Leeds United at MK Dons halftime

The Pineal Gland, LSD, and Serotonin — Updated: October 15, 1996

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Oratory of Mystical Sacraments | Topic: List of Psychedelic / Entheogenic Substances

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N-Acetyl-Lysergic Acid Diethylamide-52

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Greenys House and Pond

Greenys House and Pond
For most of my generation Greenys pond is as much a state of mind as a physical place. It rests at the furthest point of our memory where faith in our faculties runs thin. To offer facts on the estate of dereliction pushes it yet further away as the finger tips of our recollection can not cover and slide back to base, only touch and further the dark pole of North Leeds suburbia in to dream. Was it real? Did we set foot there? Of course, prof remains in the fallen stone gate post whose pyramid cap stone lies entangled in undergrowth. The pond flashes but only in some four or five images. It's muddy banks rose up. Thin tree cover hid dark acts from those outside, though this birch thicket covered only a third from view and can have numbered no more than six or so birch trees. Some offered the enactment of the public safety film its memory so closely reflects. "I am the spirit of dark and murky waters, the boys a fool, he's showing off," yet no edgeland courtyard led to it nor the rusted prams and trolleys that grasped at boys ankles. "Quick! There's someone in the water! Let's get him out!" It's time was of the window of glory Leeds enjoyed before Sunderlands cup win warned us all change was on the way. Our last two years saw Slade leave on a failed mission to conquer America. Once gone no glam band played with the same confidence. Slades absence saw self reflection stifle moves, restraint saw a shame enter an art only viable free of self consciousness. Bolan bowed his cork screw hair, Elton looked beyond his crowd across the Atlantic. Only Sweet, now stepping away from Chinn and Chapman could summon the old swagger. Every wanted a piece but the Action had become rare. Don Revie left Leeds to a clown for a month and a half till Jimmy Armecliffe lifted the greatest team of their day for a final stab at the prize that had aluded Don. No more the dirty leeds mocked by arm chair experts. Now super Leeds and a class above. Paris 75. Leeds could not beat a referee who confessed years later to taking a bribe. The psychological damage this game Leeds won fair and square yet had stolen away lingers still. Ten years work found they weren't allowed to win, whatever occurred. The fans once joyous and comedic became cynical, cheated. They tore the seats out in rightful anger. That began the Leeds hooligan era. To this day the travelling army equals those in the top flight. "Champions of Europe," they still sing loud. But the belief was over. Such exclusion hurt beyond fair play. The service crew reacted to their stolen dream with the disdain it deserved. Punk was a year away. Slade in Flame offered not the good time yob rock but a Brit art flick, a Ken Loach, a Saturday Night, Sunday Morning, that blew away the rock pop mythology with an eloquence of which maclarens swindle was a carry on mimic. Then the murders began. Leeds RL always there to offer the north city counter story of cup glory in 76 and 77. Yet the killings continued. Leeds grew dark by 78 as Quarry Hill Flats demolition began.
An out building, the last building to remain standing hid just within birch cover, close to the rhododendron jungle. Stood in here the safety of the line of pear trees could be seen. Walking deeper under tree cover bearings shifted. The house was my first vision of dereliction. How a house, how the veneer of civilisation, how a person could fall in to dereliction. I recall pulling the door free and running up the stairs. Wallpaper strips flapped, sky above as no roof remained. Other utility structures let to fall.
What once was garden led to the black centre of the darkness. Greenys pond. If the house opened my world to the dereliction of humanity, the pond showed me stagnation. It's scent spun the outer circle warning children we were leaving fragrance and life, moving towards death, each step smelled stronger till its in penetrable horror confirmed that life required motion. To stop was to die. Here I discovered dark truths. Stagnation could befall man also. Poking sticks drew out green slime. Pond weeds of fetid vegetable putrefaction. The flat surface was to look through a glass darkly. Closer inspection revealed frogs and spawn. Further this stagnant pond was full of life forms no one named nor talked of in school. Flick fracking hairs moved about. White ghost grubs that had long tails. Water skaters. Dragon fly lava. Tadpoles collected in jars could grow in number. One dragon fly lava showed natures truth. One could destroy so many the frogs were wise to deliver volumes of these clear spheres, pure with a jet black pupil. Five times or more her size the female created such was the life chance of each.
The horror concluded in an act that shocked me most. Older boys had air rifles. The abundance of frogs saw a cruelty spread I still don't get. By inserting a straw in to the frogs anus, the boys inflated the creatures and returned them to the pond. Futile attempts at hiding subsurface failed each time, the frog losing strength with each attempt . Finally there choice gone they waited. The boys aimed and green opened to red. Few died easily. I watched the boys shooting the frogs for sport. Not even laughing. Just doing it. I learned a lot that day.
I blocked it off for years. Nothing brought it to resurface till that footage of the boys walking young Jamie Bulger away. Soon they would take the fruits of their shop lifting. Insert the batteries up the toddlers arsehole. Throw paint across him before stoning the child till it was done. Death. I remembered the frogs, the straws, the air guns. The rare chuckle. Boredom. I saw confounded parents on the news. Why? They asked. Boys have a cruel curiosity.
