#demonicposession

[edwintse-diary]

May 11 2023 Exorcist stairs

[paulhudd]

Spindlefreck: Pt.22: No Grand Finale, No Last Goodbye

November 3rd 1988:

blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip...

Malky awoke to find he was lying on a hospital bed. There were numerous wires attached to the back of his left hand, various tubes plugged into his right arm and an oxygen mask over his face. He felt numb and nauseous. Tired and trampled. His chest felt sore. He could’t open his eyes.

There were people talking nearby, and they were talking about him:

 A man’s voice: “... he’s not a gard he’s ex-RUC, and he’s lucky to be alive. If they hadn’t’ve been there, it’s quite likely he would've died before the ambulance got there. In fact, he did die for 97 seconds. He took a bullet in his thigh that nicked the femoral artery, as a result he lost a lot of blood and went into shock, and that’s when he had the heart attack...”

A woman’s voice exclaimed excitedly: “Waitaminnit – is this the same guy they were talkin’ about on the news?! Is this the fella who got shot when he went after that nutcase who’d been killin’ the wee girls?!”

The man hushed her and replied, “I haven’t heard the news yet, but aye, this is indeed another unfortunate victim of that incident, but we’re tryin’ to keep it quiet so keep your voice down.”

The woman whispered: “Two bullets, massive blood-loss followed by a heart-attack? He’s a very lucky boy.”

“If I was him I’d give up chasing criminals and take up a career as a professional gambler,” the man chuckled.

“Oh, aye, he’s jammier than a sackful of rabbits’ paws, that’s to be sure, but he didn’t haveta put himself in that predicament, did he? - goin’ after an armed lunatic with only a dog fer company?”

The man’s voice came closer, “Well, he’s a bit of a hero, all-told. So-much-so, that the officer attending the scene brought him here in a police-car, carried him into casualty wrapped in a blanket and stayed until he came out of surgery.” Malky felt a cool hand on his brow, “Hmmm, his temperature is a bit on the high side. Keep an eye on his blood pressure, will you? Page me immediately if there’s any change in his condition. And whatever you do, sister, don’t let any detectives or reporters in here.”

The woman pretended to be offended by his underestimation of her powers of discretion and bantered him light-heartedly, “I’ll put the word out amongst the staff, then – ‘no dicks or hacks for our Mr Calvert!’”

Malky was quietly reeling, and not just because he was drowsy from the anaesthetic and in a great deal of pain; the events of the night before were coming back to him, backwards: the crack of McKee’s pistol... the muddy grave... the screeching cats... Zindy getting shot...!

Zindy got shot!

blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... 

He opened his eyes and tried to sit-up – a sharp pain shot through his shoulder-blades - he let out a low groan; the blips of cardiograph increased to a solid scream and one of the other machines began to emit a piercing whine.

“Uh-oh! He’s awake!” The doctor returned to the bedside and gently eased him back to his original position, “Easy, easy there, Mr Calvert, try to stay calm.... nurse, give him a jab, there...”

The doctor -- a tall, thin, bespectacled, balding, sexagenarian wearing an open white coat over a careworn, Harris-tweed three-piece suit -- examined his eyes and informed him in a soothing Wicklow brogue, “Easy now, I need you to try and relax and not to exert yourself in any way...”

Malky gasped and asked in a strained voice, “... is Zindy... still alive...?”

“Nobody’s been killed, don’t you worry, now -- there’ll be plenty of time to catch up later. The most important thing for you is to get some rest. Your body has taken quite a pounding -- these first few hours are crucial for your eventual recovery...”

He felt the bedclothes being pulled back, then a sting in his left thigh. Seconds later, a blissful numbness enveloped him and the darkness descended again...

Malky doesn’t remember dying. He doesn’t remember his astral form leaving his earthly body and standing in a billowing cloud of white mist under a huge ray of blinding light and thinking to himself this is like every movie or comedy sketch he’d ever seen about people dying and going to heaven. He doesn’t remember looking down at himself as he stood by the bed watching the doctor and his frantic assistants fussing around him as the monitors screamed. 

He doesn’t remember the swirling mists parting and a solitary figure emerge to greet him: a middle-aged, bespectacled man, dressed in his Sunday Best suit, hair slicked back, his hands deep in the pockets of his luxuriant black mohair overcoat.

“Welcome to my world, Malky,” said the spectre.

Malky recognised him immediately, “Bernie bloody Pritchard,” he said, with a contemptuous sneer, “I thought you were dead.” 

The cruel lips widened into a devilish smile, “I am. So are you,” he said, looking over Malky’s shoulder at the body on the bed.

Malky sighed resignedly, his shoulders slumping, “Ah, well, it was good while it lasted. At least I died saving someone’s life...”

“Oh, you’ll be revived, son,” Pritchard interrupted assuredly, “this-here’s only temporary. A near death experience, as they say.”

Malky looked up into The Light and an all-consuming yearning came over him, every fibre of his being was desperate to ascend, “I dunno what it is, but I don’t want to go back, I want to go up so badly...” he murmured, regretfully.

Pritchard chuckled, “You will eventually, just not today. No, I thought I’d call and say hello while you’re on my side of the fence, y’know. I like to keep up with old friends.”

“You’re no friend o’ mine, Pritchard,” snapped Malky, stepping back, looking him up and down, “you were always a sleekit get, up to all sorts of badness.You wouldn't be comin’ here to see me unless it was bad news or you were up to no good.”

The dapper spectre shrugged, “I wanted to congratulate you on catching our Mr McKee. You did both worlds a greater service than you can ever imagine. Thanks to you, the dead can rest in peace again. Well, thanks to the old dog, if we’re honest. He did most of the work, didn’t he, Malky?”

“Is that it then? Is that what you came to say?” said Malky, irritated, wondering if this was heaven or the other place. I mean, where else would Bernie be?

Pritchard ignored him and continued, “Oh, you’ll go on denyin’ it. You’ll put it down to intuition and happy-happenstance, but deep down you’ll know the truth. You were guided by Faeries. That’s what we call the Infant Host: Faeries. The ghosts of little children. They guided the dog and you followed. Isn't that right, Malky?”

When Malky didn’t respond, he got to the point, “You see, I’m a very special ghost. And here, in the space betwixt life and death, I have the run of the place. In your world I can’t be seen or heard and I can’t touch anything, but I can watch. And I’ll be watching you Malky. Your life is gonna get very interesting from now on, so I’ll be keepin’ an eye on you.”

“Interesting? In what way?” asked Malky, gimlet-eyed.

But Pritchard refused to expound, “Looks like our little tête-à-tête is at an end, Malky, they've just saved you,” he said, nodding toward the bed.

The machines in the theatre stopped bleeping. The assistants looked relaxed and relieved; one of them was congratulating the doctor as she mopped his brow with a paper towel. The blinding light dimmed; the mists thickened; Malky felt himself being drawn back into his body, the warmth of reanimation surging through his Essence as his Soul returned to his earthly flesh and bones.

But Malky was still stuck on Pritchard’s previous remarks, “What do you mean about ‘interesting’ -- what do you mean you’ll be ‘watching me’ -- what are you talkin’ about?!” shouted Malky, his voice growing faint as he faded from view.

“Be seein’ you Malky,” the spectre shouted, laughing as the mist proliferated and swallowed him up, “give my regards to Archie...”

The Ivy House; 09:30AM: Archie Harkness was rudely roused from a deep sleep by the rasping sound of curtains being noisily swished asunder and a beam of blinding sunlight hitting his face. What the hell... He was in strange bed in a strange, high-ceilinged room, with a strange, straight-backed, middle-aged man in a black frockcoat, striped waistcoat and white gloves standing over him.

“Jeezus fuck! Where am I?” Archie spluttered, jumping into a sitting position, kicking the bedclothes away, frantically looking left and right.

The strange man spoke with an educated, Irish accent and addressed him in a formal, if somewhat contemptuous manner, “Good morning, sir,” he said, with a slight sneer, "you’re in the Ivy House. Mr Castle instructed me to inform you that breakfast will be served in the Morning Room at 10 o'clock.”

Archie, totally mystified, slack-jawed and befuddled, looked down and was shocked to see he was wearing a pair of starchy, standard-issue white cotton pyjamas, “What happened to my clothes?!” shrinking back, a multitude of possibilities racing through his mind.

Fordham cleared his throat and explained, “Apparently you were in the drawing room chatting to Mme Infanté when you fell asleep on the couch by the fire. You were quite... unconscious. We couldn't wake you. Mme Infanté put it down to the stress of your ordeal yesterday. Considering your condition and the lateness of the hour, Lady Beth thought it best that we move you to this room and let you sleep it off,” he pointed toward the pile of neatly folded clothes on an armchair by the window, “we took the liberty of undressing you, laundering and pressing your clothes.” He put his nose in the air again and produced the tattered remains of Archie’s white shirt (Primark: £2.99!), “Unfortunately, your shirt did not survive the cycle. So we've replaced it.” He indicated a gleaming white shirt hanging on a coat hook behind the door, “We have dozens of them. Sir Arnold, may his Soul rest in peace, was about your size and wont to wear a fresh shirt every day. We have quite a supply.”

“Uh... thanks... I think...?” Archie replied, mistily, still a wee bit dazed, but before he could make any further enquiries, Fordham, holding the shirt between his finger and thumb as if it was large sheet of soiled toilet paper, opened a door at the opposite end of the room, turned on the inner-light and announced, somewhat pointedly, “a fully-stocked en suite with a shower-room, sir. Hot water. Fresh towels. New toothbrush. Feel free to use them,” then flounced out and closed the door behind him.

Archie was scratching his scalp with both hands, utterly flummoxed. What the fuck? He searched his mind but the last thing he could remember was coming into the house and ‘chatting’ to the Infanté woman. He couldn't recall what was said exactly, but they were talking about his kidnapping. He remembered feeling very tired, and then, nothing...

except a weird dream.

He’d dreamed about the mental hospital in London, the one he committed himself to after the ‘Donegal Incident’ to ‘sort his head out’ once and for all; the one he went to without telling anyone, not even his ex-wives. It was very vivid, but it wasn't a memory: it wasn't a replay of something that actually happened, it was more like he was a casual observer, seeing things from someone else’s perspective... Very strange. Then again, look where he is: The Ivy House. A place where nothing makes sense and everybody seems to get into your head... One thing was for sure: he felt the same way he did when he was admitted to the hospital in the first place. The feeling that nothing is real. But he can’t think like this. That’s what scuppered him the first time. He can’t go making wild allegations based on outrageous suspicions. He has to be on his game. Professional. Play it cool. He got up and went to the en suite to splash a few handfuls of cold water on his face. He leaned on the sink and took a long look at his dripping countenance in the mirrored doors of the bathroom cabinet. His widow’s peak was slept-into a cockscomb, the unshaven, lugubrious, lantern-jawed mug looked old and worn out, his eyes bloodshot and laden with heavy baggage. I look like shite. He was just about to turn away and reach for the hand-towel on the rail -- when he caught a glimpse of someone looking over his shoulder! He gasped, swivelled on his heel and looked behind him. There was no one there, of course, but the image, fleeting as it might’ve been, was firmly imprinted on his mind: a bespectacled, shadowy figure in a black overcoat with a knowing smirk on its face...

“Bernie bloody Pritchard...?” Archie gasped, as he gripped the edge of the sink for support, put a hand on his thudding heart and cursed his overactive imagination...

Meanwhile, two stories below, in the House of Rest, for the second time in as many days, the new Master of the House reclines in a pew by the aisle listening to a quartet of cowled Güül musicians, playing instruments not unlike a cello and lyre accompanied by a duo of tablas-players, evoke the intoxicating, funereal strains of the old laments, while slowly twirling threads of yellowish-smoke spiral up from the ornate silver incense burners positioned either side of the proscenium, filling the air with the heady scent of primrose and cinnamon, a fragrance traditionally associated with the death of a female child. Throughout the vigil, his eyes remain locked on the plain small pinewood box on the bier, as he meditates on the short lives and untimely deaths of little Danielle Cochrane (18½). 

But for all the trappings of grief and respect for the dead, there was no heart in this. It was theatre, not a genuine memorial; a way to thank the deceased for their service to the cause, not to mourn. It was beautiful, but cold. Intimate, but impersonal.

