Peter - Chapter Twenty One

Peter - Chapter Twenty One
Lipton was spat out of haunted dreams. The spirit slurry of the twenty dead washing round his head in a turbulent blitzkrieg of voices. Opening his eyes the memories returned. Christ sat smoking a joint in a lost third of a three piece suite. It's worn velvet arms supported to his left a can of polish lager with tobacco, papers and hashish. To his right an over flowing ash tray revealed the son of God had been sat watching, waiting for some time. Reality descended causing Lipton to vomit in spiteful retching in to a bucket Christ had placed close by with foresight and care for the psychically battered shaman.
Christ: "Your back, lad! I was getting a bit worried for you there." Looking across to Peter, curled in a shivering foetal ball the messiahs brow furrowed with pity. "Not sure how your mates going to be, mind. Fancy a brew, spliff?"
The brew sounded good as Jesus handed over the joint.
Lipton: "Two nurofen and four blue Valium as well. My bastard heads splitting and I need to sedate these voices. Nasty skid marks left inside, soul stains, fuckers won't shut up! If I've got ghosts, fuck knows how he's going to feel when he comes round?"
Christ: "He doesn't look too clever, mate. I've been watching over you both. He keeps getting the shivers. They build up for a few minutes then he's been screaming out names, Reeny, Compo, Degan, Kelly, then he'll go in to a fit. Like epilepsy. I've had to stand over him. Watch he's doesn't swallow his tongue or kick owt over. Or kick you."
Lipton considered his mate. He enjoyed most of the lower level tripping. The basic shamanism. Breaking into some dimensions reminded him of the thrill he got as a young junky. Burgling posh folks houses while they slept. He'd long grown out of all that now but the dimensions shifts they took on entheogens was exciting. But this higher level stuff he hated. Peter, though seemed to relish the danger. That time he'd had to nurse him through a months psychosis till the only option was to have him sectioned, such was the dangers of hid disturbed mind. Shouting at people in the street, charging up to innocent strangers he thought were demons. And this one last night. Into the afterlife. Both of them knew peter might not get back. Yet he'd taken an almost perverse suicidal glee in diving into the idea. Just to please these witches who they only met a week ago.
Lipton: "Fucking nutter! Not sure what to make of it all. Twelve dead youths to bring back the spirit of a dead queen. Her spirit then split and spread amongst twenty odd octopuses? What do you reckon, JC? I have to say I'm like that buddy you had back in the day, doubtful Thomas."
Christ: "Aye! Tommy was proper sceptical. But we have to trust. If that conger eel deity they created all those years back is owt to go on, this octoboudicus should be some pretty awesome pagan goddess. From what Charlotte was saying it takes a fair old time of interbreeding amongst the octopuses, many generations before her hive mind coagulates fully. These are long projects. Let's hold off judgement till we see how the Coven perform with Jig when we do Peter and your Bunsen project. Because they seem sound lasses, like. Tommy and you wouldn't have got on, Lipton mate, I doubt it anyway."
Lipton could feel two soporific forces combining. The diazepam were starting to kick in and the son of God looked like he was just getting started. His sermons could put a radio 1 DJ on crystal meth to sleep.
Christ: "Did I tell you how he earned that tag?" Lipton knew the question was rhetorical. He'd heard Jesus story several times, always different. Closing his eyes he let his friend continue though soon lost wakefulness to the comforting tones of the lamb of god.
Christ: "The apostles were sound lads, on the whole. Lazy fuckers, mind. Most gave up decent jobs in fishing and shepherdry to join my gang of homeless street drinkers. I was married by the time I got street preaching to Mary Magdalene. Still on the game, like. Tidy business she had going, renowned for her talents from Bethlehem to Nazareth. We had all sorts of minorities in the gang . A lot of gay lads joined up as the priesthood were down on certain acts they'd decided the old man frowned on. Most of them were in the closet of course. Peter used to spend all day hanging out down the public toilets the Roman soldiers used, servicing the occupation Italians whose wives were back home. Asked him at least three times, 'are you gay Peter? It's not a problem, like', his replies always denied this of course, 'not me, my Lord, tits, arse and fanny for me, all the way.' Don't think he even told his mrs. How he explained he was going to be rarely home in future as he loved me too much without coming out I'll never know. Pain in the ar....neck sometimes. After a day's drinking, magic tricks and moral philosophy lectures I'd come home knackered. I just wanted to crash out with the Mrs who was equally done in after an honest day's cock sucking. We'd be nodding off and Peter or one of the others would come knocking at the door, 'please, Lord and master, come and teach us some holy shit before you sleep. We love you,' in front of the Mrs, no fucking shame like. Mary went mental regularly. 'Get fucked you toga tunnellers! We're trying to sleep!' Peter would get all miserable with her. 'We love him too, Mary, but not in a gay way. Ask my wife. I've told my beloved master it's tits and fanny that turn me on.' Mostly they'd get the message. Peter would say he was off to go pull a bird, all manly to the lads then slope off back to the Roman urinals for some Italian Salame. Next day Matthew says, 'saw you down by the Roman baths last night Peter, you had your hood up but I'm certain it was you. Kneeling down engaged in some of your private work, so it seemed.' Peter, blushing like a schoolgirl, 'you must be mistaken Matthew, don't tell my wife but I pulled this fit bird from galilee, phwoar! You should have seen the tits on it.' Mathew just nodded, familiar with Peters denial. 'Slug must have made its way over you as you slept, mate. In fact quite a few. I'd give your top wash before you go home, mate, don't want the wife finding out about the .........er, lass from galliee, like.'
