Ten To One newsletter - October 2013

 

This is the newsletter for the exciting collaborative writing project from Pigeon Park Press in which ten writers will create a novel together. This newsletter contains the latest chapters for you to read and provides you with instructions on how to vote for which writers (and characters) stay in the novel.

 

 

1) NEWS

2) HOW TO VOTE

3) LATEST CHAPTERS

 

 

 

1) NEWS

 

 

Third Round Results - The third round of chapters for Ten To One were shared 4 weeks ago and the public were asked to vote for their favourite characters/writers. The votes from Facebook and e-mail were combined with the judges' scores and William Thirsk-Gaskill, creator of the character Tim, was voted out of Ten To One. As part of the process, William has now been invited to join the panel of judges.

 

Ten To One got a mention in the Birmingham Post (UK) a couple of weeks ago, a lovely write up by Louise Palfreyman.

http://www.birminghampost.co.uk/news/local-news/birmingham-based-book-project-ten-one-5913034

 

 

Ten To One author interview - Luke Beddow -

As part of the Ten To One project, we are interviewing each of the Ten To One authors and posting that interview on the Idle Hands collaborative writing blog. This month, Luke Beddow, talks about strong characters, male twenty-something protagonists and keeping control of your collaborative project.

http://www.mrclovenhoof.blogspot.co.uk/2013/09/ten-to-one-author-interview-luke-beddow.html

 

 

2) HOW TO VOTE

 

We will be posting the chapters, piece by piece on Facebook (https://www.facebook.com/TenToOneNovel)  but the easiest way to read them all is in this e-mail newsletter. Once you have read all the chapters, you will need to go to our Facebook page which is https://www.facebook.com/TenToOneNovel. You will need to have a Facebook account to access this page.

We'd like you read the chapters and then 'Like' your favourites. You can vote for more than one chapter if you wish and we don't have a problem with that.

We will be handing out points (from 10 down to 2) to the authors/characters based on how many likes they get.

Oh, and do remember, we are now voting on chapters 4.1 - 4.8 (excluding 4.3 which is William's last chapter).

 

You have until midnight on 9th October to cast your vote.

Happy reading!

 

 

3) LATEST CHAPTERS

 

Below are the third round of chapters for Ten To One (continuing the story of nine out of the original characters). If you have not read the first round of chapters, you can read them by following this link to last month's newsletter.

http://archive.aweber.com/tentoone/6pfbY/h/Ten_To_One_newsletter_July_2013.htm

If you have not read the second round of chapters, go here:

http://archive.aweber.com/tentoone/4mFPo/h/Ten_To_One_newsletter_August.htm

If you have not read the third round of chapters, go here:

http://archive.aweber.com/tentoone/9fDQz/h/Ten_To_One_Newsletter_September.htm

 

 

And now the fourth round of chapters...

 

4.1 - Shaun

 

Bleep... Bleep... Bleep...

 

Shaun watched the green line dance across the screen. He had told the receptionist that he was Valerie's nephew, and now he stood in a tiny cubicle in ICU.

'Peaceful,' he thought, 'that's what they always say'. Valerie didn't look peaceful. The nurses had cleaned her up, but there was little they could do about the bruising on her face and arms, the grazed skin.

Shaun ran his hand across his hair. It was stiff with grease. He hadn't showered for a couple of days, and patches of stubble were starting to appear on his cheeks.

"I'm sorry," he said, wondering if she could hear him.

The heart monitor bleeped to itself. There were few visitors to the ICU, and in the near-silence, Shaun could hear a chorus of other electronic heartbeats echoing Valerie's. Each one reproached him for his negligence. Before he came to the hospital, he had disabled the 'trade' button on the flat's intercom. Still, he was uneasy about leaving his post; he had almost turned around at the end of Castleton Boulevard, but Valerie had no relatives that he knew of. He owed her this.

"The police came yesterday," he said, "they wanted to see the CCTV footage. They didn't find anything suspicious though. Maybe you'll be able to tell them what happened when you get better."

It seemed like the right thing to say.

"Mr Popescu said you'd been to see him. This is going to sound weird, but I think he knew what was going to happen."

A nurse came into the cubicle. She spotted Shaun too late, and jumped, almost daintily.

"Sorry," she said, "I've just come to feed Mrs Manning."

"I'm her nephew."

"Right." The nurse stood for a moment, taking in the heavy, grey skin under Shaun's eyes, the food stains on his hoodie. "Visiting time isn't until six," she said.

"I work evenings," Shaun lied.

The nurse made as small, satisfied noise. She attached a large syringe to the tube in Valerie's nose and pushed the plunger slowly. The clear fluid inside bubbled and disappeared into the darkness. Smiling, the nurse turned on one heel and went to leave. Shaun looked at the ceiling as the nurse swished through the curtains and walked back along the ICU.

"That was my fault too," Shaun said when he was satisfied the nurse was out of earshot. "I should never have told you about the gun. Things are starting to fall apart, Valerie. Maybe you're better off in here. Maybe I should just..."

Two pairs of sensible shoes pattered towards Valerie's cubicle. The curtains swung back, and the nurse who had just left stepped through with another, older nurse.

"Sir," said the older woman, "visiting time isn't until six. I'm afraid we can't have people just wondering into the ICU whenever they feel like it."

"I work evenings," Shaun said, "I just wanted to see my aunt."

"Mrs Manning needs her rest, sir. You'll have to come back another time. Within visiting hours."

Shaun looked from the older woman to the younger and back again. He saw that it would be no good to argue with them.

"Alright," he said, "okay."

As he walked away he heard laughter.

"You're right, Liz. He was a strange one."

 

Back at the flats, Shaun checked his mailbox and found an official looking envelope. 'Two letters in two days,' he thought, unlocking the door. As he walked down the stairs, he turned it over and read: 'Lyon and Lamb, criminal and civil law.' His father had found him.

The curtains were still drawn in the flat, and Shaun didn't bother to turn the light on. Navigating by the glow of the CCTV monitor, he made his way to the desk and placed the letter from his father next to an opened envelope. He picked this up and slid the folded paper from inside.

 

Shaun,

We know you must be very unhappy, cut off from the love of our all seeing guides in the stars. Be assured that they do still care for you, and it is not too late to return to their protection. There are many here at Starhaven, too, who are worried about you. Sky, particularly would like to see you return to the warm light of the Brotherhood.

We live in exciting times, and the Extra-Terrestrial Intelligences are revealing new wisdom almost daily. The Universal Equinox is coming. Surely, you should be with us as we lead mankind into a new age of spiritual glory among the wonders of the universe?

We cannot guess why you left Starhaven, and the loss of the car and the money hurt us greatly. As humans, we all carry negative energy, and there are times when it becomes impossible to resist, but just as a father lovingly forgives his erring child, when you come home, all will be forgotten. We are sure this letter will find you; our guides in the stars have revealed your location to us so that we can reach out to you as brothers. If you return, no harm will come to you.

 

Shaun slipped the letter back into its envelope. He had read it three times since yesterday, and as he looked around the dark basement it was hard to accept that this was where he belonged. He remembered sitting outside the dormitories with Sky, feeling the warmth of her hand cupped in his own - looking up at the stars and believing, knowing, that there was a plan for them both mapped out in their splendour. Perhaps there had been real love at Starhaven - more than he had felt since his mother died.

He took a half-smoked spliff from the ashtray and raised it to his mouth. The end glowed orange in the gloom as he lit it. Hot, heavy air sank into his lungs. Holding it there for a second, he felt his head grow lighter. He exhaled, and watched the grey smoke curl in the light of the CCTV monitor.

Before he went to the hospital, he had watched Mr and Mrs Greenwood file out of the door, dressed for the warm weather with Gracie trailing behind in her sunhat. Mr Popescu left about half an hour later, heading for the café.

There were three CCTV cameras in the block of flats: one pointing down at the front door with the path and the railing in its peripheral, one in the ground floor foyer and one in the corner of the lift. A fourth camera looked out over the car park. Shaun cycled through the black and white screens. In the lift, his eyes drew geometric patterns in the textured wall. He pictured a triangle with himself at one corner, his father and the brotherhood occupying the others. Divided by equidistant lines, the corners were linked, but could never meet. He shifted his focus and the shape tessellated across the whole wall. Shaun felt dizzy. He changed the camera. Beyond the wall of the car park, a steady flow of wheels darted across the corner of the screen. The cars were out-of-shot, and in each spinning disk Shaun imagined beings of great intelligence looking out at mankind, seeing the patterns which were just out of his reach.

He hit a button on his keyboard and his screen split into four. The lift, the foyer, the entrance and the car-park were all quiet. He pretended that he was the block of flats. The cameras were his eyes. He could feel the rumble of the lift, the tug of doors opening and closing. He thought of number twelve, and felt the dull ache of its emptiness. He would put up cameras in every corridor. He would see everything and look down on the flats like the benevolent creatures looking down on the Earth. He imagined connecting to all the CCTV cameras in the world. He would see Mr Popescu, the Brotherhood, his father, and he would see how they were all linked through him. He would see where Valerie fitted, lying in her hospital bed; how she connected to the body on the beach. It would all be part of a much bigger pattern. Everything would. It would all make sense, and it would all be beautiful.

