The Ritual: Vol I

The Daughter of Satan

By Mark Barry

Green Wizard Publishing

Southwell, Nottinghamshire

The Ritual: Volume I: The Daughter of Satan Published by Green Wizard 2014 Green Wizard 2014 This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without Green Wizards prior permission and consent in any form of e-transaction, format, binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. First published in 2011 by Green Wizard as The Ritual, a full length novel, edited by Mary Ann Bernal. E-book: serialised by the author. Green Wizard, Southwell, Nottinghamshire Cover design by Dark Dawn Creations This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Chapter Headings
Coming Home ......................................................... 9 Fairchild .................................................................. 20 Pariah ...................................................................... 32 Heathers .................................................................. 35 Oh, My Brothers ...................................................... 48 Patch ....................................................................... 57 The Stimulation of The Axiom ................................. 62 Then, There Were Some Very Subtle (and not so subtle) Changes in the Town Itself ...................................... 77 The Rather Unfortunate Demise Suffered By The Vicar of Wheatley Fields .......................................................... 86 Carmel Shakespeare .............................................. 93 Predator or Prey ...................................................... 110 Homonculus ............................................................ 114

Those that the Gods seek to destroy, they first make mad (Euripides)

Coming Home
Heathrow was crowded, a living hell. She usually aimed for Manchester when she returned home, back to the UK, but on this occasion, the most convenient flight landed in London. The two of them waited patiently for their luggage alongside hundreds of other travellers who swarmed the Baggage Handling area. Phillippa had never seen such a diverse mix. They say New York is the most cosmopolitan place on earth, but it would have to go some to beat baggage at Heathrow. Wont be long now, Jennifer, she said. Well be on the train soon. Whatever, her daughter replied.

Jennifer. Silver hair, denuded of any natural colour, tapered with crimson streaks and hyper-gelled into stalks, ragamuffin

style. Dressed all in black. A Manson tee-shirt (Charles, rather than Marilyn, his monster eyes). Serrated black jeans, a bullet belt, ankle boots crossed with two heavy silver straps. Black velvet gloves, a pierced lip and nose. Phillippa hoped the look would be a passing phase, but with Jennifer the way she was, she couldnt be sure. She almost had to threaten her daughter with a court order to get her on the flight, and because of that, the two hadnt spoken anything other than functional sentences since Dayton. As a kid, she had been a real mummys girl. That was the worst thing. It broke Phillippas heart at times. Shed look at Jennifer and wonder how it changed. Shed always been a bit of a thinker, but she had never been this estranged. Ive booked a taxi online, she continued. That will take us to Kings Cross. We travel straight to Wheatley Fields from that station.

A shuttle train runs direct to London from the airport, Jennifer replied, offhand. I didnt know, sweetie. Ive not been to Heathrow for a decade. If you or Dad had mentioned that... Without looking at her, as if reciting the alphabet, Jennifer responded quietly. Thats right, mom. Blame him. And me. Anyone but yourself. He hasnt been here in fifteen years, sweetheart. He told me to get a taxi. He wouldnt know about the shuttle because he works in the Far East. But yes, I should have checked, youre right. Why are you telling me all this? Jennifer said, without looking at her. Stop with the play-by-play. You talking to get it all out or something?

They used to play Little League Baseball together. Soccer. The marching band competition thing.

Her troop finished in second place in Denver, Colorado. THE National Schools Tournament. They should have won, but on the judges panel lurked a homer. Jennifer twirled batons with the best of them and they all loved her. Teachers, family, friends. Phillippa had been so intensely proud of her daughter. The feeling of pride she felt could not be described, the sheer power of it. The way it overwhelmed her entire being as she saw her daughter, baton in hand, her softball glove, her luminous leather football. The girls at the Mall, the guys at the Shop. They all loved her. Americas Sweetheart in waiting.

Then she turned thirteen.

Phillippa wished that she could go back four years. Do something different. Behave a different way. It all

changed so fast. She didnt see it coming and the transformation looked like it wasnt over yet. The everchanging hairstyles; violet, jet black hair the colour of a starless night; ivory white, shocking crimson, sunburst orange, whatever suited her mood at the time - the frequent piercings, the tattoo on her shoulder she acquired in downtown Dayton by lying about her age. A tattoo of a blazing skull. Jimmy, her husband, lost it when he saw that and rather than Jennifer, he blamed her for being a bad mother. Steaming, he gave his wife a black eye after a few beers with the boys and the NFC Championship game. The next night, he threatened to put Jennifer over his knee, but Jennifer taunted him. Youd like that, dad. Youd like that, wouldnt you? Youd just frickin love it, she said, coldly, sneering, an alien presence inhabiting his daughters body.

The day after, Jimmy went back to the Philippines, shocked and hurt, to people he understood and he didnt come home for four months.

All of it caused Phillippa long and sleepless nights. The lost weight. Impenetrable makeup over her eyes, the theatrical mortuary cream - a reject from The Addams Family. She was so lovely as a child. The specialness became a burden to her for some reason and she cut it loose along with the baseball, the soccer, the marching bands, her friends and her incredibly close relationship with Phillippa Angstrom. Phillippa had, at times, speculated that her daughter may have been abused. Jennifer wouldnt even discuss it, turned away when she mentioned it, and locked herself in her room, playing that angry, clattering, rage-filled music, played by violent-hearted men with skulls for faces. Melodies that sounded like pain might do if it were music.

Jimmy paid the fees for her to undergo psychotherapy, like so many of the other kids at Ponce De Leon. Of course, the first thing Jennifer did on the day she was supposed to attend was play hooky, but Jimmy told her that when it came down to it, if she didnt go, when she left school, theyd cut her off completely, with no access to the accumulated trust fund they had started for her when she was just one. A significant sum, enough to pay tuition fees for four years at somewhere respectable, somewhere which would give her a start. After a day or two of thinking about it, realising they meant business, the tactic worked. She was no fool: Jennifer Angstrom started psychotherapy. That was two years ago. When she started researching Wheatley Fields, Phillippa spent more time researching therapists than she did schools and booked her in at Wheatleys clinic, sight unseen. No interview. No induction. No inspection.

The Euripides Clinic, Wheatley Fields. Two hundred and fifteen dollars an hour. Four sessions paid in advance. Ten percent premium for credit cards. She paid over the phone and resented the terms. (Daylight robbery.) Euripides. (Those the gods seek to destroy, they first make mad.)

Their baggage arrived, each piece in quick succession, and the women picked up two each, pulled them along behind them. They passed through customs wordlessly, and easily. Mom, I need to piss, she said. Dont say that, Jennifer. Yeh, okay. I need to go to the Ladies Room, she corrected herself with a contorted look of contempt. Ill wait over on those seats. Phillippa pointed to several rows of empty seats on the concourse. Ill get us coffee. Drop your luggage off first.

Skip my coffee. Jennifer responded. They walked over to the rows. Phillippa asked a man wearing a Fez whether hed be so kind as to look after the quartet of bags and he nodded. She went over to the Guatemala Joes franchise, which - surprisingly - wasnt busy. She ordered a large Americano and two blueberry muffins. Winced when it came to handing over the cash. Shed heard Britain had become expensive in the last five years. It had been three years since shed been back - the funeral of her mother - and already, she could tell, things had changed. Jimmy was a relatively rich man and she was relatively rich herself as a consequence, but she wasnt extravagant. Her own mother darned threadbare socks, patched up ripped jeans, and despaired of waste at the dinner table. Phillippa carried a little bit of her mother with her and that little bit emerged whenever she thought someone was trying to rip her off, like the Scandinavian girl serving the coffee.

Jennifer returned and the two women sat opposite each other on the rows, reading their own magazines. After a time, she came to sit next to her mum. See that guy? A man sat on the end of the row reading a copy of the Times. Grey suit and shining black brogue shoes. A businessman. Jennifer pointed to him, none too subtly. What about him? Phillippa asked. Hes been staring at us for the last ten minutes. I saw him looking at us on the plane. And in baggage. Were being followed. How do you know? I just do, mom. I can tell. Hes looking over now. Phillippa perused the full length of the row, saw nothing but a man sitting reading his paper. A traveller passing from A to B through C. Are you sure, hon? Her daughter hissed at her. Folded her arms, metaphysically shut down the conversation. You never

believe me. You never believe a frickin word I say, she retorted. I do, sweetheart. No, you dont, she replied. Returned to the row opposite and stared at her mother accusingly. Phillippa sipped her coffee. The man seemed to be quietly reading his newspaper. His legs were crossed. A youngish man. Thirty. Rimless spectacles and a purple tie. Handsome, sporty, the type of man she used to think about marrying before she married Jimmy. Ideal marrying type. Clean-cut and traditional. She was sure that Jennifer was imagining things. Self-conscious paranoia. Why on Earth would he be following them? She sat down for awhile and finished her coffee. Checked her watch. Lets find our taxi. He should be here soon, she said. The two women rose and walked out to the front. Ranks of men - corporates, placemen, schills, chauffeurs,

cabbies, mini-cab drivers - held up signs with names etched in marker upon them. Phillippa searched for hers. Saw it. ANGSTROM in bright blue letters, an Indian guy in a turban, a mashed potato beard.

Before long, they were in a black cab heading for Kings Cross station. She noticed the meter change in twenty seconds. Jennifer was right about the cab: It was lucky that Phillippa had a wad of Jimmys hard-earned Sterling in her purse because this extravagant little journey across London was going to finish most of it off.

Fairchild
The man in the smart business suit stood up and watched them walk across to the edge of the concourse.

Reached for his mobile phone in the top inside pocket of his jacket and speed-dialled. Theyre leaving the airport now, he said into the mouthpiece. Where are they headed? Do you know? The articulate voice on the other end of the phone asked, a mid-Atlantic, burnished accent. I think theyre heading north. The older woman was reading a guidebook on the plane. A guide to a place called Wheatley Fields. A moments pause on the other end of the line. Did you say Wheatley Fields? I did, Father. Youre sure? Wheatley Fields. Perfectly sure. She took the guide with her; otherwise, Id have picked it up. It had a picture of a church building on the front. Why? If it is Wheatley Fields, that Church on the front is The Three Steeples. One of the oldest and most important

post-Reformation churches in the world. Its the only example of that particular design in Britain. A similar one existed in Dresden, but the Allies bombed that out of existence in 1945. Follow them and dont lose them, Nathaniel. Do we have anyone in the town? He asked, keeping a close eye on the women outside on the concourse. Unfortunately not. The Churchs flower has been slow to bloom in England, as you know, which is ironic considering our origins. Nevertheless, we do have

connections in Wheatley that go back a century. The Three Steeples has a following and as you know, where they exist, we exist - or we will develop, as a balance. The Axiom. Yes. The Axiom. Put it this way - if they are going to Wheatley, it would be fortuitous. Did you check the photograph?

I did. Ive had the other Elders scrutinise it. They agree. The daughter strongly resembles her mother, but she masks herself. Hesitation on the phone. Silence. We cant tell for sure, the voice said eventually. Age wise, one is younger than expected and the mother is probably too old. Yet, her resemblance is uncanny. We cant afford to make mistakes. We must be thorough. By the way, Ive been spotted. The daughter. Be more careful, the voice said, a thin tone of admonishment, but nothing severe. You should know. I beg forgiveness. The younger one seems to be Sensitive. She has something. Her mother dismissed the concerns. Shes inert. Sensitive? How so? A Seed. An ungerminated seed. She spotted me and I was careful.

The voice on the other end of the phone chuckled. This is tremendous, Nathaniel! Tremendous. All of it. The sighting, the seed, the destination: Wheatley Fields. I genuinely cannot believe our excellent fortune. Not luck. Prophecy. It is Written. Of course. Follow them. We must be sure. And the mission to Highgate? Katy and Cornelius can attend to the Highgate business. Compared to this, its irrelevant. If they are heading to Wheatley Fields, and they are staying there, then Ill have an Integration Team ready by Friday. Ill make the requisite calls. Oh, and Nathaniel? Yes, Father? Dont lose them. Please. I cant stress the importance of this. I wont. Youve done well, he said, and cut off the conversation.