The day changed me. I avoided the pond. At times I'd pass it but it had shown me what people do. What they can become. In sites of dereliction their habits conform. Teenage boys buy petrol. Tour run down districts far from their homes. Find a sleeping tramp. A derelict man. Fallen beyond their empathic reach. Together they enjoy dowsing the homeless man and setting him alight. The laugh as he burns to death.


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Peter - Chapter Twenty Two

Peter - Chapter Twenty Two
Rain had driven the quarry crew inside the bender. Warmth from the two burners and combined bodies had to be regulated by keeping the tarpaulin flap entrance points open. The steady drumming of rain on canvas colluded in creating a cosy communal inclusion between the allied Mystics and societal misfits. Having been the prime architects and builders of the large bender, Rachel, Mike, Harry and to lesser degree Lipton, being familiar with such structures and site life, tended to the small community. Any leaks would see Lipton up and repairing the roofing. Firewood supplies were stored under a covered area that Mike had built and filled making him fire man. Rachel became pagan domestic goddess assisted in this work by Harry who together cooked and cleaned using supplies brought in by all. Peter had spoken little since recovering but Mike, having undergone a similar psychological resurrection worked with Jesus to bring the shaman back to normality. All of the Clun Druids including the Coven of witches had made the place a second home, often crashing out in skins and bedding piled in corners around the communal area. Only Lipton in his transit with his dogs and Peter with sprinter home converted stealth camper had private seperated home space. Charlotte had taken to sharing Peters van bed though with him being still fragile her place had been closer to that of nurse than lover. Christ had been making sure all had a drink and a smoke whilst, in return, his audience pretended to listen to his long tales of biblical bollocks.
Christ: "I doubt many of you have heard about the time, and this was way before water ski ink took off...."
Lipton : "For Christs sakes, Jesus! Everyone here has had a life."
Christ: "Ah! But who amongst you can say they've had a death?"
Peter stirred from his come down: "Many mansions you told us all, eh? It's worse than Callais jungle in places so it is up there!"
The lamb of god blushed. Indeed, Peter was quite right. Heaven was like an NHS ward in parts these days. Left to deteriorate as the authority in charge of maintenance budgets had been in a right self pitiful depression. His moods could last several human generations. Many new arrivals to the afterlife felt a similar sense of disillusionment they had on retirement when the pension schemes they had paid in to, week after week over a lifetimes work proved to return a pittance. All the pious selflessness, prayer, charity had been its own reward.
Christ: "Well it's a fuck load better than burning in fire and brimstone. Heironymous Bosch? Is that what you want? Ok! I'll admit, the old gadge hasn't been at his best with its upkeep of late. Me and the old man don't see eye to eye. Family is, however family. Give the cunt a break. I accept its slipped into neglect of late. But them gates will be shiny in no time. You two cunts could well be given the fucking scrubbing brushes, you moaning shamanic fuckers!"
Peter: "First of all, me and Lipton are archangels, not maintenance, nor standard janitor Angels. Secondly, we have been to enough different dimensions now to know that what your dad has lined up may not be the only afterlife available. I'm keeping my options open, mate. Go compare. Check the market dot fucking com. Not two years ago me and Lipton were having a beer with Odin. He leant over, swung wide the curtain to reveal Asgard. And I'm sure Lipton will back me up on this, it looked pretty fucking cool to me. The rainbow bridge looked pure fucking beautiful. Nice deity, Odin. Norse gods came across as workers. Not pompous like the Ancient Greek lot. Zeus can be a right areshole. Bot Odin was sound with us. We downed many a horn of ale that night with the bearded fella."
Christ: "well at least it appears that you've picked up a bit. At least sarcasm shows some, albeit, lower level humour. No thanks for keeping an eye on your spasms and seizures whilst those ghosts tormented you. Ungrateful shamanic twat. No thanks at all!"
Peter: "Jesus, good above all other, gentle child of God, I beseech thee! Thanks for looking after me when those perverted ghosts were doing their tricks. I've got four scabs the length of my spirit channel. Sealed off but sore as fuck still. The wolves lads seem to have those goths quiet, any road. Twisted perverts voicing their umbrage can be a right psychic pain."
Rachel stirred a vast pot of rabbit and vegetable stew. The smell of food focused the group away from trivial beef and on to rabbit. Tonight's meal was double the previous evenings as the Clun Coven and Druids had come over. Peters recovery had been quicker than expected and fortuitously so. All were keen to put the shamans scheme to sabotage Rupert Bunsens Ark project into motion. There was no disguising the fact two murders had occurred at Bury Ditches Hill Fort party. The media were presenting the police investigation as focused on tracking down the organiser as having duty of care. This had the stink of a smoke screen about it. Peter thought it wise to bring up what he saw as the clear yet disguised subplot here.
Peter: "Andy. Can I have a quiet word?
Andy: "Sure mate, and deepest gratitude from all of the Clun Druids. The Coven girls have taken a shine to you. Charlotte won't admit it but when I tease the lass, her features may seem composed but I can see the blushing, the pupil dilation. If you grow up with someone they can't hide those sort of things. She's a great lass. I'd be happy to see the two of you together."