A woman was walking along the path. Shaun hit a button and returned to one screen; Mabel reached the buzzer. She came to the flats sometimes to smoke with Shaun. When his intercom failed to ring, he wondered who she was here to see. She waited for a minute or two, then turned around and started to walk back toward the road. After a few steps she stopped, then strode back towards the door. This time, Shaun's intercom did buzz. He walked over and picked up the receiver.

"Hi Mabel," he said.

"Hey Shaun," Mabel's voice crackled in the speaker, "Can I come in?"

"Uhm... Sure."

Shaun hit the button, and the door clicked open. A few moments later, Mabel was standing in his living room. Shaun wished he hadn't let her in. He liked his flat to be tidy; it was one of the few things he felt he could be proud of. He'd just been so busy. He felt that if he left the security monitor, even for half an hour, the whole criminal underbelly of Skegness would be unleashed on the block. Mabel was good enough to pretend she hadn't noticed the mess and the gloom.

"I wanted to see Popescu," she said.

"He's not here," Shaun replied, walking back over to the desk.

"I can see that."

"Why did you want to see him, anyway?"

"It's nothing really. I just wanted to ask him a few questions. Are you okay? You haven't been to Sammy's for a few days."

"I'm fine," Shaun said. "Look, I think should be careful around Mr Popescu."

"Is that what this is about?" Mabel asked. She was standing next to the desk now. "Have you and Popescu had some sort of disagreement?"

Shaun took a deep breath.

"I think he might have had something to do with what happened to Valerie."

"The woman who got hit by the ice cream van? Popescu was in the cafe with you, Shaun."

"Yeah, but there was this bang, and-"

"The car back-firing?"

"And Mr Popescu didn't even..." Shaun stopped. Now that he came to explain it, his theory sounded weak. "I just think you need to be careful, okay?"

"I always am," Mabel smiled again. A sad, sympathetic sort of smile. "It was a road accident, Shaun. It could have happened to anybody."

"No, it couldn't. Something scared her. And it's not just her. There was that body and the beach, and that guy who came into the café. They're all linked somehow. I need to make sure the people here are safe."

"So you've just been sitting at this desk?

"I can see everything from here," Shaun explained.

Mabel looked around her.

"Let's get this place tidied up a bit," she said. "Then I'll make some tea, and you can step away from that screen and talk to me, okay?"

Without waiting for Shaun to reply, she walked over to the light switch. The room's squalor was exposed under the electric light. Mabel picked up the waste-paper bin and returned to the desk. She scooped up a couple of empty crisp packets and threw them away, then reached for the open envelope.

"Do you need this?" she asked.

Shaun flinched visibly as she lifted it.

"That's mine," he said.

Mabel looked at the envelope.

"Is this what's been bothering you?" said Mabel. "Let me have a look, maybe I can help."

"Just give it back!" Shaun pleaded.

"Shaun, if you're in some kind of trouble, you need to talk to someone."

"I'm fine. Please. Give me the letter."

 "You're not well. I want to help you," Mabel said, taking the letter out of the envelope.

"No!"

Shaun jumped to his feet and ripped the letter from Mabel's grasp.

"Just fuck off!" he said, "Leave me alone."

The two stood silently. Shaun's vision was starting to blur. Mabel looked at her friend, standing in his small flat among dirty plates and crumpled T-shirts, shaking like a frightened child.

"Okay," she said, handing him the envelope. "I'm sorry, it's none of my business. If you decide you want to talk - about anything - give me a call, yeah?"

Shaun nodded.

"I'm going to go," said Mabel, "Goodbye, Shaun."

She turned around and left, closing the door behind her. Shaun put the letter back in the envelope. He slumped back into the chair by the desk. On the screen, Mabel walked away.

 

4.2 - Gracie

 

Streaks of cloud played quietly in the crisp, breezy azure fields above. Gracie played alone on swings and slides in the cold green fields below. Saturday meant an outdoors day, a day for family and fun, and on this particular Saturday her foster parents had chosen Tower Gardens. Nibbling on their chilled cheese sandwiches at a picnic bench, wrapped in scarves and jumpers, they kept a vague eye on Gracie as they attempted to talk some sense into their eldest daughter.

"It might sound very appealing right now, Laura," said Arthur Greenwood firmly, "but moving out is a big step, a big responsibility. Your pay will barely cover your rent - if you manage to get a job - and it won't be an enjoyable one. Why don't you want to study for a few more years? Set yourself on a much better path, aim for a real career?"

"I've been doing that forever! I'm sick of it." Laura shot Gracie a look. "And I'm sick of being at home."

"Laura," her mother hissed, picking up on the implication immediately, "have a little consideration."

"She doesn't!"

"She's five years old," Arthur interjected, "and she's going through a tough time. It's hard enough getting her to accept us without all this unnecessary aggravation." He placed extra emphasis on those last two words, and it was too much for Laura. Folding her arms sharply across her chest, she turned her scowling face away from him. "Don't give me that attitude, young lady," came the growling retaliation. "This is only proof that you're not ready to look after yourself. Not by a long shot."

Gracie swung and swung, the salty air swirling around her. The beach was close enough that you could smell the brine and the sand, even while you were running on the grass. To Gracie's consternation, her foster family's bench was also close enough to hear almost every exchanged word. Laura didn't want her, not one bit, and Sarah and Arthur were upset about her, and nobody had even asked her why she was being difficult and why she didn't want to fit in. Nobody knew the truth that she was a fairy, and that fairies didn't fit in anywhere, except for the Other Realm.

Close to the swings and slides there encroached a small copse of trees - nowhere near enough to get lost in, but ample for a short stroll under the emerald leaves that whispered like spirits. As Gracie scurried towards the grove, aware of the family's eyes tracking her progress, a rush of exhilaration overwhelmed her and she was struck by the thought that perhaps here she could find the tree that would take her to the Other Land. After all, the whole world was covered in trees and every tree shared the same life, felt the same deep rooted feelings. The Other Realm was at the heart of all forests, in a place that humans couldn't find but that all trees knew the way to. If she really was a fairy she ought to be able to find a secret way down into that magical world by herself. She could finally go home, and she would finally belong.

Pausing at the edge of the copse Gracie glanced back. Immediately her tummy turned to ice inside her, and her ears rang with a drum beat. L'uomo nero - Harry - was striding across the grass towards her foster family.

"Can't scare me," she breathed, placing her hand on the rough bark of the nearest trunk, "can't scare me."

His head swivelling in the direction that Laura pointed, Harry's eyes locked onto Gracie and sent a spasm of sudden fear up her spine. She dived into the cool protective shade of the leaves without a second thought, and only stopped scampering when her foot trod down on a thick twig, and something on the ground said, "gâscă!"

"Oh!" cried Gracie as she jumped away from the sound, and her gaze fell upon a very strange sight indeed. There was a man - or what looked very much like a man - lurking in the roots of a tree where the earth had been hollowed out beneath it. He was sucking his finger and glaring sullenly at her. A dozen possibilities sprang to Gracie's mind. Another l'uomo nero? A fairy? His sour expression didn't fit with her ideas about what a fairy should be like. Mister Pop had told her that there were all sorts of mythical and magical things besides fairies and Mosuls and dragons. Which one of them was he? Did the strange marking on his neck have anything to do with it? It looked like an eye with a hawkish brow overshadowing it, and a curling line underneath. Pointing to it brazenly, Gracie asked what it meant and what kind of creature was he?

"Eh?" the man replied.

"Are you a fairy?"

"No."

"Then what are you? What does your mark mean?"

Perceiving that she would not give up her questions, the stranger sighed and rubbed his neck, covering the mark. "It is a symbol to ward evil away," he explained with an odd glint in his dark eyes. "It is protection, and action, and wrath."

Gracie didn't know what half of those words were, but she wasn't about to say so. "Why are you hiding there?"

"Rather," he retorted, "why are you running here?"

With a small start she abruptly realised what it was about the man that made her feel uneasy. He sounded just like Mister Pop - the same weird way of saying words that Sarah Greenwood called 'foreign'.

"I'm running away," Gracie defended herself, "from l'uomo nero."

The sharp look that the man gave her sent her hopping a step back. His surprise was evident. "Where did you hear that name?" he growled in a voice that suddenly sounded like a threat.

"From Mister Pop. He lives across the hall from me. He tells me stories."

"Does he?" the stranger nodded with a slow, thoughtful malice. "Does he."

"Do you know about l'uomo nero too?"

"Yes. I know of him."

"Did you know that he takes away naughty children and puts a fairy there instead?"

"I did."

"Do you believe it?" she whispered urgently, moving closer despite her shaking legs. "Do you believe he's real? Do you think the Other Realm is real? Do you believe in the Mosul, who went through the scariest forest in the world and came out of it again, alive?"

The man was studying her with such a careful and steady gaze that she had to stop herself from talking.

"Yes," he replied after a long silence, "I believe in that forest."

Creeping ever nearer, Gracie could barely conceal a smile, her eyes glimmering with intense excitement. "Would you believe me if I told you that - that l'uomo nero already has his hand on my shoulder?"

"What?"

"Mister Pop said so," she hissed, "he told me the truth. And now I know why I don't like it here, and why I don't remember about my real Mummy and Daddy, and why I'm so scared of Harry."

