Ten To One newsletter - Late October 2013

 

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

 

 

1) NEWS

2) HOW TO VOTE

3) LATEST CHAPTERS

 

 

 

1) NEWS

 

 

Fourth Round Results - The fourth 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 Danielle Bentley, creator of the character Gracie, was voted out of Ten To One. As part of the process, Danielle has now been invited to join the panel of judges.

 

 

Ten To One author interview - Yasmin Ali -

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, Yasmin Ali, talks about collaborative writing in different media, the challenges and flaws in Ten To One and the inspiration for her brilliant character, Anastasia Boty.

 

Click here: http://www.mrclovenhoof.blogspot.co.uk/2013/10/ten-to-one-author-interview-yasmin-ali.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 5.1 - 5.7 (excluding 5.5 which is Gracie's last chapter).

 

You have until midnight on 13th November to cast your vote.

Happy reading!

 

 

3) LATEST CHAPTERS

 

Below are the fifth round of chapters for Ten To One. If you have not read the earlier chapters, you can find them here:

Round 1 - http://archive.aweber.com/tentoone/6pfbY/h/Ten_To_One_newsletter_July_2013.htm

Round 2 -

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

Round 3 -

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

Round 4 -

http://archive.aweber.com/tentoone/8As.z/h/Ten_To_One_newsletter_October.htm

 

 

And now the fifth round of chapters...

 

5.1 - Mungo

 

Caw. Caw. Caw.

The seagulls hovered in the overcast sky above the pier. Mungo had never seen so many. They floated slowly in circles above his usual spot, the air teeming with gliding wings. Even Spitfire the scruffy scrappy scoundrel was among them, following the same ordered procession as the flock, head bowed in a moment of unusual dignity.

Are they waiting for me? Mungo wondered. From a distance the birds looked like a mushroom-cloud. That would make his bench the drop-zone. I've got a bad feeling about this.

Sure enough, below the ominous cloud of seagulls, there was a crowd gathered around his bench. Mungo found this particularly concerning considering he was not yet sat upon it. He limped over to the crowd, feeling sore from his encounter with his mysterious attacker the night before.

The crowd parted as he arrived, murmuring whispers amongst themselves. So this is how Moses felt? At the front of the crowd stood the other promenade performers lined up like a rag tag collection of mercenaries. They too stepped aside, casting Mungo looks of sympathy and confusion.

What Mungo saw made his heart stop: his bench had been burnt to the ground. His bench!

His trusty ship was a charred wreckage of scorched, blackened wood, like the remnants of a bonfire. Etched on the pier boards at the foot of the carcass, right where his floppy hat would normally sit waiting for coins, a word had been sketched in the soot - păcăli. It was a warning from the man the night before.

And then Mungo understood. The seagulls were waiting for him. But not to taunt or attack. They were paying their respects. Their cawing cacophony was a lament for that which was lost - a eulogy for a fallen companion. Indeed, that bench was the finest companion Mungo had befriended these past twelve years. It was where his Third Life had begun. It had been his saviour.

And now it was gone.

"Sorry boyo," said Blind Man Hugh in his thick Welsh lilt. His trademark blindfold was pushed up onto his forehead like a bandana. He wore his various juggling apparatus - balls, clubs, rings - on a bandolier strapped across his broad middle. "That's too bad." Hugh placed a hand on Mungo's shoulder.

"Blimey, looks like arson," said the cockney Three Cup Colin. His fold-up table was worn on his back like a parachute. He looked like he was about to jump out of a plane. "You've had a shocker, Mungo mate, no question. But there are other benches."

"I dare say they are," Mungo sighed. "But this bench was special."

Of course, Mungo had sat on many of Skegness' benches. He had named them all. There was All Fork One by the chip shop. There was The Nineteenth Hole by the pirate-themed crazy golf. And there was the dastardly Ol' Splinter. But this bench, this bench, was where his Third Life began.

After the circus fire, he had meandered his way through the broad plateau of Skegness off-licenses in a cider-fuelled stupor. He had awoken on this bench at noon the next day, a tidy pile of coins in the hat by his feet. A new way of life had been given to him. He had called the bench Drunkard's Catch.

And now it was ash. Just like the circus. Mungo was only too aware that his Third Life had ended in the same manner as his Second Life - in flames.

"Arson? What makes you say that?" barked Blind Man Hugh in response to Three Cup Colin's theory.

Three Cup Colin folded his arms knowingly across his chest. "Because it's burnt to a cinder, my pedigree chum. I doubt the sun did this, although a few rays wouldn't go amiss."

Blind Man Hugh scoffed. "Know a lot about arson, do you?"

"More than you!"

The two performers descended into their usual bickering - the Welsh and cockney accents escalating with each retort.

Madame Latrocious, the pier fortune-teller and palm-reader, took this opportunity to approach Mungo.

"I am sorry Mungo," she said. He dress might indicate a Romani gypsy heritage but her northern accent betrayed her true homeland of Grimsby. "I should have foreseen this."

Mungo sighed. "How could you?"

"You have been in my thoughts of late," Madame Latrocious explained. "The lonely clown - the latest in a great line of Pagliacci, Poliakoff, Griebling, Emmet Kelly. Your past is clear to me. Such fear, such sadness, such loss."

A cold, salty breeze blew in off the waves.

"But your future has always been hidden to me. I fear your story will end soon. But the manner of your departure remains unclear. The heavens will choose whether you die a hero or a coward."

"Could I not just live as a hero or a coward?"

The fortune-teller smiled sadly, her eyes glistening under those heavily-shadowed lids. "Fool."

"Forgive me," Mungo said. "I didn't mean to be flippant."

"No," Madame Latrocious replied. "The word in the soot. Păcăli. It means fool."

And Mungo remembered what his attacker had said the night before. You are a păcăli. The man had called him a fool. The man had been right.

"It is a Romanian word," explained Madame Latrocious.

So now everyone speaks Romanian, thought Mungo. Good for them.

"You need to be careful," continued the fortune-teller. "It is a warning."

"No!" laughed a new jovial voice. "It is a review!"

Mungo dropped his head. Please no, not him.

Rocky the Punchman strode through the crowd and stopped at Mungo's side, his customary grin etched upon his face. Mungo had never stood this close to the puppeteer before. He was overwhelmed by the pungent musk of Rocky's oiled hair, which even Mungo's spongy red nose was failing to filter out.

"Your fans are losing interest!" Rocky jested, slapping Mungo on the back. "They ran out of coins so now they throw matches!"

Mungo stared into the ashes and tried to block out the taunts.

"Leave it out, Rocky," said Blind Man Hugh, turning away from his argument with Three Cup Colin.

"Don't be soft," returned the Punchman. "You are finally living up to your name, Blind Man. Can't you see what has happened?" He raised his voice for the benefit of the crowd. "Mungo has burnt down his own bench!"

"Why would he do that?" asked Three Cup Colin.

"Come on, Colin," jeered the Punchman. "Is your brain the size of that pea you hide under your cups? Surely it is obvious! Mungo must have passed out in a drunken mess, whilst holding a fag!"

Mungo felt a thudding in his head. He hadn't smoked since he was fifteen and his father had caught him with a cigarette. That beating was enough to stop him ever lighting up again. But he was too busy grinding his teeth to point that out. He clenched his fists so tight he could feel his nails through the material of his gloves.

"Ask yourselves," the Punchman addressed the crowd. "Why do you keep giving coins to this clown? He is a danger to all of you. The drunken fool could have burnt down the whole pier! Don't fuel his habits. And certainly don't pity him."

The crowd listened intently. A few mouths hung open in either shock or realisation. There was some nodding too.

Blind Man Hugh and Three Cup Colin slowly edged away. It was unclear whether they were distancing themselves from Mungo or the ranting Punchman. Either way, they had abandoned him.

Mungo's eyes filled with angry tears, as he continued to stare into the ash. Păcăli. Madame Latrocious placed a comforting hand on his shoulder but he abruptly shrugged it off. Head bowed, she too now retreated away. Mungo was left at the mercy of the Punchman.

"Don't take my word for it!" continued the Punchman. "Let's ask the gang!"

At that, Rocky raised his hands. He was wearing the Doctor and the Constable puppets from his Punch and Judy Show ensemble.