Peter: "Wo! Wo! Wo! Mate. That'll play out or not but give us some space, for fucks sake. Nowt more likely to nip a flower in the bud than too many gardeners poking it about. Do you hear me commenting on you and Harry's special bond? There's serious stuff afoot. Lipton said he'd taken the dogs up Bury Ditches to see the place free. of people. We're here on a survey of these hill forts from a historical spiritual perspective. Our shamanic work runs concurrent to our communal endeavour .The party where we all met up wasn't why we were here. A pleasant chance or an alignment of forces, call it as you will, either way, we knew nothing about it till the night before the event when Jesus turned up at our hide out atop the hill fort near Aston. We'd quite settled in up there. When Jesus showed up neither of us were overjoyed. From Liptons survey, and I trust him as I do myself. Apparently the crime scene itself has been worked over in fine detail by the CSI. They've taken away the car though the area is cordoned off still. The police have been picking over the hill in a thorough manner. After a party of that scale the amount of DNA and snippets of inorganic fragments must be enormous. Nevertheless, whatever the media are being fed by DI Briggs and the CID murder squad, this focus on the search for Rupert Bunsen, they aren't stupid. Even if they believe he was involved, which I very much doubt, no one of that wealth gets their hands dirty. I'm not being nosy but is there anything likely to connect you?"
Andy: "There is always the possibility we dropped a hair or something like that but we were very swift and efficient. There is the joiners saw we used to remove the heads with. That will no doubt be discovered. But we were careful not to touch it with bare skin. A cheap and coo on disposable. Replicas abound. The clothing we wore was cast in to the bonfire. The heat from that would incinerate anything. Nothing of that will be of any use to them. We have thought this through in some detail, Pete. The, er........left overs from the pineal gland harvest went the same route as the rest. Following the foot and mouth epidemic Defra positioned a cattle incinerator near Welshpool. We have many connections in the farming community. First breaking the heads into workable sections these were liquidised. This sausage and hair pulp we inserted deep in to the carcasses of dead cattle already heading that way. That thing leaves nothing. Ash so fine you'd not guess it was animal or vegetable matter before. These ashes are shifted daily to be mixed with other minerals to make nutrients that are sacked up industrially as agricultural nutrients for European distribution. The boys heads could be on the fields of northern France by now. Their distribution could find particles of their spirit anywhere across Northern Europe. I know you lads have struggled with all this. I can't hope to communicate the peculiarities of Druidic practice. Human sacrifice was at the centre of druidry. It has fallen from favour, I am led to believe, by the Druid communities of Wales and Cornwall. Eire and Orkney have had occasion where extreme circumstances have necessitated the darker aspect of our craft. To begin to describe the changes that invasion and 'civilisation' brought to this island I must insist you understand a few basic foundations of our people. We can argue over why individualism drove out the collective mind. Why one person came to matter more than the common good. The unit of ants or bees would be the colony. The survival of the whole sees many bees used up. Human sacrifice was considered an honour much like these Islamic extremist martyrs. Not the arrogance of any personal afterlife. Just a satisfaction in casting off the egotism of separation to join with the greater whole. Druidry saw the ancient sites creation. Stonehenge. Avebury. The hill forts you study. The planning and design took generations. Their building could take a millennium in some cases. Longer in many. The men that spent their entire lives transporting a single stone toward where it would be placed knew that they would never see the project competed. Nor their children. Nor theirs. Nor theirs. They left no names. They were aspects of a collective entity far greater than their individuation. They were content to have been a part of something so much greater. Environment is a concept they would have found alien. Their existence was not a separable thing. They were of a whole system. Aspects of the singular unit of the all. Many died creating these sites that intrigue and confuse you and Lipton. These were the beginnings of arranging the reality they were part of. Yet these weren't acts of individual egotism. They were both thankful recognition on the weather and seasons. An abeyance. A working time tool that accurately surveyed solstice and Equinox. No one truly knows why these places were built. It would be conjecture to suggest any one person held the vision at all. They just did. I doubt with the individual perspective of contemporary culture we could reimagine the collective mindset that achieved such creations of collective drive. What invasion altered irreversibly was certainty of purpose and inclusion. Some blame Christianity for the individuation. Not merely the loss of collective consciousness. The delusion of the transcendent soul. No longer fully engaged in lives of the whole. But a preoccupation and self wonder. Not just separate from each other. Mankind grew to believe they were separate from the soup from which everything evolved. Environment no longer grew them as other life, it became separate, an illusion, a stage. Darwin should have returned man but the humility was no longer attainable. They had walked free as gods. Each in awe of their self awareness. God had chosen man. Even as he was discarded, their pride could not accept the truth. They couldn't be just animals?.in becoming conscious of themselves they had found themselves in this place. The shift from the collective spirit to the singular soul saw self deification become the consensus. Our effects on the biodiversity of this planet has been so significant, our affect on the climate is just become visible. The tipping point has long passed. The ice caps will soon be gone. The anthroposcene as the new age is being tagged will see such changes over these next two centuries. The old Druidic plot brings a fond smile in its innocence. That Roman invasion would end and a return to the old ways would follow. I look to isolated people's, cultures do remain untainted by whatever this curse of individualism, materialism, scientific humanism, neoliberalism, untainted by whatever this disease of the mind is, and they give me hope. That our species can find another way. Smaller. And I still hope we can have some influence. I have heard you talk. I understand that you believe free will, control of our destiny are delusions. Since meeting you I confess to have found that I may come to agree. But my commitment to my people goes way beyond what I as a person think. My actions , my life, my death, it is a molecule of the mass. Andy Brock will die. For some time my people will talk of things I did. But these stories will dissolve like a piss I take in the sea. Yet regardless of my ego I will play my role in the collective project of druidry. It may well be insignificant. Infantile dreaming. Talk with Charlotte. Listen to her. The women of our people have begun a great possibility. They have laboured these recent centuries, working with biological systems and spiritual essences from dimensions you, of all men I have met, may know of. Their pagan goddesses are real. These lost deities of Norse, Greek and native legend, beings, entities considered mythical, extinct. Their number are yet few. Peter, please hold judgement. The excitement I have for the day when you see Jig. You have to see her. Soon! I hear your warning. We must not waste another day. It is not only the police that may be on to the scent. Afford me a week or two, then pass judgement. And in all honesty, what you or I think or feel matters no more than what Dook, your dog thinks, eh lad?"
