by John Luxton
“So why are we here?” asked Agim, letting the padlock fall from his hand so it banged against the gate.
“To see one of the seven wonders of the industrial age.” Lorna began to climb.
Their research had disclosed that beneath the wide expanse of grass was the largest underground reservoir in Europe. A subterranean cathedral built by Victorian engineers holding ten million gallons of water, the nine-hole golf course covering it having only being recently torn up when renovations were carried out. Agim followed.
The winter sun had taken all day to break through and was now in descent; low in the sky, brushing the tree-tops, releasing a pink phosphorescence; illuminating the still frost covered grass and defining the scattered tracks etched by boot, claw and paw.
The folly cast a long shadow and as they drew closer they could see that the lower part of the building was covered with graffiti and that the numerous windows were blind bricked-up adornments. They walked around it until they found the door.
“What are we doing here?” asked Agim.
“Lookin for clues.”
“Uh?”
“Have you ever read Joel’s books?”
“I understand you are weirded-out about seeing your dad with Cutherbert.”
“Nothing I can do about that so I am doing this instead.”
“And what is this?”
“Looking for clues.”
She walked right up to him then stepped round him to stand with her back against the wall of the folly, all the while allowing her eyes to drink him in. She then reached up, pulled off her woollen hat and shook her hair free, without breaking her gaze. He leaned forward and kissed her.
The steel door was the only access to the building and was securely locked. Before they left she made Agim stand against it whilst she took a picture of him with her phone.
When they got back to the car they found the windscreen smashed. As they waited for the repairman Lorna studied the graffiti that surrounded Agim in her photograph, there was a large serpentine letter Z above his head. She climbed the gate again and returned to take more pictures before the light went completely. Satisfied with her work and putting the phone in her pocket she saw a small dog in the distance running through the dusk towards her. It was Buster. He ran round and around her; his tiny paws inscribing infinity signs on the frosted ground.
Lorna could see the blue Rover parked next to the Mercedes. She climbed back over the gate and Buster squeezed through a gap in the fence. The windscreen repairman had still not arrived but Agim seemed relaxed enough and was talking to Buster’s owner. Leaning against the car and smoking a cigarette.
“You don’t smoke,” said Lorna. He just raised an eyebrow and exhaled.
“This is Mr Vale. He has kindly invited us for tea. Why don’t you go now and I’ll join you when this is fixed.” He gestured toward the fractured glass. They, the perps, must have used a brick, as there were several impact points. “We don’t have to be in Mortlake for,” he looked at his watch, “three and a half hours.”
“It’s just Vale, no need for the Mister,” said their new friend. Lorna opened the driver side door to allow Buster to jump in.
“Buster can go in the back, and remember its number fifty six, look here’s your man now,” said Vale, and sure enough a Speedy Screen van was just turning into the access road.
“So this is a coincidence,” said Lorna as the Rover made a stately turn, then edged past the approaching van.
“I saw you from my balcony and I said to Buster - what in God’s name are they doing? Of course being a dog he couldn’t reply. But anyway I thought we should come and get you.”
“Well I know we were technically trespassing,” began Lorna.
“You won’t find her, you know,” interrupted Vale.
Lorna noticed that his brow was pinched and he did not look at her but kept his attention on the road ahead. She powered through her confusion and said, “You mean Sophie.”
Only then did he look her way, “yes, of course. Ah here we are.” They had stopped in front of a semi-detached house.
On the back seat was an aluminium contraption that when unfolded gave Vale the necessary support to allow him to get from the car to the house. Lorna followed, Buster went ahead. Once in the kitchen Lorna offered to make the tea.
“Listen we do not have much time before your friend comes and there are some things I must tell you. If you want to tell him or anyone else later then that is up to you.”
Lorna nodded and sat down at the table.
“Most pre-Christian cultures viewed reality as a multi-layered universe with various divisions attended by numerous deities whose activities and relationships metaphorically expressed the forces of nature and the cosmos. Death was seen as a transition or journey from one realm of existence to another. And don’t worry this all has a direct bearing on your search for you friend, so let me continue.”
Lorna nodded again. Buster jumped onto her lap. He was a little muddy but she did not care.
“The monotheistic imperative of Christianity forced all previous spiritual pathways underground. The Christians say ‘only our god is real’ and that the old gods are no more. I am of course vastly oversimplifying and I am sure you know all this already. Anyway these lost gods and their followers are still amongst us in many different forms. Surfacing from time to time in mainstream culture, usually as parodies of themselves, but for the most part confined and consigned to the margins of our awareness.” Vale took a drink of tea before continuing.
“In recent years the channels that carry and energise these currents have multiplied and the reality peddled by our overlords is being subverted to the point that the people are capable of seeing behind the curtain. There are many subterranean streams, tributaries, rivers channelling this energy; some for good and others not so good. Take your pick – Druids, Voodooists, Nazis, Hippies, Masons, Eco warriors, the advertising industry, the Bilterbergs, Opu Dei, etc. So in fact there is a war going on and we are fast approaching the Omega Point of divine or demonic immanence. Your friend Joel has made this battle the basis of his next book. And of course there will be many interested parties wishing to prevent this conspiracy theory going into the mainstream.”
