Peter - Chapter 15

Peter - Chapter 15
Ten miles down the Clun valley where Peter and Lipton safely slept atop the Aston hill fort sits St Johns Church. Tucked away from the village, behind the outlining houses, the far side of a football pitch where the local team play other village teams on Sunday mornings. A lane divides the graveyard from the vicarage where the vicar once slept. Two years back his wife had passed away leaving him alone. But a man of God comforts many from his flock and before a year had passed since burying his wife he'd begun dropping in for tea with Mrs Browne. Always involved in the churches many fund raising activities. Bring and buy sales. Children's Christian prayer groups. Mrs Browne saw the vicars grief and soon they found comfort in each other's arms. Few begrudged his moving on so soon. Indeed, before her death his wife had been a spiteful cow. Ever ready to spread rumour amongst the women's guild. Certitude in her moral high ground came from her marriage. Most felt little sadness as she passed. Besides, the young vicar now seemed much freer to spread his goodwill. At three in the morning he was sleeping in Mrs Brownes bed, much like most nights.
They'd been working in silence since the pub closed. The young Aston lad was stood guard, slumped in shadow by the entry gate. No one came up here at night anyway. Still, grave robbing is regarded a serious crime. The soil dug away easily. Sixteen year old twins. Tony and Scott Jackson. They'd loved the same music, dressed alike. Black skinny jeans, black died hair, eyeliner when dad was away. Emo had a musical depth many school freinds couldn't hear. Both felt complex, misunderstood, a bit different to the rest. Over the last year they'd developed a fascination with columbine and other American tragedies. Scouring the Internet together they'd created a website. A discussion forum for others like them. They'd discussed a copycat shootout, listing choice victims. They knew this was a fantasy. Something to talk about whilst smoking joints. Andy Brock had bullied them when they were kids but as they got older, Andy became a mate. They'd buy weed off him. Two weeks back he'd offered them some new research chemical. D-4-pcp. A hallucinogen he claimed was incredible. Way better than the K he'd sold them. Other kids they knew had been using it and no one had died. Well, not from drugs. Recently Jed Tipton, a freind both knew well had been found hanging from a tree in the woods behind Clun castle. There'd been several suicides but Jed was the first they'd known well. He'd seemed happy, full of life last time they'd met. Life's odd. Andy had been right about the D-4-pop. What a night? It was hallucinogenic but more than that, it gave a euphoria. A feeling of flow. Neither twin liked dancing but that night music seemed to animate them. No jerky self consciousness, just a freedom to surf the sound. A rightness. Life was so tough yet this stuff showed them life was ok. Fun. Even the next day or two had a glow. A buoyancy. They moved on. Life steadied. After a week they talked of Jed. He wasn't full of shit like all the fakes at school. He'd seen through the bullshit. Life was a doomed cycle of conformity. Each day grew darker. Who's idea it had been, neither could recall. Their letter apologised to the parents but explained that they'd never understand. No one could. Their bodies were discovered by a farmer up earlier to check his sheep.
The twins had been buried the day before last and no rain or baking sun had altered the loose earth. Andy Brock and Ben Black had taken one grave a piece, taking a competitive relish in the race to be first to reach the coffin. Andy announced victory with two thuds of his spade on the wood panel top.
Fuck! Thought Ben. Andy was always trying to play the big man. In less than a minute they were both at the same place.
Brock: "What do you reckon? I say we smash the lid across, decapitate the corpse. Check they've not fucked about with the brain at autopsy. Then bag both heads. We'd be out of here quicker."
Black: "Just make sure the brains are untouched. And for fucks sake, refill neatly. We don't want any suspicion these graves have been touched."
Punching at the coffin lids with brute force, six feet under soil only Aston heard a slight knocking. No one else was awake. Ben broke through first. Placed feet either side, fingers in the crack, then ripped with all his might. His schoolmates face looking up at him causing him to gag, but he resisted vomiting. This wasn't his first time and he'd learned to switch off. If you put your mind right it was no worse than butchering a deer. Still, he covered the twins face, exposing just the neck, raised high his spade, stabbed down. One, two, three the spinal cord was severed. Rummaging in his Parker pocket he produced the lidl carrier. Shook it twice to flatten it out. His right hand layed the broken piece of wood upright so he could work. His fingers wrapped into the lads long black hair and pulled the head free. Dropping it in his bag he chucked up and onto the side.
