Peter - Chapter 26

Peter - Chapter 26
Peter woke in a strange bed. The afterglow of shamanic awareness found him closing his eyes to sense where he now found himself. Gradually, from his position in time and space he allowed the sensitivity of consciousness to assess where he was. Minds of freinds and trusted familiar spirits formed the immediate sphere. He was at sea. Liptons thoughts came in telepathic bursts, reassuring sporadic fragments. Christ was close, he could feel him, though under some barrage of personal psychic attack. A feminine membrane of witchcraft inclusive of the girl, Charlotte he had fondness for. A party on a boat far from shore. The waters teemed with eels. A mass of demonic serpents of a single hive mind. A goddess in ecstatic blood hunger held all this within. Voices of concern. Twin mermaids now soul sisters looked on. Poseidon aware of this tumour within his might. So vast this entire whole of little concern. An angry distant God looking from above. Blistering opprobrium toward his son that maintained resistant alliance to this scheme. Finally all these diverse opinions looked upon him. He was the architect. Peter opened his eyes to see a can of beer left for him. Cracking the seal open and drinking deep he thought, fuck the bastard lot of them! He could feel his archangel wings seek to burst out in anger at godly umbrage. Shamanic multi dimensional experience saw these forces for the strengths and weaknesses they were. A party was taking place up on deck. He was going to join with his gang. Divinities could fuck off! Dressing himself Peter gathered his thoughts. Took a few deep breathes then found the steps to join the madness on deck.
The steps took him first up into the cab where Lipton worked studiously alone, still familiarising himself with the hi tech controls. Feeling triumphant yet weak and shaken from his shamanic excesses, Peter slipped discreetly next to his best friend and brother. The shamans eyes lit up to find his companion smiling. Taking his hands from the controls to embrace, Lipton spoke.
Lipton: "Come here you mad fucker! That's enough heroics on the shamanism for a while!"
Peter: "Glad to see your face before facing our team of followers!"
Lipton: "I'm glad to get chance to catch up. I've lost touch with you since the party. There's things happening you have to know. We must remain up to speed with each other on this. Here, grab a beer!"
Peter gratefully cracked open a black tin of polish lager and took a deep draught before looking out to sea. The surface looked calm. Some optical lunar illusion, maybe, but they sailed through a whiter patch that, at some distance out, returned to the black night of ocean he was familiar with. Memory began falling into place. A mental jigsaw from what felt along time in the past.
Peter: "I'm guessing that this disc around us is a relaxed Jig?"
Lipton: "The congers started to follow us around the south Welsh coast. Fuck knows how many there are now. Charlotte and Dianne ." He nodded to the silhouetted figures sat away from the rest of the crew. Cross legged, face to face. In glazed eyed trance.
Lipton: "They've kept the goddess in a reflective mood. She's had her moments but, from what Ben and Andy explained, the witches are holding her sedated until her hive mind finds totality. Fragmentary thoughts have as yet been seperated and blurred yet once those witches give her space, these snippets will coalesce. The goddess will find she knows herself. After she reaches deification we mere mortals will be as ants to us. The Coven being our sole point of access. I just hope she shares the respect they have for her. Skree, Peter, you need to get inside your lass soon, we need to understand all this. And don't take this the wrong way, mate, but don't let yourself be used, here. Charlotte seems a sweet lass, but we don't figure too highly in their schemes. Not as I see it. You've broken your back for her. Watch she's not mugging you off, for the sake of us all!"
The idea had crossed his mind. He found her attractive, but witches can put a glamour on even the most adept of shamans. It hadn't been so much attempts to impress her, more the chance to test out the reach of his shamanic skills that inspired his heroics. At present he'd given his all. But the over riding arc still felt one of righteousness. Even if the Coven couldn't have got this far without them, nor could they have raised a sea serpent goddess to put the Ark of Bunsen under.
Peter: "I've got it under control, I think currently. The reverse is as true. We are using their craft to achieve our objective. But Lipton, if you sense I'm being taken beyond where my will would normally lead, intervene. I might not be happy as you do but I trust your judgement. If I become a liability to our mission, or a danger to either you or myself, knock me out. How are you generally? Happy with it all?"
