Chantry Quarry Party Skree Lipton

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UwbNq-XzjP0&sns=em


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DI Briggs and crew attempt to shut down Lipton Peter Party

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nTpOIQSque4&sns=em


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Peter - Chapter 26

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


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


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


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





Sent from my iPad

Peter - Chapter 25

Peter - Chapter 25
It would be a good three hours before dawn broke as Lipton captained his luxury yacht up the Welsh coast. Andy and Harry had found a bedroom below deck to catch up after her noble voluntary time with the messiah had seperated them a while. Once the group all felt confident they'd twoked the yacht successfully, Lipton began to see how the craft performed. Christ returned from rummaging below proudly returning with two crates of Crystal. Lipton smiled at the son of God. Together they had pulled off something to be proud of. They could return to Peter and the Coven in glory. If ever champagne was appropriate it was now.
Christ: "Come the fuck up on deck! We are three hours unpestered from point of theft. We've two crates of top notch bubbly and Liptons just about to see how fast this bitch can go! We've done the job, let's make merry!"
Corks popped like bullets as the holy lamb of god passed a bottle first to Lipton who drank near half down in a single draught. Andy and Harry having reconsumated their union came from below on to the deck. Christ handed each a bottle as they emerged. Studying the navigation instruments Lipton kept them a steady twelve miles from shore, the seas were calm. Andy took Christ aside. Best sort any issues out before they could grow. Both were aware that only a unified team could pull this off. Lipton glanced across. He'd guessed the basics and wanted the men happy. He could see some parameters being set by the Druid. Christ nodded. Looking out to sea he felt the power of controlling such a craft. Above were the stars, below a calm sea. A waxing moon was closing in on full. As the disc of lunar reflected sunlight rose he began to see lines of white around the boat. These he knew must be the eels twisting in sub Aqua play as they gathered in number following their boat. Soon his eyes grew used to the dark waters around them. Thousands of these lines of light could be seen. Andy returned arm in arm with Christ. Thank fuck that's sorted, Lipton thought.
Lipton: "Here! Lads! Look around us. There are hundreds already. Thousands maybe of them."
Andy quickly was able to see. Smiling in pride and joy he began pointing out examples to Christ. Soon all three were mesmerised by this freak of nature. This act of witchcraft, Andy soon corrected. Harry came up and joined them. Christ apologised. She nodded acceptance.
Lipton : "We are the Pied Pipers of fucking Hamlyn! We are the comet whose trail follows. This is so fucking good. Hang on crew, I'm going to give this bitch some fucking welly!"
Andy: "Awesome, eh? See how Jig already begins to form. Charlotte must have summoned up her core further up coast. Soon these congers will be joining up with the mass. You'll love this. Peter had some words with me. About the murders or deaths we caused to gather the pineal glands. I asked him to withhold any judgement till he has seen Jig in all her glory. I can feel her. She is of my own bloodline. And I can feel her ex static rage!" The Druids eyes sparkled with transcendent magic.
Lipton would have to master this boat, yacht, whatever the fuck they were called and he'd not get a better time to do so.
Lipton :"Let's go!" The boat picked up speed quickly. Lipton began cutting deep arcs to the left turning then across to lean deep right as though on a slalom of imaginary points some quarter mile apart. Harry was speechless. Before them, behind them, around them a goddess was forming from the many eels. Briefly she remembered that it was a hunger for her blue blood that drew the creatures. Yet all of them could feel now a part of a thing so much greater. As though they were aspects of the goddess like the eels. Lipton was buzzing with excitement. Drinking deep from his bottle then casting it over in to the sea.
Lipton :"Jesus Christ! Let there be light!"
Christ usually loathed showing off any powers he had but even the messiah was caught up in the sublime power of the moment. Standing up he walked to the boats tail end. Raising his hands to the sky he drew down divine light to illuminate the sea behind them. White light of a purity no one there had witnessed before picked out the flicking silver lines as eels shifted and turned at speed following them. Their white under bellies reflecting his light like a mirror till a million white slivers shimmered in the tail washed waves from the boat. Harry walked up and gave the holy twat a peck of forgiveness on his cheek. The son of God had to be given praise for involvement in the raising of a deity that would enrage his father. He is a jealous God. They were again a gang. Further still, they led a torrent of serpents. They were the spear head of a goddess. They felt a glory in being. In shared bliss they made their passage up coast toward their friends. Lipton now laughed in mad joy. He was alone now. But he wished Peter could share this moment.

