla leaned close and whispered into his ear, “You might see right through people, Inspector, but I see into them.” She straddled him, held his face in her cool hands and pressed her brow against his so that they were nose-to nose, “You have something in your eye, Inspector, and I mean to get it out.”

Harkness lost consciousness as Carla projected. They didn’t hear the knock at the door or see Alice, the tiny, blonde-bobbed chambermaid, as she backed into the room, deposited the tea-tray on the sideboard and began pouring, all the while grumbling to herself about the lateness of the hour, her migraine and the horrible twinge in her guts. When she finally turned around to ask if their guest wanted milk & sugar, she almost dropped the pot! “Ooh! Shite! I am sorry... I’ll come back when you’re... finished, shall I? Erm, just ring the bell...” she stammered, as she slowly backed out of the room -- just in time to put a heel down on Lady Beth’s exposed big toe!

“Ooooow!” Her Ladyship howled, hopping mad, taking off the slipper to massage the offending appendage, “watch where you’re going, you silly little bitch!” she screeched.

Fresh from her bath, her hair tied in a coiled topknot, dressed in a long, ivory silk dressing- gown and matching pyjamas, smelling of bathsalts and malt whiskey, she eventually recovered and finally noticed the exaggerated look of dismay on the gormless girl’s gob. “What the hell’s the matter with you anyway?!”

Alice pushed the door open a crack, indicated the odd coupling on the couch and whispered, “I think they’re at it, milady!”

Her Ladyship’s jaw dropped! “What the f---” Shoving the diminutive maid aside, she barged in and loudly demanded an explanation, “What in the name of all that is holy are you doing, woman?!” she yelled, hands on hips, her face puce with anger. There was no reaction: Carla’s legs remained clamped to her victim’s hips, her hands pressed against the side of his head, the tip of her nose pressed against his. It was apparent that Harkness was completely out to lunch, his eyes rolled back to the whites as if in the throes of mind-numbing-nirvana. “You can’t do this, you stupid cow -- he’s a cop -- he’s out-of-bounds! Get off him!!”

“She cannae hear you, milady. She’s gone inside ‘is 'ead, milady!” whispered Alice, tiptoeing up behind her.

“I know what she’s doing, pipsqueak -- she’s fucking things up -- that’s what she’s doing!” Her Ladyship strode across the room, lifted the seltzer syphon from the sideboard and took aim at the couch, “I’ll soon get her off!”

Alice jumped in the way and put up a hand to stop her, “NO, milady! You can’t interrupt a beguilin’ all-of-a-sudden! You could cause ‘im to ‘ave a seizure or somethin’ -- his brain could pop -- it could send ‘im totally doolally!” she cried, screwing a finger into her temple.

Her Ladyship slammed the seltzer down on the coffee table and ran to the door, “Where’s that bloody oaf, Castle! He was supposed to take care of Harkness, not her! CASTLE!! CASTLE!!” she shouted up the hall...

5 minutes before, across the courtyard in the sanatorium, Castle was still sitting by the bed scanning the incomprehensible squiggles in Ivan Cochrane’s scrapbook, occasionally glancing at Young Master Jamie with a despairing frown. He couldn't make head-nor-tail of the text, such-that-it-was. The only thing that made any sense was the notation of the chant, the tempo and the expiry time, the rest was incomprehensible. Shite, if Mr X can’t make-head-nor-tail-of it, what chance do I have? He looked down at the mirror on Jamie’s pillow and ruefully shook his head, if only they hadn't used mirrors to project...

Bloody Mirror World... then he was struck by a sudden flash of inspiration.

He picked up the mirror and held it against the edge of the page so that the lines of indecipherable doodles were reflected in the glass; his eyes widened with surprise and delight! “Of course! It makes sense that the men who created Mirror World would devise a text you can only read by reflection!”

He looked at his watch, “11:55.” No time to call for help! Then he had another notion, turned and gazed into the darkness at the bottom of the room, “Noel? Are you still there?”

“...............erm................. .............No....?”

“Come-on-out, I won’t be mad, I promise. I need you to do me a big favour...”

The snoopy snake slid out from his hiding place, slithered through the woolly sheepskin mat at the foot of the bed and onto the bed, “I wasn't listenin’, y’know! I was just takin’ a nap in the laundry basssket!”

“Nevermind that -- how’s your singing voice?”

“Carla?” whispered Jamie, slightly relieved, but mostly confused.

“Ssshhh, let me do the talking,” Harkness/Carla(?) whispered back.

Mondale finished his call, put his elbows on the desk, laced his fingers together and addressed his uninvited guest in a clipped, condescending tone, “The Chief Inspector has no knowledge of this and says you have no jurisdiction here. In fact, he’s so outraged by your behaviour he’s phoning your superior officer right now to demand an explanation. I’m afraid I will have to ask you to leave.”

“I don’t care if he calls the Queen herself, I’m not goin’ anywhere without this man,” the detective replied, calmly and assuredly.

Mondale stood up, leaned over his desk and pointed at the door, “Do I have to call security and have you physically removed?”

This time Harkness didn’t reply; he simply reached into his coat, produced his gun and levelled it at the indignant shrink.

Jamie couldn't believe what he was seeing -- he heard a commotion behind them and one of the orderlies mutter “fuckin’ ‘ell!”

Naturally, Mondale’s composure was seriously compromised; he sat down slowly and deliberately, straightened his tie, cleared his throat and made with his best bedside manner, “Now, now, there’s no need for that, Inspector... think of the consequences of your actions... We need to sit down and talk this over man-to-man... Please, put that gun away,” he reasoned, holding out his hands in a consolatory gesture.

Without further ado, Harkness cocked the trigger, took aim and shot Mondale in the centre of his forehead -- his brow instantly disintegrating in an explosion of blood, bone fragments and brain matter -- his upper body juddering for a second before flopping face-first onto the desktop, an outstretched arm swiping the lamp onto the floor where it smashed on the hard, polished boards, plunging the room into complete darkness. Jamie heard the orderlies dash out of the door and slam it behind them.

Shocked and bewildered, shaking his head in disbelief, he slowly got to his feet, “What the... what the fuck did you do that for...?” he muttered, in a bewildered whisper,

“Throwing a spanner in the works,” said Harkness; then the voice changed to Carla’s as she explained in a warm, reassuring tone, “none of this is real, Jamie. Your astral form is trapped in the Void, your consciousness trapped in this phantasm fashioned from Harkness’ memories. That’s how I got here -- through his psyche -- he’s at the Ivy House now! I’m physically connected to him.”