Lipton: "You know me! Surfing the waves, seeing where this insane pathway takes me. Andy has been in contact with Bill. Stella got home safely. Driven by the Welsh van diminished mate you gave your keys to. Fuck yeah! Hear this one. That copper from Craven Arms? Remember him who led his soldiers up to the fort to close the party down? Well, he's been trodden on from high above. Free Mason networks, the black heart of corruption so many such underlings are oblivious to, have both bribed and threatened him to frame Ben to take any attention off of Bunsen. Ben and Andy are guilty, as you know, but that's irrelevant now. Bill reckoned these high ranked corrupt coppers so incensed the rural upstanding coppers sense of morality he's gone on some maverick suicidal quest. They scared the poor chap. But not into cooperation. He's going for Bunsen anyway, with kamikaze zeal. Tooled up to fuck. Grenades, rocket launchers, high grade kit. Doing this means he must move before his superiors get a whiff. They've threatened his wife so it seems he must act swiftly or she'll be dead. He's in a death or glory situation. Arrest Bunsen or die in the attempt. I've no idea what he's got planned. But he knows about the island. About the Ark project. So I've had to adjust our plans. We must get our mission concluded, in and away before he can get near. We've got a few days on him, I'm reckoning. But you'll have to explain to Charlotte, we can't do the Sargasso. I'm pointing to the Caribbean. Half goddess or whole! If that psychotic copper gets there first we'll stand no chance. Surprise is crucial! Lose that and we sail into a primed army. Jig may get through but the first we'd know could be a torpedo!"
Peter: "Ok. She'll just have to accept that one. Direct to target. No further discussion!"
Lipton: "All three drulads have been sound. Any objections of the Coven, they'll sort out. This DI Briggs Intel came from them. Mike Old-pastures, you won't recognise. He's reemerged as a man hellbent on Bunsen destruction. Barely a stammer remains now, as he speaks. Rachel seems so in love shed follow him to hell! Look, they're over there!"
Huddled together were the crew bar Jesus and the witches. Two aluminium poles right at the forefront of the deck had been fixed in parallel between two wooden crates. Two lines of champagne bottles, hanging like washing in the wind, spaced equally suspended from lengths of twine. Each had been filled to different levels with water. Mike sat playing this home made xailophone with a pair of metal rods. The music had been a peaceful background music of wonderful acuity. So faultless its purity of tone Peter had assumed it was recorded and digitally reproduced so proficient was its elegance. The Clun boys sat entranced together listening to the virtuoso play as Rachel looked on in admiration. Both shamans listened for a few minutes. They nodded in appreciation. Smiling as the main riff they knew so well formed for three bars. The Tuberous Bellends sounded right in glass bottle bells. Truly amazing, no one spoke in fear of breaking the magical beauty, till finally Mike missed a note and collapsed in laughter, along with his small audience who cheered and clapped. Reassuring to see the variety of oddities they'd drawn together, getting on so well. Soon, both would join the harmonious group.
Lipton: "The holy loaf splitter isn't doing so great, mind. He's been alone in prayer, a fair bit, in congress with the old man. You'd never imagine it, the way he talks of him but he has real respect. Submission settles as he bows and nods, but argumentative episodes too. Like any son and father. He loves the old fella, more than he shows when he's boasting. He came over to put me in the picture. As soon as you entered the archangel He looked down to see his son up to no good with pagans. Not only shamans and witches, either. A pagan deity in tow! Christ reckons he's bought us time. Makes my rows with my dad over mushrooms in my teens seem trivial. Jesus must have known he'd have this coming. Fair play to the holy banker batterer. Without him onboard we may have seen our wee goddess smashed up before she reached awareness of self. There'll be no divine intervention. He's right behind the idea of the rich squashing. He's just jealous he's not in charge!"
Both cracked out in laughter. God watching in envy. Like some impotent deposed dictator. That was a first. Yet the weight soon settled on them. Laughter was brief.
Lipton: "Once this is done there'll be many a bastard angry, God, police, government agents, who knows who else! Don't get me wrong. I'm totally committed. But we can't linger. Let's do this. Strike hard, quick, then get away from these cunts, eh? However fond we may have grown, together we'll be a magnet for all and sundry. Let's see these witches raise their goddess. Destroy the Ark of evil. But once this is done, were every man for himself. You and me stick close. Ditch the rest with adios and warm farewells. But we have to hide, quickly. I'm thinking we're best off underground with Jesse? Are you in agreement?"
The unspoken difference that may divide the two was Charlotte. Their subterranian friends couldn't be expected to take all of these Druids and witches in as well. Not with the abundance of dark forces of rage and anger chasing them down. They could expect sanctuary, the Abel murder bought this much. Maybe Christ, but the rest would have to make their own plans. Silent for a while, Peter nodded. If the lass was for real, she'd wait. Might even be the test he needed to find security. Lipton and Peter shared a bond of trust that had seen girls come and go. A kinship born of a thousand psychic battles fought together. They were brothers. Some times they argued, more than once had physically fought. But they had total trust.
Peter: "That's a good plan. The rebound off this is going to be monumental!"