"What do you think, Constable?" Rocky asked the puppet. He changed his voice before replying: "Well, well, well, this appears to be a case of self-inflicted arson by a self-inflicted arse!"

This raised a few smiles. In an instant, the crowd became an audience and obediently shuffled closer. Now there was a show to watch and the people of Skegness liked nothing better.

"Doctor? What is your diagnosis?" Rocky turned to his other hand. "I prescribe a shower, first and foremost. Perhaps they should call him Dungo Joey!"

There were sniggers this time. The Punchman, for all his flaws, knew how to work an audience. His deftly switched between puppets. He slipped his hands into a pair of pockets and pulled them out with the puppets removed. He would then shove his hands into a different pair of pockets, where another couple of puppets awaited their master. It was a seamless transition, as quick and perfected as a pit-stop tyre change.

Rocky held up Jack Ketch the Hangman. "I sentence him to an early retirement from the pier. Go hang somewhere else!"

Next came the Crocodile. "And make it snappy!" And old line but the audience cackled with laughter.

Meanwhile, Mungo's heart was racing. There was a dull throbbing in his temples. He could feel himself turning a nasty shade of puce under his white face-paint.

Please make him stop. Please.

But then -

"I'VE GOT A BETTER IDEA!"

Oh no . Of course Mr Punch had to make an appearance. The ever-grinning, violent madman was now held up on Rocky's left hand. And the Punchman was using the swazzle to provide the puppet's trademark voice. But that wasn't even the worse of it. On the Punchman's right hand sat the clown puppet, Joey. This can't be good.

"LET'S TURN THAT CLOWN UPSIDE DOWN!"

And with that, the puppeteer unleashed his Mr Punch puppet on the clown puppet. Mr Punch held his slapstick and was flailing the clown full throttle.

CLACK. CLACK. CLACK.

Mungo felt each sound reverberate in his pounding head. His breathing quickened. Above in the skies, the seagulls were agitated. They were swirling faster and faster, becoming a vortex of beaks and feathers.

CLACK. CLACK.

The audience was hooting and applauding the beating. Mungo scrunched up his face even tighter than his fists, desperately trying to block out the sound.

"THAT'S THE WAY TO DO IT!"

Mungo's temperature rose - a long dormant volcano. He tried to hold back but he couldn't. He was his father's son after all. The circling seagulls were now a tornado.

CLACK.

And then came the detestable line. It was Rocky the Punchman's trademark closing line but also his father's line whenever he had finished with Mungo's step-mother.

"DON'T WORRY BOYS AND GIRLS," the Punchman shrieked through the swazzle. "HE HAD IT COMING! HE HAD IT COMING FOR A LONG, LONG -"

Mungo snapped. He turned and smacked the Punchman in the face.

Rocky dropped instantly, like a puppet cut from its strings. Mungo's fist had bashed the swazzle into Rocky's front teeth and the puppeteer bled freely from his mouth, incisors and canines scattered asunder. He lay still.

"Now that's the way to do it,' muttered Mungo as he made his exit through the stunned crowd.

The crowd had gasped simultaneously, which had awoken the cyclone of seagulls. The birds scattered in different directions in a deafening flapping frenzy but not before releasing their bowels on the people gathered below. The victims screamed and scattered as they were splattered with white gunk from above, their former smiles now wiped from their faces. It was beautiful.

But Mungo didn't see any of that. He stormed off the pier, his Third Life now over.

He had no idea where to go from here.

 

5.2 - Nell

 

Bobby's office was still dark when Nell awoke. The desk lamp glowed, but without windows, time stood still. Had it been an hour? Six? She lifted her head off the desk and stared around blearily.

"Good morning, Sunshine," Bobby said. He had propped himself up on one elbow and was staring at her.  

She rubbed her eyes and tried to surreptitiously wipe dried drool off her cheek. "What. The. Actual. Fuck?"

"You fell asleep," he said.

She stared at him. "No."

Bobby laughed. "You have a better explanation?"

"I fell asleep?"

"You fell asleep."

"Here?"

"All evidence points to yes."

Nell narrowed her eyes. "Did you drug me?"

"Why would I do that?" Bobby asked.

"I don't fucking know," Nell said. "But since I can't imagine another possible excuse for this scenario-"

"You assume drugs."

"I'm a cautious woman. I wouldn't just...doze off."

"You were tired," Bobby shrugged, his face twisting with pain as he moved his shoulder. "I apparently needed more help than either of us anticipated."

"You bit a man's face off," Nell said softly. The details of last night were a bit foggy, but that confession remained at the forefront of her brain. She'd spent hours trying to undo the damage a few enthusiastic men could do to a body. He was right - she had been tired. She still was.

"He deserved it."

Bobby's voice had an edge to it. Last night, it had been fuzzy - hazy with the pain. Now the adrenaline was gone. He had to be hurting, and a man in pain was dangerous. "Did he?"

Bobby levered himself cautiously into a sitting position. "Do you trust me?"

Nell shook her head. "Should I?"

"And yet here you are, at nearly," he checked his watch, miraculously undamaged during the events of the previous evening, "7am. You didn't leave last night when I told you what happened."

"What would you have done to me if I'd tried?" she asked.

"Maybe nothing," he said softly.

"I don't believe you."

"You think I would have hurt you if you'd tried to run? In my condition?"

Nell nodded. "I think you command an army." A look passed across Bobby's face; she couldn't tell if it was anger or regret. "You could hurt me."

"And yet you came anyway," he said.

"Yes."

"Because you are, and I quote, 'a cautious woman?'"

She looked at Bobby. His sweater and pants were stiff with blood. His left eye had practically swollen shut, and his knuckles were bruised. "No, because I'm a smart one."

He cocked his head. "How do you figure?"

"You're dangerous-"

"Yes."

Nell glared at him and held up a hand. "You're dangerous, Bobby. You're probably unhinged, in fact, and if I were the cautious woman I thought I was, I would have..."

"What? Called the police?"

She folded her hands primly in lap. "I would have stabbed you in the eye with a screwdriver while you were sleeping."

He burst out laughing. "A girl after my own heart! Nothing ties up loose ends quite like a well-aimed projectile, eh?"

"The thing is," Nell continued, "I am not a loose end."

"No?"

"Neither are you, even if you seem to be doing your damnedest to make yourself expendable," she said. "A month ago, you were a respected business owner. You had power and the cooperation of the community. The implied fear of what you were capable of was enough to secure a comfortable retirement-"

"You think I'm old enough to retire?"

"I think you're old enough to be thinking about retirement, and instead, you've fallen into some murdery sinkhole."

"Murdery? Is that a technical term?" He pushed himself off the couch with a groan.

"I don't know. Why don't we ask Lewis?" she asked, standing as he made his way slowly toward the door leading further into the building.

He paused with his hand on the doorknob. "You best watch yourself," he said. "I'm not the only one with a horse in this race."

"You actually think there'll be a winner here?"

"Maybe not. But there will be losers." He glanced back at her. "And I'm sure as shit the only one who thinks you have some value alive."

"How sweet," Nell smiled tightly.

"Murdered Yank? That's a shit show right there," Bobby said. He patted the sideboard as he opened the door. "Get yourself a cup of coffee before you go."

She stared at the machine he caressed lovingly before he limped out and shut the door behind him. If it was that terrible watery Nespresso she'd found everywhere here, she'd pass. Nell grabbed her backpack from the floor by the desk and walked slowly over to check it out. She traced her fingers across the silver Jura logo. Of course he had a three thousand dollar coffee maker. Nell's mother had a friend with the same model, and although her parents scoffed in private over such an extravagant purchase, they never turned up a cup when it was offered.

Her finger hovered over the buttons. As she was about to select a double shot espresso, she heard Bobby's voice coming back down the hall.

"You're a fucking twat, Marcus, that's what you are."

Nell froze when she heard his name, and the sound of Marcus' voice was enough to send her scrambling to hide under Bobby's desk. "You're overreacting Sweets. I had nothing to do with that." The door to the office slammed open and Nell willed herself into the deeper shadows of her little hole. She bit her upper lip as she heard the two men enter.

"Like hell you didn't," Bobby said. "You're a fucking snake. I've always liked that about you, actually."

"I'd stepped outside to ensure Andras didn't have more men coming up our asses is all-"

"And yet, when his men decided to use me as a punching bag, you were nowhere to be found."