"Harry?"

"My care worker," she waved in the general direction of her family. "He took me here. He gave me away. But he never said where I came from, because then I would want to go back. But now I know, and I do want to go back, to the Other Land. I'm a fairy and I belong in the forest, the biggest forest, where all the fairies and the Mosuls and the dragons are."

There was a pause as deep and hushed as the silence in the dead of night in the Other Realm.

"Yes," the stranger breathed at last, "you do remind me of her. So very much." He shook his head. "Your Mister Pop told you that you belong in this forest, this fairy land? And he told you that he was the Mosul, the wise man?"

"I suppose he did."

"Child," said the man gravely, "did it never occur to you that the dreadful forest in his tales and the Other Realm might be one and the same?"

"I - I don't know." Gracie's impression of the fairy land had always been vague, but she had never thought to connect it with Mister Pop's actual story. There were forests, and then there was The Forest, the Other Realm... wasn't that the way it went? The more she wondered the more confused she felt, and the more cheated. A memory struck her and with it she began to form a link that she had never considered before. "He said once - that bad things happen to children in the forests. But - but I'm not a child, I'm a fairy. So it's different. I belong in the forest!"

"Did you never think to question," asked the man, "what kinds of terrible things a Mosul would have done - what awful powers he must have - to journey through the most evil forest in the world and come out again unharmed? That old man hides many secrets in the forest that he walked away from. Many little secrets, with little hands and little feet and little minds of their own. All gone now. All dead. They had no care workers. Only stern men who would lead them away, into the darkness of the forest - into death."

"But - only l'uomo nero carries children off to the forests!" Gracie whimpered in sudden terror. "Mister Pop isn't l'uomo nero, is he? He wasn't lying? He wasn't lying about Harry to hide himself?"

"There are many creatures besides l'uomo nero who can spirit little ones away. People are not to be trusted. You can never tell what they might be hiding, what their real intentions are. Especially people like your Popesc - Mister Pop." He frowned. "Did the old man ever tell you that the Mosul was a good wizard?"

"No," Gracie realised.

"No," he echoed. "You presumed because you are fond of him."

"But what about you?" she bit back desperately. "What if you are the one who's lying? What if you are a wicked wizard or a dragon or l'uomo nero after all?"

"Perhaps I am," he said. "I am not asking you to trust me. I am only asking you not to trust him. He is an evil man; he has poisoned the Other Realm with his deeds, and he must not be allowed to again. You cannot fall under his spell. You cannot go the way that so many other children did. Don't let him lead you into the forests."

"Poisoned? Is that where you're from? The Other Realm?" Gracie regarded the mark on his neck again. "Are you a fairy who has come to warn me? Is it true, that I really am one of you? Can't I please come home?"

The man hesitated. "You can't come home," he said, "until the Mosul is defeated. Not until the poison in the forest is undone, and vengeance is taken on the one who caused it. Not until all those little secrets are resting peacefully." Again he stared hard at her, as though trying to see something other than herself. "You do look so alike," he murmured. "What is your name?"

"Gracie. Greenwood."

"My name is Mihai."

"That sounds like a fairy name."

"It is a name that has been through the forests, yes."

Sarah Greenwood's voice floated towards them from the park. Gracie looked up sharply, but she couldn't see her foster family because of the big tree that had been blocking them from view all along.

"I have to go, Mihai."

"Remember what I told you about your Mosul. Don't trust him. Don't believe anything he tries to tell you."

"I won't, but - I'm so confused now. I don't know who is l'uomo nero and who is anybody anymore."

"Gracie!" Arthur called, and Harry echoed it.

"Bye," she whispered to Mihai, and without a backwards glance skidded off through the trees.

 

4.3 - Tim

 

Tim was sitting behind the till, glancing at a magazine he had concealed on the shelf under the counter, when a woman in a pink, towelling dressing-gown opened the door of the shop with difficulty and stumbled inside. It was raining. The woman's hair was bedraggled and soaking. She had something that might have been money clenched in her hand. She staggered round the shop, and came eventually to the aisle where the alcohol was. She wobbled as she studied the prices on the bottles, and glanced every so often at the wet notes in her hand.

Tim placed his magazine in his secret compartment, tip-toed out from behind the counter, and went to find Mr Barron in the store-room.

"Er, Mr Barron. There's a woman just come in who looks like she might be drunk, or a nutter," said Tim. Mr Barron frowned.

"And what do you expect me to do about it?"

"Could I carry on in here, while you mind the till, until she goes away?"

"Why? If she starts to make trouble, you are much more equal to the task of dealing with her than I am. Don't be such a softie, lad."

"No, Mr Barron."

"Why don't you get whatever it is she seems to want off the shelf for her, take her money, and then gently escort her off the premises? There. Job's a good un."

"Yes, Mr Barron."

Tim tip-toed back into the shop. The woman had moved. She had picked up a wire basket and was filling it with packets of jelly: lime, lemon, strawberry, raspberry, and blackcurrant. Every flavour except, for some reason, orange. The packets of orange jelly she knocked onto the floor.

She wobbled towards the counter, and put the basket down.

"I'll just put this here for now," she said to the un-staffed counter-position, and wobbled back to the aisle with the cooking ingredients, picking up two more baskets as she went.

As the woman was taking down boxes of sponge fingers, tins of custard powder, and tubs of hundreds-and-thousands, two policemen came in, looking glad to be out of the rain. One went to the chiller cabinet, and began to select sandwiches, pasties, and pork pies. The other went to the serve-yourself coffee machine. One of them glanced at Tim, the other at the woman in the damp, towelling dressing-gown. The second one walked over and tapped the first on the arm, and nodded towards the woman.

The policemen put their purchases down, and watched, with arms folded, as the woman put baskets two and three down on the counter, picked up a fourth, and began to fill it with bottles of British sherry.

"The Lord spake unto me, and said, 'Maketh thee a nice big trifle for tea. Know ye surely what day this be. On this day, ye should strive to atone for thy back-sliding and for thy sins'," she said, to some-one Tim couldn't see. One of the policemen took out his notebook and started to write. The woman continued until the basket was so full of the brown bottles that she could hardly get her fingers between the glass and the carrying-handles. As she wobbled and struggled back to the counter, Tim wandered what had happened to the money she had been carrying, and whether that moment would be a good time to just go out the back and start running.

The woman glanced up at Tim.

"Timothy Frances Gillespie Walker! What are you doing here?" She dropped the basket, and then crunched her nonchalant, wobbling way over the resulting shards of glass in what Tim then realised were pale blue, bare feet. Little swirls of blood made the spreading pool of dark liquid on the floor even darker.

Tim cursed himself for freezing just before the moment when one of the policemen grabbed him. Both generations of the Walker family were then subjected to an interrogation. Mrs Walker ignored the policeman's questions.

"I have failed in my duties as a mother. I'm a miserable sinner," she wailed, and started to cry. All Tim caught from his policeman was something about, "anything on you which might injure me or you, or which you know you shouldn't have..." The next thing Tim knew, the policeman was laughing loudly as he examined a document which Tim then realised was his fake driving licence.

"You're nicked, sonny, for possession of a forged document." The other policeman looked at his watch, made frantic notes, looked disdainfully down at Mrs Walker's feet, and called some-one about an ambulance.

"You're this lad's mother?" said Mr Barron, whose presence Tim had not noticed, and both policemen, at the same time. The policemen both added the word, "Madam".

"Of course I'm his mother. He was born on the twenty-second of April, 1999. It's his fifteenth birthday today." Mr Barron put out a hand towards the wall to steady himself.

"Well at least the name and date of birth are in order," said one policeman, holding up the licence.

"Why aren't you in school, my lad?" asked the other policeman, as he unclipped his handcuffs from his utility-belt. Tim started shivering. He felt sick. He was supposed to be driving Laura to her interview in the van in twenty minutes.

 

4.4 - Mabel

 

Mabel thought better on her feet. Ever since she was little, if something was troubling her, she walked. With so many things troubling Mabel today it was no wonder she was too restless to practice her act. Her conversation with Shaun was imprinted in her mind as she walked along the promenade, as was her friend's worrisome state. And then there was Popescu, who Mabel simply couldn't find; and Shaun's suspicions about Popescu, whatever they might be.

She looked up, where the sun would be if there weren't so many clouds, and thought it must be around midday. The beginning of her shift at the café was still hours away. Mabel slowed her pace, usually fast, and then stretched her arms, coming to a stop. She tilted her head backwards, in the same way she did to swallow a sword, feeling the wind on her face. She looked around, to see where she was - even though walking helped Mabel think, thinking didn't help Mabel mind her path. Home.

Mabel was flabbergasted. Ever since her arrival to Skegness she had dutifully avoided the North End and, suddenly, there she was. "There you are, love. Two ways to go: forward or back," Mabel said. She had already started to turn backwards when she decided: forward! That's the one direction we have in life, Mabel thought, so that's the way I'm going.

She could see the ferris wheel of a small fairground, and smell the sea nearby. Beyond the north end, the road turned inland and the beach gave way to grassy dunes. Mabel used to play there as a girl, running with her arms open, so she could touch the tall grass.