Gwenno was still steaming with Christ over the way he'd sold Iantos van. Peter having dropped off his troupe on the Aberystwyth beach paid a visit to his Welsh traveller mate. The Coven alone, however, stayed there on the sands. Jimmy and Ben had no faith in Mikes boat stealing talents so went off with the musician and Rachel to source a suitable craft. Peter recalled Christ's story when he turned up on the second hill fort. How he had been told to leave by his guests. There sat in his mind a solution to please all. Ianto and Gwenno welcomed in the surprise visitor. Since they'd lost the van, being right out on the coast had meant guests had become rare. They rarely got out of the town either, public transport being so poor these days.
Peter: "After you kicked the holy flyer out he came to Shropshire and found us. Me and Lipton had found ourselves a sanctuary atop a hill fort so remote we thought no one could find us. At the time we weren't too pleased to see the guy. Still, loads has happened since then. We've got a crew together to go to sea with. It's tough to explain quickly. Point is, I can't just dump my van. It's my home. I can't say how long this will take us. But you can use it till I return. One clause, you must take care of Dook like he was your own child. Two clauses, sorry, one of the lasses needs taking back to Clun. There's plenty diesel to get you there and back. She's a sound girl. Powerful witch also so don't take the piss, right? What'd you say?"
Iantos eyes lit up. Since the son of God had robbed his transit they'd been stuck to the house. Festivals were coming up. Both Gwen and the sheep shagger hugged Peter.
Ianto: "You, mate, are a fucking diamond! I'll take care of your van. Dook adds to the pleasure. Having him around will be a bonus. You haven't a clue how happy you've made us today."
Peter: "Just a long term loan, mind. What we are doing could easily be our last stand. Drive me back down the beach, mate. If we do go down in action. Then it's all yours."
The Welsh travellers were overjoyed. Peter had put their theiving guests crimes to bed.
Driving back to the beach Ianto gave Peter a few choice words.
Ianto: "This mission you are on. Lipton and yourself I know can trust each other. I get that the two of you are soft on Jesus. He's a mate of mine too. But please watch the cunt. He's got his talents, of course. But he don't give a fuck, sometimes. During our mushroom marathon he tried it on with every single one of my mates birds. He isn't like us. We know mortality. He can't die. Not for good, anyway. For sure he's a great partner in excess. But sometimes he charges in to things in a way we never would. I've seen him take brothers with him, either on a bender or an adventure. When it goes tits up, there's only one who comes back! Do you hear me? I don't think he can help himself. Still, there's a trail of dead boys he's left behind, lads who thought they could keep up with the cunt. Stretching back two thousand years. Do you get my point?"
Peter knew he was right. From the start, Christ gathered followers. Those apostles that committed to his project, well, we all had heard how amazingly Christ rose again after crucifixion. Not much after Christ's resurrection gets said about the followers. After his death all were hunted down. All killed. Only one had the skills and came back. There was a lot Ianto didn't know about Peter. No time explaining to him now though.
Peter: "I get your drift. But trust me, mate. We aren't as fragile as most. I'm glad you've spoken up, though. We are taking a few novices on this one. I'll be looking out for them all."
The Mercedes pulled to a stop. Peter hugged his friend and watched his van and home carry the lad off back to Gwenno. He hoped he'd gone some distance in putting right the crimes of his immortal mate.
With these thoughts he walked towards the three witches he could now see, sat in a triangle, holding hands, up to some sophisticated meat demonology witchcraft. Charlotte had asked a lot of him on the way up. Whether he could pull it off was yet to be seen. Since his journey into the afterlife he had a new confidence. After she sank back into her trance Peter had planned his shamanic work. Their luggage was a good two hundred yards from the Coven. They'd not want disturbing while at work. Unfolding the inflatable dingy and flattening it out on the sand, best complete the practical essentials first. Attaching the compressed air canisters he relaxed as the rubber monster grew before him. Filled and firm, he upturned it, stabbing its oars deep into the sand to feel secure no freak wind might carry it away. They'd need this dingy to get from the beach to rejoin Ben, Jimmy, Mike and Rachel. Assuming their mission went well. Only then did he unzip his own bag. His recipe was his own concoction, developed over many years. Syrian rue seeds to provide a temporary capacity for the stomachs ingestion of DMT. This would come from mimosa hostilis tea he'd be drinking in fourty five minutes. Two pro lad blotters of 200ug. Lysergamides being his shamanic speciality. Finally, he prepared his glass pipe. 5 bromo DMT is found in sea sponges. This gave a channel to ocean dimensions. Once tripping on the ayuaska simple recipe he preferred and also the pro lad, only then would he take the pipe. He knew his mission.

Jimmy and Ben knew their way to the harbour and led Rachel and her man to check it out. Both drulads were outstanding thieves but boats to the land lubbers all looked alike. Rachel hung back with the boys as Mike walked off alone studying their options. She watched as her new love strolled about the higgeldy piggeldy array of sea vessels. There must have been over fifty boats and yachts moored up. The activity was bustling in the harbour as old sea dogs repaired storm damaged parts, chatting to each other. There were other less used and sea scarred tourist yachts. Expensive toys, status symbols, seldom used. In his younger days, when money still flowed in from the Bellends success, Mike had bought a few such craft. It took awhile to get his eye back in. Much was new but he soon was able to see which were locals that rubbed shoulders on a daily basis and the intrusive trophy vessels that cluttered their work. Tied off at the harbour outposts, among these alien visitors Mike focused on three possibilities. Looking back to Rachel he waved her to come over. Leaving the boys she casually strolled across. Mike began checking out the best option of the three. A crisp blue pompous looking boat that looked barely used. The knot work tieing it off was loose, amateurish. Walking back down the line towards Rachel it was clear that five boats sat between the last scuffed craft and their sky blue target were unoccupied, a safety zone between the object of intended theft and any local, at least for now. The sixth boat in had a seated man with a bushy white unkempt beard, repairing the tackle of his trade, tying torn fishing nets up. Mike met Rachel by this fellows boat and made a display of kissing his girl. They were tourists, looking for their friend.
Moving to the concrete edge Mike called out to the old sea dog, in the voice of an innocent twat,
Mike:"Ahoy, my man? How's the tide?" The fisherman looked up to study the idiot, blind to the obvious state of water all around them.
Seadog: "Two hours will be high tide. Are you lost?"
Mike: "In a way we are. Jeremy invited us to see his pride and joy, the Bluebird."
Sea dog: "Jeremy is he? Tell your friend Jeremy that he's had his boat moored up in Jeths spot for near on a week now. He'd best move it or his Bluebird will be soon gone. Jeth moors there. Since a boy he's moored there. We were out for the mackerel together. Fifteen hours we were gone. Coming in to dock, we were, he's had his moor stolen. I know your Jeremy may be new. He may be ignorant of the offence he's causing. Whatever. You go tell him to shift that thing, ok!"
Mike: "I apologise on his behalf. What's more, I'll ring Jez now, get him to shift it right away."
Rachel passed over her mobile. Mike entered into a fake conversation. Soon this became an argument. Finally some agreement took place. Mike nodded across to Ben and Jimmy.
Mike: "Jeremy is deeply sorry. He's down London however, business call. I explained the situation. He's an idiot, I am sorry. He asked me to sort things out. You'll be rid of the Bluebird in half an hour. My friend is a town type. Your rustic oceanic noble codes are invisible to his clumsy mind."
Sea dog: "Well, that's very good of you lad. You should be fine now. Forecast is fair. No storms to trouble you. What's the name, lad? Just in case he needs to say anything."
Mike: "Bunsens the name, Rupert Bunsen!"
Sea dog: "Fair you go Rupert. Good on you for sorting out your friends mess. I took the land tosser for a woman, if I'm honest. Town folk surely are mysterious ares holes, eh?"
The fisherman returned to his work. Not looking up again. Jimmy and Ben took seconds to spark the engine. The four, once aboard, chugged out of the harbour, heading toward the beach to collect their passengers.