Thomas, mind, he wasn't so much in denial regarding his sexuality, more in doubt about it. But his name came about following my resurrection. I've no doubt told you how I got busted. It wasn't long after the priesthood heard about me going mental down at the temple. My following had been growing. My old man had got pissed off with the priesthood claiming only they had access to God. Only they could validate a mystical experience. God has many issues but he's for everyone and he is free. No more likely is a celibate monk, fasting for a week and praying none stop to have a first hand moment with the divine than is an an atheist alcoholic homeless guy. We weren't getting on at all. You'll hear how God so loved humans that he gave his only son. What about me, eh? He was dead set on humanity believing in him despite his refusal to show up. He saw it as a test of their love. He's a needy fucker. He wants adoration and worship without having to reveal himself. Then, after death, that's when the good bit starts. If they believed he'd give them salvation in an eternity in heaven. Not many trusted this so made the best of life on Earth. He needed to show that man could transcend death. So after a massive argument after I'd come home late one night, the old fella cracks me round the head. Next thing i know I'm on earth.
For thirty years I was so pissed off with the pompous twat I just got into woodwork. But I had a few of my own issues with how things had been heading. Money, materialist hierarchy was like a plague. Where I agreed with my dad was that it was those who used up only what they needed who should be respected most. The Jewish priesthood were charging folk to get into the synagogue. No standard entry fee either. They were smarter than that. They said, give what you could afford. So the richest would show off how pious they were by putting tenders in the dish. Skint folk, mind, couldn't get in to pray. The priesthood having claimed sole access to God meant the poor couldn't hope to get to heaven. So I jacked in the joinery business and set about as a preacher. Sort of like a homeless stand up comedian but I had a speciality on moral philosophy. My message was that the old mans kingdom is open to all. It has many mansions but tons of trailers, benders and loads who just sleep rough up there. Anyone can have a mystical experience. And I could see where the hunger for wealth was leading so I set up a street drinking homeless poverty cult. Free wine and guaranteed sharing of food. As it grew it became clear we were having a much better laugh than the money men. But I messed up. Lost me rag down at the temple. I'd gone down there with a vicious hangover, looking for a fight if I'm honest. These money sharks I knew were setting up outside, trying to lend cash at extortionate repayment terms to poor fuckers needing to go and pray. Big Wonga was a right fat fucker. He was setting up his table next to Quikwid and the sly toad Easyloans. So I just steamed in. Starts shouting the odds. "Come on the you fucking banking wanking bastards!" I flipped over Wongas table and sheckles go flying. People everywhere getting what they could. The fat fucker goes mental. Charges in swinging a roundhouse haymaker so I ducked, grabbed his arm and slammed his face into the ground. Widdy sees me engaged as I'm just slamming Wongas face down again and tries to kick me in the head. I managed to avoid the full force of the loan sharks boot though he caught my ear. Dropping Wonga I grabbed qikwids foot and dropped him down, stamping on his money lending face. Crunch! Easy comes over holding up his fists like it was boxing so a sandle in the balls sorted out the cunt but Wongas back and twatted me from behind. About now the Romans on patrol have caught on so I legs it. Off down the network of pathways round the temple zone. Wonga is a grassing cunt and Easy and Widdy all gave my name. From then on I knew I'd soon get busted.
