History, Politics And Current Affairs

art 1: 'I never could get the hang of Thursdays.'

After that Halloween Incident, the scary WIRS team bade me read and sign the Official Secrets Act, including a curiously retro-worded appendix I'd never heard of. They took three painless mouth swabs, gave me a lift home. They'd be in touch...

I slept very, very badly, fell out of my lumpy bed twice...

Somehow, I gagged down a round of toast and some tepid black coffee for breakfast, got to college on time. Despite vivid flash-backs, I forced myself to focus on my course-work.

That afternoon, Janet, our petite, too-perky blonde Counsellor, hunted me down. "Tim ! There you are ! Well done for finding a sponsor ! Such a good scheme, too ! How did you manage that ? Just kept applying here and there until someone said 'yes' ?"

"Huh ?" I was short of sleep, more than a little distracted. "Sponsor ?"

"Ah, perhaps you haven't read your e-mail ! Yes ! You've qualified for the SERC's National Training Initiative ! Way to go !" She thrust a fat envelope into my hands. "And they sent this by courier !"

"I-- Wow ! D'uh..." I took a moment to gather my wits. "Sorry, Ma'm. Halloween party. Late night..."

Janet sniffed cautiously, peered in my odd eyes, left grey, right blue. "Sober, clean ? Just... Late ?"

"Train service ended at Sandhills. Had to hike to The Strand bus-station. And you know the stunts drunk Halloweeners pull..."

"Ooh ! Ooooh !" Janet clawed her neat hands, did a little hop, giggled. "My sisters and I went clubbing as zombie school-girls ! Fake cuts and dried blood everywhere ! Wicked fun !"

I closed my eyes for a moment, saw last night's monster's face re-forming. I shuddered. "Bit rich for me, Ma'm..."

"What did you go as ?"

"Minion."

Janet opened her mouth, thought better of her words, simply nodded.

I glanced at my cheap watch, said, "I've a Lab in five minutes..."

"Okay, Tim, I'll let you go," Janet allowed. "Still, well done !"

"Thank you, Ma'm. From you, that means a lot."
---

The package contained a very nice, convincingly official covering letter welcoming me to the SERC's Training Initiative Scheme. It also invited me for an orientation weekend, see attached, digitally signed, 'PP Squiggle'. A neat Ziploc baggy held a one-way rail ticket to Wigan. The brief instructions were to pack a small, overnight bag, travel early this Friday evening. I'd be met...

Most weeks, I went around The Strand's discount shops after college on Friday, bought my weekend's food plus treats for my neighbour Ashlee's yearling cat. Luckily, I had just enough money on me for a change of plans. Instead of catching my usual bus home after the intense lab session, I headed for The Strand. If I returned late on Sunday, I might need a quick meal. Comparing prices found a can of Spam and a tin of sweet-corn. Both could be eaten cold. I added a six-pack of wholemeal bread rolls to be nibbled en-route, a second pack for breakfast on Monday. A big, ring-pull tin of budget cat-food left me but pennies to spare.

Ashlee, who shared my second floor of our shabby bed-sit apartment block, was also a student at 'Hugh Baird'. Second Year 'Clothing and Fashion', she crafted and often wore flamboyant 'Gothic Lolita', had a wry sense of humour. Our block's other students generally shunned her as 'Weird', me as 'That Old Guy'. She wasn't my kind of 'Belle', nor I hers, but we'd become good friends. After a precautionary text, I took the cat food plus my slashed coat and fleece to her door.

When not 'Dolled Up' in ebon ruffles and flounces, Ashlee preferred a 'Rosie the Riveter' look, with weary t-shirt, patched dungarees and her long, long dyed-black curls piled high. She tutted over my clothing's damage. While I fussed then fed 'The Minx', she set about repairs.

"There ! Done !" she soon reported. "What happened ?"

"A 'Skinny Man' took a swing. I zigged when I should have zagged."

"Ooh ! Did he apologise ?"

"He was mortified..."

"Uh-huh. Word is you picked up a sponsor ?"