“Like who?”
“For instance there is a organisation very few people of heard about, but over the past thirty years their followers have infiltrated government and big business very effectively. Political and economic globalisation has allowed the growth of this organisation to attain an order of magnitude beyond anything the world has ever known.”
“Who are they? And why Sophie?” asked Lorna unable to contain herself any longer.
“Le Serpent Noir.” Lorna could not help laughing at the naffness of their name.
“What?” Was all she could say.
“Well of course they don’t call themselves that anymore, but it gives a clue to their dark origins. They operate as the Blake Organisation, these days.”
“Well that sounds a little less pagan,” again she laughed but behind her facade a fearful space was opening up within her consciousness. Everything that Vale was alluding to belonged in a nightmare, and yet here she was seeing a previously hidden presence inhabiting the world she occupied. She remembered the much quoted words of Friedrich Nietzsche - to beware when looking into the abyss because when you do, the abyss also looks into you; finally understanding the philosopher’s sentiment made her shiver. Vale was still speaking.
“They are all Prada suits and black Mercedes, and very in step with the modern world, and they have their fingers in investment banking, digital media, publishing, and security services. Unfortunately a scarily accurate parody of the Blake Organisation figures prominently in Joel Barlow’s soon to be published conspiracy thriller. The man under Hammersmith Bridge last year was intended as a warning; which Joel chose to ignore, and that is why your friend Sophie has now been taken.”
“Taken where?”
“Taken to their realm, o
ne of the sideways worlds; Joel has already used the cosmology of their realm in his books, and in that game the Alembic Valise. That must have really pissed them off, but by now they must know that they are completely exposed in his next novel. They took Sophie to lure him back here to London, where they will either kill him or turn him into an imbecile.”
Lorna attended to the boiling kettle.
“You were saying earlier to Agim that you were going to meet Joel in Mortlake tonight. For Christ sake stop him. It is a Blake Organisation hotspot.”
“I’ll call him right now,” said Lorna. She found his number and dialled. It rang nine times and then went to voicemail. Joel’s recorded voice invited her to leave a message. Why is he speaking in French she thought? She left a message. “Tell me about the Blake Organisation.” She said putting her phone on the table.
“Do you know about the world’s chakras?”
Lorna shook her head.
“These are the seven power zones on the planet that coincide with the same areas on the human body. They have established HQs in all of these locations and their influence and power are increasing exponentially.”
“So are we talking about real people or are they in some other dimension?”
“They are right here but the rulers can move between multiple levels. The best way to understand this is to read up on string theory and the Akashic Field. The entities who currently hold dominion in these ‘in-between zones’ are real people going by the names of Baba Zum and …” he broke off at the sound of the doorbell ringing. “Check through the spy-hole before you open the door,” he called out to Lorna who was already in the hallway. It was Agim and she let him in indicating that he must not interrupt until Vale had told her everything. He followed her into the kitchen and sat down with a respectful nod towards Vale.
“I took pictures of the graffiti at the reservoir house, look it says Baba Z.” said Lorna excitedly holding up her phone for Vale to see. Buster sensed something and yipped nervously.
“They have an agenda, and that is creating a world for their own purpose, a sad place; seedier, more corrupt and the people more malleable, compliant. It is an experiment but it is to develop control mechanisms that can be used everywhere.
“How do you know all this?” asked Lorna.
“I have a God given gift. You will have heard of clairvoyance, clear vision; well I have clairaudience. I hear what my guides tell me. It has taken me my entire life to come to terms with this. I think perhaps Joel has the same gift but doesn’t realise it. I need to talk to him and make him understand that it is his writing that is driving these events. He probably believes his stories are the result of a creative imagination, and they are in a way, but he is actually channelling a shadow reality via an unconscious morphic resonance.”
“OK”, said Agim sounding doubtful.
“Anyway my gift brought me into contact with a group that has existed in this and the spiritual realm for thousands of years. I used to go to a spiritualist church where I found out about it. Well they found me more like. It’s called the HBL, the Hermetic Brotherhood of Luxor. There are many of us trying to fight this contagion. Trying and failing.”
Vale sank into silence, closing his eyes. Lorna and Agim kept quiet. Several minutes passed. When he opened his eyes he looked seriously at Lorna and said, “Joel has forgotten to change over the Sim card in his phone, when you try to call him you are being redirected to his French number and when he does not pick up transferred to the landline located in his flat in the Rue des Goblin.”
“Oh no, what can we do?”
“Nothing until the morning, he is too close to the flame.”
“Can’t we do anything? Go and find him now?” said Lorna standing up and looking across at Agim.
Vale shook his head. “He is already in the Loa.”
Lorna did not know what that was but she assumed it was not good.
Having seen Vale go into trance and then come back from it with answers she decided to ask about her father.
“Assume that what he is doing and who is seeing is a part of his job, until you learn anything different,” he responded. Vale then turned to Agim.