Nell could hear someone crossing the room toward her hiding spot. She wanted to tug the straps of her backpack closer, but she was afraid to even twitch. When she recognized the blood spattered shoes, she said a silent prayed Bobby would be too distracted to notice.

"You didn't have my back," Bobby continued, "which means you were worse than useless to me."

"Who do you think brought your sorry ass back here last night?" Marcus argued. "Who do you think kept them from killing you?"

"You and I both know they weren't about to kill me. Not when the police still have two unsolved murders and a hard-on for placing the blame on me," Bobby said. His foot slid forward and pushed Nell's backpack toward her. She squeezed her head against her knees and willed herself to be invisible.

"Well, I don't know what to do tell you, man."

Nell heard what sounded like a stapler slam against the opposite wall. "You show some goddamned respect, to start with," Bobby snarled. "I have no problem grinding your ass up and selling it as hamburger if you don't make this right."

"I have a plan," Marcus said.

"I'm sure you do."

"Andras is out of the game - you saw to that. We've got an opening with his guys now. We need to take advantage of that-" Marcus began.

"Walk with me," Bobby said. "I've gotta piss, and if it doesn't hit your shoes, I'm going to be severely disappointed."

Nell held her breath. When she could no longer hear the sound of Marcus' bootlicking, she counted to ten and made a dash for the back door. She jiggled the knob, but it had been locked and the key taken. She did a quick inventory; the only drawers were in Bobby's desk, and there was no way she was putting her fingerprints on them. She sighed. Not that they weren't all over the room already, but there was no need to give Bobby any reason not to trust her. He probably carried the key on his person anyway. Only one way out now, and if she didn't move, she'd be trapped in here for the rest of the day, or worse, until someone discovered her.

Nell hurried to the door leading out to the arcade and eased it open. She slipped out and headed away from the sound of raised voices. Apparently Bobby wasn't completely convinced by Marcus' protestations of innocence. The corridor seemed overly bright compared to the office; she could see the bloodstains on her own clothes in this light. She picked up her pace. Nell didn't know how early Bobby's other employees showed up, and she didn't want to find out.

As she came around the corner, she exhaled in relief. The arcade was dark, but the light from the windows at the front allowed her to weave through the games. When she reached the door, she saw the locks were much the same as those in Sammy's; for fire safety purposes, they could be opened from the inside without a key.

She flipped them as quickly as she could and shoved the door open, slamming into a familiar chest. Nell looked up at Detective Constable Chivers.

"What the hell?" The attractive young woman standing just behind Chivers reached out and grabbed hold of Nell's sleeve before Nell could register the presence of two additional uniformed officers.

"Good morning, Ms. Harrison," Chivers said.

"Good morning, sir," Nell murmured.

"May we come in?" he asked politely, making no move to step out of her way.

"It's fine with me," Nell said, shooting a look at the woman detaining her.

"Young, let her go." The woman reluctantly released her arm and stepped around Nell into the arcade. "I'll catch up," Chivers said. He gave a nod and the officers followed Young inside, weapons drawn. He turned back to Nell, who had been trying to inch her way around him. "This is quite a surprise, Ms. Harrison. I didn't expect to find you here this morning."

"That makes two of us," Nell said.

"May I ask what early morning business you have here?" Chivers' face was unreadable as he took in her rumpled clothes.

"Would you believe 'walk of shame?'"

He stared at her, the lines on his face shifting slightly in displeasure. "Do you know why we're here?"

"Pinball fanatics?" A part of Nell knew flippancy was not an ideal strategy, but that part was exhausted.

Chivers glanced up. Nell could hear the woman speaking as she came back through the arcade. "...if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence."

"Robert Thomas is under arrest for murder," he said as Young escorted Bobby through the door and out onto the street.

The officers followed a moment later. "It's clear," the older officer told Chivers as he followed Young to the patrol car.

Nell turned to watch Young put Bobby into the car. She caught his eye through the window; he shook his head slightly and winked at her.

"Not so funny anymore, is it?" Chivers asked.

"What about Marc-" Nell trailed off as she glanced down the block. An ambulance was parked at the end of the road. "What happened there?"

"Fight." He flipped open his notebook. "I'm going to need to take a statement-"

"Is everyone okay?" Nell asked. She couldn't see much, but it looked like a single paramedic was trying to handle the crowd. "It looks like he might need some help."

"Not from you."

"I didn't mean me," Nell said icily.

Chivers looked up. The uniformed officers had disappeared back into the arcade, and Young was filling out some paperwork in the front seat. It was possible to hear angry voices raised in the direction of the pier. He snapped his book shut and leveled a glare at her. "I expect you in my office in an hour." He took a longer look at her stained clothes and pale face. "Don't be late." Nell turned to go. She felt a tug and turned to see Chivers holding onto a strap of her backpack using a latex glove pinched between his fingers. "I think I'll hang onto that, if you don't mind."

"And if I do?"

"Then there's still some room in there with Thomas."

Nell glanced at Bobby. Handcuffed and locked in the back of a car made him seem, if possible, even more dangerous. She grabbed her key out of the front pocket and headed for home.

 

5.3 - Shaun

 

It hadn't been until several hours after Mabel left that Shaun opened the letter. Underneath the austere Ketch, Beadle and Lamb letterhead, Shaun read: 'Son, I hope this letter reaches you well.' Apparently a junior in the firm had been working in Skegness, and recognised him from a photograph on his father's desk. Shaun wasn't sure what surprised him most - the fact that anyone might recognise him from before he went to Starhaven, or the fact that his father had any photographs of him on display.

The letter had all the warmth of a cross examination. His father was glad he had 'grown out of all that alien nonsense.' At least people at the Brotherhood had seemed to miss him. The letter warned that Skegness was becoming 'home to an increasing number of unsavoury individuals .' When he read that, Shaun had been unable to stop himself from laughing aloud. The 'unsavoury individuals' who made up Ketch, Beadle and Lamb's client base were educated thugs - the sort of lowlife who could pay for the firm's exclusive services. Shaun's father would spend most of the day trying to keep gangsters, wife-beating footballers and kiddie-fiddling celebs out of prison and out of the papers. He spoke to them with polite professionalism, then came home and unleashed his back-log of moral outrage at Shaun for drinking a few too many Jägerbombs at a party.

 

"'Father!' the boy shouted into the darkness of the forest, but his voice only echoed against the trees and bounced back to him."

Starhaven had been on the edge of the New Forest. Shaun remembered driving through it at two o'clock in the morning, feeling utterly abandoned, the moon just breaking through the boughs of the trees.

 

Shaun had been lost in the turn and crank of his ratchet screwdriver. He was in Mr Popescu's kitchen. In the living-room the old man told fairy tales to Gracie, the girl from across the hallway. The boiler roared, even in the springtime, and he sweated under the hoodie he would not remove in public. The smell of paprika and garlic overlaid a faint odour of cabbage. Shaun drank the same crappy tea from the same chipped mug, and if he closed his eyes he could almost be standing in the old man's flat for the first time, in a world that had not yet been filled with guns and bodies.

The room was a mess. Popescu had swept away any wood splinters and restacked the bent tins of carrots and peas but the cupboard doors were hanging off their hinges. As Shaun fixed a new door to the cupboard at the end, he eyed the bottom drawer and wondered whether the person who trashed this place had found what they were looking for. Gracie sat in the middle of a huge leather armchair, tongue sticking out in concentration as she drew pictures in wax crayon. Mr Popescu had offered no explanation for the state of the kitchen, and Shaun did not ask for one; the girl acted as a sort of shield, protecting the old man from any undue curiosity.

Popescu was an enthusiastic story-teller. Even with an audience of one, he did not recite - he performed. The hunter's son had sneaked past wolves and outsmarted bandits, and had met an old man, the Mosul, or something like that.

Shaun tested the action on the new door, listening for Popescu to immerse himself in role. Fixing the cupboard had been an easy job, but there was something satisfying about the way the door arced on its hinges. Shaun liked making and fixing things; the patterns made sense. Things connected clearly. There was a beauty to it.

"The Mosul was wise," said the old man, "and he saw that the young boy was lost, without hope. 'If you walk for three days with the moon at your right hand,' he said, 'you will find a treasure so great that you will be able to leave this forest a prince among men.'"                                                                                    

Shaun edged over to the drawer and slid it open. Inside, the papers were crumpled and torn. There was no hesitation this time as he plunged his hand to the back. There was nothing there. He closed the draw as carefully as he could.

