History, Politics And Current Affairs

Part_1

Monday morning, I chomped two stale bread rolls, glugged my budget coffee, grabbed my waiting college bag and headed for the bus route. The morning's three lectures went okay. Despite a disturbed night and my head whirling from the weekend, I managed to stay focused. I'd been looking forward to the third. This was young Dr. Andre's first year teaching 'Applied Physics', and his oft-wry mix of tangential examples made the module fun. For me, anyway. Most of my fellow students couldn't follow his enthusiastic, hop-scotch logic. Their eyes just glazed over. Still, I was glad when lunch-time came around. I grabbed an assignment set off his stack, headed down to the college cafe for a budget meal.

"Have you a minute, Tim ?" Short, bald and passionate about his subject, Clive 'Call me CJ' Jackson taught 'Applied Electronics', was clutching a big mug of coffee.

I looked up from attacking my cooling 'cottage pie', fries and green beans, nodded politely. "Sure, CJ. Grab a seat. Did you get my assignment ?"

"Another 'A'..." He sipped his mug, frowned slightly. "Rather terse, though. Almost rushed..."

"Sorry, had to work around my sponsor's busy 'Orientation Weekend'--"

"You got a sponsor ? After all this time ?"

"Uh, yeah..." I fumbled out that ID. "Don't laugh..."

"H--" CJ dropped his voice to a whisper. "HMRC ? How did you manage that ?"

"SERC's National Training Initiative."

"Wow ! So, your weekend ?"

"All go," I admitted. "Hunting covert cables, finding a walled-up doorway, 'gaming' reluctant witnesses..."

"Interview 'role play' stuff ?"

"No." The stress in my voice made him flinch. I took a slow breath, added, "In at the deep end."

"NDA ?"

"NDA." I put my knife on my plate, waited for my hand to stop shaking, took a wary sip, then a slurp of my cooling coffee. "Off piste, I bumped into Simon Baker, writes those magazine articles for--"

"I've seen them..." He raised a thin eye-brow. "He's good."

"He is. Doing a Winter roost re-survey with his stereo heterodyne 'bat detector'. Based out of Runcorn, would you believe ?"

"Uh-huh ? Talk shop ?"

"No time. Our team was tracking illicit dog-fight gambling. Possible lead on a breeder. Turned out to be something else..." I took a breath. "Wasn't pretty."

"Will it make the news ?"

"I hope not." I caught my breath. "Sorry, NDA."

That earned me a nod. Then, CJ asked, "Did they give you any specialist studies ?"

"Not exactly..." I forked my last fries. "I think they're trying to decide what's next. I worked their EziCAT, which impressed them. Used their custom sensor box. It looked MilSpec, but..."

"Ah, one of those..." CJ chuckled. "Okay, Tim, if they want you to study anything off-curriculum, I'll see what I can do. And, next time you have an outing, let me know ? I'll defer your deadline."

"Thank-"

"It's in the rules, Tim. 'Exigencies of Employment'."

==

In the study break between my early afternoon physics lab and the later 'Trades' work-shop, I took the chance to check my e-mails. My Chrome Book soon found the college's WiFi, which was not only free but much, much faster than my shared home service. As usual, the many 'scheduling' and 'social' announcements by the college and its zillion 'Special Interest Groups' had spammed my 'EDU' account. I worked through the queue with care as I wasn't 'plugged in' to our social grape-vine. Even as I culled them, more arrived.

'EDU' finally swept clear, I checked my other accounts, 'Kin' first. My Norfolk cousin's family were safely delivered of their second child, albeit a week early. See totally cute baby-pics attached. Then more. Then yet more. Each tranche would have eaten a big chunk of my monthly data budget had I checked at home. I wished the family well, resolved to send Linda, their bright Pre-Schooler, a very nice Christmas card.

My 'tech forums' account flagged several replies to threads which had caught my interest, offered nothing urgent.