Before Jamie had a chance to ask any more questions or think things through, the alarm blared outside in the corridor. Although this was the breakthrough he’d been waiting for, the world around him still sounded and felt all-too-real. This could be a trap. On the other hand, he still had that chill in his bones, and the touch of her hand made him feel warm: it feels right. But he had to be sure, “I’ve been here for almost a week...?”

“Surely I don’t have to remind you that the natural laws of time and space do not apply in an abstract dimension,” Carla impatiently explained, “the demon performed a ritual using multiple mirrors to invade the Void and then used Harkness’ psyche to trap your consciousness. He’s trying to break your spirit so that he might possess you!” her voice cracked as she cried, “Come, Jamie, please -- we must be quick! I can’t stay here for long -- Harkness’ psyche is too delicate, the demon is too powerful -- and I have no insulation!” She drew his attention to a dim violet aura now visible around his entire body, “if not for that protective shield, you would have perished out here hours ago!”

“Then who’s protecting me?” Jamie asked, examining his glowing hands.

“We are,” announced a gruff but unmistakeable voice in the darkness behind them.

“Mr Murphy?!” said Jamie.

“Yes. I’m Merfi from the Darkly Woods,” said the voice.

Jamie: “Oh, I get it -- you’re that Merfi -- you’re one of the Martyrs.”

Carla: “The Martyrs? You did this? You trapped Jamie here?”

The alarm bell suddenly stopped ringing; the temperature dropped to freezing; the floor disappeared, they were now hovering in a vacuum. They were indeed in the Void.

“We created this dreamscape to hide the boy and to keep him occupied while we formulated a plan of action -- but your foolish incursion has put paid to that! Now we’re utterly exposed and it’s almost midnight!” The voice lowered to a threatening growl, “We have to hurry! He’s coming for you, boy, and it won’t be like last time, oh no!”

“What do you mean?” asked Jamie.

“He was weak the last time he petitioned you, his powers were at low ebb [See Part 5]. Now he is omnipotent! There’ll be no need for bargaining -- no deals! He’s free of his host and he’s amassed enough energy to take possession of your Soul by force!”

Carla replied: “But how do we know you and your cohorts are not his allies? How do we know you are not complicit in his plan?”

Merfi’s voice sounded in their heads, <I haven’t time to explain -- suffice to say we’re in a life or death situation. Listen!>

They became aware of a distant sound -- akin to the booming-rumble of a huge bowling ball rolling along the floor of an empty ballroom -- they felt a malevolent energy fill the ether -- as if something wicked was headed their way and it was getting closer with every passing second!

<Project! NOW!> the voice cried.

“How can we trust you?!” yelled Carla.

“How can I trust anybody?!” yelled Jamie.

The pair felt a presence come between them and take their hands, <Shut your gobs ‘n LEAP!!>

Their astral forms were duly sucked up and out of the Void like 3 luminous leaves swirling in a metaphysical vortex, and yet they weren’t funnelled toward the small glowing aperture from whence Jamie had come, but to a much larger circular portal above -- there followed a blinding flash of ultraviolet light -- and then they felt themselves falling through the night sky, down through the papery foliage of treetops, down through rubbery twigs and branches, until they landed with a dull, painless thud on a soft, daisy-covered grassy-knoll. They lay on their backs and took a moment to recover, and saw that the huge glowing circular portal was now a crooked full moon set in a dark, deep purple firmament. One thing was for certain: they were no longer in Harkness’ subconscious or the Void, but in a different dimension entirely. They appeared to be at the entrance to a wood, but there was something a little off about it; everything looked artificial and cartoonishly-childlike, like an animated world constructed from the pages of a kiddie’s pop-up picture book.

It was all very familiar if the expression on Carla’s face was anything to go by. She had reverted to her own avatar, but it was apparent her time in the Void had severely sapped her reserves, her Aspect so weak she was almost transparent; Jamie could barely make her out as she walked to the centre of the glade, looked around and nodded.

Still dressed in blue-striped pyjamas and slippers, but holding a long blackthorn staff, Merfi twirled the tip of his long silver beard around his finger and asked her, “You know this place?”

She beheld the misshapen moon with a wry smile and said, “Oh yes. I know it well. This is Fairyland, it was the first dreamscape my sister created for us when we were children. It was our happy place, we would come here when times were hard.”

“This is Electra’s imagination? Is that good or bad?” asked Jamie, a little alarmed. He’d heard a lot about Carla’s sister over the past few years and none of it was good.

“Oh, it’s bad, dear boy -- you only have to look at that sky!” said Merfi, pointing his staff at the swirling, purple clouds and cupping his ear in reference to the grumble of distant thunder, “whatever it was before, this dreamscape is now infested with his energy!”

“I know one thing for sure: Electra is here! I sense her Essence in the ether!” snarled Carla, clenching her fists, “I knew it! I knew in my Soul she did not step into the light and Ascend when she died -- she came here: a ghost haunting her own imagination!” She angrily kicked a cartoon toadstool out of the grass as the implications sank in, “I was right!! She’s been in league with him all along! She lured Dani here knowing Jamie would come after her!” She had another thought, “Little Red Riding Hood... the Big Bad Wolf... This is why Gosling morphed into a wolf-man...”

“Goz is a wolf-man...?” gasped Jamie, getting evermore confused.

Carla gave him a brief summary of Gosling’s recent misadventures then apprised him of the situation as it stood, “When both of you performed the ritual in front of a mirror, the magic you created became unstable in the Void; the demon trapped you, but Gosling must have made it through -- or was allowed through, we don’t know -- the point is he must have become taken on the guise of the character, then the warped spell must have rebounded and pulled him back, causing his earthly body to temporarily mutate. That is how dangerous it is.” She gnashed her teeth and pointed an accusing finger at the ancient mage, “This all began with your hellish ‘Messiah Spell’! You and your confederates caused this catastrophe!”

“We carefully devised a ritual to create a being capable of destroying the demon, not aid-‘n-abet him, we went to a lot of trouble to ensure its efficacy,” said Merfi, taking in the tidings, nodding sagely, “so the spell was performed twice and rebounded in the Void, eh? Well, we didn’t account for that eventuality...” he turned to Carla, “... and you say your sister has lured the demonspawn here? That accounts for the rum grumble in me belly...” he groaned, “she must be around here somewhere, too...”

“Dani’s here? Where?!” asked Jamie.

Carla was already running along the little pathway into the darkened forest, shouting, “Follow me!”

Merfi watched them disappear into the trees as the moon clouded over and the picture-book landscape darkened. Once they were out of sight, he rapped his blackthorn staff on the ground 3 times and 3 figures in glowing hessian robes duly materialised behind him, their arms crossed, their cowled heads bowed. Without looking over his shoulder, he led them along the path, “The Witching Hour is upon us, my brothers. It’s time to finish what we started 7000 years ago...”

