Chapter 15 Lipton, Skree and Christ catch up

Skip this chapter if you don’t care too much about the characters and just want to see where the plot goes. Catch up in chapter 16. Aberdeen.

DC Dwyer had come to terms with the challenges facing the force ever since Theresa May was made home secretary for the Cameron, Osborne, Clegg government voted in through forming an alliance. Her job was to cut spending. She sliced the balls off the police and everything changed. Compromises had to be made. Tom Dwyers younger brother, Ian had started hanging round with the wrong crowd at school and Tom had been powerless as he watched Ian drift off into psychosis just as his peers were finding their first loves. It was this, the chance to stop others drifting off into schizophrenia, the uniform gave him the power to make a difference. But now his superiors had decreed that weed was essentially legal. Their just wasn’t the man power to enforce a law few saw as a crime. But DC Dwyer continued to make arrests for a drug that had destroyed his brother. Once the frowns of his bosses had become insufficient to prevent him wasting the precious little time left to their area he had been taken to one side and given such a dressing down he was left confounded. His reason for taking the job was gone. On occasion they were permitted to use cannabis possession as a tool to dig into things which they knew about but couldn’t explain how they knew. All criminals Tom had found were grasses despite being one of the highest values of the code. Maybe back in the 60s and 70s the villain code was adhered to. He’d heard how the associates of the Kray twins had served ten years and wouldn’t make statements. But now? A scared kid would spill his guts rather than face prison. But out here they had taken a pragmatic approach to crime. Shop lifters who had a bag of food with a value of less than £250 were sent on the way by the shops security. Police didn’t have time to deal with this. Of course the higher level shop lifters who took a whole bunch of designer bags and did this every day, well eventually they’d get round to being held if the security guard was sufficiently strong to hold the crim until a police could get there. Often three or four hours. They’d get sent to court, serve six weeks then be straight back at it. There just wasn’t a way to stop it. America had taken to privatisation of jails and long sentences for minor crimes but here in merry old England shop lifting, like smoking weed, was effectively legal.

The small towns DC Dwyer operated in; Frome, shepton mallet, Pilton, Glastonbury, Street, Wells, had long established hard drug dealers. They had their punters who they’d had for years and rarely even tried to grow their business. It was about supporting their habit. The heroin scene was an established community and as long as there was no violence, few youngsters getting involved and few overdoses, the police were content to know who was doing what where. The cocaine business was similarly tolerated. Every body did it these days. He could guess which of his fellow officers were at it. The main man was a businessman who had a number of legitimate business interests and ran the 24:7:365 line that was the cheapest and most reliable and usually the best quality. The boss was two degrees of separation from the swapping of cash for powder. The sniffers were from all walks of life. Teachers, judges, electricians, joiners, plumbers and police men and women. Dwyer swallowed as this thought went through his mind.

These established dealers whose practice was as accepted as any other small business was as committed to stopping the new wave of county lines bastards as the police were. The media had become entranced by the new dealers who generally conformed to the same pattern. They would find a vulnerable smack or crackhead and cuckoo their flats. The daily struggle to finance their habits was tough. The promise of a few bags and pipes a day if the outsiders could use their premises as a base was an offer that many junkies succumbed to. But the approach to drug supply was different from the established locals who seldom attracted violence and maintained their customer base operating as a service to the community. The county lines outsiders, once they had found a place to cuckoo would get a burner phone and gather the numbers of all the addicts in the area, often paying a pipe for a dozen or so users. From here they would not wait for the addicts to come to them naturally but send out group texts advertising their wares. 3 for 25, best in town. On till late. The addict may have settled down for the night but a text could trigger them to go find some money. The small Somerset towns were 99% white and a black kid stood out a mile. The vulnerable victim would find himself out delivering for a pipe. And little violent flair ups compounded the new comer’s authority. Dwyer had been aware of Beamer and Magno but so far they had been smart enough to make sure their product was not on their person. Where as the local dealers had waited for the customer to come to them the county lines kids were not users and were in constant effort to expand and make as much money as possible. Occasional users became committed to the daily grind; shop lifting, petty theft, and formally respectable girls turned to prostitution.

DC Dwyer had never been fully educated about the Witchfynders. He had thought they were a story to test the gullible. But tonight he had been given a quick breakdown from his superior and even from the tone of his voice it was clear that they had authority over the police and he was to close down a small party on a large roundabout. There were seven people there. Three were to be cuffed and left for the Witchfynder general and his apprentice. He would dismiss the two girls should they still be there and he would have a unique opportunity to get the two lads who had caused so much trouble and the police had been humiliated on two occasions when they searched them and found nothing. Tonight he might get the two little bastards; Beamer and Magno.

The three friends had no time to catch up on how they had survived. Lipton and Skree kicked soil and pissed onto the fire. Christ joined them. Now his erection had subsided he could feel the fullness of his bladder. Smoke and steam went skyward as the shamanic ritual they always engaged in was done. Lipton took the lead and thanked the universe for their good fortune and asked for a little cover for them. The girls had gone towards the floodlit zone of the ground work night workers that were on double time. The new power station at Hinckley Point had deadline penalties for the contractors and the men in high visibility vests laboured away. Working far from home they might need some comfort and Shaz and Stacy were there to provide it.

The two shotters had zipped off as soon as they heard things were coming on top. Beamer gave Magno his props. The lad had been the one to click that they had to leave, quick. They were well used to melting into the night.

As the bladders emptied Lipton said a few words in language Skree didn’t understand and crossed his hands, drawing an imaginary square above the fire. Skree saw Christ looking skyward and made a plea that he couldn’t hear. Perhaps the messiah was on better terms with his dad since he had last seen him.

More practically Skree urged them “quick! My car is in that lay-by, 200 yards! Tops!”

And they ran though none of them were fit anymore and got in and Skree tore away.

“There’s cameras on that roundabout. They’ll get my number plate before too long but I’ve seen what those Witchfynders do to people like us. To shamans, Druids, witches and maybe even you JC. The man their church and reason for being revere. They couldn’t handle the truth.”

Skree was in the driving seat, Lipton had taken the seat beside him and Christ who Skree could tell now was not fully reanimated. The chunks of his body were in place but the stench of rotting flesh was overwhelming in the confined space of the car. He was two thirds resurrected at a guess.

First time he and Lipton had met Jesus at a huge site party at the Moorlands site in Glastonbury he had been listening to the two shamans talking and he had few people who he could tell. He must have heard them talking of different dimensions and the various demons they had come across. They were clearly not too comfortable there and he bumped into their conversation. He had no one there he could even find who would engage with the possibility that he could be Christ and he didn’t want anyone to know anyway. But here he thought that for the first time in centuries he might have found some people who he could, well, just be himself with. Skree had met a man who claimed to be King Arthur. He’d met two charlatans who claimed to be Merlin. Glastonbury was that kind of town. It attracted such types and Skree couldn’t stand them. Neither he nor Lipton would ever consider trying to tell the crusty crew about how they had inadvertently become shamans. That is a whole other story. The three of them had retired to a quiet corner where they got incredibly drunk. Skree saw the stigmata. He’d passed him a joint he’d positioned in the hole in his hand. Skree took the bifter and smoked it for a while before asking him a few questions. He gave just too much detail when describing times in the past. He just didn’t care whether you believed him or not. His description of the story that the gospels told felt authentic. It took time but eventually Skree came to believe that he was Christ. Lipton wasn’t right bothered. If the bloke wanted to be Jesus then that was ok with him. Who knew who anyone was anyway. The three men became a little gang and slowly, over a few months, they became tight friends. Lipton and Skree were the closest of the three but Jesus was not far off. Skree and Lipton had never set out to be shamans. In truth they’d rather not be. But the visions they had seen, the dimensions they had been forced into and forced to fight there way out of, transcendent states some of which were deeply terrifying, they had shared these strangest of levels of existence, from here, having been places no one else would ever go, this left a bond that could never be broken. Christ had become close to them both and been of great help on many occasions when the reach of common man would have been of no help. He’d performed numerous miracles, usually involving turning water into wine and they’d spent a drunken summer together before he and Lipton had been called to the Orkney islands to kill a Nazi who was hidden out up there. Christ had gone off to stay with some mates in Wales but kept in touch. He had no personal hygiene and never got a bath, was a womaniser, drank heavily and never refused any drug he was offered. Lipton and Skree were the first people since the 19th century who he had been able to be himself with. Their shamanic work was not the conventional village witch doctor who cured individuals. They were instead engaged more often with inter dimensional problems. Either using sacramental plants to find a state of being where they could return demons who had burst through or entering dimensions to find people who had been kidnapped and taken to places no one should ever see. They had never wanted to be Shamans and the work had left them with severe addictions. Now they had become mates with a man, or a man who was the son of a god who had loved the world so much he had sacrificed the lad. Great for the people who became Christian’s but not so good to the man whose father had rejected to a painful death in the hope it would somehow make up for the sins of his people. Christ had a terrible relationship with his dad. He was now stuck on earth, not able to die and escape the dimension, cursed to suffer numerous deaths that he opened up to the two shamans about. He could be a pain to be around at times but he had helped them in so many situations that they could not help but forgive him his character flaws.