Black: "Mines up. How's yours?"
Brock: "He's" thwack, thwack, "just coming free," Thwack! "There she goes!"
Soon Ben heard the sound of another bag landing by his then the refilling began.
Soon the boys were tamping the turf back in place. Replacing the garlands and flowers as they were.
Brock: "Just two more and we're done. They graves look neat to you?"
Ben nodded. Even if they weren't he wanted to get back. They had eighteen heads now. Well, two heads, sixteen skulls stripped of meat. Pineal glands stored in readiness. He preferred this work. The digging. He didn't envy their sisters that worked on the heads. Carefully removing the brain, splitting the hemispheres, scalping out the pineal. Then the boiling. Boy, did that stink the house out. But, give them credit, once done these skulls looked like porcelain.
Tired but satisfied the boys walked off home with their lidl bags. Muddy clothing was common in rural areas and no one would be about at this time mid week.
Black: "You off to the party this weekend? Supposed to be Birmingham DJs coming over."
Brock: "Up Bury Ditches? Aye, if the weather holds off. Can get fucking cold up there."
Aston joined them at the gate and the three Drulads walked home.

Peter: "You about ready to get moving? One last hill fort and we've done the three. After that, well, I'm hoping by then we'll know. Clun is the next step on that line."
Lipton: "Grown quite fond of living here you know. The dogs love it. Not seen a single hiker. No farmers either. Stay tonight, eh? Head off in the morning."
Peter: "Sounds good to me. Could do with a run into town, anyway. Get some beers and that."
Lipton: "How long have we been up here? I've lost all sense of time."
Peter: "Must be two weeks, I reckon. I don't feel half bad, considering. Easiest rattle I've ever done. Not having any knobheads bending our ears has helped."
The two shamans soaked up the morning sun. Time here, undisturbed, away from straight society, just them and the dogs, out in the wild, had been ideal for recovery. Peace.
Sadly, all things must pass. Their dogs were barking across the hill fort, somewhere by the entrance. Lipton looked up, called his dogs. Peter whistled. The barking wasn't the pack alarm call of stranger danger afoot, more the excitement of a mate dropping round. That laughter was familiar. Peter looked at Lipton.
Lipton: "Oh bollocks!"
Peter: "How the fuck! Is there nowhere a man can get a little privacy!"
Jesus: "Not from the old mans all seeing eyes!"
Jesus Christ, the son of God, a close mate of the shamans. Great at a party but only in small doses. They'd both just got clean so the last person they wanted to see was the most hardcore druggy they knew.
Jesus: "How the fuck are you? You shamanic depressive whingers!"
Peter: "How the fuck did you find us? We'd done our best to find a sanctuary no one could find. Good to see you, though! What's you doing in Shropshire?"
Jesus: "I've been up Aber, North Wales, staying with Ianto and Gwenno. Sound fucker, that lad. Gwenno a maiden of rare beauty. He's a Sheepshagger, mind. Tans a bevy well and as for mushrooms, few down them like him."
Lipton: "Sounds like a bloke you'd not want to leave."
For fucks sake, thought Lipton. They'd done their rattle. Found a beautiful place to regather themselves, away from temptation. Then JC, admittedly a close friend, pivotal in the exorcism of Abel Presley, the demonic child of Elvis still born twin Jesse, Lord of the underworld and commissioning agent in the beasts murder. They owed Christ. But, why now?
Peter: "Look mate, you've got to understand. Lipton and me have just done our shamanic heroin withdrawal. We are tender as fuck. If you're on one, any kind of bender, you can't hang around us. Not till were fully sorted. Don't take offence, we both love you like a brother, but if you're on some drug marathon, see this as a pit stop, ok!"