5 minutes ago, in the Real World, Lady Beth was just about to call the sanatorium and give Castle an earful when Alice suddenly cried out, “Oh milady! Look! Madame Carla!!”

The typically poised and proper Silver Siren had lost consciousness mid-mind-meld and was now sprawled in an undignified heap next to the still insensible Harkness, legs splayed wide, head resting on his shoulder.

“What the hell happened?” Her Ladyship snapped, slamming down the receiver and striding back to the couch.

“I dunno, milady! She sort-of-groaned, threw 'er 'ead to the side and rolled offa 'im!” whinged the dismayed chambermaid, keeping well back, biting her nails, standing cross-legged and writhing on the spot as if she badly needed a pee.

Lady Beth raised an eyebrow, “So she’s broken the connection, has she?! Then we can wake her up, can’t we?!” she said, smiling wickedly, rolling up her sleeves and raising her hand to administer a good, hard smack, “I’ve been waiting for this for quite some time...”

Again, Alice intervened by physically inserting herself between the intended victim and her would-be assailant, only this time the entreaties that accompanied the impertinence were verging on the hysterical and somewhat shrill, “It won’t do any good, milady! -- she’s entranced, so-she-is!” Alice grabbed the collar of her mistress’ robe, “Can’t you feel it?! This is the night of the demon, so-tis! This is all his doin’, so-tis! She’s doomed, so-she-is! We’re all doomed! He’ll kill us all, he-will!!”

“ENOUGH!” the infuriated virago got to slap a face after all. Upon impact, Alice’s mouth instantly snapped shut. She clasped a tiny hand to her livid cheek and whimpered with quivering lip as she watched Her Ladyship tighten the belt on her gown and march back to the phone, “Right! Where’s that fucking butler...” she grumbled, punching the button marked ‘sanatorium’...

...

3 minutes before, Castle was reciting the text reflected in the little mirror and tapping out the requisite beat on Jamie’s tablas whilst Noel intoned the chant. Well, he tried: “Fuck it! I can’t do this!” the churlish serpent cried, breaking-off for the umpteenth time, “it sounds friggin’ ssstupid -- I can’t get the hang of it!”

The big butler stopped drumming and erupted in a fit of frustration, “NOEL! FUCK!! Keep going!! Jeezus Christ!!” he yelled, “We nearly had it there!”

“Fuck you, fatssso, I’m going back to the laundry bassssket,” Noel hissed, putting his snout in the air and turning away in a show of defiance.

Castle pleaded with him as if he was begging for his life, which, in a way, he was, “Please, Noel, all ye have to do is keep doing what you’re doing -- it’s working! -- ‘member it’s just a chant, it doesn’t have to sound good! But whatever you do -- once you’ve got it -- don’t stop!”

Noel thought about it.

“C’mon, you’ll have a ball tellin’ everyone how you saved them from extinction -- you might even enjoy it!”

“I very much doubt it...” Somewhat mollified but still muttering about the indignity, the snarky snake reluctantly returned to his place, “How’s this supposed to help coma-boy, anyway?” he asked, nodding at the slumbering Young Master.

Castle checked the digital clock on the bedside locker: 11:57. “I’ll explain later, we’re running outta time -- now come on! After me...” Castle had just begun to intone the chant to get things going again, when the internal phone buzzed in the hall. He ignored it and carried on.

“Aren't you gonna answer that?” asked Noel, “It’s probably Lady Bitch gaspin’ for a snort, innit? You know what she’s like if she doesn’t get her nightcap.”

Castle assured him that nothing was more important than what they were doing right now and resumed tapping on the tablas and intoning the backward words...

“STOP!!”

She had just uttered the first syllable of the dreaded word when she was abruptly interrupted by a distant cry.

“Dani! DON’T!!”

She looked toward the edge of the forest -- “Jamie?!!” She squealed, jumping up-and-down with delight upon seeing her beloved Young Master’s glowing avatar run out of the trees, closely followed by the rather faded form of her Great Aunt Carla! “Don’t say it, Danielle -- it is a trap!” she shouted, as they pushed their way through the mob of fearsome fairytale folk.

The hovering spectre was not at all amused by this untimely intrusion and ordered his motley militia to waylay and silence the interlopers forthwith. The hideous fairyland creatures obediently closed in -- Carla and Jamie were immediately besieged by two of the 3 Bears and 4 diabolical dwarves, their mouths stifled with foul tasting apples supplied by Snow White’s wicked stepmother. Once they were captive and mute, Blist turned his attention back to Dani. “Say the word, little girl or I’ll have their Souls torn apart.”

“I’m not sayin’ a bloody thing until you let ‘em go!” Dani yelled, stamping her foot, putting her nose in the air and defiantly crossing her arms.

Blist snapped his fingers.

“SAY THE WORD!” the grisly rabble roared and hissed, as they jostled and threatened the captive pair with bared fangs, oversized kitchen knives and lumpen spiky-cudgels.

But before Dani could tell them to eff-off another, older voice cried out “Pack it in, Zomber Blist!” and an old man in stripy pyjamas and slippers brandishing what looked like a knobbly wizard’s staff emerged from the wood, giving-out as he marched through the throng, “You always were a bit of a maverick, weren’t you, Blist? Well, the game’s up! I’m afraid we've lost the day.”

The glistering Martyr begged to differ, “All the more reason to complete the spell! We've nothing to lose now, have we?! She MUST say the word!”

“No, Blist! It’ll only hasten the inevitable!” another voice cried out.

Attired in the same glowing hessian robes as the hovering wraith, the remaining Martyrs emerged from the darkness betwixt the trees and approached their comrades. Jamie recognised two of them (Nedi and Bezeel) as Merfi’s backgammon buddies; the other, a short, slender man with very feminine features (Zöch) was his ‘case worker’ Dr Sloss; come to think of it, the hawk-faced spectre of Zomber Blist bore an uncanny resemblance to the intimidating orderly who threatened him in the Special Unit on his first day. [See Part 19]

“Look here, my brothers -- our old friend Blist has taken matters into his own hands -- again!” Merfi announced, sardonically, “Maybe you can talk some sense into him!”

But his fellow wizards were just as unhappy with their predicament and immediately surrounded their beleaguered elder brother to air their grievances; one in particular seemed to be taking it very badly, “We've been out-played!! He’s has all of us right where he wants us! It’s checkmate, my brothers!!” whinged the tubby Welsh necromancer known as Parswald Nedi. Arms aloft, he pleaded with his aggrieved colleagues, “I say we split-up and take our chances elsewhere!”

“We can’t hide from him, you fool,” Merfi dolefully informed him, pointing his staff at Jamie, “once he takes possession of the boy’s Soul he’ll have the means destroy The Psychosphere from within. There’ll be no hiding place for anyone, least of all the 5 of us.” He shook his head and sighed, “There is nothing left to do but make peace with our consciences and prepare for the bitter end.”