As the Kia piquanto raced off silence fell on the roundabout and no one arrived until fifteen minutes later when Dwyer pulled his car up. Carefully mounting the curb until his vehicle sat on the grass verge that surrounded plantation of small shrubs and bushes. He set the hazard warning lights and locked it. The Witchfynder would be easily able to find the scene of pagan debauchery and further, much darker arts Dwyer had no experience of. He could see through the bushes that a small fire still burned but the criminals were gone. He took a thorough look at the scene before taping it off as a crime scene. Perhaps this was excessive but his boss had clearly wanted to ensure that the Witchfynders were not let down by poor policing. Dwyer could see abandoned drug paraphernalia and the compulsion to enter the scene and get some info on the two black lads who had entered the previously static and harmless drug scene. A social community that were invisible to the straight goers. But since these out of town, black county lines types had arrived a violence that had never occurred during the previous local scene had changed things. The Wolf had been the servant of the community for decades. He’d never been busted. He was one step above the bag dealers, selling Henry’s, T’s and Q’s to the bottom level dealers who, through the Wolf’s wholesale price, were able to support their habits by supplying the same small circuit for years. But Beamer had seen that the Wolf was preventing the local towns junkies from entering the desperate stage where they would hungrily plead for his smaller, lower quality bags and stones. A twenty stone was all it took for Sharon, a desperate low level smackhead to get his address. It took just Magno, two local lads in ski masks and himself to lead the attack on his home. They’d smashed all his windows before taking his stash and battering The ageing junky with baseball bats. It was one of the local lads who delivered the headshots that killed the man and they left his body for someone to find. DC Dwyer had no proof it was Beamer who was the killer or the architect of the Wolfs murder but it was well known amongst the community and he had his informants.

He positioned himself, feet apart and hands behind his back, not moving until a black jaguar pulled up, parallel to his police car. A tall, black haired man in a black cloak and white collar. He had once had black hair but now it was combed back with grey streaks. A younger man in similar attire stepped out of the passenger seat.

“Good man Dwyer. How long have you been here holding the fort?”

“Close to two hours now sir. The fire is all but embers though I did as my superior told me; sealed off the crimescene and disturbed nothing.”

“No sight of the three men?”

“I saw no one. By the time I was here the targets were gone.”

“Thank you Dwyer. These are not your run of the mill criminals. They are led by two shamans who are enmeshed in demonology and have committed their souls to the devil. In tow they have a dangerous charlatan who claims to be Jesus Christ. Though this is laughable as were the son of god to set foot in the world of man he would make straight for the Vatican. Engage with the Pope. Discuss theology and deliver his message from his father that the priesthood, the magnificent Cathedrals and churches show appropriate devotion and work with them to spread the word.

But this fellow is clearly pretending to be the messiah. A crime punishable by torture and death. He dresses in clothing that looks like it has never been washed. His hair hangs down; greasy and filthy. He takes drugs! Drinks to excess! And chooses to align himself with the two most powerful shamans in the country. Skree and Lipton. All three are homeless and sleep on traveler sites and in woods. Dwyer couldn’t help but think of how Jesus was portrayed in The Passion of the Christ.

But DC Dwyer! Do you know why I am chosen for this job? I suspect you don’t.

Last year. Rupert Bunsen had used his immense wealth to create a project beyond the dreams of NASA. I am a man of god and I’m not qualified to make criticisms of new technologies. But I can tell you this was without question the most advanced vehicle that I have ever seen . It was stored beneath the ocean that surrounds Bunsen Island. But it was a team of pagans, witches Druids, shamans who all practiced Satanic arts. They all formed a band of such evil; the Druids with their worship of the oak, did you know that Dwyer? Id is Ancient Greek for knowledge and dru old English for oak; the witches have continued their satanic filth hidden away in the farthest corners of these isles. A man claiming to be the messiah, well, he has not claimed nor refused to answer the simple honest question that Pilate asked him. And the architects of most damage these last twenty years of gods work; two fraudulent charlatans who claim to be shamans! Despite there being no historical evidence of shamanism on these islands.Indeed, Dwyer, we must show them the wrath of god. They will suffer before they die.”

Dwyer began to feel uncomfortable. As though he were talking to religious zeal no longer a part of 21st century society. This felt more akin to the Islamist rhetoric of the taliban or Isis. But as a junior officer he would do what he was told.

“Robert Peel began your discipline in 1809 I believe, or there abouts. Our craft has a history stretching back at least three times as long. I say this not to assert authority but if you would do me the service of securing your taped circle and allow no one entry it would be easier for me and brother Tobin to assess what satanic practice has taken place this evening. Already I feel the scent of the dark lord gradually evaporating and the sooner we get to work the better!”

DC Dwyer nodded his inferior status and stood aside his Lexus in blue, white and yellow high visibility paintwork and left the lights flashing to confirm that this was a serious incident.

The Witchfynder general moved quickly, educating Tobin of the significance of the circle. The fire had been extinguished through the urine of the three minions of Satan.

Leaving Tobin to study the aftermath of the fire Father Bennett rummaged through the bushes returning holding proudly aloft three used condoms, all tied off. From his box of instruments the Witchfynder general produced three small containers and a needle. He pierced each allowing a drop to fall in to each container. Using a pipette he took a small amount of liquid from a dark container and dropped a small tear in to each. Within seconds all were aglow.

“Look master Tobin! These are the semen of a single man! Yet, take note, each condom is as full as the first. For any normal man his ejaculate would have diminished following each whore! This is the work of no man. It is as though the volume of semen he delivered was consistent! And my tests show that, though five men were here only one took the services of the harlots! This is ungodly work.”

Returning to the fire embers the Witchfynder general began to stir the ashes, looking for further evidence of witchcraft.

“I’ve found a lot of drug paraphernalia, crack pipes, foil and such like.” Tobin offered.

“Good man Tobin! Gather it together and seal it in bags.”

Tobin worked his way round the fire wearing plastic gloves to collect the foil, lighters and broken crack pipes.

“Make sure you have it all Tobin and forward me the video short that you received from Magno. That is perhaps the most solid piece evidence we have.

As father Benett, the Witchfynder general was about to leave the scene with no significant piece of evidence something caught his eye. Taking a small sealy bag from his pocket he reached in to the undergrowth and found a human toe. In all his years witchfynding he had found nothing like it but somehow it gave him hope. He chose not to mention it to Tobin. Until he knew what it meant himself he would keep it secret.

“I guess we check all CCTV and number recognition. With a bit of luck they’d have been seen leaving. It’s our best bet..”

They said nothing as they ran the few hundred yards to Skrees Kia. Once they were all in they put some miles between them and the roundabout. After thirty odd miles it seemed that they would be an easy target in the night before they saw a quiet looking lay-by . Too much to say so they said nothing. Just as someone was about to spend they all saw something. Three men in Their early thirties, dressed in dark clothing slipped from the tarpaulin down the back of a lorry. Straight away Skree was out. At first they were terrified. They didn’t know this country or how it worked. After some time and patchy Spanish and English they established they were illegal migrants looking for a better life. They’d managed to get hidden away on a lorry to Aberdeen. The lorry driver must have stopped for a sleep and it seemed a good time to jump ship. Skree said “do want a free car? Just make sure you explore the country as much as possible..”

“what? You give car free? For nothing?”

“See it as a welcome to. Albion! There are as many versions of England as there are englanders but ours is a welcoming land of mystical beauty. It is in a bad way now but see this gift, and do the same for someone else in need then you will be helping to make England great again. But I implore you. Some may follow you. It is not you that they want. So I’d guess you have a good two, maybe three days safe passage in this car, after that mind, I’d make sure you get clear of it. Give it away to someone like yourselves who needs it. But go now, go exploring now.”

The shaman muttered a few sacred verses to protect the new people and watched them drive off into the night.

Christ, Lipton and Skree slipped under the tarpaulin and found the three travellers had made a comfy nest. There was food and drink and the three had plenty of drugs and wine so made themselves comfortable. Now they could catch up.0

Witchfynder general.? D C Dwyer here. Our cameras have them spotted. They are in a black Kia Piquano, 25 plate, headed toward Cirencester though well keep you updated should they continue on to any further destination.. these days we are able to keep a good eye on any vehicle.

“Good man Dwyer. Keep us posted on any shifts in their apparent route.”

“Should we not bring them in swiftly?” Tobin asked.

“With contemporary technology we need not succumb to the urge. Let them run a while. They know that we are on to them. Should we spring our trap too early we might easily lose the chance of catching the entire coven for they are in league with Druids and witches so let them run a little. We can guarantee the three but we can hope for up to a dozen. And Brother Tobin, it is one thing to question a shaman but quite another to question a witch! You will see. I personally pride myself on being, would it be too strong to say gifted, let’s say talented in the inquisition of the female servants of the Devil himself.”

The two Witchfynders felt confident that they would soon have their men. Now only the choice of torture need be decided upon. Father Bennett was unsure of the depth of brother Tobins experience in the widespread techniques of interrogation and extraction of truth from the most deeply possessed and his mind went back to when his own mentor, Father Erasmus had first allowed him to employ the vaginal lances, a test of his commitment to the craft and also his initiation into some of the most effective tools in their arsenal. Of course his administration of the tools had been tentative at first but through the encouragement of Erasmus and his clarification of the depth of evil that they were dealing with he had soon taken to his work with a relish and selfless dedication that had been the beginning of his rise through the ranks of the craft. Tobin would find his way. Perhaps he would even teach him the trick he had been taught by Erasmus, his mentor. The cutting open of the holes in his pockets allowing him to pluck a tuft of pubic hair , just sufficient pain to return the mind to the task in hand.

