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Ten To One Newsletter - September 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

 

 

Second Round Results - The second 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 Sue Barsby, creator of the character Valerie, was voted out of Ten To One. As part of the process, Sue has now been invited to join the panel of judges.

 

 

Ten To One author interview - Livia Akstein Vioto -

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, Livia Akstein Vioto talks about her character, Mabel, about writing in English when it's not your first language and the untranslatable differences between English and Portuguese.

http://www.mrclovenhoof.blogspot.co.uk/2013/08/ten-to-one-author-interview-livia.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 3.1 - 3.9 (excluding 3.5, the chapter for the now departed Valerie)

 

You have until midnight on 11th September 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

 

 

And now the third round of chapters...

 

3.1 - Mabel

 

Snap. Snap. Snap.

 

The supporting ropes of the circus tent burnt through and the flaming canopy began to fall.

The sirens were wailing but it was all over now.

Mabel stood by the scorched ground, soot and tears on her face, hearing all the late sirens at the distance: ambulance, police cars, the fire engine...

Her knees gave out and she collapsed to the ground, feeling its roughness against her skin. And then they stopped. All the sirens went silent. The whole world: silent.

Mabel lifted her head, confused. Everything was still. Everything but a clown, running, far away.

She just knelt there, looking. Feeling the anguish one feels when the whole world comes crashing down.

Then she heard it: the wild roaring of the fire. Mabel couldn't understand, she thought it was over. She looked up as the flames built over her like a giant wave.

 

Mabel sat on her bed, with the feeling you get when you fall in your dreams. A dream, Mabel thought, slowly coming out of it.

"Are you alright?"

Mabel's heart skipped a beat at the sound of Mihai's voice. He was seating on her sofa, a pile of folded covers stacked neatly next to him, concern all over his face.

She nodded without conviction. The nightmare was so vivid Mabel had forgotten Mihai would still be there. The events of last night started to return in flashes: she was at the Sand Castle, talking to Mihai...

 

"Tell me," Mihai said seriously, "who is this friend of yours, Popescu?"

Mabel felt uneasy with the edge she perceived on his voice, and drank the rest of her Rum and Coke to help dissipate the tension she was feeling.

"He is not my friend," Mabel said lowering her glass, "not really. He's just this old man who comes to the café every now and then. He plays chess with a friend of mine; I don't even know his first name. Why?"

Mihai smiled, and that smile of his swept the rest of the tension away.

"I'm actually looking for a Romanian man, an old man, and I thought he could be this Popescu." He shrugged. "But maybe not."

"You are looking for a man and you don't even know his name?" Mabel didn't hide her disbelief. "Why? How will you find him, then?"

"I know he is in Skegness and I know what he looks like," he sounded determined.

Mabel stood up. Mihai's smile might make her weak at the knees but she could smell trouble a mile away, and this Romanian was starting to reek of it.

"It's getting late," she said. "I should go."

"Let me accompany you," he offered courteously.

He stood up, waiting for her answer, the image of charm. Like an actor, Mabel thought, a fellow performer of sorts. She decided to make her exit swift and curt.

"Thank you," she fetched her purse. "But really, there's no need."

That didn't faze him: he walked her out all the same. She was wondering what would it take to send him on his way, when he held her arm, forcing her to stop.

"I have a brother, a younger brother. You see, I was supposed to look after him-," he trailed off, his voice strained with feeling. "This man I'm looking for might be the only one who can tell me where he is now, what happened to him." He let go of her arm.

Mabel stood there, shaking. Lost family - that was something she could understand. What wouldn't I do if only I could have them back?

There were so many questions Mabel wanted to ask him - what happened, how, when - but that was not the time or the place for it.

"I hope you find him," she said feverishly.

He reached inside his shirt and pulled a little medallion out.

"From your lips to God's ears," he said and kissed the medallion, tucking it back in. "Shall we?"

He offered Mabel his arm and she took it.

 

Mabel rubbed her eyes with the tips of her fingers, and smiled broadly to Mihai.

"Did you sleep better?"

When Mihai told Mabel he had been sleeping in a two bedroomed caravan with seven other farm workers, she thought the least she could do was to provide him with a good night of sleep. Some people only care about profit.

"I haven't slept this well in a long time."

He stretched as he spoke, reminding Mabel of a feline about to pounce. She wondered if he danced, or fenced. Mihai was wearing a sleeveless undershirt, the shirt he had on last night still hanging from the back of a chair. She was surprised at how strong his arms really were - he looked so slender overall. Her eyes focused on a tattoo on his right upper arm, a blue stylized eye.

"That's pretty," she said, pointing at it.

He looked at his tattoo, frowning.

"That's from long ago."

"Does it mean anything?"

"Nothing special." He changed the subject. "It doesn't look like you slept well."

"Oh," she waved his concern with a hand, "just a nightmare."

She walked the few feet separating her bed from the bathroom, closing the door behind her. Mabel came out a few minutes later, and carried out her morning routine: lighting incense and opening the window as far as it would go.

"This place has only two problems: the heat and the smell," she said.

"From the fish and chips downstairs?"

She nodded.

"I haven't been able to eat fish and chips since I moved here."

He smiled, amused. Mabel made her way around the counter that divided the kitchen area from the rest of the room.

"Would you like some coffee?" She offered, putting the coffee maker on.

"Coffee would be great," he said, moving to one of the two chairs around Mabel's small table.

Mabel's studio flat looked like a circus caravan. It was small and packed with mismatched old furniture. Rugs and carpets covered the floor and a good portion of the walls. An old circus poster hung above Mabel's bed, and there were candles everywhere. Swords and daggers; beaded curtains and trunks; and two tanks containing snakes completed the bohemian look.

"Do you perform with snakes?"

"Once upon a time," she answered, filling the cups in the kitchenette.

She expertly placed the cups and the sugar bowl in a small tray and headed towards the table. Mihai moved a heavy book to make space for the tray, looking curiously at it.

"Interested in anatomy?" He asked, motioning to the book.

"Yes," she dumped two sugar cubes in her cup, "a professional curiosity. I need to know where my organs are to avoid them."

He chuckled.

"That's good. We wouldn't want you getting hurt, now would we?"

"That's the idea," she answered.

Mabel leaned back on her chair, enjoying the coffee and the cool breeze of the morning. This is pleasant, she thought, he is pleasant. Despite her friendly and extravagant persona, Mabel was a reserved person. She couldn't be more surprised at the way Mihai was getting her to open up, slow and steady.

"Do you have nightmares often?"

Mabel looked at him, realizing just how much Mihai's tone resembled that of Pablo, the horse trainer.

"The nightmares are fine. They are just smoke that fades away when you wake up. Now, life-," she shrugged the rest of the sentence off.

"But where there is smoke-," Mihai started.

"Fire," Mabel finished for him.

She put the cup down and got up, walking towards one of the trunks. Mihai drank his coffee, watching as Mabel fetched a tin and sat cross-legged on a particularly faded rug.

"I told you I grew up in a circus," she said, caressing the tin on her lap, "but I didn't tell you what happened to it."

"What happened?" he asked, sitting next to her.

"It burnt."

"How come?"

"Nobody really knows. The police could never figure out who did it or why," her voice was choked with sorrow.

He got her hand into his own and pressed it encouragingly.

"It was dress rehearsal, and everyone was under the big top," she was talking the way people do in therapy or confession. "I was in the Persian's caravan - she was a dancer and a snake-charmer. I was there whenever I could, with the snakes."

Mihai pointed at the tanks.

"You still like them, huh?"

She nodded, looking at her snakes.

"I was there when I heard it." She bit her lower lip and lowered her voice. "I didn't know fire could roar. Loud and wild like a beast."

"Mabel, I'm sorry."

"What are you gonna do, right?" The smile was back on her face, like a bad habit. "The show must go on."

"That it does," he agreed.

He pointed at the tin on Mabel's lap.

"What's with the box?"

"Happy moments, memories of a better time," she said, removing the tin's lid and turning it upside down. Promo shots, Polaroid shots, and newspapers' clippings rained on the rug. "It's not much but they are all I have to hold on to."

Mihai took a photograph from the pile.

"Is that you?" He pointed at a small girl standing by a beautiful woman who was wearing little else other than a python around her neck.

"Yeah, I was ten. I used to help my dad with his act. He was a magician. And this here is the Persian, I never knew her by any other name. I used to follow her around everywhere."

She picked up a promo shot.

"Here's another one of her with Marcel. I think he was the only clown blanc of the circus."

Mihai handed another photo to Mabel.

"What about this clown, then?"

"Oh, that's Mungo Joey. He is an auguste clown," she answered.

"Is there a difference?"

"Oh, I'll pay you to go to the pier and ask Mungo that," she said, giggling.

"I'll take that as a yes. Who's that with him? He looks like some pirate."

"That's Ringmaster Romero," she said, the smile fading from her face. "He was a great man, generous. He always had a lollipop for me."

Mihai smiled, changing the subject.

"Tell me, is it true that all clowns are sad and drunkards beneath the painted smile?"

"Lots of them are, but not all. Same with all kinds of people. Take Mungo here, I didn't use to talk to him much back on the day, but he always had a smile, painted or not."

She sighed, thinking of Mungo now. He would probably be lying on his favourite bench by the pier, drunk or on his way there.

"You care for him," Mihai said.

"Yeah, I do. Sometimes I think he rather I didn't."

"I don't believe that."

"That's because you haven't met Mungo yet."

"Were there many survivors?" He asked suddenly.

"Only five," she replied, showing him a promo shot of a big man lifting a barbell above his head. "Thumper here was one of them."

"And you and this Mungo... your parents?"

She shook her head. Mihai nodded solemnly, looking at the pile on the rug. A photo called his attention and he picked it up.

"Is that you again?"

"Yes, I was fifteen or sixteen," she replied. "It was dress rehearsal."

"Who is that behind you?"

"That's my mother, she-"

"No, on the other side, the man," Mihai cut her.

