The Obscurati Chronicles- Chapter 1

I am in the process of writing a new novel called The Obscurati Chronicles, see here for background: https://hpanwo-bb.blogspot.com/2019/08/new-novel-2019.html. I have now completed a draft for the first chapter and, as with the three novels of the Roswell Trilogy, I have decided to post it on Ben's Bookcase as a sample. This will hopefully give readers an idea of what the story is about and encourage them to purchase the complete book when I have finished it. This might take some time, but it also commits me morally to completing the work. I have included illustrations in this sample that will not be present in the finished work. Please watch this page for any future updates. 

I have other books already available, primarily the Roswell Trilogy, see: http://hpanwo-bb.blogspot.com/2016/08/roswell-rising-is-here.html and: http://hpanwo-bb.blogspot.com/2017/10/roswell-revealed-is-here.html and: http://hpanwo-bb.blogspot.com/2018/12/roswell-redeemed-is-here.html. I also have an earlier novel called Rockall now available as a second edition free online at Ben's Bookcase, see: https://hpanwo-bb.blogspot.com/2009/02/rockall-chapter-1.html.

The Obscurati Chronicles

by Ben Emlyn-Jones

Sample First Chapter

Robin and Wilfred Ursall stared at each other. Robin's eyes were wide and brown with long lashes and large irises. Wilfred's were smaller and narrower; also brown, but much lighter in colour. Dry skin pockmarked the corners. His eyelids crinkled slightly. He looked older than his years whereas Robin looked younger. The two were so different. The steel rails underneath them trembled. A few seconds later an audible rumble lifted itself above the background rush of the breeze, like distant thunder. The train's whistle shrilled like the hooting of an owl, echoing off the walls of the nearby quarry. Neither of the brothers flinched. One of the rules of the game was that they had to maintain continuous eye contact. The rails began to squeak and groan and the vibrations grew stronger. There was another whistle, much louder, as the train driver sought to alert anybody around the sharp bend out of his sight that his train was coming. The rhythmic puffing of the funnel mixed with the hissing of pistons and the trembling of the rails. The sleepers below their feet cracked like sticks underfoot. The heavy steel wheels of the locomotive rolled against the shiny rails like unbreakable rock-crushers. Adrenalin was surging around two young bodies. Two hearts beat like drums out of synchronicity. A dark shape appeared in their peripheral vision. The train had rounded the bend. Wilfred blinked. Robin flinched. An interminable second passed; a singularity of time. The noise of the locomotive was now ear-splitting. Its shadow loomed over them. Another second passed...

Robin Ursall threw himself backwards, flipping his legs upwards like a high jumper. He rolled away from the line; the sharp fragments of the crushed stone ballast cutting into his torso through his thick tweed jacket. He heard a furious voice yelling at him from the departing train as the driver castigated him and Will for their recklessness. His shouts were just audible over the noise of the engine. Sometimes when they played "train dodger" elsewhere, the driver would hit the brakes; on this bend there was never time. Robin jumped to his feet feeling a glow of victory; he knew Will had moved out of the way first making him the winner. "Yes!" He raised his arms in the air. As the end of the train flicked past; Robin saw his brother standing on the other side of the railway track with his hands on his hips. "I got you, Will!"

    Will shook his head and responded with his usual sardonic shrug. "No, Robin. You squelched first."

    Robin gasped with indignation. "I did not!"

    "You did."

    Robin turned to look at Dave. "Ref?"

    Dave first exchanged glances with Steve and Don. He paused. "I make it fifty-fifty. You both squelched at the exact same time."

    "No way!" retorted Robin. "I saw him! He squelched and then I did!"

    Dave shook his head.

    Robin growled and turned his back on his friends.

    Will was unruffled. He stepped over the rails and exchanged a whisper with the others.

    Robin heard him and swung round. He was about to interject, but then decided not to. He knew Dave owed Will two greds. "At least I'm not a scaredy-cat." This was true. Only a handful of boys in the towns were brave enough to play train dodger. Robin had never heard of anybody being hurt or killed through playing it and this surprised him. Really, they were all getting too old for these kinds of antics. The game was done more out of bringing to fruition a nostalgic fantasy than any real desire to compete. The group of boys made their way along the railway line away from the quarry towards the Mansfields. The sky was covered by thin icy grey clouds and there was a heavy chill in the air. A gusty wind coursed along the cutting. The sun was visible as a bloated splotch on the overcast, like a yellow bloodstain. They began the traditional chant of their town "East East EEEast!... East East EEEast!" It was often sung at football matches whenever the Mansfield derby was played, but sometimes it could be applied to other spectator sports. The boys of East Mansfield were reputedly far better at train dodger than their feeble western counterparts. However, sometimes the two sides met on the Nottinghamshire mainline or any of the other places the feral children of the twin towns liked to play. At these confrontations the other side would respond with their own chant: "West in best!... West is best!..." Sometimes this choral rivalry would switch to the geopolitical lens; then Daela Koslan, the Lancine national anthem, would compete against God Save the King." Today Robin, Will and their friends moved on to some trench songs that their older friends and relatives had brought back from the war; some of whose lyrics were extremely vulgar and this made them all titter as they sang. As usual, Will did not join in the singing. He walked slightly ahead of the bunch with his head bowed and his hands in his pockets. Dave looked at his departing back; then he caught Robin's gaze and raised his eyebrows. "What's up with Will?" he asked Robin in a low voice so as not to be overheard.

    "Why are you asking me?" responded Robin with raised eyebrows. "Do I ever know?"

    Dave nodded. "You know, at St Stephens you two were like a duck and a drake. Never left each other's side. These days he talks to you like you're the postman."

    "We're older now." he answered. "He's almost eighteen, almost a man." He felt a wash of nostalgia as he spoke, recalling the halcyon days of his primary school.

    "You might not have noticed it, but we have... He's getting worse."

    Robin shrugged, wanting to change the subject.

    When they emerged onto the paved highways of the Mansfields, the cluster of boys fragmented. They headed off in divergent directions to join other groups or play with different unnamed boys. There were still an hour before lunch; enough time for a game or two. Will vanished without saying goodbye to his brother or anybody else. Robin was left alone. As always at times like this he felt the familiar urge to enact the only solution to his recurring loneliness. He walked to the bus station and bought a ticket for Nottingham. An hour later the district bus dropped him off on Carrington Street just by the railway station. Robin crossed the bridge over the old canal and headed for the city centre. On this cold Saturday after the fourth wartime Christmas the city was subdued. The Christmas decorations were still up; but in this, the weekend after the New Year, they had lost their meaning and felt like annoying relatives that had outstayed their welcome. The shops displayed their wares with the tacit futility of a salesman who is merely going through the motions. Few people could afford what they offered, even as the retail sphere slashed prices to clear their Christmas stock. The wartime slump continued to bite hard. People plodded along the streets with their heads bowed, their hats pulled low and the collars of their coats raised. It was just warm enough for there not to be ice, but a wet coldness still hung over the city that was almost as bad as a frost. Robin caught another bus towards Arnold. He had made this journey so many times in the last few months that he could do it almost subconsciously. The return bus-fare was just over a shilling and he always kept that aside in his pocket money as a mini-savings account of his own in case he needed it. At all times, it made him feel uncomfortable not to have continuously the funds needed to make this journey. It would feel to him like a form of isolation, as if he were in some strange and hostile foreign land without the means ever to return home. He walked along Valley Road until he reached the railings surrounding the Bagthorpe Infirmary. He walked in through he gates. The hospital used to be a workhouse and sanatorium and the building had been surrounded by a parkland dotted with trees. Today the grass had been churned into mud and many of the trees had been felled. A triple row of wooden single-storey structures covered the entire hospital grounds. Men in doctors' coats and army uniforms wandered between the huts. There were also many military nurses with big red crosses on their pinafores. These temporary buildings had been placed there to serve a war that appeared to be permanent. It was now over three years since the war started. Robin had been only thirteen years old then and took no interest in newspapers; however he overheard his parents and other adults talking about it. Catchphrases like "It'll all be over by Christmas" were repeated again and again. The fourth Christmas since the war began had just passed. He could see nothing inside the huts because the doors were shut and the windows made of frosted glass; but he heard male voices moaning and weeping coming from within.

    The hospital was a low square redbrick Victorian structure with high bay windows at the front. Robin walked in through the door and the familiar odour of sulphur, carbolic acid and soap filled his nose. A nurse he knew walked past him in the doorway and greeted him. He was getting quite well-known around the hospital. He inwardly groaned when he saw who was manning the reception desk. His nickname was "Addo"; it seemed that none of the hospital porters addressed each other by anything other than nicknames. He was a chubby pale faced man with greasy hair that rose upwards from his scalp like a tuft of grass. His white shirt designated him as a senior porter. Unlike most of the porters, Addo didn't like Robin. The man scowled as Robin approached. "He's on duty!" Addo snapped.

    "I know." replied Robin curtly. "But he's finishing at one o'clock today... Can I go and sit in the lodge?"

    Addo paused and then reluctantly nodded.

    The porters' lodge was a small room with chairs lined around the wall. Three of them were positioned further forward to make room for the big cast iron radiator. There was a row of lockers near the door and a green felt notice board with sets of printed documents and handwritten paper scraps secured by brass drawing pins. There was an old desk with woodworm holes in it and below that was a rack of heavy gas cylinders. A downmarket telephone sat on the surface. There was nobody else in the lodge, but Robin could see Addo's back through the adjoining door to the space behind the reception desk. After a few minutes he heard footsteps and shuffling outside the door. The handle turned and the door slowly opened. Robin sat up. Before he had even dared to hope the man he had come to see was standing in front of him. He felt a smile stretch across his own face. "Dag Dirk."

    The man smiled back. "Dag Jongen." His shirt was blue; he was a basic grade porter. He wore a neat clip-on tie with the hospital crest embroidered on it. He raised his fist above his head. "Trots en waardigheid!"

    Robin copied the gesture. "Van de ziekenhuis dragers!"

    They both laughed. "I had a feeling you would be here today." He took out a key and opened his locker. Give me a moment. He removed a bag and winter jacket. He then walked into the reception area and Robin heard the clunk of the clock machine as the porter stamped his card. When he came back into the lodge Addo came with him. He and Dirk muttered about work. Addo sneered at Robin and then asked in a cheery voice that concealed his undertone of contempt: "How's your mother, posh boy? Still tucking in the frills is she?" He chuckled haughtily.

    Robin was pleased to see Dirk glare at his senior porter. "Leave him alone, Addo." he hissed.

    Addo laughed again. "Just fooling, Cloggie." He patted Dirk's shoulder and walked back to reception with his hands in his pockets.

    The man and the boy left the hospital. They never spoke as they walked past the war hospital. Robin looked up at his friend and saw the sour expression on his face. Dirk Walsander had pure white hair that hung down on both sides of his head from a prominent parting across his crown. His thin beard was also white. His bright blue eyes looked wrong in his aging craggy face, as if they had been transplanted from a younger man. "So how have you been, young Robin? Not train dodging again I hope."

    "No." lied Robin with a shrug. They were speaking English now seeing as Dirk spoke it much better than Robin did Dutch.

    Dirk gave a half smile; as if he knew his friend was lying and felt amused at that.

    They exited the gates and turned left along Valley Road. Cars rumbled past. A large cart with a copper tank of liquid turned the corner. It was pulled by a shire horse which clopped on the macadamized carriageway. "Dirk." Robin felt slightly apprehensive voicing his thoughts. "What did Addo mean back there; about my mother?"

    Dirk looked at him and sighed. "It's gossip."

    "What kind of gossip?"

    He paused. "I'm not sure I should tell you."

    "What is it?" Robin felt alarmed.

    "There is a rumour circulating that... that your mother is a homosexualizer."

    Robin gasped. "What!?... That's impossible!"

    "It is merely what some people are saying."

    "But she's married to my father!"

    Dirk looked at him sadly. "Unfortunately, the consensus of opinion is that that fact makes the possibility more likely, not less."

    Robin shook his head. "How can people talk like that!? They don't know anything about my family!"

    Dirk shrugged. "Gossip is a common recreation for small and feeble minds. Take no notice of it."

    Robin nodded. He changed the subject. "Where are we going anyway?"

    "Hmm... There is something I want to show you."

    Robin grinned, his discomfort evaporated. He loved every moment he spent with Dirk. He had first met the porter six months ago when he had been admitted to hospital after cracking his knee during the summer holidays. Dirk had taken good care of him as he pushed him in a wheelchair to the X-ray room. He had talked to him so kindly and Robin felt a completely new feeling of joy to be with him. He completely forgot about his painful knee. It was as if Dirk were an angel, not completely human. A few days later Robin returned to the hospital to seek him out and thank him. He had been back to see Dirk every few days regularly ever since. Today Robin and Dirk caught a bus back towards Mansfield but got off in Ravenshead, just south of the towns. Next to the bus stop was a narrow straight lane leading into a thick forest. The spiky leafless trees cracked the solid grey overcast and the ground sank under Robin's feet as he tramped through mulching foliage. There was the loud raucous cawing of crows echoing off the rough trunks. The smell of life, decay, water and wood sap wafted across the path. "What is this place, Dirk?" asked Robin.

    "Thieves Wood. Have you not been here before?"

    Robin shook his head. "What's here you want to show me?"

    "You'll see." he looked over his shoulder and winked. "Hopefully." he added.

    They chose a smaller path and a few minutes later arrived at the edge of the forest. The trees stopped abruptly at a wire fence and beyond it was an arable farmer's field, left fallow and dotted with weeds at this time of year. Two logs were lying by the fence, parallel as if arranged. Dirk sat down on one and Robin sat opposite him. Dirk lit a cigarette while Robin looked out at the field wondering what would happen next. Birds swooped over the raw cold earth looking for food. The sky became darker as twilight approached. Magpies chattered loudly from nearby trees. "I had to assist the army today." said Dirk suddenly.

    "The people in the huts?"

    The Dutchman nodded. "I took a chap to X-ray. He'd come off the front a week ago. He was wrapped almost completely in dressings like an Egyptian mummy. He had hardly any skin left on him. I couldn't tell if it was fire that did it or poisoned gas. He's lucky to be alive really... Or maybe he doesn't agree. He's going to be covered in scar tissue for the rest of his life..." Dirk bowed his head and groaned.

    To Robin's dismay he saw tears in the old man's eyes. He reached out and put his hand on Dirk's arm. "You're doing a lot to help, Dirk. Your job; making him better as much as can be done."

    "When will this war ever end, Robin?" Dirk sniffed and wiped his nose on his cuff like a little boy. "We've had another New Year; it's now 1918. That means a fourth year of war."