Nedi refused to believe it was over; he fell to his knees and beseeched the churning, incandescent heavens, “Then the Powers That Be must intervene! After all, they broke the natural laws by creating a Familiar to track down his earthly host! [See Part 6] They won’t let it end like this!!”

“The Powers That Be have long since forsaken us! We were entrusted with the means to destroy him, and we failed, miserably,” said the long haired, androgynous Assyrian mystic known to the Psychic World as Prince Molton Zöch.

“Yes, they empowered a crippled dog to do our work, that’s how much faith they have in us,” said the tall, hollow-faced, French alchemist known as Bezeel.

“I knew this would happen!” cried Nedi, getting evermore anxious, “we shouldn't have meddled -- we shouldn't have deviated from the Prophesy!”

“Oh, shut your soppy pie-hole, you craven Welsh jellyfish!” sneered Blist, ”We knew what we were doing when we agreed to this! ” Now that the jig was up, he eschewed the evil wizard act, came down to earth and ordered the creatures to release Jamie and Carla.

Dani immediately ran to her beloved Young Master and threw her arms around his waist, “I thought you were gonna die out in the Void! They wouldn't let me go after you! But I knew you’d come and save me!!”

“I’m happy to see you too, Dani-girl, but I’m just as helpless as you,” replied Jamie, stroking her head, gazing up into the tumultuous skies, “this is one nightmare I’ll be happy to wake up from.”

Dani looked up at him and asked, “Will we wake up?”

Jamie looked to the Martyrs for a glimmer of hope, “Is there a way out of here?”

Nedi slapped his forehead and pointed at the trio of Living Souls, “Listen to these fools! They haven’t a clue!” he shouted, angrily, pointing an accusing finger at Blist, “and you said it was foolproof!”

“There were unforeseen circumstances!” countered the cadaverous wizard, glaring at the craven spectre of Pritchard, “I wasn't to know the last Judge would fall prey to senility and entrust the execution of the ritual to this self-serving dullard!”

Pritchard stood behind the grimacing figure of Electra and tried to look inconspicuous.

Noticing him for the first time, Jamie jeered, “I might have known you’d have something to do with this, Bernie!”

The shady ghost shrugged, threw up its arms and yelled back, “I just followed the instructions as written -- I only did what was required of me!!”

“Oh yeah? Does that include collaborating with the enemy?!” Jamie replied.

“Hah! Jamie’s right -- you’re to blame for everything!” Dani chided, and informed the wizards of her nemesis’ past indiscretions, “He tried to kill us! He used me to make a deal with the demon!” [See Part 9].

“Can you blame me?! He had me locked in a death-haunt! Any one of you would've done the same!” Pritchard protested.

Tutting and shaking his head, Zomber Blist sombrely informed his brothers, “I discovered this dreamscape a few a few hours ago while you were taking care of the boy. I overheard the girl’s grandmother relating her story,” he fixed Electra with a gimlet-eye, “she made a deal with the demon. She lured the demonspawn to this dimension knowing the boy would come after her!”

“I didn’t know it would come to this -- all I wanted was for little Dani to be a normal little girl again!” cried Electra, trying to hide behind Pritchard.

Despite having guessed as much, Carla was no less furious with her late sister! She stormed up to the cringing ghost of Dani’s golden-haired grandmother and yelled in her grimacing face, “Look at what you’ve done Ellie! After all this time, after all we've been through -- you haven’t changed one iota! And now your selfishness will destroy us all!”

“Ivan begged me to do it! His wee girl was a goblin -- what was I to do?!” Electra screeched, sobbing into her shawl.

“Bloody women!” shouted Nedi, scornfully, “I knew they’d screw-things-up! They ruin everything!!”

Carla wasn't going to stand for that! “I am a Justified Siren! have spent two lifetimes defending the coven -- I have eschewed all fleshly pleasure to pursue a Life in the Mind and expand my consciousness,” she said, giving Pritchard a cold stare, before putting a translucent hand on her ward’s shoulder and attesting, “I have explored Jamie’s psyche and I say he is the true Messiah! He is the key to defeating him. All is not yet lost.”

“He’s not the Messiah,” Blist snorted, derisively, pointing a long, glittering fingernail at Dani, “she’s the Messiah.”

“Dani?” Carla, Electra. Pritchard and Jamie gasped in unison.

“Me...?” muttered Dani, screwing up her face as if it was the craziest thing she’d ever heard.

Merfi nodded and grimly explicated, “It had to be a Silver Siren. A female.The demon doesn’t possess women, he prefers alpha-males blinded by greed and ambition. The Messiah had to be a strong, defiant woman with a will that can’t be broken.”

“That sounds like our Dani, alright,” said Jamie.

“Me...? Really...?” muttered Dani, still trying to take it in.

“Your father was just a vessel, you are the fruit of his enchanted seed,” Bezeel explained, turning toward Carla, “your esteemed Young Master may have inherited his grandfather’s advanced psychic abilities and strength of character, but he is no Messiah.” He looked Dani up-and-down and regretfully sighed, “This waif had all the talents required, until her father turned her into a monster,” he then turned and glared at Electra, “and her grandmother brought her to the forest and offered her to the demon!”

By now, Electra was almost hysterical: “How many times do I have to tell you, I did it for --”

“Silence!” bellowed Blist, cutting her off, “You've said and done enough!” He explained to his comrades, “Once he was in the forest, he must have sensed our presence and conspired to exploit the energy we had amassed. He buried the bones of slain children in the soil by the brook, using the energy from their trapped Souls to tap into our resources in order to take control of the ‘Sphere and engineer this trap.”

During the ensuing discussion it emerged that the ‘Martyrs’ trial and interment 7000 years ago was the beginning of a top-secret operation devised to exterminate the demon once-and-for-all. When arrested for the crime of creating the Void, by way of a plea-bargain, the indicted wizards told the Grand Council that they had the wherewithal to formulate a spell that could produce the Messiah cited in The Prophesy: a wunderkind impervious to his dark magic and endowed with a psyche powerful enough to destroy him in any realm. The problem was, it would take up to at least 5000 years for the stars to align and the right conditions to arise; hence a mock trial was staged and the ‘Martyrs’ were buried in a state of extended hibernation, all the while amassing the energy required to aid in the final battle. In the meantime, it was imperative that the demon, his confederates and his spies believed in their guilt, and that meant lying to the rank and file. Everyone involved with the coven -- from the true-blood Güül to the half-blood witches -- had no idea what was going on, literally under their noses; only the Judge and a few elder members of the Grand Council were party to the truth. In keeping with the text of the Prophesy, the coven then arranged for a band of the Martyrs’ so-called ‘disciples’ -- a group of human ‘magicians’ in league with the demon and versed in the grimoire, but possessed of no real psychic ability -- to inscribe runes for what they thought was the Martyr’s curse in a secret chamber in Tutankhamen’s tomb.