She took a closer look and the world started spinning. For the second time Mabel forgot Mihai was there.

"He is in the background, I never noticed him there. That's the only shot of him without his turban! What was his name? Something the Magnificent, they were all magnificent, or grand, or something. Marku! Marku the Magnificent!"

"Mabel, slow down," Mihai pleaded.

"He was Marku the Magnificent, a mentalist with the circus. I thought he was dead," she explained. "But he is alive."

"How do you know?" Mihai asked; his tone suddenly cold.

His change didn't go unnoticed. Mabel started placing the photos back in the tin, thinking Mihai was like a matryoshka doll - kind and charming on the surface, cold and menacing underneath. She got up, Marku's photo in one hand and the tin in the other. I wonder what else lies beneath it all.

"I've seen him," she answered.

Mabel's thoughts were racing. What is Marku still doing in Skegness? I have to tell Mungo! I have-

Mihai's voice interrupted Mabel's thoughts.

"Where, where have you seen him?"

"In the café, he often goes to Sammy's to play chess with Shaun," she answered, absent-mindedly. "He lives in some flats on Castleton Boulevard, near the Sand Castle."

"This mentalist," he said slowly, "is Popescu?"

"Yeah," she replied, putting the tin back in its place.

She hadn't undressed last night so she just put a jacket on. She grabbed her keys and the shot of Marku and put them in her pocket. Mabel knew what she needed to do - she needed to tell Mungo. She was not the kind of girl who sits around when there is something that needs to be done.

"Mihai, I'm so sorry, but I've got to go," she said, sliding into her shoes. "Let yourself out when you're ready."

Mihai was staring out of the window. His reply, one single word, was barely audible.

 

3.2 - Nell

 

"Thanks Carl," Nell called as she kicked the wedge out from under the door and turned toward the storage closet, the last box from his truck clasped in her arms. She weaved around the others she had stacked in the rush to get everything out of the rain and dumped it on the floor under the shelves, nearly empty now of toilet paper, towels, napkins - all those thrilling paper goods their patrons went through so swiftly. She was grateful her aunt was computer savvy enough to keep an updated spreadsheet for ordering everything from the oil Len and Pat fried the chips in to the tampons stored discreetly in a crocheted cozy in the ladies room, since upon Nell's arrival, Rachel had gratefully handed over the responsibility of stocking to her.

It took scarcely two months working at Sammy's Snacks for Nell to realize that had more to do with her aunt's desperate desire to hand off one of the tedious and time-consuming jobs involved in running a restaurant than it did with any inflated belief in her competence. The chip shop marked the dimensions of Rachel's life, and she didn't waste a lot of time hiring people she had to second guess, related or otherwise. She was fiercely proud of owning the tiny flat above the café, which she now graciously shared with Nell, and if the only privacy the two of them had was in the form of flimsy screens purchased the week after Nell moved in, she didn't complain.

Nell slit another box end to end with her pocket knife. She stacked bottles of bleach and dishwashing detergent, packing everything in tightly, just as she had been taught. Rachel had given her this job without having seen or spoken to her niece in over two years. More importantly, not once since she had arrived had Rachel pried into the reasons behind this sudden appearance in Skegness, and for that, Nell worked without complaint. Her aunt could bring home a different man every night, and Nell wouldn't have felt any less grateful to her. Of course, she didn't.

No, if the two of them were any indication, romance was thoroughly dead on the Lincolnshire coast. Occasionally, Rachel would skip town for the weekend, but she never mentioned where she was going or with whom, and Nell never asked. She liked to imagine her aunt, worn though she may be after so many years of scrubbing grease traps and sharpening knives, living out a dramatic second life. At the very least, Nell hoped she got to eat somewhere that didn't require an antacid chaser.

She broke down the last of the boxes and stacked them up neatly to be taken out when the rain eased up. Grabbing her apron, she headed into the kitchen and was surprised to see her aunt standing outside under the umbrella of a man a few years her junior. Sammy's was empty this early, although Pat had been in prepping for a while now. He glanced up and nodded without bothering to turn down the rugby match he was streaming from New Zealand, the game stuttering obnoxiously on the weak wifi picked up from next door.

The man with Rachel was dressed sharply, especially considering the hour. Nell ran her hands over the old cotton shirt she'd pulled on this morning and thought of the makeup samples her mother was always sending. She'd never opened them, of course, but then, in Skegness, she rarely felt underdressed. Mabel often had the effect of appearing much more glamorous than her clothes would have suggested on another, but Nell was used to that. Moreover, the men Mabel attracted always seemed vaguely dangerous - well-suited to a woman who could swallow an entire sword. Nell's weakness had always been for a more rugged, straight-forward attitude - the firemen at the station she had grown up next door to, the soldier she had married, the...shit. The cops.

A detective, from the look of him. She'd been on the right end of a pair of handcuffs a few times back in high school; her older brother's friend Luke had gone to the academy, and it had been impossible to keep from corrupting him, just a little. There was something irresistible about a certain brand of clean-cut power. It made her flirty, and stupid. The man glanced up and caught her eye through the window. Stupid, definitely.

The bell over the door chimed as he held it open for her aunt. He carefully shook his umbrella out over the stoop before leaning it against the window.

"Carl on time?" Rachel asked as she wiped her feet and came to join Nell behind the counter. Nell nodded. The man cleared his throat. Rachel waved her hand in his general direction. "Nell, this is Detective Constable Chivers. This is my niece, Nell Harrison."

He smiled. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Harrison. Your aunt has been telling me all about you."

"Oh?" Nell smiled nervously. "Only good things I hope."

"Would you like tea?" Rachel asked, already in the process of grabbing a cup for him from the stack on the counter.

"Only if it's no trouble," he said.

"None at all. You have a few questions for Nell, don't you? I have to run upstairs, but I think we can spare our only waitress for a few minutes." She looked around the empty cafe with half a smile and disappeared through the swinging door.

Chivers pulled out a chair for her, then stood waiting as Nell brought the steaming cup and set it down in front of him.

"Do you take milk or sugar?" she asked.

"Sugar, please."

Nell sat, trying to ignore the brush of his knee against hers under the two top. This was not a date. It was an interrogation, or something similarly gut-clenching, and girly flutters were to be strictly ignored. "The tea here is terrible."

"I was under the impression Americans didn't know the first thing about good tea," he said, taking a sip. He made a face.

She laughed. "We don't. Rachel may have lost her Yankee edge after two decades, but she brews tea like she moved here yesterday."

"How do you stay in business charging for that?" he asked, nudging the cup as far away as possible.

"Pity, I suspect. Also, we only let Rachel make tea first thing in the morning. The rest of the day, we trade off keeping her away from hot beverages all together."

"Smart." He added another generous helping of sugar. "I'm sure you've heard we've had a couple of unfortunate incidents recently?"

Nell willed herself not to blush when he held her gaze, but he was putting off some combination of pheromones and pleasant authority that she found incredibly distracting. "A body washed up on the beach, right?"

Chivers took out a little notebook and flipped the cover open. He clicked his pen against his bottom lip a few times as he studied his notes. Nell forced herself to look at the buttons on his shirt instead. "I think you'd hear more gossip working here."

Nell shrugged. "People talk, yeah, but no one knows anything. A friend of mine, a guy I train with, he said he thought it was a foreigner, but I don't really know what that means."

"You work out?"

Nell froze. What? "What?"

"You ever been to Bobby Thomas' gym?"

"I actually heard he sold the place, just a few days ago." She mentally edged back from any conversation involving Sweet Bobby. Chivers waited. "But, yeah. That's where I go."

"Ever met Lewis Martin?" Nell straightened, bumping Chivers' knee in the process. He didn't move it, and Nell felt her brain dash off in fourteen directions at once. "Because a couple of people I've spoken to saw him here. He was apparently in pretty bad shape."

"I don't really know him," she said. "I helped him out once-"

"You gave him medical attention?"

"What? Yeah, I mean I guess." Nell folded her hands together to keep them from shaking.

"You do know that this country has free healthcare?"

"I've heard. Very nice," she said.

"So why would he have come to you instead of checking himself into the hospital? Do you have credentials I should be aware of?"

"I'm not sure exactly what you mean," Nell began, "but I have a visa."

"I was thinking of medical credentials, but in fact, I do need to make note your status," he said, gesturing for her to continue.

"I have a British Ancestry Visa," she said, pausing to watch his hand flash across the page. "My grandparents - Rachel's parents, and my mother, Rebecca's - they were born here, so I was able to apply for a five year stay. Apparently, there's an option to extend it, but I haven't really looked into that, seeing as I've only been here...well, not even a year."

"And your medical license?"

She squirmed. "I was an EMT before I moved here. I have a license in the States, and it's still valid."

"I'm sorry, I'm not familiar with that term." He looked up at her. She stared back blankly. "EMT?"

"Oh! Emergency Medical Technician. A paramedic, you know?"

Chivers nodded minutely in response to this. When he finished writing, he allowed the silence to hang between them. Nell was familiar with this technique though; her husband's ability to play out a pause had bordered on pathological. The detective broke first. "One of the bodies we found, he was...badly beaten. However, he also had a few recent injuries that had been tended to, quite expertly, I've been told." He looked at her, and she nodded for him to go on. He didn't.

"Lewis is dead?" Nell asked, knuckling her thighs under the table. She tried not to think of Marcus. The look in his eyes had kept her awake all week, and she wasn't a good enough actress to hide the fear he instilled in her. "But he's - he was fine when he left."

"We don't know for certain that Martin and this body are one in the same, but if they're not, and I find that you've been...assisting other men like him..."

"Lewis asked for help, and I gave it to him. That's it." Nell felt a knot form in her chest.

"In return for?"

"Nothing." He eyed her with disbelief. "Really. He didn't pay me. I doubt he ever intended to."

"Did you ask him for money?" Chivers asked.

"No," Nell replied, forcing herself not to think at all of the person she had asked instead. "I haven't seen him since."