It is the place of my dreams, the home of my memories, Mabel pondered, but it is not. Her eyes kept looking for the blackness of the scorched ground but found only the pitch-black coldness of the tarmac of a car park that now occupied the grounds of her home. She closed her eyes, trying to imagine the place how it once was, in all its splendour. She opened her eyes again and then she saw him. Sitting on a bench by the car park, where the circus and all its people once stood, was the very man she had been looking for everywhere: Popescu.

How strange, Mabel thought, and how fitting to find him here of all places. She stood there, looking at the man, unable to fathom why he was here. Why is he still in Skegness? Lately it seems nobody really answers my questions, but he will, Mabel thought as she moved towards the older man in her usual fast and confident gait.

"Hello," she said, casting a shadow over him. He looked up at her. "Hello."

"Do you know who I am?" Mabel went straight to the point. Had he known all along, she wondered.

He moved to the side, making space for Mabel to sit down. "I suppose the waitress from the café is not the answer you are looking for?" Mabel shook her head. "You are Rózsi's girl," he answered, using her mother's pet name. He spoke as he moved: slowly and deliberately. "I've recognized you a while ago, but not at first. You were quite young, then, but you look very much like your mother. Different colouring, that's all. When I saw you talking to the clown - Mungo, is it? - I knew." He looked away from Mabel, into the horizon. "Good woman, your mother. A pity."

They sat in silence for a while, contemplating the past.

"But nobody knows," Mabel broke the silent spell. Popescu looked at her inquisitively. "I mean, nobody knows that you survived," she said. "How come?"

"I was lucky," he said, looking even older than he was. "I didn't see the point of sitting through questions I couldn't answer, or facing the overwhelming attention of the press. Didn't last much, though, their interest. Or the investigation, closed almost as soon as they opened it." Mabel stood up, looking at the ferris wheel not far away, remembering the day of the fire. First the roaring of the fire, then the sirens, and the gushing of the water from the firefighters' hose.

Mabel turned to look at the old man sitting down in his dark, simple suit. He was immersed in thoughts, and looked like he belonged in a painting rather than a car park. "Somebody should paint you." He looked at her, startled. "You just look so, I don't know, paintable, somehow" she said. He smiled and shook his head. "I don't think I'd make a very good painting. What happened to you," he asked suddenly, "after the fire, with your parents... gone?"

"They sent me to London, to live with my dad's aunt," Mabel grimaced at the memory of her great-aunt.

"That's nice, you still had family," he sounded relieved.

"I still had family, yeah, but she was not very nice," she shuddered. "But that's okay, I ran away."

"You ran away? What did you do?"

Mabel realized she was warming up to the old man. He sounded so genuine, and concerned.

"Oh, you know, this and that. I made do."

"No, I actually do not know." He gave her a meaningful look, and she gave up her vagueness.

"I took a deck of cards with me, my dad's deck of cards. He taught me some tricks."

"Ah," he said, smiling. His smile lit up his face and made you want to smile with him.

"So, I did some tricks and the three-card monte for a while, and then I met Arthur."

"Boyfriend?"

"No, knife-thrower, the great Arturi" she said. "I became his assistant and we travelled together, performing." Mabel smiled, remembering dear Arthur's wrinkled face. "He was the best knife-thrower I ever saw."

"Did he pass?"

"No, retired. Parkinson. The day of his last performance was one of the scariest days of my life," she chuckled.

"How did you end up back here?"

"When Arthur was diagnosed, he decided to perform one last time before he retired for good, and he wanted his last performance to be here. His first performance was in Skegness, you see," she said, sitting next to Popescu again. "Then, I don't know, I decided to stay. It's as good a place as any, and it's the only home I know." She looked and him and smiled. "So here I am. What about you, why did you stay?"

"The same reason you did, I suppose. Where would I go?" He shrugged.

"Why did you leave Romania?"

"It was bad there. Ceausescu was in power. Entire villages were destroyed and the people relocated, there were energy shortages, shortages of everything, the people were hungry. There was brutality and murder, the people were afraid. People were dying. So many children abandoned. So many orphanages-," he trailed off. He looked very old, a shadow of himself. "And then there was the fire-"

"Fire?" Mabel interrupted him.

"Yes, in my hometown. A terrible thing, fire. It was... And it was my job to clean it up, to deal with the... remains... the bodies... I just had to get out of there, after that. Just leave, you understand?" Mabel nodded. She wanted to say something that would make him feel better but she knew there was nothing to be said. Fire, Mabel thought, two fires around this man. Marcel, the clown blanc, used to say that history repeats itself - and history certainly repeated itself for Marcel, every single day he would wake up in the steps of his caravan, where he'd fallen the night before, drunk - but this was too much. Popescu sighed next to Mabel. She looked up and saw a figure walking towards them, in the distance, too small to be discernible. She ignored it and wondered why it was Popescu's job to clean up and deal with the bodies. She broke the silence once again.

"Did you come here performing? To England, I mean."

"No, that came later. I was a police officer back home."

Mabel's eyes became wide with surprise. Police officer? Well, I suppose that explains it. She thought he must have been a very good cop. Mentalists have many skills in common with good cops, Mabel pondered, they are observant and good judges of character, and they must have good deductive skills. They are also very good liars.

"How does a Romanian police officer ends up a mentalist in a Skegness circus? Was your family circus people too?"

"No, I was not from the circus. When I came to England I needed to do something, find work, you know. The circus seemed like a good place to work. The people were welcoming, and didn't mind I was a foreigner."

Yeah, Mabel thought, they also don't ask a lot of questions.

"I wanted to reinvent myself after Romania, thus was born Marku, the Magnificent," he continued. "It didn't matter that my skills as a conjurer and mind-reader were few," he chuckled, "the circus is all about showmanship. And I found out I could put on quite a show," he smiled.

Showmanship is the soul of the business, Mabel thought, but some acts required skill, a lot of skill. One can't be a sword-swallower, an acrobat, or a magician on showmanship alone. Or a mentalist, for that matter. People can be stupid and they are willing to be convinced, but without some skills a mentalist would be discredited immediately. And Marku had been a very good mentalist.

Popescu looked up - a man was approaching.

"Hey, hey, good people," the man said with a dulcet tone. "How about a little bet?"

He stopped in front of them and opened a suitcase that doubled as a small table. He removed a deck of cards from his pocket and proceeded to explain the three-card monte to Mabel and Popescu, shuffling the cards as he spoke.

"Why not?" Popescu asked, and winked at Mabel.

"That's the spirit, grandpa. Only a fiver," the man said, removing three cards from the deck, one of them the queen of hearts, and placing them on the suitcase. He got the money from Popescu and started making the cards dance.

"There she is, there she goes, keep your eyes on the lady, where will she end up," he chanted and worked the cards. And then he dropped one of them, the queen.

"Oops, let me put this card back, how clumsy of me, what's that over there?" The man motioned north with his head.

"I see nothing," Popescu said.

Mabel couldn't believe it. A con man trying to trick us, she thought, and a bad one at that. What's that over there? That's his distraction?

"Ready or not, this is the time, where is the lady, where does she hide?"

Popescu pointed at the card on the right. "Let's see if you got it right," the man smirked, and then gasped as he turned the queen. "Lucky," the man said, grudgingly handing Popescu ten pounds. "Double or nothing, grandpa?" Popescu shook his head. "How about the young lady, wouldn't you like to play, only a fiver, yes, wonderful, there we go," the man said as Mabel handed him five pounds.

He chanted and moved the cards, and then looked north again and remarked, "What a big bird!"

"Where?" Mabel asked, amused.

"Oh, it flew by already, ready or not, this is the time, where is the lady, where does she hide?" The man chanted again. Mabel pointed at the card in the middle. The man smirked and turned a jack. "Oh, it seems you lost. This lady is too fast!" He was pocketing the money when Mabel asked, "Where is the lady?"

The man looked confused for a moment, and then regained his panache.

"Here, of course," he said, turning the card on the left. It was a king. "Oh, it must be this one, then," he said, turning the card on the right. Another king. The man gawked at his cards, at a loss. Popescu's laughter was the only sound one could hear.

"But, but, where did she go?" The man asked pathetically.

Mabel reached into his pocket and pulled the queen of hearts.

"How did it get there?"

"You try to trick tricksters, mate?" Mabel asked giggling, and getting her fiver back.

The man finally understood what had happened. He grimaced as he packed his things, then left in a hurry, cursing at them.

"This was fun, dear girl," Popescu said, still laughing.

Mabel nodded, but she wasn't giggling anymore.

"This place has become desolate and cold," she said. "It used to be glorious."

  "You should let the past lie, live for the now. Only ghosts live in the past, and only old people live of memories," he said, getting up and placing a gentle but firm hand on Mabel's shoulder. "Take my advice, draga."

He walked a few steps and turned back. "Come visit me someday." Then he walked away and didn't turn back.

Mabel sat there with tears in her eyes. Draga, dear, was the way her mother called her. She wondered how Shaun could suspect such a nice and open man like Popescu. But then again, Mabel thought, mentalists always know what to tell people: just what they want to hear.