The timing was crucial. First Peter swallowed the four gramme a of Syrian rue. He hoped to see no one on this plane for some time. Removing his shoes he walked the line where sea washed in waves onto sand. His steps punctuated a rhythm that interplayed more complex patterns from the flat drum he often used. Relaxing away from self his chanting grew to a sound wall that soon felt not of his making, instead a planetary cyclic pattern taking away ego. Thirty minutes in he dropped the Pro Lad, a purified synthesis of lysergic acid. Fifteen minutes on he asked in humble prayer for a safe passage and return. The response came from the ocean. Already he heard them singing, far out and faint, but they were awaiting him. The hovering of wings he was prone to feel on the awakening of the ayuaska goddess fluttered above him. From the sky she came. From the sand he felt her entering his feet. The Pro Lad opened the portal to a dimension of beings that over years of tripping was the home to his own protective spirits. Old guardians that assimilated and appeased the goddess he was now a guest of. The rock cliffs he'd set out for had caves where he would soon lay. By now though they weren't caves of rock, but pockets or pods of an organic computer system whose fluid flow now revealed the mandala corridor of fractal lights, a garden of sumptuous growth that opened up revealing the corridor calling him in. She placed him down. Through the immaterial shifting lights and warping gardens he struggled to find his tools. The glass pipe now a crystalline appendage of his body. He gave thanks for the foresight of loading the sphere with the ocean bed DMT. Leaning back she blossomed in cushioned new growth, marrow like beings pulled him gently in. Here his last finger hold on the earth dimension found the lighter, a fire fly nest of hornets returned as a single living flame. The being tickled the sphere and golden rivulets flooded into lakes that rose to a steam within the globe. He inhaled deeply once. The goddess lifted him from his recumbent and temporarily vacated flesh, second inhalation she placed him in position facing deep into the corridor of shifting forms. These last moments he found the goddess who was asked in humble grace by the spirits of the ergotamine beings that were his protectors. The fire flies burned bright as the crystal globe whose golden oceans filled the small world within, before the fire beings dispersed in tiny lights away from their centre in all directions, the third inhalation he held on as his priming completed its programme. The goddess kissed him good bye, good luck and in tender care held a fine line of gossamer that now fused to the back of his skull. An umbilicus to pluck him back should he displease the one he sought to ask favour of. Exhaling a cloud of steam he burst across, he entered at great speed that took him over as his being held together yet structurally fragile in coalescence, only as a particle blur, he rocketed down the corridor. Long ago he could recall the dimension of his birth. A nostalgic scent of childhood dream sleep. But it wasn't his now as the corridor flared and his particles disbanded till there wasn't any peter, now all had once been blended to a singular molecular field, no individuation of seperated aspects, only everything as a whole. The singular mass of shifting colour had no common aspect nor any before. Now all was one. The ocean accepted the new essence that had become blended together. In the blue turbulence that washed off any remnants of solidity. Drifting in to energy waves, jelly forms found a harmonic resonance, flickering to a reality so strong nothing was before nor after yet their resonance held and dissolved back to homogeneity before every reformation of oceanic life found momentary resurgence. Having no material aspect there could be no focus only a multitude of crystalline moments that invigorated the dimension . Till, in patient loss of self after years of suspicion, finally assured of the visitations humility, the whole formed to a consciousness. Revealing his presence. Fragile coral structures built in to temples of white complexity. A power beyond solidity reached to express the divine authority. Poseidon took the shadows of what he once had been before to its dispersal amongst the depths. Only feeling was left, though this feeling was one of love. Fond empathy passed into all that was from the deity at the innocence and simplicity of the visitor. A kindness offered something he could know. Particles from the entire globe returned swiftly into a form that was a gift for him. Now able to focus he looked above to the ocean surface. Female oceanic Angels, Poseidon's daughters, twins, one either side took his hands and together with such delicacy and care, they pulled him to the surface. Bursting into air the two arch mermaids remained connected though now a mile or more each side yet still he felt there hands hold his. Intuitively wings burst from his back and as archangel he soared skywards. They now formed together as a triangle, at the apex he could now look at his old place. Their connection of the three points opened forth a triangular passage that reached out to sea. Far off a red boat a tiny point amidst a circular mass of eels in constant interplay. Below three connections, girls somehow familiar to him, one stood at the waves outer slide watching her sisters who stepped aboard a dingy. Though a mile to his left and right the sea angels showed him that another had coalesced as he had. From the dingy the three boarded a blue boat. Here now also, the eels gathered. From the many thousand conger eels a hive mind arose. A singular consciousness of which the girls were aspects. With the mer Angels he held open their triangular corridor protecting the blue boat as slowly it sailed outwards and reached the red boat. He felt the minds of the ones he was once of together now. So too was their goddess. An eel mass that felt an anger and hurt. He had sought Poseidon's acceptance of Jig, he had permission for the new goddess to live in the oceans. He felt the hands slip from his, the triangle broke up as did the channel it had led a protective passage out to sea.. Flickering above he fell as Poseidon caught him gently, then the sea God turned away to other matters. Mandalas shifted in pattens so wondrous thar all reason for being left, till he felt the fine line tugging gently at his skull. In abandonment of volition he gave himself up to her as she pulled him back to her dimension. Returning to land and air. Plant forms in abundant growth smothered and took him in. The goddess lay him down with tenderness back to his flesh. In cushions he lost her a little. The goddess was leaving. Touching his side now we're rocks. Stone cold hard. Sand felt gritty in his mouth. He was Peter again. In a cave. All his friends now a dozen miles out at sea. Propping himself up on his elbows he looked back at the melting footsteps he had left as he'd walked out to the cliffs. A figure was walking his way. Stella had kept her word. She must be following this path he'd left her. Bill would be glad, he thought, when Ianto brought the lass home to him alone in Clun. Then under he fell. Consciousness gone. Stella found him sleeping. Kneeling beside him she stroked his hair from his face.