    Robin nodded. "You know, I find it hard to remember the time before the war. It feels like there has always been a war; maybe there always will be."

    "You know you're not really at war because you're a Lank and so technically you're neutral."

    "We're just a tiny country though. Too small for it to count."

    He hesitated. "You said I'm doing a lot to help, but maybe I'm not. Maybe I could have prevented the war and didn't..." He cut off suddenly and blushed, as if he had let slip something he shouldn't have.

    "What do you mean?" asked Robin. "What could you have done to prevent this war?"

    Dirk looked away. "Nothing... Forget it."

    Robin looked at him curiously, but his friend was evasive and didn't return his gaze. They sat in silence for a while. The evening continued to deepen, early at that time of year. Despite his affinity for Dirk, Robin knew very little about his friend. Dirk had never told him how long he had worked as a porter at the hospital or what other occupations he had had in his long life. He had told Robin that he came from The Hague. Robin's mother had come from Rotterdam which was nearby, but when asked if he had ever met her, Dirk simply shook his head. Robin shrugged it away; after all they were both big cities within which most people were strangers to each other. He just loved being in Dirk's company.

    "Look!" Dirk pointed.

    Robin followed his finger. There was a light in the sky. It was yellow and steady like a firefly. "What's that?"

    Dirk didn't reply.

    "Is it an aeroplane?"

    "No." he almost whispered.

    "A balloon?"

    "No... I saw it on Tuesday at around this time. I've been back every day since."

    The light grew brighter and appeared to cast a pool of glow against the overcast above it. It was moving steadily and slowly, almost exactly towards them. It soon began to take on a structured appearance. At first it looked like a circle, then an oval. After another minute Robin could clearly see that it had some kind of superstructure on top of it. Once he managed to notice some perspective he realized that the object was a flat disk with a dome on top of its centre. The dome merged with the main body of the object smoothly and evenly as if the whole structure had been moulded from glass. It looked like the colour of gold. "It's beautiful!" he gasped.

    Dirk's face was now illuminated by the gilded wash of the object. "Yes, it is."

    They both stared as the disk passed over their heads and cruised eastwards. It was totally silent and the normal sound of the birds was in their ears the whole time. It faded out over a period of about ten seconds as it entered the hazy cloud cover. They stayed silent for a while, gazing together at the spot in the sky where it disappeared. "Is that from Mars?" asked Robin.

    Dirk shrugged. "Not from Mars I suspect, at least not directly; but it's not made by the hand of man, that's for sure. It's a ship from another world, one which has travelled here across outer space."

    "How do you know that?" Robin looked at Dirk's profile as if the yellow glow of the object were still there.

    Dirk broke from his apparent trance and half smiled at Robin. He blushed slightly once again as if caught out telling a lie. "Just guessing."

    Robin put his hands on his hips. "I had no idea things like that were real. I've read about them in stories, but..."

    Dirk didn't reply and seemed to be lost in thought as he returned his attention to the sky. "It's getting late. We'd better get you home." He brought a paraffin lamp out of his bag and lit it with another match.

    As they walked back through Thieves Wood, Robin's mind replayed the vision of the airborne golden disk over and over in his mind like a cine film. He began to have doubts about Dirk's explanation. The idea of creatures from Mars felt ridiculous. He decided that when he got home he would ask his brother to talk to a university friend of his who had just joined the Royal Flying Corps and find out if they had some kind of new secret aircraft being tested for the war. However, as they reached the main road a low humming sound began and a pair of obviously normal aeroplanes flew over them. Robin and Dirk once more looked up and followed the flying objects, this time identified, as they buzzed a few hundred feet above their heads. They looked like black seagulls in the dim twilight. "They're Avros from the RFC." said Dirk.

    "What are they doing here?"

    "Somebody else must have seen the thing we saw and reported it. The RFC are probably just checking it's not a Zeppelin."

    "Like that one that bombed Newcastle a couple of years back?"

    Dirk nodded and extinguished his lamp.

    Robin paused. "Will they hurt the golden thing?"

    Dirk smiled with affection at his concern. "No. It looks like it's gone and I doubt if they will find it. Soon it will be too dark for them to fly anyway."

    Robin realized with a mixture of a chill and a thrill that if the RFC were investigating the golden object then it could hardly be something they themselves had launched.

    Dirk lived in Sutton-in-Ashfield and so when they alighted from the bus in Mansfield he went to catch another. Robin bade his friend a warm farewell and walked home. By the time he arrived it was almost completely dark. The dregs of the day lay on the western horizon between the Welsh slate roofs; the invisible sun clawing at the horizon as well as the clouds. The lamplighters had just finished their rounds at the end of the street. They extinguished their torches and slung their ladders over their shoulders. Their voices echoed off the walls. A fog was rising from the drains. Highmoor Street straddled the Mansfield border. The even numbers were in the United Kingdom and the odds in Lancombe Pond. The frontier between the microstate and the empire that surrounded it was unmarked, as it was almost everywhere. Robin shivered as he entered the front garden and mounted the familiar steps to the front door of number sixty-five. He turned his door key in the lock and the front door creaked open. He heard voices. Within a couple of moments he had identified all of them. He seethed to himself. The maid was carrying a rubbish bag down the stairs and saw him. "Good evening, Master Robin." she greeted him cheerily. She was a jolly young woman with bright red hair.

    "Hello, Nellie." he returned in kind. Then his attention moved to the open door to the right. The large front lounge was where his mother could be found during daylight hours when she was in. Clouds of pungent cigarette smoke wafting through the door into the vestibule told him she was in her usual place, sprawling on the couch like a Turkish sultan; blankets and pillows tucked in around her as if she were in bed. He heard the sound of her exhale another bolus of smoke. She would know that he was there because she would have heard the maid speaking to him. Even if she hadn't, his mother always knew exactly what was going on anywhere in the house. Her eyes were weak, but her ears were like a bat's, constantly straining for every sound wave on all wavelengths, frequencies and amplitudes that was generated anywhere in the building, from taps in the upstairs bathroom that had been left on too long, to the dustbins in the back alley being moved too close to the gate. Nothing could be hidden from her; she had a sixth sense. Once she thought she knew what was causing the unwelcome sound she would immediately pass judgement on it, who had done it and what deficiencies their character had as a result. Nothing on earth would ever make her change her mind about anything. Even when she was completely wrong, she was still always completely right.

    Robin took a shivering breath and then trotted up to the door and past it. He did not look in. He had turned his face carefully away from the lounge. He had felt her though. He had felt her presence like a black pit of malevolence, an energy vacuum, sucking his life-force into her room like an emotional plughole. When the door was behind him he breathed a sigh of relief.

    The corridor from the front door leading back through the house to the kitchen had rows of photographs on the wall showing members of the family posing in various combinations. Robin remembered sitting for a few of them. Others showed him as a small child or baby which he was too young to recall being taken.

    His father was in the kitchen with some papers spread out on the table. He was scribbling notes in the margin of a printed document. He looked up. "Robin, Clive and Blanche are in the drawing room; go and say hello, would you?"

    Robin looked through to door then back to his father. "In a minute."

    He rolled his eyes. "Where's Wilfred?"

    "No idea."

    His father shrugged and returned his attention to his paperwork. He was a short and rotund man with a shiny bald head that glinted in the kitchen's garish electric bulb. He shaved carefully and cultivated an exquisitely styled black goatee and sideboards. His prominent bushy eyebrows joined in the middle, completely framing his watery blue eyes. He had just come back from the office and had not yet changed out of his plaid waistcoat and green Victorian cravat. Robin was not even sure exactly what his job entailed and his father never talked about his work. Many years ago before her great personality shift, his mother had let her son sit on her knee and explained: "Robin sweetheart, your father has the perfect profession. He is what is known as a 'bureaucrat'. Have you heard that word before?" Robin had shaken his head. "Well, a bureaucrat is somebody who earns a lot of money for doing nothing..." It was only a long time after this discussion, when Robin had remembered that it had taken place, that he was to learn that his mother had somewhat oversimplified her husband's occupation when she had described it to him. Francis Ursall was an assistant administrator in the office of the Duke of Bellswill, the ruler of Lancombe Pond, as the Bellswill dynasty had been since Independence in 1472. Ursall held no grand title or rank. He was just a "Mr somebody". He wore no uniform or insignia. He was a man who wore a plaid suit who worked at a mahogany desk writing in pencil on printed papers. He looked up at his son and muttered in a low voice, a vain effort to prevent detection by the radar ears in the front lounge: "Robin, I wish you would make your peace with your mother; I really do!"

    Robin sat down at the table. "You mean you wish I would go in there, throw myself onto the floor, tell mother that she was right and I was wrong, and beg for her forgiveness."

    Ursall hissed with frustration between his teeth. "Please, Robin!"

    "Father, you don't want real peace, you just want us to go through the motions. Giving mother whatever she wants is just easier and quicker isn't it?" It had been six months since Robin's mother's new personality had come of age. One summer evening, the whole family had gone on an outing to Nottingham to see a play at the Theatre Royal. When they had come home afterwards, Robin and his mother had disagreed on some aspect of the play's plot, characterization or acting; Robin couldn't exactly remember what. His mother had reacted with indignation to her son's dissent and this had quickly escalated to affront. She began to weave in tangents from previous arguments they had had from long ago, misdemeanours Robin had allegedly committed as a small child and his academic failures at school. Robin had tried to remain calm, knowing how this was the best defence against his mother's inflammatory tirades; however, Robin's poise had angered his mother even further as she beat her head against the immovable brick wall of his determination not to rise to the bait. All this time, his father stood to one side in dutiful silence. Eventually Robin's mother exploded. Tears pouring from her eyes, her cheeks as red as hot coals, blue veins standing out on her temples, droplets of spittle sprayed from her mouth: "I hate you!... I hate you, Robin!... I hate you so much! I wish you were dead! I wish you'd never been born!..." Robin and his mother had hardly spoken since.

    "Frank!" came a harsh voice from the front lounge.

    Robin's father jolted upright.

    "Frank!" that same voice came again. His mother's Dutch accent was always stronger when she was angry. She rolled her r's in the back of her throat: "Frrrrrank!... Jane, Ruth and Hilda are coming round. Make us a pot of tea!"

    "Yes, dear. Coming up." Ursall lunged towards the hob.

    Nellie was walking down the corridor past the front lounge and said: "Shall I make that for you, Mrs Ursall?"

    "No!" she retorted. "I want Mr Ursall to do it!"

    "Yes, ma'am." Nellie spoke in a sardonic tone. She raised her eyebrows and gave a half smile, at the same time making momentary eye contact with Robin.

    Robin's father lit the gas ring and slammed a copper kettle full of water onto it. At the same time he filled the tea strainer over the teapot. His trembling hands spilt a few leaves on the sideboard. "Come on! Come on!" he muttered at the kettle as it stood on the hissing ring. The doorbell rang and Nellie went to answer it. Robin heard the voices of three of his mother's circle of friends. The three women chattered as they entered the front lounge, as if they had vital business to discuss. Robin thought he now understood where the gossip at Dirk's hospital about his mother's private life had originated.

    "Frrrrrrrank! Where's the tea!?" roared the woman on the couch.

    "Almost done, dearest." called her husband cheerfully. He hopped up and down in quiet panic. "Come on!" he growled again at the kettle. A small line of steam emerged from its spout. He whipped a can of milk from the icebox and a bowl of sugar from a cupboard and put them on a tray. His wife did not thank him when he delivered the tray to the front lounge.

    Francis Ursall returned to the table with a sigh and carried on scribbling. "Robin, have you spoken to Clive and Blanche yet?"

    "In a minute." said his son. There was a pause then Robin said: "Father, can I tell you something? I really hate the way mother treats you. And I hate the way you allow her to!... How can I make peace with that!?"

    His father stared in shock. His face bleached and then flushed. At first he looked as if his skin would burst, but then he calmed down and lowered his head. He propped his forehead on his hands and sighed sadly. "Robin, when you grow up you will have to learn how to be a husband. I know you've been taught that a man's role is to rule his family and to protect his wife... but that results in the most awful hassle. The art of living for a man in a family is simply to obey... Obedience is the key when dealing with women. Surrender! Submit your will to your woman! Find a way to total subordination and you find a way to a happy marriage. It is easier that way."

    "How can that be, father? What she is doing to you is abuse!"

    "Please try to understand, Robin. Your mother suffers so much; she suffers so, so much... every day!"

    Robin groaned. He had heard this line so many times. "Tell me, father. What would somebody who suffers so much every day have to do for you to hold them accountable for their actions?"

    He stared at Robin blankly. All their debates ended this way, with Robin winning and his father still refusing to change his position.

    "Father, please! Stand up to her! Tell her 'no'!" Robin felt tears budding in his eyes.

    His father looked up at him with an expression of utter helplessness and frustration. "It is too late for me, my son."

    Nellie had been mopping the floor in the scullery next to the kitchen. She always overheard the family's most intimate conversations and nobody seemed to mind. It could be interpreted as demeaning and dehumanizing, as if she were an inanimate object like the oven or the laundry mangle. Alternatively her status could be regarded as one of additional respect, as if she were exceptionally wise, disinterested and judicial; a passive godlike confidant. She looked over her shoulder and once again exchanged a glance with Robin. Her eyes were full of sympathy.

    Robin had once been shown a photograph of his mother in her youth, not by his grandparents, but by one of his multitude of great aunts. It was while he and Will had been in the Netherlands visiting their mother's family. "She was the beautiful Maartje van Hoozer you know." said his great aunt. "A queue of suitors a kilometre long used to follow her everywhere." Robin looked at the old daguerreotype portrait and agreed. His mother had been a very pretty young woman; an elegant and slender brunette. She had met Francis Ursall when they had both been at the University of London. They had married within days of the 1895 Frearsome Act being passed into law, removing from Lancine citizens a right of abode in Lancombe Pond with a non-Lancine spouse. This was intended to alleviate the overpopulation problem in the tiny realm. As a result, Maartje was one of the last foreigners granted residency rights and she moved to Lancombe Pond to live with her new husband. The first decade of their marriage was a happy one, but then Maartje had been struck down by a mysterious illness. It caused her to become unsteady on her feet, racked by neuralgia and partly paralyzed. The illness was intermittent; it went through phases of severity and mildness, but it was always there. She was sent to doctor after doctor. At first they thought it was multiple sclerosis, then Parkinson's disease. Eventually they decided it was none of those things and made Maartje a test case for a new pathology. Eventually a second patient was diagnosed, also a Dutch woman, and so it was provisionally named "Dutch Dementia." The illness grew steadily worse as the years rolled by. By the time Robin was ten his mother couldn't walk more than about a hundred yards at a time. She began to use a bath chair and was given a cocktail of painkillers, and other drugs simply to endure her day. She was also aging prematurely. She was currently forty-five, but looked sixty-five. Her life routine was now mostly moving between her bedroom and the couch in the front lounge. She still went out occasionally, with the help of a nurse, but her tendency to lose energy very quickly limited her activities considerably. She was also unable to do other things she'd enjoyed, such as needlework. She had once been keen on knitting, tapestry and embroidery, but now her hands couldn't hold the needles. As her health degenerated her personality changed. Nobody knew if this was due to a psychological effect of the condition or the trauma of it restricting her life. Either way, the effects on her relationship with her younger son was the same.