At first it was unclear whether they were the only stowaways in the lorry or if more were making their illegal migration into England aboard the lorry. Neither was it clear whether they were paid up or if the lads had sneaked in in much the same manner as they had been seen sneaking out. However soon it was clear that they were alone. The three men who had been the grateful recipients of a year old Kia piquanto, albeit hot as fuck, had waited for their moment and hitched a ride, unbeknownst of the driver who had inadvertently become a people trafficker. The three men had made a pretty comfy den already and Lipton had his bedding from his tent. Christ never complained about rough conditions, often prone to bragging about being born in a stable and Skree could cope with most things having spent months, years at a time, homeless. Lipton had a small torch and Skree had a phone though it had been GPS disabled. Being hunted down by extreme Christians or risking losing his handset, well, who wants their location being known to government minions and police? It’s a no brainer. None had yet broached the subject of how they were all alive. A vast elephant in the room, the back of the lorry anyway.

“What pleasant part of this island do you reckon those lads will end up at?” Christ asked not expecting any response.

“I don’t give a fuck so long as it’s a long way from Aberdeen!”

“So let’s hear your story first. You are, after all the messiah, the son of God.”

“Ok! You lot have always had an unnatural belief in the supernatural. And I have, despite my few tricks; walking on water, converting water into wine. Well having been dragged on some ridiculous mission to destroy the NOAH project, the theory being that Rupert Bunsen and his gang of super rich clients had seen that the planet had been plundered of all mineral resources. Consequently this bunch of delusional idiots had purchased tickets to board his spaceship. They had come to see that the Earth was but a stepping stone. Having used up all the Earths resources they now planned to travel to a new planet. Unfortunately, as seems often the case, I was to be sacrificed. Some lunatic fired a bunch of missiles at me and I was blown into a number of pieces. Being cursed by my father, a creature a large number of humans believe to be of supernatural powers , the components I was now torn apart into. Unfortunately I can not die. It has taken me months to reanimate. So here I am. Half returned to being a man again. These reanimations are fucking painful. And to be frank I’d much prefer to die!”

Skree and Lipton sat in the back of the lorry. Being cursed with forever having to resurrect must be not only painful but a shit existence.

“I’m sorry mate. I’d never thought about it that way.”

Both skree and Lipton reflected on things. Being placed as shamans had not been fun. But being cursed to eternal life was way worse. “ I thought we’d had it tough. But now I’ve given it some thought, well, weve been lucky!”

“Folk think we’ve been dealt a tough card. But I think we’ve been linked.”

The lorry slowly began. To move.

“Ever been to Aberdeen?”

Soon the three of them snuggled down. All lost in their thoughts . And before long they were all asleep. The gentle movement of the lorry found them all asleep.

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Holly Blue

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Stairwell moths

Burnished brass

Yellow shell

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Austin 1300

When I was a kid we used to go on holiday to see my mother’s parents in Torquay. My grandad had an Austin 1100, a step down from this one I saw parked outside B&M. This was a navy blue colour and we had a crash. Being a two door, the front seats were hinged and lent forward to allow access for back seat passengers. When he crashed these tipped forward though both front seat passenger and driver were wearing seat belts. The seats crashed back down and hit my foot. It was painful but the fact we had crashed left us all in shock. I can’t remember any further details. Apparently, before he had his navy blue 1100 he had one this colour that my brother remembers . I can’t remember that one.

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Holly Blue

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Holly Blue

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Chapter 14 Roundabout

Lipton felt the ice cold rush of the good quality stone. This was freebase but whoever Beamer was working for had the sense to rinse the ammonia off thoroughly and then leave it to dry and for any remaining traces of the ammo to evaporate. When done correctly it was better than crack. When done badly those who were smoking it regularly would soon have COPD and usually on to emphysema. He’d had half a dozen freinds die from this. Tufty and Gena in Leeds. They’d had a successful antiques shop and a semi detached house they’d bought. This masked an even more successful heroin business. He’d got in early just as the UK was being flooded with Afghan brown heroin that funded the war. It had hit Leeds a little later than the epidemic in Liverpool and Edinburgh but Tufty back then could put up 200k on a deal, something very few could. And having contacts in other cities brought in the new druggy fashion. Speed freaks were worn out by the last few years banging the strong white powder and already used the works exchange scheme. Already had the fixation with hypodermics. For a few years, despite the far too frequent overdoses the city found a routine. A rhythm. Smack heads found their personal requirement and in general stuck to the amount they needed and rarely exceeded it. Back then cocaine was considered something of a yuppie drug then in the early noughties they clicked over to the rhythm of the junkies on the Wire. Brandy and Whiskey, East and West, light and dark, bees and wasps, b and w. Heroin was no longer enough. Once you have a pipe you want another. Tufty and Gena first lost the antique shop. He’d hustle the money together and get over to Bradford. The large Pakistani community meant that they could get good gear. He’d flip his first quarter, buy a load of crack, gather another fistful of cash and buy another q, sell it and by the end of the night he would have an eighth or more to himself. When he was tired he would pass out and the people in the room would scour the floor and area around him for pipes he’d dropped. Any small white chunks would be swiftly hoovered up by the crackheads who invariably followed him, like a pied piper. A crack piper. He’d give out the odd one but unless you were buying. Well. You know. Gena became bed bound and needed respiratory machines and oxygen around the time they sold the house. Nearly £200,000 they had but this didn’t last long. Frequently being robbed as the company they kept were fellow crackheads. Tufty lasted for a year longer than Gena. Both were fascinating and interesting people. He’d taken Lipton on his rounds many a time and he had punters from every walk of life from lawyers and solicitors, nightclub owners and exotic dancers, bare knuckle fighters and prostitutes. Through Tufty Lipton had seen a fascinating slice through the city. Finally his lungs packed in too.

Liptons mind had drifted off as Jesus was holding court over the young drug dealers with stories Lipton had heard a hundred times before. Back in town when Jesus had conjured up the wine and sold it to the Asian shop keepers and they’d linked up with the two shotters, Christ had got talking to a couple of street girls who were on the game. He’d invited them back to his secret roundabout sanctuary. Now Skree was dead Christ was arguably his best friend. He was great in small doses but he had the habit of getting the roughest dossers to come and share his free wine. Not much had changed since he famously pulled a dozen married fathers, working men, shepherds fishermen and amassed the gang of street drinkers history knows as the apostles. Apisstles more like thought Lipton. He’d have to move on now. The fire was now burning bigger and passing cars could probably see it. This would be one last party. Hopefully they’d not be disturbed by the police but by the morning shift word would have got to them. Lipton would have to find a new hideout. If JC was to be in tow he’d have to keep them on the move. He was a good crack and a party animal but he just couldn’t seem to keep it cool. It always seemed to come on too when he was around.

Christ was shouting out to anyone who would listen about his adventures.

Lipton heard a rustling in the bushes and thought it was probably the prostitutes. Christ had bragged about the free drugs and wine we’d be drinking. He had a thing for loose women. Lipton thought back to the massive free party they’d got together with the Clun lads. At the after party Christ had a bunch of slappers with him, easily a dozen who were enthralled by him. The reserections he could summon up from somewhere inside had them enthralled. Lipton had one night where he had a girl in the afternoon a couple of times and his new girlfriend twice also in the evening. That was his record. But Christ had twelve hot and hungry slappers who’d tagged along after the night clubs were closed and the whole dozen were satisfied.

Obviously, since the widespread availability of Viagra, Christs unique charm had taken a pummelling. But his reserrections were not just the rigidity of the tool, it was matched with the hungry enthusiasm he’d had for his first. He must have done all twelve four times each that night. He thought of where Brock had gone and left the chunks of his body and remembered something about crankshafts bird. It was always happening. Thinking back, when they’d bumped into him on the second hill fort, on their journey to Bury Ditches and the teaming up with the Druids there he’d arrived with some story from his staying in wales with Ianto and Gwenno. He’d spoiled their relationship too during his stay with them. Wherever you took him he’d crack on to somebody’s bird. And nine times out of ten, even if they couldn’t stand the filthy hippy, somehow it always happened. Some blokes just have that, he guessed. Christ had it in spades. Never leave your girlfriend anywhere alone with him. He was as hungry for sex as he was for drugs and drink.

The pipe had left him feeling dissatisfied and a bit paranoid. He could do with getting rid of these drug dealers and his impulse was to tell the working girls to fuck off once they’d done business with Christ. It was too much for him. He hadn’t been out of the mental hospital long and he stood up with hands on his hips and was about to lay down the law. After all it was his site. Granted it was a public space but he had fancied just chilling out with Jesus, having a few pipes and bottles of wine and a bit of gear and quietly staring into the embers and reminiscing about times they’d had with Skree.

