Peter - Chapter 2:

Peter - Chapter 2:
Driving the back roads from Stroud to Bath, Peter began to reminisce over aborted plans and missions he and Lipton had established as important research projects but binned due to impracticality or merely had to place on the back burner as more pressing engagements during their mankind saving mission, the murder of Abel Presley. Shivering Sands, Red Sands, two World War Two military outposts in the Thames estuary, positioned deep out as the land opens up in to the north sea as early warning view towers has always been a goal of theirs. These concrete structures of Doctor who architectural obscurity had been many things. A country constantly under tight attack from the authorities. The location for artists to spend a month stranded, blogging bored posts. The home of pirate radio stations. The setting for the radio interview scene in Flame, Slades great and undersung film. However Peter was prone to sea sickness and neither knew much about boats. Efforts to hire one and a captain to take them out there found little enthusiasm. Those willing to help were expensive, often suspicious of being conned into taking part in some sort of smuggling crime.
Their holy grail quest. The crown and sceptre of the criminal underworld, the hat of Jack the hat McVitie and the gun fired by Ronnie Kray in the blind beggar pub. Equipped with these totems of power, these sacred artefacts, aligned with their shamanic powers, they figured they could rule the London underworld. Perhaps reanimate the corpse of schizophrenic gangster Ronnie Kray. Together with this zombie in tow london could be there for the taking.
The restoration of the babycham bambi. For a long time this horse sized model had lain green algied, mildewed, abandoned in a field. Peter and liptons plan to liberate it, restore it to its former glory and ride it in to Glastonbury festival like knights on horseback was thwarted by the Shepton mallet cider companies own restoration plans. Before they had chance to take the beast, the brothers who own the Somerset cider plant had restored it to pink glory and reinstated it at the entrance to their factory.
The jigsaw project was one Lipton and Peter began but never completed. Looking at Google Earth they realised holcombe quarry was vast. The aftermath of this geological land obliteration left a hole in the ground big enough to contain the whole of nearby Frome. In a long term plan the innovative pair began to cut one foot cubes from roads and parks, using spade and pavement saw. These cubes were then driven to the quarry, marked their correct location, dug out the sister cube, inserted theirs then returned the quarry cube to fill the gap left in frome. Ultimately the aim was to move the entire town, cube by cube and reassemble the whole of it within the quarry. Peter and Lipton successfully removed and relocated twenty seven cubes before realising their ambitions were too great. Frome was growing too as new estates popped up. After an innocent elderly lady was injured stepping into one of the cubic holes they had failed to refill with the appropriate mirror cube from the quarry this project had been abandoned. Sometimes even the intrepid shamans had bitten off more than they could realistically chew. To celebrate their failure they held an illegal rave attended by well over a thousand e fuelled all night dancers.
Glamfest 2010 came about, or failed to come about after their noticing in the gig listings that the Glitter Band were playing at the White Swan in High Wycombe. This innovative band with a unique sound created by the great late Mike Leander had suffered a misfortune of mammoth proportions when Gary Glitters heinous crimes were uncovered. To find them still playing, albeit sporadically got them thinking that following Sweet singer, Brian Connollys' sad demise, this could be the last possible time for that generation of futuristic musicians to play. They had a site for the festival in a field behind Peters laboratory on the outskirts of Stroud. The creative hub where Peter practiced the forbidden sciences. A period of intense research began where the main players from this often derided and vastly under rated musical genre were now living and who still took the stage in flares and glitter encrusted platform boots. Slade still played, albeit without Noddy Holder but they felt certain they could inspire a reformation, if only for one night. Surely they could find the members of Geordie and convince AC/DC to lend out Brian Johnson for the night. Steve Preist led a version of Sweet, now based in the States while Andy Scott was then still playing with his UK Sweet. For this noble cause surely they could lay down their differences. In a swift Google search Peter learned Chicory Tip were still playing in North Kent. Admittedly, a Roxy Music reunion was unrealistic and Bowie was doubtful for a small festival in Gloucestershire. Sadly, for their planned festival at least, live on channel 4 Gary Glitter was executed. This put the dampers on any chance of the demon prince bringing his evil glam to the planned festival. As they rang round, testing the water regarding the enthusiasm from these heroes of their youth it became clear Peter and Liptons enthusiasm was much greater than the remaining glam pensioners. The Glamfest planners had to face facts. In all likelihood, ticket sales would be poor if it turned out to be just Lipton, peter and Chicory Tip in a muddy field. Though a plan of utter genius the boys were thwarted. Punk may still have the steam to muster nostalgic reformations but glam rock had been treated brutally by history. A tarnished jewel, scoffed at by youths, inspiring embarrassment by ageing glam rockers who would claim to have never been involved. Pretending they had been punks, prog rock students, northern soul boys, anything but admit they had worn make up, silver shoulder pads and a dusting of glitter on their young cheeks.