The son of God looked down. He never could grasp mortality. In theory, yes. But he'd died more times than the two shamans had hot dinners.
Jesus: "Some fucking welcome that is! Still it's good to know you've packed in the skag. Milk of the poppy, keeps your cock floppy! Ianto invited me up for a session. Said I needed a break from the Glastonbury traveller cunts. Fucking brilliant for a while. I'm no mycologists but the psylocibin content in them North Wales Liberty caps must be twice what's in south west shrooms. Drinking every night. Gwenno bringing tea to me sofa each morning. Felt like the old days, twelve I had then, bringing over bread, wine, out I wanted. That ended badly too, come think of it. Judas grassed me up. He'd seen past the poverty cult idea I'd got them all into. Iantos a sound lad. Cash was short so I thought on my feet. Took steps to sort us all out. Sold his transit to these gypos. You'd have thought they'd be beaming when I walked in with a crate of special brew. But, did they thank me? Did they fuck! Gwenno seemed like she'd been possessed, starts belting Ianto over the head with the frying pan. She's telling the lad to get rid of me or she was away. Them gypos gave me a flyer for this rave, mind. So I tells them, "If me goodwill isn't welcome I'm best leave you to it. This party, here. Same crew as does the Splat party's. Always belters! Top DJs, quality pharmaceuticals, and it's pass the hat round. Pay what you can. So, what says we put this behind us? You two calm down. Rebond. Then meet you both down Bury Ditches."
They said no fucking way! But I'm sure they'll come round to the idea."
Lipton looked to Peter. A party on the final hill fort on their quest. Perfect end to the shamans pilgrimage.
Lipton: "JC? When's this party?"
Jesus: "Tomorrow night. No neighbours nearby so could be two, three dayer. Location hasn't been given out yet but them gypos know the Splat lads. They'll be setting up their sound system but don't want no hassle till all is ready. Words out to ravers in wolves, brum, west brom to get to Craven Arms. Big carpark for them to wait till the lads give out directions. Should be a big one. Two thousand at the last one they had ."
Peter knew some of this crew from back in his partying days. Two crews had a rivalry back then. setting up parties on the Welsh Borders. Out here it was rare they got closed down, so unpopulated are the hills. Ashton Court had begun a fire that never went out. Shropshire/Hereford free party rave culture grew massive. Traveller crews had the tackle and know how to set up a free festival, the ravers by the nineties we're prepared to travel miles for a good party. Some of the smaller ones deep in forestry land had lasted weeks. Bishops Castle had a thriving underground scene. Many he still knew. The border travellers made a steady income from dealing top product to the towny ravers. They'd be bound to meet up with loads of people. Another bonus came to Peter. Gathering knowledge on the suicide epidemic that had drawn them here would be easy. Besides, they'd been straight for a while now. A small tipple, perhaps some MDMA. Celebrate being clean.
Jesus: "Hey Peter! You know the Castle lot, ever met Andy Black or Ben Brock?"
Peter: "I know they family names. Clun coveners. Never met them but heard a lot about them. Why do you ask? Mates of yours?"
Jesus: "Not really. Drulords. Drulads, more like. There's a coven in Clun. Druid families, they were, go way back. All the others based themselves beyond Roman Occupation. This lot chose to operate at the very border. Offas Dike divides old Wales from England. Titus Brock and Jack Black were Druid legends. Like Robin Hood to young boys. Sort of terrorists they'd be called today. Any Roman patrol straying over the line did so in fear. The Clun would kill all they could. Bolder moves too. They'd travel as far as thirty, forty miles into England at night to slaughter any Roman garrison. I mean native resistance wasn't uncommon but most uprisings ended in defeat. Romans when organised would always commit numbers, trained soldiers too. Half the locals were farmers. But Brock and Black trained an elite squad, living as peasants, blending in to society. Once the call came, these warriors appeared from nowhere. Blending Druidic craft and fighting skills, becoming something altogether different. Their trademark was the ritual arrangements they created with the victims. They took mutilation to an art form. Hideous lay outs of body parts like huge meat snow flakes. The brains were always removed, split in half, some brain organ had a spiritual significance to them.