Stacy and Shaz had a rough night on the beat. After they’d scored from Beamer and Magno they’d found a corner of the bus station and had a pipe each. Chacing the brown when you’re out is impractical unless you’ve got a public toilet and if they’d had a public toilet they’d have had a hit anyway. Stacy had taken to going into her groin. The smaller surface veins were long gone and she hated waiting for Shaz as she fucked about from place to place in her legs and congealing blood in the syringe made it a race against time and she’d seen her, after fucking about for half an hour or more finally have to abandon the hit and she’d throw it in anger and frustration. But she still wouldn’t use the big vein in her groin reasoning that an important artery ran very close to it and she might die. Some people just can’t be told. So instead they’d taken to carrying a second pipe, just for gear. They both had a few blasts and the warm and comforting heroin soothed away the rough edges of the crack and rounded off their self respect and readied them for the nights whoring.

They’d bumped into a squady the previous night who’d said that it was his mates stag night tomorrow which was now today and they’d be twelve strong, all wanting business. So when that greasy long haired bloke pushing a trolley full of wine bottles had said that him and his moody looking mate were taking Mag and Beamer back to a roundabout camp they’d just scratched it off. Squadys were usually good punters and if they caught them before they’d spent their money they could clear up. Twelve blow jobs in one place without having to walk the beat waiting for single men meant they could make a couple of hundred quid in an hour. Turned out there were only five of them and only three wanted business. Stacy had done one of her regulars but the beat looked quiet after that so they’d rang Beamer and asked him what he could do for a oner. The greasy bloke had promised them a few pipes if they came to his party and he said he definitely wanted business and he wanted a double so they’d both get paid.

It was fairly warm and Stacy knew a taxi driver would take them there. He wanted Shaz for a change so she sat in the back of his Volvo, counting the nights paltry takings. It was only about two miles out of town and she heard the slopping sound as Shaz tight ponytail bobbed up and down as the driver smoothly drove them through the night.

“Can you hurry up Shaz, we’re nearly there.”

Shaz gave Stacy a thumbs up and increased her speed. From 200 yards Stacy could see the light of the fire through the bushes and the driver was making noises of pleasure as he neared his destination and took his hand from the gear stick to hold the ponytail down. Shaz was left with no option and swallowed. As the car slowed to let the passengers out Shaz managed to free herself from his grip.

“That’s another 20!” Shaz snarled as she wiped a drop of jism from her lip. Without complaint the driver took his wallet from his pocket and pulled a note and handed it to her.

Affecting a manner of affection Shaz said

“Here love. Let me sort you out.” and pulled his trousers back to where they should be. She slowly zipped up his fly and rebuckled his belt while Stacy distracted him

“I told you she was good”

And Shaz gently slid his wallet free and slipped it down the front of her trousers and in a duet of chaotic confusion they jumped from the taxi and ran across the road and into the bushes in the centre of the roundabout. Both giggling!

“Did you get it?” Stacy asked

“Of course I fucking did. I’m no amateur. I’m a pro.”

So rustling a path through the undergrowth the two girls burst into the clearing laughing hysterically. The shaman, the messiah, the shotter and his apprentice all smiled along with them as the firelight warmed their faces.

“Welcome ladies! JC is in the driving seat tonight and any passengers on my bus can share in my windfall.” Christ informed the new arrivals to the party.

Bollocks! Thought Lipton. He’d hoped they wouldn’t come and the night would wind down sufficiently for him to get a few hours sleep. This looked unlikely now.

“Fancy a pipe ladies?”

“Aye! You twisted my arm.” Stacy answered for both of them. They had £120 plus whatever they found in the taxi driver’s wallet Shaz had still down the front of her trousers, currently slipping deeply into her knickers. They could pay but no one turns down a free pipe. Not unless they’re a straight goer or a Christian.

Christ slipped Beamer another £60 who handed him back three pea sized balls tightly wrapped in cling film.

Looking at his supplier Christ reprimanded “why do you have to package it so it takes twenty minutes to get in?”

“5 o! Then if we get pulled I can swallow it easily then throw it back up once they’ve fucked off.”

“That was my plan when Judas fucked off to the all night garage and came back with his Roman buddies.” He rambled on as he unwrapped the shots of rock, working his way through the cling film.

“But once I was shackled they didn’t take their eyes off me. My hands were behind my back in the bracelets so I couldn’t stick my finger down my throat. I just had to wait while my stomach digested it. It was top notch Lebanese hash and it was like coming up on a trip it was that strong. Then, just as I was peaking, Pompous Pillock, the high ranked Roman, starts questioning me, asking me if I was the son or god. I didn’t know who the fuck I was but I certainly felt like the son of god. Finally! Here, split this between you. You should get at least two each out of that.”

Stacy handed Shaz her half, broke a chunk off and put it in her pipe. The two girls both sparked up lighters at the same time and took deep lungfuls of smoke. Wow! That ice cold feeling of utter stillness as the cocaine entered their bloodstreams and broke the barrier into their brains delivering the chemical high.

Christ looked on grinning. It was always comical how despite the best efforts of comportment, good crack never failed to silence the most babblesome of people.

Christ passed a chunk to Lipton and they joined the girls in their own rush.

Once the effects waned as they always did Shaz rummaged through her knickers and brought out the taxi driver’s wallet. A collection of crumpled twenties, tens and a few fives sparked Stacy to make her claim.

“He’s my John and I distracted him so we’re going halves on it. Shaz reluctantly conceded her point.

“Put it with the nights takings and see what we’ve got.”

“Theres £280. Can you do us a Henry of each Beamer?”

This was a wholesale deal and Beamer had been shotting JC who seemed happy to shop this way.

“What have you got left Magno. I’ll do it if we can, just for you girls and don’t tell your mates or they’ll think I’ve gone soft.”

Beamer and Magno kneeled either side of a flat rock the small time drug baron had been using as a seat.

“Make sure you don’t sell out and have to go reload.” Christ interjected. He’d been a loyal customer so far tonight and felt he deserved appropriate treatment.

“There’s plenty for you all mate. Don’t worry your greasy head.”

The minor insult was given no thought by the messiah or apparently so though it had registered and Christ, knowing Liptons penchant for a ruck, began to make a plan to make sure he came out of the night with his money back. Once they’d smoked all the white and brown anyway.

“You can return the favour now girls.” Christ said holding out his pipe.

“You’ve not finished working either have you? The white always gives me a stonker!”

Lipton dropped his gaze from his freinds face down to the front of his filthy jeans and saw the cunt wasn’t lying.

“Fuck mate! Can you not keep that thing in your kegs in check?”

Lipton admonished the pervert.

“Sorry Lipton lad! I’m only a red blooded man and these two ladies are just the sparkle this party needed.”

Placing his arm around Stacy’s shoulder, showing her he had the readies he led her off into the bushes.

“Payment is up front!”

Was the last thing he heard as the two lovers moved off to locate a private area to do their business.

Shaz looked expectantly over at him but Lipton shook his head but covered his potential insult.

“I’m alright at the moment sweetheart. You’re looking gorgeous mind. What about these two lads? They look game?”

Magno looked like he was about to bite but Beamer had been there more than once when the girls had been skint.”

“Nah! We’ve gotta bounce soon. Steph up in Glastonbury has sent some punter down I’m supposed to meet here. Soon as we’ve served him and sorted your mate out we’re out of here. Definitely have to reload by then. He should be here by now. Screamer or something he’s called.”

Liptons gear relaxed mind pulled to attention by the name.

“Are you sure he said Screamer?”

“Yey! Something like that.”

Nah. It couldn’t be. Lipton and Brock had sailed the stolen yacht over those waters for a couple of days making sure they weren’t leaving anyone. Skree was dead. It was a bummer but he’d have to suck it up. Just like Stacy. He chuckled to himself as he drifted back into the heroin glaze.

This had to be the place. Every other roundabout had been small and clear of any shrubs that you could hide a tent in. I’d learned the trick while hitching back from Stonehenge 82, my first free festival and what a wild mass of chaos that had been. 30,000 people and no toilets or native hardwoods. Only a couple of plantations of some sort of non deciduous trees so no fire wood unless you had a vehicle. I saw how the disorganised city kids like us had to watch the proper travellers in their vans and buses who dug latrine pits and brought wood to burn and drugs to sell. We had dropped acid within an hour of our arrival and the smell tent we had brought was very much a fair weather tent. The bloke I’d hitchhiked down with I hadn’t known too well. He’d lent me a sleeping bag for which I was grateful. During his trip he took it upon himself to get into his own sleeping bag and jump around wearing it looking like some huge grub. Unfortunately he jumped into some dog shit rendering it unusable. As we came down and started to get ready to sleep he’d decided that this was now the sleeping bag we wanted to lend me. I told him to fuck off and the festival got off to a disagreeable start. When we came to hitch back we’d had to make camp on the A1 near Mansfield and it was here that I had the idea of roundabout camping. It looked like I wasn’t the only one to have had the idea.

By now I was starting to cluck badly. The hyper real state, not unlike a trip but not a pleasant one. I’d been robbed before when I was desperate. While fitting out a part of the Deep, a vast sea water aquarium in Hull with sharks and rays and other marine fish, I’d been put up in a hotel with a load of rough builders staying there. I’d tried to find one of the prostitutes I’d seen plying their trade outside the hotel franchise. The night had been cold and I couldn’t find one to help me so I’d wandered into the town centre to try find some homeless junky who might help me out if I bought them something. I’d seen one lad who I thought might be able to help but as soon as I’d engaged him a friend of his materialised and together I walked with them. As the walk grew longer I knew I was going to be robbed I just didn’t know how. We ended up behind some flats and one of them went in with my money and returned with some soap powder. As soon as he gave me it I got away from them. It could easily have been worse. At least I’d only lost £40 and I hadn’t taken a beating. So I sucked it up, walked back to my van and headed for Leeds which was a bit of a trek but I knew where to score there and I was back at my hotel by midnight and I had a smoke.