    "Wilfred, darling!" Maartje Ursall's voice rose with happiness as her elder son walked in through the front door. Will smiled as he looked into the lounge. "Hello, mother. Have you had a good day?"

    "Not bad. How about you, my little comrade!..."

    With Maartje's personality shift, her attitude to Will had polarized from that of Robin. She adored him more and more as the Dutch Dementia corroded her brain and nervous system. Robin felt no resentment at this. To do so he would have needed to feel love for his mother himself and he felt none. Every drop of his maternal love had been beaten out of him.

    Will was as furtive as always as he entered the kitchen and said hello to his father. With the paternal side of the family the situation was again reversed. Despite their difficulties, Robin was fond of his father. Will was hostile to him for reasons Robin couldn't work out. The Ursalls were a family of secrets. Robin didn't know what those secrets were, but he knew where they were buried. Certain names were mentioned, certain situations tabled and the shutters came down.

    Robin, Will and their father moved to the drawing room where the rest of the family were. Nellie served them with glasses of sherry. "Uncle Robin!" The grinning face of his nephew Harry was a welcome change from the rest of the family. Robin patted the four-year-old's head and spoke to him warmly. Robin's eighteen-month-old niece eyed him nonchalantly over the rim of her dummy. Her name was Mary, but she was known as "Mezzie", probably because that's how she pronounced it. She sat on her mother's lap clutching two of her fingers. Mezzie and Harry's mother was Robin's sister Blanche, a woman so remote from both Will and himself that she might as well not be related. She was the first child and had been born four years before Will, making her six years Robin's senior. She had always lived her own life, doing her own things with her own friends that never included either of her brothers. She was attractive in appearance, inheriting a lot of her mother's good looks; some therefore regarded her choice of husband as strange. His name was Clive Peoples and he was a Jew from the Black Country. He was a paunchy and slovenly man who always reclined as far back as he could on every chair he sat on. He was seventeen years older than Blanche and had bushy unkempt hair. His beard was thick and tightly matted. His tiny eyes peeked out from behind thick spectacles. Robin disliked his brother-in-law intensely. At that moment Peoples was putting his feet up on the shiny drawing room table and talking about himself, the way he always did. He was never satisfied unless he was at the centre and subject of every conversation. Neither Francis nor Blanche ever objected; nobody ever objected to anything. The drawbridge was always lowered at Ursall Castle. Robin accepted that Clive had a just reason to be proud of his life's achievements. He had been born into a family of steelworkers and had grown up in a Wolverhampton tenement. He had taught himself law in a local library and worked three jobs for two years to fund his scholarship to a red-brick university. Nine years ago he had been called to the Bar and was now officially Clive Peoples KC. He and Blanche had just bought a large converted farmhouse at Clipstone in Sherwood Forest. Many men in his situation would have covered up their humble background, but Clive wore it proudly on his sleeve. He still openly spoke the Black Country dialect in all companies and talked continuously about the lowly lives of his parents and other relatives. For him, a plebian background made him feel superior to others rather than inferior. Robin's antipathy was not reciprocated by Clive; in fact the barrister was totally indifferent to his sixteen-year-old brother-in-law. With Will it was different; the hostility was definitely a two-way street. The conversation inevitably turned to the war, as it always did in those days and as soon as Will joined in, Peoples pounced on him: "But it's easy for you to say, Will. You're Lancine and will never be called up to fight in the war." Dig number one. Will looked away with a sneer and gave no response; but his hunter had not given up and a few minutes later he struck again. "But, Will. You have had a middle class upbringing, a middle class upbringing!" Clive gesticulated as he spoke for emphasis in response to some random remark Will had made. He smirked as he spoke. He knew as much about Bolshevism as Will did and vocally disagreed with him every time Will spoke; or at least he pretended to disagree.

    Will recoiled and blushed. "Why do you keep saying that?" he growled.

    "Because it's true!"

    "Do you think I don't know it?"

    "I just mentioned it, that's all." Peoples responded in a sing-song innocent tone. "I'm interested in what motivates a privileged middle class boy like you to take the path you have; and of course you realize that just because you're a Bolshevik doesn't make you a proletarian."   

    Robin looked at Will. His older brother was blinking and biting his lips with affront. Peoples was almost sniggering out loud as he glared at Will. It was a neat bait-and-switch. "I thought nice middle class boys like you were less tender."

    Will looked down at the carpet with a deflated look. He snatched up his sherry glass and stood up. "Excuse me one moment." He strutted out of the room.

    Peoples watched him go with a clenched fist in the air. Robin heard him whisper the word "Gotcha!" Robin then looked at his father. Francis was talking to Blanche in a low voice and pretending not to notice what had happened. Peoples enjoyed upsetting others in his social surroundings. He had worked out what Will's sensitive spot was and had deliberately poked it with a stick. He gained some kind of perverted sustenance from that. Robin had found an excellent term in a magazine recently that perfectly described the likes of Clive Peoples: emotional vampire. Robin wondered if he did the kind of thing he'd just done to Will everywhere or just here in this house where he knew he could easily get away with it.

    Robin made his own excuses and headed out through the kitchen to the staircase. As he walked past the front lounge he heard the quadruple matriarchy in summit. His mother was talking to her three friends. As usual, she was engaged in a monologue about her hated black sheep. She had left the door wide open and used a loud voice, obviously wanting everybody else to hear her pronouncements. "Robin does not like responsibility. His immaturity has reached new heights..." Robin screwed up his face against more than the searing miasma of tobacco smoke that filled the vestibule. He ran up the stairs on tiptoe, hoping that the collection of women listening to his name being dragged through the mud would not realize that he was there. Just before he was out of earshot he heard one of them say plaintively: "I think I speak for us all when I say how sorry I feel for you, Maartje. You shouldn't have to put up with that. Robin is truly the most hideous young man!" They all automatically believed his mother's slander. He knew that at no time would they be expected to hear Robin's side of the story; in fact Maartje expected and demanded that her friends condemn Robin on her word alone. All three of them loathed him for one reason alone; somebody else had told them to. The three women hardly spoke to Robin these days and gave him frosty glances whenever they were around him. It occurred to Robin that although his mother "suffered so much every day!" her illness gave her a lot of power. How would she have managed without it?

    "Robin, can I have a word?" Robin had been walking past his brother's bedroom on the way to his own and Will's voice had come though the open door. He rarely went in there these days, since he and Will had become more distant. Will was sitting in his bedroom at his study desk reading a thick book that he had brought home from Oxford. Will's room had not changed much since Robin's last entry. He still had his Russian posters on the wall; in fact some of them were getting a bit tattered. Three years ago Robin's older brother had changed almost as radically and suddenly as his mother. He had begun to take an interest in politics; reading newspapers, forming a new circle of friends and attending public meetings. He spent a lot of his allowance on books, pamphlets and other pieces of literature that he obtained mostly by mail order. This included the posters that covered his wall to such an extent that hardly any of the original wallpaper was visible. They were artistic multicoloured affairs with text in Russian, a language that Will had been learning in his spare time. Indeed much of the literature he obtained through the post was in that language. When this phase of his life had started Robin was too young to understand completely what it was about. He recalled his brother having blazing rows with their father and their mother being far more sympathetic. He knew that Will's new passion was known as "Bolshevism" and it was a political movement that had just taken Russia by storm. As time went by, Will finished school and went up to Oxford. His arguments with his father eased slowly, like a passing fever, and were replaced by a quiet equilibrium. Robin sensed that they had not reached any agreement, but had simply run out of energy. Despite this, Will grew more and more divorced from his family, with the exception of his mother. During these Christmas holidays he had only spent cumulatively a few hours with the family. He had sat down for Christmas dinner and paid basic courtesy to people at the handful of parties the Ursalls had hosted, but he had manifestly not enjoyed these social events. He had endured them and left at the first opportunity politeness had allowed. Robin guessed this was to please their mother. He had refused to attend the traditional grand ball at the Duke's residence on Christmas Eve.

    "What can I do for you, Will?" Robin was surprised at the unintentional formality of the tone with which he responded to his brother's request.

    "I'm going to London on Monday and was wondering if you wanted to come with me."

    Robin paused with surprise. His older brother had hardly ever invited him to be with him anywhere for over two years. Today's train dodging was almost something done for old time's sake. "Why?"

    "I have to meet some friends there."

    "No, I mean why do you want me to accompany you?"

    Will smiled. "I thought it might be fun. You're going back to Greyguides on Thursday; I'm going back to Oxford on Friday. The holidays are almost over. Let's enjoy what we have left. We can head down there on the train from Nottingham or the City."

    Robin nodded. There was a strange expression on his brother's face. "I don't have enough of my allowance left."

    "I'll pay for you. It's only seven shillings for a day-return."

    "Well, thanks... Alright, I'll come with you."

    Will grinned with what looked like relief. "Brilliant. Thanks, Robin."

    Robin headed for his own bedroom frowning in confusion. Still, what did he have to lose? A day in London was a day in London.

    The furnishings and decorations of his own bedroom were very simple compared to Will's. He had a small shelf with a few books and story annuals. He had grown out of most of them. He thought of his dormitory at school more like his home than this room. He switched on the light and lay down on his bed. He looked out at the darkness beyond the window. The curtains were open, but the lace screen still covered it. Such screens covered every window in the house. They had been crocheted by his mother years ago and were traditionally Dutch in style. It suddenly struck Robin that the hanging of these screens on the windows was an act of conquest by his mother. Robin remembered when he was about nine years old his parents had had an idea... in other words his mother had had an idea... that the family should speak only Dutch on Sundays. Luckily it didn't last long because it wasn't practical for speaking to the servants. However, the lace screens were still there. They were like the flag of a foreign empire raised over a vanquished colony.

The following morning was a Sunday. The family ate an early breakfast and went to church. They attended an Anglican church in West Mansfield as they were a part of Lancombe Pond's Church of England minority, just fifteen percent of the population. This was also the demographic that was generally more culturally English too. The remainder were split almost equally between Roman Catholicism and the Nonconformists. Over the last few centuries Lancombe Pond had become a stronghold for the latter, like Wales; and for the former, like Ireland. Will joined the family in church, again probably for the sake of his mother, but he was obviously just putting in his time. He was an outspoken and staunch atheist so everybody knew. After church some of the congregation retired to the church hall for a cup of tea with the vicar. Robin zoned out as the adults' conversation wheeled over his head as high and inaccessible as birds. However two women a few feet away suddenly raised a subject that made him eavesdrop. "The strangest thing I've ever seen!" exclaimed one. "Bright yellow and gleaming like gold. It flew right over our house."

    The second one asked: "Was it an aeroplane?"

    "No, it can't have been. It was round, like a saucer..."

    Robin realized that they were talking about the strange flying disk he and Dirk had seen the previous afternoon. He went over to Will and decided to share his experience with him. "Strange." his elder brother replied. "It was probably a shooting star or something. Why do you think it's some kind of spaceship?"

    "It's what Dirk told me."

    Will guffawed scornfully. "Load of bourgeois superstitious poppycock! Robin, you've been reading too many of those silly storybooks of yours." He turned away, ending the conversation.

    After church they went home. Robin changed out of his Sunday best and prepared to go out and see his friends. However, as he was walking past the front lounge he heard his mother's voice from inside: "Robin, could you come here a moment please?"

    Robin froze. He knew by her tone that this meant trouble. He entered the room and saw his mother reclined imperiously on the couch as usual and his father sitting on an adjacent armchair, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. A frown was on his face in an accusing manner. "Robin." began Maartje severely. "Your father and I have been talking about your future and we think you should go to Oxford like your brother. We believe medicine would be a good subject to read. You've always been strong in the sciences and we would like to have a doctor in the family..."

    "But... but I don't want to go to Oxford!" protested Robin.

    "Well what do you want to do then?

    He saw the trap and couldn't avoid it. "I don't know."

    "If you can't make any positive choices about your future than we will have to make them for you. This is your last year at school and you must have somewhere to go afterwards."

    Robin looked over at the stern face in the armchair. "Father?"

    "After serious consideration I have decided that your mother is right." Francis uttered this sentence quickly and precisely as if it were a cliché, which of course it was. He had said it many many times before and never was there any "serious consideration" involved. He avoided his son's eyes and pressed his lips together with the stubbornness of somebody totally under the control of another who knows he could break away but would never dare.

    There was a volcanic pause. It was broken by the jingling of the telephone. Francis sighed as he stood up to answer it. He went out into the corridor and over to the little table by the front door where the instrument stood. His voice was easily audible in the front lounge. "Hello Ursall... Mother!"

    Robin sat up. His heart leapt.

    "Yes, he is... I suppose so, but could you please make sure he doesn't come home too late... Well, actually we're preparing a meal so... Very well, just a small bowl... By the way, mother, are you planning on going with Robin to that place?... Ugh! You know Maartje and I don't approve... I know how old he is, mother... Very well, mother. Goodbye." He came back into the lounge with a sulky frown on his face. "Your grandmother asks if you can go and visit her this afternoon."

    Maartje sneered and puffed deeply with displeasure.

    Robin could hardly stop himself laughing with happiness. He regarded his life as a big black dismal void with two bright sparks of joy in it; one was Dirk Walsander and the other was his paternal grandmother. He skipped back up the stairs to his bedroom and grabbed his wallet from his chest of drawers because he would need money if he was going to visit his grandmother. He checked that he had plenty of Lancine greds as well as British cash. He pattered back down and was about to leave through the front door when his mother spoke from the front lounge. "Robin."

    Robin stopped in his tracks. "What is it, mother?"

    Maartje Ursall spoke slowly in a cold tone. Robin did not look into the room, but could see the expression on her face in his mind's eye that he knew she was wearing. The wide-eyed gape that was slightly tearful and overflowing with hatred. "One day I will tell you a story. When I tell you that story you will never ever ever misbehave again."

    Robin rolled his eyes; she had said this many times before. "What story, mother?"