To say he was disillusioned would be the understatement of the millennium. After the previous night’s events, he was pulled in so many directions it felt as if his Soul was being torn apart. It didn’t feel right. He didn’t feel right. It was as if he couldn't trust his mind anymore. So many illusions, so many realities. He tore his eyes away from the casket and took a look around at the rows of myriad bronzes, sculptures and portraits of his forbearers next to their funeral urns; statuary celebrating a succession of magi and Judges reaching back thousands of years. His gaze eventually alighted on the newest addition to gallery, the bust of his late grandfather, Sir Arnold. What the fuck was that all that about? he silently enquired of the proud chinned, eyeless stone. How do I fit into this grand scheme of things? Because, to be honest, gramps, I feel like don’t like I belong at all. I mean, how do you live in a world where life isn't sacred, everybody lies and you can’t trust your own mind? Dani’s dead... and it’s just business as usual. Nobody cares.

Then again, if he was being entirely honest with himself, he had to admit what bothered him most was his own lack of remorse. Dani’s death hasn’t hit him the way it should. After all, they’d discovered the Psychosphere together, he’d showed her the outside world through his memories -- well, a heavily sanitised version, anyway -- she was a friend and a comrade in arms, an innocent kid drawn into all this through no fault of her own. Whatever the circumstances, she was as real to him as a sister. Her loss should mean more to him than a little niggle of regret?

His train of thought was abruptly derailed by the sound of the outer door opening and closing followed by the unmistakeable shuffle of familiar footsteps. “What is it Oggy? I told you I didn’t want to be disturbed,” he said, tersely, without looking round.

“Her Ladyship sent me, Master Jamie, sir. She wants you to come up for breakfast,” Castle murmured in the shadows. “The policeman, Detective Inspector Harkness will be there ‘n she wants to ‘show a united front’, sir, y’know, like, things are... as she puts it: ‘proceeding as normal’ ‘n all that...”

“Well, she can go and take a running jump. I told all of you: I don’t want to see or talk to anyone until I figure out how I feel about this.”

After a sizeable pause, he heard Castle take a few steps closer, There was an audible sigh. “You shouldn't dwell on it sir. Everything has worked out for the best.”

Jamie folded his arms and grumbled, “’The best’? Dani’s dead! You shot her through the head! And now everybody’s back to work as if nothing’s happened. Again.”

The sloppy footsteps shuffled a little closer and the morbidly obese form of Ogden Castle eventually loomed in the semi-darkness, head bowed, hands folded across his humongous gut, “May I, sir,” he asked. Jamie rolled his eyes, slid up the bench and made room for the butler’s gargantuan arse. When he eventually managed to squeeze in and make himself comfortable, Castle turned and whispered in Jamie’s ear, “I think you ought to know -- the host is still alive. But his brain is severely damaged. Virtually a vegetable. Ergo, the demon is trapped in a mindless head. Totally impotent. Utterly powerless. We can deal with him now. Rest assured, Dani did not die in vain.” 

Jamie didn’t react.

Seeing that his words were having little effect, Castle took a deep breath and addressed a few home truths, “I know it seems bad. Her death is especially sad cuz she’d morphed back into a sweet little girl again ‘n looked for-all-the-world like a normal, human chile - but she was a tickin’ time-bomb. You know that better than anyone, sir. The term may sound a wee bit heartless to youse younguns, but there is no better description: she was indeed ‘demonspawn’. There’s no cure for that curse. She was half-maid, half-monster, a danger to herself and others. You saw the beast inside her. It almost killed you.” He was unequivocal in his conclusion, “She wasn't meant for this world, Jamie. You kept your distance cuz deep down you knew that her death was inevitable. We couldn't keep her locked-up in a dungeon forever.”

“Doesn't make me feel any better, Oggy,” Jamie harrumphed, but it was somewhat muted rebuke. He hated himself for it, but he was weakening. He just wanted someone to tell him that his conscience was clear.

Castle knew he wanted to be coaxed, so he carried on in a more upbeat, inspirational tone, “Then there’s the bright side. The old witch told ye, didn’t she? She said: ‘she will be reborn’. And now that the ol’ crystal balls’re workin’ again, I asked Nᴉxau ‘n Derek down in Namibia to look into the firmament and, sure enough -- Miss Danielle still has a signature, faint though it may be.”

Jamie was suddenly very interested, “Oh, and what does that mean?”

“Her Soul must've migrated. The hostage at the scene -- the woman -- she was shot durin’ the fight with McKee, but it was only a flesh wound, she survived. She’s in her late-thirties, fit-&-healthy...”

Jamie raised an eyebrow, “...’of child-bearing age?’”

Castle smiled broadly and nodded, “So there’s every chance we will meet little Danielle again one day,” he said, leaning in, “and this time she’ll be free of his badness. She’ll be perfect.”

Jamie sat back and grumbled, “She’ll still be one of us though: a cold-hearted, cold-blooded, cold-fish who can’t even squeeze out a tear for a sweet little kid...” he said, lowering his head.

Castle put a hand on his shoulder, “Come upstairs for breakfast, sir. I mean to say, you haven’t eaten anything for almost 2 days...”

Jamie had to admit he was starving and reluctantly gave in, but with reservations, “I still don’t know how I feel about this, Oggy. I mean, literally: I don’t know how to feel.”

“We are Vondragüül, Jamie. We’re not human. We know the secrets of life and death,” said Castle, gravely. “We don’t share the same fears. You just haven’t lived long enough to develop a callous.”

Jamie uncrossed his arms, turned toward him, and intimated in a conflicted half-whisper, “When I was locked in Harkness’ subconscious, I experienced a world that made much more sense than this, y’know? It was a cold and lonely, hopeless place, but it felt so real, so scary, so... so vivid. You’ll say I was channelling Harkness’ experiences and emotions, but I dunno... what if that reality is real and this is just a fantasy I disappear into when reality gets too much for me?”

Castle smiled broadly as he explained, “Your mind has been prey to the most powerful psychics in the Realm, Jamie: The Darkly Martyrs and the demon. They've had many a millennia to perfect their powers of illusion. Uh-huh?”

Jamie nodded, not entirely convinced.

Castle nudged him again, “And you handled it very well. They put you through hell and you still won the day.”

“What do you think happened to the Martyrs?”

“Gawd knows. They did what they had to do and their plan was reasonably successful. They’re still buried beneath this house, but there’s no sign of life, no residual energy. They could be dead, I dunno...” said Castle, with a shrug of his big shoulders. 

Jamie’s stomach squeaked.

“I’ll tell cook to put on some extra sausages. I know how y’ like yer sausages...” said Castle, gasping as he squeezed out of the pew and beat a hasty retreat before Jamie changed his mind.

He quietly closed the huge ebony doors behind him and trotted down the darkened, torch-lit, catacomb-like corridor and laboriously climbed the steep, wrought-iron spiral-staircase back up to the first floor. He emerged from a concealed doorway in a wall panel at the back of the house, then through the arches, across the chequered floored corridor and down to the main entrance hall. When he stopped at the base of the main staircase to mop his brow, he glanced up and espied their reluctant guest, Guy Gosling, dressed in some of Jamie’s old clothes, closely followed by Xavier, the Lumb’s tall, imposing, Middle Eastern chauffeur, on their way down. He stood to attention and waited by the bottom step as if he was about to bestow a warm ‘good morning’ to an overnight guest, but as soon as Gosling was within reach -- he seized him by the collar of his borrowed shirt and unceremoniously dragged him into the alcove adjacent to the stairs.

“Lissen to me, gobshite! You’re in enough trouble as it is, so I want no nonsense outta ye this mornin’!” He hissed into Goz’s face. “There’ll be a peeler joinin’ yez fer breakfast -- so no snarky comments or loaded remarks -- don’t try to take control of the conversation, let Her Ladyship do all the talkin’! And no sniping at Jamie. Right?!”

Goz reeled, shocked by the butler’s aggressive attitude, “Huh! He started it!”

“Aye, but you took yer revenge to a ridiculous extreme! You've put us in trouble with the Council! There’ll be repercussions,” Castle prodded Goz’s temple with his index finger, “So, keep it light ‘n friendly or I’ll give ye a headache the like of which ye’ve never ‘ad!”

Goz was at once shocked, angry and aghast, complaining in a transatlantic falsetto “What the f -- ! You’re freakin’ kidding me! If anyone should be shouting the odds it should be me!” he bitterly complained, doing his best to push Castle away, “That fucking bitch more-or-less raped me last night!” he cried, pointing in the direction of the morning room.

“Keep yer voice down!” Castle slapped a hand on the upstart’s gob and pushed him further into the corner. While Xavier stood in front and kept watch, the big butler marked Goz’s card once-and-for-all: “This is the Ivy House, me bucko. You’re no big noise here,” he snarled, his jowly mug pink close and puce with contained rage, “we have scullions that’re more psychically adept than you! So long as you’re under this roof, you’re beholden to me, son. Got it?!”

Goz’s eyes glared, but he eventually acquiesced.

The big butler relented and took his hand away, “Good.”

“Fucking liberty,” Goz huffed under his breath, straightening his collar, smoothing his creases,“kidnapped...thrown into the trunk of a limo... strapped to a fucking bed... attempted-fucking-murder... rape! ... Your hospitality leaves a lot to be desired, fat man...”

Before Castle could give him a clip around the ear, Xavier tapped his shoulder and drew his attention to the lone figure traversing the balcony directly above. “Here comes Harkness. Time to get in character,” he growled, waving a finger in Goz’s face, “you’re an actor, so play the quiet, polite guest.” He patted his arse in the direction of the passageway to their left, “Now, go on ‘n get yer breakfast.”

Still cursing under his breath, Goz made his way across the hall and disappeared into the darkness of the passageway. Castle turned to the big chauffeur, “You too, Mr X. I’ll take it from here.” As Xavier walked off to get his own breakfast, Castle regained his composure and resumed his place at the foot of the staircase. 

“Good morning sir, I hope this day finds you well-rested and refreshed?” he enquired, in a bright-&-breezy voice.

Archie had undergone quite a remarkable transformation: Showered, shaved, suited and shod, overcoat casually slung over his shoulder, clean white shirt shimmering in the shafts of morning light pouring in through the huge, stain-glass windows in the east wall, he cocked his head as he descended the last few steps and tried to catch a glimpse of the young man before he disappeared from view, “Hmmm... who was that?” he asked, with a hint of suspicion.

“Master Guy Gosling, sir,” Castle replied, “friend of the family. He’ll be joining you for breakfast. May I take your coat, sir?” Archie was about to refuse the offer, then shrugged and handed it over. Castle took it, draped it over his arm, and led the way, “Her Ladyship is already at the table. Master Jamie and Mme Infanté will be joining you shortly.”

“I... erm... the footman said I was talking to Mme Infanté when I passed out...?” said Archie, looking in the direction of the drawing room.

“That’s right sir. Small wonder after the stress of yesterday’s events. Mme Carla said you looked thoroughly exhausted ‘n had trouble keepin’ your eyes open. I’m very glad to see that you’ve made a full recovery,” he said, as if it was all in a day’s work. But Archie didn’t trust the big butler any further than he could throw him, and with good reason. It was Castle who guided Donny Ogle’s decisions on the Cochrane case [See Part 17]; it was Castle who attended Danielle Cochrane’s victim’s autopsy and made the pathologist falsify the report. Archie couldn't let the moment go without puttin’ the wind up the ol’ bugger, “Eh, I’ll want to speak to you later, Mr Castle.”

Castle paused at the door of the Morning Room and cocked an ear, “I’m sorry, sir, what did you say?”

Archie stepped closer and looked him in the eye and delivered what he thought would be the coup de gras, “Concerning the late Danielle Cochrane. The changes made to her victim’s forensics report. I have a few questions.”

Castle smiled, “Really, sir? Well, if I can be of any help...?”

“Chief Inspector Ogle seems to think so...” said Archie, archly.

“Oh, Her Ladyship has already spoken to Chief Superintendent Ogle. She telephoned him earlier this morning to tell ‘im you were here,” Castle informed him, unaffected, “I’m sure she’ll explain everything over breakfast.”

That took the wind out of Archie’s sails. By the looks of that smirk on the big butler’s mug, Ogle is on the warpath. I mean, gawd knows what they think. He’d fallen off the radar without telling anyone; not only that, but this was after he’d just been drugged and kidnapped by a madman! They were probably up all night looking for him. Shite. It was a very discomfited and much meeker Archie Harkness that entered the Morning Room.