This didn’t look like a set up. It was too weird. Steph would not have done the dirty on me, I knew and trusted her. I walked around the bushy perimeter, looking for an entrance or at least a thin spot where there weren’t too many brambles. By now I could see the fire and the silhouettes of a handful of people.

“Beamer!” I shouted. I’d spoke to him earlier and he’d promised to wait. Steph was a good customer and she’d vouched for me.

“I’m here, bro! There’s an opening just to your right!”

I found the thin spot where the undergrowth had been beaten back to form a small pathway and ducking down I scrambled my way through to a decent sized fire. Two young mixed race lads in classic sports wear. The three striped adidas track suit bottoms and Nike trainers. A cold looking girl stood holding her arms tightly around her thin clothing. A fourth figure was reclined on a sleeping bag with various drug paraphernalia spread out in front of him. I couldn’t toke it in at first. Surely it couldn’t be.

“Lipton! Tell me that is you!”

“Skree mate! Fuck! I thought you were dead.”

“I thought you were dead!”

“Come here brother!

And we embraced. I held him tight for fear he would dematerialise and just be some hallucination brought on by the rattle.

“Call me a cunt but I’ll be a whole lot more able to take this all in once I’ve got rid of this monkey on my back!”

Fucking hell! My best mate was alive. I rolled myself a tinfoil flute and greedily ran half a dozen lines from the vast beetle on his foil.

He had tears running down his face and his eyes, always warm and brown just stared at me and drank me up. He was lost for words just like I was.

“Fancy a pipe?”

The question required no answer. That question never does. I’d been convinced I’d been the sole survivor. I’d seen with my own eyes the boat go down, ripped deep beneath the sea’s surface with all my friends; the Druid lads from Clun, the witches who’d summoned up the sea demon, a creature from ancient times, a serpent so vast the whirlpool it created as it tore its way into Bunsens spaceship, hidden deep beneath. I’d watched as minutes passed before the boat had reemerged with all its crew lost beneath. No one could have survived that yet here he sat. Calmly round an open fire. His tear soaked cheeks and beard framing the broadest smile I’d ever seen on his face.

I looked at the seely bag that contained a good eighth, maybe even a quarter of brown and a scattering of white rocks on a saucer. His pipe looked thick with brown oil, there’d been some tackle through there tonight. I took it and selected a small chunk before Lipton shook his head and replaced it with far larger stone and passed me his lighter. I breathed in, then out, emptying my lungs then put the flame to the white lump that sizzled and liquified into the tight mesh that held it while the flame explored the bowl and I held the thick white smoke in before exhaling a plume that was caught up by the fire and carried aloft as my head felt the old familiar explosion of dopamine and all the other good stuff your brain enjoys.

“Phew! That knocked the cobwebs away. Fuck man! It’s good to see you. How the hell did you get out of that one?”

“I’m a shaman! It takes more than a mad entrepreneurs vanity project and a sea demon summoned up from the past to kill me.”

His bravado made me laugh. I’d missed the cunt. More than I could express. He frowned then and looked down before giving me the true story.

“I just closed my eyes and held my breath hoping I’d make it. The impulse to succumb to my body and its desperation was about to break and inhale sea water then I reached the surface and I was flapping around in the water looking for you and for the others. The boat came up first then Brock. He must have been the strongest. We managed to flip the boat over and we got aboard. We spent a couple of days, looking for bodies but I figured that sea serpent wasn’t as choosy as the girls had thought. By then Bunsen was sending out his own boats so we set off back. I felt his grief and I think he felt mine as we spoke very little on our journey back. I returned the boat. It was pretty battered by then. Brock took a sackful of meat up to my mates site and I slipped into madness. After being thrown out of every pub down Porlock I was sectioned. It’s worse than being in jail I tell you. Still, it might have been the best place for me to be frank. I was in a state. After they were convinced I was not a nutter anymore they let me out.

Somehow I rambled up here and found this quiet little spot. Well, it was quiet.”

“You better introduce me!”

“Here’s Beamer, your man, the guy fucking about on his phone is his mate, Magno. Shaz here we just met tonight. Oh! I better warn you. Those chunks of meat Brock threw in to Crankshafts spare trailer. He’s done it again. On the 35th day he rose again!”

“You’re joking! Quick, I’m off before he sees me!”

“Before he gets back, how did you do it? I saw no one on our side at all, bar Brocky of course.”

“Well, I wasn’t on your side and you’re not going to like this. I found myself near the jetty. The pallet we had from the boat came up and I used it as a float. I saw Rupert Bunsen floundering in the water, he clearly couldn’t swim. So I pulled him aboard and we made it to the jetty and I climbed up and pulled him out. All I could think of was to pretend to be one of the passengers he hadn’t known personally. Tried to talk in a posh accent and kept out of his way. He started to fixate on me I think. I saved his life. We’d accomplished what we set out to. I didn’t think another death would help anyone. I’d seen enough death to last me a lifetime.”

“I’d have watched the cunt drown. He’d not given a shit about anyone bar the super rich.” Lipton was a far harder hearted man than me. I nodded.

“I know you would.”

With the minor disagreement out of the way I changed the subject.

“So where’s gods only son! Is he here. I know he won’t be collecting firewood when there’s still a load of drugs unsmoked. Hey Beamer buddy? Can you sort me out?”

“Your mate has bought me out bro. I’m sure he won’t mind sharing but I’ll have to go reload. Magno! Have you any left?”

The younger lad laughed. He was still engrossed in his phone.

“This brother Tobin mate. He’s piss funny. He’s following me now and reckons he’s coming to join the party. We’d best bounce bro. He’s got my location from the GPS. How many do you need?” He asked me.

“Just a couple of each will do me.”

He felt his way through the many pockets on his clothing before remembering he’d got it down his knackers.”

I handed him the notes and he the goods back to me.

“Says he’s a Witchfynder and he’s with the Witchfynder general and they’re on a mission to get two shamans and a pretender to the church! If these are for real I’ll be shocked.”

Me and Lipton were instantly alerted. We’d had all kinds of problems from the authorities but this was a secret part of the church and MI5 that was like the mafia. They didn’t exist if anyone asked. But we knew. We knew exactly what this meant.

“You have to tell us everything! I’m sorry mate but how the fuck did you meet him?”

“I’ve never met him bro. I just saw his face pop up on my instagram feed. He looked like a monk, you know them that shave their heads. He posts shite. Just what he had for breakfast. Selfies next to weird stuff. He must have noticed I was following him and he started following me.”

“What was his last message?”

“He posted a photo he must have done with a timer. I can’t believe he has any friends. He’s behind a black jaguar car with a pump action shotgun in each hand and it said ‘when you and the boss are closing in on the quarry’ that was about two hours ago. His location was somewhere on Salisbury plane, MOD land I think. He’s terrified of the boss so he must have taken it when he got a few minutes on his own.”

“What time was this?”

“A couple of hours ago but it just came up on my feed.”

I looked at Lipton and we both opened instagram accounts and sent him a request to follow.

“You don’t get five minutes with these cunts. If he really is with Bennett we’re in trouble.”

Lipton gathered up his drugs and started kicking the sandy soil on to the fire. It took him less than five minutes to pack up his tent, bungee cord the tent, bedroll and sleeping bag to his rucksack.

“Parties over lads. You don’t want these lot to catch you near us. Same goes for you Shaz love. Here, take a few rocks for your trouble and hopefully get to know you better next time.

Jesus! Get your cock out of her and come see who’s here. We’re in big trouble so don’t fuck about.”

Shit! Just discover that the best freind you have ever had, a brother in all but blood, a friend you’d thought dead is still alive but then to find out, through social fucking media, that the government and church department sworn to track down, torture and kill your kind, are on their way. It was too much to take in.

“Did you post anything on your instagram?”

“Just a little video of us round the fire. To show them I’m not just about the cars and nightclubs. You two hugging was in it so don’t feel like I left you out. I even tagged your names. Skree, is that right? And Lipton.”

It could not have been worse. If the Witchfynder general had seen this video short he’d be on his way now. The fucking church! The fucking government! Why can’t they just leave us alone.

Lipton looked steamed up, much like he did before his bare knuckle fights.

“Is he properly resurrected. He was in bits last time I saw him.”

Lipton looked concerned.

“He’s mostly there but he’s still got some festering flesh and I wouldn’t want to see what he’s hiding under his clothes. I think he just wanted to get away from Crankshaft. He can walk, mind. Not sure if he’s got the magic tricks going properly yet. Come on! Stacy we’ve got to get out of here. Shaz! I’m so sorry love but can you go get her to finish him off.”

Shaz went off into the bushes to find her friend as we had some firm words with Magno.

“Can you say it was filmed yesterday? Or change the location? Anything to buy us time. You may think he’s a comical prick but these people torture people like us. And they don’t stop at your confession. They used to burn us alive but if they find us we won’t be so lucky.”