"You knew him from the gym though?" Chivers pushed.

"I didn't recognize him at first. He looked like hell to be honest, but he said he'd seen me there before."

"Who do you think attacked him?"

Nell leaned forward, her fingers twisting into the cuffs of her shirt. "I honestly don't know. I don't want to know. He seemed like bad news, and anyone who can get the jump on a guy like him - well, they're worse. I don't want anything to do with that."

"No, you don't." He dropped the pen and pad into his jacket pocket and held out his hand for her to shake. "Thank you for your time," he said, as he stood to grab his umbrella. He turned back and offered her his card. "If you think of anything else, be in touch."

"Well, the thing is -" Nell bit her lower lip. He paused, halfway out the door. "Are you familiar with the Good Samaritan law?"

"I've heard of it, yes." Chivers almost smiled. He turned and disappeared out into the rain.

Nell scrambled out of her chair to the window, savoring the view as he strode down the street. She nearly jumped out of her skin when she felt a hand squeeze her shoulder. Nell turned to face her aunt; the older woman's expression was hard.

"I think it's time we had a little chat, my girl, "Rachel said softly. "Don't you?"

 

3.3 - Mungo Joey

 

"Step right up! Step right up!"

There are few things more disturbing than the stare of an Auguste clown. And right now, Mungo Joey had his blank white stare fixed on his greatest nemesis: the Punch and Judy Man. Spitfire the seagull - the food-stealing rat with wings - was circling overhead in the grey overcast sky but Spitfire could wait. Mungo's vendetta with the Punch and Judy Man was apocalyptic.

The Punchman responsible for the Skegness puppet show was a man named Rocky. He had appeared on the pier earlier that day, dragging his mobile puppet-box behind his monstrous tricycle. That blasted trike creaked and lurched under its heavy load. Mungo suspected the carts collecting corpses during the Great Plague would have sounded quite similar.

Rocky the Punchman was attracting a good-sized audience. Never one to miss an opportunity, he had ditched his spot on the promenade and returned to the pier to cash-in on the crowds of crime-scene junkies still lingering four days after the body was found. After all, they might like a good murder but they had kids too.

"Come one! Come all!" the Punchman yelled in his high-pitched voice. Christ, he's not even speaking through the swazzle yet, thought Mungo. "Come and marvel at the adventures of Mr Punch!"

More and more families gathered around the striped puppet-box, like druids around a holy red-and-white monolith.

Rocky rubbed his hands greedily. He was always rubbing those hands. Not in anticipation of the performance but rather in anticipation of the money he would collect afterwards. And look at those fingers! Great, long digits like the Grinch. With fingers like that, how could he amount to anything other than a puppeteer?

The most disturbing thing about Rocky the Punchman was the likeness he shared with his titular puppet, Mr Punch. Both had huge grins carved across their rosy faces. Both seemed to be in a perpetual state of self-satisfaction. And both had hooked noses and jutting jaws that almost met in the middle. Rocky even styled the remains of his hair into a well-oiled point, reminiscent of Punch's sugarloaf hat.

Perhaps all performers began to look like their creations over time. Mungo's real nose was certainly the same red as his clown nose thanks to all the cider.

Either way, the Punchman's face gave Mungo the creeps and he was relieved when it finally ducked under the canopy of the puppet-box, like a vampire returning to its casket after a night on the hunt.

Mungo crunched his breakfast toffee apple with malice. He liked to get his five-a-day but right now he was just glad to have something to grind his teeth against.

It was showtime.

"HELLO BOYS AND GIRLS!" shrieked Mr Punch in his trademark kazoo-style voice.

And so it began.

Mungo watched in horror as Judy left Punch to look after their baby whilst she popped out. Punch immediately sat on the baby in a misguided attempt at 'baby-sitting'. He then proceeded to throw the poor thing down a flight of stairs when it wouldn't stop crying. As a last resort, Punch decided to shove the baby through a sausage-making machine. Ghastly! As ever, the audience squealed in delight at this flagrant display of child abuse - the children, the parents, all laughing, all applauding.

Of course, then Judy returned home and the sticks came out. The dreaded slapstick. Judy started the ruckus - in fairness, she had just discovered her husband shredding their new-born into mincemeat - but Punch soon gained the upper-hand. He swiftly beat her to death. Spousal abuse and domestic violence: always a winning formula for children's entertainment.

And now for the infamous line: "THAT'S THE WAY TO DO IT!"

That bloody line. That vile, heinous line. He knew it had been Punch's catchphrase for four-hundred years but the world had moved on since the seventeenth century. They still hunted witches back then, for god sake! These were modern times. People deserved better entertainment.

And what's worse, what really drove Mungo's vendetta against the Punchman was the inclusion of another line, an ad-libbed line of the Punchman's own design. And that line was, "SHE HAD IT COMING! SHE HAD IT COMING!"

Mungo couldn't forgive that line. His father had favoured that line. He found himself raising an arm to throw the remains of his toffee-apple...

"Mungo! I need to talk to you!"

Mungo dropped the apple. He dragged his glare away from the puppet-box and saw Mabel scurrying along the pier. What now? His former circus acquaintance dropped onto the bench next to him.

"Can't you see I'm busy?" Mungo scowled, turning back to the carnage across the pier.

Mabel noticed the puppet-box opposite their bench. "Oh, were you watching the show?"

"No, my dear, I was watching a man murder his wife and child."

"The crowd seem to be enjoying themselves," Mabel observed. The officious Constable puppet had now arrived onstage to investigate and was receiving a beating for his trouble.

"Of course they are," Mungo sighed. "Skegness is hardly known for good taste. This is a town that chose a fat fisherman as its mascot, after all."

"A jolly fisherman," Mabel corrected him.

"Potato, potatto."

"Anyway, don't be so mean," she said. "These people give you money every day."

"That's their business. I don't ask them for money."

"Then why do you put your hat in front of the bench?"

"I have to put it somewhere!"

The Clown puppet has just made its appearance. The Clown was called Joey. This was tradition, rather than a subtle dig at Mungo Joey. Although, Mungo often wondered if Ringmaster Romero was aware of the association when he gave Mungo his clown name all those many years ago.

"If you don't want their money, why do you perform out here?"

Mungo was offended. "I don't perform! I just sit here minding my own business."

"You do perform," Mabel laughed. "In your own way. Why else would you put on your face paint every day?"

Mungo didn't plan on answering that, especially for Mabel. "Well, it certainly isn't for that lot."

"But you grew up in Skegness! You're one of them."

"Don't remind me."

The Punch & Judy Show was already stirring a few memories that were best left forgotten. He didn't need any more help from Mabel.

"No," Mungo replied. "I grew up in the circus."

"Which is exactly what I wanted to talk to you about," Mabel said. Bugger, thought Mungo. I walked right into that one.

Across the pier, Joey the Clown and the Crocodile had been added to the body count: the Crocodile for eating Punch's sausages and Joey for failing to keep them safe. Mungo, as always, failed to see why Punch was so keen to eat the sausages himself. They were made from his baby's flesh. Was he planning to eat the evidence?

"Look, Mabel, those days are gone. The circus is nothing but a scorch mark at North End. The Big Top is dust. The troupe, I'm sorry to say, are ashes -"

"Not all of them!" cried Mabel.

Mungo blinked. "What‽"

For the first time, he drew his attention away from Punch's killing spree.

"Remember Marku the Magnificent?"

He did. "The psychic guy? From Bulgaria?"

"Romania. Well, wait till you hear this. I'm pretty sure Marku is alive."

Mungo froze. Mabel beamed at him in excitement but Mungo suspected he didn't give her the response she hoped for. "No, no, there were only five of us who survived that night. Thumper the strong-man, Clemenceau the mime-artist..."

"...and one of the Flying Squirrels, I know. Five lucky survivors."

Mungo kept quiet. Luck had nothing to do with his survival. Cowardice would be a better word.

"Well, I think there were six of us who survived that night."

Mabel shoved the photo in Mungo's face. He squinted. "What am I looking at here? This is just a photo of you at a dress rehearsal."

"No, in the background." She tapped the photo. "That's Marku. It's the only shot I have of him without the feathered turban."

"So?"

"Don't you think he looks like that old man in the cafe?"

Mungo gave her a look. "Mabel, when was the last time you saw me in the cafe? I don't get off this bench for anything except candy floss and cider. What old man?"

"His name is Popescu," she explained. "He plays chess with a young lad every day. The old man looks exactly like Marku. And he is Romanian."

Mungo groaned. "Mabel, there are 177,000 Romanian nationals living in the UK. It's not unthinkable that two of them have been to Skegness over the years."

Mabel gave him a look. "Okay, one, I know you just made that figure up." He had. "Two, I am aware that there are more than two Romanians living in Skegness. The cafe locals frequently tell me about the Eastern Europeans stealing their jobs. But three, I know Popescu is Marku. I can feel it."

Mungo had had enough. "Mabel, why are you telling me this? If you're so sure then why don't you just go and talk to this Popescu?"

Mabel looked confused. "I thought you would want to know. Don't you want to come with me?"

"Mabel, even if he is Marku, why would I want to talk to him?"

Mabel frowned. "Why wouldn't you? Another circus survivor is living here in Skegness! He is one of us. We could reunite for a show!"

Mungo sighed. "Do I look like someone who wants to form a circus troupe?"

Mabel raised an eyebrow. Mungo became distinctly aware that he was dressed like a clown. "Okay, don't answer that. But come on. You can't be serious. No-one wants to see three circus has-beens stumbling around on stage. Even the Sand Castle would turn us away."

She was beginning to get upset. "But -"

"No Mabel! Give it up. The circus is gone. I know you miss it. And here's the truth: I miss it too. There. I said it. But this miraculous survivor theory is just fantasy."

The rainclouds above the pier gave a deep rumble of protest. The downpour began.

Mabel glared. "You think I'm crazy?"