Sitting at the head of the table, dressed in a flowing, cream silk blouse, jodhpurs and riding boots, her long, chestnut hair plaited into ponytail, Lady Beth tore herself away from the newspaper she was perusing and peered over the rim of her spectacles like a prim headmistress, “Good morning, Detective Inspector!” she trilled in a mock-cheerful voice without smiling, “My, you’re looking a lot better than you did last night.”

“Umm yeah... thanks for puttin’ me up ‘n washin’ me clothes ‘n that...” muttered Archie, getting more apathetic by the minute.

“You’ll have to excuse my attire. I’ve been out for a ride and I didn’t have time to change,” she explained, whimsically, “I like to ride first thing every morning, it blows away the cobwebs,” she said, stealing a glance at the shaven-headed boy at the other end of the table. He scowled back. She smirked, “Most invigorating!”

“I’m not sure I’ve had the pleasure,” said Archie, as Fordham seated him in the first chair on her right. She went back to her paper and casually flicked a wrist in the lad’s general direction, “This is Guy Gosling, he’s a... close friend of the family. He’s staying with us while he recuperates from a recent... illness,” she grumbled, somewhat dismissively, then added with a contemptuous sniff, “I’m sure you’ve heard of him... he’s quite famous, apparently.”

Seemingly oblivious to her little show of disinterest, Gosling stood up and offered his hand. Stretching across the table, Archie scrutinised the young man’s face as if examining an abstract painting, “Waitaminnit,” he suddenly exclaimed, snapping his finger. “I do know you!”

Gosling shook Archie’s hand, sat back in his seat, and awaited the inevitable revelation with a forced smile.

“You’re a pop-star! My wee Natalie has a picture of you on her bedroom wall!” said Archie, still standing.

Lady Beth tutted and tsked and noisily turned a page.

“Well, I'm more of an actor these days,” said Gosling, politely but impatiently, as Marta, the elderly teasmaid put a dish in front of him, “I was a singer. Jamie and I formed the band when we were at school.”

“Of course!” said Archie, sitting down, picturing Natalie’s face when he tells her about this. “Is that why you came here, Mr Gosling? To see Jamie?”

Goz splashed some milk on his muesli, looked at Her Ladyship and grunted, “Something like that.”

Archie looked toward the door, “Where is Jamie by-the-way...?”

Sighing impatiently, Lady Beth replied, “He’s not been well. Up all night with a dreadful migraine. He’ll be with us presently.” She nodded toward the teasmaid standing by the tea trolley, “Tea or coffee, Detective Inspector?”

“Coffee, please. I suppose you want to know why I’m here...” But before Archie could utter another syllable, Lady Beth chimed in without looking up, “I’ve spoken to our old friend Donald Ogle. He is most anxious to see you. I told him I’d have you ring him as soon as possible. He says he has no idea why you are here and apologised profusely for the intrusion.”

Archie was on the back foot again. As the maid set a cup of coffee and a small jug of cream in front of him, he straightened his tie and tried to explain, “Well, I’m sorry to have intruded, but I came here because the man who kidnapped me...”

Again, Lady Beth cut him off with another newsflash, “Oh. You’ll be pleased to know that they've caught him.... ummm... can’t recall his name...?”

"What?! They caught ‘im?” cried Archie, so surprised he forgot to stop pouring the cream and now his cup was overflowing. He caught-himself-on and began mopping the saucer with his napkin, “Sorry, did I hear you right? Did you say they caught Barry McKee?!”

She looked up and snapped her fingers, “McKee! That’s the name! The child killer. The one you were after. Ghastly business. Donald told me a mutual friend of yours -- an old colleague, he said -- was involved in the capture...”

“Malky...? Malky Calvert? ...How...” said Archie, gaping with incredulity, a pencil-moustache of brown foam coating his upper-lip.

“Ummm... can’t recall the name...” she looked over her shoulder.

Castle waddled forward, stood to attention and supplied the information, “Yes, the man in question is Malcolm Calvert, milady.” He looked at Archie and explained, “It was on the wireless first thing this morning, sir. Caught McKee in the Wicklow hills, he did.”

Archie’s lantern-jaw sagged as he gasped, “Malky...? Malky caught him?”

Lady Beth continued to expound in a carefree manner, “Hmmm. They say he was very seriously injured in the affray, ”

“How badly? Is he OK?!”

Castle excused himself and chipped in, “Got shot in the leg, lost a lot of blood, sir. Apparently he died on the operating table but was mercifully revived,”

Her Ladyship, examined her nails and added, “The McKee fellow suffered a severe blow to the head, isn't that right Castle...”

Again the fat butler took up the narrative in a flat, officious tone, “He’s in a coma, sir. They say he’s almost brain-dead: in a ‘vegetative state’. Unlikely he’ll ever recover.”

“Good thing too,” Her Ladyship concluded, taking a cigarette from a silver case and holding up to her lips. Castle produced an expensive looking, gold lighter from his inside pocket and lit her up.

Archie was knocked for six. It looked like there was no chance of ever questioning McKee! And what about poor Malky! ... Waitaminnit. The tape! He still had the taped confession! He checked his pockets -- but there was no sign of it! His wallet and ID were there but nothing else. Castle brought him his coat and he searched that, too. Nothing. He looked at them, eyes narrowed with suspicion, “Eh, yez didn’t happen find a tape amongst my belongings, did yez?”

Ever apathetic, Her Ladyship puffed a plume of smoke into the air and blithely answered the question with a question, “Tape? You mean a video tape? Sticky tape? Police tape..?”

“No, I mean an audio tape,” said Archie through gritted teeth, trying to keep his voice down, “a standard-size, TDK C60 cassette.” He eyed their faces for signs of complicity, “I’m pretty-damn-sure it was in my pocket when I got here last night.”

Her Ladyship looked over shoulder at Castle, “Well?”

Castle addressed Archie directly and succinctly, “We didn’t remove anything from your coat, sir, and I supervised the men that stripped you ‘n got you ready for bed. I set everything we found in your trouser-pockets on top of the dresser in your room. I don’t remember seeing any tape, sir. I’m sorry.”

No -- I’m sorry! Bloody sorry I ever came to this fucking house! Archie gave him a cockeyed, accusing look as he patted down the coat, just in case the tape had managed to find its way through one of the many rips in the lining. “Could it have slipped down the back of the couch in the drawing room?” he asked, getting evermore exasperated.

The butler shrugged, “It’s possible, sir... I’ll have someone check,” he said, and went to the internal phone on the wall by the door.

Archie was sure he remembered putting it in his pocket before he left the car. But he couldn't remember having it when he arrived at the house. Shite... Wait! What if I dropped it when I climbed the tree to watch the grounds?! [See Part 19]

A minute or so later, Castle replaced the receiver and returned to the table, “I’m very sorry, sir, the housemaids had a good look, but there’s no sign of a cassette tape in, around, or under the couch.”

Gosling looked up from his muesli, “Was it a mix-tape, Inspector? Y’know, a compilation of your favourite tracks?” he asked, pretending to be concerned. Castle scowled, but Archie was too busy inwardly panicking to notice any non-verbal exchanges. This day wasn't going well at all. “Look, milady I... I gotta get goin’... They’ll be wondering what happened to me...” he said, getting to his feet and pulling on his coat, “Can somebody give me a lift to my car?”

“Aren't you going to finish your breakfast?” she trilled, clearly pleased to see the back of him.

“No, I’ve lost my appetite,” said Archie, strutting toward the door.

Lady Beth turned to Castle, “Have Xavier take him in the Rolls.”

“Yes milady,” said Castle, returning to the interior phone.

Jamie was coming in just as Archie as going out, “Oh, hello there, Mr Harkness... going so soon?”

Archie paused, looked back into the room, shook his head and said, sullenly , “I’ve been here too long already, son,” and marched out.

Once Harkness’ footsteps had faded into the distance, Jamie turned and looked around the table, “What did you do to him?”

Lady Beth shrugged, “Nothing, he’s just a little upset because he lost something.”

Jamie walked around her and sat in the chair opposite Harkness’ place, “Oh. I don’t suppose you had anything to do with it?”

“Not me. Can’t speak for the staff, though,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at the butler. Castle coughed and explained, “McKee has been caught, sir. The case is more-or-less closed. A weird confession from an obvious madman will only confuse matters, sir.”

“What makes you think Harkness won’t come back here with a warrant to search this place?” Jamie asked, as he calmly poured himself a large helping of Frosties.

Lady Beth: “His commanding officer won’t allow it. I warned him. No more investigations. Anyway, Harkness’ recollections of the tapes will be spotty to say the least.”

“Carla wiped him, sir,” said Castle, “selectively, just the contentious stuff. Perfectly safe.”

Jamie shook his head, “All the same, he seems pretty angry. I was trapped in his subconscious, remember, I know how he thinks ‘n feels. I know the type of man he is. He won’t let this go, with-or-without his superior’s blessing.”

Lady Beth remained sanguine, “It doesn’t matter now. Danielle’s dead. McKee’s virtually dead. Everything has settled rather nicely.”

Goz finished his last mouthful of cereal and let the spoon clatter in the dish, “Business as usual then. Deception and subterfuge. Who cares who gets caught in the cogs as long as the coven keeps its secrets,” he scoffed, in a sarcastic, sing-song tone.

His outburst inspired a round of dirty looks.

“You’re looking quite chipper despite all the aggro you caused,” said Jamie, contemptuously, looking him up and down.

Goz shrugged-off the jibe and went about buttering a slice of toast, “You started it, JJ.  I was driven to it. You made me piss myself on live TV. You have effectively ruined my career. You've only yourself to blame.”

“You lied to me all my life!”

“You mean I looked after you all my life!”

“By lying to me?!”

“You’re a pair of cretinous assholes,” said Lady Beth, in a bored voice, “the only good thing to come out of all this is getting rid of goblin-girl.”

Everyone -- including Marta, the teasmaid -- looked at Her Ladyship and glowered.

“Well! I’m only stating what you’re all thinking. She’s better-off dead!” she protested.

The scowls intensified.

Castle begged her indulgence, “It is not done to speak ill of the deceased while their remains are still lyin’ in state, milady. ‘Specially a bairn.”

She waved away the polite admonition, “Don’t lecture me, Ogden -- you’re the one that shot her! Anyway, she was 18 -- she was a young woman!” she turned her attention to Jamie in an effort to shift attention away from herself, “if it wasn't for you we’d’ve gotten rid of her years ago!”

“She died trying to save Jamie, poor thing,” said Goz, loudly crunching the crust.

Jamie turned in his chair and pointed an accusing finger, “She wouldn't have been in that position in the first place if you hadn't cast that spell, you bastard!”

Lady Beth put up her hand and banged the table with the handle of her butter-knife like a judge’s gavel, “There’ll be no recriminations or accusations until we've carried out a thorough interrogation,” she said, looking at Gosling.

“Oh, wasn't that what you were doing last night? Felt like it...” sneered Goz, chewing with his mouth open.

Lady Beth gave out a loud ‘Hah!’ and said, “You didn’t enjoy it? So what? I did.”

Coughing loudly, Castle asked for permission to speak and informed her, “I’ve already looked into his head, milady. I know what he was up to.”

“What?!” snapped Goz, dropping his toast. “I thought the ‘Sphere was still outta bounds?!”

“I put my hand on yer mouth in the hall, remember? Direct connection. Got everything in a split second,” said Castle, with an evil smile, tapping his nose with his index finger. “I know all yer little secrets.”

Goz was furious! He jumped to his feet, threw down his napkin and gave out, “This is an utter fucking outrage!” He pushed his chair back and walked toward the door, “I’m going! Get me a car! Better yet -- get me a fucking chopper! I wanna get away from here ASAP!”

“Sit down and shut up, Wolf Boy. Nobody is going anywhere for the foreseeable future,” said Lady Beth with authority, folding her hands in her lap, adopting an almost regal pose.

“You can’t keep me here!! What are you gonna do? Throw me in the dungeon like Dani?! I’m an internationally famous celebrity! The world will come looking for me!” 

Silence. Goz looked from her to Castle. 

Their expressions were solemn and resolute. 

He duly stomped back to the chair and flopped down, crossed his arms and whined under his breath about the indignity of it all.

But Jamie had to agree, “He’s got a point, though. If it’s peace ‘n quiet you want, you’d be better off letting him go...” He was interrupted by the buzz of the internal phone. While Castle answered it, Her Ladyship laid down the law, “Until we know what Rossington and the Washington coven are up to, nobody goes anywhere...” she paused to allow Castle to whisper the message in her ear. She looked up at him with a mixture of apoplectic anger and anxiety, “He’s fucking WHAT?!”