"Seems so," I admitted, astonished by the speed of our student grapevine. "And I've been invited to an orientation weekend, this Friday night through Sunday."

"Ah... Thanks for the cat food. Herself is even more mischievous when she's hungry."

I shuddered politely, eyed the small, sable Missy briskly finishing off her early supper. 'The Minx' had a precocious Black Belt in Ninja-fu, a total disregard for Ashlee's attempts at containment. Within six weeks, any surviving mice had fled our building. Surrounding yards and alleys soon emptied of rats. At the height of our Summer's brief heat-wave, she'd proudly presented Ashlee with a very dead, two-foot snake. A tropical snake. A venomous tropical snake...

My careful fingers found a skewed scale, a subtle bump that could be an implanted ID chip. Our local vet's scanner read its code, located the owner. I walked around to the smart apartments diagonally behind our shabby bed-sits. A passionate herpetologist, he'd been very concerned by that escape from a 'secure' vivarium, had up-ended his apartment in pursuit.

"Look what my neighbour's cat dragged in..."
---

Part 2: A life is a life is a life...

Friday afternoon after college, I caught a convenient bus to Oriel Road station, rode the first train to Sandhills. I crossed the island platform, waited but ten minutes for a Kirkby train. There, I walked under the bridge from the electrified service, sat and nibbled bread rolls until the hourly diesel-electric train rumbled up. Half an hour more found me at Wigan Wallgate. Yes, I was really, really early, but I'd rather wait at Wigan than take my chances with Network North-West. Beyond the barrier, the small station's entrance was sheltered by a wide, refurbished canopy.

"Evening, Tim."

"Erk !" Wednesday night's big WIRS guy had ghosted from the shadows. I caught my breath. "Hi !"

"You've made good time."

"Couldn't risk another breakdown."

"Good call. I'm Geoff, he's Mike and she's 'Ma'm'. Okay ?"

"Okay..."

"We're parked around the corner." A few yards down that side-street, a long-wheelbase, matt-black, crew-cab van waited. Needing the leg-room, big Geoff took the front passenger seat. I sidled in behind him, sat opposite Ms. Jones who was busy with her smart-phone. Without her battle-rattle, she was an athletic thirty-something, with tired brown eyes and short-bobbed dark hair. She wore an open, black leather jacket over a smart, black trouser-suit, but its skewed hang showed a shoulder holster. Her black shoes were definitely functional rather than fashion.

"Ma'm," I murmured, parking my bag, then finding and latching my seat-belt.

After dimming her phone, Ms. Jones sharply asked me, "How are you ?"

"Sore, Ma'm," I stated. "Wednesday night was too close for comfort. If I hadn't been cold sober, I'd probably be dead. As it is, I've a big bruise on my arm from his swing, talon marks on my back from his last grab."

"But you killed him. With a screw-driver. Just like that..."

"Self-defence, Ma'm."

"Still, you took a life, and you're okay with it."

I shuddered. "Not really, Ma'm, I've ghastly flash-backs."

"What about guilt ? Doesn't his death bother you ?"

"It bothers me a lot, Ma'm. Yes, it was him or me, but a life is a life is a life." I shook my head. "Have you read my medical records ?"

"Heart valves ? 'Zipper Club' ?"

"There's a lot more, Ma'm. Did you notice I've odd eyes ?"

"Yes, their grey-blue change hue as you turn..."

"No, Ma'm. Left is grey, right is blue. I'm a Chimera." As her brown eyes widened, I said, "Ma'm, I began as non-identical twins. My brother didn't develop properly, was partially resorbed. Somehow, we got mixed up. Alder Hey's top Paediatric surgeons kit-bashed the tangle. They re-built my heart. I've three kidneys, two blood groups and two tissue types. My immune system is 'interesting'...

"Ma'm, I spent half my childhood in and out of hospital. I saw too many of my young friends die of 'complications'. I went to a lot of funerals. When I was sixteen, my parents were caught in a dreadful motorway crash. Fell to me to exercise their 'Living Wills', turn off their life-support, donate their organs...