Conversation drifted on to less serious matters. The holy attempt at copping off with Harry Lipton described brought both into fits of giggles. Harry was a lovely lass but her posh voice could return when angered. Her shock at the impudence saw its return, Liptons mimicry had a critical accuracy. But both knew they're class prejudice was out of order. Christ, eh? They both agreed, it's as though he feels he has some divine right! Lipton was glad to hear Peter had gone some way towards making up for Christs theft of Iantos van. The shamans both felt responsible for Christ despite his striking up friendships, quite independent of them, towards anyone in their greater network. Most hadn't a clue that he really was Jesus. Openly going by the name Jesus Christ was his best disguise. Nicknames, being often pisstakes to begin with, usually were dispensed to cut down self importance. . Lipton, like Skree, wasn't his real name. It came originally during an expedition, two decades back, a group of twenty odd took down through France, across the Pyrenees and on down to south Spain. They'd driven down in four vans. Taking turns at navigation, behind the wheel. Making camp each night after seven or eight hour drives, a rough rota for cooking evolved between the group. Lipton finally became exempt as he could barely make a decent cup of tea. Liptons being the feeble brand most of Europe, coffee drinkers to a man, found sold in super markets. Lipton seldom drank tea anyway due to his love of beer. He did make, however, fucking shite tea. Peter enjoyed this hour alone with his partner in shamanics.. They both needed it. Things had grown intense. This pattern looked likely to continue for a while yet. They'd need complete and unquestioned solidarity.
Shit with the kettle, perhaps but Lipton had driven everything from lorries to helicopters. Running Peter through the basics of these alien controls took their minds on to practicalities. A second captain could prove valuable heading, as they were, into the unknown. Once he'd grasped the essentials Peter took a shift piloting this red super yacht. The night was still, the sea calm. No one felt the transition in control, engrossed variously as they were in prayer, trance or party mode. These things could sail themselves once coordinates were keyed into computer navigational systems. GPS turned off, however, meant they'd have no storm warnings from satellite systems. This decision taken in the hope of secrecy. Any nearby shipping might note their existence, but who they were should be of little concern, so long as they kept a wide berth. Lipton took back the reins, set the speed. Switched over to auto pilot. Both sat as the vehicle took on its own life. Above them the clearness of the sky looked to be offering no unexpected changes. Together the two shamans strolled over to join the musical demonstration of virtuosity that Mike continued. Now his deft touch took the music into subtlety. Background ambience allowing the small party to drink and chat.
Each took turns to thank Peter, all respecting his fragile state. Harry kissed him, Andy knew him well enough to take his reservation as the aftermath of some shamanic heroics he had undergone for the common good. Ben and Jimmy had similar care for his tender condition. Mike played a brief deviation to welcome him home. Rachel smiled and shifted across the blankets allowing him a seat. Nobody pressured him to explain nor describe what he'd endured, experienced. Yet as the night settled down. Christ returned to join them all. Having died for mankind gave him a different position. The authority to ask him, square on.
Christ: "So! Tell us where your sacraments took you? This lot might be acting cool but they're as hungry to hear as I am! I have the edge on them, mind. I could feel the archangel triangular tunnel you gave us protection with. Are the archmermaids fit? Be visions, rude visions in my imagination."
Peter: "I thought they drew sailors to their deaths by curiosity such as yours, JC?"
Jesus: "Well, they must have had something going for them. My father felt serious pain as the three of you linked up. He's granted none of his own, under current legislation. His archangel force virtually wrote the fucking book, too. Michael still stands out as the greatest archangel, unlicensed or not. Like Ali, when they took away his heavy weight titles over not going to fight in Vietnam. He was still the greatest. If you chance upon Michael, be very, very careful. He kicked Lucifer out like a puppy! He's taking you as emblematic, a token representative, such is the pain of his loss. Despite your feeble licenseship under the auspices of Jesse. He's not even a real God, is he? Poseidon! He scoffs at the old sea God, despite his currently having greater powers. Like Great Britain, still nostalgic over lost empire. He's not happy with this at all! Taken me two days to appease his temper. His own son! He says, his own flesh and blood, playing out with pagans! I'm not popular up there! Not popular at all!"
Peter: "I doubt anyone here can have the slightest notion of your crucial place in this. Having seen but a fraction of how these powers I sought help from, for all of us, are operational only under your fathers permission. Without your unique access, without your efforts, in speaking on our behalf, he could have wiped us all out. Not just me, but Jig, archmermaids and Poseidon himself! We all owe you a debt of thanks."
Christ : " Alright! Don't make me blush. It's a blessing to not find you lot nailing me to a cross! But, thanks! How fit were the mermaids?"