Lifting the next cupboard door onto its hinges, he considered the missing gun. Nobody had come into the flats that Shaun did not know by name. He was certain of that. Other than visiting Valerie in hospital, he had not been away from his monitor for more than five minutes. Could one of the other residents have done this? Perhaps they had attacked Valerie too, and that left Popescu as what? An innocent victim? That didn't seem right - if he'd been to the police, Shaun would have seen them here. Besides, the old man kept a pistol in his kitchen draw. Shaun could only imagine what other secrets he might be hiding.

The heat in the kitchen was starting to make him dizzy. He tightened the screw, thinking over the past week. He had heard a loud bang on the day Valerie was attacked. When the police came to look at the CCTV footage, DS Young had told him that some of the witnesses had reported hearing a gunshot, but there was no evidence of one being fired. Valerie had not been wounded; there was no bullet. Like Popescu had done at Sammy's, the detectives concluded that the sound was a car backfiring. When Mr Popescu had knocked on his door this morning, Shaun assumed that the damage had been done night before, but what if it wasn't? The kitchen seemed to tilt and sway. Shaun felt drunk, and the blood pulsing behind his ears drowned out the sound of the old man's voice in the other room. The screwdriver began to shake in his hand. It rattled against the metalwork. He put it down on the side and took a mouthful of tea. It had gone cold; the bitterness of the tea and the sweetness of the sugar hit his tongue separately, in waves. He closed his eyes and downed the whole mug, hoping that it would calm his nerves without him having to taste it.

Still with his eyes closed, Shaun gripped the work surface and breathed deep, slow breaths. The floor began to steady itself, and after a few moments he risked opening his eyes. Mr Popescu was still telling stories in the other room.

"The boy heard a voice from behind him, and no matter how quickly he turned, no matter which direction he faced, the voice was always just over his shoulder. The voice told him that the Mosul had lied, that if he kept walking with the moon at his right hand, he would find nothing but the bones of other children who had searched for the treasure at the heart of the woods. The voice was l'uomo nero, and he wanted to deceive the boy, so that he would wander forever beneath the dark trees."

Not quite ready to resume working, Shaun looked around the room. He had not noticed it before, but the clock was off-centre above the oven. A small hole about three inches to the right marked where a nail had been. Shaun stepped carefully across the kitchen and lifted the clock from the wall. The hole underneath was bigger than he would have expected. The plaster had crumbled around it, and the bullet had broken straight through into the brickwork. He replaced the clock. The kitchen must have been ransacked on the same day Valerie was attacked. She had been here, maybe even standing where Shaun was now.

He knew he should go to the police; he should have gone as soon as he found the gun, but he felt like he had just become settled in Skegness. If the police ran a background check, they would find out about his time with the Brotherhood - they might even find out about the car and the money he stole when he left. And he had already failed to report evidence. He would be arrested. He would lose his job, the trust of the people in the flats, everything. He would be nobody.

To make things worse, he probably deserved it. If he had reported the gun, then Valerie would not have been shot at. Now Valerie was in a coma because of him. He had to make sure that nothing like this happened again. He would email Mr Sandhu, the man who owned the flats, and ask for more CCTV cameras. He would know everything that happened in the block. The Brotherhood were right: if you love something (and Shaun did love the flats), you have to watch it, you have to know it completely. If he was going to protect his residents, he needed to find out Mr Popescu's secrets.

It did not take Shaun long to finish repairing the other cupboards. He packed his tools back into their Tupperware boxes, determined that he would discover what sort of threat the old man posed to the residents of Castleton Boulevard, somehow. He stepped into the living room, shouldering his holdall.

"As the sun rose after his third night walking, he stepped into a clearing. The golden light broke through the leaves, and the boy saw..." the old man broke off, looking at Shaun, "are you finished?"

"Yeah, all done," Shaun replied.

"Thank you."

"It's fine." Shaun was finding it difficult to make small talk. He wondered how his father managed it.

During this exchange, Gracie had stopped drawing, and looked between the two men. A small stack of drawings sat on the arm of the chair. One of these caught Shaun's eye - a man in a black jacket with a blue eye drawn on his neck. His arms might have been too long for his body, his broken mouth transformed into a smiling red line, but there was no mistaking him; Gracie was drawing dead men.

Shaun could not leave without finding out where she had seen him.

"I like this one," he said, lifting the picture, "who is it?"

"Uhhhm...," the little girl studied the picture as though she had never seen it before, "I don't think it's l'uomo nero. He might be a wizard. Or a fairy. He knows Mr Pop."

The old man looked up.

"Gracie," he said, calmly, "where did you see this man?"

"He was in the forest," she put a tiny had over her mouth, "he said bad things happen to children in the forest."

"What forest?" the old man asked.

"The fairy forest, silly," she responded.

The girl seemed to have been listening to too many of Popescu's fairy tales, but the fact remained - she had drawn the dead man from the beach, and she had confirmed that there was a connection to Mr Popescu. In the Brotherhood, the Council had said that some people, usually children, might receive messages from the Extra-terrestrial Intelligences without really understanding them. Shaun wasn't sure if he still believed that, but the little girl new more than she should.

The two men looked at each other, for a moment the invisible wall between them dissolved. Neither knew quite what to ask next.

The sound of a door knocking across the landing saved them the trouble. Beyond the silence of the old man's flat, Shaun recognised the cheerful voice of Gracie's social worker.

"It's Harry!" the girl gasped. She looked at Shaun, "He's an evil man, l'uomo nero. He knows what happens to the children in the forest."

"Go on Gracie," said Mr Popescu, "I'll tell you what the boy found another day. It's time to go home."

"That's not my home," Gracie said, sulking. She got up out of the armchair, gathered up her drawings, and walked towards the door.

Shaun left with her and smiled at Mrs Greenwood as he turned into the stairwell. He had a lot to think about.

 

5.4 - Bobby

 

Making him wait for a couple of hours in a holding cell was a trick, but Bobby knew all about tricks. He'd built a life on them.

The trick was meant to make him more susceptible to questioning by putting him in a state of unreasoning anxiety. First, the shock of the arrest; high drama, a show of power to put him in his place. Next, booking; intimidation through bureaucracy. And, finally, a holding cell where he was forgotten. The real artists sometimes included a police officer who wandered by the cell and expressed mild surprise it was inhabited.

It was, admittedly, a good trick and tended to work even on those aware of it. One moment you were going about your life with criminal joi de vivre, hopes and dreams more or less intact. The next you were utterly alone, contemplating life in a windowless, concrete box. Unless you knew a counter, chances were you'd be willing to say almost anything to get out of that box, even if it was only to get into a better box. Bobby, however, knew a counter.

He went to sleep.

When a uniformed officer came to take him for questioning, he found all 6'5 of Bobby sprawled across the cot, head hanging off one end, his feet hanging off the other, snoring loud enough to be heard through the cinderblock walls. The officer had to shake him with substantial force to wake him.

He rose feeling refreshed and, if not quite at peak operating levels, at least capable of dealing with Young and Chivers. His body hurt, and a quick look in the metal mirror bolted to the cell wall confirmed he looked moderately gruesome, but that might be to his advantage. He splashed some cold water on his face and slipped on his shoes. They'd taken his belt and shoelaces at booking for the obvious reasons. He hitched up his pants and waved to the officer to lead on.

This wasn't his first visit to this station and little had changed. The fluorescent lighting was still too bright, the concrete walls were still painted a faded yellow, and the smell of industrial cleaner still failed to cover the underlying stench of human misery common to all places where people were imprisoned. The officers talked too loud and laughed too hard at jokes they'd heard hundreds of times. Police stations always reminded him that even coppers were human, if only marginally.

The officer led him to questioning room and left him there without saying a word. Bobby was grateful for the man's silence and mentally wished him well in his crime fighting career. Then he wondered if he was on the take and, if he wasn't, when he would be. A man that could keep his mouth shut was invaluable.

The room was a standard questioning room: grey painted walls, table, four chairs, and a camera mounted in the corner between the wall and ceiling. It lacked a two-way mirror which disappointed Bobby. He loved an audience.