"Ma'm, my life expectancy is not great, but I have no intention of 'going gently into that long night'." I shrugged. "If I hadn't met your 'Skinny Man', I'd probably get my HND, spend the next twenty years doing house-wiring. Worthy, but boring."

"Then I offer you a job..." Ms. Jones nodded. "You didn't just say 'Yes', you found a vocation !"

"If you'll have me, Ma'm."

"Guys ?" She called forwards.

"Asset, Ma'm," Geoff responded.

"Asset, Ma'm," Mike added. "And we could use a good 'Sparks'."

Ms. Jones turned back to me, dug in a zipped jacket pocket. Retrieving an ID badge on a ribbon, she said, "Okay, Tim Brown, wear this with pride."

"Thank you, Ma'm..." I glanced at the badge, with a fuzzy photo and scrawled signature they'd surely copied from my 'Citizen ID' records. "Technical Assistant, Special Investigations Directorate-- Huh ? 'HMRC' ? 'Revenue and Customs' ? That's a neat cover story..."

"It's better," Ms. Jones assured me, with a deeply unsettling smile. "When those two behemoths merged, WIRS used our Royal Charter to 'grandfather' us under their umbrella as 'Section D'."

I blinked. I'd read 'The Bones of Avalon'. "Wasn't Sir Francis Walsingham Queenie One's 'GoTo Guy', and John Dee his arcana 'GoFor' ?"

As Ms. Jones nodded approvingly, Mike and Geoff bumped fists.

Part 3: Paradigm shift...

Settling back in her seat, Ms. Jones asked, "Have you done any research on our field ?"

"No, Ma'm." I shook my head. "No time. Besides, there's so much 'woo' out there, I wouldn't know where to start."

"Fair enough. Any questions ?"

"Uh..." My wits were still spinning from learning at least one legendary monster was real. I found words. "Ma'm, are these whatsits native ?"

"Abhumans ? No. Either they've been drawn here, or they've come hunting." There was a profound sadness in her voice as she added, "Human monsters, our Paranoid Schizophrenics, vile Sociopaths and such, are a different problem. Some 'Demonic Possession' cases, most 'UFO' and 'Lizard People' reports may be down to abhuman encounters warping vulnerable minds. But so many people just develop an aberrant idée fixe, create tragedy..."

"Ma'm..." I whispered, took a shaky breath, thought to ask, "How do abhumans get here ?"

"Now you're talking, Boyo ! Ten years ago, my answer would have been, 'Not A Clue'. It's still 'Beyond Theory', ad-hoc plus guess work, but we have some puzzle pieces...

"What do you know of the 'Walgate Wyrm' ?"

How did that figure ? Whatever, it had prompted a lot of scientific excitement and several breathless documentaries. "Not much, Ma'm. Archibald Salter, a rich young Victorian collector, bought a weird black slug from an explorer. It grew to the size of a walrus. Attacked the archaeologists who found it nesting in collapsed Walgate Hall's forgotten ice-house. Genetics show it's a totally 'Lazarus Taxon', far older than the Coelacanth. Possibly a Cambrian relic. Some small youngsters have been live-trapped in the area, so it's not extinct."

"That's a fair summary," Ms. Jones allowed. "Of the 'public' version. In truth, it was fully grown when it appeared on Salter's Ritual Floor's pentagram on the night of the Carrington Event--"

"Huh ?" I blurted. "The huge solar storm ? Set fire to telegraph stations ? Auroras seen in the Caribbean ?"

"That one."

"The-- Their pentagram worked ?" And, yes, my voice cracked a bit.

"Seems so. Something to do with tesseracts and that pentagram's plaits."

"But-- But, Magic-- 'Harry Potter' stuff--"

"J.K. Rowling's magic system is fiction," Ms. Jones stated. "We did ask. But, working in secret, Dave Andrews, the Walgate Project's lead archaeologist, built a plaited pentagram of his own. Got it working. No bloody ritual stuff. No thuribles, chanting, spells or wands. Just copper pipe, duct tape and a car battery."