 

4.5 - Anastasia

 

The key painting was complete. Anastasia was standing on a small stepladder to inspect the two metre high board. The same two figures were repeated on the panel. One was a saint, mainly depicted in the eastern Orthodox style, sometimes Greek or Russian, sometimes Coptic or Syrian. The other was an angel or cherub, who took a number of forms, from the delicate Slavic romantic manner, to stylised Manga, via Renaissance classicism. Anastasia observed the picture with some satisfaction. Popescu had been the perfect model for her purpose. His dark, heavy lidded eyes moved disconcertingly between iron will and other worldly contemplation. There was a hint of physical frailty about him that was of the present, yet there was something in his posture, his composure, that suggested power, determination, and the capacity for concealment and deceit.

The angel was the child, Gracie. Anastasia perceived a capricious malevolence in the girl's physical perfection. The images showed a face of impeccable beauty, but the figure was placed in clothes, or in settings that implied contamination. She was seated, serene, in rags, on a billionaire's superyacht, playing with a shotgun; or hovering, smiling, over the rusting, rat infested ferris wheel at the ghost city of Pripyat.

It was time to complete the other panels of the triptych. These, too, would feature Anastasia's Skegness neighbours, but mostly obliquely. The broken thespian, Valerie, was a current preoccupation. The artist had tried etching on glass, but that rendered the road accident too delicately beautiful when she'd intended overblown and hammily operatic. Perhaps it was time to go for heavy duty methods?

She moved away from the painting studio area with its pool of natural light, and around the L shape of the workshop into the harshly lit hazard zone. There was no facility here for casting molten metal, but other than such specialist skills, Anastasia had all the tools and materials to hand to cut sheet metal, glass, acrylic polymers, wood. She had oxy-acetylene for heat cutting and molding; toxic chemical baths for distressing materials, and an array of industry standard power tools, benches and vices. Valerie, Anastasia decided, would be made of chemically corroded acrylic with some decorative flame scorching. But it must wait. A taxi was hooting its presence out on the street. Anastasia had an appointment with a fowl specialist.

"Alford?" said the taxi driver. "Not much call for Alford. Full of foreigners these days."

"Is it?" said Anastasia. "I didn't know it was that exciting."

"Portuguese, Ukrainians, all sorts. Hang on to your bag, that's all I can say," said the taxi driver, nodding at Anastasia in the rear view mirror. She glanced down at her bag, a large sports holdall. It contained a seagull wrapped in polythene on a bed of ice packs.

Anderson & Co. was a meat processing and packaging factory on a rural site where visceral waste could be sluiced away daily without too many complaints from fussy neighbours. The main entrance was an unassuming place, like the lobby of a Royal Mail sorting office, with a small hatch and a bell to press. Anastasia pushed the button and waited, studying various hygiene inspection certificates hanging in frames on the pale blue wall. A voice called through the hatch, "Is that Mrs Boty?"

"Anastasia Boty," said Anastasia, "here to meet the manager."

"Tony!" yelled the voice, "Your artist's here!" Moments later a door opened and a man walked out, talking into a mobile phone.

"Yeah, I'm on it," said the man, ending the call. He extended a hand. "I'm Tony Holman. Sorry, but we've got a bit of a problem here, technical stuff. I need to deal with it right now. But I can get one of the workers to walk you round, tell you what we do. Best I can do."

Tony led Anastasia down a short corridor and out into a busy yard where a refrigerated lorry was backing into a loading bay. The smell of flesh, detectable in the car park, grew stronger, more cloyingly insistent here in the heart of the complex. They passed through a doorframe hung with heavy rubber strips which led to a locker room. Tony unlocked the largest locker and took out a white coat, what looked like a white shower cap, and some overshoes. "Put these on and scrub your hands in the basin over there. I'll get one of the guys to look after you."

Anastasia did as she was told, whilst Tony departed. He did not reappear. A younger man came along, a slight bespectacled figure also in white, complete with the bonnet.

"Mr. Holman asked me to show you the factory," said the man. "My name is Vassil. You are an artist?"

"Yes," said Anastasia. "I would be interested to look around, but actually I have a problem I need help with."

"Mr. Holman was very specific about what I should do, where I should take you," said Vassil. "If you don't mind, I will walk you around. I can answer your questions as we go. If there's anything I don't know, I can probably find someone who does."

The first stop on the tour was the abattoir. "We process birds here. Chickens, turkeys, sometimes smaller runs of things like guinea fowl," said Vassil. We don't have an on-site abattoir for mammals."

"This is kind of what I'm interested in," said Anastasia. "The bag I left in the locker room? It contains a seagull."

"If it's in the bag I would guess it's already dead," said Vassil. "You don't need an abattoir."

"I need the gull's skeleton. I've tried speeding up decomposition, but that just creates a mess," said Anastasia. "Can you help me to separate bird from skeleton?"

"Decomposition is a natural process following death," said Vassil. "It can occur at different speeds, depending upon a range of environmental factors. Heat, humidity, soil, vegetation, light, entomological activity, the variables are many."

"You sound very knowledgeable, Vassil, " said Anastasia. "Do you need to know all this in order to process chickens?"

"You need to know very little to process chickens," said Vassil. "I studied biological sciences in Bulgaria."

"You have a biology degree?" said Anastasia.

"I have a masters, yes," said Vassil. "But I am here to earn enough money to study in this country. I want to become a forensic entomologist. Britain is at the forefront of this field of research and practice."

"So what is forensic, what was it?" said Anastasia.

"Forensic entomology," said Vassil. "My interest is in bugs. More particularly, the part played by insects in decomposition of human and animal remains. It is an increasingly important specialism in forensic science."

"CSI stuff?" said Anastasia, "That's fascinating. You're exactly the man I need."

"Probably not, but I'll do my best," said Vassil. "Now, over there's the plucking bay, but that's not so interesting. We go to the cleaning bay. It's messy in there, so stay behind the yellow line on the floor. We have to walk through a disinfectant bath on the way in and on the way out. It's slippy, so hold the handrail. Just do what I do."

Messy? Understatement, thought Anastasia as they entered the cleaning bay next to the abattoir. The killing room had been relatively bloodless, but the cleaning room was awash with fowlish viscera.

"What are they doing?" said Anastasia indicating a line of women. They were standing at a sloping stainless steel counter seemingly tearing birds' innards to bits, flicking some into a sloping steel gulley, and scooping others into funnels.

"Sorting offal from general animal matter," said Vassil. "If it's legal to put it into the human food chain, we use it. Other bits go for pet food. Very little is actually thrown away. This is a very efficient industry."

"Can I take a photo?" asked Anastasia.

"I don't think so," said Vassil. "I mean, I can ask Mr. Holman, but I'm not sure the workers here would be happy."

"What's the problem?" said Anastasia.

"They don't like visitors at the best of times," said Vassil. "You say you're an artist, which is such an unlikely story that I believe you. But many people here don't speak good English. They fear the authorities. You could be anyone; Revenue and Customs, The Border Agency."

"OK, I won't take pictures," said Anastasia. "But why are they so worried? They're here legally?"

"Yes, in this factory," said Vassil. "But we hear stories. We live amongst people who've overstayed visas, people run by gangmasters, people who owe money. Fear is not irrational."

Walking through the disinfectant bath brought Vassil and Anastasia out into a butchery unit, where birds were dressed, or jointed, and assessed for quality.

"Is this what you want done to your gull?" said Vassil.

"Absolutely not. I need the skeleton intact," said Anastasia.

"A bird is an organism, not a mechanical device, it's not just flesh and feathers draped over a skeletal frame," said Vassil. "Even with natural decomposition a skeleton's likely to fall apart. Many joints require functioning connective tissue to hold them in place."

"But we see animal skeletons in natural history museums," said Anastasia. "There must be a method."

"There are techniques that can be used to simulate intactness," said Vassil. "Is that a word, in English?"

"Don't ask me," said Anastasia. "But I get your meaning. You can't help me."

"I can look at your gull," said Vassil, "If that's what you want. I can advise you about what is possible."

Back in the locker room at the end of the tour, Anastasia pulled the polythene wrapped bird from the bag. "It was in the freezer, but I've defrosted it," she said.

Vassil crouched down, though he didn't need to look at the bird to know what he would say. "Miss Boty, if this gull is so important to your art, apply your imagination, not hungry bugs or corrosive substances. I can help you to get at the bones beneath, but that's all they'll be. Bones, bleached, pocked, held together with glue and wire."

"I hear you, Vassil," said Anastasia. "But give me your phone number anyway. And here's my card."

"I'll take you back to reception," said Vassil.

"No, wait," said Anastasia. "There's something else you might be able to help with." Anastasia pulled a file from her messenger bag, and handed Vassil the set of photographs.

"Children?" said Vassil. "These are old pictures, I think."

"On the other side," said Anastasia. "The writing. Can you read it?"

"OK," said Vassil, turning the paper over. "Yes, this is Romanian."

"Can you tell me what it says?" said Anastasia.

"I'm Bulgarian," said Vassil, "But I can read Romanian. Russian, too. This is a list of names."

"Names? Of these children, do you think?" said Anastasia.

"Probably," said Vassil. "Why do you need to know?"

"That girl there," said Anastasia pointing to one of the images, "she might be the twin of a little girl I've been painting recently."

"I doubt it. She'd be more like my age now," said Vassil.

"It's just that the likeness is so striking," said Anastasia, "It's made me curious."