DI Briggs had trouble sleeping. Most people enjoy a steady curve in their journey. Others may have a point of change. An elbow where their direction shifts dramatically from one direction to another. An epiphany or revelation of such clarity their lives can be split into before and after. Every sacrosanct pillar of security that formed Briggs moral certitude had crumbled. Dark acceptance flooded into his being over the five hours he lay in bed. Briggs now in a state of crystallised simple perspective he saw what had always been there all along. The romantic fantasy his life had passed in was now revealed as an infantile self deception. Suspicion had been brewing deep in his subconscious since the investigation had began. He'd dismissed the creeping truth as paranoia. Today reality was not a hazy confusion. The men he had dined with had taken away the noble code he'd lived to, ridiculed its naivety, returned him to the real world, the putrefaction of police corruption. His hosts the previous night had been correct in one regard. He had a choice to make. He kissed his wife then left her to sleep on. He could tell her nothing. He could not bring danger to her. Calling in sick was a first for him and as such was accepted by colleagues at the Craven arms police station with surprised grace and hopes for his swift return to health. Dressed in casual clothing he first decided to follow up the snippet of a lead he had. Not that he had great hopes that it would find the murderer, more to tick all boxes. To warn his delegated target. It was something he could do without fear of upsetting any dark forces above. There could be a version of the truth linking both Ben Black and Rupert Bunsen. From what he had gathered from Bowles Clarrindge, Bunsen had sent his minions to murder the mysterious Lady Harrington who had since disappeared. Rumoured to be alive living hidden within the counter culture, her sisters death in mysterious circumstances apparently the trigger for her disappearance. Briggs knew she must have met the wall he had. Stepped inadvertently into a secret world.. Bunsen must have been on a similar cleaning up manoeuvre, when Lady Harringtons sister met her end, as had been last nights purpose. Had Bunsen had both sisters killed? Had he killed the wrong sister forcing Harrington to go to ground? Did these Wolverhampton boys know too much about the ruthless monster? Was Black working for Bunsen? This last one he had not considered. Why would the two be connected, living such differing lives? Yet, if you want discretion you'd find the least likely. On this twisted logic Briggs developed a theory. The headless boys must have met Harrington on the party circuit. She becomes loose lipped in drink or drugs and tells the boys that the party's they attend are run by a killer. They start talking too much. Bunsen employs Black to stop them talking. Sending out a message to anyone considering talking. Or was Black caught up and used like him? An innocent used to continue Bunsens empire of evil.
Briggs life had been given over to a lie. Ever since ten or twelve he had trod the same path. His world was simple and righteous. Committed to stopping the criminal deviants who did the devils work to try damage the good people that found fortune through hard work. Briggs was a good man. Not a deeply religious man but a believer in a natural order. The wealth came to the pure of heart and hard working nobility. Poverty rewarded the lazy and bad. His life's purpose to maintain the status quo. Preserve gods plan. The new world he found himself in wasn't fair. This time Rupert Bunsen had made a terrible error. Stripped of all he held up as what made sense of life Briggs had lost any care about himself. Rather than scare him into submission last night had freed him of any existential worry. Committed now instead to bringing his man to justice beyond any professional demands. He would bring down Bunsen or die in the attempt.
Reduced to a stone hearted reality, bereft of romance. Feeling one with his Lexus these thoughts carried him through the dozen miles of winding road that linked Craven Arms to Clun. Consumed with his mission the trio of hill forts punctuating the green hills to his right in an earthly solemn confirmation of the righteousness his path now would take. Clun was quiet as ever to slip through and onward to the Blacks farmhouse Tyrone had warned him off all those years back. Poultry scattered to the gravels crunch under the Lexus wheels. Two ford escorts, long out of service rusted into the green undergrowth. Dogs barked inside the house warning any occupants of his arrival.
The dogs continued a hostile warning song as Briggs banged the oak door. Three stout thuds then he waited two minutes. Three more rounds of the pattern failed to deliver any human response. Maybe there was no one home. The coppers instinct of nosy intrusion found Briggs checking the back of the semi derelict building. Stepping toward a small shed just to get a feel of how these people lived he heard the click of a shotgun triggers retraction. Framed in the rear doorway stood a youth of Celtic look, black curls hung from an army cap, he pointed a double barrelled shotgun aimed at the coppers face.
Bill: "Who the fuck are you? Speak out. Explain why you are here and it had best be a fucking good story, mate, or as a boy alone moat will concur, I had no option but to defend the family home!"
Briggs: "Sorry son! I was a friend, well I knew Tyrone Black. I...err..wondered if his lad still lived here. Ben. Are you....."
Bill: "Never mind who I am. You are trespassing on private property and no one born within fifty miles of this place could claim to have not heard of Tyrone. How were you acquainted? No disrespect but you stink of bacon, am I right? Filth?"
Briggs: "Fair play, son. You have me. I'm here on private business though...."
Bill: "Wo! You lot are a breed. It's in your blood as much as I am a Druid! I'm a Druid when I'm asleep just a a pig is a pig. Sleeping or not. You don't have social calls. You have no private business. You'd best come clean very quickly, officer as in those civilian clothes how can I tell you aren't here to rob and murder. One minute from now you'll have explained, be back in your car or your head will be a meat smoothie, a burglar, dead on the deck!"
Briggs felt the venom. Last night he'd finally understood why men like Tyrone despised those in his line of work. The corruption he'd thought a hangover from seventies mythology was as strong as it had ever been.
Briggs: "Ok! As things stand I may no longer be a copper, though that has been my job all my adult life. Two lads were killed up in that Hill fort madness you no doubt saw last month. They were lads, like yourself, out for a laugh. They had families, girlfriends, they'd stepped into something we have no grasp of. Both were garrotted. After which they were decapitated using a carpenters saw. Ben Blacks DNA matches old particles of long dried blood in the handle. I know he works as a joiner sometimes. Could be Ben threw the saw away in some skip. The guilty may have found it there and taken it to carry out this butchery. I don't know. What I feel sure of is that whoever did this was working for Rupert Bunsen. Maybe for money. Maybe under duress. What I am certain of is this..There was an illegal party organised by this man. A man I am trying to track down. This man is of a kind of evil beyond anything I've known before. My objective is to bring Bunsen down. You can tell me to leave and I'm gone. But as things stand, Ben Black, who our records place living here, is half way to being used, guilty or not, as a solution to a problem that concerns some very powerful and ruthless people. You'll have heard police talk such bollocks, how theyre here to try help the lad. That I offer his only hope of escaping a trap that closes upon him as we speak. For once this is true. Is Ben here?"
Bill: "I'm afraid he's not. Thank you, for the warning. Why would you offer this information to me?"
Briggs shook his head as he studied the patchy grass before him. Looking to the lad he saw the gun now lowered, he'd got past some small barrier.
Briggs: "Ben, for all I know maybe is working for Rupert Bunsen, but how the two parties could have met renders the idea unlikely. I've already said too much. Look, tell him that these murders require a solution. Powers way above have threatened me. Either I frame Ben or my life is done. If I frame Ben my life is over equally so. They'd then have me forever. They have offered me money and any fake evidence it might take to make Ben the killer. I have chosen to take a different path. My aim is to try nail Bunsen and the cancerous corruption that he is the king of within the force. I have no illusions that he may well kill me before I can do this. I'm as good as dead. I've chosen to go down with self respect. This makes little difference to Ben. There will be someone to take my place. They have decided that Ben is to take the rap. Look, his father and me weren't mates. Yet I like to believe that we had some mutual respect. Ben is no killer. If I can talk to him I could give him a better chance than anybody to slip this. Maybe there is nothing to stop this. But I must live to my code."
Bill could see the copper had tears that had run down his cheeks. The man was sincere. He knew so much that Bill knew he was right. The man was done. Yet he knew, on other matters, very little. The two stood as the situation settled on Bill. He never had liked coppers. But this was no bad man. Besides, Ben was guilty and there could possibly be a truth found to suit everyone. Bill had received a text from Stella saying soon shed be back. Some mate of Peter was driving her back in his van. The operation was underway. This broken copper had no chance of nailing Bunsen. Though he may not have to. Jig had risen. She now led the bunch of Druids, witches and shamans, a messiah to boot, towards the island where the Bunsen cunt raced to ready his journey to the stars. No way could he tell the copper this, nor would he believe it anyway. Yet he had come to step across cultures, given up this information freely with pure intentions. He had to offer some hope to the chap. He desperately needed something to hold onto.
Bill: "You have offered this to us. That must have taken some bollocks to do. I can't let you know where Ben is. But if I told you that, though this may seem the end game of your life, there are forces already at play that are of such magnitude, such power, they make the network of corruption you describe look a trivial thing. Take a few weeks leave. Somewhere hot. Out of the way. Let things take their course. I've heard of this Bunsen. You have no hope of bringing him to justice. The power he has within your system can't be beaten within it. Trust me, mate! Nature has her own ways of curing tumorous cancer growth. I can't give you more."