Peter: "So elegant were they, to even dare think in such a manner would not get across how my crude actions were dismissed as the childish attempts they were. They took me by the hands. Volition was taken from me in gracious and tenderness. They placed me at the triangles tip, like flicking a beetle up aloft. They did my bidding because they saw my objectives were to their basic will. They let me, I had no control. Were they fit? They were beyond anything I could imagine. Poseidons collusion took such a casual effort. The ocean that we can see, it's a shadow of his majestic power. I doubt he's given me a further thought. He took our side but like we may help a butterfly caught in a spiders web. Even Jig, even the goddess we now have under our influence, the Covens influence. If we are insects she might be a sparrow. These events we pride as our greatest achievements, they're are like a single wave, passing before another of a number so vast. My spiritual assistance. Offered me up, I was accepted, we bloomed briefly, you got to your point at sea, in time. Jig can be raised unhindered. I got our pass. More than that I hav to words to express. Then they lay me back down, with care, but soon all moved on to their higher interests."
Andy: "Well, I offer gratitude to you, Peter. We now owe you twice over,"
Peter: "So what ace you lot Ben up to?"
Conversations blurred into one sound as Peter sat back, uninterested, tired. Instead he listened to the only other person not talking. Mike Oldpastures was some musician. After he found himself nodding off, he ripped himself awake. Walked back down the boat to take a piss over the edge. This gave him a private island to listen to the chatter and laughter continue. The rear of the boat, instead, took his attention. He'd have to talk to Charlotte, tranced out with Dianne or not. They remained cross legged, facing each other. Walking over they were now shivering with cold. Taking blankets from lower storage cabinets he covered both. Fuck it, he thought, I'm going to sit till they come round. Yet his intervention had broken their union.
Dianne: "I'm fucking freezing! Charlotte, get a grip, girl, your fellas here."
Charlotte: "Peter! How'd you get on?"
Peter: "Done my bit. Just been trying to describe it to the rest. It's sorted. Jig won't be drowned."
Charlotte looked a tad insulted. Spend your focus on one goddess and you can grow to believe she's more than she is. No time for competitive magic shite, Peter thought. He'd respect for the Covens achievements, but he'd been to some places, met some things these last two trips that gave him perspective. Then he saw in Charlottes eyes it wasn't what he'd taken the emotion for. She'd been torn back into reality, from a goddess that had her blood. Both witches had love for Jig, like a sister. For a younger sister, even. A duty of care.
Peter: "I saw you looking very cold. My aim was only to keep you from getting ill. We all need to keep in good health. How is she? Your....sister?"
Charlotte: "She'll be sleeping till the morning. Like I hope we can, now. I can't handle talking to the rest. Dianne, come with us."
Both witches looked exhausted. Peter was ready to drop himself. Together, an arm round each, they went below decks. The bed Peter had woken up in looked warm.
Charlotte: "Can we lock this door? Dianne, stay with us tonight. The others can play. There's room in here for three."
Too tired to give a fuck, Peter took off his outer clothes. Left on his boxers in respect of both girls, then lay down. Closing his eyes in respect of Dianne mainly, he heard the door lock click. The sounds of the girls undressing. Lights clicked off. He'd curled on his side into an s shape. Charlottes warmth slipped in behind him, her arm holding him in close. Diannes warmth snuggled into his front. Her buttocks nuzzled into his crotch and despite himself he found his arm covering the younger witch. Lifting her arm, her hand pulled his hand onto her breasts. They felt warm, firm, smooth. All three were asleep within fifteen minutes.


G Man had waited outside the Craven Arms police station for four hours before he accepted that Mikron, in fact no one, was coming his way. What was a MoFo to do? He hadn't managed to score any of the fine lilac pills that had been doing the rounds up on the fort. Though he had managed to buy himself something quite different. As a street wise dude he knew the score. Three brothers! Homies! His kind would see a G right, out here in the rural pastures, city niggers had to stick together. Loosening his waste band to allow his trousers to fall an inch or two, he shuffled over to introduce himself to the crew he knew would see a real G for who he was. The black guys had driven over from Birmingham. This ginger haired clown looked to have money, though, and he wanted to spend some. At first they discussed robbing the twat of his chain but as he drew nearer it was clearly too big to be real. Instead they'd played along.
Ace: "Wasup! Need anything for the nights party?"
G Man: "Sure thing, bro! The chronic! And any quality gear you might see right for a fellow nigger!"
Naz: "What the fuck did you say?" Angered at the insolence till Ace told him to chill. A wink to say, play this guy.
Ace: "We can help out a brother, no sweat! How much are you needing, money wise?"
G Man: "I'm packing, bro! Hundred on the chronic. Same on the specialties! That's all I got till I can get to the ATM, my friends!"
Ace: "Okay! We can sort you out nicely my friend. Look, the cash machine ain't no beef, for a fellow nigger. My main man Naz has to drive back to the hole in da wall himself. Give him your pin and card and we got ourselves one mothafuckin deal!"
