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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