"Urk !" I gulped. Science ran on reproducibility. "Oh, Ma'm, that changes everything !"

"My reaction, too." She nodded sympathetically. "His team accessed the Wyrm's world and two more beyond, one a 'Big Mars'."

"Oh, wow..." I whispered, lost for breath. "Oh, wow..."

"Do not build your own Portal. They bite, and so do the mega, macro and micro-fauna that may come through. Then there's geology. Andrews' team were lucky. The Australians lost their first lab to a flash flood. Americans got a geyser, the Russians a lava flow..." She deployed that unsettling smile. "Besides, we now have a detection system."

"Ma'm." I took a hasty breath, tried to assimilate all she'd said. "Portals... ETs... Wow..."

"Have you read the 'Solutrean Cycle' by 'Joanne Lavender' ?"

"Yes, Ma'm." It was a best-selling fantasy series. Clever 'Ms. Lavender' finds an inscribed crystal opens a disguised 'World Gate' to parallel, Byzantine Solutrea. Has a series of scary, 'Carbine and Cutlass' adventures. Five hefty volumes, not a thread out of place. Lots of spin-offs. Lots and lots of totally plausible spin-offs.

"You like ?"

"Yes, Ma'm..." Where was she going with this ?

"It's not fiction."

"Huh ?" My wits skidded to a stop.

"Some artistic license, to be sure. The Lavender certainly munged the activation process for Solutrea's 'Third Law' World Gate. No pentagrams or inscribed crystals. Upside, we can detect it."

"Ma'm..." I trembled. "So that's another world..."

"There's a further twist. Remember Lavender's teen Apprentice from Book Four and its complementary, 'Young Adult' Book Five ? Ingenious, hyper-lethal 'John MacPherson' ?"

"Yes, Ma'm." I nodded slowly. He was thought a weak point of the series. I liked his wry wit, his clinical logic, his kick-ass moves.

"Lit-Crits complained his 'Ginger Ninja' was far too good to be true." Ms. Jones looked uncomfortable. "I certainly thought so. But, he's real and, if anything, he's better. John created 'Strive Dance' from his 'Junior Judo' katas. Switched to Tae Kwon Do, got a precocious Black Belt. Started and still edits the best-selling 'Dance Props' series. Electronics inventor. OU degrees in Astronomy and Geology. An MBA...

"Then he and his aunt travel to Solutrea, settle an old score, escape by the skin of their teeth...

"He's all grown up, now. Married, with kids. Runs the Solutrean franchise, has a small 'Permanent Exhibition' near Fishguard. But what better way to hide the truth than in plain sight ?

"John made the connection between 'Wyrm', 'Ritual Floor' and Carrington Event. Built his own portal. Got 'Wyrm Land', of course, not Solutrea. So, he changed the topology. His 'Type 2' portals can directly access Andrews' three worlds, plus Solutrea, plus one more."

"Oh, Ma'm !" I shook my head. "Oh, Ma'm !"

"That last world's 'Europe' is a ghastly volcanic wasteland. The geology suggests their equivalent to the Eifel Region blew in our 'Early Bronze Age', is still spilling hellish 'Flood Basalts'. There's traces of superb Cyclopean architecture, some broken crystalline artefacts that may have been grown, then carefully petrified...

"We're fairly sure their culture crafted the World Gates. We think most survivors of their first, apocalyptic eruption fled to Earth and Solutrea, spawning Legends far and wide. Until their 'magic' Alt-Tech widgets wore out, they passed as Angels, demi-Gods, Djinni, Fae. Some of those who stayed seem to have mutated, degenerated to Dark Fae, Demons, Incubii, Succubii..."

"D'uh..." Too much information. Much too much...

Still, my pack-rat memory threw up possible links and connections. Perhaps Graham Hancock was half-right about his clever ancients ? There'd be no prior traces, no lost continents if most just arrived with what they could carry. Was that catastrophe and exodus later conflated with the huge Thera eruption that broke the Minoans ? Was it more than coincidence ?