"OK," said Vassil. "So look, the stamp at the top, 'Departamentul de Sanatate', you can probably guess what that says."

"Yeah, department of something," said Anastasia.

"Romanian's a heavily Latinate language. Sana, health?" said Vassil. "So it's The Department of Health."

"And all the rest are names?"

"No," said Vassil, "The words at the top say that these are children from an orphanage in Mangalia in 1989."

"Will you read the names to me? I don't know how to pronounce them all," said Anastasia.

"Sure," said Vassil, "Mihaela Balan, Marius Moldoveanu, Cristina Bogdansescu, Ion Croitoru, Mihai Radu, Dorin Fieraru, hey?" Vassil looked up at Anastasia. "Does any of this mean anything to you?"

 

4.6 - Bobby

 

Bobby pulled his somewhat dated, but meticulously maintained, Rover into the nearly abandoned car park adjacent to a row of chalets bordering the Sandilands beach. He stared blankly at the only other vehicle in the park before turning his gaze on Marcus.

"Not especially subtle, are they?" he asked.

"It's meant to intimidate, I think," Marcus replied.

"I don't think I feel like being intimidated today," Bobby said.

Bobby opened his door and stepped out of the Rover. He walked some distance away from the car and stood comparing the mammoth black chrome-covered Cadillac Escalade with his own vehicle. Then, with malicious deliberation, he took his keys and gouged a wide fissure in the Cadillac's paint from the rear bumper to the hood.

"Why, Bobby?" Marcus asked.

"Because it offends me. The way I was summoned here offends me. Your toadying to them offends me. I marked it because I can. I don't expect you to understand, but you want to be careful I don't start thinking that you need to be marked, too."

"I'm you're man, Bobby," Marcus protested. "You wanted this meeting so I set it up, just like you asked."

Bobby turned his back on the man and contemplated the sea. He'd always loved the ocean, especially at dusk. He found its immensity calming.

"You carrying?" Bobby asked without turning.

"No. Didn't have time to find a clean weapon."

"There's a .45 in the Rover if you want it."

"I thought the plan was to walk away."

"Plans gang aft agley, according to the man."

"Say again, Sweets?"

"Forget it. After we speak with these gentlemen and give them to understand our position in this community, you and I will have a discussion regarding the nature of our relationship. Understood?"

Marcus nodded.

"Let's take a leisurely walk down the strand. It won't do to seem over eager," Bobby said.

"Ever been out here before?" Bobby asked without waiting for an answer. "These beach huts have been here since the '60's. I think they have a certain charm in a beat-to-hell kind of way. Pity that no one looks after them with any consistency. A few were burned to the ground last season," Bobby rambled, noting likely ambush points and, more importantly, escape routes.

"Our guests from the East," Bobby muttered, nodding toward one of the more intact huts, emanating the glow of an electric lamp from its windows. The light was just bright enough to signal the Romanians' presence but dim enough to keep Bobby from seeing anything useful. Smart boys. "Keep your mouth shut and eyes open, Marcus" Bobby said, trudging toward the little building.

The chalet really was little more than a wooden hut, and a flimsy one at that. Bobby knocked lightly on the doorframe so the structure wouldn't collapse. The door was instantly opened by a large, heavyset man in a cheap suit and cheaper shoes who grunted at Bobby and Marcus to enter. Bobby found another reason to be offended.

"Son, you may not know one fucking word of English but when you see me you better smile and nod for all you're worth. You understand that well enough, I reckon, but to be sure...."

Bobby's left hand shot out in a blur and caught the man's windpipe in a crushing grip. He squeezed hard and the man's mouth gaped open as he fought for air. A three inch triangular K-Bar ditch knife appeared in Bobby's right hand which he angled past the man's teeth to the back of his tongue.

"You've the necessary equipment for speech, it seems. Some sloppy dental work, to be sure, but you'll forget all about that in a moment. Should we take his tongue back to show the lads or feed it to the gulls, Marcus?"

"Bobby...."

"Make a decision, man. This bastard's about to choke to death."

"I think you should let him go."

"Which I will, as soon as he's learned a valuable lesson."

"I will undertake to teach my own men lessons of value as I choose, Mr. Bobby," a thickly accented Eastern European said from within the dimly lit hut. "My gratitude for your releasing him, please."

"As a token of good faith, I suppose," Bobby snarled.

"So that my men can be persuaded not to kill you," the voice said.

"Fair enough," Bobby replied. "Here he is."

Bobby laid the blade flat on the man's tongue and simultaneously shoved him away while jerking the knife from his mouth, ripping the tongue wide open from root to tip. The screaming was horrific.

"He'll heal," Bobby shrugged.

The voice rattled off something in what Bobby supposed was Romanian for "stop screaming or I'll give you something to scream about" because the screaming did, in fact, stop with impressive alacrity. He must have also been instructed to bugger off as, after shooting Bobby a glare of pure hatred, he started tacking back toward the car park.

"That was ill done, Mr. Bobby. Yours is an evil nature," said the voice.

"Jay-sus, it was just a scratch. I've had worse shaving. Now, how about turning on a fucking light and we talk business."

"As you wish."

The little electric lamp was turned up to its full output, revealing approximately what Bobby expected: a single, dingy room littered with broken furniture, a couple of chairs that might possibly support the weight of an average adult, a truly ancient linoleum table, two men in very bad suits and one man in a suit that would have almost been passable a decade ago.

"My name is Andras," said the man in marginally better men's attire. "It is not necessary you know the names of my colleagues."

"Fine by me, sunshine. I'm not one to form attachments, anyway."

"Please listen, Mr. Bobby, as your understanding will expedite matters," Andras said.

Bobby nodded.

"Good. It is my business to help my countrymen to relocate here. To find them housing, employment in their chosen trades, and ensure access to basic services. Do you understand, Mr. Bobby?"

"Seems fairly straightforward, so far," Bobby replied.

"Perhaps not as straightforward as it might first appear, Mr. Bobby," Andras said with a faint smile. "You see, Mr. Bobby, you present a substantial obstacle to the success of my efforts."

"Me?" Bobby asked, genuinely perplexed. "Why should I care if a bunch of plug uglies emigrate to Blighty? Someone has to collect the rubbish and clean the sewers, although it wouldn't surprise me if labour unions ran those rackets. Never put any thought into until now."

"I'm afraid you do misunderstand, Mr. Bobby," Andras replied evenly. "The employment of which I speak is largely under your protection. This is not acceptable and will not be tolerated. We will provide you a comprehensive list of all enterprises you are required to release but, in truth, I can think of no single business you will be allowed to keep. I understand this is unsettling news to you."

"Indeed," Bobby said.

"Ervin, please get Mr. Bobby a drink," Andras ordered and one of the men whom it was unnecessary for Bobby to know handed him a flask of what smelled like raw alcohol.

"Tuica, Mr. Bobby," Andras elaborated. "A kind of plum brandy. I regret we have nothing else at hand."

"Why start regretting things now?" asked Bobby as he tilted the flask back.

"May I offer a suggestion, Mr. Bobby, that you would do well to adopt?" Andras asked.

"Offer away, my Romanian replacement," Bobby replied.

"Your existence here is soon to become very...the word eludes me...."

"Fucked?" Bobby supplied.

"Untenable, is the word I wanted. "Fucked", is, as I understand the word, also applicable. Perhaps it is time that you retire and leave Skegness. I have it on excellent authority that lucrative positions are available to you as private security. Positions which, after witnessing your admonition of my young colleague, I have every confidence at which you would excel."

"You're telling me to get out of town," Bobby said.

"I'm telling you, Mr. Bobby, that I have no personal dislike of you. In some respects, I am not without sympathy; however, I will not allow you to obstruct me."

For a man in a suit with lapels out to the shoulders, the man made a compelling case, Bobby thought as he opened his awareness to encompass even the most minute details of the room. Something was missing and it was something so glaringly obvious he knew he wouldn't have time to see it until later. If there was a later.

"You've shown me surprising consideration, Andras. You're a gentleman and that's very rare. I salute you, sir," Bobby said sincerely.

Andras accepted the compliment with a gracious nod of his head.

"I, on the other hand, am a soulless, heartless bastard who would happily feed your mother, sister, brother, wife, and any other loved ones you might have to feral dogs if I thought it might wipe that sanctimonious look from your soon to be horribly disfigured face."

Andras' expression of alarmed confusion was too much for Bobby. He threw his head back and roared with laughter. There were layers of comedy here. He only hoped he lived long enough to fully appreciate them.

With a reckless disregard for his own physical wellbeing, Bobby launched his entire body at the man, catching him in the chest with a lowered shoulder and wrapping him in brutal rib-crushing bearhug that, for a moment, put them face to face. A moment for Andras to witness the depths of Bobby's unrestrained madness and a moment for Bobby, consumed in the glory of violence, to sink his teeth into the skin just under Andras' right eye socket and rip away most of his face.

Andras screamed in horror. Bobby howled in joy. The nameless Romanians seemed on the cusp of running.

Until Bobby saw what was missing and faltered. The brutality of the beating the two men inflicted on Bobby reflected their earlier fear. He had unmanned them and that required redress.