Nathaniel Fairchild slid his phone back in the pocket. He couldnt be sure, but the Church had Her image burned into memory. The Elders had programmed Inculcated, Indoctrinated - them from a young age, and Nathaniel had been Church since he was in diapers. Alarm bells chimed like Big Ben when he saw her at JFK. Sighting her would be a million to one chance and would bestow the Herald with riches and privileges. The equivalent of a lottery win. A Church lottery win. He was an ambitious man with notions of Elderdom. Being the one to make the critical sighting was something almost too good to be true. The situation had been assessed to the best of his ability. A gentle stroll down the aeroplane corridor to the toilets. A thorough scrutiny while they were asleep after the cardboard breakfast. A photo taken surreptitiously. Sharp. 20 mega pixels. In his seat, he scanned the photographs into his laptop. Checked the secret archive

material on the laptop. The last known daguerreotypes. The ancient engravings. The 1614 portrait. Her description from the Scrolls.

The minute the plane landed, he sent the photos to the High Priest in London while in his seat. Usually a cautious man, he was sure. Absolutely He had to be. A Church member could be in serious trouble for passing over a true/false vector. A false sighting. You would be wasting the Elders time and they didnt want their time wasted. They could get nasty. They did in Reno, that time. Tokyo. The woman in Brisbane. The true/false in Rheims cost Darren Michelinie the use of his right arm.

He followed them out of the airport. Watched them get into a pre-booked taxi and he found one directly after. Offered the driver double his usual rate to follow them.

The Iranian driver argued for double and a half and he agreed to pay it, not having time to haggle. Just stick to the cab like a burr, he said. While in the cab, he changed. Out of the suit and shoes and into jeans, lime-green polo shirt and sneakers. Windcheater. The typical American student on the way to Stratford or York. He took off his glasses and inserted his contact lenses, nearly losing one as the cab made a false stop. He added a Patriots ball cap to the ensemble. By the time they had arrived at Kings Cross Station, the man the daughter spotted at Heathrow no longer existed. He left his case in the back of the cab, taking only his devices in an overnight shoe bag slung over his shoulder. The driver shouted after him, but Fairchild ignored his entreaties. The driver could consider it a bonus. The girl may have noticed the case and students generally dont carry cases of that quality. He couldnt take any chances. The prize was too important to risk and she was Sensitive.

If she activated that (again) she would spot him and that would put it all in danger. At Kings Cross, they asked a question of a conductor on the insufferably crowded platform. Thousands of people seemed to be watching the overhead electronic timetable bank, twenty screens. Noticing him would be an impossibility and he wondered whether hed been overly cautious. He was partial to that suit and case. Samsonite. An expenses claim would be going in to the Elders accountants for that one. The conductor escorted them down a platform, carrying both her bags as he did so, her daughter carrying her own. They were heading for the Leeds train. East Coast Line. Without hesitation, he rushed to the counter to buy a ticket, timing it perfectly, jumping the queue, its constituents abusing him loudly. He paid cash, a single to Leeds, gave several people the finger as he walked back past the infuriated travellers. Just as the train was about to pull away, he jumped on

carriage F. Walked down the train until he saw them, and took a seat at the other end, just as he had done on the plane. They didnt notice him. He noticed the older woman try to engage the younger one in conversation on several occasions, but her attempts were unreciprocated, even rejected. The daughter stared out the window, past Stevenage, Peterborough and Grantham, the grim, featureless flatlands of Eastern England, listening to her iPod, some unknowable music.

Fairchild hated England. He couldnt wait to get back home to New York, but he knew that if she was who he suspected she was, it would be necessary for him to stay. Be part of the Integration team. If it was a false alarm, hed be able to finish his business in this shithole of a country much faster and get back to civilization. The food was unspeakable, the

women nasty, masculine and unattractive, the men either weird and violent, or effeminate and offhand. Outside of the tourist traps - Stratford, the Peaks, the Lakes, York, Central London - despite an illustrious history, there was precious little to look at but grass and relics of a bombed-out economy. Churches. Lots of churches, which was ironic for a country with the lowest proportion of churchgoers in the western world. The Axiom. The more active Christians in a location, the more his Church existed as a counterbalance, which is why they hardly existed in Britain: No ecumenical belief system to fuel the challenge. A secular country. The only spirituality in England existed at the bottom of a glass. Other than that, spiritually speaking, only emptiness reigned. A vacuum.

He took more photographs of the women when he could. Sent more photos back to the Father for further work. On occasion, the daughter stirred as if she was aware of something untoward, but she didnt spot him. Maybe it was the ball cap.

The two women alighted at Charlestown. He followed. They got in a taxi. He jumped in the one behind. At a safe distance, he followed them to a small cottage on the other side of Wheatley Fields, on the road to the City. Watched the taxi driver help them with their bags up the driveway. Took a final photograph of the cottage on his phone and dispatched it via his laptop back to London. Told the taxi driver to take him to the nearest hotel. It was six p.m. on September 4th 2011.

Pariah
In the ruinously expensive Community Fayre

supermarket which dominates the domestic life of Wheatley Fields, he noticed a group of schoolchildren standing by the lottery till pointing him out. Sadly, he wasnt someone they were pleased to see, but they were too young to know precisely why, so they assimilated their parents opinions, which meant they regarded him with something between disgust and fear. In the old days, they would have pelted him with rotten fruit and roadside stones.

He ignored them, crouched down by the discount shelf, and chose a four pack of raspberry yoghurts with a day to go on the safety date. A cheese and onion pasty. A tub of egg mayonnaise sandwich filling. A ten-slice pack of

honey roast ham with a day to go, available at a tenth of the usual price. On the shelf up ahead, a small loaf of Broadwood wholemeal bread, baked not a mile away and with a day to go on the sell by date. He put two loaves in his plastic basket. Finally, he added two bottles of diet cloudy lemonade and a two- for- a pound salt and vinegar sticks deal. He joined one of the never-ending queues, the supermarket continually slashing staff to maintain profit margins, as the country experienced the worst economic earthquake since Thatchers reign. Today, he felt privileged: Theyd opened two of the seven aisles. It didnt matter to him. Wherever he went, hed pass queues like a movie star on a VIP list. They parted like the Red Sea when they sensed his approach. The girl in front, no older than sixteen, ash-blonde hair, sculpted, super-tanned legs up to her neck and a flowery golden shawl that covered most of her top half, moved without fuss to the next aisle. The worker in green

overalls and a hi-visibility jacket did the same. The mother and son in front of him took their business to the newspaper aisle, the queue to which was already stretching back to the perpendicularly placed offer shelves. Two customers had already laid out their baskets of groceries on the belt so they couldnt move. They would have done so, if they could. Trapped, they moved away from him as if he reeked of pissed pants.

When it was his turn to be served, the woman behind the counter - Pauline, who used to flirt, giggle a little at his jokes, allowed him to compliment her new haircuts with a blush - didnt even ask if he had a membership card. They always ask that. He felt like commenting that her look of anger aged her by a decade, but didnt bother, knew it was pointless. When he had left, the people left in the market breathed a sigh of relief. Customers.

The kids who filled the shelves. The checkout staff. The shoppers. This scene repeated itself whenever he left the house, and had done for months.

Heathers
Jennifer Angstrom made two friends in the time she lived in Wheatley Fields. She stood talking to one of them on the swings in the park nearest the school. Matt. Well, he was more than a friend, but less than a boyfriend, because that would be pointless, she felt, what with going back to Ohio in May and all that. She liked him a lot and liked him as a person too. He was the best of them at the school. They liked the same music. You couldnt tell he liked rock music - he dressed like someone from back home; in his windcheaters,

beanie hats, Superdry hoodies and Abercrombie & Fitch Ivy League checks. Peculiar, she thought, like being in the halls at Ponce De Leon. Shed noticed that all the British kids dressed like Americans, something she didnt expect when she pictured England in her head. It disoriented her at times.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the Clique walking towards them. She knew that there was going to be trouble. When Matt saw them a split second later, he knew too. Jen, lets go, he said, getting off his swing. We can chill out at mine. She shook her head. No way. These bitches have been on my back since I arrived, she said, her mid-western accent inviting and mellifluous. Im not running. Time for this to stop. Youre different, he said. They hate you for that.

I thought my High School was conformist, but its like nothing compared to this frickin place, she said. Smoothing down the creases in her priests cassock, she stood up and monitored their approach. She genuinely couldnt care less whether people liked her or not and this wasnt the first time shed faced bullying from popular people and she knew it wouldnt be the last either. She turned to Matt and gave him the subtlest of smiles. Oh well, tell my mom I loved her. On second thoughts, scratch that Jen Tape your piehole, Matt. Im dealing with it. Okay? The seven girls approaching Jennifer and Matt didnt label themselves The Clique. Others did. Those Others being the girls they shunned, the boys they rejected, the Others being the majority of The Three Steeples School Sixth Form they ruled with derision, sneers and occasional violence. They were a self-appointed social

elite. Modelled on any number of American high school dramas, they made lives a misery wherever they could and they did so with zeal and vehemence, for no other reason than they could. They spoke only to each other. Took the same subjects. Worked out together. Went shopping to the City together. Dated rich, hot-looking boys with the rich, hot-looking cars from all the classy families. They caned Prom Night. Woe-betide anyone who came to school with a better, more expensive dress, or a longer limo - theyd suffer in the next year. Theyd suffer for the rest of their time at the school. They bullied the quiet girls, humiliated them in class, and made a point of publicising their lack of outr sex appeal. They had been known to beat up some of the quieter boys too - the unattractive, the shy, the invisible, the bespectacled Gamers - when no one was looking; in the toilets, in dim corridors and down the winding leafy paths leading to and from The Three Steeples. If you were different, you were in trouble.

They slaughtered emos and goths and students who wore spectacles and unbranded clothes. They absolutely destroyed anyone they suspected of being gay and they encouraged their rich, hot-looking boyfriends to join in. They persecuted the alternative to their conformist, selfgenerated norms to the point where some of their targets chose not to come back and went to college in the City instead. If you dressed differently, they were on you like demented psychopaths and they never, ever stopped. On her first day at Sixth Form, Jennifer turned up wearing the same Priests cassock she wore that afternoon, the same Terminator boots, her hair gelled and painted with all the colours of the rainbow. It was no wonder, in hindsight, that Jennifer found herself the centrepiece of a campaign. Labelling her The Freak was just the start of it. No one in the Clique was more expert in excoriation, abuse, humiliation, and social one-upmanship than Sarah

Fox-Cooper, the seventeen-year-old girl staring straight into Jennifer Angstroms face at that moment. Like, what have you been saying about me? She asked. Tumbling jet-black hair frozen immobile with extrafirm-hold lacquer. Royal blue quilted jacket, tight leggings, Hunter Wellington boots. Lustrous, regal, Spanish-looking features. Resonant brown eyes, eyes that had tortured the delicate soul of many a nave boy. Her posse stood behind her, wearing subtle variations of their leaders clothes, all expensive, all labelled, all branded. New rural chic. They stared at The Freak in unison. I havent said anything, Sarah. You must be mistaken, Jennifer replied, in truthfulness. I heard that you called me a slag, she replied with controlled menace, claws extended. Why would I do that? Jennifer replied, knowing it was all invented. I dont care who you sleep with, so, like, why would I make any comment?

I dont sleep with anyone, Sarah lied. Whatever. Youre utterly disgusting and youre letting our school down. Look at you. Sarah reached over to Jennifers hair and lifted a strand. Youre repulsive. A repulsive American. That day, Jennifer was wearing Aviator sunglasses even though it was gloomy and windy. Her hair was a peach colour and most of it was swept to one side in a wedge style, homage to classic techno band, the Human League. Bright-red lipstick. Her eye makeup stretched across her face like a robbers mask. Six earrings hung from each ear; a diverse mixture of silver skulls, crosses and occult symbols, including one which looked like a goat with an erect penis. Her bottom lip had been pierced twice - though a stud had gone septic and shed taken that one out, leaving a scabby sore (hence the heavy lipstick). A Marilyn Manson tee-shirt nestled underneath her Catholic priests cassock, which covered her boots.