G Man: "Alright! Here's the folding, here's the plastic. 2335, take out my limit, no more. I'll meet you back here when you, Naz, returns!Sweet!"
Ace: "This guy is one cool dude. As a token of good faith I have the Ching you might enjoy. And the chronic!"
We'll meet you at this exact spot with your special stuff, soon as Naz gets back, cool?"
G Man: "Never cooler."
The three lads had given him three packets of spice, synthetic cannabinoid and some vicious dissociative they'd tried once, found so repulsive the ted never even thought they'd be able to give it away.
Somehow he'd never met up with these chaps later as was planned. His top priority that night had been accompanying Bunsen. Besides, when he finally redound the arranged place to meet up, his brothers failed to show. He'd put it all to the back of his mind. Ruperts arrest had shaken him.
Finding himself alone. Abandoned by Rupert, his old chum. Mikron nowhere to be seen, and, having been unable to reclaim his card off the brothers. No doubt busted by the filth. Brothers like himself were forever the oppressed.
Well, at least he had some top notch weed and some cocaine to soothe da brain. Walking out of town he found a bus shelter to skin up a reefer. Finding a wind free corner he hoofed two white lines. From this point on things grew quite strange for G Man. Soon he found he was no longer inside his body. His consciousness had seperated and divided into two people. Or two essences unshackled by flesh. They looked down upon the ginger haired recumbent figure, unable to move, slumped down with saliva dribbling from his mouth.
Ginger: "Good heavens! What on earth is that some cartoon Guy Fawkes dummy someone has made to look like old G Fortesque? He looks quite comical. The gold chain is grossly over large! Yet, it looks to be real gold! And the trainers! Turned tongues upward in the 1980s early hip hop style. Why would my dorm chums make a voodoo doll of me. Given I no longer require a physical aspect. Being now a floating mind, somewhere I'm not familiar with. Yet I can be unconcerned. Floating as I find myself, free of life? Free of flesh? Am I dead?"
G Man: "Wo bro! What the fuck happened to the white ginger dude! Has he been wracked? I drift aloft over the carcass. Dead man. Dead man. Did I kill the whitey? In some drive by? Before I transcended life? Did he whack the G Man? Am I like Tupac? Notorious BIG? The victim of another beef? Hey! I feel you, white ghost! How did a nigger like me find himself out of any body with a ghost whitey?"
Ginger: "Moribund! Though we are flesh free I have a reefer of some top draw draw, fancy a smoke?"
The nigger and the ginger indeed shared the spice reefer. Looking down at the cartoon body below, neither could accept they knew him. He had his own reefer they noticed. G Man was certain he couldn't possibly know the chap, being West Indian, first generation English. His entire social network were black, of inner city urban to an individual. Neither, though could Ginger believe he'd be associated with anyone dressed in such attire. Yet, both finding themselves as disembodied consciousness, neither sure how this had come about, they struck up a remarkable friendship. Black, urban, poor. Ginger, wealthy, upper class. Nevertheless they found they shared such similar outlooks these differences grew to seem trivial. At a guess both placed their floating minds as twenty feet above the figure. Whether G Man came up with the experiment or Ginger, neither would later recall, only that both thought it would be fun to try to animate the unconscious body below them, through sheer joint will power. At least they may as well have a laugh. It took some effort as the poor man could barely stand. But once they'd got him up, they decided to see what trials they could put their meat puppet through. Steering him down the A49 looked fun till a lorry nearly did for him. Both giggled but agreed there joy at using the zombie would be short lived if he was staggering down a busy main road.
G Man : "Let's take him off road! Through the fields and forests, ehh?"
Ginger: "Wizard wheeze! He'll need to eat. Look! Cow dung!"
Hilarious fun could be had watching the figure of ridicule eating various animal droppings. Dog dirt found the two hysterical. He ate a good kilo, they guessed. Soon the dummy was soaking having crossed streams, rivers. Filthy too as the mud was deep due to recent rain. Floating above they felt zero personal discomfort, only entertainment at the game. Pity finally saw them seat the chap to rest.
Ginger: "Best get him refuelled!"
The powder he'd been ripped off with had at least been abundant. Some four gramme or so by the look of it. Potent too as even a small sniff rendered him comically unstable. Ironically, this mirrored their deeper separation. That fake weed he smoked sent him even worse. Still, being disembodied and with little else to pass the time, neither wished to see the game end.
Their connection became a yet closer friendship. Ginger had never met a black guy before nor G Man a public schooled ginger. Yet this meat puppet had found them with a common interest. Within two days the glomby was covered in mud. Only the gold chain kept him in sight at the times they made him take more powder. Oddly when he snorted any, they lost interest, spinning off down corridors of the mind, for a while. Yet their joint play mate brought both back to focus after an hour or two. Ready for further fun.