Bobby understood. Just like he understood they probably wouldn't kill him. They were lackeys and murder was irrevocable. Lackeys didn't make irrevocable decisions. They would wait for Andras and, Bobby thought with grim humor, Andras wasn't likely to say anything recognizable for some time.

So Bobby buried himself deep in his breaking body and waited for the blackness to take him. It would come soon enough and when-or if-it released him, maybe Marcus would be there to explain his betrayal. God help him if he wasn't.

 

 4.7 - Nell

 

"What's going on with Rachel? She's been a real bitch the last few days." The front door had barely swung shut on her boss when Mabel wheeled on Nell.

Nell shrugged without glancing up from where she was counting out her till. "We had a fight the other night."

"Obviously," Mabel said. "Why's she taking it out on the rest of us?"

"I don't know. Sorry about that. I owe you a couple of shifts for putting up with us."

"True. I deserve an award for mediating this shit. " She nudged her friend out of the way as she slid a tray of clean cups onto the counter. "I'll settle for an explanation. What happened?"

"Nothing, really."

"Did she find out about that guy coming by the other day?"

"Which guy?"

Mabel half-laughed. "I'm not your mother. That line's not going to work on me."

 "I explained to her that it was no big deal." Nell said.

"Were you lying?"

"Not...exactly. No." She shook her head. "Two weeks ago, it was nothing. Just some extra cash."

"So what happened?"

"Bodies started turning up. A detective came to talk to me about Lewis, and Rachel overheard."

Mabel dropped her chin into her hands. " No shit."

Nell bagged her cash and dropped it into the lock box. "She was pissed. I think she was channeling my mother. I tuned out after she started telling me I was acting out because I hadn't properly handled my grief."

"Have you 'properly handled your grief?'" Nell snorted, but one look at her friend told her Mabel wasn't going to be put off as easily as her aunt had been.

"What does that even mean? Do I need to pass a special test in order to prove that I've gotten over my husband getting shot in the head at point blank range? Because I'll take one if it means everyone will get off my fucking back about it." She slammed the lock into place, jamming it twice before the tumblers clicked into place.

"She cares about you."

"I don't need her to. I moved three thousand miles away from my family to get away from their worrying," Nell said. " It's war. People die." She ripped off her apron and threw it onto the counter.

"I know."

"He signed up for it. Twice. Second time, didn't even ask me." She leaned back against the wall. "I knew what I was getting into when I married him. He was a soldier first, and a husband...I don't know. By accident, maybe." Nell stared at a sticky spot she'd missed when mopping up. "He loved me. He did. He just - he always had to get the job done."

"I'm sorry." Mabel reached out to grab Nell's hand.

She pulled away and fiddled with the zipper on her sweatshirt. "Look, I've had time. Plenty of it, really. I've been with other guys. Gone to therapy. I've talked it out, you know?" The room felt too bright for this conversation. "I mean, you do know, of course. There's just this, this space. It's untouchable. You build around it. You make a life around it, or it swallows you." She met Mabel's gaze, her eyes bright. "We're not ready to be swallowed, right?"

"No," Mabel agreed. "We're not. But I think Rachel's scared for you." She twisted a rag between her fingers. "You're lucky."

Nell just shook her head. "I'm being careful."

"Really?"

"As careful as you," she said.

"What does that mean?" Mabel asked.

"I came to the show last week. You left with some guy?"

"So what? I can't take a man home?"

"Not when fucking corpses keep showing up, no." Nell's voice cracked.

"He wasn't going to kill me."

"You're right. Maybe he just wanted to make a coat out of your skin."

Mabel snorted. "First of all, that's disgusting."

"I'm just saying, it happens."

"It really doesn't. Secondly, my house is full of extremely sharp swords that I actually know how to use."

"You brought him home? Seriously? He could come back and murder you anytime now."

"So could that brute who was in here last week!"

"Actually," Nell said, "I think he's dead."

Mabel dragged a chair off of the nearest table and banged it onto the floor. She dropped down, pulling her feet up under her. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"But the guys he works for...well, I don't know. Maybe they know where I live too." Nell glanced up at the door. She'd locked it, but a fist through the glass would be easy enough. They were exposed here, lights on and the metal shades still up. "We're both fucked."

"Are you being serious right now? I can't tell."

"No. Yes. I don't know." Nell clenched her jaw. "Maybe."
Mabel sighed. "Would it make you feel better or worse if you knew Mihai was asking about Popescu?"

Nell tilted her head, clearly trying to make sense of this conversational shift. "Popescu? Why?"

"I think Mihai came here - to Skegness, I mean - to find him." Mabel said. "Well, to find his brother, really."

"Popescu's his brother?"

"No."

"I'm confused."

Mabel shrugged. "Me too."

"What does he want with Popescu then?" Nell asked.

"I don't know."

"He's not going to kill him, is he?" Mabel bit her lip. "Wait - is he?"

"I don't know, Nell!"

"Because we're up to necks in murder and mayhem, if you haven't noticed. I mean, did you see that woman get run down in the road? Jesus," Nell slammed her hand on the counter. "This has to be related."

"What? A car accident? Related to Popescu?"

"Or the bodies," Nell said. "Or both."

"Or it was just an accident," Mabel replied as Nell's phone rang.

Nell stared at the number on her screen. She held up her finger to Mabel and answered it with a terse "Yes," and then listened in silence.

"The arcade?" She glanced at the clock on the wall. "Maybe 11?" She hung up without another word and reached behind the counter for her bag.

"Who was that?" Mabel asked.

"Sweet Bobby Thomas."

"Don't know him."

"Good," Nell said shortly. "Let's keep it that way." She glanced at Mabel. "Are you ready? I've gotta lock up."

"Nell-"

"It's fine. He owes me a favor, and after tonight, he'll owe me one more. It's a good thing, really," she said. Pulling on her jacket, she waited impatiently while Mabel grabbed her purse and coat.

"Is this the man you thought might kill you five minutes ago?" Mabel asked, pausing at the door, her slender body somehow filling the frame as Nell tried to push past.

 

"He's one of the them," Nell said after unsuccessfully trying to shift the other woman out of her path. "But he also might be the only person standing between me and the guy who thinks I'm a loose end, so I'm taking my chances."

"You're an idiot."

"I know."

Mabel blocked her way for a moment longer, then leaned down and brushed a kiss onto the younger woman's forehead. "Be careful, idiot." She stepped out of the way and let Nell slide past her.

By the time Nell brought down the metal grate and locked it, Mabel had disappeared. Good. Better she not hang around trying to talk Nell out of doing yet another incredibly stupid thing. She had to be reaching her quota for the week.

Lying to Chivers had been a breeze compared to her aunt. Nell zipped her jacket as she hurried down the street. The shops were closed up tight, and the pubs were beginning to let out as last call rang. Rachel seemed to have inherited a bloodhound's nose for sniffing out deceit. Nell considered it fortunate she and her brothers had spent years watching their father sell insurance; he had schooled them in the crafting of half-truths, and it had served her well enough the other night.

Nell picked up her pace to dodge a group of women. As she darted around them one of the stragglers, absorbed in her phone, slammed into her.

"Hey, watch it!" The woman glared at her. Nell scowled back. She felt like picking a fight over the fact that Brits couldn't walk properly. Pass on the right. Or on the left! She couldn't care less as long as there was consensus! The pedestrian chaos seemed to go largely unnoticed by others though; she couldn't understand it. It was almost more shocking than the casual use of expletives she would have been shunned for using in the States...almost. The first time she'd been called the c-word, she gone home and cried. In nine months, she'd nearly gotten used to it, but tonight, it would be so satisfying to let loose. Let them call her whatever they wanted behind her back.

Nell shook her head and hurried across the street before her temper got the best of her. Not now. If she survived the rest of this, she could consider a little hair-pulling over something as stupid as that. As it was, she needed to rally; if Bobby was calling her this late, shit was bad. Nell forced herself to push away lingering thoughts of her husband, of Mabel and Rachel. She couldn't afford to lose focus.

She strode along the curb until she reached the quieter neighborhood near the arcade. The weather had been practically balmy today, and the number of people out this late were a testament to how a little sun could feel like a holiday. In summer, this part of the city might even have seen its share of the action, but tonight, the only place lit up was Flirtz, the strip club open 'til 4. The arcade itself was closed and looked especially dingy in the yellow glow of the streetlights, although its brick facade made it feel more substantial than the newer construction surrounding it. Nell stopped at the front door. It was completely dark inside, and Bobby had told her to come to his office around back.

She really was an idiot, she thought as she ducked around the corner into the filthy alley behind the shops. The dumpsters were overflowing, and she almost choked on the smell. It's trash, she told herself. Those smears on the ground? Probably just grease.

She paused when she reached the door, gingerly pressing an ear against it. Nothing. It was either too thick to hear through, or Bobby was alone. Nell took a moment to say a brief prayer and knocked. There was a buzzer, and as she waited for a response, she thought about pushing it. No. If he wasn't listening for her, tough shit. She glanced up at the camera mounted in the eaves. Nell resisted the urge to give it a little wave. Cheekiness like that played well in the movies, but in spite of what Mabel might think, she really was trying to be careful. She didn't want to end up in pieces in those dumpsters.

She knocked again, a little louder, and her phone buzzed. She pulled it out and looked at the text from Bobby. "Unlocked." She pushed the door open.