The old man had told me his plan, 'Look, son. The humans have stopped adorning and worshipping me properly and I'm well jealous! Wotan or Yahweh will soon move in if I don't get this sorted. Here's the plan, lad. You go down. Spread the word that you're my son and that. Stir up the public with some magic tricks, you know, healing, water walking, free booze, stuff like that. Piss xoff the priesthood. Get yourself arrested. Let the public turn on you and call for your execution. Make sure they give you a proper doing over, torture, whipping and that. Then get ritually executed in a public place so they all can watch. Then, and here's the good bit, I'll reanimate you. Bring you back to life, proving you really were the son of God. They all get guilty for not having faith. Also they see that Yahweh and the pagan gods may offer a decent harvest but with me they are guarunteed eternal life. No God is offering owt close to that. All they must do is keep faith despite my not showing myself. Adore me and they are in. What do you say?' That's what caused us to fall out. 'He so loved man he gave his only son,' thanks dad, I'll just get crucified, easy.
The last supper night, we all knew the game was up. Last free wine they'd be getting. So I thought why not let one get enough cash to keep the party going for a while after I'm gone by grassing me up. Peter was my first choice but he'd just take the silver then deny it all. So when Judas slopes off to the all night garage I assumed he knew I knew and agreed. But the silly cunt grassed me up, took the silver, then threw it away and hanged himself. Dead before I was. Crucifixion is a right bastard. I'm not hiding that. Fortunately the Roman lad converted and stabbed me with a spear drenched in sedatives. I'm entombed still alive. Just. Joseph gives me a space in his tomb. Laid in there I died. Back in heaven judas is wandering about not knowing where the fuck he was. Some old superstition said suicide cancelled the agreement. "You daft twat, judas! You were supposed to split the silver so the lads could carry on with the bevvy!"
Soon enough I'm back. Rolled away the stone and first I met the Mrs. She tells the lads but most are so sexist they don't believe her. They'd always been jealous. Next time I thought I'd get the ressurection across to the thick fucks. Walked along with some of the gang but it took them ages to recognise me. Finally, and I'm wanting to get back upstairs by now, I goes round Peters. 'I never lost faith my lord, I love you,' lying twat. 'Told the Mrs yet? About the public toilets?' 'I'm sorry my lord, but I'm not sure what you are on about. Of course I've been there for a piss, after I've been with a bird, but that's all. I've told you before, tits, arse, fanny. No way I'd kiss and cuddle a fella. Cock is just not my thing. Good to see you back though, my love....er my lord.' So we're downing the vino when Tommy turns up. 'Voila' I says, 'resurrected or fucking what, mate!' Tommy looks all sceptical, like. 'I doubt it sunshine, I saw Jesus dead on that cross. Whoever you are you are not the gaffer!' No amount of talk could sway the dubious cunt. Finally I got him to put his fingers through the nail holes. Finally his eyes light up. 'Its you! I doubted you, but I was wrong. You've done it. Returned from the dead.' Finally. After that I was off. Straight to Joseph of aramatheias boat. From there we sailed to Lynmouth."
Lipton heard none of this but once the messiah was in flow nothing could stop him.


Having the quarry site to themselves had been something of a honeymoon for Rachel and Mike Oldpastures. Peter and Lipton had got them started on the art of bender building though the majority of the work had been theirs alone. Harry had put I her fare share too, appearing on odd mornings often dropped off by Andy where she quietly worked away alone. They'd borrowed Peters machete to cut beech and willow stems, long and flexible. Plunging them deep into the soft ground, then flexed over to form a criss cross framework like an inverted basket. The benders footprint was an elongated ellipse, twelve or fifteen feet across and maybe forty in length. Strewn over this frame were an array of tarpaulins and old water proof sheeting both shamans collected whilst driving around, storing them for such temporary structures on their square frame roof racks. The fortuitous find of a stack of abandoned lorry pallets in one corner of the quarry tessellated together to form a raised floor off the damp ground. Layers of corrugated cardboard covered this decking and finally oddments of carpet provided a homely feel. Two chimneys of flexi tube leading to wood burners ensured a constant warmth. The interior had been divided up so a communal area where all could sit of an evening was seperated from three smaller private sleeping spaces. Rachel had immediately begun home making. An alter of candles and various curious crystals and rocks they'd found around the quarry. Two empty coffee jars held bunches of wild grasses and flowers that caused Mikes hay fever mayhem, a mayhem fondness for the girl over came to the point of claiming to have a cold so as to not upset her nesting instinct. Her art skills had found expression in a portrait of the recovering musician, drawn in charcoal from the fire on a piece of jagged plywood which formed the centre piece.