He fiddled with his phone a bit.

“He thinks we left here an hour ago. I can’t change the date or location. Any help?”

“Thanks buddy! An hour might be a window we can squeeze through. Nice to meet you lads but I’d get going.

The two shotters wandered off into the night. Stacy and Shaz emerged from the bushes, “He’s just doing up his flies. Two of his fingers came off and we had a right job getting them out.”

I knew what Bennett and his kind would do to girls of the night.

“Please girls. I’m not being a dick but if these cunts get you I couldn’t live with myself. Is there a way back into town avoiding the main road? Better still, can you get a taxi?”

Shaz and Stacy thought a bit then Shaz said she knew a way. Massive groundwork was taking place at Hinkley for the new power station. It was not a through way to anywhere but there’d be security guards. Maybe even night workers given the rush to get it open. They’d wander down there. Bound to be some lonely guy who’d give them a lift home for a little comfort while he drove.

The two girls were gone. The boys were too.

From the bushes the filthy man appeared, zipping up his flies before selotaping two of his fingers back on to his hand. He took his own name in vain.

“Jesus Christ! We thought we had seen the back of you.”

“There’s no time to catch up. The Witchfynder general and his apprentice are on their way here and we need to get going, now.”

“Cool!”

After 2000 years here was a man who could take most things in his stride. The surprise of seeing his old buddy Skree, while clearly a surprise was not the near miracle it was for Lipton. They had never set out to become shamans. It was something they had stumbled into inadvertently through their excessive use of psychedelics in their teens. The knowledge that they acquired took them down life paths compounding their aptitude. They were not shamans that worked as medicine men, healing individuals. Instead they were concerned with the destruction of the Grey. The straight mainstream that was heading off into the doom of the species. Rather they took an overview. Steering culture where they could and stopping the aspirations of the super wealthy who were coming to consider themselves uber mench. Super men, able to do whatever they wanted regardless of the damage caused. Still recovering from the last mission to destroy Rupert Bunsens Noah project already those most opposed to nature, paganism, Gnosticism, and the humble acceptance that we are like any animal, not merely dependent on their environment but expressions of it.

“Ok boys! You can fill me in when we have time. Not in a gay way.”

“Just shut up!” I told the messiah and led my two friends to my Kia piquanto.

Sent from my iPhone

Stairwell moths

Yellow shell

Sent from my iPhone

Chapter 13

The Witchfynder general finds that his god can even intervene through social media

Skreebleton in the south west. Father Bennett, the Witchfynder general was quickly on to his connections in the police force and other government departments and he was close to locating his man. He’d been seen in the small town of Frome, mixing with the kind of scum his pagan sort was prone to. Sat behind the wheel of his black jaguar with young brother Tobin at his side he felt confident that he would soon find his man and following the ‘interview’ he had planned for the shaman would soon be onto the other shaman Lipton and the fraudulent apostate who was calling himself Christ. Bennett had spent his whole life in the various parts of the church and knew more about Jesus than anyone he had ever met. The messiah would one day return but he would not be mixing with the destitute, the street people and travellers, the prostitutes and sinners. No! He would make himself known to the pope and the Vatican and the world through the Catholic Church. Once he had this pretender a few questions on scripture would reveal him as a charlatan and one who would require subjecting to the tests and rituals of the Witchfynders who had rid the world of the cancer that the devil himself spread. Bennett gripped the steering wheel tighter, felt a stirring in his trousers as he thought of the punishment he would soon be dealing out. His right hand slipped into his pocket, the old trick father Erasmus had taught him, through the hole in his trouser pocket where he rapped a tuft of pubic hair around his thumb and finger be plucking his tuft of hair. The pain brought him back to earth. He pressed the button that lowered his window from where he threw the small bunch of hair.

“What was that Father Bennett” brother Tobin asked as he caught a glimpse of the small black nest of hair as it left the window and was ripped away by the speed of the car.

“Oh, just a little trick I was taught by the Witchfynder who was my mentor. Perhaps I’ll induct you into the small ritual one day.”

Brother Tobin knew not to enquire further and focused on the road ahead for a moment before asking his master a question he had always been curious about.

“I heard that you had studied your craft under father Erasmus. He is a legend to us younger Witchfynders. We hear tell he sent over three score demons and some hundred witches to boot.”

“Young brother Tobin. It is not by numbers alone that we can measure a man’s achievements. Erasmus taught me a great deal. I witnessed him as he applied his craft with an elegance that few could ever hope to match. You know the lances in the chapel?”

Tobin nodded. He had thought they were mere decoration.

“We’d discovered a cluster of harlots, heavily under Satans influence. Each was cleansed with those lances. Sharpened by my own hand. Eight feet in length they stand. Erasmus lay each strumpet down across the altar and smite them clean. Entering by the very orifice they had made their trade to sell. Full of the lords strength he rammed them clean of sin until the sharpened tips protruded a clear twelve inches through the top of their skulls. I was a young Witchfynder back then, much like you are now and I confess that the devil found me squeamish and I vomitted on to the chapel floor. Erasmus instructed me to clean up after his holy work was done. I learned a lesson that day. They were but a small coven of witches though all confessed to being in the employ of Satan before devil was driven out of them.”

Tobin swallowed. He wondered if he was up to the job. Of course father Bennett was testing the young lad, to make sure he was committed to the lord’s work and not just another who succumbed to the romance of the profession. He would need Tobin to be up to speed when it came to tackling the two shaman, both pagans and witches and the charlatan who called himself Christ. Father Bennett knew he had struck a chord with his young apprentice. Best reassure the lad.

“But Erasmus was old school. Weve moved on now. In the boot of my car I have two pump action shotguns. Both have been blessed by the pope himself. Last night while you were out for fast food. Yes! I saw you.”

Brother Tobin blushed. He thought he had got away with it. Nevertheless the Witchfynder general appeared to be in good spirits and did not admonish the boy.

“While you were soiling your body with saturated fats I emptied twenty cartridges, replacing the lead shot with silver shot and each I dipped in holy water. In the unlikely event that these fail us there is my trusty crossbow. The bolts I use are also engineered from silver. Should we be forced to engage in hand to hand combat I also have a pair of silver bladed knives one of which I suggest we conceal in our boots. You must follow my lead. Do as I say and our mission will undoubtedly be successful. It is crucial that we get confessions from all three of our targets. We will be working as a team and I’m hoping to catch them on the hop. As far as we’ve been able to establish the charlatan and the shaman known as Lipton are already back together. Lipton has recently been released from a mental hospital but don’t succumb to any complacency. He has been dabbling in witchcraft his entire adult life and may well have a few tricks up his sleeve. Skree may as yet be unaware that his partner in the dark arts survived their pagan mission that I told you to read up on. As for the fake Christ he could well be under the complete delusion of his identity.

So master Tobin! Do you feel up to the task ahead? Follow my lead and we should come out of this unscathed. Our names will go down in the history of our secret craft.”

Tobin felt a wave of honour spread throughout his body. Beginning in the soles of his feet and working its way through his legs, into his torso and deep into his heart and out through his head.

“Father Bennett. I am honoured to be chosen as your assistant on this mission. I grasp the magnitude and understand the responsibility being placed upon me. My whole life has been training for this day and the days ahead. It will be an honour to serve the lord god, our father. And to be a small part in the history of the Witchfynder. Long may our branch of the church continue to be the sword with which the father cuts down the devil’s ungodly work.”

Father Bennett felt proud. He had been right to place his trust in the young Witchfynder. He knew that brother Tobin was ready and would not let him down.

Once their conversation died down and the focus returned to the road Bennett considered the information he had gleaned from his many sources. A Mr Skreebletton had been pulled over by a police car three days ago near Frome in Somerset. The two coppers began to look through his details but were called away to a domestic violence incident before they had chance to study his details. It later proved to be a false name and a fake license. Skreebleton was the name that Rupert Bunsen had come to know his saviour as. His stay had been short following the disaster that saw the deaths of many of the most wealthy people on the planet. Glancing over at his assistant Bennett saw Tobin had returned to scrolling through his phone. Daylight was by now fading and it seemed likely they would have to find a hotel for the night.

Tobin had gradually slumped down into the jaguars leather seat but something he had seen on his phone brought him upright and focused.

“Father Bennett! Look at this!”

“Brother Tobin! You know how I feel about this socialist media!”

“No look! It’s them! I was just checking through my instagram followers. I have this troll who mocks me for my religious piety yet continues to follow! He’s called Magno! I just took a look at his instagram feed. There’s a short he’s posted! Only fifteen seconds but it has to be two of the pagans we’re looking for!”

Tobin replayed the video. It was of a camp fire. One guy dressed in dirty black clothes laughed as another guy spoke to the small group. AI had translated what the speaker was saying. A filthy looking man with longish hair and a beard. A chunk of his face was missing revealing a rictus grin of exposed teeth. “Anyway, I don’t know if you’ve ever eaten a whole quarter of Lebanese hashish but I tell you, I was well tripped out. This Pompous Pillock, Pontias Pilote, the highest ranking Roman of the occupying army. ‘Are you the son of god’ he asks. I got the giggles really badly and couldn’t help taking the piss. ‘What do you think? If you think I am the son of god then I guess I must be.”