She brushed Sarahs hand away and grinned. Well, gee, like, Im SO frickin disappointed Milady doesnt approve of my look. Look at that makeup, Sarah continued the attack. Youre such a total freak. Whats wrong with my makeup? She replied. Itsits. Sarah didnt immediately have an answer. Let me help you: Its an alternative choice. Guess what? Its frickin ME. Gee, being near you preppy bitches is like being back home. I suppose next time we ought to go to France or some shit like that. At least France might be something fricking different. Dont call me a bitch, Sarah said predictably, moving toward her. Jennifer had had enough. Without waiting for the inevitable slap, she grabbed hold of Sarahs arm and brutally threw her onto the woodchip playground floor. Swift as lightning, she reached into the top of her book

sack and removed a heavy hair comb with six-inch long metal teeth. She knelt on Sarahs arm and punched her on the nose as she lay on the ground. As her knuckles were encrusted with a multiplicity of metal rings, the thump hurt, ensuring Sarah, like most bullies when confronted, burst into tears. The posse, all of whom had given Jennifer a hard time at one point or another in the last few weeks, started to come forward to help their leader. Seeing this, Jennifer grabbed Sarah by a bunch of her hair, pulled her face upwards, twisted her face toward the approaching gang and shoved the teeth of the comb into the fleshy, rouged rump of her cheek. Jennifer looked at Sarahs approaching supporters with an expression of suppressed, controlled anger, her lipstick-covered teeth slightly bared. If you frickin bitches come any closer, Ill open up her chubby cheeks like a can of beans, she said, quietly

and with some conviction. Then, when Ive finished cutting her up, Im coming for each of you, one by one. Sarah Fox Cooper wept and snivelled. Waved her friends away and they backed off as requested. Seeing this, the young American pulled the comb away, allowed her to stand and run back to her friends. When she had reached a safe distance, she started to shout. Youre MAD. Youre like, CRAZY. Youre a BITCH. Youre a FREAK. Ill get you for this, she wailed. Ill set my DAD on you she screeched, as they all retreated in the direction of the school. Just before they all disappeared behind the brook and the bushes skirting the school, Sarah ran back into view. And I dont have CHUBBY CHEEKS, she shouted.

Jennifer looked at Matt, who gazed at her with total admiration. Another satisfied customer, she said, putting the comb away in the sack.

Have you done that before? Matt replied. Im impressed. Nope. Got that from Kick-Ass comics, she said, putting her comb back in her bag. She sat back on the swings. Inside, she was shaking like a leaf, but she didnt let on. Matt sat next to her. He wanted to give her a hug, but she sometimes recoiled from him and he generally walked on eggshells around her when it came to intimate gestures. He contented himself with a further compliment. That was cool, Jen. Thanks. I thought so too, she replied. You do know who her dad is, dont you? Matt quizzed her. Yes I do, she replied. She pictured him prowling the corridors of the school as if he owned the place, a fat guy with a moustache straight out of a Victorian daguerreotype. Grenville Fox-Cooper, a Magistrate local Police called Hanging Judge Grenville, one of the most significant

landowners in the county and Chairman of the Board of Governors at the school. He was Wheatley Fields aristocracy: Sensible people avoided crossing him or his family, if at all possible. It was safer that way. Jennifer knew that he doted on his daughter like a prize thoroughbred, but in the end, she was unconcerned. He could get you expelled, Matt said, earnestly. So? He wont do anything. Id shame her so bad shed have to leave the school with me. Mud sticks: Id tell everyone that she came to my house and tried to get in my emo panties. That would kill her stone frickin dead in Wheatley Fields. Thats a bit harsh, Matt replied. You people are so passive. Lets go home, its freezing and I have to do homework. The two of them dismounted the swings and walked back toward the cottage her mother had rented for the year.

As they did so, they saw a woman pushing an oldfashioned pram. Hey, look at that, Matt said. What? Ive never seen one of those before. Thats so cool. Me neither. A pram? Jesus The pram was spotless, immaculate, reaching as high as the womans hips. It was black, possibly dark blue, with a cream frontage and a canopy, which was up, even though it wasnt raining. The highly-polished silvered parts shimmered in what remained of the daylight. Whoever owned that pram cared for it like a Rolls Royce. The woman pushing was in her fifties wearing a black hat with a slight veil that didnt reach the lower half of her face. Classically beautiful, with auburn ringlets, and symmetrical features, and profound, glossy, red lips. She wore a black suit, with an ostentatious gold brooch, (a bird?) smart flat shoes and gloves. She came across like a movie star playing a Regency nanny in an old film about

the Royal family, in a scene where the baby Princess was being given her daily constitutional in Hyde Park. As they passed, they both tried to look inside to see the baby in there, but it was obscured under swaddling sheets. The woman waved at the two teenagers as they went past, and her waving seemed to them to last an age. In fact, when they passed her and entered the grounds of the school, they had to look back to check that it wasnt a dream. When they did so, she had disappeared, as if shed never existed at all.

Oh, My Brothers
When Phillippa arrived in Wheatley Fields, her brother was not pleased to see her, and that was something she expected. For a month, he didnt make her life easy, but in the end he accepted her offer of evening meals, laundry, and

two mornings a week cleaning. She could care less about the house cleaning, but during the cleaning time, she tried to get through to him. He wouldnt go to therapy, wouldnt leave Wheatley Fields, had disappeared into himself, spending weeks on his sofa, in his slippers, that hideous pink towelling dressing gown covered in curry stains, and his floppy-eared Deerstalker. Talking to people on the Internet mostly. Social networks, Me.Com, e-mail. TV from back home. Mentalist. Justified. Homeland, Californication, Burn Notice, Sons of Anarchy. She knew he used porn because one morning, when she went inside his house, he had fallen asleep at his desk. On his computer she noticed a high definition video playing on loop - a geometrically-awkward threesome involving a fulsomely-endowed man and two unfeasiblyendowed women. She pulled the plug from its socket accidentally on purpose - and shook him awake. He woke

up, drunk, oblivious to what she had seen. She didnt judge him. The woman in the Midlands who would go near him didnt exist - and that hurt her, the idea of it, the shame of it. Those six hours a week of cleaning, and those seven meals a week she made for him gave her an excuse to get inside his head, and in the end he gave in. Well, after a while. The first few times she visited, he didnt even get out of bed. He called her an interfering bitch. Worse. He screamed at her, drunk, hung over. He made her suffer for her love. No matter how foul he was, she carried on religiously. Family was important to her and she knew that he was suffering. He was fair as a kid. They loved each other. He wasnt himself. She forgave him anything, all the harsh words, the tears behind closed doors, the wrath. All that family business.

Even so, with Jimmys money behind her - and an agreement for her husband to send her three thousand five hundred pounds a month, plus rent, for up to a year - that left plenty of free time to fill. She couldnt decorate a rented cottage - a waste of time and money - and there wasnt much of a chance to garden until Spring, which would be too late, so what she did was write letters home, keep house for Jennifer, work out, sleep, and shop in Wheatley Fields many designer boutiques, mostly owned by the wives and mistresses of the towns one hundred and thirty seven cash millionaires.

Mom called Jennifer over to the kitchen table when she arrived at the cottage after her altercation. She sauntered over, disinterestedly. What? Look at these, sweetie, mom said. Proudly, she showed her daughter a new nail job; Fuchsia, she said helpfully and unnecessarily to the Queen of colours. Gel

nails. Theyll last me nearly a month. Never had this treatment before. How much? Her daughter asked. Just twenty five pounds. I was overjoyed - its a bargain. You can paint those yourself for a dollar, mom. I have some varnish upstairs in precisely that colour. Mom shook her head. Not like this, she pointed out. Theyll never chip and they wont fade for a month. Theyre special gel nails. Ill book you in.

She was bored already. As far as Jennifer was concerned, mom was a shopping jockey. Mom desperately tried to get her involved, always had done, her dream a girly tag team Saturday afternoon shopping experience, but it never worked and Jennifer wondered why she persisted. She wasnt interested in

things like that and would probably never be interested in things like that. She let her mom know less than subtly: Dont bother, mom. Im not interested, she replied. Im going upstairs to do my assignments. Dont call me. Ill make a sandwich later so I wont be eating. Phillippa looked bemused. But Ive cooked Uncle Damon can eat a double portion. Laters, mom. She sprinted upstairs two at a time and left Phillippa feeling empty, lonely, and sad.

There was a knock on the door and Phillippa answered it. It was Lenny, in his running gear. Bent double, breathing heavily. A bright red tracksuit and expensive running shoes. Winter breath suspended in the fading light Lenny! Come in she said, cheerfully. Sorry, Im a bit sweaty. Had a run up the trail. He came in and sat on the pine kitchen table. Thirties, six foot two, a runners shape, fair haired, sweat leaked

from his forehead in rivulets and Phillippa passed him a clean yellow towel. Just came to check youre alright for the gym tomorrow morning, he said. Sure. Thanks! Im so looking forward to it. Good stuff. Gyms much better for you than those workout videos. I know, but I dont like going to the gym here on my own. You know that. She lifted her pink vest slightly and squeezed her belly fat on either side, a finger full, hardly worth commenting on. Girl my age has gotta keep an eye on this. She noticed that Lenny hesitated a second before he responded and she knew why, which pleased her. Nothing there, Phillippa. Its all in your head. And you wont be going on your own to the gym. Ill walk you down. Keep you away from all those hefty young lads, he said, cleaning his spectacles. How can you say such a thing! Im a married woman. Do you want some tea? Im making a pot of Earl Grey.

Not today, love. Have to get a shower and Ive got some business on. Ill be here tomorrow morning. He stood up and replaced his spectacles. About ten? Do you like my nails? Phillippa said hoping for much more appreciation from her next-door neighbour than she had just received from her daughter. He took her hand and she liked the way he did it. Bonus, he said. Gel job? In the town? She was impressed! Jimmy would never have noticed. Oh My God, how did you know? The woman who owns the bar is a pal of mine. She does a quality job. Twenty five quid? Thats right, she said. Your hands look gorgeous now. Worth it. Ill see you tomorrow. He winked at her, she felt a glow descend upon her. Flushed at the compliment, Phillippa let him out into the garden and without fuss, he waved and athletically jumped over the gap in the hedge into his house.

Lenny was an action man and his presence always cheered her up. Up till that point, he was the only friend shed made in Wheatley Fields and despite making herself available all over town; in the fashionable daytime deli, the Croquembouche, out walking in the town, working out in the gym and, more formally, dropping introduction cards through the letterboxes of the five neighbours either side of her cottage, shed found it almost impossible to make friends.

Being English herself - though by birth and early experience, rather than inclination - she was shocked at how unsociable everyone was. No one seemed interested in her at all and she was glad of Lennys company. She liked him too. He was the type of man who thought things through, listened to the opinions of all and sundry, considered those opinions, balanced them and weighed them up, and then, after hed done all that, did exactly what he wanted. She admired that.

Patch
Jennifers second friend was a collie she called Patch because of him being pure white with a single ink smudge on the right side of his face. Outside in the garden, he barked repeatedly at the window. Jennifer came downstairs to see him, ignoring her previous

proclamations, and without a word to her mother, went out into the back garden to play with the dog. Phillippa watched as Patch launched himself at her daughter and greeted her with licks and kisses and a tail wagging ferociously. It was possible his real name was Patch because that was the obvious name. That, or Smudge, but when she called him Patch the first time, he responded by wagging his tail like a mad dog, whereas when she called him Smudge, he gave her nothing. Patch it was.