    She paused. "It can wait."

The direct tram left its East Mansfield terminal, fifty yards from the border, and headed along the main road deep into the heart of Lancombe Pond. A nickname for this tiny nation was "the One-Oh-One" because it covered roughly a hundred and one square miles. Its plan was a compact rounded square shape, embedded in the English East Midlands like a button. It included two exclaves; a small block in West Mansfield, just a few rows of houses, and Ingolswathe, a harbour village on the Norfolk Coast giving the microstate access to the sea. There was also an even smaller British enclave in East Mansfield which consisted of another street or two. How this peculiar political geography had come about was a story Robin had learned in primary school and had promptly forgotten. The teenager was in high spirits. He braved the nippy Sunday afternoon weather and sat on the open top deck of the tram even though there was room downstairs. The capital city was far smaller than any settlement in the United Kingdom called a "city". Its population was forty thousand, just over half that of the nation, and it occupied the centre of the square territory. Its name in the Lancine language was Myud Koslan, literally "The City of Lancombe Pond", which was also its full name in English. It was known by Lancine-speakers as Myud-de, simply: "the City"; and if somebody uttered that phrase in Lancombe Pond, in either language, without further qualification, everybody would assume they were talking about the country's capital. When heading to the City one would say they were going taesmyud, a word that loosely translates as "downtown"; and it was never used in the context of any other place.

    The City emerged suddenly out of the woodland and pastures of rural Lancombe Pond. Even at its outskirts the houses were far taller than normal for a settlement of that size. With just sixty-four thousand acres of land area and a need to protect the country's precious farming industry, the only way to build in Lancombe Pond was vertically. Homes were tall and narrow with at least three storeys and steep roofs containing more rooms. Almost all buildings of any kind had basement levels beneath them for storage and even cheap accommodation. These often went down two or even three levels. Gardens were always small to nonexistent. The road the tram followed into the centre of the City was a double lane and the high buildings made it feel like a narrow trench. The walls were all of dark brick topped with black slate gables. Windows were small and deep-set. There were no front gardens and the pavements were narrow. Doors were all windowless and painted dark blue or green. The Lancine people trudged along wrapped in heavy coats and scarves against the January cold. The centre of the City consisted of small well-segregated districts for retail, leisure, business, residence, industry and politics, like a typical capital city in miniature. The governmental heart of the independent duchy was an area called Wicker Park which was designed around a crossroads of two garden boulevards with statues, lawns, ponds and fountains. Here was the parliament building, called the Lowdown, the central courts and the official residence of the Duke of Bellswill. The architecture was all neo-mediaeval, solid and intimidating. Stone plinths sported long texts in both English and Lancine; some of the latter was in the old syllabic-block Lancine script, of which there were attempts to revive. The flag of Lancombe Pond flew everywhere, an off-centre green cross on a light blue background. The Pollary Guards in their green tunics and dark copper helmets strutted back and forth in the courtyards. Behind the turrets, corbels and iron portcullises were smaller less decorative buildings that were dedicated to secondary administration; Francis Ursall worked in one of them. To the north of Wicker Park was a district called Bowle which included a small lake called Lancombe Pond; the lake that had given its name to the entire country. It was an ancient body of water with many ducks and swans living there. Around the edge was a pathway which was a pleasant place to ramble in summer. Robin alighted at the Wicker Park tram stop and walked to where his grandmother lived in the district of Yewfield or Útán. The side gate to his grandmother's house was open and Robin walked through to see her on her hands and knees digging a flower bed in her tiny but well-kept garden. She was recognisable inside her pink velvet overcoat, leather gloves and woollen hat. Robin felt a surge of love. "An tless, mameerda." he said.

    She turned her face to him and grinned, her aged yellowing teeth between thin lipstick. "An tless, Robin." After that greeting, their conversation switched to English. Robin's grandmother was one of only ten percent of Lancombe Pond's population who could speak the Lancine language fluently, Dugoslan, as they called it.

    The Lancine language drove linguists insane. Its origins were shrouded in mystery. It was an isolate, one that could not be classified into any language family, like Basque or Korean, and was once thought to be a pre-Indo-European leftover from before the Celtic era in Britain. They even came up with a hypothetical family of extinct relatives called Lanconic. However more recent academic consensus had denounced it as a constructed hoax. Its earliest texts dated only to just after Independence and they speculated that the first Duke of Bellswill had given his new nation an artificial language to cement its identity. However Dugoslan lacked the simplicity and regularity of other constructed languages, like Esperanto or Volapuk. It was not easy to learn and its grammar had many complexities. It was notorious for its outlandish phonetics. The word Ppellōccraedykk, meaning "a pair of parallel lines", was impossible to articulate for anybody unaccustomed to Lancine. The "Pp" at the beginning was a consonant pronounced by advancing the tongue between the lips and blowing; a raspberry in other words. 

    Robin's grandmother was very keen to teach her grandson Dugoslan, but she encountered an obstacle in her daughter-in-law. Maartje and her husband brought up all three of their children bilingual in Dutch and English with English as primary because of where they lived. Robin's Dutch was adequate, but slightly ropey. It was sufficient for him to communicate with his relatives in the Netherlands; but not living there and using it every day took the edge off his fluency. When she heard that her husband's mother had been encouraging him to learn Dugoslan Maartje called a family conference. "Robin, do you understand that you learning Lancine is for me symbolic of you rejecting me." Robin's father sat devotedly at her side in his standard acquiescence. Loyl had glared at Maartje in a way that, although she had never told him explicitly, made it obvious to Robin that she disliked her son's choice of wife very much. If Robin had been a few years older he would have resisted more, but he was only eleven at the time. He tacitly deflected his interest in his grandmother's lessons. Today, basic greetings were their only Lancine dialogue. "Are you all set for the service this afternoon, Robin?"

    "Oh yes, grandma." Robin couldn't help smiling whenever he looked into his grandmother's eyes.

    "I got a message from your granddad last week. It was through Paula Silvercloud; she's an excellent clairvoyant medium."
    "What did he say?"
    "He thinks I need to talk to your mother and father more."
    "You do already, grandma."
    "Maybe not." She looked pensive as she collected her gardening tools. She was sixty-nine years old and was a small, compact old woman with thick, strong, almost masculine arms. Her name was Loyl, a native Lancine one. Although she always used her married surname Ursall, her maiden name was Jerkson or ob Djuuk, a traditional Lancine name.  She declined Robin's offer to help her carry her tools into her storage basement. She kicked off her Wellington boots, put on her slippers and began cooking a meal. For his whole life Robin's favourite food had been his grandmother's homemade chips. She cut them from fresh potatoes with a simple knife and skilfully sliced them into even oblong strips with a perfectly square cross-section. Then she steamed them in an ancient, stained colander and stir-fried them in butter. She enjoyed exotic cuisine and sometimes added a pinch of curry spices to the mixture before draining and serving the chips. Robin had never asked his grandmother for the recipe or suggested she teach his mother how to make them; they were almost sacredly connected to the identity of his grandmother.

    Robin told his grandmother about his argument with his father.

    Loyl clapped him on the shoulder as she placed the plate of chips on Robin's lap. "Well done, Robin!"
    "You think I did the right thing, grandma?"
    She chuckled. "Of course you did, Robin! That boy of mine does need to be more assertive with his wife. I'm very proud of you."
    They exchanged affectionate smiles. "Thanks, grandma."

    She sighed wistfully. "Your father was so different from you when he was a child, you know, Robin.
    "What was he like, grandma?" Robin anticipated being amused.

    "Scared of his own shadow." She tutted and shook her head. "If I clapped my hands while his back was turned he'd jump five feet in the air. He was very well-behaved, a model child, although you know what I think of all that!" She snorted contemptuously. "He never played up 'cos he was too frightened to. You know when he was about fifteen years old he stopped eating, well almost. He survived on a bowl of rice a day. It was strange, and it scared me and your granddad majorly. He wasn't worried about his weight, or any of the other stories you keep hearing about young girls who starve themselves to death; he just lost his appetite. Luckily it came back when he got older... Strange boy, your father." She shrugged and began clearing up the plates.

    At three PM Robin and his grandmother left her house and walked to the Lancombe Pond Independent Spiritualist Church. It was a tiny place, housed in a converted Scout hut on a small industrial cul-de-sac in the south of the City, laid back from the Nottingham road. It stood between the somewhat larger and more elaborate Theosophists centre and the Rudolf Steiner Association. The proximity of these three institutions led local skeptics to nickname the street "Crazy Close". The service was due to begin at four PM, but Loyl always arrived there early so she could socialize. As they entered the Church's forecourt, the door to the building was open and they could hear the little electric organ inside already playing the gentle melodies that greeted the congregation. In the vestibule they were offered glasses of water and Loyl chatted warmly with her friends. At family parties Robin's parents deliberately limited the interaction he had with their circle of friends, often directing his words, interrupting him or hushing him into silence; whereas Loyl made a point of bringing Robin into the discussions and social milieu of the Church as much as possible. Another crucial difference was that Robin understood what they were talking about. He'd been coming here with his grandmother for about four years and had made himself at home there as she did. The attendees of the Church were mostly older people, primarily working class. They were all welcoming and open-minded. The interior of the church was clean and finely decorated with flower vases and icons on the wall showing doves, rainbows, stars, moons and dolphins. There was a thick red carpet on the floor and the congregation sat on velvet-covered wooden benches. The air was delightedly scented and as Robin and Loyl walked down the aisle to their seats he felt his spirits rise.

    The speaker had already taken her seat on the dais at the front; speaker being a euphemistic and also, slightly paradoxically, a reverent term for the psychic medium who would be working during the service. The service was conducted by the much-loved patriarch of the church, an ancient man called Reg, who introduced the speaker. They sung a hymn from a regular church hymnbook and then the speaker stood up to begin her clairvoyance. Like most of the mediums who worked the churches, this one was late middle-aged and female; her name was Charlotte Cayce. She wore an imitation fur coat and her neat, grey hair was woven and plaited into ringlets that hung lethargically over the sides of her head; her throat and wrists were bedecked with intricate jewellery. "Dear friends." She began in her squeaky and gossamer-soft voice. "I invite you all to close your eyes and sit quietly, and think of those you love who are now in Spirit. Ask them to come to us and make contact with us. I offer myself as a bridge between the Earth Plain and the Eternal Paradise where are loved ones forever dwell..." She worked by letting her eyes roam across the audience until they rested on somebody and she would say: "I think I need to come to you, sir/madam," and then she'd relate to the lucky recipient some information that the recipient would either confirm or deny. Robin was sometimes picked out, but not tonight. The speaker was usually given about an hour for clairvoyance which meant that on average a regular audience member could expect a message every three or four services. Robin had had several which varied greatly in quality. He made the speakers work hard and would tell them very bluntly if a message didn't ring any bells. His grandmother nudged him gave him a look which he understood as: "She's not that good is she?" He shrugged as if to say: "Give her a chance, she's only just started." After an hour of her semi-successfully trying to match an amateur cricketer, a sailor on a whaling ship and even somebody's pet mouse, Charlotte Cayce sat down and another hymn was sung while a leather bag was passed round and the congregation put money into it. The revenue from the churches was never very high and often only just covered the speaker's travelling and accommodation expenses. It was in private sittings that there were high earnings to be made for a gifted medium. However the churches were a good way of making contact with potential new customers. Robin gave them one gred, the Lancine unit of currency which was the equivalent of about two and a half shillings. At the end of the service Reg stood up to thank Charlotte Cayce and all the audience for coming along; and his wife and assistants went round the hall with a tray with cups of tea and biscuits for everybody. "What did you think of her, grandma?" asked Robin.
    Loyl raised her eyebrows as she munched her McVitie's. "I'd say she's a skeptic's dream! I hope they don't invite her again." A few people were queuing up down the aisle to meet Charlotte Cayce. Conversations were brief and usually involved just a handshake and a few words. Loyl decided to join the queue while Robin didn't bother. He was daydreaming over his tea when his grandmother came back to her seat. There were only a few people left in the church now and Reg was looking at them as if to indicate he planned to lock up soon. Loyl had a curious expression on her face when she said: "Come on, Robin. Let's go."
    "Is everything alright, grandma?" asked Robin as he drained his tea.
    She just beckoned him with her eyes, hurrying him along. Outside, the winter afternoon had turned to night and stars shone brightly through broken cloud above Lancombe Pond. They walked out of the church and up the road towards the tram stop. Suddenly Loyl stopped in her tracks.

    "What's wrong, grandma?" asked Robin. "You don't look too happy."
    "I'm alright, Robin." she said, scarcely above a whisper. "I was just wondering, have you got any more plans for this evening?"
    "Not really. Just dinner at home."
    She hesitated. "Would you like to come with me to a séance?"
    He shrugged. "Sure."

    "I wasn't certain it was right to ask you. I'm sure your mother will hit the roof." She sounded semi-apologetic. "You know what a séance is, don't you?"
    "Yeah, of course I do. It's where the speaker does her business in a small group around a table..."
    "Not quite." Loyl interrupted. "That's an oversimplification. Do you remember a couple of months ago we had that Eileen McKenzie in the Church?"
    "What, do you mean that Scottish lady who closed her eyes and started talking in that funny voice?"
    Loyl chuckled. "That's her. Personally I reckon she was putting it on, but it's still an example of what we call 'trance mediumship'; where the medium's body is temporarily taken over by a spirit. The body then takes on the voice and even the appearance of a spirit. Occasionally a spirit manifests in the circle in visible, physical form."
    Robin gasped. "You mean a ghost!?"
    She frowned at him; her eyes were hidden in the shadow of her brows and the wash of the electric streetlamps cast an unnatural lemon glow over her face. "For want of a better word, yes... This is what often goes on at séances. I've been to a couple of them and... there is some risk involved."
    "Oh." Robin kept his voice deadpan, but he suddenly felt quite exhilarated.
    "You see... every so often you get something... unexpected... and what happens next is unpredictable, and it's not always pleasant. You see... not all spirits are friendly."
    "Aren't they?"
    His grandmother grimaced. "You sound surprised. And you will do having only ever gone to that place!" She violently jerked her thumb over her shoulder to indicate the church. She then added in a bitter tone: "It's all sweetness and light to that lot! Tinkerers; that's all they are!... Honestly, Robin, if your whole experience of Spiritualism comes only from the churches then you have no experience of Spiritualism! You deserve to learn the whole story... There she comes now." Loyl pointed. A car pulled out of the church forecourt and chugged past them, heading up the road into the City. Robin recognized Charlotte Cayce and Reg in the front seats.

    "They're on their way there now." said Loyl.