"But, that only accounts for ordinary monsters. Your 'Skinny Man' and such fit none of those parallel worlds." Ms. Jones graced me with another scary smile. "Tell me about 'Dark Matter'."

"Yes, Ma'm." I took a slow breath, tried to figure her zig-zag logic, tried to map the wood through the trees. "Sounds crazy, but Astronomers say there's not enough visible mass to make most galaxies rotate as they do. We can only detect about fifteen percent. The rest is invisible..."

"Go on."

My whirling wits took a hop, skip and jump. "Ma'm, you've just described five worlds parallel to ours. Six fifteens are ninety. But seven fourteens are ninety-eight-- Is there a seventh world ? A weird one ?"

Mike reached a fist for Geoff to bump.

"You nailed it !" Ms. Jones confirmed. "As yet, their Portals can come here, but ours won't go there. Downside, trying may set out a 'Welcome' mat, an 'All You Can Eat' sign. If a Portal opens from their side, directly or by gate-crashing a plaited pentagram, our detection array does flag it."

"Ooh..." I nodded slowly, quoted her, " 'Correlate, Locate, Exterminate' ?"

"Just so." She gave me a thoughtful look. "Have you eaten ?"

"Just some rolls at Kirkby Station, Ma'm."

"Where 'Facial Recognition' flagged you for us." She gave me another scary smile, asked, "Care for a 'Big Mac' ?"

"Uh, if you wouldn't mind, Ma'm."

She nodded, turned, said, "Find that Drive-Thru, Mike. I'll have my usual two chicken mayos, small fries and diet. And Tim will have..."

"Two cheese-burgers, please, Ma'm. Large fries, small diet."

We parked up after collecting from the Drive-Thru. Ms. Jones nibbled her way through hers. I gnawed at mine, tried to digest all I'd just learned. Geoff and Mike each demolished two double-deckers with evident glee. Then, our rubbish carefully binned, Mike set course for Higher Mill's post-industrial valley.

Part 4: 'Millie the Moaner'

As our van's Sat-Nav led us via a succession of villages, Ms. Jones handed me a pair of high-end, sound-cancelling head-phones she'd plugged into her smart-phone. "What do you make of this ?"

After several seconds of silence, a quiet, but uneven moaning began. It slowly developed a mournful quaver, a ragged cough, then stuttered and stilled. After a while, a similar but slightly different sequence began. A third variant followed. Playback complete, Ms. Jones touched 'stop' on her phone, reclaimed the headphones.

"Spooky, Ma'm," I stated. "Context ?"

"Long abandoned Victorian textile factory. Directional mike."

"Weather conditions, Ma'm ?"

"Flat calm. Clear, dry night. 'Moaning Millie' can't be heard if it's windy."

"Is the building secure, Ma'm ?"

"Geoff ?"

"All five floors' windows are bricked up, Ma'm. Doors are steel plated. Locks and security spot-welds intact. No indications of tampering. Utility services have been off for a decade."

I compared and discarded familiar, suburban noises, shook my head, reported, "Doesn't sound human, Ma'm. Part like a tom-cat squabble ? Part like a bin-dog fox ? Part like an owl ? Nothing really fits."

"Take your best shot."

"Ooh..." I hesitated, ventured, "A strayed parrot, Ma'm ?"

"A parrot ?"

"Yes, Ma'm. Perhaps there's a broken sky-light ? Some parrots are great mimics, and that sequence could be a dying desk-fan." As the silence stretched, I added, "When the fan's bearing is badly worn, has begun to gall and chatter ? One on my last ward's nurse station 'Pulled a Ghostie' from time to time. Seriously creepy."

"A desk-fan ?"

"Sorry, Ma'm."

"A desk-fan... Geoff, pull up Google Earth. What's around 'Higher Mill' ?"

"Ma'm." He swung out a laptop on a support arm, went surfing. "Up-hill, a vacant lot. Front, Higher Road, with a local bus route. Back, a disused rail spur and siding. Down-hill, a cobbled alley to the rail spur and yard, then a short row of shabby old shops."