Whatever it was, it had rendered Her Ladyship wide-eyed and speechless, so Castle thought it best to address the room, “Dr Rossington called a press conference this mornin’ and intimated that Mr Gosling was forcibly taken from his care by milady. There’s a crowd of reporters gatherin’ at the front gate as we speak. Our friends in the RUC tell us there’s a lot more on the way.”

“See!” said Goz, smugly, adopting a triumphant posture.

“Rossington is fucking accusing me of kidnapping him?!” yelled Lady Beth, holding her butter knife like a chiv and pointing it at Goz.

“No, milady. The Press Office wuz very clear about that,” vouchsafed Castle, “they said he spoke in general terms and avoided using the actual word. But the gist of it was there, milady.”

“Fucking liberty...” she grumbled. “You see! He’s done this deliberately! He wants us under siege! He’s playing us!”

Jamie shook his head, “You’re overreacting, surely. So -- he has a few men inoculated against telepathic incursion -- they’re no match for us.”

She banged the table with her fist, “Haven’t you been listening, fuckwad?! The Washington mob is in on it! They have unlimited resources! Fuck knows what they've got up their sleeves...” Then, looking toward the door, her voice dipped and softened to a sarcastic purr, “Oooh. Look what the cat dragged in. Madame Infanté. So honoured that you’ve deigned to grace us with your presence.”

Wearing a white cashmere cowl-neck sweater, tight black ski pants and black suede booties, her hair up in a bun, Carla cut a very formidable figure. She ignored Her Ladyship’s entendre and took the seat at the bottom of the table opposite Gosling. “I met Inspector Harkness on his way out. He seemed most troubled,” she told them in a bored voice, as Marta poured her a tall glass of grapefruit juice, “When I asked him how he was, he mumbled something about a ‘tape’ and stormed off without saying goodbye.”

Lady Beth rolled her eyes and looked away, “Never mind that idiot, we've dealt with him -- we've moved on to Rossington now!”

Carla took a sip and nodded, “Oh yes, I saw him on the television in the gymnasium. He was standing at the gates of SCICI reading a statement.” She glanced in Her Ladyship’s direction and added, “He insinuated that you’d virtually kidnapped him.” She nodded toward the man in question, who slipped into lothario-mode as he reached across the table to take her hand, “Guy Gosling, at your service, Madame...” But Carla refused, sat back, stared into his eyes, and continued to sip. Nonplussed, he stretched-away the embarrassment with a loud yawn before flopping into his seat again. “I’ve been in Rossington’s mind [See Part 9],” she said, “he loves to be in the limelight. He will relish this for the moment, but he is not working for the Washington coven. I would know.”

Castle leaned forward, “If I may, milady, Carrie’s right. It’s unlikely the Washington coven would've had anything to do with this. It’s not their style: too high-profile. They wouldn't have anythin’ to do with an eejit like Rossington. We can cross him off the list.”

“That maybe, Ogden, but the barbarians are at the gate demanding a response and we have to oblige or there’ll be telephoto lens and helicopter cameras trained on this place 24 hours a day until we do,” she said, taking a long drag on her cigarette.

“You can’t engage, milady, you’ll be giving him exactly what he wants!” countered Castle, somewhat perplexed.

“I’m not going to talk to them, Ogden,” she said, pointing at Gosling: “He is.”

Goz jumped to his feet, “I fucking am not! If anyone’s got any explaining to do -- it’s YOU!”

“Siddown ‘n shut-up, ye skitterish weasel, ye...” growled Castle, infuriated, “you got us into this...”

Her Ladyship slapped his arm, “Quiet! I’ll deal with this.” She put her elbows on the table, leaned forward and turned her attention back to Goz. “You are gonna go out there and tell them you called me from SCICI and begged me to come and get you. You’ll tell them that being cooped-up in a nut house full of serial killers and perverts was freaking you out and you’d made a terrible mistake by going there in the first place......”

Jamie had a flashback.

At the mention of ‘a nut house full of serial killers and perverts’, just for an instant, the room faded to a blur and he was transported back to a padded cell, his hands wrapped around a male nurse’s throat, squeezing and squeezing, a feeling a blissful of exhilaration surging through his being as he gazed into his victim’s bulging eyes and listened to the last gasp of air rattle in his throat...

“What the hell...!” muttered Archie, when the limo reached the end of the drive. There was a huge crowd of reporters, cameramen and teenage girls standing outside the gate -- the narrow road beyond the entrance was choked with transport of every description -- from taxis to Live-to-air TV vans and several police cars. Once they were through the gate, Archie asked the big brown skinned chauffeur to stop so he could talk to the young constable unwinding a reel of cordon-tape across the expansive gateway. “What’s goin’ on?” he asked, flashing his ID.

The lad leaned on the door, tipped his cap and pointed at the house, “They've got wind that yer man Goz Gosling is up at the house, sir! They took ‘im from a mental hospital down south ‘n brought him here last night -- once his fans found out they've inundated the place -- been arriving all mornin, so-they-have!”

Archie looked back at the house, “Jeezus! Nut house? He seemed OK to me!”

“You've met ‘im?!” cried the lad, gripping the edge of the glass, wide-eyed, his face as avid as the school girls gathered around the gate, “what’s he like?!” then he caught-himself-on and lowered his voice, “I mean... did you talk to ‘im, sir? Do ye know what’s goin’ on, like?”

A little vexed by the lad’s momentary lack of composure, Harkness replied with jag of reproach in his tone, “He wasn't sayin’ much, that’s for sure,” He looked around the inside of the cabin, wondering if he was currently sitting in the car in question. Then something suddenly occurred, “The mental hospital he was taken from... it wasn't SCICI, was it?”

“That’s right, sir! He checked-in the other day,″  he lad exclaimed, pleased to be of help, “big news, so-it-was. He peed his pants on live TV, see. Said he was goin’ there to sort himself out -- everybody’s been talkin’ about it!”

Archie thanked him and told the big chauffeur to drive on. The crowd parted to let them through, reporters getting as close to the window as they could, little girls’ faces pressed against the glass; who’d want to be famous, he mused, as he watched them fall over each other to get a better look. When they saw it was no one of importance they backed off and let the limo through. Once the car got onto the road, Archie knocked the inner screen; Xavier wound it down. “Ahem, did you hear that?” said Archie, a spike of irony in his tone, “Said ‘e was a patient at that psychiatric hospital -- SCICI. The place where they keep all the high-risk psychos. Must've been in some state if he signed himself in there, eh?! I mean, pissing his pants on live TV...? I wonder what Lady Beth wants with him, eh?”

Again, the big chauffeur nodded politely and kept his eyes on the road.

“It’s a good job you can’t talk or I’d be askin’ you a lotta questions right now...”

When they reached the copse from where Archie had spied on the grounds the night before, he told the driver to pull over. “I’ll walk the rest of the way, big lad, if y’ don’t mind. Need time to think.” Xavier did as he was bid and slowed to a halt. Archie got out, walked around and tapped on his window. It wound down and the dark-skinned driver looked up at him with his sorrowful, deep-brown eyes. “Um, if the tape I ‘lost’ should turn up in the Ivy House, get 'em to ring me straightaway,” he said, with a strong hint of innuendo in his tone tantamount to an accusation, “It contains vital information pertinent to a murder case. It’s imperative that I get it back.” He took out his wallet and gave the driver a card, “You got that?”

Xavier gave him a look that said: I’m mute, not deaf, took the card, rolled-up the window and drove on. A few seconds later, just as Archie was about to walk into the trees, another car came along, pulled-up and took the limo’s place on the side of the road. It was an unmarked cop car: there was a radio cackling away on the dashboard, and although the occupants were mere silhouettes, Archie twigged who it was at once and groaned under his breath as he inwardly cringed, “Fucking Finch 'n O’Hara. oh gawd, wait-til-ye-hear this load o’ bollocks...”

The two men exited their car, one medium height and reasonably slim, the other large in all directions, buttoned their coats against the brisk easterly breeze and casually ambled toward him, grinning like a pair of Cheshire cats, “Well now, well now, well now, if it isn't DI Archie Harkness, the Incredible Vanishing Dick!” sang Finch, tittering like a chile. His corpulent companion, DS Winston - ‘Winnie the Pig’ - O’Hara, sporting a blue sticking-plaster across his porcine snout, his eyes puffy and slightly blackened, knew better than to join in the fun, though his jowls and beer-gut were wobbling with barely contained hilarity. They stopped snorting and adopted a more dignified stance when the Rolls drove by again on its way back to the house. Hands deep in his pockets, Finch walked onto the road and watched it disappear around the corner, “We've had men looking fer you all night, Archie,” he said, “they checked all the hospitals, the after-hours bars, the morgue, everywhere... And there you were up in the Ivy House, livin’ the high-life with Lady Beth,” he nudged his partner, “Did she show you a good time...?” He snickered, “did you tickle her fancy?”

O’Hara put his hand over his mouth and stifled another giggle.

Archie ignored the facile banter and walked into the copse to find the tree he’d climbed the night before. Once he’d located it, he began searching through the bank of fallen autumn leaves and long grass covering the roots. Finch was bemused, he stopped snickering and asked Archie what he was doing. When Archie told him, his mood changed entirely: “WHAT?! How the fuck did you lose it!!” he yelled, rushing forward.

“I had it in my pocket. It mighta fell out when I climbed down one of those branches up there,” said Archie, pointing without looking.

“Is this the tape Malky got?!”

“yeah.”

“What was on it?!”

“A sorta confession,” replied Archie, distractedly.

“A sorta confession?!”

“... more like the ravin’s of a demented lunatic...”

“What the f... Wait! You had it in the car -- maybe it’s still in the player?!” reasoned Finch, so wracked with frustration and contained rage at Archie’s laissez-faire attitude he began pacing on the spot, fists clenched at his sides.

But Archie remained infuriatingly cool, “Nah, I definitely put it in my pocket,” he muttered, pawing aside another swathe of leaves and plunging his hands into the dew-sodden long grass underneath.

“Archie -- we need that effin’ tape! It was found on our patch! We can use it to take the McKee case off the Gardai!!”

Archie stopped searching, rested his elbows on his knee, looked up at Finch and shook his head in disbelief, “Those kids he buried in the forest were killed down south. He operated from down there. They caught him down there. This is their case. You've no chance, son.”

After a moment’s thought, Finch spat, backed-off a little and sullenly relented, “Aye, well, I was talkin’ to yer old mate, DS Phil Somerville, early-on this mornin’. Needless to say, he’s of the same opinion. But I’m not lettin’ this go. We still want McKee for a string of offences, too -- i.e. Dessie Calvert’s murder, that poor guy in the maisonette -- not to mention what he did to you -- a taped confession woulda been our our ace-in-the-hole!”

“Whaddya gonna do, Ian? The man’s in a coma he’ll never wake-up-from. He can’t answer questions or go on trial.”

Finch looked away and snarled, “Lucky bastard, he is... I wanted him to rot in the Maze. Our lads’d make his life a quare misery...”

Archie stood up, dusted down his trousers and commiserated, “I understand how ye feel, we all wanted to get him for Dessie. But fate is a fickle mistress... as I’ve just come to realise. I just hope it doesn’t get out that we lost a vital piece of evidence, that all.”

Finch called O’Hara and the three immediately started searching the scrub, “Curse you, Archie Harkness! How could you lose it! I mean -- what the fuck were ye doin’ up there in the first place?!” snarled Finch.

“Spyin’ on the Lumbs before I made my grand entrance,” said Archie, scratching his head, looking up at his perch.

“You and the fucking Lumbs! -- I thought you’d gave-up on all that shite! They’ll have you thrown outta the force at this rate! What’s the tape got to with them, anyway?!”

“He mentioned... well, he didn’t so much mention ‘em by name, but he gave the impression that he ...” Archie suddenly found that his memory was failing him, the recollection gradually slipping from his mind like sand through his fingers -- a thought occurred -- then it was gone. “I know he admitted to Dessie’s murder.. ‘n he confessed to murdering the children ‘n burying them in the forest...” Archie reached another mental block, “... he believed he was possessed by a demon...” For a man who prided himself on his powers of recall, Archie was at a loss, “That’s why I need it... cuz it’s gettin’ harder ‘n harder to remember...”