    "Don't you know where this place is?"
    "Yes." His grandmother showed him a scrap of paper with an address crudely scribbled onto it in pencil. "It's all a bit hush-hush. That's normal practice... Look, Robin; I've asked her and she says it's fine to bring you along too, but if you prefer I'll walk you to the tram stop and..."
    "No no!" said Robin. "Grandma, I want to come too."
    Loyl gave a slightly guilty sigh. "Very well."
    It was by now almost six PM and there was a still a lot of activity in the City; people coming in and out of pubs, taxies zooming, restaurants splashing the street with the glow of their electric signs. Loyl Ursall walked upright and quickly, moving like a much younger woman. Robin trotted along beside her. They strode through Wicker Park and headed down a smaller road leading to the northern limits of the town. Eventually they reached a place called Bailey Avenue, a long, straight street that flanked a busy dual carriageway; the two thoroughfares were separated by a grassy verge with a single row of evenly-spaced trees. On the other side of the street was a row of detached houses, also evenly spaced. Robin saw Charlotte Cayce's car ahead, parked by the pavement they were walking on. They stopped outside a square, white house that was the most illuminated on the road. Its large curtain-covered picture windows glowed. Exterior lights were on and the moisture on the driveway glinted. Cayce was waiting for them just inside the gate. She and Loyl exchanged glances but didn't speak as they walked up the short driveway; and Cayce ignored Robin altogether. They crowded under the secluded porch and rang the low-pitched doorbell which boomed through the house like infrasound. The door opened quickly and a voice said: "Hello, Charlotte. Come in."

    The interior of the house was warm and smelled of flowers and incense; every wall was decorated by pictures and hangings. Robin pressed his arms by his side and hunched his shoulders as he noticed the delicate and expensive-looking ornaments that covered every shelf and table, in case he knocked them off with his body. "Hello, Robin." He suddenly realized that he was being introduced to somebody. "I'm Dia." The woman shaking his hand was tall and slender. She was wore a long, nondescript grey dress; it was rough and threadbare like Cinderella's. She had long black, greasy hair that fell over the sides of her head, a bit like Charlotte's grey locks did, and protruding teeth; her eyes were huge like an owl's. She pointed towards a door covered by a bead screen. "It's in there." she said. Loyl and Charlotte pulled aside the screen and entered. Robin put his hands together as if praying or diving and rent the screen in the middle, pushing the beads strings to each side and he entered the room.
    The room inside was dimly lit by silver oil lamps, four of them in each corner. The fireplace was low and glowed red. A deliciously overpowering scent filled the air. During its normal function it was clearly a lounge; it had settees, an armchair and a coffee table, but these had been pushed back out of the way to make space, and in the centre of the room a circle of about a dozen chairs had been arranged. The three new arrivals took their place in three of the four remaining chairs and Dia took the last one. As he chose a chair beside her, Loyl seized Robin's hand in a way that she hadn't done since he was a small child and hissed urgently in his ear: "Keep very still and don't make a sound!" For a while nobody spoke and only a few severe glances were passed around. Apart from Reg, Robin didn't know any of the other people sat on the circle of chairs, but he recognized a few of them by sight as infrequent attendees of the church. On the carpeted floor in the centre of the circle was a cloth mat that was covered in a series of perplexing geometric shapes and symbols. Placed around the mat was a bowl containing a liquid that was steaming slightly as if hot; next to it a joss stick burned in a china holder, presumably the source of the smell. There was also a pack of cards neatly fanned out and a candle. Next to the candle lay a small hardback book. These objects looked as if they'd been arranged with precision and care. There were a few moments' silence then Dia raised her hands in the air and sung at the top of her voice: "EEE-YAAA-OOO-oh whay-hey-oh!"
    Robin jumped as everybody else in the circle except for himself, his grandmother and Charlotte repeated it. Dia sang another phrase and her acolytes copied her again. This chanting continued for a number of minutes and then they stopped and there was silence yet again. Then Dia spoke in a formal tone. "Welcome, friends. Welcome to our moot. I hope tonight finds you well. And a special welcome to our guests Robin and Loyl; and we're especially honoured to be joined by the respected medium Charlotte Cayce." She paused and let her gaze run around the circle stopping it directly ahead of her, slightly raised above their heads, her huge oval eyes glinted in the candlelight. "As always I must ask you to keep whatever comes to pass and whatever information you learn strictly confidential. The enemy is preparing another offensive; they may even be among us here this evening..."
    The circle drew in its collective breath; carefully concealed glimpses were directed at the visitors although Dia maintained her gaze. Robin shivered, wishing briefly that he'd agreed to his grandmother's offer to take him to the tram stop.
    "In order for the Light to prevail in the kingdom of the Darkness we ourselves must not turn to fear or ire. All people, once admitted to this circle, will be treated accordingly. Those who shamefully refer to themselves as 'the Enlightened Ones' can only be so when we adopt their ways of the Darkness and so give them a deeper shadow in which to cast their parody of the Light."
    Robin caught his grandmother's eye and gave her a look that said: "What's she talking about?"
    Loyl ignored him and swiftly turned back to faced Dia.
    Dia stood up and walked over to the mat and the other objects. She stood for a moment and then in a single movement skilfully lowered herself into a lotus-like squatting position on the floor; her long skirt stretched between her knees like a tent. "At this point in the moot I will have to consult the cards in order to know the right course of action; should we proceed or not?" She gathered up the cards and shuffled them with great dexterity like an experienced gambler, then she fanned them in her hands and picked out ten cards. She put the rest of the deck to one side and placed the ten she'd chosen with their faces down, carefully concealed in her lap. She studied them carefully mouthing a few words and then placed them one at a time on the floor. She laid five in a cross formation and four in a vertical line to one side of the cross; the remaining card she laid lengthwise on top of the middle card of the cross. Then, one by one, with sober reverence, she flipped the cards face up. Robin then saw that these were not ordinary playing cards and he recognized the symbols of the Tarot. Dia stared at the cards intently for a couple of minutes then she looked up as if waking from sleep. "Yes." she said in a simple, light tone. "We should proceed." She cleared away all the cards and put them back in their original position, then she reached down and tenderly picked up the book. She flicked to a page without browsing, as if the book were very familiar to her, and read for a few minutes.

    Robin heard a strange noise to his left. He turned his head with utmost care, remembering his grandmother's warning, and saw that Charlotte Cayce was giggling. She had her hand over her mouth in an attempt to suppress her laughter. In the silence of the circle her mirth was obstructively loud, although nobody else reacted to it.
Dia put down the book and picked up the bowl. It was a hemispherical shiny metal bowl and the liquid inside was still steaming slightly. She paused to look at it and then raised the bowl to her lips and drank. Robin guessed from its size and the way Dia drank that there must have been about half a pint of fluid in it. She downed it in one and then leaned back, gagging slightly, as if the taste had not been pleasant. "Join hands." she said thickly through her clenched throat. All the members of the circle held each other's hands and Dia stood up and sat back onto her chair. Loyl took Robin's right hand and a stranger his left. The stranger's hand was cold, weak and clammy. "Whatever happens, do not break the circle." Dia added.
    For many minutes nothing happened, they all just sat there quietly, holding hands; Dia sat bolt upright on her chair, her eyes closed and her head bowed. Then she began to lean forwards, tipping very slowly like a melting snowman. Then the man to her right, with his left hand in hers, spoke out loudly. "Is there anybody there?"
    Silence followed.
    "Is there anybody there?" he repeated looking at Dia.
    Robin got the feeling that he was her husband.
    "Is there anybody there?"
    Dia was by now bent completely over; her head hung down, her hair draped over her lap. She was shivering slightly; spasms ran over her back and shoulders, visible through her thin dress.
    The man waited a little longer this time: "Is there anybody there?"
    "Yes!"
    Everybody in the circle shifted in their seat in shock. The hands that gripped Robin's squeezed harder. The voice had come from Dia, but it had not been her own.

    "Don't break the circle!" commanded the man.
    Dia recovered her posture and sat up straight; her eyes were open and she was breathing normally, but her face wore a very different expression to the ones Robin had seen her wear so far. She looked transfixed and stared at the far wall of the room.

    The man faltered and panted nervously as he spoke again: "Welcome, spirit. Welcome to our circle. What is your name?"

    "Aldred." The voice was deep and masculine; it didn't resemble Dia's own voice in any way. It sounded like a film in which a voice soundtrack had been replaced by an entirely different one, yet it clearly came from her mouth.
    "Hello, Aldred. Our intentions are peaceful and we bear you goodwill... Do you have anything you wish to tell us?"
    "Your circle is mixed and there is much variety." came the voice from Dia. "It may not be as you chose... or expected."
    The man exchanged alarmed looks with a couple of other people in the group. "Can you show yourself to us?"
    "Yes... although this could endanger the health of my channel and also others in your circle."
    "We know. Go ahead and show yourself." He then addressed all the other people in the room: "Remember, stay in your seats! Keep hold of each other's hands! Don't break the circle!"
    Robin felt his grandmother's hand jerk; her skin had become hot and sweaty.
    Dia's body went into spasm as if she were retching and then suddenly she vomited. However, the moment after she did so Robin realized that something wasn't right. What came out of Dia's mouth was a stream of thick, white viscous substance like cream, but it didn't fall under the force of gravity; it floated in the air as if it had been poured into water.
    Robin yelped in shock before he could stop himself. "Steady, Robin!" shouted Loyl. "Stay calm!" Robin was not alone; exclamations of astonishment and fear came from other members of the group. The man to Dia's right kept repeating: "Don't break the circle!... Don't break the circle!"
    The unnatural substance that had issued from Dia's mouth began to expand like a white balloon. Its surface was smooth and shiny like milk and it reflected the dim light of the room. It rippled slightly like thin silk. A wide strand of the main structure remained attached to Dia's mouth like a comic strip speech bubble. Dia herself remained unconscious, sitting completely still with her lips apart. The expansion stopped when the mass was about three feet across and it began to change shape and consistency. It started elongating vertically and fluoresced eerily with an internal light-source. Robin then saw that it was assuming the rough shape of a human torso and head. A face appeared on the front of the head that morphed rapidly; it started as a crude shape, but more and more detailed features appeared. The texture changed, colours burst out and within seconds Robin was staring at the head of a man, as perfect as a waxwork. The rest of his body was forming too, but lagged behind in details and remained basic in figure. The face was of a middle-aged man with black hair and bronze skin, perhaps an Indian or Gypsy. He was swarthy and unshaven, but his eyes were bright and intelligent. Robin's chair was just a few feet away and he could see every hair on the man's eyebrows and chin, and the lines in the skin of his forehead. His eyes were clear and alert. They glinted with the light coming from both the room and from the phosphorescent glow of the strange matrix from which he'd emerged. Then he blinked his eyes and smiled.
    The attendees of the séance had got over their initial shock; they were all stable in their seats, but were panting and gasping with occasional outbursts: "Oh God!" "Oh my God!" "Oh God, is this real!?"
    The voice of the man to Dia's right rose above the clamour: "Hello, Aldred. Thank you for showing yourself to us."
    "It's good to be with you." replied the man. This time the voice came from his own mouth instead of Dia's. His lips moved normally as he spoke. Despite his eyes being open he didn't seem to be able to see anybody in the room, at least he didn't look at any of them. "I will try my best to make this as safe and easy as possible for my channel." His speech was more coherent now. Despite his oriental appearance, he spoke in perfect English and his accent was a neutral Home Counties one. Not from any particular region, but there were a few glottal stops and Kentish or Essex diphthongs.
    "Thank you, Aldred. She's my wife and I'm concerned for her wellbeing."
    "What can I help you with today?"
    "We want to ask: do you know anything about the plans of our enemy?"
    "Your enemy is regrouping, it is changing its tactics. It knows it cannot remain hidden for much longer. The time is coming soon for an open encounter; they know this."
    "What are its new tactics?"
    "There is... limited... information." the face clouded over slightly, as if being partially submerged in a cloud of dry ice; but then a few seconds later it solidified again. "Their leadership is split. Some have made... provision for defeat."
    "What do you mean?"
    "Without victory...they... will... ensure..." The temporary, partial fade-out happened again. It reminded Robin of a wireless radio losing its signal and needing to be tuned.
    "What will they ensure, Aldred? What do you mean?"
    "They will... ensure that you... share their defeat."

    The man paused, unsure of what to say.

    "Your circle is mixed." Aldred said again. "There is much variety."
    "Explain please, Aldred."
    "There is one here with... great depth of soul... who can see... see the paths ahead."
    "Who? Which one of us?"
    Aldred didn't reply. His face went fuzzy again; this time it didn't firm up afterwards. "The conduit is closing... There is one among you who is selfish, who will be used by the enemy to attack you..."
    "LIAR!" The shriek of rage came from Robin's left; it was from Charlotte Cayce. "Dia, you're a fraud!"
    "Shut up!" yelled Dia's husband.
    "FAKE!" Charlotte Cayce let go the hands next to her and stood up.
    "NO!"
    Cayce hurled herself forward at the apparition. There was a blinding flash of light and a deafening bang. Robin felt as if he were punched simultaneously in every part of his body at once. The next thing he knew he was lying on the carpet with the upturned chair between his legs. His senses returned and he raised his head. The room was in pandemonium; the bright main electric ceiling lights had been switched on and loud voices surrounded him. Everybody was clustered around Dia and Charlotte Cayce who were both lying prostrate on the floor and not moving. The spectral visitation had vanished and there was nothing supernatural to be seen in the room. "Robin, are you alright?" The face of his grandmother loomed over him.
    "I think so, grandma." he murmured.
    "Can you stand up and walk? Graham has called an ambulance and we should clear the room before they arrive."
    With her help, Robin clambered to his feet; his head swam and he rocked slightly as he took a few steps. The attendees of the moot who were not involved in caring for the two casualties were standing around outside the room. Somebody had opened the front door and a few of them were outside smoking and talking. "Come on, my boy; let's give you some fresh air." She led him out into the driveway and he sat down on the doorstep until his strength returned. The air was chill and refreshing. A light breeze has blown up. The people with whom they'd been holding hands in the circle a while before just stood around with cigarettes in their hands. On the neighbouring dual carriageway occasional cars and lorries swished past.
   A few minutes later a ringing bell and petrol engine sounded. Robin stood as a red painted ambulance pulled up and the paramedic crewmen jumped out and strode up to the house. As they were ushered inside Loyl turned to her grandson. "Let's go home, Robin. We can't do anything more to help here." They headed away, but just as soon as they'd exited the front gate and were on the pavement Loyl pulled up suddenly and stared up into the air.
    "What's up, grandma?"
    "Look!" She pointed. Her eyes were wide and her face tight with alarm.
    Robin followed her finger, but saw nothing except for the night sky; stars and dark, scudding clouds. "I can't see anything."
    "There! Look carefully."
    Robin tried again. His eyes adjusted to the blackness of the sky in the glare of the lights from the house behind him. He then noticed that there was a small cloud; he moved a few yards to look at it from another angle to judge its size and distance by parallax. He realized immediately that it was not a normal cloud at all. Its altitude was only about thirty or forty feet, not much higher than the house and this would make it very small, just a few feet across. It just hovered there, not moving in any direction, even though a brisk wind whipped past them. Also it didn't look quite like a cloud. It was more like a patch of heat haze, not an object in itself, but more something that made other objects seen through it look different.
    Loyl clasped his wrist urgently. "Come on, Robin; let's go." They almost ran along Bailey Avenue, the old woman panting from alarm and exertion.