"Can you make them out ?"

'Street View' struggled, but came good. Geoff reported, "Hair salon. A general store / off-licence. One, two vacant. Nearest to the alley and mill does washing machine sales and repairs."

"Lots of coming and going ?" Ms. Jones mused. "Lots of boxes and big white appliances ?"

"Trojan Horses, Ma'm ?" Geoff offered.

"Perhaps. Would they have cellars ?"

"Probably, Ma'm." Geoff nodded. "That row must date back to coal-fired."

"Higher Mill had steam plant in its cellars, Ma'm," Mike the driver mentioned, "Museum took them."

"So... If they've tunnelled into Higher Mill, could we detect it from the street ?"

"We've an EziCAT 'cable and trace' locator in the back, Ma'm," Mike warned, "but I've never used it."

"Nor me, Ma'm," Geoff admitted.

"I have, Ma'm," I offered. "Last year's 'Health and Safety' Site Module. Vertical range is three to four metres."

"You're on," she said.

Part 5: Higher Mill

A vast, red-brick Victorian edifice, Higher Mill stood four-square against the night like a stately home. Closer, we could see it was now 'blind', every visible window bricked shut against the weather. Mike parked our crew-van half-up the kerb outside the general store, went off with Geoff to scout the site. I climbed into the van's cargo space, found the EziCAT's neat case beside a pack of bio-degradable marker sprays. I unpacked the pristine instrument and leafed through the quick-start instructions. After locating six LR6 / AA 'pen-cells' and loading its battery holder, I grabbed a work helmet and HiVis tabard from their hook. Looking very official, I used the EziCAT to survey the store's frontage.

Thankfully, the sensor display and menu options were straight-forward. No tesseracts or higher-order horrors here ! I soon identified a telecoms run, a utility power run, traces of gas and water pipes, a possible drain, marked them with the appropriate spray paint. I followed their spoor back towards the hair salon, then forwards towards Higher Mill. I lost them beneath the van, picked up again just beyond. There, I put my spray cans away. The 'utility' marks outside that innocent shop should explain our activity, disarm any concerns.

Now, the night's real work began. Slowly, carefully, I tracked the utilities' traces past both empty shops, past the 'repair depot', across the dark, cobbled alley with its original granite 'setts', all the way along Higher Mill's once-imposing frontage, across the first side-street beyond.

Then, to be sure, I followed my digital spoor back to the alley. Geoff and Mike appeared from the gloom, reported the mill was still secure, deployed their tactical torches to light the long shadows for me. A central gutter's old grid gave the EziCAT a clear 'metal' hit but, several feet beyond that, the unambiguous buzz of a buried power cable was a very welcome sound. Geoff, Mike and Ms. Jones watched as I traced this from shop wall to mill and back.

"That's not on the utility map," Geoff warned. "And these 'setts' are original."

Mike said, "Yeah, this alley isn't 'Preservation Listed' like the mill. A road crew would just back-fill and tar their trench..."

Ms. Jones nodded slowly. "Much as I'd like to pull a dawn tax inspection on the shop, 'accidentally' discover their 'electricity abstraction' theft, then a secret tunnel, this now seems strictly mundane, so not our remit. Guys, I must hand this off."

She stepped away, woke her smart-phone and ear-piece, made a long call. While that was in progress, Mike and Geoff took turns with the EziCAT outside the general store, familiarising themselves.

"Twenty minutes," she said. "Seems CID have expressed an urgent interest..."

We waited in the van, its efficient air-con proof against the season's chill and damp. It was nearer half an hour before an unmarked car slid from the night and parked ahead of us. Two anonymously casual-smart men climbed out. Ms. Jones met them half-way, showed her ID. They showed theirs. They talked for a while, gesticulating detail, until Ms. Jones turned, called, "Tim, bring the EziCAT !"