“Well then, ye’d better get back to the station and write-it-up before ye ferget the whole thing altogether!” shouted Finch, pointing toward the road.

Finch called a maintenance crew and they eventually got Malky’s Viva started. By the time they’d finished, Archie looked as unkempt as usual. The tape wasn't in the car, of course, he looked everywhere; under the seats, under the mats: nothing. When he eventually reached the station, he made straight for Ogle’s office to get a bollocking for his sleepover at the Lumbs. He'd rehearsed the conversation in his head on the way there, he had answers for everything. He strode through the corridors, ignoring the mixture of bemused and amused faces he passed, and concentrated on his excuses. When he got there, he paused to take a deep breath before rapping the door. 

“Come in, Archie.”

Archie rolled his eyes, here we go, and entered to find his superior unusually calm and collected, studiously writing at his desk. “I told you to be discreet. I warned you not to get too close,” he said, plainly and quietly, without looking up from his work. 

This wasn't what Archie had expected. No shouting match? No threats of suspension? He took a chair from the back of the room and put it opposite the desk, sat down and began to explain, “I went there because I had what I thought was solid evidence...” 

Ogle cut him off, “You fucked up, Archie. When Her Ladyship phoned me to tell me where you were, she made me an offer I couldn't refuse. She said she wouldn't sue us for harassment or defamation if I closed the case once-and-for-all and thought about early retirement. So that’s what I’m doing now,” he held his hands over the page on the blotter as if warming them over a fire, “I’m drafting the letter. I’ve had enough. I’m out.”

Shocked, Archie began to say, “Donny, I don’t know...” 

Ogle interrupted him again, “She knew all about our ‘little arrangement’. She said you spilled the beans before you passed out,” he announced, finally putting down his pen, looking up, leaning forward, keen to see Archie’s response. 

Archie took a moment, sat back, shook his head and scoured his memory one last time, but it was a pointless task resulting in nothing but a stinking headache.  “I... I can’t remember, Donny... I can honestly say, I can’t remember anything. Like a memory gap. Missing time. They musta put somethin’ in in my drink...”

“Ach! It isn't a drug, Archie,” Ogle scoffed, as if explaining an evident truth to a backward child, “it’s witchcraft. You know it. I know it. What they did to you, they did to me. Mind control, psychics, telepathy, whatever you wanna call it. Of course you don’t remember anythin’, that’s how they operate. But we’d never prove it. Accusin’ Lady Elizabeth Lumb of bein’ part of a coven? We’d sound like a pair of lunatics. They’d lock us up.”

But Archie didn’t want to be convinced, “It’s sophisticated drug... a hallucinogen... makes you suggestible... makes you forget things...”

“Stop it Archie,” Ogle shook his head, “Forget them. Take my advice ‘n see this experience as a sign to move on before they lose patience ‘n get you sacked... Or worse,” he added, ominously, frowning, making sure Archie knew he was wholly serious. “I’m tellin’ ye for yer own good, son. Look at what they’re capable of. Stay away before you literally lose your mind.”

Archie sullenly kept his counsel.

“The thing about you is, Archie, you’re married to yer job,” said Ogle, with a disapproving shake of the head. “Ye’ve been through three wives, drivin’ ‘em crazy with these wee crusades of yours that take up most of your spare time. Well, this is one wee crusade that’s gonna end in tears or a funeral. They’re untouchable, Archie, let it go.”

Archie maintained a dignified silence.

Ogle sighed, swivelled his chair and gazed out of the window at Cave Hill in the distance, basking in the winter yellow of the midday sun, “As for me, I’m going to live out the rest of my days at our summer house in Spain. I want to see my grand-kids grow up. I want them to remember me as a dedicated police officer who served with honour, not some cranky auld eejit spoutin’ conspiracy theories.

“Most of all, I want some peace of mind in my old age...” 

Dr James Rossington’s office, SCICI:

RTE Lunchtime News: “... we were making progress, Mr Gosling seemed to be responding to my therapy, when persons, whom I shall not name, came to SCICI on the pretext of visiting him -- summarily whisked him away while he was in a semi-conscious state -- without his or my permission...”

Reporter: Dr Rossington -- Lady Elizabeth Lumb called here late last night -- are you saying she abducted him?!”

Rossington (turning away):  “That is all I have to say...”

Anchor: “That was head of SCICI, Dr James Rossington earlier this morning...”

Gorringe, the boss’ driver, was an imposing man: broad shoulders, serious horse-face and a pleasant smile that belied the intensity in his eyes . He was in no mood to listen to flannel and didn’t have to raise his voice to let Rossington know it. He reached across the desk and hit the mute on the remote control, “How does this 'elp matters, Jimmy?” he asked, “you’re drawin’ attention to something we need to keep quiet. What good does it do to 'ave a mob of journos all over it?”  

The good doctor shifted uncomfortably in his luxuriant swivel chair, “They were bound to find out -- they've been out there for the last few days,” he said, pointing at the silent screen. “They saw Lady Beth enter and leave. It doesn’t take a brain surgeon to work out that her visit had something to do with his sudden departure.... I just thought I’d be open and honest from the outset and give them our side of the story...” He suddenly came to his senses, eschewed the deference and found his spine. He settled back in his seat and took on a more dignified tone, “Anyway -- what has it got to do with you, Gorringe?! You’re a chauffeur, a minder, just like my man, Magowan. You’re an employee. I don’t answer to you.”

The big man replied in his customary low, growly, cockney brogue, “As you well know, Jimmy, I’ve been the old man’s right-‘and-man for the past 30-odd years. I was lookin’ after ‘im when you was still modellin’ gents briefs fer mail-order catalogues, so don’t try pullin’ rank on me, son. I know ‘ow ‘e’ll feel abaht this. ‘E won’t be ‘appy.”

Rossington lifted the blue trim-phone on his desk, “I’ll call him. He’ll take my side. You’ll see. He hates them as much as I do...”

But Gorringe reached out and pressed his finger on the hookswitch, “That won’t be necessary, Jimmy. I’ve already spoken to ‘im ‘n ‘e told me to tell you to forget it. And by ‘it’ ‘e means the entire operation.”

Rossington’s tan faded to pale beige, his mouth dropped open, “He’s... closing SCICI...?” he muttered, putting a hand on his chest..

“No, not the institute, you berk, just operation Mind Child,” Gorringe made to turn, "aaah,” he groaned, rubbing his aching thigh [See Part 16], “so no more pokin’-arahnd in the Lumbs’ backyard, and no more aggravation. 'E wants you to concentrate on the original project.”

Rossington was aghast, he rocked in his chair and vigorously shook his head, “Oh, no, no -- it’s too fucking dangerous! Remember what happened last time?!” he said, rubbing his eyes as if to keep the thought at bay, "that was the reason we approached the Lumbs in the first place: she’s too unpredictable...”

Still moaning with pain, Gorringe slowly got to his feet and put his weight on his sturdy rosewood cane, “It’s up to you, Jimmy. If we wanna keep our customers ‘appy, you’ve got to plough-on, my son. Any’ow, from what I’ve ‘eard she’s gettin’ stronger every day.”

“It’s no good having the ability if you don’t have the personality to handle it,” said Rossington, frowning, looking off into the distance as he contemplated the vastness of the task ahead. In the end, he lowered his eyes and said, “It’s no good. I can’t do anything with her. I’ve tried to teach her right from wrong, but she doesn’t listen. I tried prescribing sedatives, but she won’t take them. She can’t control herself. She displays sociopathic tendencies. The old man spoiled her -- he literally let her get away with murder.”

“She’s young, Jimmy, she’ll grow aht of it, you’ll see,” said Gorringe, putting his cap under his arm and limping toward the door, “cuz we've been keepin’ a close on eye on ‘er. I saw ‘er the other day, s’-a-matter-of-fact. Beautiful gal.”

Rossington shook his head and responded in his ‘professional’ voice, “Well, between the two of us, I’m the qualified psychiatrist and I say she’s a total nut job.”

“She needs a man in her life, that’s all. Somebody oo’ll keep ‘er in line.” Gorringe grinned and opened the door, “I’ll see myself out.”

As soon as he was alone, Rossington immediately eschewed the calm, cool exterior, leapt to his feet and walked to the back of the room, to the blank-eyed bust of St Cedric attached to the rear wall, leapt into the air and shook his fists at it, letting fly a volley of curses, “Fucking Lumbs... That Gosling bastard... Damn them all to h --” The tantrum suddenly ceased when he happened to glance at the silent TV screen opposite his desk. The news had moved on to an extended biographical feature about the man who’d been killing kids; there was a photo of a dark haired fellow wearing full-leathers, sitting on a motorbike with his helmet under his arm. He ran to his desk, lifted the remote and un-muted the sound:

“... had links to various bikers’ gangs across Europe. Some members of the Wicklow chapter he was affiliated to were arrested in a raid on a pub in Brodir on Halloween night [See Part 14]. Those we've spoken to say McKee was a casual acquaintance, not really ‘one of the lads’...”

It’s him! The biker who left the scrapbook at the front gate! He’d seen the CCTV footage, there was no doubt in his mind: it was the same man! He sat down again, reclined and thought it over. McKee must have something to do with the Lumbs. Then something else caught his eye: footage of a weird shrine made from a coat-rail and dog bones in a room full of broken mirrors. Broken mirrors. Gosling used a mirror when he cast the spell! He un-muted the sound again, “... the discovery of various artefacts associated with black magic has led detectives to believe that McKee was a devotee of the occult. One RUC officer told us that although they are approaching their investigation with an open mind, it’s possible that he was practising witchcraft and that maybe the children were killed as part of some sort of Sacrificial Rite...”

Rossington thought for a moment, then went back to the bust on the rear wall, stroked its cold, iron beard and said, “There’s something bigger at work here, Cedric, old man, and I mean to get to the bottom of it.”

After meditating for a minute or two, he went back to his desk, sat down, picked up the phone and pressed the intercom button: “Siobhan? Get me the minister for the Department of Justice, please...”

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“Malky?                     Malky?                        Malky... are you there...?”

“Zindy...?” he asked, thumbing crumbs of sleep from his eyelids.

She was perched on the edge of the bed, scruffy as usual; blue-hair, blue jeans, black leather jacket, her little pallid features marred by a few scratches and a healing split-lip, but all things considered, she looked fine. Malky smiled back and took her in, “You’re... OK...?”

She carefully pulled her jacket down to the elbows, pulled back the neck of her tee-shirt and showed him the bandage packed around her shoulder, “Straight through the soft part, nicked the bone on the way through. Bit painful, but no major damage. They sent me ‘ome yesterday.” She looked up at the clock, “They called me a couple of hours ago when you woke up, but you were too out-of-it to know what was goin’ on, so I stuck around.”

Malky frowned, “Why? How long have I been out?”

Zindy looked at her watch, “’Bout 36 hours, give or take.”

“36 hours?!” The cardiograph blipped a little faster and a little louder.

“Easy chook!” Zindy jumped off the bed and took his hand to calm him down.

An older nurse who happened to be passing came in to see if everything was alright. Zindy lied and told her that Malky just needed a glass of water and went to the cooler to fetch it. The nurse gave the machines a cursory once-over and put a hand on Malky’s forehead then took his pulse. When Zindy came back, she told her in a cold voice, “Try ‘n’ keep the conversation light, miss, or we’ll have to ask you to leave,” she put the thermometer back into her breast pocket and marched out the door.

Zindy handed him the little polystyrene cup and whispered, “You gotta cool it, chook, keep it down. They only lettuz stay on the condition that I don’t get you all excited.”

“You’re OK though...?” he asked again, relaxing a little.

“You know me. ‘Ard as nails, I am. I just wish I’d had the jump on ‘im before he killed Sammy,” she replied with a sigh.

“Sammy...?” he asked, “the barman?”

“Aye. Barry shot ‘im before ‘e whisked me off to the mountains. Poor ol’ Soul.” She looked up as if she could see the sky, “Died in me arms, ‘e did.”

Malky frowned, “I’m very sorry to hear that... I didn’t know him that well, but he seemed a nice old bloke...” After a respectful pause, he asked, “Tell me... is McKee still alive?”

She half-heartedly brought him up-to-date, “Oh aye, wouldn't you know it - the bastard had the temerity to survive. Sammy gave him a whack on the back of ‘ead with the ol’ cricket bat, he has a fractured skull and brain damage, he broke his leg fallin’ into the grave -– but miraculously he’s still alive. In a coma. They don’t reckon much to ‘im comin’ out of it.” She looked into space and dwelt upon the more bizarre aspect of the ordeal, “It was the weirdest experience I’ve ever ‘ad in me life. And them cats, the ones that drove Barry mad... Where the heck did they come from...? Thank God Broo was there...”