Romans abandoned Britain but the society they left was class ridden. Normans, various other invaders, immigrants from Europe saw culture diversify but the class system has divided British culture ever since Roman times. The Clun coven had been heroes for a while but as more peaceful times arrived, a gang of wild murderers became the opposite. Local land owners and aristocrats took to hunting them down like foxes. Aristocrats persecuted them. What's weird is they never ran, never gave up their place. Over the centuries the list of brutal acts against them grew. Murder, torture, rape, nothing you can imagine has not been done to these families. From their Druidic origins, into the outlaw freedom fighters, systematic abuse changed them into dark, paranoid, violent creatures. The blend of Druidic power and a mindset that justifies any magic technique. Demonology is the craft they have developed beyond anyone in this planets history. It's said they've cross bred animals from this dimension with demonic entities from the other side. Creatures of hideous drives. As vicious in flesh as they are in the soul.
Anyway, I've been hoping to catch up with Ben and Andy. There's rumours going round. They'll be at the party, I imagine. If I introduce you be careful. They're nasty fuckers. They trust very few. If you're accepted, they'd kill or die for you. But 99.9% of humans they see as a planetary plague. Infected cattle. Their Druidic sensibility remains in their love of the Mother Earth. But they've long turned against humanity, aligned themselves instead with the wild animals. They kill with a righteous zeal. The odd tourist found mutilated on the hills bothers no one too much.. But there's more afoot. Something far bigger they're up to. The other Druidic lines are my concern. They assume they're hidden, but if I know of them, others must. Should the Clun carry out some evil masterwork, those who keep a quiet vigilance over the land would be unlikely to see shades of druidry. There are those who would relish the opportunity to snuff out the last Druidic threads. Clun fuckers! The things a messiah must go through, eh?"
Lipton: "Peter was on about them the other night. That conger eel demon cross sounds fucking horrible!"
Jesus: "That's one of their early works. You know the story then?"
Peter: "Mostly. Wasn't it Jig Brock who let them into the sea? Did they die out or what?"
Jesus: "No. Poor lass. She was dead by the time the eels found her. Their first meal in the wild. From those few she released they number only two thousand. Less maybe. Population is restricted by the scarcity of food. They've adapted over the years to eat from a wider source. They should have died out. Nearly starved to death. They hung close to the shore scenting human meat. A few working class kids got a nasty bite but this meat had none of the nutrients the demonic eels required. I don't know if any died, yet by pure chance, some Duke and Duchess had taken the family to the North wales coast. Their five children were dressed in their bathing costumes by the maids and servants. The Duke and his wife saw the glorious weather freeing them of concern. Both undressed, changed then ran in to the waves. Laughing and splashing they called the children over to join them.
Duchess: "Get in Tarquin, don't be scared. The water is divine."
Duke: "Hetty. Henriette, come on my princess. The maid will keep an eye on your thing."
Soon the family were laughing. It was so rare they got to enjoy time together as a family.
The larger eels could scent aristoflesh. Having not eaten in days they swam away from the rocky sea floor, the younger eels following them toward the shore.
Much like the alligator, these congers often kill as much prey as is available. Storing it in caves or pockets of rock where they wedge the kill. Their prey is rare so by stashing meat in flesh sub aqua pantrys, the demonic conger is able to feed from a single kill for over a week. Fresh or decomposing meat is equally digestible.
