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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