A black teenager in designer sportswear laughed along with the pirate like character who was taking a deep pull on a glass crack pipe. “Do you claim to be the king of the Jews too?”

Here the short video looped and began again.

Bennett pulled the jaguar to a standstill in a lay-by behind a lorry.

“Play it again Tobin.”

The two Witchfynders sat through the video fifteen times. Pausing it occasionally to comment on background details. After a while Bennett sat back. God is pointing us towards them.

He knew Lipton had not long been released from a mental hospital close to Minehead. Opening a large road atlas Bennett took his fountain pen from his inside pocket. He drew a cross where Skreebleton had been pulled and another roughly where he knew the nut house to be. Using a strip of card torn from the atlases cover as a straight edge drew a line between the two.

“I can hear passing traffic.”

“They’re camped on a roundabout! We’ve got the bastards!” Tobin enthused.

Bennett looked him deep in the eyes.

“We’re not far off! Let the hunt begin.”

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Chapter 12

Skree scoring again in Glastonbury

I hate getting paid at midnight. Which government knobhead came up with that one? The only things open at midnight out here in the sticks are drug dealers. It’s like during Covid. The coke dealers were unphased by it and it was business as usual. Only now they were delivering and once that pattern was established it never changed. But for gear it was slightly different. The North Somerset towns, Radstock, Frome and to a lesser extent Glastonbury had avoided the county lines model that seemed to excite the police and media. The smack scene was deeply established and dealers had been plying trade with out any trouble for two decades before the county lines became a thing. Each had a tight network of friends and associates and were essentially supporting their own habit. Personally I’d always rather score off someone who took the stuff too. How else do you know how good your tackle is? When the white came in, much later than back in Leeds where I was from where you scored both off runners. The number would be valued and sometimes sold. You’d order two whiskey and a brandy. So now that white had taken over in Somerset there were a lot of crackheads who didn’t do gear. And most bought powder and washed it up themselves. Either with bicarbonate of soda that binds to the coke to crack. Or using ammonia which is essentially free basing. Most would rinse it a couple of times to get rid of the ammonia but some pipes I’ve been given I thought my lungs were going to collapse. Ammonia is a poison. I can remember my grandad helping us out with our butterfly boards by putting them in a jar with some ammonia soaked in cotton wool that gassed them before we pinned them to our boards. Fuck! That’s so 70s. We had birds egg collections too. No one, well no one sensible would do that now. Instead I use an iPhone to photograph butterflies and moths.

So having just been paid all I could find was white. Five or six places. But no gear anywhere. I thought I’d sorted some down in Glastonbury but by the time I was there the cunts phone was off. I desperately rang around starting to rattle as the thought of no gear until tomorrow lunchtime when my usual dealers came on. Scrolling through my numbers I found Steph who lives in Glastonbury and though not a dealer knew what was where, especially if I could drop her a stone off. But even she struggled to think of anyone I hadn’t already tried.

“Are you in a motor?”

“Yes. Have you got someone?”

“Beamer down in Bridgewater. He’s usually on all night or one of his runners will be.”

“Will he serve me? I’ve never met him I don’t think.”

Fuck! It was a bit of a drive and it was already 1:45am.

“He’ll be fine. I’ll ring him first to let him know that you’re ok. Can you drop me something off on your way back for setting it up?”

“Yep! Ring me back when you’ve rung him.”

I was definitely starting to cluck now. I crossed my fingers as I waited for her to ring me back. A car slowly pulled past. The first I’d seen in the last hour. They looked shifty and definitely not police. Two minutes passed. Where the fuck had she got to? I was starting to think this was not a goer.

My phone lit up with Stephs number.

“What’s he say?”

“Sounded a bit weird. He’s on some big roundabout just at the Hinckley Point turn off. I could hear a few voices but he says it’s sound. Good gear and top white he reckons. I’ll text you his number. Don’t forget me in your will.”

“Thank you so much! I’ll not forget you. You’ve saved my life!”

Thank fuck! It was a good drive but if the quality was what she said I’d be happy. It was a trick of mine back in the day when I used to hitch hike a lot. Big roundabouts were usually full of thick shrubs and trees that gave you cover from any passing drivers or pedestrians and no one goes on to them apart from occasional council landscape gardeners. Made me think of Lipton. I’d shown him the trick and we’d spent a few nights camped out on roundabouts.

With the last traces of the gear wearing off I began to get a bit emotional. What a crazy mission they’d embarked on with the Clun Druid lads and their witches. We’d done it. Succeeded in smashing Rupert Bunsens Noah project. I felt survivor guilt. I’d seen Christ blown to pieces. Even he surely couldn’t survive that. And through the psychedelic haze I’d seen the rest pulled under as the demon eel hybrid the girls had summoned up , a seething mass of conger eels drawn together into a huge sea serpent that viciously tore its way through the hole blown into the side of the spaceship, eating all and everyone it could find. It was all a little hazy. As usual it was me that was using my shamanic condition to pull at the thin dimensional membranes to ensure the demon could maintain itself in our dimension. I’d held it for as long as I could and I could see the majority of passengers were eaten alive but finally the strength of my state was fading and I could hold out no longer. I climbed aboard a pallet that had been thrown from the boat Lipton was piloting and as it dawned on me that the people I loved most were now gone I saw none other than the architect of the crazy scheme flapping about, unable to swim and likely would have died had I not pulled him out from the frothing waters.

Stephs text came through and I rang the number she had sent.

“Beamer? Steph just gave me your number. Is it ok to see you?”

“Yeah man! We’re on that roundabout.”

“Yes. She said. I know where you mean. Have you got both still?”

“You’ll have to be quick. I’m with two lunatic crusties and they’re caining my load at a hell of a rate. I’ll keep some back if you’re definitely coming.”

“I’ll be about an hour, tops. I’ll leave the car in a lay-by and come find you.”

“See you soon boss.”

Fucking sorted. Now I knew I was scoring the clucking subsided and I continued to reminisce about that day of madness. I got Bunsen ashore. His project was fucked and there’d been enough death already that day. He’d been a decent host. I’d managed to pretend that I’d been a ticket holder on his ship. At first he seemed a little suspicious but I knew enough to lie my way into his heart. I was unfamiliar with the cutlery lay out but affected a nonchalant demeanour and built a back story in snippets, returning to my room to convalesce and read the books he had in the guest room. He’d appeared to grow fond of me even, introducing me to the few survivors as the man who had pulled him from the sea. He even provided a private jet to take me home. I’d promised to keep in contact but fuck that.

These were still fresh memories and they filled my mind on the drive down to Bridgewater.

I parked the piquanto in a lay-by a short distance from the roundabout. The bushes and trees worked well and if I hadn’t already known I’d not have noticed the flicker of fire and the smoke above their fire. There was no traffic hardly and it was close to 3am now. I could hear voices. One a gruff laughter that sounded familiar and two that joked together in the street slang and the homogeneous accent shared now by teens and twenty year olds. I circled the bushes until I found a thin spot in the overgrowth and made my way into the firelight.

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chapter 11.

Jesus Christ settles in with Lipton on his roundabout hide away

If Lipton was honest he had no expectation that JC would be able to resurrect so profound had been his latest death. He had no reservations, he knew the messiah well and knew that he was who he said was. Nevertheless he had witnessed arguably his second closest friend after Skree blown in to easily a dozen pieces by the deranged copper who had followed them. It was possible that the mission they were committed to would have failed were it not for the intervention of a lunatic ex policeman, armed to the teeth and hell bent on killing the crew who had forged their links at the Bury Ditches hill fort rave. The loss of his shaman brother hurt the most. He doubted that he would ever get over his loss. As he carefully observed the aftermath of the destruction of Rupert Bunsens crazed attempt to leave the planet he had kept the yacht he had taken from Porlock Weir just out of distance. Bunsen would have his minions out searching the waters, just as he was to finish off any remaining terrorist warlocks and after two days it was clear that just himself and Brock, a Druid lad from Clun were the only survivors. Brock had lost two brothers and three sisters and to allow the pain of his personal grief to mar the pain the poor Druid was going through was not in his character. So they’d collected up the meat that had once been Christ in a builders sack and had shared the silence of the seas as they returned home. By the time they were close to Porlock Weir Lipton had lost his mind. He had given the Druid directions to return Christs parts to the traveller site and from there had slipped into a deep psychosis. But now, having the debauched hippie back had raised his spirits. Following the first night together on the roundabout Christ had mocked the pathetic amount of drugs Lipton had been able to share.

“Come on man! Stop winging about Skree! He would have thought it a good death. He certainly wouldn’t want you moaning about it. If I wallowed in the grief for each and every friend I’d lost I’d be fucked! People come and go. It’s the nature of the game.”

Lipton considered the advice he was being given and had to concede it was true. Skree would have been proud to have had one over on the grey bastards. He was probably the one who was most committed to the project. Lipton recalled how he was just about to commit suicide to test out the archangel bollocks when Skree had turned up. He hated the way people said that things happened for a reason. Of course they did but the reason invariably preceded the event and never foretold the future.

“You’re right! Let’s celebrate his life and the times we shared.”

Christs eyes lit up and he knew he had made his point.

“I’ve got a plan. The lads you scored off? Can you see them again?”

“Aye! I’ve got their number. I’ve no money mind.”