Younger eels are not able to kill. Instead they attack in groups, much like the piraña. Fully grown they can easily take down a man. When food is in abundance the male and female will play, this develops hunting skills. The Duke was more lucky. Diving below the surface he aimed to shock the duchess, swimming her way. So hungry were the eels the larger went straight at the Dukes tongue. It's frenzied mastication so swift the eels head had reached his stomach before he broke surface. His wife saw her husbands head reappear with what looked like a writhing snake tongue, three feet long. His thrashing soon clarified danger. Below the duchess felt a drill of pain enter her, a second leapt from the sea filling her opened mouth. Servants cast off clothes and dived in to try save their masters. The children made for the shore. Smaller eels biting chunks of flesh, plucking rapidly. Once killed the larger of the prey were taken to the seabed and covered by sand, freeing the eels to ensure the prey was taken in its entirety. Assisting the smaller eels who could wound but not stop the aristocratic children's passage. One eel darted beneath the youngest child, clenching its jaws into her neck. Another in feed frenzy entered Tarquins anus, eating a tunnel to his mouth in four seconds. The lower body of the eel skewered Tarquin, keeping him stored as it entered another child's mouth. Soon it was done. The eels made off with their aristocratic meat seeking out a hidden enclave where this bountiful hunts rewards could be stored. Ashore, servants and maids looked about in shock. Where were their masters? All the staff were untouched, yet, sadly they'd have to report their failure.
The chief man servant gathered the group. He explained they could hang for this. Rummaging through the swimming parties belongings they found a purse, the Dukes wallet, several watches and other sundry items. Pooling these resources then dividing equally, they all had a second chance. A life of subservience. Treating those of different class as superior is a terrible thing. In years to come, those that escaped servitude would look back fondly on those strange creatures. God works in mysterious ways.
Over time the eels began to feed not only on the upper classes but on anyone rich. The biology of demonic conger nutrition may be easier to understand through demonology rather than science. There are two or three places they form shoals. The sargasso, around the West Indies and the north west coast of Wales, England and Scotland.
That's well early. 1200ad ? Wasn't it back then? Anyway, their techniques now make the eels look like a domesticated dog."
Peter: "I'll fill you in on what Lipton and me are up to. We could be on the same track."
Jesus: "Why, are you headed Clun way?"
Peter: "The spate of suicides. Saw it in the papers. Something clicked in my head. Them Clun lot are up to something. Might suit us all if we join forces."
Jesus: "Amen to that. Party first, mind."


By eight o'clock, all were fed, relaxed, sat around the fire. Jesus was unusually quiet. Perhaps reflecting on the hurt he had caused Ianto. A brown pharmacy bottle of temazepam suggested his reticence may not be so guilt riddeled.
Lipton: "Peter! Your Cornwall story last night clarified the Druidic culture there. You've yet to fill me in on your Orcadians? How'd you meet them?"
Peter: "Sibyl and me had split up. Still mates but I was glad to be single. I was based back based in Leeds, but I was off travelling most of the time then. Pavlov had got used to living in the countryside and I was always on the move. He was getting old and after a time it seemed fair on everyone if he lived with Sibyl. I'd been trying to dump her for a while. Finally she copped off with this Simon knobhead. Him, and a couple of mates had bought a derelict farm on Shapinsay for three grand. He bought the others our and Sibyl latched on to him. Bit of an arsehole but Sibyl was gone, so all were happy.
I spent three months up there. I'd begun my joinery training and put all shamanic mysticism behind me. Looking back I missed a real opportunity. So many ancient sites up there. Driving up was a swift blast through Scotland. I'd stopped doing the acid and shrooms but discovered amphetamines. I took a heap of powder and a chunk of squidgy black hash. Three of us drove up. Left the van at Thurso and got the ferry to Orkney mainland. A night here then a small boat to Shapinsay. There were about 250 people living on the island so any visitor arriving was news that spread to all islanders in hours. They'd had TV for just five years, electricity only recently on tap. The place they'd bought was a collection of derelict buildings. I helped work on these. Building windows from driftwood. Laying concrete floors. Each day I took the dogs up on to the Craig or Clough, a moor above cliffs. Here they packed together and I'd return with three or four rabbits each day. Native orcadians abseiled the cliff, taking seabird eggs. Each dwelling had a tightly enforced stretch of sea edge, the drift wood of high value as no tree greater than seven inch diameter trunk grew. Wind was constant. I'd watch seals sunbathing. Sea otters playing amongst the rocks. Dolphins and porpoises, gannets, grey lag geese, curlews, turns and diverse sea birds in abundance.