Harry had been initially dubious about the coupling due to age difference but over the days Rachel had proved to be wise beyond her years. Who's place was it to criticise a relationship so clearly beneficial to both parties. In many respects it was Mike who was the child. The vulnerable one. Rachel had played the major role in his recovery, seen beyond the broken tragedy of his dereliction, reached in and pulled him free of the quagmire of madness Rupert had plunged him in. This flash of judgementalism reversed the focus into self reflection. Equally unpredictable was her growing closeness to Andy. Harry considered the cyclic conception of existence the shamans were often discussing. The pagan perspective. Far from the linear journey of western civilisation they stood against. The separation from other animals whose lives were aspects of the complex cyclic interplay of environment and biodiversity, to walk off toward salvation, individuation and the delusion of independence. In terms of social class, she and Andy were at the extreme poles of their small tribe yet, if seen as a circle that linked up, they stood closest. Both furthest from the middle. Words played a subsidiary role to the animal magnetism that drew them together. Their first night together they had barely spoken. Both knew and Andy had taken her with a tender care, so free of the self conscious bumbling men and boys she grew up around had rendered fabricated constructs of society laughable. Again this crowds acceptance of their animal truth made a mockery of status, accent or manners. She felt sure most of the crew had clicked though no one had more than smiled to show support for their happiness and union. A warmth filled her thinking of Andys ease in the outdoors. That first night he'd built a shelter, a fire and caught a rabbit, skinned and cooked food with an effortless grace. Rupert and his type found the wild an inhospitable and hazardous place. Andy flowed through it like a mountain stream. He was an aspect of the wild, not an alien at odds to it. Neither had spoiled its purity by speaking of the future yet she felt she may now be home.

Peters cycle continued as Christ kept watch. Periods of peaceful sleep would become disturbed. Shivering spasms, growing in their intensity, building till seizures contorted his body. Never waking but mumbling developing into screams at characters in his mind. Kelly, Degan, compo and Reeny tortured him. The twenty channels borrowed from the dead to create a cluster of passageways provided the portal between dimensions. His journey had used only four and each had left deep stains of memory. Their ghosts voiced their anger at the shamans intrusion on their private spirit portal. Jesus had heard from Lipton of the damage Peter had incurred in a seemingly innocuous dimension leap. Three months of psychosis as reality and demonic rupture found the shaman shouting at invisible horrors. His sectioning had been unavoidable.
Degan: "It was that weird powder those fucking Druids sold us. Best hit you'll ever have, they said. They weren't wrong. Should have kept away from the weird bastards. I had since I was ten. We never spoke for eight years after the frog day. When mum and dad moved out here I was just seven. Birmingham had been home. But they promised how much I'd like it out in the countryside. Local kids used to mimic my accent. I'd not been bullied but I had no freinds. My mum saw the clun lads and shoved me out in their direction. To be fair they were the only local boys that did let me join in. They chatted to me. Took me to the pond. Ben had borrowed his dad's air rifle. Him and Andy had shot four rabbits. They showed me how to gut them and skin them. They placed a skinned rabbit on my palm and I could feel vibrations like it was alive. Either that or electric. Well sick. At first it disgusted me. Then I looked at the dismemberment. The flesh robots. They told me they had to nip home to give these horrible things to their mothers to eat. Fucking sickos! Ben made me swear to look after the rifle.
They left me there ages. I began shooting at frogs to show that I was like them. I could kill animals too. But I kept missing. Then I saw the drink straws left over from the cartons of juice. I grabbed a frug, stuck a straw up its arse and blew it up like a balloon. It skidded off, trying to hide under the water but like a balloon kept resurfacing. I blew up more. I'd shot five at least by the time they got back. I smiled hoping they'd see how I shared the pleasure of killing. But Andy just punched me. Ben looked at me in total disgust. Andy said something about rabbits being food and taking no joy in killing. They threw me in the stagnant pond. I went home stinking in tears. I told mum they made me do it. We never spoke again. Not till we were teenagers, anyway. I took to climbing the radio communications tower up on the moor. From here I could sit, have a smoke and watch the lights of the villages far off. If miss Jennings hadn't been so supportive of my art I doubt I'd have bothered with school. No one really understood me. Black clothes and eye liner marked me out as a sensitive type. My poetry got excellent but I kept it to myself. The walk home from school took half an hour down that road the lorries use. My collection of skulls grew and I started to collect roadkill. Hares, pheasant, deer anything distorted and broken. The shed became my studio and these flattened pieces showed lives truth. The smell pissed of mum so I took to photography. I'd take pictures of the flattened and hideously distorted life lost. My website took off too. The cats began by pure good fortune. A lorry had left Mrs Perkins ginger cat alive with its entire rear flattened. I took several pictures as it pity fully struggled to drag it's ruined form away despite being pressed to the road. The fuel I'd bought for my zippo gave me some spontaneous artistic ideas. Emptying most of the bottle on the half cat as its confusion grew. Compact cameras film in digital detail so I readied myself then lit the feline fire light. The recording of its death in flames was my finest piece yet. The hits on my site rocketed through the many who enjoyed my work.