“And what about you, my friend, I sense that you are conflicted, as they say. Have you any questions?”
“You mean apart from this whole parallel worlds thing?”
“Yes, that is something you can accept, or not. To quote Groucho Marx – Who you gonna believe, me or your own eyes?”
Agim looked at him and then at the floor. After a few moments Vale broke the silence.
“Pour the tea, Lorna,” he said.
Chapter 30
The walls of Tinderbox Alley were covered in thick green moss that glittered with ice crystals and beyond was the churchyard, the ancient gravestones burrowing down into the black tilth. In the bell-tower cog and ratchet aligned; seven strikes of the bell. At least I am early, thought Joel. He was not due to meet up with Lorna and Agim until half past the hour; they had arranged to have a drink and maybe something to eat at the Tinderbox, a tiny pub sandwiched between a block of pre-war flats, some allotments and the Thames. Mortlake was a strange area, nothing to do with lakes or death but strange nonetheless.
Above the wall Joel could see the white outline of an arch. He backtracked and entered the small cemetery garden. The gate clanged shut behind him. A notice explained that the freestanding arch was the entrance to the original sixteenth century knave, preserved and erected here in shadow of the present tower. Its shape reminded him of a whale’s jawbone. The central keystone had a faded glyph etched into it. Joel had passed by here before but for some reason never noticed it. He stepped through then looked back to the world he had just left. He could hear voices approaching but they were drowned out by a siren on the main road on the other side off the church. There was not much to explore on this side of the arch, the path did not go anywhere. Joel heard the voices again and turned to see two hooded figures come through the far gate with a squat bullterrier at their feet.
“I was so Mars-bared up, man. I said are you my fucking shine rival? Cos if you are you better put your kipper on the carpet before...”
“Yeah, fuck with the den mother and you will pay the Katie,” the other man interrupted.
“The what?”
“You know, Jordan.” The men stopped talking; they had seen Joel and were looking at him. The dog circled them, excitedly. “Down Nigger,” said the other man flicking his lead at the dog. Joel started to run.
They caught up with him just as he was climbing the wall to attempt a jump into the alley. They dragged him back into the churchyard, threw him onto the ground and began kicking him. Nigger bit him twice. They took his phone, his wallet and his watch, and left after giving him a farewell kick in the back. The only words going through his mind were – den mother. What did they mean? Then he remembered a recent telephone conversation with Dave. The Native American initiation had brought Dave into contact with some interesting fellow travellers, one of who had celebrity status by virtue of the fact that she had been in a US reality TV series, where she had earned the name of ‘Den Mother’. Originally a scouting term that had been re-purposed to mean the alpha female in a group of cougars, middle aged women vying for the attentions of much younger men. Dave obviously did not qualify as a younger anything but had apparently sought her help when it was the propitious moon phase in which to consecrate his bear claw.
Joel opened his eyes and realised he was still on the ground; he tried to get up but felt a numbness in his side; rising with difficulty and rubbing away the numbness he felt something on his hand and realised it was blood. They fucking stabbed me, he thought. He tried to call out but all that emerged was a wordless scream of anger and pain. He should never have gone through the arch, now it was too late to go back, if he tried he would surely die. He would have to try and survive on this side. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Holding his bloody side Joel stumbled and reeled towards the gate, out of the churchyard, and into the
dark alley.
Chapter 31
Six foot three but gentle as a kitten; that was what they said about him at the supermarket. Today had been only a half-shift, four till eight; rounding up and returning the trolleys left in the car park; stacking then into long trains, twenty five was his record, and then slowly pushing then up the gradient to the entrance on the main road where more people found them and started the cycle all over again; Vern loved his job.
He was not going straight home; he knew his mother would be watching one of the soaps prior to nodding off. He was going to the allotment to feed the pig and had a bag of over-date fruit and some buns for their supper.
Nobody ever came here, especially in the winter. Most of the other allotments were overgrown, neglected. None of the South American or North African people living in the John Hanning estate had much interest in gardening; and the indigenous occupants were too busy taking drugs or stealing to lay claim to their patch of ground. So Vern was able to keep the pig a secret, so far at least.
He took out the key; his father had been the caretaker on the estate and had passed it on to Vern. Now there was no caretaker and the stairways and grounds of the two pre-war blocks were unclean and unloved.
A Colombian woman from the West Block had seen him carrying bags of pig food down the alley a few weeks ago and asked him where he was going. Marina; he knew she was married and lived at number forty-two. He had shown her his secret garden, seeing the amazement in her eyes as he pushed the door open wide. But he had not mentioned Esme; that was his pig’s name. She seemed to be getting fatter by the day and he wondered if she could somehow be pregnant; Esme that is; not Marina.
Stooping to pick up the carrier bag, Vern saw a leather wallet on the ground; it was empty. He placed it carefully on top of a nearby dustbin seeing as he did so Joel on the ground; not looking like he was resting but rather dead. As devoid of life as the blocks of polystyrene that he lay amongst; packaging that had protected a benefit funded plasma screen TV, recently acquired by one of Vern’s sink estate neighbours.