Yet there came then into my mind a flash of white and a voice remembered through the red heat, pain and despair.
“You will be fine.” Gabriel Moon had said. “Be ready and remember that at the end you do have a choice!” There came a roar of indignation from beyond the still open doors inside the room in which I had just bid farewell to Apollyon. Rapidly the face of Moon began to form in my mind and as I did so I forced myself back to my feet. The flames increased in ferocity as I heard the Earl screaming and howling from the other room and suddenly my soul was rent free and up into the night I rose.
I flew across the sky like a comet, trailing flames behind me. I knew I had to make haste for I had no time to spare. I would be back with the Earl of Ranleigh sooner rather than later. Yet I had adequate time I felt, for my movement was not physical, but almost an imagining. First I stood at the foot of my children’s beds and watched them sleeping for what seemed like a lifetime, yet was surely but scant seconds. With ease I reached out to them, and placed a thought of a kiss into their minds, and I gifted them too with the feeling that at least by myself they were loved, even if I was remiss in never showing it. I knew they would remember when they awoke and so I left them to their sleep.
Next I visited my wife, and with my love and a kiss I also left with her words of regret and apology that equally I knew she would remember. I left her with the thought too that I was not a bad man; merely misguided.
Then my time had come and I was instantly back in the pit of fire again. I could see Apollyon staring at me through the door, indecision showing on his face, yet the red flames began to burn brightly again now that my efforts to quell them had been exhausted. Still, I smiled at him for a final time, and I saw his avarice for my soul turn to confusion.
“Goodbye Apollyon.” I said and with a force of will I gathered the memory of Gabriel Moon about me and made the doors slam shut. “I am ready now, Gabriel.” I smiled, and the flames rose to incinerate me.
Outside the now closed twin doors the twenty seventh Earl of Ranleigh, Artemus Apollyon had screamed aloud as the doors had shut upon him. Beneath the foot of the doors however the Earl watched as the flames blazed brightly from inside the room and as he did so he screamed and howled in outrage as the light reflected from under the door.
For now, the flames burned white.
“And they had as king over them; the angel of the bottomless pit, whose name in Hebrew is Abaddon, but in Greek he has the name Apollyon.”
Revelation 9:11
Notes and Acknowledgements
When I was much younger than I am now it seemed that every library had a shelf on which resided the much borrowed collection of short stories all relating tales of the supernatural, ghost and of course horror stories. The Pan series of books were a favourite, but it was the older ones; those without covers that were my real delight.
The thick (invariably) green cover completely devoid of any title at all, though emblazoned (usually in gold coloured ink) on the much broken spine would be the words, “Ghost Stories”. They got my library ticket every time. They were written (or the ones I really enjoyed were) in an old fashioned anarchistic way, where Mister so and so became Mister – and his address 23 - - - . I loved them!
Not all were works of great literature but for a teenager such as I they spoke of old churches, crumbling manors and dark woods that held secrets and all forms of ghostly goings on, or had a history that contained some horror or another. I would pore over them for hours and the joy was not having to read them in any particular order. The sheer quantity of stories in each volume would keep me quiet for weeks on end, and if I found a book that had the magic words “Volume Two” (or any number in fact that was greater than one) then I would be eagerly searching the library for the other volumes as soon as I was able.
Which is what I wanted to attempt to recreate in this book, and whilst I haven’t gone as far as using Mister – of – I feel that the end result is precisely what I was looking for.
There are a few apologies to the historians amongst us, of course. For although my research is generally sound I am afraid I fell somewhat at the first fence with the use of the word cross puzzle. The description is accurate of course, but I am afraid to admit that the invention of the daily crossword was somewhat later than the date I have accredited it to. Everything else is as far as I am aware entirely accurate date wise, and any mistakes within this regard are entirely the author’s fault etc. etc.
I would perhaps bring your attention to “Uisce Beatha” (pronounced usually as Ishkah beh –ha) as it is indeed where the word “whiskey” comes from, and I draw it to your attention purely for the spelling. In Ireland it is whiskey. In Scotland, whisky. A simple difference, but a word of advice. It is not advisable when buying a bottle of whiskey to end the purchase with the words, “I prefer my whiskey with an “E”” for it can get you into all sorts of trouble, believe you me.
I would also perhaps refrain from any research regarding the nanny’s description of the Venus Fly Trap in, “A Spoon Filled with Sugar” as a, “tipitiwitchet” which is perhaps just a little more salacious than I wanted it to be.
Well, maybe.
For “The Reluctant Paw” I have my own cat to thank for most of poor Mister Evan’s woes, for like him I seem to possess a moggie who has no idea of how to hunt whatsoever. Furthermore, I seem to have a cat that is actually scared of birds! So thanks for that, Smudge. (It’s all about the nose.)
This brings me to my long list of thank-ees. I have my incredible sister to thank for her copy editing skills. Thank you, Lisa! Also the pixie for her incredible listening and reading and zoning-out skills. (“Overboard” will be finished one day – I promise!)