Patch spent much of his doggy life in the cottage garden, though he was the property of a couple five doors up. Jennifer guessed he had been friendly with the previous renters and had positive associations with the place and she had become part of one seamless doggy love continuum for Patch, which she was happy for, because when she first met Patch, the second day she was there, her experiences at school suggested that she wasnt going to be Three Steeples Most Loved 2012, which would give her plenty of time to play with him. Over all the time she got to know Patch, she noticed that his current owners didnt seem to care for him much, didnt care that he came round the cottage daily, and they certainly didnt care that Jennifer seemed to treat him like he was her own. He was never beaten or whipped or anything like that. His owners treated him like a cat. Fed him and left him to it. Jennifer knew you shouldnt treat a dog like that. Patch craved companionship. She guessed dad would have liked

a dog, but his job didnt suit pet ownership (being International in nature), and her mom was anti-pet to the max. He said to Jennifer that a dog was a mans pet, a mans best friend, but she disagreed. She loved dogs and she doted on Patch in those first few weeks in Wheatley Fields. Patch loved her in return. Whenever she woke up in the morning, hed be ready, outside her window barking. Monday to Sunday, never quite picking up the difference between a school day and a weekend. He pissed moms friend Lenny right off. Sometimes a running shoe or stick would come flying from his bedroom window as Patch called for Jennifer to come out and play, which she did, weather permitting, before she had to get ready for school. Which, being Jennifer, took about three times as long as it did most other kids. But she never missed half an hour with Patch who soon worked out when Jennifer was

in and when she wasnt, because hed be in the garden after school, wagging his tail and chasing his tail, panting. It was difficult to extract any information from his owners. Things like his real name, his age and all the important things, because they were working in the City or stoned out of their boxes on home grown skunk within half an hour of arriving home at night. Her mother, who went to try and make friends with her neighbours as part of a concerted social strategy, was given short shrift by the monstered woman who didnt give her name and treated her like a burglar crossed with a Jehovahs Witness.

Unfortunately, the terms of the cottage lease meant pets werent allowed so it was a rare occasion indeed that Patch was allowed to cross the threshold of the house and even that occurred when Phillippa was out shopping. She didnt go a bundle on pets - the mess, the piss and shit, the malting, the destruction of lifes wonderful

things, all got on her nerves, and so whenever Jennifer had the chance to interact with animals, she seized it. Way she looked at it, she preferred animals to people and whenever it was warm enough and Matt was at home, or homework was mercifully absent, shed take Patch for a walk in the park, throw ball and spin Frisbee - which he seemed to love, sprinting after the lime-green disc like a dog possessed, jumping high into the air to catch it as it soared down from the skies, leaping a seemingly unfeasible height for a dog. And when it was time for him to go home, he would pine and yelp and snivel and rub himself against her leg and shed say, chin up Patch, well play tomorrow and shed give him one of the chews shed secreted in her pocket just for the purpose. One evening, when Jennifer had homework to do and couldnt play for long, she noticed a tear well up in Patchs smudged right eye and she bobbed down, cuddled him, and kissed him on the forehead. He licked her face, slobbering away much of

her eye makeup and she resolved there and then never to cut Patch short.

And in the time they were friends, she kept her word.

The Stimulation of The Axiom

Not only was Clement St Anger Wheatley Fields most notable naturalist, he was also one of its keenest runners. Nearly seventy, he had been running since his mid-thirties and had chalked up many achievements on the tarmac and on the fell, including running the entire length of the country. Today, on a crisp November afternoon, he was undertaking a much less ambitious project - the Heritage Trail leading to Bloodworth and forking off to Follow Field. The trail is seven miles long at its farthest point, and that day he planned to run to the end.

Grey haired, distinguished looking, a teetotaller and someone who avoided the Wheatley Fields social whirl, he liked nothing more than to get his running gear on and get out there in the raw. And it was raw - near freezing. Despite wearing an anti-sweat running vest, he had covered up with a hoodie, a hat and kagoule as well as gloves. He had to keep moving. If he slowed down, the temperature would chill the perspiration developing on his back, which could give him flu. He anticipated running the fourteen miles in just short of an hour and three quarters, and if he could do that, the natural pace would stave off the worst of it. The trail itself was an ideal running track. Flat, scenic, sheltered from the wind by trees all along its length on the first half, and by dredged banks on the second. He enjoyed running this route, and sometimes, apart from the odd dog walker and mountain biker, it was just him and nature. The seclusion energised and calmed him,

depending on what he needed it to do. He loved the nature side of it. The trees, stark and leafless, in the heart of their winter hibernation. Beeches, chestnuts, cherry trees, elms and oaks and the ranks of Yew off on the other side of the farmers fields - the last remaining Yew woods, a legacy of a thousand years of timber harvesting.

In the summer, with the birds roosting and the insects buzzing, the place was a wildlife haven and its lush greenery, its overgrown, sumptuous canopy, attracted many visitors. He loved running, but even in his civvies, he spent many a Sunday afternoon along the trail with his recorder, his sketchbook and his camera, basking in the sunshine and recording the sights. On the average Friday night, he enjoyed a game of darts in The Saddlers Arms and had done for twenty years. By virtue of its prosperity and village origins, he felt that Wheatley Fields existed like a bulls-eye on a natural dartboard, surrounded on all sides by rural splendour, but the trail and the woodland

and greenery around it was, to coin (and strain) an analogy, definitely the treble twenty. Without much effort at all, he reached the three-mile point, the car park half-way between Wheatley Fields and Follow Fields. Chilly, a hint of snow in the air, and he was just considering a retreat at the midpoint, when he noticed Police up ahead, by the old car park gatehouse.

Two Police cars and the craggy, overweight figure of Sergeant Brophy plus two constables, both leaning on one of the cars. He could recognise him from a distance. On the two occasions that hed had anything to do with Wheatley Fields key Police presence he had not been impressed. The Policeman had been truculent and surly with a tendency to violence. Rumours of a liberal interpretation of the rules about treating suspects abounded in the town, which, he liked to think, he ruled with an iron fist.

Several other people rubbernecked. Another runner, two young mountain bikers in helmets. A dog walker with two huge Alsatians. He ran up and joined them. He halfrecognised the runner from the trail and the two men nodded. Whats happening? he asked. Vandalism, I think. Have a look. The lanky runner passed over a flat digital camera. Press this button and point it toward the door, he said. Use the zoom. Clement did so. On the front door, he could see something bizarre and he instinctively turned away. Is that what I think it is? He asked. It looks like it, the other runner said. Must be kids. Who lives in the gatehouse? he questioned, further, his nature. Its been empty for a year. I think the Council had plans for it - a visitors centre or something, but they ran out of money.

As we all have, he replied. Lucky no one lives there. They wouldnt want to be coming home to something like that. He observed through the view capture. Hanging from the porch roof was a hen. Reddy-brown feathers and a brown head, red tiara flopping and swaying in the breeze. Upside down. Hanging by twine from her legs. Bleeding from her neck, blood dripping like wine onto the floor. Behind the hen, on the cream door itself was a scrawled symbol, in red, which looked a bit like the Star of David, except inverted and possibly sketched in the blood of the hen, or at least some thin paint. Whats that symbol? Clement asked, passing back the camera. A pentagram, I think. Looks like theres been a devil worshipping thingy. Devil worship? his eyebrows rose. Hed never come across such a thing in Wheatley Fields before.

Coppers are all over it like fleas on a rat, the runner said. They dont look too happy about it. Not healthy for business, devil worshippers, he commented. Neither is a hanging hen bleeding to death on a porch. Thats why theyre here, the runner said, drily. Get burgled and you wouldnt see this lot for dust. Butcher a hen on the trail and youll get a SWAT team. There was a pause, broken by a curious Clement. Is the hen significant? The runner shook his head. I have no idea, sir. Its getting far too nesh to stand here watching this malarkey and Ive bloody ruined my time today. See you. With that, the runner headed back toward the town. Clement was beginning to feel the air himself and he shivered.

Kids! Bored Kids!

Fortunate that they left before Brophy arrived. If the rumours were true, he wouldnt have spared the rod. He started on the run back to avoid the risk of freezing to death. It was getting cold, colder than he expected. After about half a mile, Clement noticed that it was getting darker too. That was odd. Hed started his run at 1.30. Generally, he wouldnt expect it to get dark until 3.30 and he had only travelled three-and-a-half miles. The grey clouds were hovering menacingly over the treetops. To avoid freezing perspiration, he speeded up, felt his heart rate increase and felt his blood flow in all directions. To speed up the heating process, he visualised a textbook diagram of his own body with arrowheads representing the blood travelling madly and it comforted him. With the effort, he began to warm as he passed the fields full of ponies and fences signalling the new quarter mile gallops. The ponies in the fields were well rugged and they contentedly

munched on prime grass as the clouds, almost unnaturally, began to descend further.

As he ran past the access gate near the Haven Road, he heard something in the bush. Against his better judgement, he stopped. Something was in the bush and he watched it shake. The rustling was too frenetic for it to be a vole or a rat: It was like a dog had found himself trapped. A medium-sized dog. The bush, an evergreen ten-foot long, more a natural hedge than anything else, shuddered incessantly . He took a step closer. Then he heard it. A growl. A dark, throaty growl. Ground level. Coming from inside the plant. From underneath the hole. He stood. Pondered, and felt a shiver up his spine that was nothing to do with the falling temperature or the chilling perspiration on his back. Clement St Anger did not like that growl at all.

A keen naturalist, a published expert on the wildlife of Wheatley Fields, an environmentalist who contributed to the Woodlands Trust, and a keen animal lover, if there was a trapped dog in the bush, an injured dog, a young pup, he would automatically help. It was in him. He would never walk away, if someone or something was in pain. Particularly animals or birds. Half of him wanted to look underneath the shaking shrub. At its base, a relatively cavernous two-foot wide gap that he could crouch down into, get his head inside, and have a look. To do so, he would have to get down on his knees and clamber underneath. Whatever it was buried underneath, he would probably have to crawl about inside. The ground was dry - the legacy of an everlasting English drought - and he was wearing leggings: Hed be okay as long as he didnt have to get his whole body in, with those harsh and penetrating thorns. The other half of him, simply wanted to run away. Get as far away from there as quick as possible. When he

heard the growl get louder, continuous and low, when he saw the shaking increase to frantic levels, that was the side that won. The running enthusiast and Naturalist, if you asked him, could tell you what genus the bush was, and he could identify the type of trees that surrounded the bush, but he couldnt tell you which local animal it was that growled like that. He couldnt even guess. One thing was for sure. It wasnt a dog.

He ran. As he ran down the trail, as fast as he ever had done, he could sense something following him. He turned, but couldnt see anything and he ran and turned, ran and turned, but , the evidence of his eyes was contrary to the evidence of his senses. He visualised the animal from inside the bush, bounding behind him, panting. He could feel its hunger. He could sense its urgency. He could feel

it. He turned one more time. He thought he could see the bushes all along the right hand side begin to bend, as if in a storm, a cyclone. The branches bent and the evergreen leaves shook frenetically, madly. That sight made him run faster, as fast as hed run for a decade or so, and he had to suppress the urge to scream for help then, as soon as the feeling came, it went. Nothing. Just the trail. The silent trail. and tranquil. Dry and cold. An

Airedale walker in a yellow puffa jacket with a Liverpool FC crest walking past. A mountain biker ambling along, no particular place to go, an elongated purple crash helmet on his head. Silence. Total silence. Nothing but the wind and the sound of his panicked, overextended breathing. He bent over, near the Sea of Tranquility Inn, at the entrance to the trail. Tried to catch his breath, to slow down the flow of adrenalin. He wondered whether to stop

off for a restorative whisky and a pint of Barnyard Goblin. He realised that he had no money with him and the Tranquilitys Mine Host was not known for his generosity, nor his willingness to open tabs. He leaned on the Inns fence and rubbed at the stitch on his right side, tried to calm his breathing down.

What he saw directly in front of him stopped his breathing dead. The beginning of the trail also marked the boundary to a bird sanctuary and a hundred or so Yew trees. Yews, he knew, were planted in great numbers in parks and in woodland during the Victorian park mania of the eighteen eighties. Along the Yew canopy, along the top branches, perched crows, roosting. Corvus. Hundreds of them. Some a foot tall. Taller. Not one of them called or croaked. Silent crows.

They stared at the runner silently. All of them. He wished that he had his binoculars because the sight of a row of silent Corvus was something to behold. Crows. Ravens. Jackdaws. Rooks. Directly adjacent to the Sea of Tranquility Inn grew an oak tree that, some said, dated back eight hundred years. The Black Prince was said by local historians to have tethered his horse there on his way North to recruit soldiers for the campaign that led to the stunning victory at Poitiers. On top of the oak perched a single Raven. Close enough for Clement to see intimately. Ravens, persecuted for a thousand years, dont usually stay so close to human beings, and he knew that the bird should have flown away, by rights. The Raven was a foot tall. Well-fed and confident. Silent. A beak as black as coal. Eyes as red as fire. It watched him.