“Leave that to me. We’re going to buy everything they’ve got and have a session here tonight that would do Skree proud!”

Lipton kicked a little earth on to the embers of the fire and throwing his arm around his mates shoulder led the way from the roundabouts concealed centre to the edge of the two lanes of the roundabout where traffic was now quietening as the night began to fall.

“Take me to a corner shop. The dodgiest looking one you’ve seen in this shit hole of a town.”

Lipton had noticed a few 7-11 type shops run by Indian, Pakistani or Bangladeshi people during his mooches in to town. He’d used his shoplifting skills for the last few nights but it was only a matter of time before he would get noticed. Consequently he had registered the kind of establishments that sold cheap, strong lagers and ciders. The type of drink he preferred.

“Nip down Lidl and get a half dozen shopping trolleys. You’ll need a quid each.” Christ rummaged in the pockets of his filthy looking jeans and came out with easily thirty pound coins which he handed to Lipton.

“Go try that one. There’s a premier store round the block if you can’t get him to bite.”

Christ grinned back at Lipton. “Come on brother! How long do you think I’ve been at this game.”

Lipton nodded. The bedraggled freak, whose greasy hair formed a semi curtain through which he could see eyes that were on fire and the smile of the expert hussler. Fuck! Lipton almost wanted to put a bid in on what ever he was selling so seductive was his manner. With the most sophisticated of conmen the punter was fighting to be taken in.

He can’t have taken ten minutes to procure the shopping trolleys and in that ten minutes the stack of wine bottles the messiah had conjured up looked like it would fill a skip. New world reds, whites, champagne and a couple of bottles of every kind of wine that Lipton had ever seen were stacked in crates on the pavement. While he began to load the hawk in to the trolleys Christ slipped away and soon returned with not one but three brothers who ran a chain of off licences in the town. Bridgewater would not be short of a drink tonight. While the hussler who looked like he had not seen a bath or shower in at least a year did the deal, Lipton selected a half dozen choice bottles and tucked them in to a basket he’d grabbed along with the trolleys.

“Fucking sorted!”

Christ was in his element. He’d already popped a cork and sunk a half bottle of Moët et Chandon. He wiped his soot blackened hand across his face leaving a dark stripe that to Liptons eyes took on a feel of war paint. He’d had many a session with the king of sessions and despite his own immense tolerance to all drugs and alcohol had never come close to appearing less than a light weight when up against a man who could literally drink himself to death and wake up with a smile and reach for another bottle.

“Who’d you score the shots off last night?”

Christ waved a fistful of some two thousand pounds. “ Let’s get fucking slaughtered!”

Lipton was already on his mobile.

“Beamer? It’s me, Lipton. I saw you last night. I’m looking for a bundle .”

Beamer considered it for a while. Perhaps he could offload his stock, reload and punt it out.

“How much you after?”

“Look, it’s not my money but it’s four figures. Any chance you could come out to the roundabout? You know, where I said I was staying?”

Beamer had been burned before but the crusty just didn’t look the type. Lipton heard some negotiations in the slang that was now a national language spoken by all the shooters in towns and cities across the country.

“Yep! I’m bringing my proby. Magno! Ok?”

“Yep! No problem. Just bring your stock. We’re not going to rob you. We’ve had a touch and….well the mate who’s turned up…he doesn’t have much value for money. It’ll be worth your while. I guarantee you’ll make twice what you would just shotting out bits in the car park. You might even enjoy it. We’ve got a fire. My mate will pay for the drinks and weed you smoke.”

Fuck it! Beamer thought. It was a Tuesday night and they had barely covered their costs last night. Could be a laugh.

“You’re on then bro. See you on the roundabout.”

“Magno! How much have you got?”

“I’ve got five half teenths weighed out. About a dozen twenty’s of light and dark and a load of powder. What about you Beamer? Have you got enough to cover it?”

“I reckon so. I’m sick of feeling bait, waiting for the 5O. We can make more with these crusties.”

“Did you see that guy he was with? Fucking tramp! He hadn’t seen soap in years. But if he’s got the reddies. Who gives a fuck?”

Magno was looking down at his phone. Laughing at something he’d seen on instagram.

“Hey Beam? Check out this knobhead. I’ve been following him for a couple of days. The guys a fucking nun or something! Proper prick. Slaphead! How do they do that haircut man? Last post he was smiling next to a homeless bitch. Corpse there smoking and the idiots smiling selfie with a sad emoji! Fucking unreal.”

“You ought to leave that shit alone. Them fucking priesthood have proper connections.”

“Nah man! You ought to check him out. Brother Tobin him called. Piss funny man!”

Beamer rumbled through his pockets. Various ten shots and bags of other powders were there. They’d take these two hippies for all they had.

Christ stood in his classic pose. Cruciform. His bare feet were protected by a leather like sole that could crush glass bottles with ease. His jeans had not left his legs since the chunks of flesh had reentangled and blended once more. The stench of putrefaction still hung around him as his reanimation was not fully complete. His bare torso was clothed only by a long faded denim jacket. His outstretched palms still showed the stigmata that were his mark of authenticity. His greasy shoulder length hair and thin beard led up to his convoluted grin and beaming eyes.

“Come on then Lipton, and any other fucker who wants to come aboard! Let’s fucking have it!”

Soon Beamer and Magno were with the messiah and his shaman brother, all hell bent on raising hell.

“I am the resurrection! I am the one!”

Lipton couldn’t help but smile at his mate’s passion for life. He bid the pompous prick hand over some cash, grabbed a fistful of dollars and told the two shotters to stick close. Come back to his roundabout home and join in a session the like of which they would be telling of for the rest of their lives.

Back at Liptons roundabout encampment the fire blazed though passing traffic were oblivious to the session now taking place. Christ was in his element. He’d provided more wine than could possibly be consumed and having invited the shooters back was handing over money for a further five stones to the bundle they’d already smoked.

“Come on Magno! Let’s get wasted.”

Lipton looked on as did Beamer and his young apprentice. Ripping open the clingfilm Christ soon had the rock which he split in half handing Lipton the smaller of the two stones.

“Load up your pipe Lipton! This one’s for Skree. We miss you brother!”

Jesus placed the white rock, the size of a petit poir pee on to the improvised Karpackie can, bent and punctured in the centre of the dip with a mass of tiny holes. The ash from the cigarette he’d just smoked sat in a small heap above the holes. Lipton had his glass pipe, now thick with brown oil he’d scrape once the crack was gone. A mass of burnt off pan scowerer served the same purpose as Christs cigarette ash; to hold the crack once it was liquified by heat. Both struck their lighters.

“Slange!” Lipton said as both men took a huge inhalation of the crack before holding it down deep in their lungs and then exhaled two clouds of white smoke that met above the fire and was carried up skyward by the heat.

Both Lipton and Christ sat in silence as the massive rush from the pipes hit them.

“Fuck me! That’s some decent stone!” Christ complimented Beamer on the quality of his product.

Once the hit diminished Jesus bought a couple of dark. Lipton ripped from his roll of foil, two 8 inch by 10 to run their beetles and two smaller pieces to make their tooters.

“I like it man who plays a tin foil flute.”

And soon both were running lines of brown and inhaling the soothing heroin to take the edge off the white.

Magno could not resist and took a sneaky photo that he posted to his instagram page.

“Fuck me! Pass me that wine”

The two shotters shared a bottle and sparked up a spliff to share.

“Takes me back to when I had my gang of followers who left their wives and jobs to join me in the street drinking.”

Lipton had heard the story many times but it was a fresh one for the young lads and he wouldn’t spoil it.

“Is that the Judas cunt story?” Lipton encouraged Christ to get it rolling. He might be a proper wreck head but he span a good yarn. “Most of the gang were lightweights to be frank and after a gallon of wine a piece and a whole bunch of Lebanese bifters they crashed out. My best fucking mate! Or so I thought was the only cunt still awake. He looks at me, all shifty like and said he off down the all night garage to get some skins. I said there’s a load of skins; green, blue, small and large size kicking around. But he says he wants some munchies. I said I can summon up some bread if you want. He says he wants some snickers or something. I said I can come with you but he tells me to chill out, have a lie down, I’ll bring you something good. Then he slips off. I should have seen it coming but I genuinely considered him my best mate at the time. See, Lipton here, and Skree when he was alive, I know they wouldn’t grass me up. Half an hour later he comes back , offers me a star bar and the cunt kisses me on the cheek. At first I thought I’d read him wrong, perhaps he was a shirt lifter, but out of nowhere about a dozen Romans appear and had me against the wall. I swallowed the hash, about a quarter which proved to be a big mistake when they took me to their boss who had a whole bunch of questions. By now the hash was starting to kick in, big time!”

Beamer was distracted by a call.

“Yes bro! I’m on that roundabout just outside Bridgewater. If you’re coming down from north it’s the one that has a road off to Hinckley Point and the other off into Bridgewater. Tell him we’re round a fire in the middle of the bushes.”

“Are you listening to my story or what?” Christ asked.

“. It’s just another punter who can’t score anywhere.”

“That’s cool! The more the merrier.”

Lipton knew now he was in for a party and his privacy on the roundabout was done.

The messiah took a swig of wine and got back to his story.

“Pontias Pilate! Pompous pollock more like!”

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