Hard for them to measure time, in this dissociated state but by three weeks they guessed they'd dragged the puppet a good forty miles south. Sharing another reefer, just as they allowed their toy to do the same, both lost themselves in a dreamlike state. Quite forgetting their shared material appendage. Looking down ginger saw he'd got back onto the roads some how. G Man closed his eyes as a Lexus driven by some maniac at high speed swerve to avoid him. The fear hit both at once as having just avoided their chap, the driver screeched to a standstill. Nervous giggling crippled the two as the driver now approached their mudman plaything. Shit! Thank god we can't be seen, both laughed.


DI Briggs couldn't be certain. He couldn't imagine any scenario whereby this could be. Yet he'd nearly killed the poor man, even if he was wrong. But he'd only seen one person before wearing such a massive gold chain. Though who wore it now he couldn't yet tell. Dried mud covered any distinguishing features, wet mud also. As he got closer the truth couldn't be denied. Surely not! How? Briggs had given little thought to the ginger associate in fancy dress who had waited during the one opportunity he'd had to nail the bastard. Bunsen had been driven away by a chauffeur in immaculate dress. This hanger on he'd assumed must have latched on to Rupert Bunsen was left standing. Yet those few hours he had Bunsen under lock and key had kept returning to torture him. If only he'd found the bodies before he'd let the evil man go, none of this nightmare of a life he now was acting out would have happened.
Briggs: " Excuse me sir! May I have a word?"


Hetty heard some distant booming noise. The quarries often could be heard blasting when they were still in use, but that was a decade, more maybe since they shut down their work. A little loud for a shotgun, though. Still, she'd other things to sort out. Like many of her class she'd been offered a few options. Men of equal standing. Marriage wasn't so childish as it was for the lower ranks. Love could always be found elsewhere, as could a decent servicing from the service staff. Seal up the Capitol. Ensure the cash remained in the right circuits. Winston Clarridge was an ugly man. Dull witted to boot. But, as her father had enthused, he stood to inherit an ex state nearly the size she would. There'd be no problems there.
The wedding was a chore for all. As was the one night she had to sleep with him. Her second son came as a great surprise to all. All she could figure out was some of Winstons wad from night 1 had remained somewhere up inside, lodged in some side channel, dormant for two years. Winston understood little of the ladies contraption and saw nothing amiss. The gardener must have dislodged it whilst rummaging in the bush.
Every other Christmas they never missed. Otherwise she seldom saw the old toad. Cordial, though. Business was business. The boys enjoyed shooting with him. Both were very fond of the chap. They assumed he was the one,many way. Paid the cheques etc. Bought them a boat to play with last year, saved the trouble of intruding. They'd both seen the wisdom in this idea.
Until now! Based down in Hampshire he explained he could hardly be expected to travel all the way up to the Welsh coast when she lived just across the way! Hereford to Aberystwith was closer, but he'd bought the boys the damned thing and, by any reasonable perspective, ought to go sort its problems out.
To be fair, it hadn't been a great deal of trouble. Tarquinius had been up to sail for a weekend but the other boy had no interest. Still enamoured by these anarchic Bunsen parties. Last week, it had happened again. Both had smiled at her, just like at that damned Bury Ditches do. A dead give away. Who's sons smiled at their own mother? Really! Drugs. Only possible answer. Hence, the boat weekend. Lesser of two evils, she'd thought. As soon as she'd heard that the bluebird had moved, she knew neither of her boys could be involved. Well, they took it out for a few hundred yards, returned it and surely from their the Harbour Master should be responsible. Yet when she'd spoken to the impudent man, who insisted on putting on some sort of scent to make communication deliberately more difficult, he'd expressed annoyance at the boys!
Try as she might she could not explain the elementary to this simpleton. The harbour had a fixed number of moorings. All must display their license. So, Mr bumpkin, the arrangement matters not a jot. They can all fit in. She'd had similar anger explaining to aircraft attendants. She'd booked a first class seat. Which one didn't concern them! The long and short of it appeared to be some old stuck in the mud trouble maker had come to assume where he parked the day before belonged to him! Their boys had taken the first, and most logical place available. Someone! And it took no Einstein to guess who, had untied the thing. Some seafarer had found it two miles from shore, abandoned. Very friendly, I don't think. The Welsh really got up her nose. Refusing to speak queens English in a bullish rude manner. Here again we see the Welsh, no doubt they'd lost again to the Rugby Union boys at Twickers, got upset at their historic and genetic inferiority, so cut their poor boys boat adrift.
Unfortunately, her boys both at boarding school, Etonian for Tarquin and Harrow for the second one. The gardener triggered dark haired one. And could she find a single male staff member of the twenty odd who took her money for gardening, stables, other dirty jobs able to sail? Could she buggery!