Bobby deliberately sat in a chair on the questioners' side of the table-with his back to the camera- put his feet up on the table, and closed his eyes. He was reconciled to the fact that he would be kept a full twenty four hours. It was as long as they could hold him without formally charging him with a crime. He didn't expect that to happen.

The door opened and an unfamiliar young man entered. He was clearly not a police officer, thought Bobby. His suit and shoes were high quality and he was carrying an expensive leather briefcase. His haircut was of the variety that costs upwards of a hundred pounds and his aftershave was a subtle statement of membership in the upper class. Intense green eyes assessed Bobby without flinching away from assessment.

"Mr. Thomas?" he asked perfunctorily. "My name is Campbell. David Campbell. From Ketch, Beadle, and Lamb. I'm your solicitor."

This was a bit of luck, Bobby thought. He hadn't known he had a solicitor. Things were already looking up.

"I recommend you sit on the other side of the table, Mr. Thomas. The police are not in a whimsical state at the moment. In fact, I think you'll find them to be quite the opposite," Campbell said.

Bobby looked at the man in consideration. He had a deep, musical voice rich with tonality. Bobby complied with his request and moved to the other side of the table without making a fuss.

"Thank you, Mr. Thomas. Now, if I may, I'd like to briefly state the relevant details of your case."

Bobby nodded in assent.

"You have been arrested for suspicion of the murder of one Lewis Martin and suspicion of the murder of one Dorin Fieraru. The police are in possession of both bodies. Mr. Martin was a known associate of yours and there are witnesses that can testify that you were the last person to see him alive. Mr. Fieraru was a migrant worker with no known affiliation with you or with any of your...enterprises. There are witnesses to an argument between you and Mr. Fieraru on Monday, 27th of last month in Tower Gardens. Mr. Fieraru's body was found two days later on the beach."

This was news to Bobby. The police had an extra body and needed to pin it on someone. Bobby was convenient. Still, they couldn't prove a damn thing. He decided to let it go for now. He nodded at Campbell again.

"Mr. Thomas, is there some reason you're not speaking? It's critically important you take these accusations seriously."

"What would you like me to say, Mr. Campbell? That I'm innocent? Right. Here goes. I'm innocent," Bobby said.

"Yes, Mr. Thomas, I believe you are," replied Campbell. "DS Young and DC Chivers, however, do not share that belief. They are convinced of your guilt. You must not answer any questions that implicate yourself in these matters. You understand?"

"I do."

"Excellent. Do you have any questions for me?"

"Yes. One," Bobby replied. "Who hired you?"

For the first time, Campbell's composure faltered. "Why, you did, Mr. Thomas. Not me, personally, but my firm is on retainer."

"Of course," Bobby covered. "I didn't know you handled criminal matters, is all." He'd never put his firm on retainer. The only solicitor he employed was in London and handled his taxes.

"Ah, I see. You were surprised that I was here and had already spoken with the police," Campbell said. "The firm's senior partner gave me my instructions this morning. It would be inappropriate for me to speculate as to how he knew you had been arrested."

"Good enough. Where are the inquisitors?"

"They extended me the courtesy of speaking with you before questioning. I will notify them that we are finished."

He left the room to fetch Young and Chivers, leaving Bobby momentarily alone to consider his thoughts.

He was fucked.

Something wasn't right about Campbell. Bobby was small fry. Campbell was young, but he was an ace. Even if he had his firm on retainer, Bobby wouldn't rate Campbell's services. And who was Fieraru? He'd known both Young and Chivers a long time. Neither would manufacture evidence. Would they?

Campbell returned with Young and Chivers. They both looked at him with a faint disgust that hadn't been there before. In their eyes he was a murderer and nothing would change that. They were his enemies now.

The questioning was bad. Much worse than Bobby had anticipated. Ever mindful of the camera and the audio recorder, Bobby stuck with simple, straightforward answers or simply refused to reply. It went on for hours until he lost all sense of time. The fever he had been battling began to return, adding a surreal quality to the interview.

He snapped. Chivers was waving pictures of the bodies in his face and Bobby snatched them out of his hand in a blur. He was almost finished shredding them beyond recognition before Young recovered enough from his show of preternatural speed to stop him.

"Jesus, Bobby," she gasped.

He glared at her. "What?" he asked.

"You're...fast," Young replied.

"Spry for an old man, eh?" Bobby snickered.

She was on the cusp of answering when Chivers blurted, "Oh, hell, it wasn't that fast. We've been in this room too damn long. Let's take a break. He's not going anywhere."

Campbell piped up, "I must protest, Detective Constable. My client is obviously unwell. His injuries are causing him notable significant physical discomfort, undoubtedly caused by forcing him to sit here for hour upon hour. He also appears to be feverish, also likely the result of this interrogation."

"I don't care if he bursts into flames," growled Chivers. "His private nurse can put him back together after we're done with him."

"Chivers," Young snapped, glancing meaningfully at the camera.

Chivers glared malevolently at his boss, but said nothing.

Bobby was fascinated. The look Chivers shot Young had been pure evil. What was going on here?

Young turned to Campbell. "You are correct, Mr. Campbell. It seems Mr. Thomas is, indeed, unwell. He can return to his cell until his discharge is processed. He will not be formally charged at this time. I estimate his discharge will be ready roughly twenty four hours from the time he was booked."

"Detective Sergeant, my client is ill and needs medical attention. I suggest you arrange for immediate discharge or I will see both you and Detective Constable Chivers charged with assault and negligent abuse."

Young suddenly seemed strangely unsure of herself. "Immediate discharged," she muttered. "Right, I'll see to it. In the meantime, back to his cell."

Campbell nodded, as if he expected to be obeyed. "I'll walk you out," he said to Young and, with a nod to Bobby, followed Young out of the room.

"Let's go, Bobby," Chivers said. "I'll walk you back to your cell."

They walked back to the holding cells in silence. When they arrived Chivers called out to the guard to open the cell. Bobby walked in a flopped onto the cot.

Chivers hesitated in the doorway. "It's not like you, Bobby. Something isn't right," he finally said.

"No," Bobby said, "nothing is right. I thought it was, but I was wrong."

"People get hurt when you're wrong, Bobby. I want to see you locked up or gone from here. I'm going to make it happen," Chivers said and closed the cell door.

Bobby stared at the ceiling and wondered if Chivers was right.

"He's not, you know," Marcus said.

"You're not the most credible source on people not getting hurt," Bobby said.

"Of course I am. Think of all the people I haven't hurt...yet," Marcus laughed.

"Where have you been?" Bobby asked. "The wheels are starting to come off."

"I've been around. Minding the store while you make eyes at the lady doctor. Whispering in ears. Pointing people in the right direction. The things you can't be bothered to do."

"You're better at that sort of thing than I am."

"And you're better at...what exactly?"

"Public relations."

"Point taken."

"She did a nice job fixing you up. You must have enjoyed that. I would have."

"Leave her alone, Marcus. I mean it."

"I do what I want, Sweets."

"No, you do as I fucking say or I'll make you suffer until the devil himself cries for you," Bobby said.

When there was no reply Bobby turned his head and saw that Marcus was gone. Good. He was in no shape to argue with him. He turned on his side and closed his eyes, shaking with fever.

 

5.5 - Gracie

 

Mister Pop's door no longer looked welcoming. Instead the spyhole peered shiftily at Gracie, a one-eyed demon cloaked in dead wood, as she stole down the corridor.

'You can't come home until the Mosul is defeated,' Mihai had asserted. 'Don't trust him. Don't believe anything he tries to tell you.' Sure enough, the next time Gracie had visited Mister Pop his fairy tales were just as mixed and opaque as before, and he avoided talking about forests and changelings altogether. In the end Gracie's attention had wandered. Scribbling on some scrap paper, her clumsy fingers shaped a rough copy of Mihai's special eye of their own accord. She stared at it long and hard, the old man's voice just a blur in the background. Only when he leaned over her shoulder to squint suspiciously at the drawing did she look at him. Fleetingly their gazes met; there was nothing in her small upturned face but doubt and distrust. His own warm expression slowly faded. She almost asked him if he recognised the eye, but with a mumbled excuse he ushered her out of the flat. Gracie hadn't seen him since.