Many were the ideas and Peter took on a more cheerful mood in thinking one of these plans could now be implemented. But it had never been their way to look back. The secret to a missions success lay in observation, noting the immediacy of a projects implementation, then diving in to it. Abandoning all other plans and setting out before considering the obstacles. These were acts that were spontaneous, instinctual. If they sat around considering too long even the most necessary of objectives could become jaded. If any outsider were asked a plan, however majestic its concept, could seem pointless, dangerous, even stupid. Only by sticking to their nose for adventure had they avoided death. Indeed, mimics, followers who looked up to Peter and Lipton had tried their own missions and ended up injured, mentally ill even dead in a few cases.
But Peter was low. Last time he had seen Lipton they had both been straight. They'd shared a few drinks for sure but since murdering Abel both had agreed that all drugs were out of the question. Lipton had a new Mrs. She had only agreed to their coupling if Lipton stuck to a drug free lifestyle. At the quarry party in Cornwall peter had embarrassed himself. Having come off opiates and benzos his fragile brain chemistry had become storm like after drinking too much wine, taking LSD and stupidly accepting the wrap of MDMA he was offered. He was only too aware he could have died. Months later he could still remember nothing of how he had come to be found unconscious, naked, face down in the road. Such black outs invariably left a feeling of guilt and shame.
It was true he had managed to reel it in a little since then but he had begun having the odd pipe, the odd bit of gear, drinking on occasion, a benzo habit had begun to take hold. In seeking to stabilise peter had developed a small methadone habit. This took the edge of his yearning to get smashed. He had also begun to experiment with ayuashka. If Lipton was on the straight and narrow it seemed doubtful he would want to endanger his sobriety by mixing with old freinds, however close, if they were using drugs. Peter was re engaged with the drug services. At least he was making steps to nip this relapse in the bud.
Yet deep down he wasn't sure he wanted to stop. Having always experimented with altered states of consciousness, the thought of a totally straight life heald no thrill. A long, dull road to death. No magic. No colour. No supernatural phenomena. Such is the disposition of the addict. They enjoy drugs too much. Though receiving help from NA, doctors or any one really, a narrative of victim hood, in truth there is always a degree of volition. They get more out of it than others, they enjoy it. This usually leads to loss of control but denying the enjoyment was a plain lie.
As these thoughts ran in a familiar loop Peter noticed a beat up old transit that looked familiar parked in a lay by next to thick woodland. The windscreen was obscured by condensation. Someone had spent the night in there. Dog nose prints punctuated the misty glass that led to trickles that ran down to the dashboard. Liptons van. By chance Peter had found his colleague. This could be no coincidence. Either fate had placed the two together for a meeting or Lipton had driven to Stroud, knowing the park ups and lay boys that were Peters home. The Labaratory was always a safer bet but Peter had been avoiding it of late. He owed the landlord over three months rent and was clueless how to clear his debt. So the Mercedes sprinter, kitted out as a stealth camper was Peters home.
Pulling in behind the rusted vehicle Peter turned off his engine. It was early meaning Lipton was unlikely to be awake. Still, it would be good to wake the lazy cunt. Closing his van door quietly leaving his dog in the cab, Peter stealthily exited his vehicle, planning a shock alarm to wake his partner in madness. It crossed his mind that Archer, Liptons Mrs maybe in the back too and as carry on films might say, if the vans a rocking, don't come a knocking.
'Wake up you lazy trout!' Peter shouted as he banged on the side panel. He considered the old, 'Police! Open up". But he'd seen too many drugs chucked away, too many angry drug losers for this to ever be a comical approach.
From inside Liptons dogs barked before coming to the windows and recognising Peter. The barking continued but the tone had changed to an excited, friendly chatter. Banging again it appeared the dogs were alone. This seemed strange. Unless he'd arrived as Lipton had gone off for a morning shit. Even then he'd take the dogs unless money or other valuables required protection.
Looking to the woodland the footprints and disturbed dew revealed the path Lipton must have recently taken. Easy to follow. Stepping out into the greenery Peter felt excited. He'd be seeing his old freind, catching up. Perhaps they'd have an early morning drink and smoke. Such a chance meeting would surely be the precursor to some adventure. Such was their nature. As night follows day.
Cautiously Peter stalked following Liptons track some fifty metres in to the wood, joyful at the prospect of catching up. Twigs snapped underfoot but from a youth mis spent stalking squirrels with air rifle in hand his approach was delicate. Peters merriment was curtailed by a rush of adrenaline as the scene before him turned daylight to horror. Lipton stood on a two foot tall log some eighteen inches in diameter. Liptons back towards him Peters senses exploded in shock as he saw the length of hemp rope tied to a sturdy branch above leading to the noose round Liptons neck. Before he was able to speak and declare his presence Lipton stepped off and the crumpled line snapped taught and straight.


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