Alas, as always, fate conspired to thwart their designs: “1200 years ago, the Vikings invade and the demon finally arrives in Wicklow. An old witch manages to pry him from his dying host him and trap him in a bottle [See Part 3] -- but instead of taking it straight to the Grand Council -- she buries him under a chestnut tree!” cried Nedi, shaking his head as if he still couldn't take it in.

Bezeel: “The holding spell she used wasn't strong enough to contain him. No matter how deep she buried him, his Essence could be felt in the ether; he may have been very weak and relatively harmless, but he was still an existential threat.”

Merfi: “The incumbent Judge called an emergency meeting of the Grand Council and questioned the tribal leaders.”

Zöch: “Despite a thorough interrogation, the witches never uttered a word.”

Bezeel: “There was nothing to do but continue with our plan.”

Merfi: “After that, came Christianity and the witch-hunts. The coven was decimated. In the knowledge that one day in the distant future a child would be born endowed with the powers to destroy him, a few pure-blood infants were transported to wealthy relatives in Southern Europe, well out of harm’s way.” He turned to the Infanté sisters, “You are the descendants of those children,” he turned toward Dani, “ and this little girl is that child.”

Electra and Carla (now almost transparent) looked at each other, then looked at Dani and shook their heads in disbelief.

Blist: “Unfortunately, her father was a dreamer just like his mother. When we inculcated him with the spell on the table mountain, his mind kept wandering, his head filled with imaginary creatures, like the monstrosity he sketched on the same page as the transcription!”

Merfi: “When you joined him in the incantation, his imagination transformed you into an approximation of that atrocious illustration!” [See Part 1]

“I’m still an ugly green goblin, if that’s what you mean. I only look like a normal person in my imagination,” said Dani, sadly, looking at her little Red Riding Hood avatar.

“And if all that isn't damning enough, he implores her grandmother to make a deal with the demon,” said Blist, addressing the others while scowling at Electra, “she was corrupted and became bait for this trap.”

“And we fell for it!” bawled Nedi, clenching his fists and whining like a child. “7000 years buried in a deep hole... 7000 years of sleeping and waiting with no contact with the outside world -- just to be rudely awakened and wiped from existence!”

“I blame the witches! They ruin everything! They should have been wiped from existence aeons ago!” said Bezeel, crossing his arms and putting his long nose in the air.

“These aren't witches -- they’re fully-developed Sirens! There’s no excuse! Face the facts, brothers -- we put our faith in a bunch of selfish, undisciplined amateurs!” shouted Zöch.

The conversation soon deteriorated into a squabble as the wizards shouted over one-another, arguing the finer points of their machinations like a cluster of irascible dons. Finally, Merfi raised his staff and gently waved them down, “There’s nothing to be gained by reproaching each other, my brothers,” he said, drawing their attention to the escalating electrical storm, “he is here and we are undone”

Sure enough, there followed a deafening crack of thunder -- the ground beneath their feet shook with the tremors of an earthquake -- the foliage around them sloped and billowed as powerful crosswinds racked the fairytale forest! A jagged bolt of ultraviolet-lightning struck a tall pine tree, instantly setting it ablaze! As it fell into the centre of the clearing, the evil creatures immediately dispersed and fled back into the woods, squealing and roaring with fright! All, that is, except one: a rather dishevelled and dejected looking Big Bad Wolf remained behind, its head lowered, its straggly, bushy tail hanging limp between its legs.

“Goz?” said Jamie, incredulously.

The goofy-looking, picture-book wolf nodded.

“Yeah! He was here earlier! We watched ‘im disappear in a puff of smoke!” shouted Dani, holding Jamie’s arm tightly.

“Aye, that’s one you need to talk to! He came to me lookin’ for the scrapbook!” yelled Pritchard, gratefully shifting the blame, “he cast the spell through a mirror -- he’s the one who kicked this off -- not me!”

They watched impassively as the wretched wolf sheepishly shuffled toward them, turning the brim of its battered top hat in its paws, explaining in a broken voice, “That’s right. It’s true. I’m only a half-blood, I’m not a telepath; I used the spell to open a portal in a mirror and searched for Dani’s signature in the ‘Sphere. I wanted revenge on Jamie... but somehow I ended up here, in this dreamscape, looking like this,” he looked at Dani, “when I heard the two of you talking, I realised what was happening and tried to intervene. Next thing I wake up in the Real World and I look like a werewolf! I can’t go back now. Not that there’s much point, since it looks like we’re all going to die anyway...”

Something occurred to Jamie; he cocked his head and asked Merfi, “You told me to say the word when we were in the ‘hospital’.”

The elderly sorcerer nodded, “A simple, subtle case of reverse psychology, my lad: it was the one way of ensuring you wouldn't say it. We know how sensible you are. But it’s all academic now. Like this pathetic creature says, we are about to die. And you are about to be possessed...”

That gloomy remark was punctuated by an especially loud crack of thunder -- another bolt of lightning flashed down from the heavens and struck the smouldering hollow that used to be Little Red Riding Hood’s granny’s cottage, the resultant explosion casting the smoky-debris high into the air! They stood well back and watched in awestruck silence as a huge vortex surged up from the fiery crater, spinning the miasma of smoke, ashes, cinders and incinerated timber so fast that the disparate fragments seemed to bind, meld and solidify, until they formed a hulking, fiery, monstrous figure at least 50 feet tall! When the vortex abated and smoke cleared they saw what it was -- the gargantuan figure of a barrel-chested lumberjack wielding a huge, flaming axe!

“This is it my friends,” cried Merfi, “only a miracle can save us now...”

Just like the fat butler predicted, Noel had become completely consumed by the sound of his own voice and the rolling rhythm of the tablas. He was now locked into the seductive sonic vibration, his body rigid, his head erect, his eyes staring straight ahead; chanting the compulsive drone, over and over again, without hesitation or deviation.

For his part, Castle was nearing the end of the text; the ritual was almost complete -- when Jamie suddenly began to writhe on the bed, his breathing quickening, as if he was extremely stressed or in pain!

As the he digital clock on the bedside locker counted down the last minute before midnight, Castle began to intone the last refrain...

...