“And what about Broo? Is he alright?” asked Malky, steering her away from the subject.

“Somerville took ‘im to the police station til I got out. I fetched him this mornin’ ‘n took ‘im back to the inn... ‘E saved my life ‘e did. He’s one in a million dog...” She lowered her head, “I thought I’d lost you, y’know. I passed out after I was shot, but when I came to, I saw Broo standin’ by the open grave, howlin’... I guessed what‘d happened, so I crawled to the edge, looked down and saw both of you wrapped round each other -- both unconscious –- the way Broo was goin’ on, I was sure he’d killed you! Thank God Somerville arrived a coupla minutes later, or you woulda been a goner...” She paused again. “Oh yeah,” she said, suddenly remembering, “I found this in the yard.” It was the little locket. “Barry tore it off me neck and threw it away when he jumped me.”

“Didn't bring you much luck, did it?”

“Well, it got very hot before'and. Like it was warning me of the danger,” she said, tentatively, as if she thought Malky might shed some light.

"I’m just glad you’re alive,” Malky replied, squeezing her hand, effectively closing the conversation. 

In the silence that followed, she nervously fingered the little silver bud and regarded him with a strange look he’d never seen before. For the first time since he’d known her, the elfin features were vexed, her cheeks flushed as she displayed an expression comprised of kindness, hopefulness, fear of rejection with the tiniest flicker of regret. Whatever she was about to say, she’d rehearsed it and it came straight from the heart:

“I want you to move into the inn when you get out. I think the sea air will do you good and it’ll be secluded... I don’t think that pokey little flat of yours is a suitable place for poor old Broo, nevermind a man recoverin’ from your injuries -- but don’t go thinkin’ it’s cuz Sammy’s gone and I don’t wanna be on my own, or feel that I’m pressurising you into it or anythin’ like that -- I just think we’re well-suited, and what’s the point of both of us sittin’ frettin’ on our own after all we've been through together...?”

Malky, heartened, flattered and quietly relieved, put a hand on her shoulder and spared her any further embarrassment, “Aye. ‘Course I will. I’d love to - but are ye sure yer thinkin’ straight?”

“No, I mean it. I think it’d be the best for both of us.”

He smiled, “Then yes. I am honoured to accept.”

Careful not to tug the tubes out of his hand, she carefully lifted his left arm and moved up the bed so that she was lying beside him, then pulled the arm around her so that her head nestled on his naked shoulder. Malky put his head against hers and they stared at the ceiling for a while. This feels right. Despite the myriad aches & pains, the bullet-holes, and the knowledge that he was embarking on a change of life, for the first time in a very long time, Malky felt contented and optimistic. But that could've been the morphine.

They drifted into separate reveries for 5 minutes or so, until one of the younger, cheekier nurses came to the door. Zindy jumped up and made herself respectable. The nurse looked as if she wanted a favour. She had something behind her back, “Hi there, I know you’re not to get excited Mr Malcolm, but I was wonderin’... me wee niece gave me this-here-paper and asked me if you’d sign it for her...?” she handed him a folded tabloid and a blue Bic.

On the front page, there was a large reproduction of the notorious photograph of Malky & Broo in the open-top MG, the old dog wearing sunglasses, Malky waving and grinning like a loon. Malky was sorely exasperated, “Ach, fer gawds-sake - they’re not still usin’ that stupid ol’ picture of us, are they!” The headline read:

‘ONE MAN AND HIS DOG FACE MADMAN IN THE MEADOW:

How Malcolm Calvert And His Three-Legged German-Shepherd Brought A Multiple Murderer To Justice!’

Zindy chuckled, “Well, there’ll be plenty of photographers lookin’ to take some new snaps – there’s been a constant stream of reporters callin’ at the inn – there’s a few ‘em outside the hospital now! You’re big news – Mr ‘Psychic Detective’!”

blip-blip-blip-blip-blip-blip-blip-blip-blip-blip-blip-blip-blip

“‘Psychic Detective’! They’re not callin’ me that, are they?”

blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip..

Zindy fired back, “Well, don’t look at me –- I send the hacks a-packing, I do!”

blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip..

As the blips grew more rapid and increased in volume, the young nurse became anxious, she glanced at the door, worried that sister would hear and intervene, “Calm down, calm down Mr Calvert, I’m very sorry – I didn’t think this would upset you so!”

Malky took a deep breath, composed himself, signed the paper and handed it back, “It’s not your fault nurse, you weren’t to know - but for me this is just a taste of things to come. Every journo from Derry to Cork will follow that angle and I’ll be a bloody laughing-stock... From now on, it’ll be ‘Malky Calvert: Ghostbuster’ or some stupid auld shite like that!”

Zindy continued to giggle and told him to give-over, “Och, stop bein’ a big Moanin’-Minnie! You’re alive, arentcha? And you’re an ‘ero! Enjoy the moment!”

The young nurse frowned and asked, “Why, isn't it so, then, Mr Calvert? Didn't you have help from the Spirit World? One of the men from the RUC said that you ‘have visions’?!”

Malky harrumphed, “Oh, I can guess which RUC man told them that!”

The nurse was very disappointed, “So... there was no divine intervention? Youse weren’t guided by voices?”

Malky was too grumpy to worry about crushing the nurse’s expectations, “Look, sister, the only miracle here is coincidence, luv. The only voices were in McKee’s ‘ead.”

The nurse walked away, somewhat deflated and chastened.

Zindy put her fists on her hips and shook her head, “That was a bit harsh, weren't it? And we both know there’s more to it than that. There’s Broo for one thing. You said yerself that ‘he sees things’. There’s definitely somethin’ spooky about ‘im...”

Later that evening, Archie Harkness came to see him. Looking his usual self: miserable and dishevelled, toting a bunch of motorway service station flowers and a supermarket carrier bag full of police files, he turned on the bedside lamp, plonked himself in the chair by the bed, put the bag between his legs, and looked Malky from head to toe, “Bloody hell. The wounded soldier, eh?” he said, depositing the flowers in a bedpan on a trolley behind him.

“Aye. And I’m not outta danger yet, so no wind ups Archie...” said Malky, weakly.

Archie was effusive in his praise, “I’m not winding ye up, son. Yer a hero! I’m proud of ye. You showed ‘em all. Oh yeah! Has Phil Somerville been to see you yet?”

“No. I wish he would, though. I wanna thank ‘im for savin’ me life.”

“Phil’s a very busy man. But I’m sure he’ll get around to it eventually. In fact, I’m meeting up with him in Dublin later-on to discuss the McKee case. I’ll tell ‘im yer eternally grateful.” Archie pulled a folder from the carrier bag, “I’m here to deliver this in person. It’s a written summary of what I can remember of that taped confession McKee sent to you. I hadda dig deep to write the report, to be honest, most of it has slipped my mind. It’s probably inadmissible, but I wanted to visit you anyway, so...”

Malky cocked an eye, “Why not just give ‘im a copy of the tape?”

Harkness looked at the floor and braced himself for a mouthful, “I... I lost it. I went to the Ivy House to question the Lumbs... I lost it somewhere along the way.”

“You lost the friggin’ tape?!” Malky almost shouted.

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Archie rubbed his temples with his fingertips, “Don’t start, Malky, I’ve already had it in the neck from everybody else. I wrote down what I can remember. They’ll probably interview you about it, too.”

“What...? Whaddya mean... I can’t remember half of what he said either, just the overall picture that it sounded like the gibberish of ravin’ lunatic.” He relaxed and took solace in the positive aspects, “It doesn’t matter anyway. The bottom line ‘ere is we caught Dessie’s killer. We got justice for them poor kids.”

Archie couldn't let it go, “Aye, but Malky, it was a key piece of evidence tyin’ him to the Lumbs! When SOCO searched his van they found photos of the Ivy House taken from the trees surrounding the perimeter -- he was stakin’ the place out...”

“Oh fer gawd’s sake Archie, you and the bloody Lumbs, give it a rest, willya,” Malky croaked. Then he thought for moment and said, “It’s funny you should mention them, though. When I was out of it I had this stupid dream that I’d died and I was standin’ looking down at my body, in the operatin’ theatre, just like you see in them auld movies on TV, and you’ll never guess who met me on the other side: their head of security, your ol’ nemesis: Bernie Pritchard. Whaddya think of that?”

Archie remembered the fleeting glimpse of a shadowy figure in the bathroom mirror and blanched. He was going to tell Malky about it and laugh it off, but quickly changed his mind and changed the subject, "Donny Ogle’s takin’ early retirement.”

Malky was very surprised, “Really? I thought Donny was a career copper, in it for the promotions, big dinners, y’know, rubbin’ shoulders with the powers that be, an’ all that. What happened?”

“He... I dunno. I think he’s a wee bit disillusioned. Change of priorities. There’s a lot of things weighin’ on his mind.”

“I’m not surprised havin’ to look after you. I’m sure you drive ‘im round the twist with all this Ivy House business.”

“Ach, you know what I’m like, Malky, a dog with a bone...” After a pause to scratch his head, Archie asked in a teasing tone, “Speakin’ of dogs, it’s funny how your adventure began when you adopted Dessie’s dog....”

Malky turned back and sighed, “Enough, Archie. It’s over. I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“He’s just a dog.”

“Aye, He’s just a dog.”

“So yer not a ‘psychic’?” Archie bantered, in reference to the previous morning’s headlines.

“Don’t you start. I’ve been gettin’ that sorta shite all day ‘n it annoys the hell outta me. I just got lucky,” Malky grumbled. “No, I’m gonna get away from all that shite after this. Zindy’s asked me to move into the inn with her and I accepted her offer.”

Archie sat back, gaped in wonder, slapped his knees and crowed, “Well, well, well. Malky Calvert! You jammy bastard! You get sober -- catch a serial killer -- survive a massive heart attack -- and you get the girl!”

“That’s what bothers me. It’s just too perfect an ending.... Things never go right for me,” said Malky, mournfully.

“Gawd, you’re a miserable sod.”

“Look who’s talkin’!”

“Well, however it is, it sure beats bein’ alone, rottin’ away in that wee flat in Forestpine, drinkin’ yerself to death, doesn’t it? I mean, we’d all like to live beside the seaside...”

Odin’s Inn, Brodir: Brooster was quite enjoying his stay, so far. He’d warmed to Zindy... well, he was very impressed by her tenacity and the way she handled herself during the kidnapping, he liked the way she gave the press short shrift and didn’t suffer fools gladly, but she still had a lot of irritating habits, not least her taste in television programmes -- she insisted on watching soap operas and comedies when he wanted to watch David Attenborough or documentaries; also, her dedication to housework made Mrs Mercer look like a slob. She was forever dusting and cleaning – she couldn't sit still for 5 minutes without polishing something. Then there was the constant vacuuming – the hoover was old and emitted a terrible whining noise that made Broo’s back teeth sore. Fortunately, she made up for it by taking him for long walks along the strand. He loved those walks. The town still looked awful, dead and decrepit, but the atmosphere felt lighter and more agreeable: the aura of doom had lifted, so spiritually at least, Brodir was a different place. 

Zindy still had that weird halo about her, as if lit by an inner glow. Broo didn’t know what to make of it, but suspected it had something to do with their encounter with McKee. All he knew was it wasn't malign in its nature: No bad vibes, in fact, he found it quite soothing. She was wont to sit on the seawall and sketch in her sketch-pad while he secretly and psychically conversed with the little ghosts of drowned children on the seashore. Because Broo was a bit of a hero in the Spirit World now, all the little spectres wanted to hear the story of his adventure, and he never got tired of telling it. They would gather on the rocks below the wall and he’d open his mind to let them explore his memories.

Sometimes, Zindy let him out on his own at night and he’d explore the squalid, crumbling back alleys of Brodir, nosing-around in the debris and chasing the occasional rat. Meanwhile, up on the yard walls and the parapet of the old, burned-out picture house, the cats watched impassively, and although they never made any effort to interact, both sides viewed each other with mutual respect.