From here I stepped up. Chemistry lessons taught me how to make fuses soaking lengths of string in potassium nitrate solution. Once dry they fizz at a controlled speed. Collecting cats from other villages seemed the best option. Most entered the feline travel cases easily. My trick was to tether the cat though not so strong that they couldn't escape. Soaking them in fuel often left them cowering at the base of th radio mast. A six minute fuse allowed me to climb fifty feet, set up my camera before the light show began. From above once in a flaming ball the cats could escape most tethers. I'd film the ball of squeezing g flame charging in patterns trying to escape the fire ball they had become. Time lapse photography at night captured each unique spiral of death in a fascinating organic flame line. These works were my finest. Miss Jennings saw the beauty in my work and allowed me a small exhibition of these pieces. It kept her busy after her cat went missing.
My faded connection to the clun boys returned once I got into smoking weed. They had the best stuff. At first Andy wouldn't sell to me but in time he gave in. Sold me my first pills too. Kelly was attracted to me. Mysterious, quiet and artistic. Soon we became an item. Inseparable. We'd take pills and just wander the hills. When research chemicals came in Andy sold us mephedrome. Wow! Then this new stuff. Best hit you will ever have he garunteed. He was right.
We snorted two lines each and entered a place of grace. The true nature of reality was revealed to us both in such beauty that Kelly and me both felt we had spoken with God. The next morning was Saturday and the afterglow remained. Such an epiphany. Sunday and Monday we spent discussing what this meant. On Tuesday Kelly felt down. Wednesday I did too. By Thursday depression began. The realisation settled on us both that we would never enjoy a moment as sublime again. This loss grew. Life would be a slow journey away from the glory. Death, only death could return us. Two weeks passed as we spoke only to each other. Our pact was inspired by Drew. A month ago a goth in the year above had hung himself. I never knew him. He became a hero. He had been the real thing. Not some pathetic teenager. He had taken the ultimate step. Kelly agreed on the Friday of the full moon we would go together. I bought rope for nooses from Harry Tuffins DIY. The evening was pretty as we walked hand in hand to the copse of beech trees on the hill behind the town. We found two fat stubs of tree trunk the forestry workers had cut. These were about two feet tall and half that diameter. Our branch looked out over the houses below. The church and school a mile away looked like toys. I tied the ropes close so we could hold hands as life left us to travel on. We stepped on to our log stumps, slipped the nooses over our heads then kissed goodbye. Our silhouette would make a poetic image for whoever discovered us. We looked deep in to each other's eyes and said goodbye. See you on the other side. I held your hand. Our supports kicked aside we swung.
Shock and pain so deep took anything other than escape away. I saw your face purple, your swollen tongue and eyes bulged out. I kicked out trying to get my fingers under the rope. It wasn't pretty nor quick. Then I was alone. In nothing. I found you till this bastard took my line."
Peter: "Get away you poisonous bastard! Get the fuck out of my mind you animal torturing monster! Out! Out! Out you fuck! Out!"
Jesus held Peters spamming body, taking care his tongue wasn't swallowed. Vomit in small spurts left the shamans lips. Slowly these seizures lessened and Peter looked less troubled.
Kelly: "You fucking liar! You killed cats for fun?"
Degan: "For art, Kelly. I wanted to explain but I knew you'd not get it."
Kelly: "Get it! I fucking get it you twat! You told me Andy and Ben forced you to shoot frogs. I've followed you down this dark path to find at its end a cunt. That first time we spoke was after that crap with Mr Rodgers. You held me. Comforted me. After what I'd been through.
I should have listened to mummy. She never liked you. I bet she's distraught now. Dad will be broken. He's struggled to get over all that with Tempy. Dads half brother. The tramp. Alison Johnson next door always saw him come round. In his old donkey jacket, bailer twine belt, filthy trousers and wellies. She had the girls at school under her spell. Each time Tempy came shed report to them. I'd know from their giggles as I came over. So uncool having a tramp come to your house. They virtually ostracised me because of the bastard. I had to do something. If he'd dressed normally he'd not have brought all of it down on himself.