"No, I just think that you desperately miss the circus and now you're looking for things which aren't there."

"So you do think I'm crazy!"

Mungo rubbed his face in frustration. "Mabel -"

"Look, just forget it! I don't know why I even bothered coming here. The old man is Marku. How can you not see it? You just don't want to see it! If you want to forget our glory days then fine. Just sit there on your bench and rot." She shoved the photo back into her pocket. "Enjoy the show." And with that she stormed off.

But the show was over. The rain had seen to that.

Rocky finished on his usual skin-crawling note: "THAT'S THE WAY TO DO IT! THEY ALL HAD IT COMING!" Mungo clenched his fists.

Judging from the pile of dead puppets on stage, it looked like Punch had managed to bludgeon a few more puppets before his fun was stopped by the weather. The Doctor, the Skeleton and Jack Ketch the Hangman were lying lifeless on stage.

The rain was really coming down now. Rather than get up, Mungo popped open his pink umbrella. He watched as Rocky scrambled around the crowd with his bottle, collecting what he could before the spectators ran for cover. Moments later, the Punchman cycled after them himself to find shelter.

Mungo was left alone on the pier. As he listened to the pitter-patter of rain against his umbrella, he thought of his father, he thought of the fire...

If only the rain could wash those memories away.

 

3.4 - Tim

 

'I suppose it's because she's adopted. I wish she would get over it, and not use it as an excuse to be the centre of attention every bloody minute of every bloody day. Tim, this is Laura, here. This is space-station Laura calling planet Tim. Do you read me? Over.'

'What?' Tim was facing the window of the café. He could see the pier and a Punch and Judy show playing to a group of five spectators, all with hoods up, and some of them blowing repeatedly into their cupped hands.

'Ah. I see. I think what I am actually going to do is have a big liquidy dump, and then rub it with meticulous attention into your chest-hair, if you have any.'

'What?'

'What are you thinking about, Tim?'

'Domestic violence, a crocodile, and sausages,' said Tim. Laura, who was facing the counter, was lost.

'What the actual...?'

'The Punch and Judy show.'

'Aah. Of course. I'm starting to get it now.'

'I was thinking that the sausages on that string are huge in comparison to the size of the puppet of the crocodile. Each one would be as big as a whole salami.'

'Why don't you go over and buy me a drink, and I'll sit here and contemplate the size of your sausage?'

Tim considered that cappuccino was outrageously expensive in comparison to its volume or nutritional value, but placed the cup in front of Laura with as near to giving the impression that this was a routine experience for him as he could manage. Having carried the cup and saucer with both hands, he went back to the counter and brought over his own drink.

"What's that - Pimm's?" asked Laura.

"Orange and lemonade," said Tim. Laura smirked.

"Awww, little Timmy-boy" she said, and tried to ruffle Tim's hair. Tim felt himself colouring again. He wondered if he was ever going to be able to enjoy this girl's company for more than five minutes at a time. He dodged Laura's hand, and so she jabbed him in the ribs with the other. It tickled, and he struggled to suppress a shudder. He could not let this girl know any of his weaknesses. "Is he ticklish? Is little Timmy-boy ticklish? Doesn't he like being tickled, little Timmy-boy?" A fat lady in a tweed coat and an old man in a flat cap looked up from their newspapers and frowned.

"Get OFF!" said Tim, much louder than he intended. Laura stopped, and regarded him contemplatively. The sky darkened, the wind veered, and rain started to beat against the glass front of the café.

"Okay," she said. "Okay." She placed her hands flat on the table. They sat in silence for a while. Tim realised that he was, very slowly and quietly, starting to cry. Laura looked at him again with intense curiosity, as if he were a rare South American moth that had landed on the back of the chair in the café.

"Tim -"

"What?" Tim started to panic. He knew she could tell he was crying from the sound of his voice.

"You aren't seventeen, are you?"

"I am. I can prove it." He controlled his voice. He was grateful to Laura for having given him the chance to go into one of his rehearsed routines. He nonchalantly reached inside his coat pocket and pulled out his driving licence. He held it up for a second and then put it away again.

"So fake," said Laura. "Fake. Fake. Fake." She put her fists out in front of her and started a gyrating motion with her hips and her arms as she sat in her chair. "Look. This is me doing my fake-spotting dance."

"But you didn't inspect it."

"I don't need to. So fake, yeah. So fake, yeah. So fake, yeah. So..."

"How do you work that out?"

"Obvious." Tim wished he had a fire-extinguisher or something to spray this girl with. He wanted something non-lethal but very powerful.

"So how come Mr Barron lets me drive the van?"

"Because Il Barroni is a little, baldy, pointless, goth-hating, tit-perving twat who would not know a fake driving licence if it was rolled up tightly and anally inserted." She looked askance. "Eeeew!" she exclaimed, at her own words.  Another pause. The wind shook the building, and blew more rain against the glass. Tim could see bits of moss and black stuff scattering out of the over-loaded guttering above the shop-front. He felt cold and weak. He wondered what wind velocity would be required to destroy the building they were sitting in. "Where do you live? Who do you live with?" asked Laura.

"My mother." It sounded to both of them like an admission of defeat. Laura was determined that it would not be the end of the conversation.

"Is that difficult for you?"

"She's mad."

"In what way?"

Tim said nothing, but Laura could tell that he was trying to answer the question, if not to her, then to himself. He looked down at his lap, but his face showed that he was thinking, and re-living, and trying to process experiences that a kid of his age should never have been subjected to. Laura reached out and held Tim's hand. There was no reluctance.

"Tim. Tim. You can always talk to me. I'm here for you, Tim. Tim? Are you hearing me?" He glanced towards her, and a fleeting change, lasting a fraction of a second, in his gaze told her something. "Poor kid," she thought, and then realised that she did not know whether she meant that as one displaced teenager to another, or as a sibling, or a mother, or a nurse. She looked at him again, and recalled that it was he who had driven them in the van to the café. She had intended that they would have a coffee and maybe an ice cream, and then repair to the pub, where they would both get good-naturedly pissed, paid for mostly by Tim, exchange confidences, start snogging, and cop off with each other. Tim would walk or get a taxi home, not get done for drunk driving, not throw up, and not lose his job. She would persuade him to take her in the van for the interview at Anderson & Co, in two day's time. He would gladly agree, because he would want to impress her, in order to gain her favours, by which time most of them would be on the table. This wasn't going according to plan.

"She's completely mad. She never gives me a moment's peace. I don't know how much more I can take."

"Oh, Tim." Tim hunched over and gave way, quietly but too noisily for the other café patrons, to sobbing. With a scraping of chair-legs, Laura moved towards him. She hugged him. She took out a clean tissue from the packet she always carried for removing excess lipstick, and she dried Tim's tears. "Oh, baby. You just let it out. You have a good cry, if that is what you need. Mummy is here for you."

Tim dissolved when he heard the word, "Mummy". He stopped being a retail assistant and IT expert. He stopped being a van-driver. He stopped being everything he had built up over the previous months, and he reverted to being a frightened, naked child in the dark who, for the first time, had been shown a light and offered a dignified way to safety. He cried onto Laura's shoulder. He did not want the shoulder ever to be taken away. He wanted Laura to hold onto him more tightly. Laura did hold onto him more tightly. "Baby. My baby. My baby. My baby," was all she said.

A man with a Mediterranean complexion, shaved head, and slightly grubby apron came out of from behind the counter.

"Is he all right?"

"Yes, he's fine."

"Is he a bit mental? Is he not all there?"

"He's my boyfriend, and yes, he is definitely all there."

"Well, can you try to keep it down? You know what I mean?"  The man returned to his place behind the counter. Laura wiggled her little finger at his retreating back, while she stroked Tim and cooed over him.

Laura ransacked her own biography in the search for things that might be raw enough to register with Tim. The only thing she could think of was her adopted sister, but even that seemed trivial, bourgeois, pretentious. Her earlier attempt to pour out the details of her family life seemed premature and clumsy.

"Tim. Tim. Look at me. I know you are in a depleted state, but is there somewhere we can go? I can drive if need be. Tim? Can you hear me?"

"Yes."

"Is there somewhere we can go?"

"The back of the van."

"Won't that be cold and uncomfortable?"

"There's a mattress. I sleep on it sometimes, and blankets."

"Are the blankets nice and dry?" Tim nodded slowly.

"Good boy."

Laura paid the bill, leaving her fifty-eight pence until her next payday at the doughnut stall, and dragged Tim by the hand as they walked back to the van. She felt in his pockets for the key, opened the back doors, arranged the mattress and blankets, and laid Tim down. As soon as he was lying down, it seemed natural to undress him. His modesty was covered by plenty of blankets, and the driving rain would deter onlookers. "Baby," she said to him, as she lay down and undressed herself, under the covers. Laura hugged Tim. She could not decide why she was doing it, but it seemed the right thing to do. Tim made low, murmuring noises. "Baby, it's all right," she said. Laura was glad of the rhythmical drumming of the rain on the roof.

"I love you, Mummy."

"I know, baby. I know. Mummy loves baby as well. Baby is the best baby in the world. Mummy is so proud of her baby boy." Laura laughed inside when she recalled how she had first resolved to ask Tim out because he seemed to have more money and a more responsible job than any of her other potential boyfriends. She wondered if she might disturb Tim, but then she heard his regular breathing, and realised he was now fast asleep. She hugged him a bit more tightly. She stroked his back. She stroked his hair. The sun set. Laura wondered if she could get to the van's radio without waking Tim. She abandoned the idea, and carried on holding him. She took one of Tim's hands, and moved it between her legs, but nothing happened.  

It was fully dark, and Laura herself had warmed up and was beginning to drop off to sleep, and they were both starting to snore, but Tim suddenly sat up.

"I've got to get to work."

"Oh, behave."

"No, I mean it. I might get sacked. I've got to get to work." Tim turned on a torch and began to look frantically for his clothes. The fact that he was naked did not seem to surprise him.