Crosswinds assailed them from all sides, harrying them into the centre of the clearing where they were utterly exposed and wholly powerless in the shadow of the fuming, coal-black, smokestack lumberjack. They were well-aware of the fact that it was an unnecessary piece of theatre: the demon sardonically defining the situation with a visual metaphor; you are just a swarm insignificant insects to be swatted from existence. And just as Merfi predicted, their nemesis had nothing to impart before the execution. There was no acerbic monologue, no vainglorious gloating, no deals: just a killing joke.

The surge of dark energy was too much for Carla, her avatar vanished completely -- they heard her scream Jamie’s name as she faded from view. A gust of unearthly wind separated the Young Master from the rest: the others were about to be consigned to oblivion; Jamie was to about to be possessed.

Then, just as he was steeling himself for the struggle ahead, he felt something infiltrate his Essence -- a sound began to fill his head -- “Listen!” he shouted to the others, cupping his ear, drawing their attention to the pulse of a drumbeat under the howling wind and the rumble of thunder, “can’t you hear that?”

The Martyrs and ghosts could hear nothing but the roar of the storm. Nevertheless, the demon clearly heard it -- the giant lumberjack reeled and swayed on its smouldering heels -- the wind died to a breeze -- the thunderstorm abruptly ceased...

“It’s the spell! Somebody’s casting the spell!” yelled Jamie.

“I hear it!” screamed Dani.

“So can I!” shouted Goz.

“Then go with it! Join Hands!! Form a circle and turn in step with the rhythm!!” shouted Merfi, suddenly energised -- seizing the moment and rallying his brothers, “We will protect you!!”

The Martyrs demeanour changed entirely; they became calm, sombre and resolute -- even Nedi straightened up and joined his brothers as they stood to attention like well-drilled soldiers. Merfi advised to Pritchard and Electra to make themselves scarce, “If you want to save your Souls, go to Limbo -- the portal is open -- now -- while he’s preoccupied!”

“But what about Dani?!” screamed Electra.

“She will fare better without you here to distract her! Now -- GO!” Merfi yelled in reply, pointing to a large crack the ground. Pritchard grabbed his hapless accomplice and dragged her into the portal.

Meanwhile, Jamie, Dani and Gosling felt compelled to do what the ancient mage asked; they joined hands and began twirling in a circle as if they were about to break into a chorus of a-ring-a-ring-o’-roses. They soon found a rhythm -- in fact, the beat was all they could feel -- the droning chant was all they could hear as the magic slowly infused their Essences and took their psyches for a spin! Merfi gestured with his staff and the Martyrs obediently formed a tight circle around them.

This activity seemed to be causing the demon some difficulty -- the spell seemed to be weakening him. That said, the woodcutters axe was still raised above its head -- time was of the essence!

Merfi looked left and right and gave the order, “Alright lads, nice and steady, after me....”

The Martyrs raised their arms, closed their eyes and began intoning a mantra that provided a harmony for the disembodied ethereal chant; the resultant chord then became a multitude of eerie, unearthly voices, all fighting to attain the requisite key -- the underlying beat became the steady boom of a kettledrum...

The trio of living Souls in the inner-circle twirled faster and faster as Merfi held his staff in both hands and pointed it at the sky, “That’s it, lads, this is it...”

Then the drums abruptly stopped!

“That’s the sign. Here it comes... keep her lit, lads, keep her lit...”

...

A minute ago, in the sanatorium, Castle had reached the end of the text and discovered the final word was missing, and quite rightly so. Judging by the preceding verse, it could only be one thing.

“Oh shite...” he muttered to himself, and immediately stopped drumming.

Noel’s head wobbled as he was rudely snapped-out-of his trance, “Wha... what’s goin’ on... Hey! Why did you sssssstop?!” he hissed.

But Castle couldn't answer. He was crouching beside the bed with a hand on the restless Young Master’s chest, whispering into his ear:

“You haveta say his name. Say it now.”

The digital clock on the bedside locker counted down the final seconds to midnight...

...

Jamie heard the whisper.

He looked at his twirling companions. They’d heard it too.

<Do it,> thought Goz, squeezing his eyes shut.

<Say it,> thought Dani, squeezing his hand tight.

“All of you say it! YOU ARE AS ONE!!” yelled Merfi -- just as a thin, steady beam of ultraviolet light shot from the tip of staff and struck the smouldering colossus in the centre of its huge barrel-chest!

10...

9...

8...

7...

Jamie looked at his companions’ grimacing faces, “Ready?!”

They nodded...

5...

“With me -- after 3...”

“3...

“2...

“Hey, you! Oy you! Wake up, ye fat fool!”

The obese butler had collapsed on the stroke of midnight, tumbled off the bed, and was now lying prostrate on the floor; arms outstretched, his head turned to the side. Noel slithered onto his stupendous spare tyre and yelled into his ear, “Oy! Wakey-wakey, fatso -- come on now, ye eejit -- this isn't fun anymore...”

...

As the chimes of midnight sounded throughout the house, there was a sudden change in atmosphere: an ominous, all-pervasive sense of inertia descended, but Lady Beth was to irate and anxious to sense it.

“... C’mon, c’mon, answer the fucking phone, Oggy, don’t make me come over there...” she muttered, tapping the hook-switch to get a fresh line. Suddenly, there was a dull thud behind her; she turned to find Alice lying unconscious on the floor! “What the hell is up with you people...!” she began to bawl when she was suddenly interrupted by a loud bang outside followed by the whine of a revving engine! She ran to the window and pulled back the curtain: one of the jeeps had crashed into a low wall in the courtyard, the driver slumped over the wheel, his foot pressing on the accelerator. Cursing under her breath, she dragged the unconscious chambermaid across the room, threw her into one of the armchairs, went back to the phone and rang all the extensions on the console: the gatelodge, the kitchen, the servant’s quarters, the basement -- but no one was picking up! Then, just as she was about to go out to the door and shout, there was a sudden cry from the couch --

“Jamie!” screamed Carla, her eyes wide with fear, waking with a start.

“Oh, you’re with us, are you?! Maybe you can tell me what’s going on!” said Lady Beth, pointing at Harkness and Alice, “the entire house is out for the count!”

Dazed from the sudden disconnection, Carla pulled herself into a sitting position, messaged her temples with her long fingers and took a moment to readjust -- a glance at the grandfather clock soon sharpened her senses: “Midnight?! I must go to Jamie at once!” she said, springing to her feet and bolting for the door -- Her Ladyship ran after her and caught her by the arm, “Oh no you don’t, madam -- you’re going to tell me what we’re gonna do with Harkness...” she stopped yapping when they heard a distance voice, “... who the hell is that?” she asked.

Carla shook off the grabbing hand and rushed down the hall, “Please, My Lady, stay here with the Inspector -- I must go to Jamie!” And off she ran, leaving Her Ladyship gazing up into the darkness at the top of the main staircase . The distant voice seemed to be shouting for help. It could only be “Gosling!” Then she remembered that Xavier had strapped him to a bed in a room at the back of the house. She shrugged and said to herself, “Well, he’s not going anywhere...”