    When they'd reached the comforting sight of the shops and pubs again they slowed down.

    "It's funny you know." said Robin. "I've never told you before that I had doubts."
    "Doubts about what?"
    "All this stuff. There were times when I wondered if any of it was real. If you hadn't shown me this tonight I might have ended up a skeptic."
    She gave a sardonic chortle. "There are skeptics I know who've been to moots just like that one and still deny that it's real." The merriment left her tone. "Robin, I'm so sorry! I should never have brought you. I placed you in very real danger..."
    "Don't be daft, grandma. I'm not a little kid and I chose to come of my own free will... What happened anyway? Will Dia and Charlotte Cayce be alright?"
    "I don't know... That stupid cow, Cayce! She interfered with an ectoplasmic induction! Of all the people who should know better! She may have killed Dia, and herself; if only it could be just herself!... God forbid me, I shouldn't say that, but..." Loyl shook her head angrily. "Mediums have died when something goes wrong during these kinds of trances; it's because the spirit is using the life energy of the medium to produce a physical apparition in this plain. That apparition is extremely delicate; even bright lights can damage it. That is why trance mediums insist on darkness while they operate; it's not so they can hide strings or rolls of crepe paper and papier-mâché dolls! Without fully-functioning life energy you die; it's that simple. Cayce might be on the other side right now. If she is I'll tell you what; she'd better have the good sense not to come through at church! I'll tell her to go stuff herself and I don't care if the speaker's Helen Duncan!"
    "So that thing was... a spirit?" He looked around himself as they walked past all the familiar and mundane sights of urban Lancombe Pond: the snack van, an LPDF police car outside a nightclub, young men and women coming in and out of a speakeasy, a takeaway box laid on top of a rubbish bin. Once back in everyday ordinariness, he could understand how a dedicated skeptic might fall into cognitive dissonance and wilful denial of such an extreme experience.
    "Yes. I know Aldred. He's popped up at church and a few other séances, but this is the first time I've seen him in ectoplasm; that's what we call the physical matter generated by the spirit to allow themselves to appear."
    "Who is he?"
    "A very helpful and benevolent soul who last incarnated on Earth three hundred years ago as an Indian sage in the court of a Mogul emperor. You remember learning at church about reincarnation and how some people have more than one life?"
    "Yeah, but I didn't know whether to believe it."
    "Believe it! You and I may not always have been the people we are now. Before we were born we might have lived on Earth... or elsewhere, in very different lives."
    Robin nodded slowly. After a pause he asked: "What was this 'enemy' they talked about?"
    "I don't know." she replied quickly. "Our own personal lives are not the only things in danger when we carry out these rituals; there's another problem."
    "What's that?" Robin gave her a sideways glance, noticing how she changed the subject.
    "In order for a spirit to access our world it's necessary to build what we call a spiritual conduit. This is like... how shall I explain it? Imagine the earth plain as an island in the sea and around it are other islands."
    "What like in space; other planets and stars?"
    "No, no, no. Those other planets and stars are a part of the earth plain; the earth plain encompasses our whole universe. I'm talking about other plains beyond our universe. For a spirit to get from that universe to this one it's like getting from one island to another. It has to build a bridge across the sea. That's what Aldred did tonight. The medium and the other people in the circle at the moot helped him by creating an energetic space where his bridge can make contact with our island. The problem is that whenever these rituals take place we have to make sure that once the spirit has completed its visit to the earth plain and departed, we dismantle the bridge behind it, so sealing off the earth plain from the island that spirit came from."
    "Why do we need to do that?"
    "Because if we don't, the conduit remains open and that could be dangerous; it means that it can be used again after the ritual has been complete, without our knowledge or permission, by other spirits. And remember what I told you? Not all spirits are the friendly, loving souls they waffle on about in the church."
    "So there's now a kind of... open door."
    "Yes indeed! It's like leaving the front door of your house open, and burglars could easily get in. What happened back there was that the ritual was interrupted by Charlotte Cayce before the conduit could be properly closed. This means that it's still open now and that could make trouble."
    "What kind of trouble?"
    "That house could become haunted. Haunting is often caused by artificial or naturally occurring open conduits. Some young idiots who get into Ouija boards deliberately open conduits for the hell of it, a kind of spiritual vandalism; but they can do great harm." Loyl chuckled dryly. "But then again, it could be even worse than that."
    Robin felt a shiver run across his skin. "That thing we saw hanging in the air over the house; has that got anything to do with it?"
    "I think so." she responded after a thoughtful pause. "That thing might well be the ectoplasmic terminal of the conduit; the physical manifestation of the bridge between the islands, generated by Aldred and Dia... with our help of course. A small part of all our life energy went into it. Don't be surprised if you feel a bit off-colour in the next few days, Robin. It's nothing to worry about; it'll pass, but our life energy may have been mildly damaged by what Cayce did."
    "So what could come out of it?"
    "Who knows? Damn near anything!" They had now reached the tram stop in Wicker Park. One of the railed road vehicles was waiting, due to depart in two minutes time. She stopped walking and turned to face him. "It may be a good idea to stay away from Bailey Avenue for a while eh?"
    "Will do, grandma."

Early the following morning a postman delivered an urgent telegram for Robin from his grandmother. Robin was luckily out of bed before anybody else, in preparation for his trip to London, and so could receive it privately: R STOP TALKED TO GRAHAM STOP DIA FINE STOP HOME AND WELL STOP CAYCE DEAD STOP HEART ATTACK STOP G. He smiled wryly to himself as he read. "Your wish came true, grandma." he said aloud. He thought back to the events of the previous night and shook his head. "Phew!" he said to himself. Had it really happened? Surely what he witnessed was impossible and he and his grandmother had experienced some kind of folie à deux. Despite his grandmother's words of caution he did not feel ill at all.

    Robin was eating breakfast when Will came down the stairs. He was dressed and ready to go. He didn't eat and only had a cup of coffee. He seemed in a rush to head off. Robin was excited at the prospect of the day ahead and cooperated with his brother, downing his food in a hurry and gulping his tea. Their father could be heard upstairs getting ready for work. The taps ran as he washed and shaved. He was just coming down the stairs as his sons were heading for the front door. "Morning, you two. Where are you off to at this hour?"

    "We're going to spend the day in London, father." replied Robin. "We'll be back this evening."

    "Oh." Francis grinned. "Well, have a good time."

    Will did not say a word.

    It was still pitch dark at that hour, but Mansfield was coming to life. There was a lot of traffic and pedestrians on the streets. The two brothers walked quickly to the bus station and caught the bus to Nottingham. Half an hour later they were walking into the elegant redbrick entrance to Nottingham's railway station. Will didn't speak much. He seemed to be in a hurry for some reason. It was getting light as they sat on the platform and waited for their train. The sky was overcast and the lumpy clouds scrolled past above them, framed by the station parapets. The train was crowded with commuters and they shared a compartment with four men in suits and bowler hats. They remained silent and hid themselves behind newspapers, holding them up like windbreaks. Will sat with his head bowed, deep in thought. Robin looked at him, wondering what he was thinking. His fair hair was neatly combed forward as usual; his eyebrows and eyelids were lowered and his mouth tightly shut. His expression remained unchanged during the journey. Two hours passed. They stopped at stations occasionally and passengers alighted and boarded. The sides of the railway-line slowly became more built up. Towns and villages took up more space between the green areas until they merged into one. The train began to slow and soon drifted under the ironwork blunt arch Victorian roof of St Pancras Station. As they walked down the platform Robin looked up in wonder at the huge construction of the station interior; which was far bigger than anything he was familiar with. This was only the third time he had ever been to the British capital.

    As they stepped out of the station, all Robin's senses were assailed at once. His eyes were overwhelmed with numerous placards, displays made of electric lights and posters on every surface advertising some product or other. The expansive canyon of Euston Road was lined by the tall cliffs of multi-storey buildings; and in between there was the constant movement of people. Men and women in all kinds of clothes walking as swiftly as possible, brushing shoulders, intent on their business. They looked like ants. The air was heavy with the stench of petrol fumes, horse dung and a thousand other smells. Behind him the facade of St Pancras was like a fairytale castle. It reminded him a bit of Wicker Park, but was far taller and grander. There was the continuous roar in his ears of motors, car claxons, shouts, horses' hoofs and footsteps. More averts were splashed across the sidewalls of passing buses. Many young men were in grey British military uniforms with peaked caps, shiny buttons, heavy boots and black belts. The war was raging hundreds of miles away, but nobody was allowed to forget it. It was as if these men dressed in their uniforms specifically to remind everybody.

    "Come on." said Will and directed Robin to a place on the pavement where a flight of stairs led underground. Above it was the circle intersected by a blue line which was the symbol for the London Underground. As they walked down into the Underground station Robin began to feel claustrophobic. The crowds closed in around him. Arms, chests and backs, bumped against his. Voices were amplified. Some people were wearing disinfected cloths over their noses and mouths following a tabloid newspaper article claiming that it offered protection from influenza. On the concourse Robin waited while Will bought tickets. A young boy in a cloth cap was selling newspapers; his shrill voice was harsh in the enclosed space. They descended another flight of stairs to the station platform. The railway and passenger areas were bisected inside a huge concrete cylindrical vault. The rails led to dark tunnels that yawned like pythons at either end. Robin felt a blast of warm wind from the entrance to one of them and a small electric train emerged from the darkness. It hummed to a halt and people poured out of it like water. More people from the platform poured in and Robin was carried by the tide. The train set off and the lights vanished as it hurtled into the tunnel. The carriage roofs curved in overhead giving the interior a suffocating atmosphere. There was nowhere to sit and Robin could only see the bodies of people around him. It was very hot and he began to sweat. They had to change trains at one point and walked along passageways and staircases to another platform. He was quite relieved when the steps started leading upwards and they emerged in the open air. They were in a narrow street full of more cheery people. Around him were shiny tiled buildings. The sign on the station they had just left said "Covent Garden". For the first time that day, Will stopped. "Right, here's a good place."

    "For what?" asked Robin. It was the first time he had questioned his brother. Seeing as he was not paying he felt an obligation to Will not to ask too much.

    Will sighed. "I have to go somewhere and sort out some business."

    "What kind of business?"

    He scowled. "The kind that's mine and not yours."

    Robin recoiled slightly from his irritable tone. "What's going on, Will? Why are we here?"

    Will softened. "Sorry, Robin. It's just today is difficult for me... I can't tell you why."

    "Why do you need me here?"

    "I'll explain later... Look, I've got to go. Don't follow me. Can we meet back here at two o'clock?"

   "What shall I do between now and then?"

   Will reached into his pocket and handed him a pound note. "Go see a show. This is the best area of London for that."

    Robin looked at the banknote, which was a considerable section of Will's allowance. "Thanks! I'll be sure to give you the change."

    "Don't worry about that. Just be back here at two. Don't forget. Keep an eye on the time." He walked off into the crowds.

    Robin wandered slowly along the bustling streets that had names he recognized because of their association with show business; Long Acre, Drury Lane, Bow Street. He came to Soho Square Gardens which was a small but pleasant park which had a more open atmosphere. Robin stopped to enjoy the peace and quiet of it by sitting on a bench by a lawn. Pigeons fluttered all around him, landing fearlessly by his feet. He noticed some strange activity a dozen yards away. A group of three women were standing in the centre of the square where the paths intersected. They were all young, pretty and well dressed. They had sackcloth bags with them and Robin wondered what was in them, but he soon found out. He watched a man walked towards them, as hundreds of people were on that busy Monday lunchtime. However, this man was different. He was clearly young, in his early twenties, and was not dressed in a military uniform. One of the women approached him and reached into her bag. She withdrew big white feather, one that must have come from a large bird like a turkey or swan. She stepped into his path and offered it to him. "This is for you, coward!" she sneered.

    The man recoiled as if he had been struck. He stared at the woman and at the feather she was holding out. The colour drained from his face. He reminded Robin of his father when his mother was most fiercely berating him. He reached out his trembling hand and took the feather. He looked as if he would faint. He staggered away from the woman and continued in the direction he had been walking, but his vigour was gone. He stumbled and his head was bowed. The woman laughed contemptuously at his departing slumped back. Robin knew what this spectacle meant from one of the last honest and in-depth conversations he had ever had with his brother. He remembered it well. It took place just over a year ago in December 1916 when they had both been Christmas shopping with the family in Leicester and witnessed a similar spectacle. "They know how to hit us where it hurts." growled Will. "Those women are all employed by the War Office. When the war broke out nobody in Britain was alive to remember what war was really like. There hadn't been one for a century. All they had to go on were those ridiculous paintings in the National Gallery. You know the ones; of clean-shaven men in freshly laundered uniforms on horseback trampling over the vanquished subhumans of Napoleon's army. That nonsense is what persuaded the first wave to sign up. Then they found themselves in trenches half filled with water and ice! Rats nibbling at their toes! Then somebody a mile away pulls a lever and rips them into mincemeat with an explosive shell. Either that or he burns their skin off and turns their eyes into pools of blood with poison gas! Word got home about this and the queues at the recruitment office got shorter. Hence those women!... Why the British troops keep refusing to shoot their own officers and join the revolution I'll never know!"

    Robin felt sad as he ran through this conversation in his mind. Since then he and Will had barely exchanged a dozen sentences. He also thought of Dirk and the horror stories he had told Robin, about treating the injured soldiers who came home from the war.