He knew, not only as a keen student of nature, that Ravens did not have red eyes. Ravens do not perch and stare so closely (some gamekeeper would have shot a bird as brave as this by now). Ravens did not come this far East any more. Ravens were not as large as this. Ravens didnt have beaks as long and as sharp as that one. It watched him. Unmoving. Clement, panicked, feeling extremely odd and getting a second wind, sprinted away from the trail as fast as he could.

Then, There Were Some Very Subtle (and not so subtle) Changes in the Town Itself
Wheatley Fields had itself experienced some subtle changes during that winter and it seemed that the sighting of the pentagram may have been the first of them. Surreptitious and unremarkable changes that, taken alone, would lead to little comment even from terminal gossips, but when taken together the events formed a kaleidoscopic pattern heading inexorably towards a climatic whole.

The locals noticed many, many incomers, more than usual. If there was one thing that locals noticed, it was incomers, but the incomers were usually from London

and the south east, or The City, or the posher parts of the north. These incomers seemed to be from abroad. This seemed unusual and in the convivariums around the town, it was discussed, as were the many other unusual events. In a quiet, but determined town full of the retired, full of old villagers who could remember the aftermath of the war, full of the rich, full of businessmen and businesswoman, full of new graduate families borrowing to the hilt to make sure the kids had the best start in life, these strange things didnt happen. Cats got stuck in trees. Fires started in barns. Rebel kids shoplifted. Golf bags went missing in the pub, stolen by mischievous sixth formers. Doorknockers were hassled and told to move on. The occasional student from the agricultural college kept his music on after 11pm and got complaints. This was the extent of atypical events in Wheatley Fields. Not grave desecrations (three).

Nor the three unlicensed exhumations of the oldest graves in the town. Nor the burning of a wax mannequin in the front seat of a stolen car outside the chip shop. Nor the discovery of six pentagrams on abandoned buildings, including the hanging of hens and in one significant event, the discovery of a black cockerel, disemboweled and hung in the belfry of St Barnabas church, to the west of the town.

Not the sound of music in the wind. Strange music which kept the kids awake at night and gave people nightmares. Nor the slowly increasing number of crows and their calls. These werent normal for the town at all. They were the unsubtle integrations.

Subtle changes occurred. A spate of shop buyouts took place in November, for example. The Organic Fruit and Vegetable Emporium, so popular with locals keen to access the healthy lifestyle craze sweeping the country, was sold to a Mr. Reeves, of Alberta, Canada. The owners werent keen to sell, in fact, didnt need to sell, but the gentleman offered such a ridiculous price for the business, keeping the shop would have affected their self-esteem. No one alive would have turned down the price he offered for a fruit and vegetable shop. This also happened with the antique shop opposite the Post Office, sold to a Mr. and Mrs. Jarvis of Reigate, for twice what it was worth, plus a significant extra premium for all the stock, most of which the owners would struggle to sell at a car boot. The Bubbly Beauty greetings card and gift shop was sold to someone from Chichester and his representative, one Janet Hardy, took possession on the first of December.

Finally, for that busy period, Kellys Fashions, so popular with the young and trendy of the town, was sold to a Mrs. Meryl Betz of Baja, California. Kelly Pardew, the owner, was so pleased with the ridiculous amount Mrs. Betzs representatives paid for the shop that she impulsively booked two months in Baros, taking her reluctant (but smitten) new husband with her, even though he had important work to do and his colleagues at the office were not pleased. At the Borough Council, two new employees arrived on secondment. One, the colourfully-named Brixton Slaughter, from Massachusetts, here to implement a radical new, real-time database for tracking postal electoral voters. The second, the less colourfully-named Peter Trewick, of Plymouth, seconded to set up a new accounting system in the Council Tax department. Sadly, for the earnest taxpayers of Wheatley Fields, neither man would go on to complete their tasks and, it

seemed to their exasperated colleagues, neither seemed interested in matters of council administration at all.

Although the market for houses had been stagnant since the horrors of two thousand and eight, nine houses in Wheatley Fields changed hands in traditionally the worst months of the year for house buying. Amazingly, all houses were sold at the offer price. One retired couple ended up nearly three hundred thousand pounds richer than they started the day with and fulfilled their dream of a bungalow in Hunstanton overlooking the sea, well away from their ignorant and grasping children in The City. A widower, with a quarter of a million pounds in the bank, booked tickets to South Africa and paid cash for a cliff-top apartment in Cape Town. He would never again see the shores of the radically changed Green and Pleasant Land.

A frugal (but shrewd) divorcee moved in with her daughter in Fallow Field, claiming ill health, trousering nearly half a million pounds as she did so; she only informed her daughter of half that amount, as if her daughter worked for The Revenue rather than being a seriously harassed mother of four who could have done with the extra financial help.

What surprised the seller in each case was that they were told that the offer price would be met only if the completion from start to finish took no more than one month. In all cases but one, this condition was met. The exception had found himself trapped in a seemingly unbreakable chain and the buyer moved on to another property on the list. The unlucky man was Sergeant Brophy. Some said his misfortune could not have happened to a nicer person.

At The Three Steeples, the school that so dominated life in Wheatley Fields, a long-serving and popular History teacher called Mrs. Rainworth developed a mystifying illness that shook the medical profession, her husband and her three children. It was said that she developed the illness during an adventure week in Cape Verde during half term. The illness caused her hair to moult, her teeth to fall out overnight, and her skin to turn the colour of sour milk. There was a smell about her. An unbearable stench that meant her carers and family were compelled to wear masks whenever they tended to her needs. Worse, she spent most of the illness time in a heavy sleep and when she woke, her pain on waking was so coruscating, she spent most of the subsequent time shouting in agony, before, mercifully, re-entering her dream state. It was with considerable regret that Mrs.Rainworth had to take long-term sick leave as before that unfortunate trip, she had never taken a days sick leave in her life.

Her place at the school was taken by a younger woman from Halifax, Nova Scotia, one Miss Dandelion, who was so charming and intelligent and down, that the kids soon forgot that Mrs. Rainworth ever existed. Her work with the Sixth Form went down especially well and at least she was someone Jennifer could relate to, and the two, on occasion, spoke in depth about life over the ocean. In fact, it was noted, Miss Dandelion took a special interest in Jennifer, much to the chagrin of some of the others in her tutorial.

At the historic Three Steeples Church, a new Vicar came to lead the ample Wheatley Fields flock after the standing incumbent of eight years fell ill one night in November. He died shortly afterwards in his bed, tended by his housekeeper of nine years, a crusty old veteran of Three Steeples life by the name of Mrs. Fitton who had an

interesting tale to tell her cronies and pals in the Haywain pub of an evening.

The Rather Unfortunate Demise Suffered By The Vicar of Wheatley Fields

Mrs. Fitton enjoyed a glass or two and was never more contented than when sitting in the snug of The Haywain, recounting (and occasionally embellishing, if not wholly inventing), tales of ecclesiastical woe to her devoted flock of misery spreaders and malcontents. Naturally, she told anyone who would listen about the Vicars plight, usually after the donation of half a milk stout.

His affliction came all of a sudden, in the night, and he died a week later. He died of a heart attack due to fevered dreams in which The Devil appeared to him, his stinking breath like chlorine gas, fire blazing from his goaty nostrils. She recounted that, for seven consecutive nights, The Devil appeared to the Vicar and each visitation took away more and more of his strength and sanity. Deprived of any sleep, he repeatedly summoned Mrs. Fitton to his musty bedchamber to hear his tales of Satan, and those tales were gruesome indeed. In his dreams, a smell of brimstone and sulphur, and Satan, chuckling, sat alongside him on molten rocks and promised unspeakable, unbearable agonies in the afterlife Throughout the night, the Great Beast relayed

descriptions of his coming fate in intricate detail. An infinity of suffering on the rack. His limbs stretched, his joints cracked apart, his tendons bent and loosened, and

his innards ripped asunder. His body leaking, his eyes bursting. A screaming death, she said, her audience spellbound, scarcely able to take a drink. Like Prometheus, she recounted, dramatically, dipping into her limited font of ancient knowledge of Greek myth, sipping her Malt and looking around her. Like Prometheus, his liver would be torn from his body by day and by night it would re-grow so a horde of cadaverous demons with fangs as sharp as nails could rip it again from his body the very next day. And so on and so on forever, she said, shaking her head.

Over another half pint donation, she informed her flock of the night the Vicar grabbed her and dug his fingers into her arms. She showed them all the yellowing fingertip bruises and they gasped. He screamed madly as he gripped her. The pain will be GLORIOUS, the Devil had said, and it will last for infinity. For INFINITY, the Vicar pressed

upon me, in bed, shaking, fearful, tears pouring down his cheeks. AN INFINITY OF AGONY IS MY REWARD FOR MY SERVICE. MY PAIN WILL NEVER END, OH LORD NO OH LORDHe held my hand afterward and wept the tears of the Saints. I had to make him a cup of sweet tea infused with my special mixture just to stop him crying. To grant him the blissfulness of sleep, she added, assuring her listeners of her noble intentions.

She told her devoted admirers that the thing that crushed his spirit and sent him mad was that the coming agony was to be his reward for being a sinner. A terrible, terrible sinner. This part of the tale shocked and surprised Mrs. Fittons audience. The Vicar was universally recognised as one of the saintliest human beings to have ever lived, a veritable martyr who would give his last penny to a helpless, wandering soul.

Not a person in Wheatley Fields had a single negative word to say about him. They loved him. No one in The Haywain could understand his fate. It seemed cruel and incongruous. On the final night of his life he shouted The Devils name one final time, Mrs Fitton continued. I was with him, Dear God Above. He was breathing rapidly, back arched, the veins in his neck engorged and throbbing, nose bleeding, blood vessels bursting one by one. I watched him die, with a final tearful appeal to the Lord he loved so much, he left us behind and he died with a look of abject holy fearthe Vicar had been selected, approached, and scared to death by SATAN HIMSELF. A tear appeared in Mrs. Fittons eye that only another half of stout could dry up, and one of her devoted acolytes swiftly obliged her.

There was more than one reason for the tears, it seemed.

Her employers replacement was the Reverend Starkweather and he had brought his own housekeeper with him, leaving Mrs. Fitton to her gossip, her milk stout and her inglorious pension. Few people ever saw the Reverend Starkweathers housekeeper at work and some speculated that she didnt actually exist, that he cleaned the Prebend himself, though when articulated aloud, the speakers realised that the idea was silly. Local wags speculated that the Reverend invented a housekeeper only after meeting the unhinged Mrs. Fitton.

A detective with a nose for patterns, the synchronised, geo-magnetic array of coincidentals and not-so-

coincidentals, might have noticed the changes in Wheatley Fields as being one holistic amendment, a transformation that would change life in the town forever, but only one person ever pieced it all together and he was no detective.

Only one other person could be linked to each and every event and he watched it happen, every night, from the suite he had booked for the winter at The Saladin. He hated England, but by now, his feelings towards the mother country were an irrelevance. And while these events occurred, the rest of the town carried on with their lives as if nothing unusual or untoward had ever happened.

Oblivious, blinkered, separated from the beating heart of their own community by relentless self-absorption and an unnatural lack of curiosity. The majority of people in Wheatley Fields didnt care that these things happened, were unaffected by them personally and thus, in effect, it might be said that they didnt really happen at all.

So, fortunately, for them, these incomers from afar slotted into the vacuum without fuss. Within a month or

so, they were part of the furniture - to be ignored like the majority of settlers before them - though some of the recent arrivals could speak the language spoken by the Wheatley Fielders and, over time, used that to their advantage.

Particularly, the brilliant Reverend Starkweather. After all, a Church like his could always use new Apostles.