Briggs shook his head. The boy had a youthful trust in life. Something he'd lost. He could not see. On one thing the boy was correct. He was a copper. He could be nothing other than this. To stick around would mean either act out the framing of Black or find his life slowly destroyed. He could take time away. But these people weren't going away. He'd return to the same mess. He had only one path to follow. The leave he would take but Briggs had begun the end game. He thought of his grandfather. His battalion had been massacred in the trenches of the Somme. Taking what weapons he could from his dead friends he had gathered his thoughts. His life now over he had peeped across the mud to locate the enemy position that spat out bullets taking away his colleagues. The descriptions from the few that had lived to tell his story told of a man possessed by demonic fury. Alone he'd charged towards the Germans, killing a dozen, most who froze in fear at this crazed beast, till one had retained composure, putting a bullet through his forehead. They say he ran on like a dead chicken and tumbled onto the enemy. Briggs would do the same. He knew from this point on he took a direct line toward the man who had a private army, yet knowing he was already dead freed Briggs from fear. He smiled at the boy.
Briggs: "Just warn him, ok! I'm glad we talked. Wish me luck. My future leads toward Rupert Bunsen. Who knows? Maybe I can cause some mayhem before one of his zombie soldiers can find my target." The copper and Druid shook hands. Bill hoped this chap had sense to sit it out.
Bill: "Where does this guy live? Europe?"
Briggs: "He has an island, I'm told. Somewhere in the Caribbean."
Bill: "How will you get over there? Fly?"
Briggs: "I have some ideas. I doubt he'll expect me. If I am honest with you, lad, last night has left me confounded, do you mind if I sit down a few moments?"
The Druid had now lent his gun against the wall. Nodding to wooden bench the two sat like street drinkers. Here was not the enemy as police always before had been to Bill, instead a shattered man. Scared, shaken to the core of his being.
Briggs: "Strange, isn't it? Yesterday I found myself with men working together to induct me into an evil stretching right to the very top of the police force. It was made clear that I must cease any investigations into Bunsen and to frame Black. This they explained with such certainty they'd provide any 'evidence' to make the fit I may require. They made it clear if I didn't do as they asked my career was over, my wife would be killed, and me shortly after. They spoke with such assumption that I'd be joining the conspiracy. Today I'm here talking to you, a young lad I know to be what I might have called the other side. Because there is no one in my world I can talk to."
Bill watched as the man bowed and shivered in ripples of restrained crying spasms. He found his arm had reached across his shoulders, an act of comfort. This guy had rejected some huge bribe. Risked his wife's life. Taken some personal oath that meant his days were few. This he could have taken. Become one of the network of power. Yet, for the sake of his values. To save a Druid lad who, if truth be known was the killer whatever the evil of Bunsen. He had saved his friend from a life sentence by giving over his life. Further, he was going out in Cassady and Sundance manner, taking who he could down with him.
Briggs: "I'd best go. Tell Ben be careful. Keep this between you. These people can do anything they like. And I would be grateful if you keep quiet about this visit. There is no way I can bring Bunsen to justice. There is no justice. Where he lives there are armed guards patrolling. My best hope is to slip past somehow and kill the man with my bare hands. I don't even own a gun!"
The ex officer laughed at the madness of his situation. He pulled himself together. Wiped his face dry. Stepped up to bid the boy farewell.
Bill was about to say goodbye when an idea came to him. Earlier that year, before all this stuff had come up with the shamans and Christ;, Andy, Ben, Jimmy and himself had been given a tip by an old girlfriend who Andy still saw on occasion in Hereford. Her mother had a guest house. Their discreet service had found them giving rooms and breakfasts to an odd class of men. SAS based down there had a flow of special forces personnel that came, stayed awhile, slipped quietly away to Iraq, Syria, wherever. Some returned, some did not. None spoke about their work. The lass had become close to one such guy. Over many missions he developed a secret horde of re appropriated military hardware. This had become an obsession. The girl he and Andy shared became aware the soldier had a weapons fetish. One drunken night they had been discussing her mothers disapproval at her lack of interest in dull men. Joking she said she'd like to shoot the old bag. Take over the boarding house unhindered by the endless moralising of the bitter old hag. His eyes hid sparkled in conspiracy. Maybe he was just the man to help. Taking her out to the countryside he'd driven to a disused quarry. Passing her a torch matching one he now held he led her into a cave network where finding the marked rocks he began to pull away stone after stone. Deep beneath was a steel vault, secured with two sophisticated locks. Opening the lid was a treasure trove. He'd shown her his collection of top grade hardware. Shoulder mounted rocket launchers able to destroy a tank. Bazookas. Grenades. Various guns. His stash of hardware was hidden well. The two used the place several times for sexual liaisons. One day the chap slipped away to Afghanistan on an assignment. His some time lover had grown used to these periodical absences. A week or two had gone by when she got called into school. Her ten year old lad had been in trouble again. His phone confiscated, she came to collect it from the headmaster. They were concerned by imagery boys in the school had been sharing. Jihadi propaganda. The head had given her a despairing look as he handed her the boys phone. Clicking play she saw the video. She'd seen these type of propaganda images before but only in still photos taken out and printed in the papers. The format was familiar, a line of masked Islamists stood behind a kneeling man in orange jumpsuit. The masked ringleader made a short speech directed at David Cameron and Barrack Obama. The camera then focused on the captured and condemned victim. It took a few seconds before she recognised the man reading the scripted statement of support for their cause. The guy she had fucked not a month ago looked into the camera. He retained composure as the black clad Islamist hacked through his neck. It was only once the spinal cord was severed that he lost consciousness. Whilst in the headmasters office somehow she had remained emotionless. Perhaps the brave manner in which her lover accepted his fate had given her the strength. Once outside she broke down. She called the only person she felt able to open up to that would not condemn her or dictate to her what to do.
Andy had driven down to comfort the poor girl. She told him her story. He knew she saw other men. He had other girls. But their was trust between the two. Andy realised the weapon stash now had no owner. At least he could find a buyer. Some financial compensation for her loss. The drulads had discussed the value of the weaponry and the danger in trying to find a buyer. Worth a lot of money to bad people. Able to draw a sky load of shit upon anyone found having such tools of war in their posession.
Bill looked at Briggs and wondered how he'd react. Asking Briggs to give him a few minutes, the youth slipped indoors to make a call. He may be in a position to repay the distressed ex lawman. Andy answered his phone and listened to the whole incredible story. This copper had given their Druid brother a chance to escape conviction for murder. The whole problem could now, with a little luck, be resolved. The ex old bill had given his own life to save Ben. He deserved rewarding for this noble act, undoubtedly. Better still, the guys suicide mission may be helpful as a smokescreen to their own endeavour. If all went well they'd be long gone from Bunsen island by the time this suicidal would be assassin arrived. If all went to plan he'd be going into a place the United Mystics had left in chaos. The leader gone, his wealthy clientele too, only the private army of his security team should be left. Briggs didn't need to know what he was heading into. Both agreed it unlikely Briggs would survive against over a hundred mercenaries. Nevertheless, he'd get his moment of vengeance. Find glory in death. Even the possibility of Briggs being assumed the sole architect of the attack on Bunsens Island. Some form of government authority would be drawn to investigate. Of this he had little doubt. Here was an opportunity, an alibi, perhaps. Andy gave the go ahead to young Bill. He'd wanted to see the poor lass right for some time but had put it on hold for this shamanic scheme of madness. The joy of chaos filled Andy as he clicked off the call. Mad man copper! Mental!
Returning to the disconsolate ex policeman Bill felt good being able to offer the man a quantum of solace in his doomed situation.
Bill: "You say you're over with the job? Only after Bunsen?"
Briggs: "I'd be grateful if you told no one of this visit. Those who soon will be hunting me need no extra help."
Bill: "There is no talking you into disappearing, a new life and identity in a distant country?"
Briggs: "These are people no one can hide from. What I know means I either carry out their orders, or must be silenced. Try running, my wife might last a month. This choice I've taken has only one end. All I can salvage is some honourable death. This window of time before they realise that I've rejected their offers could be a week. There may soon be visitors for Ben. I'll leave a confession for the dead decapitated boys, with luck that might keep them happy. But he must keep away for a while. One thing I ask is you forget my coming here."
Bill: "Goes without saying. Look, I've access to something that could even the odds. Should I find you let me down I'll be straight back to do the same. Here, get down to Hereford. Ring this number. She wants five grand. That's a bargain. She will not rob you but she will not meet you. Trust the girl. She will ask for the cash first. Then you'll get the location. There are a pair of shoulder mounted anti tank rocket launchers, grenades, all sorts of stuff. Take this on me. If you're going down then take as many of the fuckers with you as you can."