Now, on the other side of the hall, the Greenwoods' front door stood silently ajar where she'd left it; a voice could still be heard from within, trundling on about integration at school and familial relationships and social support. These big words were well-known to Gracie by now. Harry - l'umero nero - had been visiting more or less every day since Tower Gardens, talking at length to her foster parents about the same old things. There had been no trace of Mihai, but his warnings stuck in her head as clearly as if he were hissing into her ear: 'People are not to be trusted. You can never tell what they might be hiding'. Harry was hiding something. In his sidelong glances, in his friendly smile twisted strangely at the edges, Gracie saw a secret. Were Sarah and Arthur Greenwood involved? Were they working with him to keep her in the human world forever? From the way they hung onto his every word it seemed so. Even if they were really innocent and he had bewitched them, Gracie was still in danger as long as she stayed under their roof.

The street wasn't very busy, but it wasn't empty either. The five year old felt scrutinising eyes on her as she scuttled across the road and halted on the far pavement, wondering where to go.

"Are you lost?" a tall male figure asked as it bent over her.

Gracie flinched away. "No. I'm going to my Mommy," she replied defiantly - only half a lie, really.

"Where is she?"

Without a second thought she pointed at the building right next to them - the place where the strange lady took all of her rubbish and dead things. If she could only escape from this interfering adult, there would surely be a dark corner in the studio to hide in until night time, and she could easily slip away to Tower Gardens unnoticed in the dark.

"She's waiting for me," Gracie explained before turning tail and running at top speed towards the building. With this assurance the man did not follow her, but went once again about his own business.

The red-haired rubbish lady was standing at the front door of her workshop, but she wasn't looking at Gracie. Her neck bent forwards, she was deep in conversation with an olive-skinned man, their backs turned to the street. His heavy brows were furrowed as he spoke in the same low accent as Mister Pop and Mihai. Where were all of these men coming from? Was this one a wizard or fairy as well?

Skirting widely around the distracted pair, Gracie noticed the side door of the studio at the end of the alleyway. It stood open. Glancing one more time at the strange dark man, she wondered if he would help her to get to the Tower Gardens, if he really was magic. There was no way to be sure, and the woman might have questions. She might even try to send Gracie back to the Greenwoods. Perhaps inside the workshop she would find some clues about them both while she was hiding. For now, she just needed to get out of sight.

She had only been inside the workshop a few seconds when the door closed behind her of its own accord. A lock clicked into place - the rubbish lady must be leaving. Abruptly Gracie's pulse was thrumming in her ears and in her wrists; her whole body vibrated with it. Could she open the door from the inside? No, she couldn't. For a moment she closed her eyes and saw rushing dark redness. Her breathing echoed. "Can't scare me," she hushed herself, "can't scare me." What was the worst that could happen? The rubbish lady would come back tomorrow and Gracie could sneak out again. Tower Gardens would still be there. She would be hungry tonight, but what did that matter when soon she would be in the other realm?

Serenely she began to investigate the room once more. Papers, sketchbooks and photographs littered the tables, illuminated by the large windows and skylight above. This was only one half of the studio - around the corner heavy looking tools hung from the walls, and white statues huddled like gossiping women. There were big metal tubes stacked in a corner, and huge containers with odd names on them. Goggles and gloves sat on the work surfaces. It was another world, and Gracie wasn't sure that she liked it. What did the rubbish lady do with all of these things?

A board twice her height caught the girl's attention. The images jumped out at her, drawing her closer, until she was craning her neck to take in the towering panel. "Mister Pop," she whispered, reaching out to touch the ethereal characters. He had been painted over and over again, always the same and always a little different. It was him, unmistakably: his dark powerful gaze and the hook of his nose, the wrinkles in his skin. He looked very old, yet somehow very strong. There was something in the way that he stared down at his small counterparts that sent a little shiver up Gracie's spine. Who was he looking at, time and time again? She peered closer at the other repeated image; it was a child. Herself, only more beautiful, like a baby angel. She frowned. A sinister twist had been added to each of these pictures too. What did it mean? Did it have something to do with the rubbish lady's friend? Had he left it here to help her?

A rustling, scraping sound behind her made Gracie jump and spin about. The side door again? Was the rubbish lady back so soon? Where could she hide? Glancing wildly about, she scampered under a work table and curled up against the wall. Better than nothing.

It wasn't the lady's legs that stepped through the side door and into the workshop; there were two pairs of men's dark trousers, moving from a cautious creep into a slow shuffle, as their owners confirmed that nobody was in. The bitter smell of cigarette smoke wafted down towards Gracie's nose.

"I am not understanding," came a gruff voice in a familiar accent. Another Mihai! This one sounded surprised. "The place, it is not police, no? Why these things?" The speaker's feet moved towards the white statues; Gracie could see more of him now, his hand gesturing in confusion.

His partner paced the small L-shaped space. When he spoke, it was in a different accent. "It is to cover up, maybe? Very good, if yes. Very clever."

"Look more. Anders said she ask for photograph. A report is perhaps, some place." The papers on the table opposite Gracie whispered against each other as the men rifled through them. "Nothing. Look to the front."

The smoking man left the table and ventured over to the vats and cylinders, then to the work surface where various bottles and tools sat in disarray. "Anders not happy right now," he remarked sourly, "better make him happy, look proper and no missing."

"You see him?"

"Yeah, I see him. He bit up bad, not got half his face."

The man with Mihai's accent became more serious, lowering his voice even though they were alone. "So you know who done it, no?"

"Mad black man, is said. Thinks he better than Anders, he come first in Skegness, he says. They beat him after though, is said. He don't live for much longer."

"No?"

"No." Shrugging to the room at large, the man dropped his cigarette and stood on it indolently. The red glow had not quite gone out.

"Idiot!" the other hissed. "She know we here! Pick it up!"

With a snort of contempt, the smoker bent to retrieve it - and something clunked to the floor beside him, leaking fluid all across the linoleum. As if by magic, light sprang up from the cigarette and flew out over the surface of the spreading puddle, blue and yellow flames that lunged towards the ceiling, like frantic children reaching for lost balloons.

"Futu-i! Curule!" yelled his accomplice as the smoker leapt backwards from the fire. "Put it out!!!"

The stacked tubes in the corner scattered loudly as he collided with them. "What with?!" he cried, "what with???"

But the other man was pointing madly at the cylinders, the whites of his eyes showing horribly. Gracie was peeking out as far as she dared; they didn't even see her small spying face, too fixated on the spinning containers. Backing away with increasing rapidity, they banged the workshop's side door behind them as they fled, and she was finally left alone in the flat again.

Gracie crouched still. The yellow was merging into orange, fiercer and brighter, so bright that it hurt to look. She ought to follow the men out. No matter who caught her once she emerged. Edging out from under the table, she retreated slowly from a cylinder that rolled towards her, and the swift arm of fire that followed it on the back of the running fluid... Vaguely, on her bare skin, she felt cool drops like rain falling from the ceiling.

 

5.6 - Anastasia

 

Anastasia picked a path through the play and picnic area of The Sand Castle. Insolent gulls stood on tables spotted and streaked with the abstract expressionism of their guano. A colony of diseased pigeons pecked manically at a polystyrene take-away box. A suggestion of furred mammals slinked in the shadows. Anastasia made a mental note to return with her sketchbook.

Inside the building was a hangar-like space to warehouse everything that was sub-prime about the English seaside. No one theme dominated the design. Jamaican beach bar pastiches sat on Balmoral plaid carpets. One corner was devoted to a Parisian cafe-bar mood, with bentwood chairs and a few signs on the wall announcing random foodstuffs - beurre, pastis, pain, choucroute, croque monsieur . The scent of stale beer hung in the air, and in the distance a vacuum cleaner wheezed across the tartan floor. Anastasia could see only one customer sitting at a table near a mural of a Venetian gondola. She realised that she had come prepared to identify Vassil by his blood spattered meat factory overalls and white mob cap. The long haired young man in double denim and cowboy boots might well be her Bulgarian would be forensic entomologist.

"Vassil?" said Anastasia as she approached.

"Miss Boty," said Vassil, laying down his copy of The i, and standing formally, hand outstretched.

"Call me Ana, please," said Anastasia. "Can I get you a drink?"

"Thank you, but I have a coffee here," said Vassil. He looked up and clicked his fingers in the direction of a woman who was laying tables in another section of the hangar. The woman heeded the imperative instantly, walking swiftly towards their table.