Carmel Shakespeare
It was in Dorothys, the trendiest, most chic of all the boutiques, that Phillippa met Carmel Shakespeare. On a Tuesday, a dank, gloomy Tuesday in early December, spitting rain, dull, heavy sky, the type of sturm and drang Euro weather she was glad to leave behind when she married Jimmy and moved to America.

To improve her mood after a difficult morning with her brother - and Jennifer - she had decided that a spot of retail therapy was in order. A trip to Croquembouche, to be stared at by the tables full of small town glitterati who studiously pretended to ignore her as they ate their Caesar salads and sipped chilled white wine. A quick scout around the boutiques. Kellys Designer Fashions. Crystal Tiaras. Princess Patis Place. A Rose Red Summer Dress. Henry Klein. Adeles. The aforementioned Dorothys. Owned by the wife of a London-based commodities trader currently competing for neo-colonial mining rights in the Congo, like everyone else. Phillippa was trying on a Harlequin-patterned blue and white dress, cut half way between her hips and her knees, which would go perfectly with a pair of high heel court shoes shed brought the other day at Petronellas Silk Slipper. She was admiring her figure in the dress. It fitted perfectly, raising the status

of her ass from the mortal to the celestial, and making sure her breasts resembled minor Himalayan peaks, when she heard a voice. Now, THAT dress is made for you. Boy, do I wish I could get a dress to fit me like that! Instinctively, she thought it was the slick patter of Dorothy herself, but she looked over toward the till and the owner of the shop was holding court with two other customers by the cash register. The voice had come from the other changing room, its white and red candy stripe curtains partly open. A woman sat watching her. Thanks, Phillippa said, warily. If I were you, babe, the woman continued, Id get back in here, slip back into the something uncomfortable you wore on the way in, and get your credit card ready for Aunty Dot. Id be scared someone would gazump me for that dress.

Is it that cool? She looked at herself in the mirror again and looked at herself from several separate angles, as if she was manipulating a cube in her hands. I havent seen a dress fit as well as that ever, the woman continued. Now, go. Do exactly what Cousin Carmel says. Otherwise, Ill buy the dress and pretend Im you. Phillippa chuckled. You work here, right. This is a sell? She laughed. If I worked here, love, there wouldnt be a dress left for sale and the shop would never open. Ill take your tip. Thanks. She went back into the changing room and changed, put the dress onto the hanger. When she came out, the woman was still there. She held out her hand in introduction, Im Carmel. Phillippa. They shook hands lightly. Carmels hand was soft and had recently been moisturised. American? Whereabouts. Ohio. But Im English, actually.

You could have fooled me. That accent is pure Uncle Sam. Long story. I have time and Id love to hear it. Nothing but time in this town for a lady of leisure. I dont know about you, but Im positively gagging for a coffee. Join me? Why not! She replied instantly. As Dorothy wrapped the dress silently - Phillippa at least a decade away from being in Dorothy Faulconbridges social network - she looked at Carmel, who chatted to one of the women. A striking-looking woman, that much was obvious. Shorter than Phillippa, broader, rounder, yet by no means fat or corpulent. An elegant, balanced face, with oceanblue eyes accentuated by heavy eyeliner and shadow. Claret-red lipstick, liberally but tastefully applied. Dressed as if she was about to go to the Casino, even though it wasnt even two thirty in the afternoon. Gleaming, stallion-black hair balanced on her shoulders,

gleaming, full of vitality, a mirrored sheen cared for regularly by professionals. A little colour to stiffen the sinews and eliminate the passage of time. Phillippa checked her about forty. Clothes-wise, she wore a furlined black calf length coat on top of black stockings. To top off the woman-about-town look, she wore (striking, imposing) coal-black shoes with metallic stripper heels, like upside down car aerials. The heels were six-inches long and ensured her calves looked rock hard. She was prepared to bet those amazing shoes couldnt be found inside Petronellas Premium Quality. Italian. French. Back home, Phillippa had never seen shoes like that. Metal heels sparkling in the spotlights, polished like antique silver: flawless leather, the intensity of the shine matching the sheen of her hair. Carmels hair and those shoes - a diametric opposite, two sides of the same whole, a Yin Yang. Carmel didnt throw clothes on in the dark, she could tell. Dressing, to her, was an art form.

Captivated, it took two rounds of throat clearing from Dorothy to attract her attention. She blushed and apologised, handed over her card and the shop owner nodded her approval, as she always did. Maybe it wouldnt take a decade to get Dorothy to talk to her after all. Nothing like a precious metal card to impress Dot, Carmel said, as they exited the shop and walked up to Pietros, the coffee shop opposite the butchers and the hardware store. Inside, Carmel took off her coat as they sat down in the window, watching the cars drive past the butchers, several brace of pheasants hanging from a hook drilled into the lintel outside. Phillippa noticed that Carmels bosom was (what her father used to describe as) courageously displayed. Her blouse had a button undone at the top - she had assets and the confidence to show them off. Her skin was pallid, yet simultaneously creamy. She had seen many women like this in the past couple of months (as well as those toasted

to a crisp in salons, and those tanned from a bottle, it must be said). Her own skin was tempered with the remnants of two weeks in Palm Beach, but Carmel looked as if she had never allowed her skin to experience the suns rays. Classic European royalty - Phillippas mother never went out in the sun, considered it below her. Two gold hoop earrings. Tasteful gold necklace and bangles, but no wedding ring. Phillippa was envious of the way Carmel dressed and she made a note to check for anything similar in her own wardrobe, just for the mental exercise. Allesandro, the owners teenage son, bespectacled and lanky, came over to take their orders and blushed, could barely look at them. When hed left, Carmel winked at Phillippa. Wed eat him alive and he knows it. But what a way to go... They talked the rest of the afternoon over three coffees and a muffin each. Damn the calories, they both said.

They exchanged numbers while they stood outside on the road. From that point on, they became friends.

It would have been perfect, that friendship, had her daughter approved. When Carmel and Jennifer met a few days later at the cottage, the atmosphere between friend and daughter was cordial to say the least. After some forced small talk and a pulling-teeth-style conversation about her schoolwork, she went upstairs and didnt come down until Carmel had gone. Phillippa took her aside the next day over breakfast. You had one of your faces on when I introduced you to Carmel. You were rude. Do you not like her? She asked. Shes your friend, like, why would you give a shit whether I like her or not? Jennifer replied. I think you could have been a lot more pleasant, sweetie. Damn, you can be so aggressive. Cant you give her a chance? Its obvious you also dont care for Lenny.

Like, so what? Jennifer replied. I need friends. Dont you understand that? I am a sociable person. I need people outside the family to relate to. Jennifer replied perfunctorily, quietly, as she opened the kitchen cupboard door, as if she had been discussing something unimportant to her. The economic situation in Spain. The futures index. Wallpapers comeback in interior design. The Z-Factor final. The resource wastefulness inherent in making one hundred and twenty inch drop curtains. Ive just told you, she said. I dont care. You can be friends with everyone in this shithole of a town and I wouldnt bat an eyelid. She shook an empty box of cereal in the cupboard. Hey! Look at this. Weve run out of Cheerios, mom, she said, sarcasm in each syllable. Guess Ill just have to starve, huh. She stormed off to her bedroom.

That morning, after an hour of committed bathroom work, Jennifer resembled the bastard twin sister of Nancy Spungen, girlfriend of Sid Vicious. Spiked black hair, ripped lime-green vest and safety pin peppered red-patent plastic jacket; a surgical safety pin through her left ear, a smaller one through her nose, and black Doc Marten boots up to her knees. Her old Ponce De Leon tartan skirt covering serrated, torn, fishnet tights. Eye sockets painted like a panda, and her lips expanded by specially impregnated Fuchsia lipstick. Embarrassed, Phillippa queried the dress. Are you sure that the rules allow you to dress like that, Jennifer, she asked. She shrugged her shoulders. Schools Out, mom. Its Sixth Form, remember. I can go naked, if I want to. Heymaybe Ill try that tomorrow, she said, causing her mother to shiver lightly. Yet, Phillippa couldnt have been nicer to her boyfriend/friend Matt.

He was the ultimate latchkey kid. His parents rarely home before seven in midweek, leaving their son to forage for himself. So generally, Jennifer and Matt hung out in her room, finishing assignments, listening to music on her laptop and playing games online. Sometimes theyd go over to his, but his mother wasnt happy with him being alone with Jennifer over their place. She was a traditional mother with traditional values, she informed them both. Yeh, real traditional. Traditional enough not to have cooked her own son an evening meal in three years. She tried not to judge. It was so expensive in Wheatley Fields that loads of kids were adults before their time, with both parents working long hours to pay the incredible mortgages. Divorce was unheard of in Wheatley Fields - no one could afford it! - and it was all because of The Three Steeples School. The fourth best performing non-fee paying school in the country and the best north of London. That, and the fact the school was

actively Christian and overwhelmingly white, ensured that house prices in the area were spectacularly unaffordable unless you were already rich or prepared to work like a prisoner in a Gulag. The cottage they were renting - about the size of a Wendy house in Dayton - was costing Phillippa three times what they would pay for a six-bedroom place - plus a couple of acres of green - back home. But the cottage ensured Jennifer made it into Three Steeples for the academic year, no questions asked and the school was just down the road. Some of the schools in the City, shed heard, were little more than rehearsals for a life of gang warfare and single parentdom, and there was no way that her daughter was going anywhere near either of those concepts. On the first night Phillippa met Matt, Jennifer didnt say hello at all, just threw her school bag down underneath the clothes rack, but Matt was more than polite.

Hello, Mrs. Angstrom. Hi, Matt. Can I make you some tea? That would be great, Mrs. Angstrom. Call me Phillippa. Im not that old. Okay MrsPhillippa, he smiled. Are you staying for tea? Theres plenty. Id love to. It smells delicious. Flattery about my cooking will get you everywhere, Matt, she grinned. He sat down round the kitchen table. Jennifer looked through the kitchen window and gave him a filthy look because it was clear he did not intend to go upstairs without talking to her mother. Unfortunately, this meant that when she went back inside, Jennifer had to sit down and play happy families, instead of going upstairs and loafing in front of her own TV. She hated happy families, particularly her own, and she had been pissed with her mother from, well, forever.

Jennifer and Matt: Later, in her bedroom, they lay down on her bed, Jennifer resting her head on his chest. Your mum is so cool, Matt said. No, shes not, Jennifer replied. Oh, she is, Jen. Honest. Youre just saying that because shes your mum. Whatever, she replied, not looking at him, reaching down to fiddle with her socks. All in black as usual, jeans, a Korn tee-shirt. Today, her hair was rose pink and her eye makeup was done in oriental fashion. You know what we call mums like yours over here? Er, Milf? Like, we frickin invented the word. Im, like, totally yawning at your lack of cultural knowledge. Did you? Matt looked genuinely quizzical. Invent the acronym? Yep. Watch my stunned amazement at your total lack of insight. I dont believe Americans invented the word Milf!

And you wouldnt be the first guy Ive brought home for cookies to fall for my milfy mom, she said drily. So dont go thinking youre special. Shes like that with everyone. He ignored her. They say that if you want to know how your girlfriend is going to look in twenty years time, look at her mother. Ive heard that, she said. We ought to get married, he said, optimistic, cuddling up against her. She hit him on the shoulder, a flash of anger. Im too young to get married dorkboy, and Im going back to Dayton in a few months. This is strictly vacation. I told you right at the beginning not to get any ideas about us. He squeezed her around her shoulders. Thats the end of that cunning plan then. Gee, looks like it, she said, irritated. Unless I come back with you.

She pulled away from him. What part of the sentence This Is Strictly Vacation is it that you dont understand? I was just kidding, Jen. God, no need to be so defensive. He sat up on the bed, hurt and a bit surprised at how hard she sounded. Her viciousness toward him was swift and brutal. Unexpected. She could be so tender and warm, and the next minute she could be a psycho. It worried him and he didnt understand her. She sat up, jumped off the bed, one of those awkward teenage moments getting the better of both of them. She went over to her desk and opened up her laptop. Come on, lets surf YouTube. See if we can find some dorks as dorky as you. He rose and sat next to her, and for the next hour they contented themselves on the Internet while Phillippa went off to visit her brother, with a huge casserole dish full of Spaghetti Bolognese.