I demonstrated its function along the frontage, then on the anomalous cable crossing beneath the old alley. It was almost comical how the two plain-clothed officers peered in unison at the pristine 'setts', then between shabby shop and looming mill. They nodded. The taller turned to Ms. Jones, said, "Thank you, Ma'm. I'll call our DI. Shouldn't be long, he's in the area on other business."

Fifteen minutes brought another un-marked car, another pair of casual-smart men. The stockier deployed his warrant card, then stopped short. He peered at Ms. Jones' trim figure, exclaimed, "Jenny GoodWitch ! What are you doing here ?"

"Ah, 'Sandy' Banks," she sighed, shaking her head. "Subtle as ever ! Thought you were hunting trigger-happy bandits in Birmingham ?"

"Two years of frustration," he admitted. "Either they were lucky, or they had a mole. Perhaps both. Then a Traffic Car's ANPR flagged a 'fake-plates'. Merc fled, spun on wet leaves, hit a tree. Three 'Dead at Scene', one 'DOA'. Traffic team look in the back, find an armoury. Game over..."

"Saves on trial costs," Ms. Jones coldly judged, getting nods from the others, a shudder from me.

"So NCA deployed my team up here to help hunt an elusive herbal cannabis distribution network--"

"I may have another happy ending for you." Her smile made the detective flinch. Seems it wasn't just me she un-nerved. "Tim, show DI Banks what you found..."

"Ma'm. Sir, if you would come this way..."

With the anomalous cable revealed, he peered at the pristine 'setts', then between shabby shop and looming mill. He nodded to Ms. Jones, said, "Fits like a tailored suit. Short notice, but I'll arrange an entry team for the morning. When do they open ?"

"Eight-thirty, Monday through Saturday."

"May I ask what attracted your interest ?"

"Serendipity, Sandy. When is a ghost not a ghost ?" Ms. Jones teased. She smiled, earning another flinch, turned to us, said, "Okay, guys, we're done here."

Part 6: Gotcha...

Mike's sat-nav took us South for an hour, led to a budget motel. My 'economy' room was larger, warmer and brighter than my bed-sit, with a much better shower in its 'en-suite'. And, yes, I took full advantage of its delightful deluge. After that, my modest ChromeBook found the promised free WiFi. Much as I wanted to surf until dawn, to research some of the day's many, many implications, I needed to catch up on my sleep. So, after checking my e-mail, I put the ChromeBook and my phone on charge. I left the en-suite lit to aid navigation, set my alarm clock for our agreed eight o'clock and went to bed.

I only fell out once, but I did collide with an unexpected chair before my wits caught up...

Our eight-thirty breakfast was a quiet affair. Ms. Jones nibbled two fragrant croissants, sipped coffee and worked her phone. Geoff and Mike piled their plates with grilled protein, ate it all, went back for seconds, then thirds. I gnawed my way through a heap of toast, enjoyed the excellent coffee.

At eight forty-seven, Ms. Jones' phone received a text. She read it, smiled, whispered, "Jackpot !"

"Ma'm ?" Geoff happened not to have a mouthful of sausage, egg or bacon.

"Two floors with crops at four stages, one just weeks from harvest. Not their first such, either. Third floor being fitted out." She looked across to me. "Tim, there was an old desk fan blowing on their hot fuse-board. It kindly 'Pulled a Ghostie' for the entry team. You may imagine what DI Banks said..."

"Ma'm..." I shivered.

"You've 'Beginners Luck', Boyo. Don't knock it !" Ms. Jones smiled. "Nailing your lethal 'Skinny Man' and his mates sooner than expected has given us a chance to look at some less urgent reports. 'Moaning Millie' was called in months ago by one of our local researchers. Today, we're heading down to Oswestry, to investigate a cluster of possible detector hits near another Victorian pile. By turns bankrupt mansion, dubious boarding school, 'reform school', private asylum, 'secure' hospital, care home and hospice. Dreadful place, ghastly history.

"It could just be coincidence, some low-confidence false-positives. But, beyond the usual tales of a 'Bloody Nurse', a 'Weeping Girl' and a 'Lost Child', our local informant claims there's something very wrong with the ambience.

"Should be interesting !"