By the time Tim was fully dressed, Laura was still looking for her bra. Tim opened the back doors, allowing a spray of cold rain to make goose-bumps all over Laura's upper body, got out, slammed the doors again, and got into the driver's seat. Laura pitched from side to side as Tim drove back to Barron's.

"Can you give me a lift home?"

"I've got to get to work. I've got to get to work."

"I know, darling, but can you give me a lift home, first?"

"I've got to get to work." They drew up in Barron's yard. Laura was still virtually naked. She heard a high-pitched squeak as Tim closed the driver's door and locked her in the van. He began the ritual of opening the shop, to begin his shift.  Laura texted Tim's pay-as-you-go mobile.

"Hello. This is Laura. Can you unlock the van, please, and let me drive myself home, since you didn't take me to the pub and I am completely stone cold sober? You can walk over in the morning and pick it up. I'll give you the keys in exchange for a snog, you gorgeous fucker. I want your whole salami. XXX"

Laura felt as if something vital had just fallen out of her insides onto the floor. Whatever it was, she let it lie, in spasm and congealing blood, while she simply said, "Bye, Timmy-boy. Don't work too hard, you poor kid. Don't worry, my beautiful baby boy."

 

 

3.5 - Valerie

 

Valerie was curled, catlike, on her sofa. The flat came semi-furnished and this including the sofa. The springs were going but with the addition of a throw and her cushions, velvet and sequinned and satin, it felt luxurious. She sipped her camomile tea as she scrolled through the tablet on her lap.

The policewoman had just asked routine questions of herself and Popescu yesterday and Valerie left the flat when she did, making small talk with the Sergeant as they clopped down the stairs. She couldn't help noticing the Sergeant had a penchant for natty heeled shoes that flew in the face of the flat-footed detective so beloved of fiction writers. It reminded her of filming with the television programme The Bill, back when she was on TV a lot more than she was these days. How she would have relished playing a smart sexy detective. Instead she'd got a few episodes as a minor love interest and petty criminal. It was about par for her career. Still, it paid the rent.

Try as she might, she couldn't get the thought of Popescu out of her head. She'd lain awake for hours last night running over the scene in her mind - had she imagined his aggression or not? She was no longer sure. Eric had always laughed at her dramatic tendencies, telling her she had a career for that, everyday life didn't have to be a drama as well. He kept her feet on the ground. How she missed him. She eventually drifted off to sleep thinking fond thoughts of her late husband, remembering his arms holding her, his smell - a mixture of Old Holborn, cotton shirts and Truefitt and Hill shaving cream - and his laughter at her foibles.

She got up out of bed resolved to stick to the facts. That's what Eric would have advised. So far she knew this: Popescu had a gun; he was from Mangalia in Romania; and he used to be a policeman. It wasn't much, was it?

"Stick to your instincts darling," she told herself. "There's something shifty there. You'll just have to do a bit more digging."

So this morning she'd settled down with her tablet to do a spot of research. She had a weakness for gadgets and this was lovely, her scarlet fingernails made a satisfying tap against the screen as she scrolled and pinched and doubled clicked.

She started off with a search for Mangalia. A coastal city, port and seaside resort, with historical attractions and Romania's largest music festival. She noted the weather reports with some envy. The image search revealed a series of idyllic beach shots, all golden sand, blue sea and bikinis and just a few pictures of the docks. The city, away from the beach, appeared to be a rather dull series of concrete flats and the occasional domed church.

She tried a different search and came across a site detailing etiquette in Romania. It was a traditional, patriarchal society, it said.

"Aren't they all?" said Valerie under her breath.

"Older men may kiss the hand of women in greeting," the site continued.

"That explains that," said Valerie. She was no stranger to cheek kissing but Razvan taking her hand yesterday had thrown her for a moment. Still on reflection, she rather liked the detail.

The next site was a book review of modern Romania. The review said the country was struggling with the transition from communism and instead was on its way to becoming a very unequal society. She ordered a copy. It might help with a bit more context and perhaps point her where to look next. She made more tea and spread a couple of Ryvita with cream cheese before continuing her search.

A couple of blog posts by travellers were well written enough to offer a whiff of life in Romania, or at least the rural side of it though perhaps a little sanitised to suit the romantic tendencies of the authors. She moved onto searches for Ceausescu and life under communism. Most of the sites concerned themselves with the fall of the regime, his execution and the transition. The stuff about the orphanages was interesting, appalling, even now. She delved deeper, wiping away a tear once in a while at the pictures and descriptions of the conditions.

She shifted in her seat, suddenly stiff. Looking at the clock she realised she'd been reading for several hours and needed to stretch her legs. A bit of fresh air, she thought, she'd go for a walk, maybe get a coffee at the cafe and see who was around to chat to. She clicked just one more link.

The coffee and a walk were immediately forgotten as she read. The piece was part of a series written by a pair of journalists, one Romanian, one American.

 

The charred remains of the orphanage still scar the landscape near a farm just outside Mangalia. As I walk around the site I can make out the blackened stumps of walls and rooms, softened by grass and vines but still visible. You can imagine the cramped conditions, the lack of space for children to run around, you can see the blank walls of their rooms and the fight for adequate food. But this building, as poor as it was, was devastated in a fire that swept the beds, the rags, the walls aside.

January, 1990. A dark cold night only a few weeks after the execution of the man responsible for so much terror and misery in Romania. The fire swept through the building and destroyed it completely. Situated some ten miles outside the port city of Mangalia, the orphanage was too far for the fire service to access quickly. We managed to track down Dorin, a farm worker living there at the time and he overcame his reluctance and initial wariness to talk to us about that night.

"I woke to a smell of fire," he says. "I slept in a barn outhouse at the time and the smoke made my nostrils itch. The orphanage was a huge blaze as I looked, it had been burning for some time. I cried out to wake everybody at the farm and we alerted the authorities. But everything was still in chaos and it took them a long time to come. We ran over to the orphanage to see if we could help but there was nothing we could do. The fire destroyed it all. It was terrible, terrible."

Estimates place between 150-200 children and up to 20 staff at the orphanage at the time. Dorin says there was no one standing outside the building when he got to the fire site.

"We couldn't get close, the heat was too strong. But I saw no one there. I thought they must all have been killed."

 

Looking at pictures from similar orphanages of the time, seeing the cramped conditions and layout of the rooms, it seems likely that many children would have been killed. If they woke it may have been hard to find their way out in the smoke and the confusion. And it seems likely that many would have suffocated from the fumes before the flames reached them.

Which of course makes it strange that no bodies were recovered from the fire. Official records are patchy but what we have been able to find contains no mention of bodies or survivors.

Dorin passes on one further detail:

"I was seeing a girl who worked at the orphanage," he says. "We used to manage a few nights together once in a while. Roxana, her name was. After the fire she disappeared. I never saw her again. I inquired at the hospitals, with the council, I even tried to find her family but there was no trace of her. There were no bodies and we never saw anyone from the orphanage again."

He shakes his head and refuses to talk to us further, his mind perhaps still on the girl he loved and lost.

 

Valerie sat back on her sofa. Her imagination was working overtime, picturing the confusion of the fire, the heat against the cold night, the smoke, the crackling noise and roar of the flames, the onlookers standing uselessly at the side. The article was illustrated with a few grainy photographs. She peered closer.

One was the orphanage site as it was today, ghostly black lumps protruding from the ground. There was an official state photo of the building before it burnt down and then there was a black and white picture, possibly reproduced from a newspaper. The quality was quite poor and yet, what was that?

The picture showed a group of people gathered close to the burnt orphanage, a few wisps of smoke still rising from the charred remains. The picture didn't say who the onlookers were but police were trying to move them along. One had his hand resting on a stick in his belt. The quality may have been poor but Valerie immediately recognised this policeman as the man who had kissed her hand and made her coffee yesterday. That was Popescu. Well, well.

She plugged the USB connector into the tablet and switched the printer on. The piece didn't take long to print and she checked her appearance before she collected the sheets. She'd take these up to show him. She wanted to talk some more about this, about the mystery of the bodies and what he knew. There was definitely a screenplay in this, she thought to herself. Could she pitch something to ITV? It sounded like a possible Sunday night drama. She'd need more information. And a starring role of course.

She wouldn't tell Razvan about the television possibility, she'd just sympathise with him about how awful it must have been. She thought back what he'd said about the corruption and devastation wrought in the country by crime and poverty. Stick to that, forget the fear from yesterday. Surely he wouldn't mind a sympathetic ear?

She walked up the stairs to his door and found it was ajar. Perhaps he'd just come in? Or was going out. She pushed it a little and opened her mouth to say hello. Perhaps there was a frog in her throat or something, no sound came out. She was about to try again when she heard a noise from the kitchen. She walked a little further inside.

 

3.6 - Anastasia

 

The squirrel, Anastasia reluctantly concluded, had been a mistake. She stood on the flat roof of her studio, surveying the sorry evidence of her experiments. Anastasia had constructed a bed for the non-native rodent with pallets lined with tough black polythene, filling it with a mixture of John Innes potting compost and fresh horse manure. To haul the materials onto the roof she had rigged up a makeshift hoist; a Heath Robinson contraption with a handle rescued from an industrial mincer. But the project had not gone to plan. The grey squirrel still looked like a soft toy abandoned in the rain; a small bundle of flattened, ragged fur squashed into the rich brown loam. Admittedly the eyes had now gone, replaced by a squirm of larvae, but otherwise the flesh seemed stubbornly resistant to the imperative to return to dust. One last photograph, thought Anastasia, before she adjusted the surgical mask over her face, and reached for the garden tool. She lowered the spade, easing it carefully into the soil. The remains were fragile now. To scoop up the corpse she had to probe under the animal. As the blade disturbed the soil, a cloud of flies rose manically into the air. Rotting flesh and writhing maggots crumbled from the remains of Anastasia's roadkill find. Balancing the spade with care, Anastasia crossed the roof, trailing bluebottles in her wake, lifted the top of a small plastic chest, and dropped the squirrelly mulch down into the maw of the wormery.