Predator or Prey
Weightlifting helped him to survive. Three times a week, he pummelled the life out of the Smiths and the Free Bar, the Bicep Curler and the Chest Ropes down at the Leisure Centre gym facility. He trained at 6.30 a.m. in the morning, with no staff around and few of the locals. Theyd learned his pattern, like animals in a laboratory, and whenever he went, the gym was usually empty. Unusual in such a popular facility. Early rising was easy in conditions like this. Even then, in the days after, when they sussed out his gym pattern, one of the locals followed him in and dropped a 15kg plate on his foot putting him off games for three weeks. Accidentally, of course. The fella who dropped the plate a PE teacher at the school didnt so much as apologise as make a statement.

Sorry. Didnt. See. You. There. It. Slipped. Off. The. Bar. The teacher pissed himself laughing in The Saladin, later, with his Squash Club mates over a few pints of Ravens Beak. (I dont feel guilty. Dont forget that. The bastard deserves it.) Weather permitting - he didnt like running when it was cold - he went on long runs. Around the Agricultural College and down to Thors Garden, up to Oxbow and back, out in the country. He used to be a member of the Running Club, but after, when he tried to attend the next meeting, they locked the door of the clubhouse and stared out the window, their yellow vests, their faces blank and accusing, gaunt and emaciated from too much running, chapped and sore from too much running in the winter.

Sometimes he ran past the racecourse to the outskirts of Charlestown, past the sprawling power station that dominates the entire landscape. One time, he ran right into the middle of a dispute. The background made national news: The French owners of the power station planned to import a thousand Milanese engineers and their labourers to help build a new turbine. The plan was to house them at company expense on the River, in long barges. When asked, the French admitted that they didnt intend to employ the unemployed and the contractors of Charlestown and its rural environs. It was cheaper to import the Italians. The existing workforce walked out. Eventually rioted. Baton charges and tear gas. A compromise reached. No one happy; another layer of the contented British economic consciousness ripped away by the multinationals and the globalists. He ran through one of the riots once, so oblivious, so deep in himself he didnt even notice the tincture of gas in

the air and the angsty shouts of desperate madness from both sides, Coppers and workers, management and men. Wonderfully, when the rioting power station workers turned him back, when he woke up from his iPod reverie to see why hed been stopped, he realised that they hadnt a clue who he was. He ran another six miles after that fuelled by the joy alone.

Homonculus
Initially, as we have seen, the insular, busy people of Wheatley Fields were only mildly affected by the coming of The Church to the town, but there came a point where their revolution, their sinister infiltration had to come to the surface, for reasons that will become obvious. Every revolution demands blood.

When Martina Price opened the door to her house on Peel Street, she knew instantly that she had left the heating on all day. The warm blast caressed her face and while that was pleasant enough, she knew that it was going to cost her a fortune when the bill arrived. She couldnt afford that. Not since her ex-boyfriend Dave packed his bags and walked out on her.

Living in Wheatley Fields wasnt cheap. In fact, the old joke is that if you have to ask how much a house in Wheatley Fields is, you cant afford it. She knew that wasnt much of a joke: Jokes are meant to be funny, not true. She took off her flats and went into her kitchen down the hall. Put the kettle on. Her place was roasting - the type of double-glazed, modern build that needs a twohour burst of the combi rather than a twenty-four-hour saturation. She took off her jacket and her polo neck jumper and because she now lived on her own, she slipped off her jeans and turquoise walking socks - the Euripides Clinic may have been expensive, but client fees werent expended on heating for the staff! She examined her legs. In need of a wax and a pamper, but otherwise sound. For a forty-three-year-old woman, she hadnt done badly for herself. Random flecks of cellulite easily covered with product. Bingo wings only just beginning to appear

underneath her thighs. Manageable. Otherwise, muscled, long legs that a twenty-year-old would be proud of. She could easily go into the fleshpots of the City in a denim mini skirt and not feel as if she was mutton dressed as lamb. Pity Dave didnt see her like that, she thought. Shed had a busy day at the clinic. Four clients. She knew that the rest of the evening would be spent making case notes in her auberginecoloured notebook and updating her database. She frowned at the prospect. All work and no play makes Martina a dull girl! The kettle boiled and she swiftly made a cup of tea. Sat back down. Thought about her days work. By far the most interesting of her regular clients was Jennifer Angstrom. She opened up her notebook and went through the spider scrawl. (This was why her job took so long - note

interpretation: If she died, her notebooks would be like reading Cyrillic, some ancient language.) She speed-read her work from this afternoon and made notes in pencil on a pad to make sure it bedded home. Martina felt that underneath it all, she was just as confused as any teenage kid the world over and she felt that she could help her. Indeed, the last few sessions had gone well and thered even been some giggles and smiles. Not many, but a few. Transference. Understanding. Martina knew her therapy. She was brilliant with girls, which is why she was chosen to work with Jennifer. She understood girls and it made therapy easy and thus, she had a reputation around those people in Wheatley Fields who knew about this kind of thing. Now, boys? That was a different matter. She hadnt a clue, really. Take Dave. Counter-transference. Patience.

Living together nine years. A nice house, all mod cons, money in the bank -he was a solicitor - a decent car, sex twice a week, (decent sex, she felt), a friendly local pub, friends and happy times, all in one of the most desirable places to live in the entire world. Then, one morning, a Saturday, he comes into the living room and announces that he was leaving. Martina was so stunned she didnt even reply. All Martina said was, okay. Ill help you pack your gear. Some sort of anterograde shock response, some accelerated denial impulse. She even waved him off. It wasnt until later that day she realised that hed gone forever and then she cracked up and took a week off work to get rid of the tears. That was three months ago. Jennifer Angstroms mother cancelled her daughters appointment when she realised that Martina was sick, which, the therapist felt, was a sign of progress.

She found out later that Dave had met a girl at work, a trainee legal secretary and had moved into a flat in the City with her. The odd thing? He forty six. She twenty one. Mid. Life. Crisis. Martina didnt know whether to laugh or cry and in the end, after that first week, she did neither. Moved on with her life and tried to cope with the void in her house, the place she missed him most. Her salary at the Euripides was just enough to pay the mortgage, the bills, and the groceries. Once all her friends realised she was single, that was the end of the friendships, the cosy nights in The Saddlers and The Saladin. Married couples, you see. A social imbalance. In the eyes of her women friends, she had become irresistible to their husbands and thus, they could no longer trust her.

And of course, living standards being so ruinously expensive, there were no single women in Wheatley Fields. Or single men, for that matter. Certainly, eligible single men. Many cave dwellers. Headbangers. Single men in their forties with their Internet porn, their football teams, their alcoholism and their comic collections, but no sensible options for an upwardly mobile girl like Martina. Hence, the late nights with her aubergine-coloured notebook. Though with Jennifer, it didnt seem like work. Some of her other clients were different, mind. Martina wasnt one of those therapists who loved everyone - on the contrary, some of her clients were pains in the arse. Writing up the notes was a chore in those cases.

She sat and sipped her tea. Took off her tee-shirt, and in her bra and pants, walked up the stairs to run herself a hot bath.

May as well make the most of the heat, she said to herself. The boiler will be off till next week after today. She lay there for an hour in her plum-coloured bath. Soaped herself down in the rising suds. Thought about Jennifer and ways forward. Thought about whether or not she had sufficient money to go out on Friday night into the City, see if she could meet another man in one of the pubs, just like she used to: decided it was a waste of time. Fantasised about Sherlock from the TV. She was no different to anyone else: She loved the modern, young, and attractive Sherlock and would quite happily live in Baker Street as one of his many concubines. Dave had looked a bit like Sherlock when he was younger. Martina had always liked those androgynous, gaunt, ambivalentlooking men rather than the action men types - in that sense she was ahead of her time. Seriously in the mood, she was considering acting on the fantasy when she heard her bedroom door shut with a loud click. She startled and sat up, annoyed.

What was that? Then she heard footsteps. Small, insignificant footsteps, but unquestionably there, the patter of tiny feet, like a puppy running across the landing. Odd, because Martina didnt have a pet. Reluctantly parking her fantasies for a bit, she jumped out of the bath, put on her dressing gown and piled up her cherry-coloured hair into a towel. Opened the door. Nothing on the landing. She walked over to her bedroom and opened that door. Her room was a mess, with an unmade bed, her dressing table like a demented office desk with her things scattered everywhere, lids on, lids off, a lipstick tube on the floor, which she went over and picked up. No one had been inside her room - she knew this was all her issue. Since Dave left, shed let herself go, what with her denied grief and her busy job, there just never seemed to be the time, and the place needed a clean. A spring clean of yore. She

picked up her cream quilt from the floor and, rather guiltily, laid it over the bed without adjusting her sheet. Then she heard the footsteps again. Like a dogs footpads on a wooden floor. Ten or eleven of them. Then she heard breathing. Low, steady breathing. Sniffing. Like a dog with flu. Rationalising over her beating heart, she thought it might be her next-door neighbours poodle. That was noisy though. He barked and barked. He never stopped. There was nothing like that here. Just tiny footsteps and breathing. Snotty breathing. She went out onto the landing. With the exception of the rumbling of the combi, churning away, the heat and the water, the house was silent, the breathing gone. Footsteps. Downstairs now. Running over the kitchen floor.

She walked down the stairs, nervous. One step at a time. One slow step at a time. Her heart raced and goose pimples appeared on her arms. This was the kind of thing Dave dealt with, though she never would have admitted that to her colleagues at the Euripides, or even some of her more militant pals at The Saladin. She would always be at Daves shoulder. That time when they thought they were being burgled. The torch in the darkness, the open living room doorDave dealt with all that. All that intruder malarkey. The greenwood spider crawling around in the bed, the size of a saucer. All that spider malarkey. The panicked pigeon flapping around her bedroom ceiling. All that trapped bird malarkey. The malarkey she had to face now.

She reached the bottom of the stairs. Whos there? Anyone? She asked and felt stupid for saying anything. Whatever was in the kitchen was too small to be human. More like an animal of some kind. A fox was becoming her best guess. Martina gingerly walked into the kitchen and, immediately, she noticed that the cupboard under the sink was half open. She stood close to the doorway and stared. Was that me? Did I leave that open? She thought. It must be months since Ive been in there! She could see the void under the sink from the kitchen doorway. The void. She suspected that whatever was in her house was in that cupboard, in the darkness. For a therapist with a degree and professional diplomas and a scientific, Popperian background, someone who didnt believe in ghosts and ghoulies, had never believed

in ghosts and ghoulies, this whole situation was spooking her and she wanted it over. She wanted it to be history and she wanted to be back in her bath, all other things equal, and everything in its place once more. She didnt want to go anywhere near the cupboard under the sink. No. She was rooted to the spot. Shed noticed too that the kitchen was getting colder now, a chill descending, which was odd seeing as the combi was on. She shivered. Within seconds, she wished she was wearing socks. Noticing her walking socks on the floor, she sat down at the table and slowly put them on, ignoring the two-day-old whiff, reminding herself to get the laundry done for the first time in a week. All the time, she didnt take her eyes off the cupboard. The void seemed to beckon her, like a maw. There should be nothing in that cupboard but the waste disposal and the gloom yet those same coal-black

shadows seemed to call her and she knew with certainty that whatever pottered around outside the bathroom was now in there. Was it a fox? A dog? A cat, maybe. Could it be a bird? And why was there no breathing now? Was it readied? Ready to pounce whenever I go in? Sitting up in her chair, she managed to get a second wind. Come on, Martina. Stop being such a scaredy cat. Youre embarrassing yourself. Why are you sitting here like a plum? Its just a scared animal. Hes more scared of you than you are of it. Youre being silly. Now go over there and see whats in the cupboard, she spoke aloud. She could feel her heart racing and the blood pumping through the vein on her neck. Life-giving warm blood she needed up there, because her head felt glacial. She took a couple of steps toward the cupboard and she crouched down. Cmon boy. Dont be scared. Ill open

the kitchen door and you can go outside. Dont worryI wont hurt you Tenderly, she opened the cupboard door wider. She wished once more that Dave was here to deal with this. He may have looked androgynous and effete, but he was a man inside and he looked after her. The door opened wider with a creak and the mystery within seemed to seep into the kitchen along with the atmosphere. Nothing. Whatever was in there wasnt coming out. Martina knew that she would have to go in there and get it. She held the handle of the other, unopened, cupboard door. Her heart raced and her mouth was dry, the unnatural chill - which seemed almost solid - touching her and making her shiver even more. Here goes nothing, Martina thought.