Dook jumped up and licked the Druid as he crouched down to meet half way. Peter trusted Dook, his Siberian husky German shepherd cross, implicitly when it came to judgement of character. Generally fond of people yet one in ten he'd take an instant dislike to. Whatever it was he saw very clear to him though Peter often could detect nothing suspect at all. Despite this human blindness Dook was invariably correct. Often Peter would grasp within a day why Dook was growling or barking at a stranger, on occasion it had taken weeks before he saw. Humans ignore body language and countless other give always like sweat, pupil dilation, false smiles, instead listen to the words they are being told. The truth of a person and the story they tell are rarely in parallel but on occasion share no common direction at all. Dogs can not be lied to. It is said that humans are the animal that tells stories. Consciousness and language permit lies of justification. All animals act and react, humans create narrative to rationalise the same intuitive and instinctual. It is the act that is real. The rational is what sanctions cruelty. Andy Brock had a narrative to support the death of twenty young people. Peter weighed these thoughts against Dooks trust and fond interaction with the Druid.
Peter: "Fair play, brother. We need to get things underway. Our little gang are enjoying an hour in the sun but, make no mistake, the storm is on the way."
Rachel announced her stew was ready and the buzz of private chatter broke as all focused on grabbing a bowl. Harry had achieved something beyond most in baking a stack of flat round breads through boxing off an oven of sorts thanks to Andys welding steel plate to form a box shed sat atop the wood burner. Most came out admirably bar the odd blackened corner that formed a dunking handle to dip the flat discs into the hearty stew. All were hungry and formed a crude circle to eat.
Harry: "If the bread is substandard please feel no obligation in eating it. However, I'm quite proud of my cave man cookery. Rachel, the stew is a work of culinary excellence. I'll have to take a few tips."
Rachel: "Dig in! Should be plenty for all. Thank Andy too. Without rabbits this would have been a brown and tasteless mess. Ace bread, Harry! The boys can show us their talents tomorrow. Washing up well should ensure the task much easier, too."
Oldpastures: "Excellent..................................................er...................food! I can have some more.........when you're all...........full of belly."
Peter: "Great stuff! Thanks girls. Sadly you may have to postpone savouring our dinner delights. That education will come in due time. Andy and myself have just been chatting. The local news is still reporting the aftermath of the hill fort party. Those two lads families have been campaigning for justice. Each press release the police have focussed on relocating Rupert Bunsen. Nevertheless, I'd be surprised if no locals have spotted us driving into the quarry. Eviction notices are suspiciously absent. If we don't get raided tomorrow morning it'll be the day after. Whether it's just to shift us on as remnants from the party or worse, I don't know. Some town kiddy raver will have fingered out me or Lipton for spreading lilac joy. They may even be murder squad about the beheaded Black Country boys. Sadly, I'm saying we're best off. Sharpish. What's the view of others?"
Lipton: "I'd best get this out. Me and Jesus have thought out our next step. The holy water skater knows of an isolated jetty at Porlock Weir. There are another two up coast. Quiet moorings for luxury yachts. He knows the area well having first set foot on these lands years back. I'll let him explain."
Christ: "I wanted to ask Andy and Harry to join Lipton and myself on this one. Anymore could stand out. Lipton because he's a, sorry mate, during a difficult period of his life, Lipton was in the grips of an addiction that caused him to act quite out of character. Hard to believe, I know, but Lipton, through deep need became adept at liberating expensive status symbols from a class of person who had gone astray. As I've often said, you can't drive a Ferrari through the eye of a needle. So, as a side effect of this mission of spiritual healing the lad became a fucking master thief. Andy would be an asset having the strength and unequivocal politics on greed. Harry is key to the scheme. Her prime moment will come later on yet, as far as Charlotte has explained, the conger eel/demon hybrids, though focused in two colonies, towards the north Welsh coast and the sargasso, smaller shoals now live as far south as the Welsh coast of the estuary edge. Together, the team of four will select the optimum craft from the quietest location. Once Liptons skills have us slipping away in darkness we shall cross the estuary, the demonic eels scent aristocrat. I'm sorry to out you so but the dreadlocked baker and earth dancer has blue blood. She is, of course, now one of us yet her presence will attract the feeding instincts of the eels. As they amass, we draw them up the Welsh coast. Charlotte? After Harry has called me a loud mouthed cunt, could you clarify how you aim to work from this point."