"I wouldn't try that in a Skegness pub on a Saturday night," said Anastasia.

"Nor would I," said Vassil, smiling. "She is Ukrainian."

Green tea ordered, Vassil turned to the matter which had led him to call the number on Anastasia's card. "It is very good of you to see me, Ana. I know you must be busy."

"If I can help you, I will," said Anastasia, "but you may be over-estimating the power I have."

"My friend, Troyan," said Vassil. "We share a flat. He also works at the factory."

"If it's a legal problem you 'd be better off going to the C.A.B," said Anastasia.

"C.A.B?" said Vassil.

"Citizens Advice Bureau," said Anastasia. "There must be one here."

"But we are not citizens," said Vassil. "In any case, this is an artistic matter."

"Go on," said Anastasia.

"Troyan is an artist. I believe he is good, but I am no judge of these things. I have some of his work with me, if you would like to see it."

"I don't want to disappoint you, but I'm unlikely to buy anything," said Anastasia.

The waitress returned with a small tray bearing a teapot, a cup and saucer, a small milk jug, and a bowl filled with pre-packed sugar portions.

"Milk with green tea?" said Anastasia, raising her eyebrows. The waitress shrugged, left the tray on the table, and walked away. Anastasia bowed her head in the direction of the teapot and sniffed. Tentatively she poured the brew into her cup.

"It is green," said Vassil.

"It's peppermint," said Anastasia. "It'll have to do. So, your artist friend wants to sell his work."

"No," said Vassil, holding up his hands, palms forward. "Troyan wants to know how to meet local artists. He says that everywhere in the world there is an art scene, but he can't find it in Skegness. I thought you would know."

Anastasia took a tentative sip of her peppermint infusion. "I'm really not the person to ask about the Lincolnshire art scene, if there is one," said Anastasia. "I'm based in London normally, but I needed some headspace for the work I'm making now. The London contemporary art world is crazy at the moment. There's silly money flowing though the galleries. Much of it' s Russian money. Oligarchs indulging their beauty queen girlfriends' pretensions to culture."

"I worked in a Russian restaurant in Cyprus before their banks crashed," said Vassil. "I saw it first hand. I don't know where the money comes from, but they sure like to spend it."

"OK, let's see your friend's work," said Anastasia. Vassil nodded, and pulled a clunky laptop from his messenger bag. It took time to boot up.

"Troyan has no space to work here, but you can see a selection on his website," said Vassil. With this he turned the laptop around so that Anastasia could see the screen. "I can translate it for you, but it's the pictures that matter, I think?"

"These are large canvasses?" said Anastasia.

"Yes," said Vassil, "Troyan said that you wouldn't like them. He knows that painting is unfashionable in Britain."

"I paint," said Anastasia. "I'm increasingly drawn to painting. That 's one of the reasons why I came here to work. The east coast light. It's not a pretty light. It's cold and clear and unflinching." She scrolled through the images on the screen.

"Troyan's English isn't so good," said Vassil. "But he doesn't want to lose touch with artists while he is here."

"Troyan's work is interesting," said Anastasia. "It's not like much you'd come across in the average degree show in this country. It' s confident, distinctive. Troyan has an eye."

"You can help him?" said Vassil.

"I'll ask around," said Anastasia. "There's probably a scene in Lincoln. There's a university there. But I'd be interested to talk to Troyan."

"You would?" said Vassil, tucking a stray lock of hair back behind his ear.

"I' m not a political artist," said Anastasia, "but the rise of the Russian billionaire art collector has given me a philosophical focus. Perhaps Troyan would understand this?"

"He's not Russian, and if he was rich he wouldn't be working in a meat factory," said Vassil.

"Bulgaria has much in common with Russia," said Anastasia, "culturally, I mean?"

"I guess," said Vassil.

"There's something about the aesthetic of Orthodox religious art, and the cultural primacy of the soul," said Anastasia, "that seems at odds with the acquisitiveness and vulgarity of the Russian international super-rich. I'm trying to explore that dichotomy in my work."

"I understand your words, Ana," said Vassil, "but I'm not sure I understand your meaning? Rich people are rich people, and some are vulgar in their tastes. Are Russians any different from rich Americans, or rich Germans, or rich Chinese?"

"Well, " said Anastasia, "I think perhaps they are. The rich Chinese buy European and American luxury brands, but they don't buy western art. They are connoisseurs of their own culture. They have an acute appreciation of quality. Russians collect in the same way that rich bankers used to blow their bonuses on a Damian Hirst. They're dazzled by fame."

"They're sentimental, too," said Vassil. "At the restaurant in Cyprus, after the vodka and champanski started to flow, there would always be tears, and the singing of Russian laments."

"And Bulgarians?" said Anastasia, "Are you like this, too?"

"You have to understand, Ana," said Vassil, "things in our countries have changed, and keep changing, since the end of the Soviet Union."

"I've been to Sofia," said Anastasia, "Prague, Budapest, Sarajevo. It looks to me as if everything is just becoming bog standard European. Starbucks, Costa Coffee, Zara, Carrefour."

"That's true, but it's superficial," said Vassil. "We don' t know what we want, yet. We want BMWs, and Swiss watches, and Italian shoes, but we also want our religion, our language, our culture. Are we to look west, or east?"

"What do you want, Vassil?" said Anastasia.

"I want to study the things here that I can't learn in my country," said Vassil. "But then I want to go home and be a scientist, marry my girlfriend, play in my rock band."

"And all these other people? The Ukrainian waitress?" said Anastasia, "Your colleagues at the factory? What do they want?"

"Ask her when we pay the bill," said Vassil. "We're mostly young people, well-educated. We work hard, but we have our dreams. Isn't that all anyone can do?"

"Call your friend, Vassil," said Anastasia. "Tell him to meet us at my studio. It won't be the Skegness art scene, but I'm happy to show him what I do."

They scraped back their chairs and stood, Vassil snapping his fingers once more. The Ukrainian woman was nearby. She rested a pile of folded paper napkins on a table, jotted something down on the bill, and walked over to present it to Vassil.

"You are from Ukraine, yes?" said Vassil.

"You know I am," she said.

"Katya, tell this lady, Anastasia, what your profession is," said Vassil.

"I' m a waitress," said Katya.

"She's a physics teacher," said Vassil to Anastasia. "I believe you have a shortage of qualified physics teachers in Britain. But we scientists pluck chickens and serve drinks for you, because you don't want our knowledge."

Anastasia resisted Vassil's attempts to pay the bill. He thanked her as they walked out into the chill, clear afternoon. Anastasia began to take photographs of the picnic area whilst Vassil called Troyan.

"OK," said Vassil when he ended the call. "He 'll be there as soon as he can."

The conversation as they headed in the direction of Castleton Road picked up where they'd left off at The Sand Castle.

"I suppose I can understand why people like you, and Katya, and Troyan are here," said Anastasia, "even if the work you're doing is way too menial for your qualifications. But if you read the papers, they're full of talk of East European criminals. Are these all lies?"

"Exaggerations, " said Vassil. "But there are bad people here, bad East Europeans, bad British people. We live at the margins of this society. That's not a comfortable place to be."

"In London," said Anastasia, "we're used to criminals coming in all shapes, colours, nationalities. Mafia, Triads, Yardies, Bankers. But in a little place like Skegness?"

"Sure," said Vassil. "Agriculture is as corrupt as any other business. There's sex work in a town this size. Drugs, of course. Illegal cigarettes and alcohol. Nothing surprises me now."

"Oh, Jesus!" said Anastasia breaking into a run as they rounded the corner into Castleton Road.

"What is it?" said Vassil, though he could see a cloud of acrid black smoke scudding around the some buildings half way down the street.

"Get back everyone!" This was Shaun, the young caretaker from the flats. A piercing crack rent the air, accompanied by the first lick of flame to exit the building. Everyone ran, as, in a black rolling boil, the roof was lifted off the workshop on a pillow of fire.

The explosion transfixed Anastasia. She stood, even as others backed off, or ran for cover.  Was the conflagration in her studio in some way pleasing to the artist? . She began to walk in a slow, unhurried manner towards the flames. Shaun placed himself in front of her, urging Anastasia to stop. It was as if she did not see him. On she walked, towards the fireball. Shaun was a slight figure, but he had courage. He wrapped his arms tightly around Anastasia, tugging her away from the burning building. With relief he heard the sirens as the fire engines rounded the corner into the street.