Mummy started working later so I'd be at home alone for an hour after school. Tempy used to just let himself in. Never bothered me, just sat in the kitchen waiting. Alison started the rumour. As if I'd go near an old tramp like that. But girls can believe anything. There was no big plan. Tempy sat waiting and I was in my room though I made sure my crying was loud enough for mummy to hear as she acknowledged the scruff bag. When she entered my room I wouldn't tell her. I said I couldn't. There wasn't anything to tell. As she held me I thought it up.
Mummy: "What is it Ali, pettle? Tell me, darling. I promise I won't say anything."
Kelly: "It's him. Downstairs. He told me if I ever tell he'd kill me. He said it had to be our special secret. I can't, mum. I can't say."
Mummy: "Darling, no one can harm you. Whisper it to mummy. I swear no harm will come to you, my sweetly."
Kelly: "At first he just looked at me. Told me I was becoming a woman. I hated it."
Mummy: "But he never touched you? Just talked?"
Kelly: "At first. But then he started to stand close so I had to brush past him. I'm sorry, mummy. I hated it!" Kelly's mother was now serious but firm.
Mummy: "You must tell me everything. I promise we won't speak about it again unless you need to. Just let me know exactly what has happened. You are not in trouble, sweety, ok?"
Kelly nodded then finished he story, : "I felt something hard as I brushed past. Hot and hard. He grabbed my hand and put it there. He said I had made this happen and it was my job to put it right. It was yucky, mummy, yucky!"
Mummy: "Kelly. You must tell me!" Her mothers eyes were calm but furious.
Kelly: "He made me kneel down. He told me to close my eyes and open wide." Tears flooded her face as the final scene oh her lie formed in her imagination. " He made me mummy, I had to do it he said. Then he did white wee, all over my cheeks. It was sticky and hot. I'm sorry, mummy. Please don't send me away."
Mummy: "It isn't you going away, Kelly. Sit here till Daddy gets home."
Tempy never came round again. Mummy asked her if she could talk to the police but she said she couldn't go through that. Both parents became so loving now. They never spoke again about the scruff bag. Soon the pony they were always promising arrived. Quego was beautiful.
The details were not clear. The police had been kept out. Daddy had some farmer friends. Tempy was found in a drainage ditch a few weeks later. Things had been done to him. Two Police spoke to her father but all three nodded in a serious collusion. Justice had taken place and they weren't too interested in troubling the family. Alison never laughed at her again.
Kelly: "Served the weirdo right."
Degan: "You call me bad for using animals in my art and you got an innocent man killed. What happened with Mr Rodgers? Was he innocent?"
Kelly: "Innocent? Rodgers? He put me in a remedial group with two thickoes because I had no interest in the dull projects he set. The Roman invasion? Come on, dull, dull, dull!"
Degan: "When I caught you in tears you alluded to things. What actually did he do?"
Kelly: "Weren't you listening? He kept three of us behind for an hour after history two weeks running. I tried fluttering my eyelids, unbuttoning my shirt but he insisted. So I told the two others detention had been cancelled. What he did when we were alone only in know, and him, the police were called this time. Mum had warned me victims of abuse are often targeted again by predators. That night I burst in I ran straight to my room and buried my head in the pillow. Mum followed, stroking my head, more baby talk.
Mum: "Are you ok sweety? I've not seen you like this since....well since that tramp. Please, it hasn't happened to you again, has it?"
Kelly: "I can't hope to be believed against a teacher. He told me that. Why me, mum? Why has it happened to me? I went to detention. When I got there it was only me. Mr Rodgers threatened me, mummy. I can't tell anyone."
Mum: "You can tell me, darling. What did he do?"
Kelly: "He stood me in his office. Locked the door. Bent me over his desk. He said I needed punishing. I couldn't do anything. He pulled back my skirt. Pulled down....."
Mum: "Wait. I'm calling the police!"
Kelly: "Soon an officer was there. He told my mother he needed to interview me alone due to the severity of the accusation. He told me to relax. Said I was safe. Start at the beginning. I told him he bent me over his desk, pulled away my skirt and dropped my knickers baring my buttocks. First he gave me six with the strap, then more with his hand. Then he rubbed my bum. Just like that pervert Tempy he made me kneel before him. I could see his trousers were bulging out. He told me I'd done this to him. Teased him. Made him do this. He said unless I rectified the situation he'd fail me. My imagination ran away. I told the police a story. The copper kept digging for details. Mr Rodgers undid his belt then told me to take a look. I unzipped his fly and his erection sprung out in front of me. I begged him to stop but he said I had to kiss and lick him. I said he grabbed my ponytail, made me open my mouth and throat, then put it in my mouth. I tried to please him but he grabbed me and thrust his thing deep in to my mouth. I couldn't do anything as he slid his thing in and out. It was like dogs. He fucked my mouth hard. Finally he slowed, thrust in three hard drives, then I felt it pulsing as I had to swallow. In tears I had to explain everything. He called in my mother. Left me in the corridor to sit with a WPC.