Harry: "Christ, you are a loud mouthed cunt! Any prejudice that anyone might hold, best speak up now. I was born Lady Harrington as some of you are aware. Rupert Bunsen has worked with world business conglomerates to engineer the finale of Neoliberalist Capitalism. Over fifty years 90% of the planets wealth is in the hands of less that 1% of the population. Of these super rich, Bunsen collected the top hundred. Together they abandoned any environmental concerns in collusion to create a vehicle they call the Ark. The plan was to have been to leave in two more years. Climate change and resource depletion, the mass extinction of biodiversity, has begun to dawn on all. Yet this two years has now contracted to one month. Police and other government forces of most nations are in the pocket of these business men. Yet a rural detective inspector with a hatred of corruption has set his sights on arresting Bunsen. The hundred wealthiest, each is now gathering their entourage, ready to meet at Bunsen Island. They aim to leave the Earth as a used up fruit of which they are the seed. The refinement of man. The elite evolution worked toward. They comprise the least scrupulous, most ruthless and greediest aspects of humanity. The eels were developed to scent the blood of aristocracy. Times change. Russian oligarks, ex KGB that looted all as their political isolation crumbled. Oil sheiks. Dictators. I am told, and dearly hope it true, that the amassed eels gathered from the two colonies, will alter their feeding frenzy toward these people. Charlotte?"
Charlotte: "Harry! Your bravery shines out. Maybe you will also wish to call me a loud mouthed cunt. Rupert Bunsen had to keep his scheme secret. Once Harry knew he commissioned her murder. Harry's sister was killed. Since then Harry has lived as a squatter, free party person, with travellers. Her birth is no more her choice than is anyone's. Yet I assure her, her brave decision to use herself as bait as the initial gathering together of the demon/eels will be over once the super yacht Lipton pilots reaches the Aberystwyth area. The singular eels can't think. By here their number will be many thousand. The Coven can draw the goddess Jig out as we have done before. Peter will accompany me , Stella, Dianne, the Clun Coven. Ben and Jimmy would be of great help. Our ritual as we summon Jig must be undisturbed. Bill. I must ask you to remain to protect our aquarium. Jig will be aroused I imagine as Lipton, Christ and Harry and Andy journey up the coast. Keep a dozen miles out until you're near. Our group must find a vessel to join and board the super yacht. I require Peter for his gift from Jesse. What we are planning has presence not only in our dimension. As archangels only he and Lipton can provide the insurance we may need. Poseidon has two of the archangel licences active in two archmermaids. We know not so much as their names. Yet we are all of the land. The Ocean can flick such earth rooted powers as us into her depths with a grumble of irritant as a dog can of flees. If angered Poseidon in storm is of a scale beyond our conception. From here we sail to the sargasso, all the congers as one creature will see Jig at the totality of her might. Bunsen has his escape preparation underway. Tonight we must bid adios. Is everyone here free of concern? If a sliver of ambivalence lies in anyone you must speak. Fear, we can assume all have that to suppress, but commitment, that must be total."
Mike: "You have not mentioned me, nor Rachel. Why so?"
Charlotte: "I can not ask this witchcraft of Rachel, wonder though she is. Nor could I intrude on your recovery. I had to hear you ask, what part in this, if any do you feel?"
Mike: "Rupert Bunsen took me, used me, broke me! I would be nowhere else on Earth! I will source the vessel to carry the Coven from the place Jig laid down on the sand and left her earthly flesh. Trust me. I am strong once more. Give me this duty. Rachel, I can not ask you to join me. This mission could lead to my death. That is no loss. Only losing you. There is no one amongst us who feels the certainty of purpose that I feel. For myself I see no option."
Charlotte: "I could not ask but you have spoken exactly as I hoped."
Rachel: "I'm not leaving your side, Mike! We are one!"
Bill kicked at a stray log. Always the youngest he never got to go. Jesus felt his mood and empathised. Walking to the lad he placed an arm round his shoulder.
Christ: "you'll get your day, lad. Fucking hell! These lasses have spent years at this. The older boys are prime. Some might not return from this one. More, maybe. What will be the Clun Druid future if this went tits up before Octoboudicus day?"
Stella: "Bill. I'm staying here too. After the raising of Jig I'll travel back here. We've too much here to fuck things up. Charlotte? I'm asking Jimmy stays too. We need to run the aquarium. Feed the chickens, pigs, horses."
Charlotte: "If you're ok with that. After the raising of Jig, you three get back here. Mike and Rachel, if you're sure about this boat? Pick me, Dianne and Peter up. Is that everyone happy?"
Solemn nods saw all in a rough circle of agreement.
Christ: "Right lets get some fucking bevvy in quick! It feels like the last fucking supper! I've had two barrels settling. Tut and shive the cunts!"
Jesus could be uncouth, sexist, a loud mouthed oaf, but he knew how to summon up the party spirit. Soon all were back to the serious matter of having a good laugh. Beer flowed, laughter rang out. Bill, moodiness slipped after half an hour as he got on the decks. He'd spin the old cunts some fucking tunes. Besides, he'd noticed something in Stellas speed in to the opening where they'd be alone. He'd just turned sixteen and at nineteen she wouldn't want her mates to know too much. But he'd been aware of the way her eyes often fell his way, before flicking elsewhere once he caught her. His sounds underway he skinned up swiftly. Easily the fittest of the coven birds, he considered. Drawing deeply on his joint he looked across and caught sight of her firm breasts. She needed no support he grinned as her nipples smiled back, then he saw her face was too. She winked, returned to her girl chat. He focussed on the mixing, clasping a headphone to one ear. He never liked the sea much anyway.