 

5.7 - Mabel

 

Mabel nodded and smiled again, as Mr Culpepper, the manager of the Sand Castle, looked at her expectantly. Reassured, he continued to talk, explaining to her once again how important it was for everything to be just perfect.

"You understand, Miss Thorne, the importance of what I'm telling you, the Sand Castle has a reputation to-," Mabel's attention drifted again. Mr Culpepper had the voice Mabel imagined Charlie Brown's teacher to have, the kind of voice that caused one's attention to wander. When Michael Culpepper rang Mabel about her performing on a retirement party that would take place on the Sand Castle, she thought it would be the perfect thing to distract her from all her worries. Instead, the combination of his dull speech and voice brought all the worries back to her attention. She was now mentally enumerating her concerns: Shaun and whatever is ailing him, Nell and her damned habit of playing with fire, whoever the hell Mihai is - where is Mihai? -, Popescu and the fires that seem to follow him, the dead man, the comatose woman... It's great fun to read about these things in a crime book but to be surrounded by them... Does Nell have a point? Could we be in danger?

Mr Culpepper cleared his throat, Mabel's cue to nod and smile. As she did it, he resumed.

"I'm not sure why they want a fire act on their party; they are accountants, for heaven's sake! But, if they want it, we of the Sand Castle will be delighted to provide, for we pride ourselves-," and Mabel's attention was gone again, just like a racehorse taking the tracks. She couldn't shake away this impression of impeding chaos and disaster. Every night, now, she would dream with the circus fire, and with the roaring fire coming back to life to devour her. She shivered at the memory and looked up, realizing that Mr Culpepper had just stopped speaking. Mabel nodded and smiled.

"Where should we do it?"

"Do what?" Mabel was startled. For the first time it seemed she had missed something important.

"The fire breathing. You brought your gear, I trust," said Mr Culpepper, looking anything but trusting. Mabel nodded, pointing at the bag by her feet. "Excellent, excellent. It is not that I don't trust your capabilities, dear girl, but you only ate fire and swallowed swords for us, you never breathed fire. And everything must be just perfect because here in the Sand-"

"Outside, by the picnic area, will be just fine. There's nothing flammable nearby and the wind is not too strong right now," said Mabel, interrupting what looked like it would be another long and dull speech.

They stepped outside and Mabel started removing the needed objects from her bag: a bottle of water, a cloth, a large towel, a flask, a lighter, and a torch. She tied her hair and removed her jacket, placing it in her empty bag. She did all this to the sound of Michael Culpepper's voice. She placed the towel on the floor, poured some water into the cloth, and lit the torch - he was still talking. It was her turn to clear her throat.

"If you could stand over there," she pointed, "I'm ready." He walked to the indicated location and folded his arms, waiting.

"In case something goes wrong, like the wind turns or something, use that towel to put the fire out," said Mabel.

"What could possibly catch fire out here?"

"Me."

Mabel opened the flask, inhaled deeply, filling her lungs, and put some of the fuel in her mouth. She raised her arm, putting the torch in front of her, looked up at about forty-five degrees, and blew a spray of fuel into the flames.

The whole breathing fire act was both unnerving and exhilarating for Mabel. After the circus burnt, she had become terrified of fire. Learning to perform with fire, to control it, and play with it for the delight of an audience was her way to deal with that fear. She could make fire dance, transfer it from a torch to another using her tongue or fingers, extinguish it with an expert move of her mouth. But this did not deceive her: fire was powerful and, like people, tricky.

Fire breathing always wowed the crowds. It was beautiful and impressive to see the flames growing and slithering away from the performer's mouth. It was like watching a mythical bird taking flight. But today the flames rose wildly up the sky, impossibly high and far. It was like watching a dragon rising rather than a bird.

For a moment, Mabel just stood there, incapable to understand what she was seeing. Then realization dawned upon her: a building not far away was aflame. She wiped her mouth with the wet cloth, removing any trace of fuel. She put the fire out with her mouth, tossed the extinguished torch on the ground, and started to run. Like twelve years ago, Mabel was running with all her strength towards the roaring, raging fire.

Mabel's heart was pounding to the rhythm of sirens and the buildings were but a blur of bricks, cement, plaster, and paint as she fled down Castleton Road.

She halted to a show of lights and sounds. There were people gathered around the building, they were pointing, chatting, moving about in a mix of nervousness and excitement, trying to get a glimpse of...of what? Why is tragedy always a spectacle? Mabel wondered, looking around. The blue lights of the police cars and fire engine cast eerie shadows all around. Everything looked raw and primitive, somehow. Even the people. There were neighbours, passers-by, a tourist or two, reporters, the police, and the fire crew. Mabel noticed some familiar shapes among the many gathered around the building. Shaun was there with that artist woman - what's her name? - and so was Marku. His name is Popescu now, Mabel reminded herself, actually, I think his name was always Popescu.

Popescu looked like one of those wax statues at Madame Tussauds, only it was the statue of an old shrivelled thing, whose life has become too heavy to bear. Kyros, a juggler at the circus, used to tell Mabel these tales of old from Greece. He told her about Atlas, who carried the whole world on his shoulders. Growing up she always wondered where the hell did he stand, then. But, looking at Popescu, she thought that is what Atlas would look like when he got old. Above all, he looked as Mabel felt: haunted.

She walked towards the old man, and gently put her hand on his shoulder. He didn't have to turn to know whose hand that was.

"History repeats itself once again, draga."

He turned to face her, his eyes the holes of a mask. A single word kept racing through Mabel's mind: again, again, again.

"How could this happen again? It is like the circus," said Mabel.

He nodded, sad and tired and old.

"Oh, and there was also the fire in your hometown, in Romania," said Mabel.

"It was an orphanage," said Popescu. These four little words carried all the sadness in the world with them, all of that old man's sadness.

"Orphanages in Romania-," Mabel started not quite sure how to continue. She was sad, afraid, and cold. She became very aware that her jacket was in her bag back at the Sand Castle. "I mean, they are not very good places, are they? Orphanages in general, but in Romania, I mean, you read stories-," she trailed off.  

"No. Not very good places at all. They are cold and miserable places where unwanted children are put to be forgotten. Nobody cares about them. And if that was not enough-," Popescu buried his face on his hands. Mabel stood by his side, waiting patiently, and wishing again there was something she could say to make him feel better.

After a few moments, he lowered his hands and lifted his head.

"You see, I was the local captain of police, so I was called there. The fire services were slow, no, they were beyond slow arriving at the scene; and the roads were all broken. By the time they finally arrived, it was all over. They were all dead. All of them. Dead," said Popescu, his voice choked full of emotion. His hands were balled up into fists, and he was pressing them so hard his knuckles were white.

Dead. All of them. Dead. These words have haunted her for many years. Her parents, all of her circus family, dead. But that was not entirely true. Not all of them were dead. There was Mungo and Thumper - even Popescu was alive. Maybe some of the children survived, Mabel thought. She also thought it would be better not to share that thought.

Movement caught Mabel's eyes. The Lincolnshire fire crew was exiting the building. Mabel's eyes widened to the size of coins with horror and shock. There were people inside! They are carrying the bodies out! She looked at Popescu, his eyes as horrified as her own. Then his expression softened.

"They are only mannequins," said Popescu.

Mabel looked again and realized he was right. Dummies. They all looked the same and they all looked like the artist woman. She wondered why anybody would make several mannequins of him or herself. She concluded maybe she didn't understand art.

She watched as the fire fighters brought out another mannequin. Only this one was shorter. Popescu collapsed to the ground as Mabel realized size was not the only difference: this was a real body. A child's body. A little girl who once played and giggled, but no more.

Tears ran down Mabel's face as she watched the fire fighters taking little Gracie away. She used to live in Shaun's building , Mabel remembered. She crouched by the old man, to try to help him up, and heard him mutter a name.

"Who is Cristina?"

"A girl I knew...," said Popescu, and that was all he said.

She looked around, helpless and grieving. She could feel death around her, as palpable as the tarmac she was still crouching on. Her eyes stopped on a figure standing at the top of the road by the promenade, watching it all. That answers one question, Mabel thought. A shiver ran through her body as she looked at Mihai. Something about his stillness, about the way he stood there, reminded her of a vulture.

 

 

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