After this my mother took me home. Mr Rodgers was never seen again. That's when I met you Degan. I thought you cared."
Degan: "You caused the deaths of two innocent men!"
Kelly: "And you tortured cats!"
Peter: "No! No! You pair of twisted bastards! You are made for each other. You're fucking skid marks in my head. Get the fuck out of my mind!"
Christ again held Peter through this trauma as his seizures subsided. This time it took longer for the shaman to fall back into peaceful sleep. Jesus positioned him in the recovery manner, placing his head on a pillow and tucking blankets round his shivering form.
Silence settled for a while. Peter felt nothing for a time. Just his breathing and a grey light. No dreams or ghosts troubled him. Perhaps he could finally relax. Then a Black Country voice broke in.
Compo: "You're not done yet mate. Let me introduce myself and my associate to you soul thieving shaman knob. I am Compo, or I was until your Druid buddy's killed me. Reeny here lost his life alongside me in the passenger seat of my Golf. You deserve haunting, mate, for what you have done. Mind you, those two fuckers are a right pair. Did you hear the bitch, Reeny. Two decent blokes. Dead one fella. Tortured and mutilated by farmers. The other guy, jailed, family abandoned him. Wife and kids gone as he rots away in jail on the nonce wing. All for her petty childish ego?"
Reeny: "Not fucking many, Comp! Degan ain't much better. What a warped wazzock! Cats, mate. Flaming fucking cats up! What turns a kid out like that? I mean, I'd been right up for haunting this shaman for using our brains for he's twisted journey but by comparison he's quite civil."
Peter: "I am truly sorry, lads. I had nothing to do with this plan. I landed here in Clun where the Druids had carried out twenty killings. The Coven of witches already had the pineal glands. If I hadn't have stepped in all that murder would have been for nothing. Haunt me if you want. I'd understand entirely. But, if you've any sympathy at all for me, could you sort out those other two ghosts? Their stories have done my head in!"
Compo: "You have some front asking that of us like. I only came out for a dance mate. Here, I know you! We were after some jack and Jill's when your shaman buddy came by trying to sell us some. Right scruffy cunt, he was. So we scored off these Brum lads I know vaguely. Fucking burned us, the Zulu cunts! Zopiclone. Reeny and me hardly even left the motor, just fell asleep with a load of ruzlas, baccy and weed on me lap. Next thing I know some cunts strangling me with some piano wire. Reenys similarly undergoing execution. Give them there due, mind, they were quick. Hardly woke up that xonked we was. Fucking our luck, eh? Drive out to the sticks for a party and get garrotted before I've even had a dance!"
Reeny: "Not just garrotted, Compo. We was decapitated, like!"
Compo: "Aye! Decapifuckingtated!"
Reeny: "I was hoping to get off me head. I make no bones with that. It was among the major factors affecting my decision to attend the party. But I didn't mean it in quite that way!"
Compo: "No mate! Our deaths have to rank alongside the lowest points in my entire life. Relegation from the top flight concluded a feeling that had been spoken of for weeks on the Mollineux terraces. Nevertheless, it was a poor day. But compared to the hill fort party it was a breeze."
Reeny: "The following season in the championship was a step down but relegation from the league of the living has far deeper implications. No overseas benefactor will step in, return our heads to their rightful status. Eh, I hope, and it's a big assumption to presume they'll be returned at all, I hope I don't get yours. I've not had cause to raise the issue but in common parlance, Compo, you are a wingnut. Like Nick tilsley off coronation street. If I have to walk the afterlife sporting ears like yours mate, I'd rather be dead!"
Compo: "Two points! Firstly my ears are of marginally outward projection. Many a girl has complimented me on them, often whilst using them as handles. Secondly, you are dead. We both are, mate."
Peter: "Please, lads! This ear issue is unlikely to arise. My close friend Jesus Christ can make certain his old fella sorts the correct return of your lost body parts. And, lads, I beg you please just let me sleep. Ghosts are scraping my mind in to shreds!"
Reeny: "Alright, alright! We never asked to be placed in this position. If your Druid mates hadn't murdered us our souls stains would never have soiled your unconscious. But, I accept you chose this no more than us. Compo and myself will keep it down. We will do our best to shut the fucking goth ghosts up and all. Don't forget the heads, though, ok?"