Bill watched Briggs drive away. The man he knew he'd never see again. The fact he had the same target as his crew meant little. This was something private. He had met a broken man. He'd given Ben a chance without wanting any reward. Ben had, if the truth were to be of any difference, sawed through the necks of the lads out on the hill fort. The copper could never know nor ever understand that this act took personal sacrifice for a greater good. No good could come of Briggs knowing the truth. The ex copper was on a righteous quest that was clearly doomed. But the man came and gave his knowledge to help Ben. Only trouble would come of it if the drulads got the military hardware. Bill felt good to be giving the chap chance to blow some of the bastards up before his end.
Describing all this to Ben took a sensitive approach. They'd not want some lunatic copper spoiling their scheme with missile fire. They'd be done, for better or worse by the time Briggs had got down there with the kit. Hopefully the mad pig would find nothing but Bunsens private army to shoot at. Yet Bill knew, as did they all, that things could easily go wrong. All agreed, if they lay dead from Bunsens men, some recompense could be taken from this lunatics suicide mission. The crew on the red yacht laughed at the thought of the tattered Bunsen empire, fallen bar few footmen clearing up, looking to the ocean to see Briggs, a week later, shooting the fuck out of the stragglers. There now was added impetus to get there without wasting a moment longer. Lipton wondered how to get Peter from the beach to the boat he steered in patient circles. Somebody best sort this soon. Calling Andy over they discussed the options.
Andy nodded assertively before striding toward the blue vessel now toed behind the larger craft.
Andy: "Christ! Can you get your sandles on and help me drag the inflatable onto the bluebird. We're going to collect the shamanic psycho traveller. I'd take Ben but we may need your water skating trickery!"
Jesus leapt in to action. Glad to take the opportunity to iron out any remaining creases from the Porlock day. The holy pervert considered the whole daft business. Women! If Harry had just given him a swift shag, none of this shit would have been a problem. Selfish bitch!
Christ: "Right away, captain,"
Five minutes with Jimmy helping had the dingy strapped safely to the bluebird. Untying the smaller boat Jimmy threw them both a beer for the journey. The others used the free time to catch up. Harry looked grateful to have more females around. Lipton could feel the millions of conger eels that followed his circular path through the sea. Jig was in meditative self reflection. Returning to awareness took her time to harmonise the psychotics of thought and feeling. Charlotte sat in conference with the sea goddess. Cross legged she could not be approached. Her eyes were glazed over. Words escaped her mouth in sporadic muttering so. She wasn't in the same dimension of space as the others on board.