Christ almighty, the boat had been returned by the kind chap that found her. But ten miles down Coast. Why Aber what sit was any different to Aber dido idle, God on,y knew. So it looked like she'd have to drive up, find a man able to return it to its correct place in the correct harbour. That Harbour Master would be down the job centre come Monday. Harbour Master implies he's a master of a Harbour. Not some lay about, turning up once a day to check the red one is I the red hole.
And who the hell was that at the door? She'd placed out no invites! She had no time for cold callers.
Jeeves: "A Mr Briggs, m'lady? Have I to tell him to make an appointment. There's a scent of bacon. Is Brenda cooking?"
Briggs! Now maybe he can sail a boat. He seemed fairly useful when they'd spoken at the station. "Send him through, coffees, tea if he prefers."
Jeeves: "Yes m'lady. Right away. He has someone with him, but he could easily be dismissed, m'lady. Filth and filthy!"
Hetty: "Very good, now run along, man!"
Briggs had a somewhat different demeanour. The simple, inane polite policeman had grown into an intense looking chap. Hetty felt quite a flush at his new, manly prescience. Though what stood. Beside him looked agricultural. Bovine even.
Briggs: " Lady Clarridge. My humblest apologies in calling in announced. Things have taken a change of impetus, in my life. If you have a moment, I can explain. Though I must ask your disgression on all I say. My mission is tough, perhaps impossible. But in life there comes a time when a man must do what a man must do!"
Much better, she looked at him stood in civilian clothing, talking like James Bond. She could do with a good servicing and this timely arrival from the servant classes seemed poignant.
Hetty: "The man you are with? Could I have my staff clean him? The smell does offend my delicate senses." Blushing she called through maids followed by a large matronly woman. Without further ado, nor question of the individual needing cleaning, the matron and maids took G Man upstairs. Here they stripped him naked, bathed him, shaved him, and dressed him in a bespoke suit, bespoke for her husband, however. Still, the fit wasn't so poor as to be visible be anyone as humble and raw as a policeman. This allowed the two to talk once more, though both felt like different characters in a faster play.
Hetty: "Do fill me in. Roger, isn't it. I like a godd rogering, roger!,'
Briggs: "Ahem, you are quite correct though even Mrs Briggs calls me Briggs. But I can live with Roger. Does this render you Hetty?"
Hetty: "No Roger. Lady Bowles Clarridge. Unless actively on the job!"
Briggs : "Quite! My apologies. The last time we spoke you gave me some details regarding a Rupert Bunsen. You pointed out the position on a map I no longer have access to, of Bunsen Island. I have taken the liberty of bringing a copy of the same map. Could you help me with this again?"
Hetty : "Certainly Roger, I shall give you what you want but I must ask for something too. Are you going to bring down that blunder Bunsen? Anything I can do? Anything at all!"
Briggs: "I ask your secrecy on what I'm about to say. A network of corruption riddles the higher echelons of the police force, the force I have given my life and love to. Having reason to believe that Bunsen is behind not only the party that your boys attended, but also a key suspect in connection with the murder of two men and their beheading. The heads have never been found. Bunsen may have then or he may not. Senior officers and other agents intervened in my investigation. They have threatened me, threatened to kill my wife, attempted to blackmail me and successfully bribed me. Well, I haven't done their bidding though I took the money. Their objective was to clear Bunsen, and to frame a young man. They offered any fake evidence I might need. I took their money, Only, however, to continue my work in bringing Rupert Bunsen to justice. The choice I had was to collude in their network of corruption and enjoy the many perks that entailed. Yet I could not live with my conscience were I to do this. My only option is to go and nail my man. I take on this task in the full knowledge that I may well be killed in doing so. But I will die a heroes death. Sadly, my wife, family and everyone left alive will not know this. They will think I'm a madman. Perhaps, and it may come down to this , a murderer! This is high noon! This window of time I have before the higher powers cotton on to my scheme is small. I must go to Bunsen Island right away!"
Hetty: "Fantastic! That's brilliant news! There are two requirements I have. And I have an idea I may be of further use. Use me Roger!"
Briggs: "If we can perform the service you require from me before Fortesque is cleaned up, I'm happy to oblige."
Hetty: "Fortesque? Ginger. Fortesque? Hetty for the following twenty minutes then return to your station, ok!"
Briggs: "Of course, Hetty! As a dead man walking I get the James Bond buzz. This could be the last time I ever make love to a woman, Hetty, so let's make it count!"
Lady Clarridge had already removed her outer clothing and was straight at Briggs fly.
Briggs: "As time is short, rather than conventional love making language I must continue to discuss the work. I have acquired some military hardware. " Hetty now had his trousers removed and his pants round his ankles. Breaking off from preliminary oral work to ensure his manhood was ready, Hetty asked. "Big guns, I hope!"