She returned to the drawing room and beheld the unconscious Harkness. How the hell am I going to explain the situation when he wakes up? If he wakes up. After an moment’s thought, she went to the huge Pre-Raphaelite master in the alcove at the back of the room and sprung a hidden catch in its decorous frame; the painting opened-out like a large cupboard door to reveal the façade of a solid-brass, Victorian safe set into the wall. She spun the combination, opened the heavy door, reached into a hidden compartment under the false bottom and removed the Judge’s old revolver...

...

3...

2...

Guy Gosling awoke to find himself in an ornate, tastefully furnished, candlelit chamber. It could only be the Ivy House. He was in bed; more precisely he was strapped to the bed, unable to move his arms and legs. He looked down at his body -- he was normal again! -- no coarse hair covering his skin; no canine paws. Thank Christ, he thought, sighing with relief. It was a bit of an indignity all the same. Well, at least I’m not in SCICI. Then he looked to his left: the Lumb’s big Middle Eastern chauffeur was lying unconscious on the floor beside the bed with a khanjar clenched in his right fist -- as if he was about to use it when something struck him down!

Was he about to kill me? If so, then who or what knocked him out...?

Then he realised. He remembered reeling with Jamie and Dani in the spinning circle -- the chanting wizards -- the gigantic lumberjack --- The word!

WE SAID THE WORD!!

“Help! Anybody there?! Help! Somebody -- HELP!!”

3...

2...

Dani awoke to find she was still in the dungeon, still sitting in the old torture chair, still muzzled and shackled. But the chains that bound her were loose now; her hands and feet slipped easily out of the manacles and leg irons. Pulling off the loose-fitting muzzle, she went to the thick Plexiglas wall to look out into the the basement. The quartet of guards with machine guns -- the goons Castle told to shoot her if she metamorphosed -- were unconscious and scattered across the old stone floor. Dresh, the lanky gardener, was lying by an overturned stool at the foot of the steps, his head propped up against the lower part of the wall, his long, bare legs splayed wide. It was as if they’d all been doused with sleeping gas!

She went to the corner of the cell, fetched a lantern and lit it with a box of matches hidden in the bottom of her dresser drawer, then went back to look at her reflection in the glass. She was normal! More precisely, she wasn't an ugly, green, goblin-creature anymore -- she was a petite 18 year-old, her skin as white as ivory, her hair long and silvery!

“I look... beautiful...” she gasped, with shock and delight, touching her cheek.

But how?

The last thing she remembered was dancing in a circle with Goz and Jamie... the singing wizards -- then saying the dreaded word...

“We said the word!!”

She thought it over, “But if I’m OK... then what happened to Jamie?!”

Beset with sudden anxiety, she began pounding the the glass with her tiny fists, “Hey! You out there!! Wake up!! Lemme out -- I gotta go ‘n see Jamie!!”

3...

2...

Jamie awoke to find himself in a brightly lit, sparsely furnished white room. He was in bed. Sister was standing to his left, looking down on him with a you’ve-been-a-bad boy what-are-we-going-to-with-you-look on her face; the two orderlies that escorted him earlier were stationed by the door; Mondale was sitting in a chair to his right, leaning close, staring into his eyes, “Jamie... are you with us.... hello....?”

He tried to move and found to his horror he was bound by restrains! “You --you strapped me to the bed?!” he hoarsely cried.

Ignoring the outburst, Mondale addressed him in a, warm, placatory tone, “Feeling a bit woozy, are we? Not to worry, old chap, the tranquillizer will soon wear off.”

“I’m... still in the hospital?! What the fuck?!” Jamie groaned.

“Now, there’s no need for that kind of language, young man!” said Sister, wagging her finger in his face, patently grateful to have something to nag him about, “You’re bein’ restrained cos you ‘ad another violent episode! You told the doctor you’d have him killed!!”

“Yes, thank you Sister that will be all. I’ll page you if I need further assistance,” said Mondale, sniffily, clearly peeved by her insensitive attitude. He waited until she’d gone then told the orderlies to wait outside the door. Once they were alone, he patted Jamie’s shoulder reassuringly, “I must apologise for ever doubting you, Jamie,” he confided, earnestly, in a sympathetic tone, “I must confess, I didn’t believe you at first, but today I witnessed the change come over you. I saw you suffer those hallucinations first hand. I saw the fear and confusion in your eyes as the paroxysm took hold...”

“Stop it!!” Jamie was having none of it! He used all his strength to voice his opinion as loudly and as forcefully as he could, “This isn't real! This is a dreamscape built from Harkness’ memories... the Martyrs created this!”

“Oh dear,” said Mondale, wearily, massaging his greying eyebrows, “this is precisely the sort of thing you were shouting while in the throes of delirium....”

Jamie shook his head emphatically and protested just as vehemently, “No, no, no you don’t -- don’t try to twist this! I’m trapped in a dreamscape -- you are just a figure from Harkness’ past!”

Mondale checked his notepad, “Yes, you mentioned the name ‘Harkness’ several times during the attack.”

“I didn’t suffer an attack! This is a phantasm! The Martyrs are behind this!”

“The martyrs?”

“The Darkly Martyrs -- the wizards buried under the Ivy House!!” shouted Jamie, struggling under the restraints.

“Wizards?”

“Yes wizards!! And don’t patronise me --- I’m not crazy -- it won’t work! I’m not fooled anymore!”

Smiling benignly, Mondale explained, “Jamie, please listen to me: during our session today, when I told you I couldn't arrange a solicitor until you’d been assessed, you took the news rather badly. You became hysterical and threatened me. You threatened to have me shot.”

“But you were shot! Harkness shot you in the head... I mean Carla shot you in the dream... I mean -- you aren't real!!”

Mondale waited for him to calm down and went on, “The orderlies had to restrain you while I called for a medic to administer a tranquilliser. I take it, then, you don’t remember anything?”

Jamie refused to believe a word of it, “This is utter bullshit! Ask ‘Mr Murphy’ -- or should I say Merfi of the Darkly Woods!” Jamie lifted his head and shouted at the door, “Hey! Merfi! Merfi get in here! You can stop this now! Enough is enough!”