Stella found Peter sat in reflective poise. His cave floor now a mess of his scattered shamans tackle. Gathering carefully each sacred item she packed his shoulder bag. Still tripping heavily Peter couldn't yet talk though he was down to the dimension shared with the Clun witch. He managed a smile as Stella took his hand and slowly they descended to the beach below. Their walk back into town was comfortable despite his transcendent condition. Stella could see Peter wasn't in a great state to talk, even to his old mate Ianto. Taking charge she made sure the shaman had shown her the guys door. Peters Mercedes parked outside which confirmed things. Stella walked him back to a point where Peter could see easy passage to the beach. Kissing him on both cheeks she thanked him for arranging the lift for her. Thanked him for all his work, then pointed him toward the sea and watched to make sure he was on his way before turning back to knock on the welsh mans door. Ianto welcomed her in looking a little surprised Peter hadn't come and said adios. Shrugging it off he offered her a brew.
Peter strolled on. The ocean now had some new traits for him. Never before had he seen it as comforting. The vastness of water, the fragility most humans felt even on large ferrys had been lifted from his mind. Crucial to his shamanic sensitivity was Peters connection to the earth mother that provided for him, that fed him, whose energies he could channel through sacramental use of her gifts. His deepest mystical experiences had been when self was forgotten and his being blended into the land. Communion with Poseidon had balanced his shamanic spirit to an equal submergence with the depths. Fractal lights shifting and folding in constant drift formed a path way rolling with each step before him. From the ocean an arm reached out to him, welcoming him down. Flickering lihghts to either peripheral limits of his vision sang in lights. The mermaids he now knew as sisters were calling him down to the waters edge. Reaching the timeline Peter stood in the golden light as dusk began to settle out of day, from white sunlight graduating to golden shimmering that picked out two lines leading to the sisters of the sea who now waved farewell for today. Sliding waves ends made their deepest gentle reach in land, one across the last, touching his feet. A last caress confirming their new allegiance.
These fading numinous trickles broke away as a voice called out to him from the sea. Raising his eyes from the wave tips at his toes to look out to see who called. Two freinds were waving their arms to catch his attention from a blue boat. The man he called now a brother leapt from the boat into the inflatable dingy he knew. Slowly the smile of the son of God grew closer. Removing his shoes and socks Peter walked out to the holy man. Waist high water around him felt good. The arm he knew well, punctured with holes and deep scars, reached out to him. Their hands held and he was pulled on board.
Christ: "Peter! I'm fucking glad to see you, mate! You look tripped out to fuck! Get yourself cosy and I'll have us back with the possessive Druid before you know it."
Andy soon took both his hands pulling him onto the bluebird. They hugged each other. Then they both hugged Christ. They were precious, trusted brothers. Laying on his back Peter looked to the stars that began to pierce the deepening blue as day handed over to the night. He relaxed knowing he was safe. After night lost any last traces of day light he looked toward a bigger red boat where a line of people he had grown to love stood waiting to haul him in to their number. Tired, so very tired now. There must be a bed for him there. That was enough transcendence for a while, he thought. These last two trips had been further than he'd ever been. All he wanted was to sleep. Hopefully next to Charlotte. He lost consciousness, exhaustion took him under.