She pulled open the other cupboard door and jumped back toward the table reflexively. The cupboard was empty. Just the pipes, the waste disposal, and a plastic litre tank the purpose of which Dave would understand. A single two-litre bottle of bleach and a yellow dishwashing bowl full of paintbrushes and turps buried in the gloom. Hah! Scaredy cat, she thought. Youre just a silly girl, Martina. Youve imagined it all. She felt a sense of huge relief come over her. Time for the bathtub again, she thought. MmmmmmmSherlock.

She turned round. Saw it. Hunched on the kitchen table. Ready to pounce. Martina stepped back against the kitchen sink. (Oh My God.) Something. A man? An animal?

A dwarf. Bald. Squatting. (What?) Red eyes. Claws. Nails. Massive thighs. A dogs feet. Malevolent. The thing was malevolent. She could smell his hunger, emanating. He reeked of it. It jumped on her, a supernatural, improbable jump, like a monkey swinging from tree-to-tree in the rain forest. Reflexively, she punched him in midair, connected with its face and the thing fell backward onto the kitchen floor. It grunted, the same grunt as earlier, and it jumped up from the floor, hairy claws ahead of him, aiming for her neck. He moved so swiftly that her flailing punches missed. With one hand, he latched onto her shoulder and dug in with bony nails the thickness of bolts. Desperately, she grabbed hold of the dwarf with two hands, noticed

how rancid it smelled for the first time - stinking, foetid, the breath of freshly-discovered and long-dead animals and, weirdly, matches, old matches wrapped in stinking dirty pants - and she gagged, tried to crush it, but aware of her plan, the dwarf, balancing with both dogs feet and his claw buried into her shoulder, ripped into her cheek with a sharp claw and buried it within. She felt it connect with her upper molars and start to dig round. Screaming, she released him, the claws nail cutting a bloody trench along her face. Defenceless now, open to him, paralysed with fear, the demon roared something, a scream she could never imagine hearing, high pitched and yet somehow subterranean at the same time, a physicsdefying sound wave spawned in another dimension. She could feel his face next to hers. His head seemed to be bigger than it was. It seemed to be growing.

Both of the dwarfs claws anchored her shoulders, pinned her down, the nails digging into the flesh and the muscles, pressure, rough animal hair - the coat of a Kune Kune pig she stroked at a City farm once - against her freshly-soaped skin, something on those palms biting at her (fleas? lice). Kept hitting him on his arms, his back, his side, five, six, seven times, shouting at the top of her voice, but each time she did, his claws buried themselves, like a constricting neck vice, the more she struggled, the worse it got, so she sagged and weakened. The dwarfs grip was unbreakable and she noticed that her shoulders were bleeding. The things body, increasing in mass, forced her backwards. Her head and shoulders fell inside the black maw of the kitchen cupboard. She screamed, but she could not move. Eyes of flame flashed at her, almost hypnotic, his breath rancid. Despite herself, Martina noticed that the dwarf was naked and (oh no) he was becoming excited and she looked down upon

hisgrowingdisproportionatethingwith developing horror.

steadily

Speech failed her and she dreaded the thought of what the dwarf wanted from her because she was naked from the bath and her towelling robe was open and the dwarf half human, halfsomething - was looking lasciviously at her body, and grunting slowly, his black, warty tongue, as long as liquorice, flickering in and out of its mouth. It sat on her stomach, pinned her on the floor, and she was suddenly face-to-face with the tip of his embodied excitement and she screamed louder, and louder, hoping her neighbours could hear her, but double-glazing works both ways and she couldnt move, the pain from her bleeding mouth incredible, her teeth half in and half out of her mouth and her gums irreparably punctured. The dwarf stopped what it was doing and stared at her. Both feet pinned down her thighs, his claws on her shoulders. Its demonhood began to ebb noticeably, its urgency faded and Martina felt a moment of relief.

Maybe it had stopped. Maybe it wasnt going to rape ne. Maybe it was over. A purring. Asthmatic breathing, but other than that silence. Their eyes met. Burning red orbs. Purring. (Its trying to communicate with me) The dwarf raised its neck and shoulders. (Oh MY GOD, no its not.) She looked on with horror as its jaw dislocated sickeningly with a creak. Teeth, like comedy-clown teeth, clockwork dentures, except sharper, much sharper, emerged from its mouth on extendible tendons. Though it was pointless now, feeling those

disconnected fangs begin to chew into the gristly, pumping, jugular vein, plasma spraying the tiles, the cupboard doors, reaching, like a fountain, the pots on her

draining board, she slapped the dwarf with her weakening fists. The teeth chewed greedily into her neck, eating into her bone, tendons and muscles until half of her head lopped to one side awkwardly. Luckily, for her, by the time her head had become completely severed from the rest of her body, Martina Price was already dead.

Next in Volume II
Phillippa and Jennifer are drawn deeper into the subtle web enveloping the town. Jennifer gets a new psychotherapist. Phillippa develops feelings she shouldnt do, being a married woman. The towns handsome new American vicar begins to cultivate a new flock with a fiendishly effective rite. The Church decide to find out for certain which of the Angstroms is the Divine and, as a consequence, decide to eliminate a threat to their plans in the most terrifying fashion possible. Oh. And Jennifer is befriended by a new cat. His name is Lucifer. Lucifer the Cat.

Coming soon: Volume II Lucifer the Cat

Jennifer, Matt and Patch were walking into town when she began to get the feeling they were being followed. Shed been having these feelings since shed arrived in Wheatley Fields. If you include the airport, which she now assumed was a false alarm, shed been having the feelings since before they arrived. She stopped. As did Patch. (Whatever she did, Patch did too.) If she turned her head, so did he. If she looked North, so did he. All she saw were shoppers on the way into the High Street. Hordes of younger kids in blazers and ties askew. Cars queuing at the Island next to The Saladin. Nothing. Matt was with her. Whassup, he said. Probably nothing. Ive been getting these feelings, Matt. Ive been getting them for a while, since before

Christmas. Like, someones following me. I cant explain it. He looked back with her. I cant see anyone. Why would anyone follow you, Jen? How should I know!? Lets get a cup of coffee.

They walked into the Croquembouche, but Sharon Pentland, the owner, a notorious bigot, a scold of her staff, a sour-faced woman with round, piggy eyes, immediately confronted them and asked them to leave because of Patch. Outside only. Jennifer resisted the urge to spit at her and they walked up to Pietro's, where Allesandro greeted both of them like long-lost friends. He was a cheerful boy who had left school last year, his fate - to take over from his father already set in stone. Jennifer ordered coffee and blueberry muffins and an extra one (secretly) for Patch.

As they sat in the window watching the people pass in the gloom, Patch sitting quietly next to her, tail wagging and tongue lolling, someone tapped Jennifer on the shoulder. Standing behind her was a woman with a widebrimmed purple hat and unfeasibly large glasses, perched atop a bulbous, blistered nose and cauliflower ears, her cheeks lined and ruddy, as if shed been camping for a year on a mountainside. Wrinkles fanned across her face. A shock of white hair desperately tried to escape her hat, but didnt quite succeed. She was old incalculably old - and smelled of age, old clothes, denture breath, must and lavender. She was propped up on a frame with an attached shopping basket.

Jennifer flinched a little, as did Matt. Dropped this un outside, she said, and her voice was more like that of an old mans, throaty, afflicted with

catarrh. She dropped something on the table, next to Jennifers steaming hot cup of coffee. It was a gold amulet, without a chain. Something a mayor would wear for ceremonial duties. At the centre of the amulet was a head of a woman in a wrought, elaborate framing piece of intertwined snakes. No mayoral ceremony would feature this. She picked it up, felt its weight. It is Medusa, is it not? The old woman queried, more by way of a statement. I dont know. Im sorry, but it isnt mine, Jennifer replied. Saw you drop it outside tbank. I were behind you. Am arthritic. Slow. Couldnt catch you up fast enough. Saw you drop it. Its yours, mlass. It cant be. Ive never seen this before. You must be mistaken.

Must be yours. Saw it fall out yer bag. Now, will you excuse me while I go to the back. Young man, young man! Where are tLadies? Allesandro pointed to the back. Slowly, the two shuffled to the toilets. Thats awesome. Matt said, looking at the gold amulet head on the table. Can I have a look? She passed it over. No markings or hallmarks, flat gold on the back, all the engraving gavelled into the front. He looked at the womans head in the centre and started to babble. Its not Medusa, he said. Medusa was one of the Gorgons and her hair was made of snakes. This woman has proper hair. Smiling too. Pretty. I wonder what shes smiling at. Wow, this is seriously old. Let me see that Jennifer took back the amulet. She had definitely seen the Medusa the old woman had also referred to it! but now it had gone.

Matt was right. In the centre of the medallion was a womans face, an oddly familiar visage. This was spooky. The face in the medal was too familiar and it was looking right back at her. She thought she could see her face move. When she first saw it, the Medusas face was half a profile, like a roman coin, and half full face, like the reflection of a mirror. Somewhere in between. Now, the face was swiveling, imperceptibly slowly to look at her.

And the eyes were getting wider. She put down the amulet and continued feeding Patch his muffin. Pietro, the caf owner, who was serving another couple, wasnt looking. He may not have liked it. She wouldnt look at the amulet again. It felt wrong to

her. She felt cold and shivery. All of it was wrong. All of it. The amulet, the sensation of being followed, the old woman. Wheatley Fields was wrong. Once again, the conviction assailed her that she wanted to go back home. So? Matt said. So, what, She replied, quietly. What do you see, Jen? She slid it back to him across the table. I dont care. Its not mine. Then, she let Matt wait a few seconds, and half to herself, half to the world, she said. I was so frickin right about being followed. Cant you pretend its yours? Matt said,

mischievously, an agenda of his own. Like a Magpie, he liked sparkly things and this gleamed and twinkled enough to begin to burrow itself into his consciousness. Jennifer was having none of it. No, she replied, firmly. I dont like it and I so dont want it. Its not mine. What do you say, Patch?

The dog stuck out its tongue, jumped up and attempted to kiss her, but she was too far away from home to say goodbye to her makeup and she admonished him by prodding his nose. Ill say its mine, Matt suggested. It must be worth a few quid. I need some new games and my dad is being a total arse about pocket money. Youll give it back, dorkboy, she said, seriously. Its not ours.

Volume II of The Ritual is out now.

About The Author

Mark Barry is the author of many works of fiction including the cult football hooligan novel, Ultra Violence, the seriously reviewed, dark and harrowing romance, Carla, and the feel-good thriller, Hollywood Shakedown. He lives in Nottinghamshire and has one son, Matthew, who, so far, shows no sign of following in his fathers literary footsteps though he does fanatically support Notts County (which is a much more important trait). Mark is also the proprietor of Green Wizard Publishing, a company dedicated to publishing cuttingedge, innovative, and accessible fiction firmly based in reality. The majority of his books are set in either Southwell (Wheatley Fields) or Nottingham (The City). It is a proud boast that local people who have read his novels

can follow the trail of the quirky characters they encounter inside the jacket covers.

Contact Mark
Twitter: @Greenwizard62 Green Wizard Publishing Blog: http://greenwizardpublishing.blogspot.co.uk/2014/04/o n-walpurgisnacht-new-ritual-e-book.html The Wizards Cauldron Dedicated Indie Author Interview Blog: http://greenwizard62.blogspot.co.uk/2013/08/ngaireelder-meets-mark-barry-around.html

Also by Mark Barry and available on Amazon

The Night Porter (2014) Carla (2012)

Hollywood Shakedown (2011) Ultra-Violence (2011) Violent Disorder (2013) Anthology: Reality Bites (2012)