Her mouth returned to work as Briggs confirmed, " Indeed. Two shoulder mounted rocket launches, an Uzi 9mm sub machine gun, grenades and a pair of handguns."
Tearing off her underwater Lady Clarridge raised an impressed eyebrow. "let's hope you blow the fucker off the face of the earth. But how can you hope to travel carrying such hardware!"
Briggs bent Lady Clarridge across an Edwardian mahogany table and began to fuck her from behind. "That is the difficulty I'm struggling to overcome. Is that hard enough, tempo ok? "
Hetty: "Briggs! Give it more than that! How can you hope to kill that bastard when you fuck with a timidity and care that bares no concern for my needs. That's better! Go on! Give it some, Roger! This is where I can help. Today I heard that the bluebird, a boat my husband gave to the boys had been found adrift. I was about to go remove it from its temporary moorings to return it to the correct harbour. Can you get upon the table, on your back, get to it, man!'
Briggs threw himself on to the mahogany that felt a tad chilly on his back, nevertheless he remained sturdy as she sat upon him, "So, are you offering to lend me the boat?"
Riding him roughshod, Hetty replied, "Use it. Moving it is a help. I really can't be arsed going to Wales, but that would help. To be honest, I'd rather not see the thing again. It's more trouble than it's worth to me. Take it with you, and, should it go down with you then so be it?"
Briggs still found he was wearing his shirt and tie. This brought him respite as he bit deep into try prevent an early ending. Clarridge was going for it like some stallion, he'd need the tie to hold on.
Briggs: "Vats brate on you've, I carn say it'll gum act." Hetty ripped the tie from his teeth.
Hetty:"You what! Can't hear with the tie."
Briggs was done. The tie had given him two, maybe three extra minutes but once free he shot his load into the disappointed aristocrat.
Hetty: "Oh well! Good while it lasted"
Stepping off the red raw semi erection, Hetty ushered in the sparkling Ginger, maids and matron. All looked at his defeating member. Matron shook her head as though disappointed beyond words. Both maids concurred, a shabby member, poorly administered.
Hetty: "Ginger! Good to see you survived Bunsen. Looks a close thing mind. What's your part in all this?"
Ginger:"We......err.....they......I.......I'll get back to you on that one. My mind is in fragments. Yet as they fall into place the jigsaw before me has one man. The man who turned me into G Man, turned me into three people, two of which were a right pare of cunts. The third is now cleaned and boiling with a hunger for revenge....,err...." These last words left the lips of the dummy. The two mates, G Man, the West Indian urban inner city boy and ginger, were ascending, leaving the zombie once more. Following his bath, they'd sent him to the toilet. Here they made him snort two train tracks. Glad to be free once more they watched the flesh doll grow rubber lipped. Matron slipped a timely chair underneath the thing. What shall we do, they wondered? Let's use the meat puppet on this lunatic coppers suiicidecscheme! Fucking belting idea! Can't see him helping the flaccid cocked plod, mid. Who gives a fuck! I'd be happy to send him rubber leg strolling into enemy machine guns? What do you think. From where I'm sat that's sounds ideal. Fancy a reefer? Indeed I do! Below them the ginger polished rubber man began to skin up.
Briggs:"I found him today! He's brought me luck! To see another ruined man, like Mike Oldpastures is, assuming he's alive. Made me certain of this cause. Together we now stand. Well, he can slouch till arrival. But two must be better than one."
Briggs now fully dressed asked the Lady for the boat keys. It had been a poor shaf, she considered, but the boat problem was sorted. So, swings and roundabouts.
Hetty:" Keys! Temporary mooring address. Map reference. Anything else?"
Briggs: "No M'Lady! Most grateful am I for your help and disgression. Apologies over the disappoint,bet on the table. I am out of practice, and, to be fair, I was doing ok till you ripped out my tie."
Hetty: "Well, lesson learned! If you are lucky, do come by again. I'll not hold today's mediocrity against you. And the tie thing, I'll remember not to pull next time. Go on then, off you go, chop, chop!"
The Lexus pulled out of the drive. The focussed man, bristling with a hunger for vengeance that he'd found slowly emerge during the drive to Lady Clarridges, the man who briefly emerged following the bath, had submerged again. Rubber limbed he sat, oblivious to any attempt the copper tried to make at conversation. A trickle of saliva ran from the corner of his mouth, curved to his chin overhang before dropping, joining up with a growing damp patch. Briggs looked ahead instead. Together or alone, he'd do his best. Above the two dissociated minds speculated on what their toy man would be like at sea. Both agreed,ma rigs would be best tying him on tightly.





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