    Robin got up from the bench and left Soho Square to continue exploring this, the heart of London's West End. Almost every doorway on every street led to a theatre, sideshow or exhibition of all sorts, some of which sixteen-year-olds like him were barred from because of their adult content. He had a whole pound in his pocket. He could afford to see any of the latest plays that all the critics were raving about and none of his friends or family had ever seen. There were several motion picture cinemas showing the latest comedies by Charlie Chaplin and Buster Keaton. However, he paused by one of the smaller and less decorative establishments. He didn't know why. Some subconscious urge had kicked in and told him to stop right there and look. There was a sign outside the door, just a small one. It read: SEE THE AMAZING MR. TESLA AND HIS ELECTRICAL MIRACLES! Robin approached the entrance booth where a smartly dressed old man was sitting. As soon as he saw Robin he spoke up: "Hello there, young sir! Come on in! Come in and witness the incredible hidden world of electricity! Yes, I know you've heard of electricity already. We all have. It's the force that lights up our modern world. But electricity will never look the same again once you've seen it through the eyes of one of its inventors, Nikola Tesla! For one week only, from the United States of America, the amazing Mr Tesla will open your eyes and open you mind!"

    "How much?" Robin smiled with amusement at the passionate promotional monologue he had just heard.

    "Three and six, young fellow." he replied. He reached into a cashbox for the correct change for Robin's pound.

    Robin walked along a narrow corridor crudely decorated with dusty and ragged old posters advertising past shows. The entrance doorway was a receding oblong of white light behind him. The passage ended in a small red carpeted theatre with rows of seats and a low wooden stage. The room stank of sawdust and cigarette smoke. Sunlight streamed in through its frosted windows. Robin took a seat by the aisle and waited. The double access door to the theatre shut and a master-of-ceremonies stepped onto the stage. "Ladies and gentlemen, you about to witness a performance that will open your eyes and your minds!" Clearly he had been given the same script as the man in the entrance booth. "All the way from the United States of America! Please welcome the amazing, the fascinating, the unforgettable... Mr Nikola Tesla!" The audience applauded and a pair of blue velvet curtains slid apart to reveal a table upon which had been placed some machinery that Robin didn't recognize. A very tall and slim man in a suit with dark hair and a small moustache stepped out from the wings and raised his hand to acknowledge his audience. "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to my lecture. It is wonderful to return to London." He had a mellow voice with a strong accent that hailed from somewhere in Eastern Europe. "It was a difficult and dangerous journey for me in this time of global war. Even though I am closer to my original homeland, I can never visit it..."

    The lecture lasted just over an hour, then Nikola Tesla took a bow and the curtains wafted together as the audience applauded. The people stood up to leave, but Robin remained in his seat, stunned by what he had just witnessed. The spectacles of the previous hour ran through his head over and over again, as did those of the previous forty-eight hours. He got up and left through the entrance. When the crowd cleared he noticed that Tesla had appeared by the stage door. A few stragglers from the audience were standing in a circle around him talking. Tesla spoke and heads nodded. Robin stood a few feet away and waited for them to leave. Then, just as the speaker was about to re-enter the theatre Robin called to him. "Mr Tesla."

    Tesla stopped and looked at him. A small half smile spread across his face. "Hello there, young sir. Thank you for attending my lecture. You must have been the youngest person in the house by ten years. What's your name?"

    "Robin Ursall, sir." He held out his hand.

    Tesla shrank back at the sight of Robin's proffered hand and shoved his into his pockets.

    Robin stepped back with a moment of embarrassment. Shaking hands was something instinctive, a social skill that he had learned over the course of his life; but he saw no unfriendliness on the electrical engineer's face, only fear.

    Tesla recovered himself. "Well... young Mr Ursall, did you enjoy the lecture?"

    "Very much! I'm astounded actually. I never thought I would see a man holding lightning in his hand."

    Tesla shrugged. "It's one of the simpler actions I have perfected. You see, we have been raised to fear electricity, especially electricity that is not contained in wires and shielded from our touch by insulation. Certainly if you are outdoors in a thunderstorm, you could get struck by lightning and killed; however, when you learn how to handle it properly, electricity is no more of a hazard than running water. A torrential river is also potentially very dangerous, if you're foolish enough to dive in and take a swim in it, but if you are careful just to walk along its bank; where's the risk? The discharge I generated was of a particular frequency and current that prevented it from entering my body. Never be afraid of electricity, young Mr Ursall. It is the lifeblood of the universe!"

    Robin nodded. "The light bulbs that glowed by themselves without wires; that looked like magic!"

    Tesla chuckled. "Magic? No. Science? Yes. Those bulbs glowed for the same reason all light bulbs do, an electric current was flowing through the filament. All that I did was build a circuit that included the air." He waved his hand in the air to emphasize it. "Wires? Wires are mediaeval! One day they will be as obsolete as stone axes. Wires are for people with no imagination... or those without honesty, like that shyster Thomas Edison!" He bared his teeth. "All that man has done is kill elephants and criminals with his ridiculous direct current! It's an electric noose!... But I'm brooding over ancient history. I won that war." He lightened and chuckled again. "Do you have any questions about my lecture this afternoon?"

    "Well, a few, Mr Tesla. One in particular... I'm not sure whether to mention it."

    "Oh please do. I love answering questions, especially those from curious young minds."

    Robin took a deep breath and told Tesla about the golden disk he had seen in the sky when he was in Thieves Wood with Dirk. "...So I was wondering, Mr Tesla; if that machine runs on the kind of engines you have invented."

    Nikola Tesla took a tremulous step back; slightly like the way he had recoiled from shaking hands, but this time his gaze was sparking with astonishment. "My goodness me!... It's true! It's real!"

    "What is?"

    "Men from space. I talked to them once. You see, I've never been very interested in radio. It's old hat, really. I mastered it in 1892, three years before Marconi. Yes I know it has been useful, especially during this war seeing as the Germans have cut the transatlantic cables; but as far as I am concerned, energy is the new frontier of wireless transmission, not mere information. Nevertheless, I recently did a quick contract job for the Astors, tuning up their existing systems and I received a signal that could only be the work of intelligence... and it came from Mars!"

    Robin gasped. "Really!?"

    Tesla blushed slightly. "I cannot prove it, but I am almost certain... Tell you what, young Mr Ursall. I'd like to discuss this some more with you. Shall we take a stroll? Where's a good park near here?"

    Robin had not brought his pocket watch, but he managed to check the time on a wall clock in a cafe. He had an hour before he had to meet Will back at the Tube station. Nikola Tesla and Robin drank a cup of tea in the cafe. Strangely, Tesla would not let the waitress pour it into his cup; he insisted on doing so himself. He seemed to want the correct amount to a very precise degree and he meticulously counted every drop from the spout. After that Robin showed him where the nearest park was, which happened to be Soho Square Gardens where Robin had rested earlier in the day. The women with the white feathers had gone by now. Tesla had brought with him a packet of birdseed and he began casting it in generous swirls. Pigeons flocked to him. "Ah, pigeons!" Tesla's face glowed with kindness. "They know I love them. Look at them come!"

    Robin suspected that it was the birdseed that attracted the pigeons rather than the person handing it out, but he said nothing."

    "Columba livia domestica, the most incredible bird species on earth." Tesla gushed. "In America they race up to two thousand miles and the birds not only arrive back at the same house, they enter the loft by the same hole they last left by. It's one of the great mysteries of nature, but the solution is simple; these creatures are electric."

    "Are they?"

    "Yes. Their sense of direction follows the natural electric currents of the planet earth. I expect the Martians do the same."

    "Mr Tesla, are you sure that the golden disk was from Mars? What if it was German? You know we're always hearing that the Hun is very clever."

    "Do you mean, can I prove it is from Mars? No." Tesla grumbled. "The problem is though..." He paused and sat down on a bench. "The problem is that no new invention can be brought into the world in a way that will prevent somebody looking at it and seeing how it can be made into a weapon. Not just Germans, mind you, everybody. The British, the Russians, the French and the Americans. My own work is no exception. I have had attention from people I know work for the government. Ever since my experiments in Colorado Springs almost twenty years ago now. They know very well that what I discovered that day not only jeopardizes the current economic world order, but also could also be weaponized. You see, I want to give life to the world; but the world contains too many people who only want to give death. There is a great evil in this world and it has infected the hearts of many men. My attempts to develop my wireless power grid were so close to success. I had found what I thought was a reliable investor, John P Morgan, but he pulled the rug out from under my feet." Tesla's face took on the same bitter expression it had when he had mentioned Thomas Edison.

    Robin sat down beside him. "Sorry to hear that, sir."

    "I think it was Colorado Springs that changed my fortunes. Honestly, I should never have published my paper about that experiment."

    "What happened in Colorado Springs?"

    "I discovered an incredible side effect to my transmission system; I discovered that electricity was present in the air and ground of the planet earth itself to a point where there would be no need for the transmission station to have a generator... Do you understand what that means!?" Tesla suddenly swung himself round to face Robin and stared into his eyes like a madman. "It means that electricity would not need to be created with effort! It could be extracted from the air the way water is drawn from a well!... Look at this!" He reached into his jacket pocket and brought out a folded piece of paper. He handed it to Robin.

    Robin unfolded it with care because it was slightly crumpled and delicate; he guessed that it had been sitting in Tesla's pocket for some time. It had a printed header that said: New York Gas and Light Company. Below that was Tesla's name and address and finally: 3 December 1917. $14.53. "What's this?"

    "It's my latest electricity bill. Every person in the world who uses electricity, which is virtually everybody these days, receives one of these at regular intervals. Why?"

    "Because electricity costs money and the electric companies have to earn a living."

    "But it doesn't cost money. That's what I discovered. It doesn't have to anyway, if people would start using my discoveries to obtain it instead of the big coal furnaces we see sprouting up across the landscape." A dreamy gaze filled his eyes. "You have to think for a long time to comprehend the implications of that."

    Robin snorted. "I'm sure the electric companies will find an excuse to send its customers bills anyway?"

    Tesla laughed. "Oh no, young Mr Ursall. There is no excuse this time! It would be like sending the skipper of a sailing ship a bill for the wind which fills the sails." He tipped the last of the birdseed out of the packet and bowed his head. "I started an experiment on Long Island a few years ago to test my hypothesis, but I had to abandon it when Morgan dropped out. He had a fifty-one percent share, total control. Last year my antenna was demolished by the new landowners."

    Robin didn't reply.

    Tesla sat and said in a brighter voice. "I would like to talk to you further about that golden space chariot that you saw, but I have to go now. I have a meeting booked with, hopefully, some new British investors." He pulled a business card out of his wallet and gave it to Robin. "Please drop me a line and inform me about any new updates about it." He stood up abruptly and walked away. "Farewell, young Mr Ursall." he waved over his shoulder and diffused into the London populace.

    Robin walked to Covent Garden Underground station and arrived five minutes before two PM. He stood in the bustling crowds and waited. He reached into his pocket to check he still had Nikola Tesla's card and thought about the conversation he had just had. He didn't understand everything the strange electrical engineer had said, but it somehow felt significant. His brother Will appeared among the thronging masses, walking slowly towards him. The expression on his face alarmed Robin. "Will! What's wrong? What's happened?"

    His older brother was frowning and his corneas were damp and red. He looked as if he had been weeping.

    "Will, are you alright?"

    He nodded. "Yes, there's nothing wrong. I just... I just came to tell you I can't go home yet. You'll have to go home on your own."

    "When are you coming home?"

    "Tonight. I'll have to catch a later train. I'll be back after you're in bed probably."

    "Why?"

    "I've got some more things to do."

    Robin remembered his furtive attitude from earlier and didn't bother asking any more questions.

    "Could you do me a favour? Give this to mother." He handed Robin an envelope.

    "Is this a letter? Why do you need to give mother a letter? Just talk to her when you get home..."

    "It's not a letter, Robin!" Will almost shouted.

    "Well what is it then?"

    "I can't tell you! Look, could you please just do it?"

    Robin recoiled from his ire. "Alright."

    "Thank you." Will sighed. He turned to go. "I'll see you later."

    "Sure. I'll remember not to bolt the door. Do you want me to leave any supper out for you?"

    "No thanks. I'll be fine." He was about to walk off when he stopped. "Robin... Look... I just want to say... And this is why I asked you to come with me today... I know we haven't seen much of each other over the last few years. Apart from that train dodging tournament the other day." He tittered.

    "I suppose not." nodded Robin.

    Will still had his back to Robin. He did not turn his head. His voice was only just audible over the footsteps, wheel creaking and horse whinnies of the London streets. "Well, I just want to tell you now... you're still my brother. I've never forgotten that and I never will. You understand?"

    "Yes, Will... I'll see you tomorrow morning if I'm asleep when you come home."

    "Yes. I'm sure you shall." He strode swiftly away down the street. Robin watched the loose limbed rocking gait of his brother, the smooth skin of his shaved nape just above his collar. He turned a corner onto Neal Street and vanished.

    Robin arrived back at his front door at around eight PM after a solitary journey home. His father was eating dinner and Robin joined him at the table. He told his father about Will and handed him the envelope to pass on to their mother, but Francis replied: "It's too late at night for that, Robin. She's in bed and falling asleep. I'm not going to bother her with anything now. Give it to her in the morning... or better still, Wilfred can do it himself."

    Robin went up to his room and laid the envelope on his desk so he would see it in the morning and remember to deliver it. Will said it was not a letter, but it definitely felt like one. It had the word Mother written on the front in Will's handwriting and what was inside felt like a piece of paper. Robin went to bed and dropped off to sleep.

Robin awoke suddenly. A noise filled his ears. For a moment he thought it was his alarm clock, but then he realized that the noise was totally different. It was a high-pitched warbling, a bit like a strange tropical bird Robin had seen in a zoo a few months ago, but this time the sound was continuous and steady. Then Robin noticed that a light was filling his windows. He sat up, wondering if it was morning, but the light was not sunlight. It was more like a very bright electric light; as if somebody had moved one of the displays he had once seen at the seaside and put them in his back garden. He jumped out of bed and ran to the window. He pulled back the curtain and looked out. The back garden was bathed in the harsh glow. He could tell from the shadows it cast that the source was above. He squinted and looked up. It was as if a floodlight were shining in his eyes; he could see nothing. The shadows shifted; the light was moving. The volume of the sound increased, although its pitch remained the same. Robin tore on his dressing gown and ran out onto the landing. He saw his father emerge from his bedroom. "Robin, what is it!?" he yelled; his eyes screwed up against the glare from the hall windows.

    "I don't know." Robin also raised his voice to be heard above the noise.

    He and his father ran downstairs and opened the front door. There were a few of their neighbours standing in the middle of Highmoor Street, looking up and shielding their eyes from the glare. The light source was now further along the street. It was travelling in a straight line eastwards. The volume of the noise diminished as it moved. It was still invisible behind the glare it cast. "Is that a Zeppelin?" asked one of the Ursall's neighbours.

    "It must be an aeroplane!" his wife replied.