Decomposition was a science hitherto unknown to the artist. That first attempt with the squirrel, in a home-made raised bed, had been slow and insanitary. The second had involved dropping dead rats into a wormery; a box full of tiny white worms which ingested animal and vegetable matter and turned it into compost. Anastasia had hoped to rescue the rats' remains at the point at which the fur and flesh had been removed, yet the bones remained. Alas, the worms were too efficient, turning everything to slurry in record time. For the seagull, now defrosting comfortably in the sun on a small hammock, she would commission expert help.

The phone pulsed in her pocket.

"That was quick," said Anastasia to Nate, her assistant in London.

"I tried every master butcher in Lincolnshire," said Nate's voice. "Same story each time."

"Health and safety, yeah, I know," said Anastasia.

"They can't use their premises to prepare a carcass, if it wasn't killed in a registered abattoir," said Nate.

"So what now?" said Anastasia.

"The vets were more helpful. They know where to buy small animal skeletons," said Nate. "They use them for teaching students."

"No," said Anastasia, "that's not how I work. I need this bird. I know where it comes from."

"The meat processing factory you mentioned? I can try that," said Nate, "But it'll probably be the butcher problem all over again."

"Leave it. I'll do it myself," said Anastasia.

As she concluded the call, a sharp cracking sound ripped through the background noise of Castleton Road. Anastasia moved quickly towards the front of the roof. She peered down into the street. She could see nothing obviously amiss, but there was a small group of people clustered at the corner, one of the men pointing towards the flats across the road. The arrangement of pointing hands, the slant of lamp posts, the angle of parked vehicles, a bicycle stand, struck Anastasia as somehow reminiscent of Uccello's The Battle At San Romano, and she raised her phone to photograph the scene. In the delay before the image was captured, the door to the lobby of the block of flats crashed open and a woman flailed out, stumbling, right into the centre of the photograph. It was her neighbour, Valerie.

Valerie's arm was oddly positioned. It wrapped her in an awkward self-embrace, the hand clutching at her shoulder. The woman was shouting, her voice projecting with shrill clarity, even if her words made little sense. It was as though she was declaiming an absurdist poem, "Pop, Stop, Can, Man, Run, Gun," she yelled with urgency, pushing on, twirling, toppling the boy with the tricycle, tipping his cargo to the ground, scattering his papers to the wind.

Into this scene, announcing its arrival with a tinny peal of 'Remember You're a Womble', came the ice cream van, a confection of lurid yellow overlaid with giant cones, and phallic flakes, and hundreds and thousands the size of tennis balls. The collision proceeded with grim inevitability. The dervish Valerie, an unstoppable force, met the ice cream van, an all too moving object. The impact spun the woman over in an involuntary cartwheel before she flopped heavily to the ground, a repertory Cleopatra clutching an asp to her breast for her final scene. As people rushed to Valerie's assistance, ruining the tableau, Anastasia decided to take a closer look at the commotion herself.

Dropping quickly down the ladder, and out onto the street, Anastasia crossed to the edges of the small crowd of onlookers. A woman was on her phone, clearly calling the emergency services. A young man was crouching down beside Valerie, the centre of all attention, asking her if she could say anything. Another man shouted, "Put her in the recovery position!", whilst a woman screamed, "Don't move her an inch, she might have broken her back!". Anastasia was less interested in Valerie, who was now overacting being dead, than in the boy with the tricycle, who had broken away from the crowd and was chasing the papers billowing down the street. They looked like a large collection of photographs. One tumbled her way, and Anastasia reached down a hand to pluck it up. It was a contact sheet, with a series of a dozen portrait shots of the same individual; a child, bearing a close resemblance to the little girl from the flats whom Anastasia had been sketching for her triptych.

The photographs had a curious air about them, as if they came from another time and place. But it was the child's expression that held Anastasia's attention. She realised at once that all her previous sketches had been wrong. She had rendered the girl too classically, as too Roman, when she ought to have been Byzantine. These images somehow exaggerated the slant of the cheekbones, orientalised the eyes, melding a Slavic broadness with a hint of Asia Minor. Yes, that was the look she needed to create. Turning the sheet over, and as if to confirm these thoughts, Anastasia saw that the information, presumably a record of the photographer's studio, was rendered in a Cyrillic script.

As the ambulance and the police car arrived in a squeal of sirens and a strobing pulse of blue lights, Anastasia slipped back into her studio, picked up her sketch book, and began to record Valerie Manning's last curtain call.

 

3.7 - Shaun

 

Shaun picked at the peeling edge of the board as he waited for Mr Popescu to make his move. Before the two men had begun their daily ritual, the chess set at Sammy's Snacks had sat, boxed and unnoticed, next to a stand of tourist information leaflets. There was a stain on the lid, and dust stuck to it in clumps.

Popescu advanced one of his knights, putting pressure on Shaun's bishop. They had not been playing long, but already both men had castled, hiding their kings in the relative safety of the board's far corners. Shaun took a sip of sweet, milky tea and considered his next move.

"Your friend came to see me yesterday," Popescu said, breaking the routine silence.

"My friend?"

"The lady who wears the scarves. Number twelve, I think. I don't know what she wanted."

Shaun knew exactly why she had been there. "She was probably just trying to get to know her neighbours," he said.

Shaun tucked his bishop back behind the row of pawns. His father always used to say he played too cautiously. 'If you don't take risks,' he used to say, 'then you'll never surprise anyone.' He'd made a fair amount of money taking risks in the courtroom. They rarely spoke after Shaun had come to live with him in London, and when he rolled in at midnight, seventeen and high, they played out their arguments in silence across a polished chessboard. It was an argument Shaun rarely won. He smiled grimly; he bet his father had been surprised when he ran off to Wiltshire with the Brotherhood of the Stars.

Popescu brought his own bishop further into no-man's land. Shaun imagined it aiming a tiny pistol down the diagonals, but none of his pieces were in its line of fire. Outside the window, two fat women in jogging bottoms huddled under the awning and smoked into the afternoon rain. Shaun looked into the old man's eyes. They were narrow and icy, like the tattoo on the dead man's neck. The Brotherhood had taught him that all things were connected, and he knew it could not be a coincidence that he had discovered Popescu's gun on the same day the body turned up on the beach. He decided it was time to take a risk.

"Did the police speak to you yesterday?" he asked, pushing a pawn into the old man's sights.

Popescu's eyes widened slightly, but he answered without hesitation. "Yes, they arrived as Valerie was leaving. It's funny, they came when I'd just been telling her about my own time as a policeman."

Shaun nodded. Popescu had never told Shaun much about his past; they usually stuck to talking about the weather or the bad street lighting on Rutland Road, but this made sense. Popescu had taken the bait. The old man's bishop caputred Shaun's pawn and sprung the trap. Shaun's queen leapt forwards, taking the old man's piece off the board.

According to the Brotherhood, most of life's patterns were reflected in the movements of the stars and planets. Shaun tried to decide where Popescu fitted. Law was governed by Jupiter, but so was growth and good fortune. That didn't seem to fit with Popescu's tiny flat, his exile on this grey coast.

Pressing his advantage, Shaun pushed a rook towards the centre of the board. In Wiltshire he used to help make chessboards to sell at the commune's shop, and David had told him once that each of the pieces was linked to a planet in astrology. Rooks were Saturn, moving ponderously along the board's ranks and files. That was Popescu: bound by discipline and duty, melancholic. The old man took another pawn out of its starting position, advancing his line but exposing his king in the process. Perhaps Popescu had something of the king about him, too. It wasn't authority exactly, not anymore. It was more a feeling that he was somehow at the centre of things, like the sun, while all the other planets danced around the edges.

Shaun lifted a knight and placed it along the left flank. At some point, somebody had stuffed it with Blu-Tack to add weight to the cheap plastic. Knights, of course, were Mars - impulsive and warlike. Since he left the commune, Shaun had read articles which claimed astrology only made sense when we had thought the universe was geocentric, but that didn't matter to the Brotherhood. Whatever the reason, the patterns were there, and the Extra-Terrestrial Intelligences had taught man to read them for a reason. For Shaun, astrology still made sense, but if other life-forms really were looking out for mankind, he hoped they had a more efficient method than patterns in the sky and psychic messages to seven men in the south of England.

"We'll be seeing more of the detectives, I think," said Popescu.

"What makes you say that?"

"That body was right in the middle of the beach where anybody could see it. In my experience, that means someone was trying to send a message, or someone got clumsy. Either way, there are going to be repercussions."

For Shaun, Skegness had been a sanctuary. Now he was starting to see the darkness behind its neon lights. He struck his knight into the old man's line. It was a bad move - Popescu took his piece without even blinking. Shaun brought his bishop into play, hoping to secure the centre files and rectify his mistake.

"You think there'll be more bodies?" he asked.

Popescu shrugged. "When there are gangs, these things happen occasionally. They usually blow over without affecting civilians too much."

He pushed forwards with his rook, capturing Shaun's bishop and taking control of the middle of the board. He would be looking to push towards Shaun's king.

"You are scared?" he asked, "you've never lived in a place where there is real danger."

Shaun thought of Sky, his friend at the commune. Her father was on the Council of Seven, and she had been raised there. When she had started to remember things that the older members had blocked out, they had locked her in a windowless room for two months. Sometimes, the Council would 'interview' her twice in one day, others they would leave her alone for almost a week, while at morning services the rest of the commune were warned about the influence of those who might disrupt communication with the Extra-Terrestrial Intelligences. All because Shaun had mentioned to her father that he was worried about her. When she came out, so thin that it looked like the wind might break her, she thanked Shaun for helping her to reconnect with the Brotherhood. Until that moment, he really thought he was doing the best thing for her; it made him sick to think about it now.

"No," he said, looking out of the window, "no, not really."