And with this agreement the voices left Peter to sleep in peace. Ghosts would forever haunt his dreams. Any quiet moment. Any dreamscape could be an opening for the growing number of ghosts and soul slurry the shaman was amassing through his work.
Jesus looked down at his freind. Something had changed in him. He continued sleeping but no frowns furrowed his brow. No shivering nor further seizures animated his body. No more screaming. No more tears. Peter just slept. The messiah hoped the damage would pass as he sat back in his chair. Rolled himself a joint and continued his vigilance over both men.


Hetty Bowles Clarrington turned her two seater sports Mercedes on to the A49 and tore up the gears in brittle determination. For days shed been mulling over making this journey. The outrage had simmered within till this evenings local news brought her to the boil. Two young men. Not more than a year or two older than her boys had died at that wretched party. The police officer that was running the investigation in to their deaths had appealed to anyone to come forward with any information, however small, that might further their investigation. She imagined how their parents must be feeling now. Whether they too had given convent imagining something akin to a Boy Scouts countryside campfire. Baked beans on an open fire and going gang gooley whilst taking in the country air. What Rupert had taken her to, in hope of using her to get to lady Harrington had been the most terrifying gathering of people she had witnessed in her entire life. Shortly after she had arrived with Bunsen, his Ali Gee chum and that poor broken creature she had assumed was some fancy dress party joke, she abandoned the group and spent the night searching for Nathan and Tarquin, her boys. This had proved a futile venture as in the darkness, broken only by a vast bonfire on the hills summit and flashing lights of many colours, stroboscope and laser, dry ice, everywhere she went had a hallucinatory quality. Drugs were rife. Everyone had been polite and smiling but their rictus grins betrayed inner madness. As dawn broke she could take no more. She was unable to locate either Rupert Bunsen or the boys. A local woman had picked her up and driven her to Craven Arms where she made straight for the police station to demand they do something and find her boys. DI Briggs had reassured her they were about to close down the event and advised her to go home and wait. Who knew? Perhaps the boys had been as shocked as her and returned home to the estate.
Hetty had no money on her and had been left only one option. She hitch hiked back down to Herefordshire. Fortunately a retired couple had given her a lift all the way. They had taken their campervan hoping to find some peace and quiet but the volume of stray youths, many on foot, others in small cars searching for the hill fort party after hearing news reports had changed their plans sending them to a campsite less than two miles from her home. They had been charming if a little vulgar but in her condition she was grateful. Even for the egg mayonnaise sandwich and instant coffee they shared.
Once home she sat in front of the telly, waiting for the boys to return. Briggs, the police chap spoke to the cameras the following morning saying the situation had been brought under control. They had caught the organiser. The rage that she felt on discovering it had been Bunsen that was behind the whole blasted business had left her livid. Not once had he so much as intimated he knew anything about it. He'd tricked her. She remembered telling him about the party her boys were going to, how he had asked her of its whereabouts, pretending ignorance. All the while it had been him who was running the whole malarkey. Humiliated. That was how she felt. Duped. As if lady Harrington would attend anything of that nature. Not the Hatty she had known anyway.
Her boys had finally returned. Clothes filthy. Stinking of sweat and god knows what. Both had those moronic grins she'd seen on the faces of the youths on the hill. They swore blind that they had been no where near any drugs but she was no fool. Neither Nathaniel nor Tarquin had smiled at her for years. Grounded to their rooms she heard that beat and snippets of Oldpastures Tuberous Bellends from behind their doors. At least the boys were sensible in one regard. She could smell no tobacco smoke from either door, just that herbal tobacco substitute they enjoyed. But her anger was more focused on the man who organised the event. Rupert Bunsen.
The news of the dead bodies discovery a few days after had focused her fury. That could have been Tarquin and Nathaniel whose heads had gone. Lunatics on pot cared not whose heads they severed. What fiendish sport the pot junky engaged in with severed heads could be imagined. Football, not the rugger her boys played at Shrewsbury. The working class game. Simple rules that the humble of mind could follow. As her Mercedes tore up the A49 she pictured teams of pot heads, high on reefer smoke, kicking the heads of her boys in some satanic penalty shoot out. DI Briggs had said that they had already arrested the organiser but had released him. They wanted to speak to him following the discovery of the bodies. They were hoping he would hand himself in to clear up a few issues but we're also calling for anyone who may know his whereabouts. It may not have been him that killed those boys but it sure as hell was his responsibly they had been there in that hell on earth. And she knew exactly where the bearded entrepreneur would be hiding out. Bunsen Island. Soon Briggs would know too.


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