The nearest house had a mother and brother. Her husband had died. Two bedrooms. The mother slept in the same bed in the kitchen with her eighteen year old son. Her brother shared a bed in the on,y other room with her older son. This wasn't weird but differed to life I knew.
Inland sat another house. Walking the dogs one day, the woman that lived there, invited me and Sibyl over. Simon was forever jealous of our continuing friendship due to our earlier relationship. But it had run its course. We may have had a nostalgic moment or two but he should have been looking elsewhere for rivalries.
Walking over I was introduced to the goats. Asked to milk them, I discovered an aptitude. The kitchen was a heap of mess. Five gallon plastic containers fermented some peel beer. Centre stage was a still. I spent five or so nights there, watching the still drip its moonshine. Drinking the foul spirit. Her husband was Polish. He had collaborated with the nazi invaders, joining the newcomers in murdering his neighbours. He was open of his involvement in the war. He went on to work at aushwitgz. His explanation was to inform me, "you would have done the same."
His wartime actions were too low level to bring any legal prosecution though he could never go home. He'd moved to Leeds where he worked as a bus driver for many years. Leeds has a large Jewish community. One day someone recognised him from the extermination camps. He left Leeds that night. Orkney Islands provided a remote hideaway. Here he drank moonshine. The only time I've met a real nazi. A person who joined the strongest gang, turned on old freinds, prodded them with a pitch fork toward the gas chamber. Simon, sibyls new fella excused his past. Said we all had things we weren't proud of. In this dismissal of his neighbours past, Simon revealed himself. I wrote to a farmer in Norway. Asking to work there next year.
The walk into town was two miles. Here I met Davo. First he explained I'd been pinching his driftwood. Then invited me to this house where uncles slept with nephews, mothers with sons. Over time he told me his Druidic lineage. They were dark, primitive, noble. They'd kept the faith. Knuckled down as peasant agriculturalists. The numerous ancient stone works occupied them. These astrological computational systems take years of tuition to master. This lay at the heart of orcadian druidry. Davo had accurately predicted my arrival and explained why the earth had positioned aspects of the molecular field dictating this point in time where we came together.
Up on the moor we walked as he described the patient wait the Orkney Druids shared with those I'd met in Cornwall. The land rose up to ridge where he led. Downward was a clear drop to the rocks, gently washed over by the waves. Here he told me what I must do. Why I had been called. Unknowingly the polish man had carried a vast demonic flock over from the primordial stew of evil that the nazis had summoned over from the dark side. The poison of this demonic cluster had brought anger to the slumbering Norse gods. Odin had chosen Davo to bring a shaman, one unaware or unbelieving in their shamanic potential, an outsider to slip into the area, do Odins bidding, then slip away. Davo confirmed the islanders memories of me were to be evapourated swiftly once I was gone. He explained what I was to do. I told him I was leaving in the morning. He handed me a black stone. Smooth and round. No bigger than an orange. One word he said, "Tonight."
Simon had become a tiresome dullard. Since his admission he'd sat reading the daily mail. Arguing with Sibyl whether we'd touched or not. I left them at the cottage and walked toward the house with the distillery, goats and polish man. I'd not noticed before but since I'd talked to Davo I could smell. A reek of putrefaction. I could hear too, humming like thousands of flies. After drinking into the darkness of night his wife left for bed. It was time. I stood to walk, he nodded in acceptance. He followed me up through the fields, across the stretch of rocky beach. Then we took the cliff path high up above the faces of rock where the seabirds nested. We spoke little. The man was compliant. A further half mile found us high above the waves. A sheer drop some two hundred feet. Together we stood, looking out to sea. The lights of fishing boats, dots on a black water, the swing of a lighthouse beam swept a circle. He knew as did I. The place I'd stood with Davo.
The humming grew frenzied. The stench grew overwhelming. I could feel the cluster of demons, screaming, clawing at each other, their terror urged be to make haste.
"Don't be scared. This will be over soon. You will be free."