There was a loud bang. For a moment the café was silent. Shaun had hunched instinctively behind his arms. When he emerged, the women outside were chatting and smoking as though nothing had happened, and Mabel was still drying mugs behind the counter. Popescu was laughing at him.

"That was a car backfiring," he said between breaths.

Trying to regain some credibility, Shaun brought his queen within range of Popescu's rook. It was an empty threat; taking the rook would put his own queen in danger, but Shaun needed him to back off.

Popescu shifted his rook across a couple of ranks. Now it was Shaun's turn to fall into a trap - his queen was pinned between the rook and a knight.

"Looks like I've killed your queen," said the old man, smiling.

A bell rang as the doors burst open. A girl ran into the centre of the room, and the café fell quiet for a second time. The girl was breathing heavily. Sweat glued her purple hair to her face. 'Laura Greenwood', thought Shaun, 'number twenty-two, opposite Mr Popescu's.'

"That nosey bitch from number twelve just got hit by an ice cream van," she said. "I think she might be dead."

Nobody moved. Laura looked at each of the customers in turn. They looked back at her.

"Someone call a fucking ambulance," she said.

Somehow, Mabel was already at the phone. The few other customers turned back to their conversations, and Laura was left standing in the middle of the room, tugging at the edge of her t-shirt.

"I think we can both agree that I won this round," Popscu said, extending his hand.

Shaun shook it half-heartedly. Popescu began dismantling the board. Shaun was deflated. Valerie might have made his life difficult, but she was one of only a handful of people in Skegness who really knew anything about him. And besides, she was one of his tenants. After two years of being told that life for people outside the commune were decadent and filled with distractions, he had come to love how different residents at Castleton Boulevard were from each other. Members of the Brotherhood all wore basically the same clothes, talked about basically the same things. Although he rarely spoke to most of them, the people at his block of flats felt like the closest thing he had to a family. He felt like somehow, whatever had happened to Valerie was his responsibility. The Council of Seven used to say that nobody who left the Brotherhood could succeed on their own for long. For the first time in months, Shaun was starting to worry that they might be right.

 

 

3.8 - Bobby

 

A cold wind had risen from the North, sweeping through Skegness and chilling Bobby to the marrow. The little gas fireplace in his office was barely sufficient to warm the place during the best of times and it was woefully inadequate now. Bobby had Marcus "requisition" a number of space heaters and disperse them throughout the office. Bobby wasn't convinced they helped much, even turned up to their full output.

Cold though it was, the office itself was unrecognizable from a week ago. Bobby had had a contractor in to repair the damage Lewis wrought, and the man had turned out to be a bit of a genius. With the installation of some strategically placed recessed lighting, a few coats of fresh paint, and new cabinetry and shelving, the office seemed positively hospitable. Marcus had found a dark tan overstuffed, three piece modular sofa in the current style to complete the effect. Bobby had initially been ambivalent about the sofa, but a few naps on the chaise lounge had literally put any misgivings he might have had to rest.

Most importantly, the contractor had replaced the door into the office with a reinforced steel door kitted with both a cypher and a biometric lock. Outside the door was an unobtrusive camera that linked to Bobby's mobile phone for buzzing in visitors. It was unlikely anyone would kick down the door anytime soon in a repeat of Lewis' performance.

It was almost too comfortable. If he wasn't careful, he might become a shut-in.

"Marcus," he bellowed, prone in the comfort of his enveloping couch, "do you think I'm becoming a shut-in?"

"I think you were already a shut-in. Now you're just a shut-in with a nicer office," Marcus replied from the kitchenette where he was ostensibly making coffee. "When's the last time you went to your flat?"

Bobby mulled the question over for a while.

"I had a New Year's party there," he eventually yelled.

"That was two years ago, Bobby, and I'm less than three meters away from you, so the screaming isn't necessary, alright?" Marcus said through the door.

"Oh," Bobby said at a more normal volume, chagrined, "it's this couch. Sort of makes you feel disconnected from everything. Where did you find it, again?" he asked.

"In your warehouse," Marcus said. "It was right in front of the double doors. If it had been a snake it would have bit me."

"I have a warehouse?" Bobby asked.

"You have a lot of things you don't know about, Sweets, but back to your flat," Marcus replied.

"What about it?"

"Why don't you use it more often? Seems a shame, nice place like that, fully furnished, all the mod-cons, beautiful view of the sea, and you let it sit empty. Damnit, the whole complex is almost empty."

"Honestly?" Bobby asked.

"As honest as we ever are, Bob." Marcus said.

"It gives me the creeps and if that's a grin I see on your face you'll think a bridge fell on you. I think it gives everyone the creeps."

"Alright, what about it gives you the creeps?" Marcus asked.

"The old bitch down the hall from me. She reminds me of my grandmother."

"Your grammy was White, Sweets?" Marcus asked innocently.

Bobby glared at the man until he had the good grace to look away.

"She smells like her. Smells like incense and real beeswax candles and cheap rum. She smells like old paper and dead, rotting things. Mostly she smells like Voudon."

"Voudon?"

"Voodoo, you ignorant White bastard. Hoodoo. Curses and possessions and spirit dolls. It's called Voudon. Voodoo is a bastardization. Sort of like you."

"You think she smells like a witch, Sweets?" Marcus asked.

"Yeah, I do."

"That explains the coven I always see coming and going from the place."

Bobby stopped breathing and waited for his hands to stop trembling.

"You OK, Sweets?" Marcus called after a while, back in the kitchenette, rummaging around for coffee.

"Why did you call them a coven?" Bobby asked carefully.

"Eh?" Marcus asked.

"A coven. You called them a coven. Why did you use that word?" Bobby asked again.

Marcus shrugged. "That's what you call a group of witches, right? I didn't mean anything by it, Sweets. I noticed them coming and going. Hell, I thought it was just a mahjong or bridge group. You know how old ladies are, always up to something. I keep an eye on the place. I keep an eye on as many places I can, especially places where my boss occasionally lives. Besides, I remember the old lady from the New Year's party. She...intrigued me. Like you said, she's creepy."

Bobby didn't remember either the old crone or Marcus being at that party and Bobby, while not as keen a cat as Marcus, was a pretty keen cat by most standards.

Just then his phone vibrated.

"Looks like we have our first visitors, my man," He said to Marcus. "Which button do I push to activate the camera? And tell me I didn't just hear you mutter 'old man' under your breath."

Marcus grinned and showed him how to activate the camera from his phone.

"Ah, the long, inept arm of the law, DS Young and DC Chivers," Marcus said. "Perhaps it's best if I step into the pantry."

"Every time I start to despair of you, young blood, you redeem yourself," Bobby said. "Listen closely. I'll want your considered insight after they leave."

Marcus threw him a salute and disappeared into the kitchen.

Bobby levered himself off the chaise and slipped on his new Ferragamo zip boots, snapped the crease back into his cashmere blend trousers, and ran his thumbs around the inside of his slacks to smooth any wrinkles in his French blue silk shirt. In his experience, cops hated expensively dressed adversaries, especially the two flatfoots waiting outside his door. His boots alone cost more than either made in a month and he looked forward to showing them off. He cordially despised both of them and making petty little gestures was part of the game they played.

He let them wait a few minutes more while he poured himself three fingers of Glenmorangie and then sauntered to the door, glass in hand.

"Who is it?" he called through the door in an old woman's falsetto.

"You know goddamn good and well who it is, Bobby. You can see us through the camera you think you hid so fucking well. Now let us in before Lauren gets irritated. She skipped lunch and you know what she's like when she hasn't eaten."

Bobby opened the door with alacrity.

"Young, Chivers," he greeted them as they stepped inside.

"Jay-sus, Sweets. It's like a blast furnace in here. How can you stand it?" asked Young by way of greeting.

Bobby shrugged. "I'm always cold lately. It's the absence of a good woman to take care of me, I think. The position's open if you're looking to make a move, my beautiful Detective Sergeant Young," Bobby replied. She hated when he flirted with her.

"Have you really not eaten, Gorgeous? I have some biscuits or I could even stretch to making you a sandwich, if you'd like. The thought of you in discomfort pains me, Lauren. Did I ever tell you I used to date a Lauren? She broke my heart, but then they all do, eventually, don't they Chivers?" Bobby rambled.

DS Young didn't bother to answer.

"You've made some improvements in here, Sweets," Chivers said.

"Booze is in the same place, if you were worried. Help yourself. There's a Nectar d'Or there I bought especially for you, Lauren," Bobby said and waved them toward the drinks cart. He'd never known a policeman to turn down a free drink.

"God, that's good," Young said after her first sip.

"It's refreshing to see someone appreciate it. What say we ditch the Cro-Magnon in the room and find a couple of decent steaks to go with it? I know a guy that usually has a Kobe or two on hand...."Bobby raised an eyebrow and was gratified to see Young at least pretend to consider the offer.

"That's enough, Sweets," Chivers said, pouring himself another whiskey. "This is business."

"I'm bored with business, you graceless baboon," Bobby said. "Can't you see I'm busy talking with Lauren? Go write some reports or some other fucking thing that makes your existence seem worthwhile."

"Is that why you divested your interest in the gym? Because you were bored with it?" Young abruptly asked. "That doesn't sound like you, Bobby."

A lesser man might have missed a beat. Bobby wasn't a lesser man.

"They don't hand out those detective credentials for nothing, do they?" Bobby asked. "Is that what this is about? The gym?" Bobby laughed. "Why didn't you just call? Not that I'm displeased to see you. Or to see Lauren, anyway. Seriously, how about that steak? If you want to talk about that wretched gym I'll tell you all about it."

"Tell me all about where Lewis Martin is, too, and you've got a deal, Sweets," Young said.

This time Bobby missed a beat.

"And this Marcus fella that's replaced him. Give me the rundown on him and you and I will make a grand night of it in old Skegness," she said.

Chivers smirked.