I would add also my thanks to the authors of all of those vast compendiums of supernatural and horror stories that entertained me so much in my youth, though sadly most will be by now long gone. Nevertheless, just in case, you have my thanks.
Finally, as I have spent a lot of time on this book writing in 1857 I fear that the vernacular of the times has broken into my everyday life somewhat, and although I am sure it will fade at the moment any written word I produce tends to sound… well… a little old-fashioned.
You know that you are in trouble when you begin a letter regarding a parking fine when you begin with the words, “Good day to you, you corpulent vagabonds, forsooth my ire is mighty; my displeasure to be taken for granted…”
Say no more.
Michael White
(16th January 2014 – 13th July 2016)
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FROM MICHAEL WHITE
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ANYONE
Part One: The Theoretical Cat
Prologue: CDJ Electronics August 3rd 2007
“Blue or Red?” said the tall guy as he rose slightly from his chair to give a brief but firm handshake. It was always the question anyone asked a newcomer in any place of employment on Merseyside and it was always one I dreaded. Not because statistically speaking you always had a fifty per cent chance of getting it right but because in truth I had a one hundred per cent chance of getting it wrong. He had glanced at me; fifty-one going slightly grey and I had assessed him too; big guy, late twenties. Obviously interested in football. It was a thing blokes always do when they first meet.
“Neither.” I mumbled in embarrassment. “Not really into football sorry.” This answer, although perfectly true, always brought colour to my face and a slight feeling of embarrassment tinged with the thought that by not supporting a local football team (and God help you if you revealed that you supported any team from outside Merseyside) you were letting the side down just a little bit. I had glanced down at the desk where we were sitting and amongst the scraps of crumpled paper, discarded pens and scribbled on notepads there was a coffee stained Everton mug and I could have taken the easy way out I suppose, though I rarely did. The truth will always find you and bite you on the arse.
The reac
tion of the man sitting facing me, his glasses balanced on his nose as he tipped back his chair (quite a feat for a chair on wheels I thought) was not however the same usual look of disbelief and disdain. He just raised his eye brow slightly and gave a small half grin that if I were to use one word to sum up how it looked then it would be, “mischief”.
“Are you gay?” He smiled and the inflection he used made me realise he wasn’t being homophobic. Not at all. He was actually helping me out of an awkward position on my first contact with anyone on my first day in a new job. I knew all this, and he knew that I now knew all of this and he did it all with a half-smile and one eyebrow. I was impressed.
“Don’t gay people like football either?” I smiled and his smile increased just a little more.
“Of course they do.” He replied. “It’s just that they all seem to support Arsenal.” I laughed at this and pointed at the Everton mug.
“I can name the 1966 cup final team though.” He looked at me doubtfully.
“Go on then.”
“Right.” I said, counting out on my fingers as I racked my brains. “West, Wright, Wilson, Temple, Harvey, Young.” I could see his eyebrows rising even more as I continued to search my memory. “Gabriel, Labone, Harris.” Still two more. I paused before the names jumped into my mind. “Scott and Trebilcock.” I finished triumphantly and with a flourish just to show off added, “Manager Catterick.”
The guy gave a slow handclap. “Well done.” He smiled. “How come you can name the team and yet you’re not a fan?”
“Well when I was a kid there wasn’t much else to do really, it was either football or cowboys and Indians.” He looked at me as if appraising me. I was a lot older than him; fifty one. I had him down for late twenties at best, though I could see even though he was sitting down that he was a big bloke; not fat – not at all, but tall and broad. “Think of it this way. We only had two fucking telly channels. Well, unless you had a posh telly of course and you could get BBC2 as well.” He looked appalled at this. “No internet.” I smiled.
“Christ.” He said, and there was a flash of that mischievous grin again. “Where did you get your porn from?” I laughed aloud.
“From the local newsagents.” He laughed. “You usually had to slip it into the TV times and flash it to the poor woman behind the till so she could ring it up on the register along with a quarter of pineapple chunk sweets.” He laughed aloud at this; a warm laugh; loud but full of humour. He stood at this point and held his hand out for me to shake it again, which I stood and did.
“I thought the nineteen sixties were all in black and white.” He laughed and I joined him.
“Jon.” He said, raising himself off his chair to shake my hand.
“I am Luke.”
“Pleased to meet you Luke.” He said, lowering himself down again.
“And you.” I said.
It was my first introduction to a man who over the course of the next few years would reduce me to tears of laughter on a regular basis. It is an over-used expression I think, but with Jon it was the truth. He once actually managed to make me laugh so much I was nearly sick. He had a knack for it. One mischievous grin and it was game on.
Yet that was in my previous workplace. Six years in a technical support role sitting next to a harried and noisy sales department, of which Jon was but one member. He had made the place worthwhile really, and a counted him as one of my very few friends. Down to the smoking shelter we would go and have a laugh, chew over the day’s news and generally take the piss out of everyone. We were a team and both he and I thought the world of him. There would be football talk too of course which he always referred to as “white noise” because you could almost visibly see me zoning out when he started talking about football with anyone who was out there smoking with us.