But one thing was remarkably different from before. There was a new ghost haunting the inn. McKee’s father was gone, but Sammy O'Donnell, the old barman, had taken his place; invisible and intangible, only Broo could see and hear him. He was a bit of a bore, all told, but at least he was company. He liked to watch Zindy from a distance. He was afraid that if he got too close, she would feel his presence and it would spook her, but even if he was to be nought but an interested observer, he still felt part of her life. His biggest worry was that she’d sell-up and move on. After all, Brodir was a ghost town now, full of nothing but bad memories. There was no reason for her stay.

Then one afternoon, while Zindy was away visiting Malky at the hospital, a stranger called. 

Broo and Sammy were in the sitting room watching an old western (Zindy always left the TV on to keep Broo company when she was away), when they heard a knock at the side door. This was most unusual. There had been reporters in the first few weeks, but they gave up when they knew they weren’t going to get anything from Zindy. Intrigued, Broo walked down the hall and looked through the frosted glass. It appeared to be the blurred silhouette of a very large man.

“<Are ye there, boy?>” said a hopeful voice.

Broo couldn't answer, of course, but the voice, which seemed to have a pleasant local accent, sounded in his head as well as his ears. This was what he’d been waiting for! He barked in response. 

“<That’s good. I’m going to let myself in, OK? There is no need for alarm. I’m a friend.>”

Broo wasn't perturbed at all, quite the contrary, he knew who it was. It’s one of the Vondragüül. The race of people the Powers That Be told him about through the little ghost in the cemetery. They mentioned a fat man in a butler’s uniform. He must be here to ‘take over’ now that McKee/the Demon has been neutralised [See Part 17].

There was no sound of a key in the lock, but the latch duly clicked open and the stranger stepped in. It was indeed a huge, obese man in a butler’s uniform wearing a shiny black bowler hat, a thick black coat and white dress gloves. He entered, took off the hat to reveal a shiny bald head, and closed the door quietly behind him.

He smelled like no one Broo had ever met. Below the rich scent of cologne and hair oil, he could smell the foetid flesh on aged bones; years of slowly decaying offal under vast folds of skin. He was very, very old.

“I waited until the wee woman went out. I need to talk to you,” he said, pulling off the gloves and putting them in the bowler hat..

Sammy put his head around the sitting-room door, “Who is it?” he asked, still under the impression that whoever it was wouldn't see or hear him.

“Hello, Mr O'Donnell, how are you, sir? Terribly sorry to hear of your untimely death,” the stranger offered, apologetically, “I only hope you get to step into The Light before long.”

“Erm... thank you... eh, how is it that you know my name and you can see me ‘n nobody else can...?” asked Sammy, timidly edging round the doorframe.

The big butler smiled, tugged his earlobe and explained, “I ‘ave whatcha-may-call second sight. I come from a family of witches who lived in these parts over a thousand years ago. When the demon came to Ireland with the Vikings, they landed here, in ‘Brodir’, as they called it, and he used ‘em to smoke us out. They killed most of us. He became so powerful we had no choice but to flee. Now, after all these years, the area is finally free o’ his badness ‘n we can come back. All thanks to this old boy.”

He turned to the old dog, bent down, patted his head, looked him in the eye and spoke in an earnest tone, “We want to thank you for all you’ve done. I’m sorry we couldn't help you, but since you were under the auspices of the Powers That Be, we thought it best not to interfere and let things take their natural course. I s’pose you’ve been advised of our part in all this?”

Broo ruffed an affirmative.

“My name is Ogden Castle, I’m the butler in the Ivy House. Everyone who works there is part of our coven. Since time immemorial it has been our solemn duty to hunt down the demon and destroy him, but we had a few, um, shall we say, ‘hiccups’ along the way. But it doesn’t really matter. You got him in the end. And alive, at that. Well done, old son.”

They went to sitting room where Castle, easily filling the little 2-seater couch on his own, explained everything; from the diabolical twists and turns of the Demon’s machinations to Sammy’s current predicament, “... and that’s why Jamie pulled you into the Mirror World. The demon’s dark energy would've devoured you before you got the chance to walk into The Light. That’s why you’re stuck here until somebody else dies on the premises, I’m sorry to say.”

Sammy was sorely disappointed and a little scared, “So it’s here or Limbo until somebody else croaks -- is that what yer tellin’ me?!”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“What if Zindy decides to move -- what if this place is abandoned like everythin’ else is this town?! I could be stuck here forever!” he cried, panicking.

“There’s nothin’ we can do about that I’ afraid... I’m so sorry.” Then Castle’s posture changed. He lowered his voice, sat forward, beckoned Broo and intimated in a low. serious voice, “Look, I can’t stay here too long, there’s still a lot of negative energy in the air, so listen closely. This is very important. OK?”

Broo woofed.

“The wee woman who was taken by the demon -- the one who owns this place -- is gonna get pregnant. We don’t know when, but we know it will happen at some stage in the next few years. It’ll be a wee girl. And she’ll be a very special baby.”

Well that explains the weird halo, thought Broo.

Castle answered if he’d spoken aloud, “Exactly, she’ll be one of us. She’s the key to what will happen next for our race now that the demon has all-but kicked-it.

“So look after her. If anyone comes a-callin’ askin’ about her -- from this world or the next -- let me know.” Castle touched his temple, “<Reach out to me. Just think of my name and I’ll hear you. But it’s important that no one knows. She has to grow up and find her own path, OK.>”

Broo ruffed an affirmative.

“Zindy’s gonna have a baby..?” asked Sammy, mistily.

“Aye. So keep yer wits about ye. ”

Having said his piece, the big butler made to leave, “I know I can trust you,” he said, pausing in the doorway to take one last look at the old dog, “cuz you’re one of us, too, auld chap. You’re part of our world now...”

Ogden Castle left the Inn and crossed the concourse, down to the cobbled litter-strewn seafront where the Lumbs’ Range Rover was waiting at the opposite kerb. He paused in the middle of the road to take in the sea air and look around at the little seaside town he knew as a child, 1000 years ago. No people buzzing around, no market stalls lining the promenade, no boats tied up in the docks; just a row of boarded up buildings where the fishermen’s cottages used to be and the rusted remains of a bandstand on the promenade. He raised his head, closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Alongside the seaside odours and sense of decay, he sensed the ancient evil. It still polluted the atmosphere and assailed his Essence, made him feel nauseous. He promptly got back into the car, “Well, that’s that, Mr X. Our future’s in the hands, or should I say paws, of a three legged dog,” he muttered, strapping himself into the passenger seat with some difficulty.

Hearing the doubt in Castle’s voice, Xavier drove off and silently asked, <He caught the demon. Surely he is trustworthy?>

“I know the old dog is dependable. He has minor psychic powers. He can converse with the ghosts and the Infant Host, and he’s canny, sure enough... But he has a companion, and that’s what bothers me.”

<A ghost?>

“The barman McKee killed.” 

<You think this ghost might be susceptible to the influence of mischievous spirits?> thought Xavier.

“Aye, I do: Master Bernard; our Mr Pritchard, for one. He’s been released from his death haunt and he’s free to wander again. I feel his presence in the Ivy House. I dunno what he’s up to, but you can bet it’ll be no good...”

<And the demon?>

“That’s the next order of business, Mr X,” said Castle, eyeing the line of cats watching from the parapet of the derelict cinema as they passed, “how do we get to 'im before they pull the plug and he migrates to his next host...?”

The Ivy House Sanatorium: After a short, perfunctory funeral, Carla got ready to move back to Sweden where she would be a debriefed and take a long sleep to replenish her depleted energy. To look at her, you wouldn't think she’d just lost a niece. Her expression was inscrutable. Emotionless. She placed a rose on the coffin before it disappeared into the fire, but that was the extent of her involvement.

She didn’t need to pack. She left what clothes she had in Jamie’s wardrobe, saying that most of them would be out of fashion by the time she emerged from hibernation. Jamie laid on the bed and watched her don a pair of jeans, a careworn cardigan over a plain cotton tee-shirt, and an old pair of trainers; things that wouldn't draw too much attention when she eventually slipped out of the grounds via the service entrance. She still looked stunning. She threw a few belongings into large bag and slung over it her shoulder. When she’d finished, she cocked a hip and stood cross armed in the doorway to bid him farewell.

They didn’t need to speak. The Psychosphere might be infected, telepathy was off-limits, but they could read each other’s minds by sight alone. And although their relationship was purely platonic, he felt something beyond affection for her and thought he should express it in words while he still had the chance.

“Sleep well,” he said agreeably, propping his head on his right hand, “I’m sure I’ll see you again someday. They’re bound to need you when all this American shit kicks off.”

She smiled. “There is no ‘they’. There is only ‘we’.”

Jamie shrugged, “I’m one of you, true. I can’t deny it. Doesn't mean I have to join in.”

She looked at him for quite a while, then said, “You are the new Master. You've proven you have the mettle to assume the mantle. You will settle into the role. Eventually.”

“I don’t want it. I’m not a general. If it wasn't for the lockdown, you wouldn't see me for dust.”

“It must be you. Lady Beth is not one of us. Her psychic powers are artificially enhanced and minimal. Uncle Ogden is too old and unhealthy. Xavier is ancient and wise, but he is not a leader. Only you have the necessary qualifications.”

Jamie sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and said, “What if I was to say I need you here as my advisor? You could sleep down in the catacombs...?”

Carla shook her head, “My duty to the coven comes first. I need to be at my best when the call comes, and that means going back to Sweden, consulting with Ebben, re-energizing. It is the only place I can rest in peace.”

He looked at the floor and sighed heavily, “How come if we’re such cold-hearted bastards we can still have feelings for each other?”

“Copulation was once necessary for procreation,” she explained in a matter-of-fact voice. “Until relatively recently, before we developed the potions that gave us immortality, we had to bear children to continue the bloodline. Deep down, our material bodies are still beholden to those primal urges and you have yet to fully shed the human appetites of youth.”

Jamie shook his head and grumbled, “Spoken like a true Ice Queen.”

“We prefer Silver Siren.”

“Whatever.”

“Would a goodbye kiss make any difference?” she joked.

Jamie scowled, “Don’t patronise me, Carla.”

“Indulge me.” She walked to the bed, stooped, took his cheeks in her ivory white hands, the long, straight hair swinging forward, encircling his face like a silver veil, and delicately pressed her lips against his.

For an instance his head was filled with an image of her standing atop a bloody heap of splayed corpses: the bodies of the countless men and women she’d slain in her long life as a Güül assassin. He smelled the blood. He felt their pain. He felt the desolation, the detachment, the coldness, the hollowness of her Soul.

She stepped back and broke the connection.

 “None of these people are human,” she said, almost regretfully, “they are Vondragüül. My own kind, executed before they betrayed us or used their powers to iniquitous ends. Thanks to the Psychosphere, we can usually sense if one of us is thinking of ‘going rogue’, but there are those of us with exceptional powers who can erect impenetrable blocks to escape detection, so, a Real World intervention is in order. A physical confrontation. My powers must be at their peak. To get close to them, my blocks must be just as intricate and impenetrable as theirs. It takes years of training to develop these skills. Years.” She stooped again and looked him in the eye, “So, yes, you are right. I am the most ruthless of assassins. The best. I have been trained to be detached. Cold. Hollow... Heartless.

“Therefore I’m incapable of ever loving you the way you want to be loved.”

Despite the flatness of her tone, Jamie was certain he sensed a little spark of doubt in her Aspect, if only the faintest glimmer. “I’m a great believer in redemption, and I don’t give up easy,” he replied, staring up into her sparkling, multicoloured eyes.

She shook her head, “Someday I shall return, of that you can be sure. And when I do, we’ll see if you feel the same way,” she said, turning, walking toward the door.

“Oh, I will. I’ve never been so sure of anything before in my life.”

“Then you won’t mind waiting a few more years,” she said, without looking back, “remember, we live forever...”

Odin’s Inn, 17th December 1988: Three weeks later, on a drizzly, cold winter’s evening, Malky came home. It was almost Christmas. Somerville, who’d insisted on driving him in his roomy Audi, helped him out of the car into the blustery, briny air of Brodir. Zindy ran out as soon as they pulled up, throwing her arms around him and screaming his name. It was all very undignified. Broo watched from the doorway, and although he was thrilled to have his partner back, he had the good sense not to jump all over him. He made do with sniffing his cuffs and licking his hands; by the looks of him, the man had suffered enough. Walking with the aid of crutches, looking gaunt, ashen and weak, his breath smelling of hunger, his eyes sunken and dark. Broo wheezed an empathetic whimper. Malky understood.