"Get out. Both of you. Get out now before I lose my patience. Your jobs...fuck that...your lives are at my sufferance. Leave while I let you leave," Bobby said.

Chivers started to speak. Young laid a hand on his arm, silencing him. Neither said a word as they left the office.

Bobby poured another whiskey and threw it back. Poured another and waited for his nerves to settle. There was a leak in his organization and Young knew it. She had someone on the inside feeding her information. It almost had to be one of Marcus' people.

"It's not one of mine, boss," Marcus said from the kitchen doorway.

"One of my old-timers, then? Someone jealous of your promotion? Only one or two names come to mind and none of them seem the sort to stab me in the back. If they'd wanted promotion they would have spoken up," Bobby said.

"Really only leaves one option, doesn't it," Marcus said.

"And what's that, O' Seer of Sandhurst?" Bobby asked.

"They threw me out my plebe year, same as you, Sweets," Marcus snarled.

"Touchy. I made my peace with that, Marcus. Now tell me what option I'm overlooking," Bobby said.

"We've been infiltrated."

"By the police? Laughable. Most can't find their arses with both hands."

"I didn't say anything about the police."

"That leaves...."

"A legitimate rival."

"Shit. It's freezing in here. What are we going to do, young brother?" Bobby asked.

"Do? We're going to do that voodoo that you do so well, Sweets."

And he went back into the kitchen, whistling an old Ella Fitzgerald tune he shouldn't have known, searching for a coffee press that may or may not have been there.

 

 

3.9 - Gracie

 

Mister Pop's flat smelt different, not very nice at all, and Gracie wrinkled up her nose as she shuffled inside. His old smiling face hovered over her like a genie in smoky coloured clothes.

"Good to see you too, little one," he remarked as she stomped into the lounge and flopped onto her special armchair. "There is a dark cloud over you today, yes? I read about your little excursion in the paper. Your parents certainly raised an uproar about the school's security - or lack of it."

She didn't even bother to correct him with a snappy 'not my parents'. Instead, she dragged herself off the chair again and trudged towards the kitchen in search of some socată. When she reached the doorway, however, she forgot completely about drinks and even about her dark cloud.

"Mister Pop! Why is your kitchen all broke up?"

"Ah," his rough voice lingered in the other room. "I left the door to the flat open earlier, and somebody - a very bad, bad person - came inside and smashed a lot of my things."

"A bad person?" she repeated breathlessly. The idea that anybody would try to hurt Mister Pop had shaken her badly; he was the old Mosul, the wise man, nobody could hurt him even if they wanted to. In a burst of fear and love she turned and ran to her ancient friend and hugged as much of his body as she could fit into her arms. "Why are they bad? Why do they want to break your things?"

He had frozen when she touched him, and only just now had his hands rested lightly on her shoulders like careful birds. A sigh lifted his tummy and let it down again. "There are many bad people in the world, little one." His voice was heavy and gruffer than normal, like he was trying to keep something down in his throat. "And they do many bad things. Who knows why they do them? I think even the bad people don't know, sometimes. But it happens. People step over lines that they cannot return from. People venture to places that they should never see, and commit deeds that should never be done. And those who transgress are punished, in the end. In the end, all transgressions must be punished."

He was just mumbling silly words now. Gracie just hugged him tighter. "You sound so sad," she mumbled into his thick grey jumper. "Did they make you sad?"

"Yes," he replied as his hands pushed her lightly away and he peered down at her. There was a faraway look in his eyes that disappeared slowly as he focused on Gracie's face. "But I am not hurt. I am very lucky. Let us drink socată and I will tell you more of the story."

 

"Now, now, where was I when we last left off?" Mister Pop said as they cupped their hands around their hot mugs.

"You were at the part where the Mosul points at the little girl and says, 'l'uomo nero has his hand upon your shoulder'." Gracie shuddered as she repeated the words, remembering the cold fear that had crawled through her whole body as Miss Long went to answer the knocking at the door. Harry's face loomed in her mind. "Is l'uomo nero real, Mister Pop? What does he look like?"

"Why, he can look like anything. I told you that he knocks in all kinds of ways. He might appear in all kinds of ways as well."

"But is he real?"

The old man nodded with a strange half-smile.

"Mister Pop," she lowered her voice to a timid whisper, in case Harry was listening. "I've seen him. He was at the door, and Miss Long was going to answer it, and she'd been telling me off, and he came for me, like you said he would, and, and," her eyes were overflowing as she stammered out the words that she could only tell to Mister Pop, because only he would believe her. "And so I ran away, and they were all angry with me, and nobody blamed l'uomo nero at all. And I haven't seen him again but I'm frightened, Mister Pop. What if he comes back?"

The old man sat and thought for a little while, and his face got more and more solemn. Then quite suddenly, in the deep rumbling tones that he always used for storytelling, he began to talk.

 

"'There is something strange about you,' the Mosul murmured. 'L'uomo nero has his hand upon your shoulder.'

The little girl only sat and stared at the old man, as he sat and stared at her. The rest of the villagers fell into a deadly quiet, as they watched the two figures watching each other. Stars twinkled mischievously in her bold blue eyes.

'This child is no child,' he said at last. 'L'uomo nero has already touched her. The other realm clings to her. Where are her parents?' Two baffled looking adults shuffled to the front of the crowd, blinking their questions at the Mosul. He regarded them with a grave sadness. 'I am sorry, but your girl has been gone a long while.'

'What can you mean?' asked the father, outraged.

'She is in the other realm, living with the fair cruel folk who stole her away. This pretty picture of a daughter sitting in front of you is her replacement. One of their own. She was put here by l'uomo nero in the instant that he robbed you of your own offspring. Is that not right, little one?'

The girl's small features had scrunched up first in confusion and then in pain. She gazed at the wise man with panic sticking in her throat. 'You're lying,' she declared. She didn't know it herself. No fairy child ever does.

The Mosul lifted his finger - a finger that held more power and knowledge than another man's entire body - and pointed it at her. 'I name you Changeling.'"

 

"Wait!" cried Gracie. "She's a fairy? Already?"

"Why yes," said Mister Pop, "a fairy who has nothing to fear from l'uomo nero."

Gracie sat and thought about this for a few minutes. "Do you think - l'uomo nero was just coming to see me? Do you think he was maybe not chasing me after all?"

"I don't think he intended to frighten you, little one."

Her tummy went cold. "But I have always been a bit afraid of Harry."

"Harry?"

"My care worker. He's the l'uomo nero. I know it because he knocked."

The old man's brow creased. "And do you remember anything before Harry?"

"Like what?"

"Like your parents."

"Well... no. I don't remember."

"Most changelings don't," he replied, and winked at her.

She stared at him for a few moments with her eyes all wide and her mouth falling open, as she saw that he really was telling her what he believed. Then she asked, with excitement that was also timid, "Will you tell me about the fairy place?"

"The other realm?"

"Yes, yes!"

"Well, I don't know a lot," he mused, "but it is a place of secrets and impossible things, hidden deep in the forests of the world. The fair folk are sly and roguish, but they are also wise and graceful, and they do not have to follow rules like you and I. Fairies do not go to school, and they do not go to work. They are free. And that is why no fairy child will ever feel at home in this realm, with the humans. They are too wild for the way we live. Wild and dangerous."

"Wild and dangerous," she echoed in awe. "And if changelings are real, Mister Pop, does that mean the Mosul is real too? Can grownups be magical? Mosuls and witches and wizards?"

"And mind-readers," he smiled, "and I should know."

"Why should you know?"

"You are far too young to have heard of Marku the Magnificent. That was my stage name, once. I was one of the many misfits who turned their natural peculiarities into amusements for an audience." Gracie frowned, not understanding, and his grin got wider and warmer. "I joined the circus for a brief spell. If you'll forgive the pun."

"The circus? Doing what?"

"Telling people what they were thinking."

"What am I thinking? Right now?" she giggled.

For a moment he looked like he was really trying. His eyes glazed over as they looked deep into her own, his jaw slackening slightly. Then he jerked back as if she had tapped him on the cheek, and shook his head. "I cannot read the minds of changelings, it seems." He glanced at the front door. "Is it time that you were going home? Your foster parents have had enough to worry about over the past few days, I should think."

"I don't want to go back," she protested, "I want to hear more about the fairy land. Tell me about the forests, and about changelings. Tell me about the free children in the forests!"

Mister Pop flinched again, but this time as if she had slapped him really hard. His watery eyes blinked in such surprise and fear that she wondered what on earth she could have done wrong. Poor Mister Pop. He looked so small and sad.

"No, child," he growled with his voice and his eyes suddenly full of fire. "Children would do well to stay away from the forests. Has nobody told you the story of Hansel and Gretel? Bad things happen in there, bad things done by bad people."

"But," Gracie argued, confused, "you said that changelings come from the forests. It sounded lovely. If I'm a changeling, then the forests won't hurt me, will they?"

But Mister Pop didn't want to talk about it any more. He stood up and turned away from her, his shoulders bunching up around his ears like he was trying to shield himself with them, and he leaned heavily on the back of his armchair. Slowly, looking like he would fall right over with each step, he made his way to the window and looked out of it while he breathed heavily. Gracie slipped down from her chair and began to tiptoe towards the door, thinking she should perhaps go home after all.

"Oi!" Mister Pop shouted, and Gracie jumped. But he was calling out of the window to somebody else. "What are you doing rummaging around in other peoples' waste?"

"Hello, Mr Popescu!" somebody called back. Gracie recognised the voice - it was the artist lady who was always looking for something odd in a plastic bag or a bin to take a photo of or steal for her statues.

"Get out of my rubbish bags!" he yelled, and he had never sounded so scary. He was twisting up like an old tree or a monster, his body knotted with rage. Gracie felt almost as frightened of him as she had of l'uomo nero.

"Bye, Mister Pop," she mumbled barely loud enough for him to hear before she tore from the room, out into the cool calm corridor, back to the lonely places where she would have to think about all of the things that the old man had said to her.