Thomas's office was at complete odds with the alleyway. The oriental carpet was lush, and looked new, and the couch Bobby was currently bleeding all over was covered in gorgeous black leather. He even had a potted ficus behind his desk that looked remarkably well cared for. He might look like hell had spit him back with some serious chunks removed, but he sure knew how to decorate. Nell stared at the man in front of her. Cashmere sweater. Polished brown boots. A face that looked to have been through a meat grinder.

She shut the door behind her. "What the hell happened to you?"

 

4.8 - Mungo

 

Contrary to popular opinion, Mungo wasn't homeless. Lincolnshire County Council had speedily provided him with a flat twelve years ago after the fire. It was the least they could do considering how long it took the fire services to get to the circus site at North End.

The flat wasn't much, a mere one-room studio. But even a drunken clown needed a place to hang his floppy hat after a hard day's work. And it was certainly better than kipping on his bench. He had done that a few times, mostly be accident, and every time he awoke to find Spitfire perched on his chest leaving a mess and several moulting feathers.

Mungo was heading to his flat now, staggering along the moonlit promenade with his polka dot briefcase in one hand and his dinner in the other. He had been to First Plaice for a cone of chips and battered bits. The staff in the chip shop knew him well so the chips were heavily outflanked by the battered bits. A most satisfying ratio , thought Mungo. Less satisfying was Mungo's lack of a third hand to wield the little wooden fork that accompanied his cone. But Mungo would not go without food for want of limbs so he stuck his face in the paper cone like a horse with a muzzle.

Why stand on ceremony? Mungo considered. I'm long past that. Besides, the Promenade is a ghost town tonight. Just the stars and I.

As Mungo filled his mouth and lungs with the heavenly musk of salt and vinegar, his mind wandered back over the past week. It had been a strange old time, to be certain. His Third Life was supposed to be one of solitude - a circus of one. But now people were filing into his Big Top. There was the artist woman, Ana, who had advanced on him with her sketchbook. There was the little girl, Gracie Greenwood, who had fled from that man Harry. That had led to further conversations as two police officers arrived to escort Gracie home. And then yesterday Mabel unveiled her survivor theory concerning Marku the Magnificent - or Popescu as he was now known.

On that topic, Mungo found himself passing Sammy's Cafe where Mabel worked. She mentioned that Popescu played chess in the cafe. Would Popescu be there now? Would Mabel be sat with Popescu, toasting the memory of Ringmaster Romero with a mug of hot chocolate? Or had Mabel yet to confront the old man? Perhaps she buried the photos after Mungo's scornful comments, which he now sorely regretted.

Mungo took an uncharacteristic pause from his meal to stop outside the cafe. It would surprise some to know that Mungo had a cultured upbringing. He was home-schooled by his father who was adamant that his son would be familiar with the arts. As a young boy, he was taken to art galleries and museums and theatrical performances. Mungo suspected this might account for why his voice became more Dickensian, more Shakespearian, more Quixotic, after several swigs of cider. No doubt it also explained why Mungo was struck with a sense of déjà vu upon staring into the cafe windows.

 The tableau inside the cafe reminded him of Nighthawks , a painting by Edward Hopper. A warm glow emanated from within, lighting up the cafe like a beacon in a black sea. Each customer sat alone, their backs turned to the glass windows, disregarding not just the dark night but the outside world in its entirety. They reserved their attention solely for the warm beverages over which they huddled so tightly, hunch-backed and withdrawn.

"Are you in there, Popescu?" asked Mungo aloud. "Are you one of these Nighthawks?"

Two things surprised Mungo at that moment, simultaneously. Firstly, he took a step towards the cafe with one of his over-sized clown feet. Am I really going in there? But he never found out because, secondly, a voice shouted through the darkness.

"Clovn!"

Mungo jumped and scrunched his paper cone in shock. "Who - who goes there?"

"You must be Mungo!"

A man was leaning against the base of a billboard advertising the Skegness Illuminations four months ahead of schedule. Ironically, the billboard was anything but illuminated and the man would have been completely hidden in shadow if it were not for the tiny glow of his cigarette.

"You have me at a disadvantage," Mungo replied, still shaken. "You are-?"

"A friend," the man replied with a strong accent. "Well, a friend of a friend. Perhaps you can help me."

Mungo sighed. "I can't help anyone, including myself. Good night."

Mungo started to leave but the man swiftly tossed his cigarette and skipped out of the shadows, blocking Mungo's path. He was tall and lean. "No, I think you can help me, clovn."

"How?"

Mungo saw the man for the first time. He wore a smirk on his face and had mirthful green eyes. A third blue eye was tattooed on his forearm. Mungo felt all three of the man's eyes piercing his very soul.

"Simple. I need to find Popescu. Mabel knows Popescu. You know Mabel. Perhaps you know Popescu too? Mabel tells me all three of you were in the circus together."

"I don't know what you are talking about."

The man's smirk faded. "I think you do. You are a clovn, not a păcăli. Is Popescu coming any time soon? Mabel tells me he visits the cafe often."

So the man wasn't just lurking in the shadows, Mungo realised. He was spying on the cafe. He was waiting.

"Please. I'm just trying to get home." Mungo tried to step past the man but he blocked Mungo's path once more.

"I will ask again. Where is the old man?"

"I don't know."

The man scowled and his voice hardened. "Well, if you do not know then I will have to ask Mabel. And I may not ask her very nicely."

Mungo looked up at the mention of Mabel's name. "Don't you dare. Leave Mabel alone."

"Hmm. I was wrong. You are a păcăli."

The man slapped the cone of chips out of Mungo's hands and it disappeared into the night. Mungo held up his polka dot briefcase in defence and the man shoved hard against it. Mungo toppled backwards and the briefcase burst open, its contents spilling everywhere.

The man paused. "What is all this stuff?"

Mungo lay dazed on the ground surrounded by circus memorabilia: spare red noses, juggling clubs, his make-up kit, an oversized bowtie, a squirting flower, a rubber chicken, spinning plates, a diabolo, several spotty hankies, a bunch of fake flowers and so much more. The man scanned the items in confusion but Mungo only had eyes for one item: his clown horn.

The clown horn was a key component of Mungo's arsenal. Back in the day, he had used the horn in a whole host of gags. The horn would distract Hokum from his trademark pie-spinning routine - naturally the pies would then topple onto Hokum and Mungo's heads for a crowd-pleasing blow-off. Another side-dish involved Mungo sneaking up on Rolo as she juggled on top of a ladder. He would then blast the horn causing her to topple from the ladder into Mungo's outstretched arms without dropping a single ball. And of course, the horn fit snugly onto the dashboard of their clown car, Panza-Knacker, which would drive around the ring at the start and end of each show to raucous applause.

Yes, the clown horn was useful. It was also deceptively loud.

Mungo grabbed it with both hands and squeezed. HONK! HONK! HONK!

"Stop that!" the man snapped and launched a flurry of kicks at Mungo's midriff. Mungo barely felt it - he had ample padding after years of feasting on Skegness' deep-fried smorgasbord. Instead he focussed all of his efforts on the horn. He kept squeezing.

HONK! HONK! HONK!

"I said stop!"

The man reached into the back of his jeans and pulled out a pistol. The sight was so alarming that Mungo dropped the horn and raised his white gloves in surrender. Mungo remembered the dead body on the beach. He recalled an old lady being shot at a block of flats. Where had he read that? On the newspaper holding his chips? It didn't matter. The town was descending into madness. Mungo stared into the barrel of the gun, a fourth unblinking eye in addition to the man's ruthless stare and his eyeball tattoo.

"Păcăli, this is your last -"

But the man never reached the end of his sentence. There was movement in the cafe windows, shifting shapes silhouetted in the bright interior lights. Several faces were pressed up against the glass peering out. The Nighthawks had awoken, responding to the call of Mungo's horn.

"Is that Mungo?" asked one customer. The voice was distant, muffled by the glass, but both Mungo and his attacker heard it.

"It is Mungo!" another voice replied. "Who's that with him?"

The man holding the gun scowled. He stuffed the weapon back into his jeans and pointed his finger at Mungo. "I will see you again." And with that, the man scarpered, vanishing into the night.

Mungo lay frozen in fear amidst his circus paraphernalia. He became aware that his heart had not pumped for quite some time. His chest was tight. He felt twelve years of fried food and spun candy clogging up inside his arteries.

Breathe, Mungo, breathe, he told himself. Or it will be the final curtain.

He gasped for air and something loosened in his chest, the blood flowed again. And not a moment too soon because the cafe clientele were filing out to come to Mungo's aid.

No, Mungo thought. This Big Top is crowded enough. No more.

And so he scrambled to his feet, hastily gathering his belongings and shoving them back into his briefcase. He snapped the clasps shut as best he could and fled into the night, following the same trajectory as both his attacker and his unfortunate cone of chips.

Mungo ran home along the dark, silent promenade and did not stop until he reached the sanctuary of his flat, bruised, breathless and bewildered.

After locking his door, he dived into bed, covering himself with the duvet as if it were the canopy of his dearly departed circus. Mungo knew the show must go on. He could hide under the covers for now but the night was just an intermission. He would be called back to the stage in the morning.

And he feared what the next act would bring.