    The light source dropped below the line of trees at the end of the street. The wobbling whine accompanying it continued to diminish.

    A new noise emerged, a hoarse and grating voice coming from the Ursall's house: "Frrrrrank!... Frrrrrrrrrrank!"

    "I must go!" Francis whimpered. He bolted for the open front door.

    The light and sound faded to nothing. The night returned, broken only by the gaslights. Robin walked back to his bedroom and looked at the clock; four-eleven AM. He climbed into bed and rolled over, trying to put the insoluble mystery to one side. He heard footsteps as his father did the same. An hour later and feeling as alert as when he got into bed, Robin gave up on sleep and rolled out onto his feet. He poked his head into his brother's room and saw that the bed was empty. Will must have got up and left already. Either that or he wasn't home yet, which was unlikely considering that it was almost the morning. Robin dressed and went out onto the street. The weather had become milder and a damp fog filled the air. Everything appeared normal, but he still maintained curiosity about what had happened earlier. He walked to the end of Highmoor Street and turned left. After five minutes he reached the main road and sensed that there was more activity than there should have been for that time in the morning. Several cars drove by filled with official-looking men in trenchcoats. He followed the road through East Mansfield and soon saw a sight ahead that left him no doubt that there was something amiss. The police had sealed off the road. Four of them stood in a line beside a wooden signboard on a stand that said: ROAD CLOSED- ALUHA SODDIPPE. A police van was parked square on the road to act as a physical barrier. The Lancine police or Polys were a division of the Lancombe Pond Defence Force or Ttakozdje Koslan that dealt with day-to-day law enforcement. Robin recognized one of the officers and went over to him. Before he could speak, the man told him: "Morning, Mr Ursall. I'm afraid you can't go through here right now."

    "Why? What's going on?"

    "I'm not in a position to explain that, sir."

    "Constable Flynn, has this got anything to do with that weird noise and light in the sky earlier?"

    "I'm not in a position to say, sir." The man had a frightened glint in his eye. His face was partly hidden by the shadow of his custodian helmet cast by the street lamps, but his brow was furrowed and his lip trembled. Robin knew that he lived locally and so would probably have seen and heard the anomaly even if he had been at home and off duty.

    Robin strolled home. As he entered his home he was surprised to see that his father was up. It was at least an hour before his alarm clock normally sounded. He was struggling to dress at the same time as talking on the telephone. "Yes..." he said. "Yes, I know... I'm on my way... No problem, I'll just avoid Chesterfield Road... See you in a few." He put down the receiver and turned his attention to his son. "Ah, Robin. I've just been called into work. We have an emergency situation ongoing. Could you make your mother her morning tea at seven? Nellie will do breakfast as usual." He headed out of the front door which Robin had not yet shut from his own entrance.

    "Sure, father... Tell me, is this anything to do with what happened last night?"

    "No idea." Francis puffed as he bent over and turned the starting handle of his car.

    Robin watched as Francis Ursall's Bullnose Morris drove away down the street. As with the policeman, Robin felt as if his father at least suspected the connection.

    "Frrrrrank!" came his mother's voice from upstairs.

    Robin went up and looked into his parents' bedroom. Maartje Ursall lay on her back, spread-eagled under the white bed sheets. "Mother, I'm afraid father has had to go out. The office called and said they have an emergency."

    "Oh, for God's sake!" snapped his mother. "Working again? All he ever does his work!"

    "Would you like some tea, mother?"

    She didn't respond so Robin chose to assume that was the affirmative. When he gave his mother the cup of tea she took it from his hand without a word, keeping her eyes averted from his face. She slurped it loudly, her gaze lowered to her lap. The bed sheet was covered in blackened holes where her cigarettes had burned it.

    Robin returned to his own room. He heard the front door open and the familiar sound of Nellie the maid whistling as she came in and began work in the kitchen. He saw the envelope on his desk and remembered his brother. He went to Will's room and there was still no sign of him. He took the envelope to his mother. "What's this?" she demanded.

    "Will asked me to give this to you when we parted yesterday in London."

    "And you wait until now before giving it to me?"

    "You were in bed asleep when I came home last night..."

    "I'm not interested in hearing your excuses, Robin!" she cut in. "Go away!"

    Robin sighed and returned to his bedroom. He opened an adventure book and began to read. Just two days and he would have to return to school...

   "EEEEEEEEEEEK!" the ear-splitting high-pitched shriek of anguish echoed all over the house. Robin ran out into the landing as Nellie came pounding up the stairs. The scream came from the master bedroom. Robin ran in and saw his mother convulsing with agony in the bed. Her face was like a raw beetroot; tears flew from her cheeks like a garden sprinkler. The upturned teacup lay on the floor by a large damp patch of tea. On the bedclothes next to her was an envelope torn open and a piece of paper with handwritten text on it. Nellie tried to console Maartje while Robin picked up the letter and read it:

    "Dear mother. I'm sorry to tell you that I won't be coming home today. I'm leaving for a very long time. Don't try to come after me and stop me because by the time you read this it will be too late; I shall be gone. Hopefully I will return one day, but it is possible I that will never come back. I am going to Russia to fight for the Bolsheviks against the counterrevolutionary Whites. If I never come home then I am so sorry to have put you, father, Robin and Blanche through the grief you will of course suffer. The thing is, there is so much at stake in the world at the moment. I think you understand this better than father and Robin. Please explain it to them as well as you can, the way I would; the way I tried to explain it to father and failed. I have sent no letter to him because we have nothing to say to each other. I know father thinks everything I say and do on this matter is irrelevant, a passing folly of youth, something that I shall grow out of; as if this were an infatuation with some unattainable girl! It is not. The entire future of the earth and man depends on what happens in Russia right now. If that costs me my life, then it is a price worth paying. I'm sorry to sound so heartless, mother, but the lives and feelings of one family don't amass to more than a triviality when measured against the tides of global history. I don't plan to be reckless, I will not volunteer for suicide missions, I will do my best to take care of myself; but war is war, as we have all learned only too well. I do not pray because there is no God to hear me, but I will long for the day when I will see you again; and father, Robin and Blanche. I will write to you as much as I can, but because of the war I fear my correspondence will not arrive. I love you all and will think of you every hour of every day. Your little comrade. Wilfred.

Robin spent most of the following hour on the telephone. First he called the doctor who came round immediately to give Maartje a cocktail of sedatives. Robin then called his father's office, but his secretary told him that Francis was out and she didn't know where he had gone. He called his grandmother and told her what had happened. He began crying as he spoke to her, feeling conscious love for his brother for the first time in years. He asked if he could go and visit her, but she told him he had to stay at home and take care of his mother. He reluctantly agreed. Maartje eventually fell asleep and the doctor left. He gave Robin and Nellie some instructions for giving her further medication. Then Nellie went out to shop for groceries. There was not much for Robin to do except check on his mother every two hours and give her a tablet if she were awake. He could not leave the house until his father got home. Robin went into the kitchen and made a cup of tea, and then took it into the lounge with one of his adventure books and waited.

    Bing bong! The doorbell rang. Robin stood up and started walking over towards the door of the lounge when he froze. He almost yelped aloud as an inexplicable and sourceless wave of terror flooded over him. He stopped dead in his tracks.

    Bing Bong!

    Robin trembled. His sudden attack of fear confused him. "What the hell's the matter?" he mumbled to himself aloud.

    Bing Bong!

    There was a shorter pause between the second and third ring than there was between the first and second, as if the caller was impatient and their business urgent. Robin had to force himself to move; he entered the hallway and stared at the front door ahead of him. Through the panes on the door and around the frame he could see a small, slender human figure, distorted by the frosted glass. Robin's hand shook as he reached for the latch to open the door. He fought the powerful urge not to open the door, rotated the latch and pulled.

    A boy of about ten years old stood on the doorstep. He had scruffy black hair and wore a nondescript faded blue jacket and wool trousers. His skin was very pasty white and his face carried no expression. It took Robin several moments to notice something very obviously wrong with him. His eyes were completely black; not just in the sense of a black iris, but his entire eyeball. Everything between his eyelids was a featureless black, empty void. Robin froze and stared.

    "Can I come in please?" the boy said. His voice was flat and monotone, almost mechanical like a musical instrument of iron. "Can I come in and have a drink of water?"

    Afterwards, when Robin was remembering this incident, he had trouble recalling and understanding what went on in his mind at that moment. As his eyes met the black voids where the eyes of the boy should have been, his willpower diverged into two separate forces each motivated differently. One side of himself felt a deep sense sympathy and pity for the child, a longing to invite him inside and give him whatever he wanted. The other felt an overwhelming and incomprehensible horror, disgust and repulsion. These two temporary distorted manifestations of Robin's consciousness battled each other inside his brain.

    "Can I come in please? I need to use your telephone. It won't take long."

    The door felt as if it weighed ten tons, but Robin managed to get it shut. As soon as his eye contact with the boy was broken so was the strange mental spell he was cast under. He ran into the kitchen and screamed aloud with terror. He blundered straight into the table, bashing his midriff, and turned around, pressing his back to it. The shape of the boy through the frosted glass of the door was still visible. Robin's heart thundered in his chest like a pile driver; his breathing came in gasps. After a few minutes he saw the shape of the boy move away from the door. Robin slowly tip-toed into the front lounge and peered out of the bay window. The boy was still there. He was outside the house uncertainly walking away down the street. The moment Robin spotted him, the boy turned his head and stared back at Robin, even though it should have been impossible for anybody to see anything inside the unlit room through the Dutch crocheted netting. Somehow the boy sensed Robin's eyes on him.

    Robin screamed again and pounded upstairs to his own bedroom at the rear of the house. He slammed the door and leaned against it. For a few minutes he just stood there, panting and weeping with fear. Every time he thought of the face of that little boy he almost yelled aloud in fright again. He half expected the child to burst out of the wardrobe in his room. It was about half an hour later that Robin emerged from his bedroom. He made his way along the landing to the guest bedroom at the front of the house and nervously peeped down at the street between the closed curtains. The mysterious boy was nowhere to be seen. A postman rode by on his bicycle and several cars passed; everything was normal.

    Robin tried to call his grandmother, but couldn't connect. He tried to call Dirk Walsander at the hospital in Nottingham, but the same thing happened. The lines were just dead, as if somebody had cut them. It wasn't until five PM that Robin heard the sound of a car in the driveway. He ran to the front door as Francis Ursall was mounting the front steps. "Father! Something's happened! Look!" Robin handed his father Will's letter.

    "Oh right." His father mumbled and skimmed the letter briefly with his eyes. He kept walking until he had reached the drawing room.

    Robin gasped. "Father, didn't you read it!?

    "Uh, yeah." Ursall appeared dazed. His eyelids were drooped and his cheeks were pale. He reached into the drinks cabinet and brought out a bottle of whiskey.

    "Father! Will has gone off to Russia!... What's wrong with you!?"

    Francis almost collapsed into a chair by a rosewood table. He poured out some whiskey, his hands fumbling. He gulped, his teeth rattling against the glass.

    Robin slowly sat down opposite him. "Father, what's wrong?"

    "I've... I've spent all day at Larners Field. There's this... thing there."

    "What thing? What is there?"

    Francis poured another glass of whiskey. His voice was hoarse and his speech slurred, even though he had not yet had enough to be drunk. "A big yellow thing, like a discus... you know the things they throw at the Olympiad?"

    "You mean a golden disk!? Like... My God!"

    "The LPDF are there. I had to... organize everything."

    "Did it fall from the sky, father? Was it that light that flew over us last night?"

    "The thing was broken in half and inside there were... Oh, Jesus Christ!" He put his face in his hands and cried.

    "What was inside it?"

    "Three little men. Really short and thin. No hair, grey skin. Big black eyes!... Ooh their eyes!"

    "Were they human?"

    Francis shook his head as he sipped from his glass.

    "Were they from space?"

    "I don't know... I'm not supposed to tell you. The Duke wants it kept quiet for now... but I can't! I can't bear to keep this to myself. They're going to say in the papers there were some poison gas canisters found there. The LPDF are keeping the place sealed off until we can ship out the wreck. They're keeping the... the bodies in the ice box at Fort Meltan." Fort Meltan was the LPDF headquarters.

    Robin stood up. "I need to talk to grandma."

    "The telephone should be back on. We shut down the exchange for a few hours for the sake of security, but things are settling down. I've arranged a heavy lifter to get the thing to the City. We can do it overnight when most people are asleep. Cover it with a tarpaulin and say it's the poison gas canisters. The Duke has been talking to Lloyd George and that Canadian chap in London. What's his name? Bonar Law. The Brits have offered to take the thing off our hands, but the Duke said no... I don't think they were happy about that."

    The telephone was humming to indicate that it was on. Robin called his grandmother. Loyl Ursall picked up the phone as if she had been expecting his call. Robin told her about the crash of the golden disk and the strange caller. "You're not the only one who's seen them, Robin. Things are going haywire all over the Pond." she said. "Do you see what I mean about what happened at the séance? Is your father staying to look after your mother?"

    "Yes, I doubt if he's going anywhere soon."

    "We need to sort this out. Come here as quickly as you can. Act normally in front of the LPDF and don't stop to talk to anybody. Avoid the cordon at Larners Field. If you see anything out of the ordinary, run away from it."

    Robin sensed there was somebody else with his grandmother, listening at the other end of the line. And when they ended the call she hung up first, but just before the connection was cut Robin heard her say to somebody else: "He's on his way over now."

    Robin went to his bedroom and dragged on his overcoat. He heard sounds from the street loud engine noises and loud voices; but he ignored them and went and told his father where he was going. Francis was still slumped in the drawing room. The whiskey bottle was now half empty.

    Robin opened the front door and pattered down the front steps. He wasn't sure if the buses or trams were running. He wondered if he might need to use his bicycle. The moment he reached the garden gates he skidded to a halt. A man was pointing a rifle at him: "Go back!" he shouted. "Go back indoors!" The man was dressed in a brown uniform and was wearing a steel hat. His weapon had a glinting sharp bayonet on its barrel. He was a British solider. There were many of them in the street, marching along in a double column. More people had come outside to look at what was going on and they were being ordered away too. There were several military trucks and vans crawling slowly along the middle of the road; also a bizarre riveted steel vehicle with a pair of caterpillar tracks that ran over the top of it on both sides; a tank. Robin went back inside and shut the door. He was trembling and his heart thudded in his windpipe. He went to the drawing room. "Father." he said calmly. "We're being invaded. Lancombe Pond has been invaded by Britain."

See here for Chapter 2: https://hpanwo-bb.blogspot.com/2020/05/the-obscurati-chronicles-sample-second.html.