One of the orderlies put his head around the door and asked if everything was OK. Mondale impatiently waved him away and continued, “I know how hard this must be for you, Jamie. Amnesia is a frightening condition, especially when its compounded by feelings of paranoia. But don’t worry,” He gave Jamie a paternal pat on the arm, “now that I’ve seen it for myself, I can assure you I will do my utmost to see that you’re properly looked after.” He frowned as he delivered the ‘bad news’, “Unfortunately, you will have to be separated from general population for a while, and as soon as we’re sure it’s safe, we’ll remove those restraints, in the meantime, I’m prescribing a course of sedatives to level your mood and relax you; then, when you’re stable, we’ll work on a way to keep these episodes under control...” he said, and brought the little tête-à-tête to a close, “I am sorry it had to come to this, Jamie,” he said, sadly, looking at the restraints, “I’ll come back and see you after the weekend, when you’ve had time to... settle.”

But Jamie had stopped listening minutes ago; so despondent he didn’t even notice Mondale leave the room. He just stared at the ceiling and frantically tried to figure out what had happened. The last thing he remembered was spinning in a circle with Goz and Dani... the Martyrs chanting... then they heard the voice in his head telling him to say the word -- wait a minute --

“We said the word!”

So how come he’s back in the hospital? -- back in Harkness’ subconscious? -- back in the Martyr’s dreamscape? There’s no chill in his bones now, it doesn’t feel like he’s still in the Void. Am I back in a timeless dimension? And if so, how long is this set to last?! Wave after wave of despair washed over him -- could this get any worse?!

As if to answer that unuttered question, there was a sharp rat-tat-tat on the door, and the spiky headed, tubby figure of Nurse Gaston Masterson entered, carrying a small plastic tray laden with various pill boxes and a paper cup half-filled with water. He didn’t look too happy.

“Well, thank you very much!” he chimed, in a high, scathing voice, looking down at Jamie with hand on hip and a disbelieving shake of the head, “I’ve got a big-black-mark on report card cuz of you! Mondale’s secretary ratted-me-out! So not only 'ave I blown my chances with ‘er, I’ve got Sister and Mondale breathin' down me neck! Open wide, please,” he said, tersely, and placed a pair of pink capsules on Jamie’s tongue and continued his acerbic harangue, “’Oh, I’m absolutely fine ‘n I need to see Dr Mondale urgently, can you arrange it for me?’ -- And look where it got ya! -- stuck in Isolation -- strapped to the bed on 24 hour suicide watch! What the ‘ell were you thinkin’?!!”

Jamie closed his mouth and refused to be drawn.

His wilful silence only made Masterson madder, “I got you that appointment in good faith, matey! I trusted you -- and what do you do?! You go mental ‘n threaten to shoot the ‘ead doctor!!” he nagged, putting the glass of water to Jamie’s lips.

Jamie sipped the water, swallowed the pills and said nothing.

The disgruntled Wulfrunian’s flushed little urchin face clenched into a sneer as he stooped and informed his taciturn patient in a harsh, half-whisper, “Well, you’ve had it now, mister. You’ll never get outta here. If you thought a week in the Secure Unit was bad -- wait’ll you’ve been in ‘ere for a few years!”

Jamie’s eyes widened: years?!

Now he’d finally got a reaction, Masterson laid it on thick, “Oh yeah, cuz I’ve seen your file. You’re Category-A, now: ‘dangerous’ and ‘unstable’, ‘prone to violent outbursts’ -- ‘Possibly homicidal’! Not only that, but yer ‘omeless and a ‘person of interest’ to the law. And this ain't gaol, y’know -- there’s no parole ‘ere! You 'aveta convince a board of specialists ‘n magistrates that you’re no longer a danger to the public, and yeah, that can take years! -- in some cases, a lifetime!!”

Jamie’s heart sank to the pit of his stomach.

Putting the cup back on the tray, Masterson, stood back, smiled evilly and winked, “Still, you gotta look on the broightsoide of loife, dontcha, mate? I’m going off-duty in ‘alf-an-hour,” he trilled, turning away, “I’m gonna ‘ave a few bevvies with me mates, and later on, we’re goin’ to a club in town; gonna get absolutely bladdered and dance till dawn.” He paused at the door to give a little parting wave and bid him a tart farewell, “Have a nice time staring at the walls, coma-boy...”

15 minutes ago: still barefoot, stopping along the way for a second to switch off the engine of the crashed jeep, Carla sprinted across the courtyard, ran up the steps to the door of the sanatorium, dashed up the corridor and burst into Jamie’s room; she rushed to the bed, put a hand on his head and checked his vital signs. She sighed with relief. There didn’t seem to be any change in his condition; he seemed comfortable; his breathing and heart-rate were steady; his skin was warm to the touch. Satisfied he wasn't in any immediate danger, she went to tend to her unconscious uncle. Shooing Noel off his humongous belly, she cradled his head in her lap and felt his jugular to check his pulse, “How long has he been out?!”

“Not long. We wuz castin’ a spell then 'e stopped drummin’, leaned over ‘n whispered somethin’ in coma-boy’s ear -- then he just passed out! Just like that! Whumph!”

“You cast a spell?” she asked, putting a pillow under her uncle’s head.

“Aye. He took it from that-there tatty ol’ book. He used the wee mirror to read them squigglesssss round the edges,” hissed the indifferent serpent, nodding toward the open scrapbook on the bed, “Sounded like complete gibberish, if you assssk me...”

Carla nodded to herself as she came to understand what had happened, “So... he recast the spell using the mirror to reverse the text...?”

“I did the chantin’! He couldn’t’ve done it without me!” chirruped Noel.

“And what did he whisper to Jamie?”

Noel had a wee think, “Hmmmmmmm. It wuz somethin’ like, ‘say the word’; then, just as the clock struck 12, he hit the deck like a big sack o’ spudsssss!”

Carla reeled for a moment as she reached a conclusion, “He must have told Jamie to say the demon’s name. That could be why everyone is unconscious -- the shock to their psyches was too much to bear. Perhaps I was spared because I was still in Harkness’ psyche when it happened...?” She returned to the bed, looked under the pillows and searched the creases in the sheets, “Where is the mirror?”

Noel wound around one of the bedposts and looked down, “I dunno. Oggy had it in his hand the last time I sssssaw it.”

She knelt beside her uncle’s body and used all her strength to turn him onto his side for a moment while she groped underneath the rolls of flab. She soon found what she was looking for. She let the body fall back, put a hand to her mouth and gasped as if in pain.

Noel loomed over her and cocked his head, “What’s up w’ ye, lassssie?! Ol’ Oggy’s not dead, is he?!”

“No... It’s Jamie...” she replied, holding up a shard of broken glass, her voice cracked with dread, “The mirror is broken... Jamie has no way back!”

To be continued in Devil-Dogs, Hellcats and Cowgirls

Table of Contents

#spindlefreck #fantasy #witches #wizards #demon #irish humour #witchcraft #saga #ghosts #irish literature #horror #ghost story #northern ireland #humour #serial killer #telepathy #paranormal #psychology #bipolar

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