D I Briggs had been fortunate in his career to retain a pretty pure vision of policing. Rural crime involved many farming thefts, oil, diesel, anything metal found new owners, even the odd bit of sheep rustling. There were numerous domestic problems that resulted from isolation or close habitation. Wives seldom complained though, accepting a beating was a farmers wife's lot. When they finally left, suicide of the departed, bereft of another to hurt, was common. There were few problems with travellers in Shropshire. That was further south. Wiltshire, Somerset, Dorset. Earlier in his career a popular crime of the day involved scallies driving down into the county from Liverpool to rob isolated properties. There'd been that teacher who had raped that young girl a year or so back. Rodgers, was it? Drove the poor child to suicide. He'd read the details of the case interview several times. Disgusting! They had been plagued by the free parties. Isolated ones went off unnoticed. Rarely, even the largest ones attracted more than two or three hundred. Closing them down was simple. Usually peaceful. But this Bury Ditches nightmare! The first attempt to shut the thing down had ended horrifically. Only by staging a show of a closure, long after the majority had left, saved the police face in the public eye. The arrest of the organiser. A well known businessman had filled him with pride. He had calls from above to release him quickly. What followed had changed him. There was no secret that free masonry, money and an entire Eco system of corruption ran a parallel system of control to the publicly acknowledged one. He released the organiser as was standard procedure. Then the two decapitated bodies were discovered. A hideous crime. His initial attempts to contact Rupert Bunsen had failed entirely. All avenues of the chain of command stood in unity to block any channel of investigation. The man had a firewall around him. As the organiser he had a duty of care. The murderers capture could prove awkward. Linking the two felt utterly impossible. Little had been discovered in the car in which they were discovered . Hairs belonging to five different people were found. Mud traces of local soil. They often saw these types crammed in such hatch backs smoking joints. Finally, a dog walker discovered a joiners hand saw. Buried but the dog detected recently opened earth, perhaps the scent of blood. Matches for the bodies were confirmed. This crude tool had severed the, still missing heads. Disposable tools could be found on any site. Microscopic particles confirmed the standardisation of building products. Yet there was the blood of another a secondary examination discovered. Deep down in the cross hatching of the plastic grip. Old and dried. Minute particles. Unmistakeable. A DNA match had yet to be found. Of course such a trace could belong to any joiner, even DIY enthusiast who had a minor cut before losing, chucking out or having the saw pinched by whoever carried out the grisly act. Their presence on the DNA data programme a step further. Still, it was worth asking around any local wood tradesmen. Over four thousand had attended the party. Briggs pictured bury ditches as a point on a map with four thousand lines pointing out like spokes from a wheel hub yet to no set rim. Some stretched as far as London. Bunsen had made that journey after leaving his custody. Placing the compass point on to the map taped on his office walk he drew a series of concentric circles. First at five miles, ten, fifteen twenty, the futility of visiting every building site and wood shop within these zones grew depressing till he was ripped out of self pity by the light of his phone. Secretary. Visitor. Specifically asking to see him. One way glass revealed a face he'd seen a dozen odd times at charitable and social events over the years. Briefly she had looked in before though that was during the Bury Ditches chaos. Lady Bowles Clarrington. As a policeman this took his mood to the pinnacle of his station. Servitude of the ruling classes was his life blood. Recognition, even being spoken to by his social betters was a deep honour.
A quick correction of his tie, uniform, hair and confident recomposure of the poker face common to those of his rank in his profession. Meeting Rupert Bunsen had changed him. A faith in the rightful order now wavered.
Briggs: "Send the Lady through. Oh, and tea, cups not mugs and is there a miniature jug for the milk."
Hetty: "D I Briggs? Apologies for my not ringing earlier not arrange an appointment."
Briggs: "Not at all. Please take a seat. I'm afraid these humble surrounds are the occupational standards for we servants of order. My secretary will bring through tea shortly. I recall our last meeting following our successful operation. To what do I owe this honour?"
Hetty: "Indeed! it was a TV report that spurred my mission. My boys fooled me into allowing their attending a country soirée. Please, may I sit?"
The Lady was breathing heavily. Her words were stumbling forth as though they raced to make the finish line of expression simultaneously.
Briggs: "Of course. Slow down. Are your boys in any danger?"
Hetty: "Thank you. I'll compose my thoughts. My boys led me to understand they were invited to some garden party. I was schooled at ladies college with Lady Harrington. You may have heard the story. Rumour was she had gone doolaly, become lost amongst lower class oddities. Rupert Bunsen arrived at our grounds with a fellow, an old Etonian, in fancy dress. They arrived towing a horsebox. Bunsen talked me in to rescuing Harrington, a girl I barely knew yet I had maternal curiosity over the nature of the soirée, fearful my boys may be mixing with the wrong sort. On arrival I witnessed all I can describe as anarchy. Bunsen must have known what to expect. His hoodwinking me to find Harrington was a ruse. Lady Harrington would not be found dead at such an inversion of civilisation. The last I saw was his trio, Bunsen in Savile row suit, a caveman in tow and a ginger haired hybrid of Jay z and Boris Johnson. An entire night I searched this hell, thousands of smiling people dancing. Drugs were rife. The satisfaction in witnessing Ruperts arrest I'd hoped would deliver closure. Once I got home I was furious with my Tarquin and Nathan. On their return they smiled at me. My boys haven't smiled at me since they were in shorts. Nevertheless, we put it behind us. We all make mistakes. As an innocent sixteen year old I, myself, once got so squiffy from mothers gin, I mistook the gardener for a Harrow boy of former acquaintance and, through alcohol, remember nothing of an enthusiasm I showed in what I mistook for our reacquaintance. Fortunately father took control and ensured the trades fellows conviction for rape was concluded with little fuss, erasing the problem painlessly. Everyone soon forgot the unfortunate episode.