He nodded in resignation. I kissed his head, held his bony shoulders. I handed him the stone Davo gave to me. I'd not killed a man before but felt calm. A flicker of memory slipped from his mind, the vision reflected emotional vacuum I now felt. I saw him as a young man, pushing an elderly Jewish lady who'd frozen, blocking the flow of people entering the shower. I then pushed him over. I heard no scream, just two seconds then a bump as his body broke on the rocks below.
Strolling back to Davos house I considered my act. I felt no pride nor pleasure.
We drank and Druidic family history filled our nights conversation. We shook hands and I left to wait for the ferry. A night on Orkney where no news report came out. Then back to Scotland.
Then drove back to Kent. On to Ireland. Forgetting, leaving the event behind. I could not return. Just as Davo could not do the thing I had.
Months later I was living in Kent. The convoy used to gather there after the summer festival season. A pub I'd never been to before by chance I entered. Two other solitary drinkers. A call from the bar maid asked, "is there a Skree from Leeds in here?"
No one knew I was here but I took the call. I was wanted to work in Norway by Sunday. Simon, Sibyls new bloke. A bloke who'd drank and laughed as friends with this man. A polish boy who rejected family and neighbours to join the nazi invaders. A boy who prodded naked women, children, gypsies, stabbing them with holes with his farmyard hay fork. Laughing as he herded them into the chambers where gas slowly killed them. Simon had intercepted a letter from the Norwegian farmer accepting my offer to work for him. He didn't try contact me, instead tried steal my job. I got to Norway before the cunt.
"You would have done the same." That phrase has never left me.
Relaxing after work in my Norway cabin, a month after arriving, a letter slipped under the door. Opening it revealed only a torn newspaper clipping. An old polish man had been found, washed up by the sea. There was brief mention of unconfirmed war time service. Suicide was the verdict.
Returning to Shapinsay, Davo and his family took me in with a warmth. People so simple, so honest. Over drunken nights the rudiments of the Druidic wait mirrored a more hidden, private, darker truth. I've never called it in, but Davo made it clear. If I needed anything, they would be there."
Lipton: "I wasn't expecting that. The Cornish sounded like an induction. That sounded just weird."
Skree: "I was 17 in Cornwall. Still full of dreams. By Orkney I was 21, 22. I'd turned my back on mystical stuff. I'd decided it was a delusion. Drug hallucinations. Orkney time I'd gone cold. Putting that nazi down had nowt to do with shamanism, Druidism, just a job that needed doing. Davo was too close. My presence there was brief. It was the first time I killed a man. I took neither pride nor shame. Only thirty odd nazis stood trial. Many thousands returned to communities. So much was buried. He felt no remorse. When he said I would have done the same I knew that, given chance he'd do the same again. Also, I had to know.
A strange thing happened in Norway. This was 87. Solidarity. The first Poles were getting away. They'd been told they were shit people for decades. One lad I got to know was an architecture student. He told me of the tales his parents, aunts, gran folk told him. How a neighbour you've known all your life, saw the chance the nazis offered, how these types grasped the chance with a relish beyond that of the invaders."
We sat silently watching the fire flicker. I'd not told anyone this. Lipton took it in his stride. I'm sure he'd have acted as I had. Yet Jesus looked on. Despite our familiarity I still felt reverence for him. His reputation being the distillation of good. His silent rumination lasted some ten minutes.
Jesus: "Did you free Davo?"
I'd never thought of that angle. Yet it was the only one that mattered. He was old. His actions lost in time. His victims now moved on. Just Davo had to live close to this aspect of humanity, insulted by his existence each day, unable to remove him. Unable to rid the island of the demonic tumour surrounding the Pole.
Skree: "Most definitely. He lived only two further years. But these years were his best. He died with contentment. I'm sorry. Killing anyone can't be good?" I needed Jesus forgiveness.
Jesus: "I'm a Jew, dickhead. You did good."
Christ didn't expand on that. I'd seldom seen him so quiet. Admitting murder to him felt an admission of deep difference in outlook. Gathering his bedding into a tight cocoon, he laid to sleep. "You'll need the Orcadians on side. What you did for Davo could very well be what saves your life."
After the son of God began snoring, we all bedded down. Next stop, Bury Ditches.





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