Zindy had festooned the inn with gaudy decorations; foam-rubber snowmen, inflatable Santas, novelty reindeer, and a host of scented candles that made Broo’s eyes water. There was a tall fir-tree covered in flashing lights and coloured baubles in the corner, and a huge Welcome Home Malky banner draped over the bar. Zindy looked quite feminine for a change – she was even wearing a skirt and a brand new sweater. The glow around her was stronger. It seemed to brighten when she was happy. Broo found it quite comforting. She’d done her best to put a ring of tinsel around his collar, but he didn’t like it one bit and made it plain by not keeping still while she worked on it. “Oh, you’re an old killjoy, you are!” she scolded, waving a finger, “Grin ‘n’ wear it, grumpy! It’s only a wee festive touch to make him smile!” He quit his restlessness and reluctantly complied.

Malky instinctively knew that Broo didn’t like it, but it was funny. He looked the old dog in the eye, patted his head, winked and croaked, “Nice to see you’ve entered into the spirit of the season.”

Somerville walked into the centre of the floor, looked around and complimented his hostess on her hard work, “The place is lookin’ lovely, Zindy. If you don’t mind me sayin’, it’s a quare sight better than it was a couple of months ago...”

Zindy did indeed mind him saying and reminded him that she didn’t want to be reminded.

Malky was about to say, ‘It’s good to be home,’ but he couldn't make so bold. Over the last several days his innate pessimism had reasserted itself and refused to let him believe that this might be his ‘happy ever after’.

He stood by the bar, gazing at the row of sparkling optics and assortment of multi-coloured bottles on the upper shelves and shook his head: 3 months ago I woulda thought that this was paradise – fallin’ in with a woman who owns a bar! Three days before, he’d had a visit from a very discomfited Mrs Mercer (“This is me first time in the Free State an’ I’m shakin’ like a leaf! The ticket inspector on the train was the first Fenian I’ve spoke to since 1973!”), and after passing on the good news that Her Roy had forgiven him for the misappropriation and subsequent confiscation of his beloved MG, she told him that not everyone was pleased about his recent triumphs. There were elements on the estate who resented the fact that he’d been spending so much time in the south and working so closely with the garda, “But ye don’t have to worry, My Roy’s mates will make sure that nobody gives ye any trouble.” Great, thought Malky, more saddened than annoyed. He told her it didn’t matter and informed her of his plans to move Wicklow. Mrs Mercer was slightly shocked, but took comfort in the fact that his ‘live-in-lover’ was a ‘nice English girl’ not a ‘papish spud-muncher’. She then asked if he wanted her to pack-up his things and have them delivered to his new address, and that’s when the enormity of his situation struck him: he was going to be out of his comfort zone and taking a giant step into the unknown. He was, in essence, starting over again miles from home with someone he barely knew; whither a pang of paranoia due to morphine withdrawal or a congenital fear of commitment, for a minute, he actually contemplated telling her that it was only a temporary arrangement and he’d probably be home in the New Year. So, as a compromise, he asked her to send down a few things to tide-him-over and he’d ‘see how it went’. 

He looked down at the old dog and inwardly cowered.

Broo returned his stare with worried eyes. He was well-aware of his partner’s misgivings, but there was no way to reassure him of Zindy’s feelings. That was up to her. And, after sitting through her numerous soap-operas and romantic movies, he’d learned that inference in affairs of the heart invariably resulted in trouble for all parties concerned: They’ll have to work it out for themselves.

Sammy’s ghost, standing cross-armed behind the bar, watching proceedings with a sceptical expression, remarked, “Yer mate doesn’t look too happy, does he? He looks as if he’d rather be anywhere else than here!”

Broo growled to shut him up. The ghost shrugged, “I’m just sayin’ – it could be worse - he could be a walkin’ colander like me!” he said, pointing to the gory bullet-holes in his apron.

Meanwhile, the conversation twixt the diminutive blue-haired landlady and the king-sized DS continued, “Look, Zindy, I’m gonna recommend that you get yer licence back, I’m gonna have a word with...”

Zindy shook her head and interjected before he could go any further, “Don’t bother Mr Superintendent, I’ve decided that I’m gonna turn this place into a guest house or a B&B. No more rowdies or Heavy Metal parties for me. This town is due for a revival and I hope to be ready for business when things pick-up.”

“Hooray!” shouted Sammy, punching the air with both hands.

During the chat, Zindy noticed Malky's forced smile and sensed his discomfort, so in an effort to cheer him up, she went to the side of the bar and pulled away the cloth covering the broken jukebox - only it wasn't broken anymore - the hole in the glass was covered by a Yuletide wreath and the lights were on. She pushed a 10 pence piece into the slot, pressed a button; they heard a click and the needle clunking down onto a crackly 45:

 Sweeeeeeet dream baby

Sweeeeeeet dream baby

Sweeeeeeet dream baby

... how long must I dream...

 Broo’s heart almost burst out of his chest.

A week before, he’d been saddened to hear reports of the Big O’s death on the news and there had been a raft of retrospectives; alas, the little speaker in the portable TV couldn't do justice to the great man’s oeuvre - but this was like having him in the room! It wasn't long before he threw his head back and howled along.

Somerville was amazed, “Wowee, that auld dog sure loves Orbison!”

Zindy crossed her arms and joined the men to watch the performance, “I found in the record section of a charity shop in Wicklow Town – I couldn't resist it! He’s so stern and pompous most of the time, I thought it’d be nice for him to let his hair down.”

The three - including Sammy -- laughed for while then watched him enjoy himself.  Zindy made some tea and on her way back, put it on again. And again! And each time the needle dropped, the old dog had no choice but to repeat the performance; the laughter grew louder each time. Broo began to think she was taking the Mick.

Sammy’s ghost was holding his sides, laughing like a drain.

They sat in a corner booth, drank the tea and discussed the ubiquitous Barry McKee, “Oh, there’s some brain activity, according to the auld EEG, but that’s all,” said Somerville. He thought about his next statement carefully before saying, “Look Malky, I know you hate talkin’ about the weird stuff that went on, but I have to tell youse about this.

“The day after McKee was apprehended, I sent a coupla my men over to the auld people’s rest-home to talk to witnesses about the shooting of his mother, y’know, to take a few statements from some of the auld dears and have a last look round before we sent in the crime-scene-clean-up lads to clear the room. Anyway, the two guys were talking to some of the staff and they told them that ever since that night of the shootin’, the residents in the rooms either side of Mrs McKee’s heard things during the night – singing 'n talking – just like she used to do when she was alive. ‘Course, my men took it all with a pinch of salt, but when they checked-out her room, they said it was stone-cold – and during the search - get this – they said there was a rockin’ chair beside the bed and it started rockin’ of its own accord. They ran outta there like pair of frightened lassies! Whaddya think of that?”

Malky didn’t comment.

Broo was intrigued and wanted to hear more.

But Zindy was keen to keep the conversation light, “Ach, there’s got to be a rational explanation, it’s probably been a draught...?”

Somerville looked down at the table and scratched his head, “Well, it certainly spooked my men. I guess it’s just another wee mystery...”

“What’re you gettin’ at, Phil?” asked Malky, his eyes narrowing.

“You and Archie Harkness: Pragmatic men confounded by inexplicable events. Somethin’ has yez tied up in knots, hasn’t it?” said Somerville, with a wry smile. “Cuz I’ve been in this game long enough to know when somebody‘s holdin’ somethin’ back, Malky. The same with Archie. His report on the confession tape reads like the script of a horror film, the bits he can remember, anyway... and your version is just as vague.” He paused for a moment, then asked in a cordial tone, “I mean, why you, Malky? This all started when you discovered them bodies in the middle of nowhere... How did you know they’d be there?”

They stared into each other’s eyes for a while.

“Oh, take the night off will ya!” scolded Zindy, waving her hand between them to break the spell, “He’s been through everything 100 times! Leave ‘im be!”

Unmoved, Malky asked, “So, what about McKee? Are they gonna switch off the machines or what?”

Somerville looked away, rubbed the nape of his thick neck and said, “He’s bein’ moved.”

“What...?” said Malky, stunned.

Broo’s ears pricked up.

“To where?” asked Zindy, horrified.

“SCICI: St Cedric’s Institute for the Criminally Insane,” Somerville told them, in a morose, regretful, almost angry voice, “the governor there, Dr James Rossington, offered to put him up. SCICI has the facilities, it’s all ‘state-of-the art’ an’ all that. He talked to right people in the government ‘n got permission from the highest authority. I don’t like it anymore than you do, but there’s nuthin’ I can do about it.”

“This is...How... Why...” Malky couldn't think of anything to say.

Somerville went on, “See, I don’t like this Dr Rossington. He’s a glory hound. Never happier than when the cameras are flashing round him. And he has some real head cases in there -- some real psychos. He interviews 'em and writes books about ‘em. Getting McKee’ll be a major coup for ‘im. He’ll keep him alive like a sideshow freak, you can put money on it. He’ll do lecture tours. He’ll be on TV. McKee will be a goldmine for ‘im.”

Malky finally found his voice, “But... he... he’s a vegetable? I thought they’d give ‘im so long then they’d pull the plug?”

“Like I said, there’s some brain activity. It’s minimal, but it’s enough for the board to stay the execution, as it were. They’re only too glad to let Rossington take ‘im off their hands.”

“Well, I hope he fookin’ dies, the fookin’ bastard,” said Zindy, pouring herself a brandy.

Broo wagged his tail, heartened by this news. If McKee was being kept alive it would give Castle and his comrades time to deal with him!

Malky turned, saw the tail wagging and shouted at the old dog,“Why does that make you so happy? He almost killed me!”

Broo barked back in protest.

Flummoxed by the outburst, Zindy and Somerville looked at Malky, then looked at Broo, then turned back to Malky. “What was that all about?” said Zindy, with an incredulous look on her face.

Embarrassed, Malky passed it off as a joke, “Oh, it’s just a wee thing we have...” he chuckled, “I tell you what, put that ol’ Roy Orbison song on again.”

When the clock chimed 2AM, Somerville looked at his watch, “Is that the time?! I better get goin’!” He got to his feet and shook their hands, “It’s been a pleasure workin’ with yez. I’m just relieved that this has all reached what we call a ‘satisfactory conclusion’ and yez survived yer ordeal. That’s the most important thing. You've lived to tell the tale.”

Once again, Malky thanked him for saving his life and warmly shook his hand, “Maybe when I’m better we can take a boat out ‘n go fishing in the bay?”

“I’d like that, Malcolm.” Somerville said, sincerely.

“Oh, before you go -” Zindy handed him an instamatic and asked him to take a photo of them, “this moment should be captured for posterity!”

The trio gathered at the Christmas tree, Zindy in her new sweater, Broo with tinsel around his collar, standing either side of a frail, wounded Malky Calvert, and Sammy’s ghost standing behind them,grinning like a blood-stained, toothless St Nicolas.

blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip..

In the hospital, in the sterile dimness of the ICU, in a private room at the end of an anonymous corridor, a bank of machines and monitors of every shape and size bleep and blip around the heavily bandaged head of the lifeless body on the cot, it's wide, unseeing eyes staring up into space, as if transfixed by something utterly fascinating in the darkness beyond the lamplight. 

This man should be dead. It is an act of God and medical science that he is not. But the spark of life still burns somewhere in his damaged brain, confounding their prognosis. Part of him just won’t give up the ghost.

There’s the creak of a doorknob and for a brief moment the room brightens as a shard of light from the corridor cuts through the dark. Dr James Rossington enters and closes the door gently behind him. He approaches, stands by the bed and beholds the lifeless body from head to toe. He grins, reaches out, locates the body’s  scrotum, grabs it, and looks into those staring eyes as he twists and squeezes. Then, with one final wrench, he stops and chuckles, “Dead to the world.” 

He goes to the top of the bed, puts his hands on his knees, stoops and whispers in the body’s ear, “You’re mine, now Barry. I’ve made all the arrangements. You’re coming back to my place. I’m going to do everything in my power to keep you alive, because you’re the missing link. The Cochrane girl. The scrapbook. Gosling’s spell. The mirrors. The Lumbs...

“You are the key, Mr McKee, and I mean to find what’s on your mind...”

blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip... blip..

End of Book One...

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Neuer Blog bedeutet Neuanfang 😊

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I am very worried don't you tell me not to be. 👌😂 #bigmouthbillybass #satan #demonicposession #demons

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