The first blow of realisation was hearing that the event was organised by that two faced liar Rupert Bunsen. The architect of the nightmare my children survived was that toad. The man had acted duplicitously. Finally, the last straw, I hear two boys were decapitated as part of the entertainment. These could have been Tarquin or Nathaniel, only good luck saw the victims were of expendable common stock. My boys, beheaded for that ghastly sport they play. Kicking a ball to simpleton rules. Soccer. It's no great leap to picture oiks using the heads of boys in their game. Rugby union, the game of the upper class public schoolboy, is healthy fun for boys schooled in separation from female distraction throughout puberty. Rugger, the scrummage, the hooker hidden within, the shared baths, the tradition of the stig, the fag. This could have been my boys. Used as soccer balls. By primitive folk of lower rank.
Well Briggs, I care no more for class loyalty. Our class seldom address you service sector types. Though I hold a deep respect for your work ensuring the country runs smoothly, allowing our ease of passage unhindered by the lower, sorry I mean no offence, lesser people. Briggs, listen man. I know where Rupert Bunsen is hidden out. He owns a secret island. I can give you the location. There is more. Much more."
Briggs: "M' Lady. Calm yourself. I shall gather my recording equipment." The aristocrat was confused but she had information. Offering his unquestioning service to the class he had served all his adult life had taken structural damage. Bunsen had caused him inner turmoil. Yet, he would endeavour to neither offer assumption of his life's greater purpose. Keeping those he'd thought his betters safe from agents of disturbance to the stars quo. The inner shift now had an epiphany like feel. The revelation would require reassessment of every aspect of his being. The veil had opened. He now grasped that which had eluded him his entire professional life. The issue was not of class, colour, but of right and wrong.
Hetty: "Bunsen Island is excluded from all maps. Bring me a map of the Caribbean. I can give you information no one else will."
What unfolded grew from far fetched toward fantastic then into ludicrous fantasy. The severity of the delusion came close to breaking his poker face. An undersea James Bond like place she described. From here her imagination took on leaps of possibility beyond any technology known to humanity. A vehicle or space craft operating three systems, a propulsion system beyond any of its convention, the use of black holes as tunnels through a flexible and inter folding space, not empty but twisted and pulled by gravitational forces he couldn't grasp, thirdly a particle dissimulation system whereby any matter could be converted to a formula of such complexity and recreated in such exactitude a human could be reduced to data so detailed its recreation was identical to the original. Once the new planet was reached, the elite would experience no travel time, just a swift disassembly to a dream free sleep of no perceptible duration followed by the reassembly of self light years away.
The journey of the woman's statement began in truths only few could know. It concluded in fantasy beyond any reality. Long after the Lady drove off Briggs replayed the recording. She wasn't lying, though delusional. Yet try as he might, locating the line where truth ended and dream began, eluded him. Studying shipping routes her island appeared real. Flight paths were influenced by imaginary forces. As though private helicopters, entirely without record, dictated aerial heights, times and spaces. Something that affected all other physical activity looked like a secret Island with its own airspace e restrictions. How could she invent out of thin air. Briggs developed the island in his mind through the effects it's none existence clearly played on the complex interplay of real systems. If the island was real, where did her mind step off into loony land.
He completed the concentric circles to a fifty mile radius. His wife rang asking where the hell he was. It was three o'clock in the morning. Locking up he felt fatigue. The short drive home. The tip toe to bed. Slipping in next to his wife felt warm. But sleep was elusive.