“He’ll always give you back a dirty shirt…” I heard him say and so carried on day dreaming for a while longer. Then In October last year I had a really bad water infection and was off work for a few weeks. When I returned Jon wasn’t there.
“Have you heard the news?” asked Debbie who sat on the other side of the desk from me in what the management laughingly called, “pods”.
“No.” I said distractedly, trying to catch up on the hundreds of emails that seemed to have accumulated during by absence.
“Jon has got cancer.” She said and everything stopped.
“What?” I managed, and she told me. It was in his bowel and a few other places too, Aggressive cancer. The Chemotherapy had to work.
I felt sick.
Although we were friends we didn’t socialise outside work – after all, I was nearly twice his age despite everything, and although I knew he wasn’t on Facebook (even though I was) I didn’t have an email address for him or a mobile number. I did know his twitter account though and so I sent him a message.
“I go off sick with a water infection and you go and get cancer. You really should learn to curb your competitive spirit you know.” There was a few minutes’ gap and then a reply:
“Ha Ha! I will be back before you know it!”
He didn’t come back. The chemotherapy didn’t work as the cancer was too aggressive; too advanced. He died two months later on the 31st December 2012.
I was devastated.
I guess really a few years later that I still am. I don’t make friends easily and I felt his loss to the extent that I had to leave. Find a new job. I would look at where he sat and hate whoever it was that sat where he used to. Sometimes I would look up expecting to see him, and he would catch my eye and take the piss out of me in some way.
Sometime I thought I did see him.
I had to get out. It was time for a change.
Chapter One
“We do not belong to this material world that science constructs for us. We are not in it; we are outside. We are only spectators.”
(Erwin Schrödinger)
So here I was on my first day of a new job. I felt lucky to get it if truth is told as it was a definite step up from my previous job. It was still a technical support position, but the wages were considerably more, the hour’s nine to five and I also had the option of a residential place on site which I had taken up. That would certainly save me some money!
It had all begun with the advertisement advertising the position of, “technical support person” or something like that. I’ve forgotten the exact wording of the rest of the advertisement now, it was just over a month ago and I’ve got a memory like a sieve, but it doesn’t really matter how the job was described, for when the job description says, “technical support” then you usually found that the job description had absolutely nothing to do with the actual work itself at all.
So it is an understatement of understatements that the advertisement in The Liverpool Echo had caught my eye the minute my alcohol fuddled eyes slid across it. Not that I’m a regular reader of the Echo or anything. No, in fact I only bought the local rag on a Thursday for the job pages and it was in there that I saw it. The main thing that stood out I am not ashamed to admit is not the fact that the job description was at best vague to the point of non-existent, but the salary, which was enormous.
I waited for inspiration to come for a few days, mulling it over as if trying to convince myself that I had no chance of ever getting a job with wages as good as that, but in the end I wrote up a letter and CV of what I considered to be of particular brilliance if not entirely factual and once done I made a quick trip to the post office and posted it.
You could have knocked me down with a feather when less than a week later I received an invite to an interview with the head of the department, a professor Theodulus Wingnut. You read that right, by the way. That’s the prof’s full name. These days I usually just call him “Professor” and I think he’s okay with that. Never complains anyway. There’s no way I could use his real name all the time. I think it’s the kind of name that only a parent would ever love, and an employee could never get used to. I pissed myself laughing at the
time, and I must admit I read the name two or three times, laughing like a loon as I did so, but I then remembered the salary and resolved to somehow or another scrape the money together to hire a suit for the interview. Oh, and to keep a straight face when I shook the guy’s hand too.
I scanned the letter once again, noting the time, date and place. There was a train ticket and schedule included with the letter, and I was surprised to see that I was to be collected by car from the railway station and driven to the company offices where the interview was to be held.
Which I felt was a bit of over-kill really, as the company offices were only in one of the nicer parts of Cheshire and so not too far away. I didn’t have a car right then but it would have not been any great hardship to get there. So: a bit over the top, but nice to feel that a bit of effort was being put into the process on their behalf anyway.
Being a bit of a nosey bugger I was slightly wary when I found out that the building itself did not seem to appear on Google Maps no matter how hard I tried to find it. According to the map page the location given in the letter was simply a big empty field, not in any way distinctive from the other fields that seemed to surround it. Weird. I mean, if he wasn’t on Linked-In then who the hell was he? If anything, this made me even more curious but searches for the location and the professors name came up with sweet bugger all every time. Such things I put out of my head and slowly but surely the interview date came around. I will say looking back on it that in all seriousness there was absolutely no excuse for getting completely pissed the night before the interview. I don’t mean rolling drunk and staggering home with a kebab at 3am.
The Waiting Room Page 25