Briggs drove toward his home town but turned right on to the A49. He could not face speaking to his wife. He loved her so much. He hoped that she believed the lies he was intending to leave behind in his suicide note. If she could hate him, forget the good times, maybe she would find someone better. Anything he could tell her that was true could only endanger her. The Lexus pulled in to church Stretton petrol station forecourt. He filled up with fuel then slipped into the town to look at his account. Following their recent holidays there'd be over £26000, he guessed. The deal Bill had arranged would use £5000. Quick estimates of air ticket to the Caribbean, boat hire costs etc, other expenses he began to tally up as he pushed his debit card into the ATM machine. £276000.47. Shock first, confusion till the slow realisation settled in. Once his card returned Briggs entered the Barclays branch where staff members who knew him nodded. Orgreave holdings ltd had made a payment earlier today. A quarter of a million. Bribery from the people above Reeves and Nutall. They had him trapped. Any dalliance would soon find investigators straight into his account details. Briggs grinned. This made things so much more simple. His wife's account, once he'd made a transfer had a small balance increased by £100000. He deposited the same amount into his sisters account. Last transaction he pulled out the folded slip of paper Bill had written the account number, name and sort code for a girl he would never meet for £5000. Once seated back in his car he texted a number the boy had given him saying merely 'paid'. His plans now took on new possibilities. He could even buy a boat and sail over there. Two minutes had passed when his phone bleeped. The payment had gone through. There was a picture message. A photo taken of an ordinance survey map. North of Hereford and west wards was a quarry. This was marked. Further details described where a cave could be found, how to open the entrance, how far down he must walk. The description then took a side tunnel where two keys could be found. Another photo showed a heap of rocks. Behind them was some steel vault. Inside he would find the hardware.
Another hours drive found him outside a disused quarry entrance. Boulders formed a blockade to discourage travellers from setting up home there. If he had been robbed the research was detailed. As the directions had said the heap of rocks once laboriously taken away opened up a tunnel high enough to walk down without the need to stoop. The peculiar accuracy of the circular rock flopped over exposing the keys. This must have been chosen with some care. Thirty minutes of sweat as his torch slowly grew dimmer left him elated. Before him was the steel box. A hidden chest of treasure. Being no expert Briggs selected on intuition. Two shoulder mounted anti tank rocket launchers, six grenades, a stubby looking Uzi machine gun, a long range rifle with stand and scope. Finally he took ammunition for all the weapons and two handguns.
Once he had loaded the contents into the Lexus boot he had one other call to make. Hetty sounded overjoyed he was in the area. He wanted her to run through her story one last time. Get exact details on Bunsen Island. As yet the wasn't certain how best to get there with this small armoury. But he couldn't take it through customs. That much was certain. A rush of adrenalin flooded him, every molecule tingled. Looking around it seemed quiet. Far from any dwellings. Taking one of the rocket launchers then locking the car boot, he walked back down the track. Rock faces either side grew in height as he passed the uncovered tunnel he'd left. A few hundred yards further on the track concluded in a horse show bowl, cliffs forming a circular wall all bar the entry route he'd walked down, a circular flat deck some 200 metres in diameter. Briggs stood at the edge, shouldered the weapon, felt its ergonomic perfection. It fit his bogey like some new SCSI robotic limb. The optical system flicked over into position. Sights beyond any telescope he had used. Focussing on the far cliff, 200metres zoomed in till he could see a beetle scurrying over the grey surface. One Boulder stood out. A caravan in size. Briggs centred in. The cross hairs had a subtle, delicate touch. Safety clicked off. Standing braced for recoil Briggs squeezed the trigger slowly. Air shifted in pressure pulling him back into a vacuum, a line of white led forth. Rocks as big as soccer balls were half way toward him when the sound hit. Boom! Flattened impulsively Behring near rocks Briggs wiped white stone dust from his face. Then standing from his clothes. The Boulder was no more. The spread of its parts, few bigger than a portable television spread across the deck. No longer able to retain composure, laughter took him in to a drunkness. He felt happy. Such fucking power! He may be dead soon but there'd be a mess left in his wake.

Bill had cleared his bedroom more thoroughly than he had in years. Fresh bedding smelt good. After a shower he was about to go to sleep for the night when he heard a vehicle pull up outside. Surely that copper hadn't returned. Pulling a slight gap in the curtains he saw Paters Mercedes sprinter. The passenger door opened and Stella jumped out. She was saying some thank you'd to whoever was driving. Slamming the door shut she walked towards the door that he'd opened to Briggs some hours earlier. Bill grinned. Fucking beauty! He thought. He'd even brushed his teeth.


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