Peter also found sleep hard to enter. Splitting with Lipton made sense but he couldn't shake off the feeling that events were outside of his control. Life often was. His decision to take the Journey to the afterlife to help out the Clun Coven was the only option. Lipton hadn't the natural touch that was Peters gift when breaking through to dimensions as yet unknown. He was braver than Peter in many ways, but his boldness was considered. The boxer in him. A studious technique saw him judge any situation. Peter had seen him fight more times than he cared to recall and had learned what he knew from watching his approach. Lipton never through the first punch. Peter had seen him duck, adjust, study his opponents centre of gravity, test his reach, establish basic criteria before so much is throwing a jab. Always patient. Invariably the counter puncher. Never emotional. To Lipton fighting was a craft. Once his jab got to work he'd begin further measurements, judge how close he needed to place himself. He'd weigh up his opponents anger, his footwork, stability. After he'd let the man reveal himself he jabbed in a systematic framing of which areas he defended with most proficiency. Peter had learned to practice a similar technique. Once Lipton felt secure in what confronted him the conclusion had an eloquence. A plan would have formed in his mind on how best to defeat his man. Each fight was different. Often, well, in nearly every fight he'd seen Lipton win, once this period of assessment was completed he wasted no further time. The assessment of the better opponents could take minutes. More often he'd have this over with during thirty seconds of booing and jeering from drunken men that wanted a brawl. Most fighters were simple battlers. It couldn't possibly be this way yet it looked to Peter as though once Lipton began each punch, jab, duck, parry through to the conclusion had formed in Liptons mind already. An inevitable equation that followed laws of physics. This could not be true. The knock outs disproved such perfection. Lipton could see the slightest mist, the minute loss of focus that changed his pattern. Peter had the weakness of most humans. Empathy. Once he hit a decent blow, saw pain or fear his nature pulled him back to let the man breathe. Lipton was oppositely inclined. The crack would be detected instantly and worked upon. Few had the prowess to shake their head clear, dance away or hang on till a referee insisted they break. Mostly Liptons first decent contact was the opening into which he drove his wedge. Peter hated to see another man hurt. Impulsively he'd step back, check his man was ok, before returning to a job he was, in truth making worse for both. Lipton had a reputation in bare knuckle circles for the tedious starts, and the swift and cruel destruction of a man. The killer instinct. So called. Lipton saw it otherwise. To allow his opponent time to recover led to longer fights. He took no pleasure in defeating opponents. Peter had seen him lose twice whilst sober. Both times Lipton appeared unphased. He had studied the man, taken his optimum approach, and not been good enough.
But this approach to shamanic work failed. Had Lipton taken time to study the portal he would most certainly have never returned. Spirit dimensions had turbulence, shifting form, nothing to note that wouldn't shift. The only approach was to abandon thought, dismiss reason, ignore logic. The master shaman must be his animal self. Like a swallow his wings must be always responding to shifting winds. Intuitive abandonment to the flow. Trust. Ride it like the waves. Do what feels right without thought. Know your passage. Allow emotion to overcome reason. Feel it, not think it. Consciousness, rational, judgement, reason are all enemies of the tripper. The sacramental plants of entheogenic properties must be trusted and you must trust your self. This difference in nature lay at the heart of their union. Not only as shamans and psychic travellers, dimension leapers, astral co pilots. But as friends also. They're bond survived so many dangers. So many battles. Only together could they have explored the underworld, found Jesse, defeated Abel. Kicked out the multitude of demonic putrid essences. Cleansed the spirit realm so proficiently.
Now their paths were to split off for a while. This was new. Christ was good for Liptons mood swings. Andy could drag him off into irrelevant battles. He'd seen on the hill fort how, though brave and a hard bastard, he was no Lipton. Should Lipton have met a challenger so superior he would never have been so stupid to fight him. A fair old avenue to death, he'd agree. Still, few could fuck with them. Perhaps Harry would balance things out
What could he say of his group? Charlotte remained something of a mystery despite her sleeping next to him. She clearly cared. Well powerful witch. That much was obvious. He'd met none close, to be frank. Great body too, he considered. Dianne seemed strong. Her taking off Boudicca took immense strength. Ben seemed reliable. They'd be sound. He'd miss the lads. Charlotte lay sleeping on her back. Her shoulders were broad. Touching the mattress. The sheets covered her below her hip bones that rose in elegant symmetry. Her tight stomach, rose and fell slowly to her breath. The bronze of her skin paled none as her ribs led to the firm breasts. Studying them he saw for the first time they were stood aloft, not slumping side wards. Yet their size belied such form. Surely not fake, the thought fled as quickly as it enterred. Naturally firm. Size had never been a quality he'd rates over quality though, free now, he'd misjudged a tad. Loose clothing. Her nipples looked at him, innocent stares with hard nipples. He covered her, such indulgent study was unfair, and a chill had prickled her with fine goose bumps. So engrossed had he been he'd failed to notice her wake.
Peter: "How long have you been awake?"
Charlotte: "How long have you been studying my breasts?"
Taking their glory into his palms he held them firmly, burying his face before kissing both nipples.
Peter: "Since the day we first met!"
All things considered, a break from Lipton might not be such a trial.


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EU referendum

EU referendum
The economic experts that all failed to predict the global crash give figures, predictions they call them , guesses at best.
Blind guess work has been proved equal or better to genius brokers.
We are told that the unsurety that the referendum is already causing financial downturns through caution, this we are told is fear of Brexit. It is surely not knowing either way. Equally could be blamed on Bremain. I blame it on Cameron's stupid referendum at this point.
' We would be better off' is the mantra of both sides. Who would be better off? Not me I bet, either way.
By better off they mean you'll get more money.
Who will be better off?
Is money your highest motive?
No one has a clue. Economics proved to be akin to clairvoyance. If there was a known future for our best interest all would concur. If the truth of this were known we'd all agree.
This is a guess.
An intuitive guess.
Those most fearful of change like to remain in a system they know our resistance from proved a better option.
What is sad is my peers who mostly want to join Europe feel this way because they don't think Westminster cares nor understands them.
A third choice. Further devolution.
I don't t trust Westminster
I don't trust Brussels
It's an emotive not rational choice
As with the god question, no one really knows. Only fools pretend they do.



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Spiritual or Psychotic

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CFtsHf1lVI4&sns=em


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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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