Last, I opened my 'business' account. There was a grim but apologetic 'mail from my trustees. Due to financial constraints, they regretted my 2019 payments would not increase per 'Cost of Living' inflation. In fact, they would not increase at all. I'd half-expected that. Because of time out for my multiple surgeries, I'd had to repeat several years of school and college. As a mature student, I must pay my way in full. Given my medical issues, the 'Student Loan' people politely refused. My family trust, from my parents' house, insurance, 'compensation', business and savings, struggled to cover my spiralling college fees and living expenses.

I'd an untouched 'Contingency Reserve' for disaster, a discretionary fund for 'Educational Essentials' which I'd reluctantly tapped for my modest Chrome Book. I was fairly sure the Amazon gift-card which arrived on my birthday came out of the Trustees' own pockets. Well, they'd been Dad's Junior Partners in his thriving local 'Facilities Management' group, surely missed his insight and drive, Mum's admin efficiency. I felt they could have offered rather more for Dad's share of the business, but our family lawyers' accountant said it was a fair valuation, nodded it through.

The other 'mails were from Amazon. Three were 'New Recommendations Based On Your Browsing History'. I glanced at their algorithm's bizarre findings, discarded the lot.

The fourth was notification that a parcel awaited me in Amazon Locker 'Horatio' at 'The Strand'. I hadn't known my favourite shopping centre offered this facility. I'd certainly not ordered anything recently. Could it be a gift ? And, if so, from whom ? I scrolled down. Yes, it was a gift, no content or sender specified, just an access code plus gift-message, 'Collect at PO, too.'

Yeah, right...

If this was my apologetic Trustees' sweetener, the year's scant 'residuals', I would have preferred an e-card. Although they'd promised me a job-offer after I qualified, their generosity did not extend to an apprenticeship, or any sponsorship while I trained. Go figure...

If this was something to do with the SERC, the HMRC or scary-nimble WIRS, all bets were off...

Part_2


I copied the locker code to my modest phone, secured the Chrome Book, got to my 'Trades' work-shop a few minutes early.

My fellow students on that faux building site ranged in competence from 'Walk AND Swig Beer' to 'Really Good'. All had soon realised I knew my stuff. Helped this was the third time I was doing the module. I could have relied on my old notes but, each time, I saw a little deeper, understood a little more. Also, my time in hospital gave me a 'community spirit' plus patience. Lots of patience...

"Hey, Jim, what's wrong ? Another 'D' ? Ah, I see why ! You strip some cable cores to the wrong length. They're almost okay, but it's toasty warm in here. Insulation stays real-flexible, springs back while you watch. Out on a cold site ? Takes longer. Outlet box could be closed up before it settles. Then if another Spark gives the next outlet's ring-main a hard tug, your bared cores could cross. That's why you gotta allow for the stretch. Keep your cable strippers sharp, or give them an extra wiggle, not just heave. Lift your 'D' to a 'B'."

"Huh."

"Look, my Dad ran a 'Facilities Management' group." I waved around at our faux building site. "I grew up with all this, was almost our company mascot. Trades would 'Talk Shop', show me the ropes, tell me site-stories...

"Like the time our Sparks did a 'week-end' strip out and re-wire of two floors of a new office block after one of its 'Design and Build' sub-contractors got sloppy..."

"So ? Inspection caught it ? Over-time for your Sparks..."

"Builders lost their completion bonus. Dozy git lost his EIC/IEC certification, was barred."

"F**k..." I watched Jim think it through. "What happened to him ?"

"Tried drug-dealing. Dog-walkers found his body in the 'Leeds & Liverpool Canal' behind Netherton..."

"F**k !" Jim's face paled.

"Yeah. So, cable strippers, extra wiggle ?"

"Gotcha. Thanks, Tim." Jim nodded. He headed for the exit, muttering, "Cable strippers, extra wiggle..."

He might remember the mantra, he might not...

"Coaching the kids ?" That nasal snipe wasn't quite a sneer, but put me on my guard. Mr. John Jackson, no relation to amiable 'CJ', had an attitude problem. He loathed the ijits. He resented the competent. He suspected I could do his job better than him. Trades, yes. Coach, yes. Teach, probably, but only the once...

I turned, said, "Worth a try, Mr. Jackson..."

"Reckon you'll finish the year this time ?"

Given I'd recently been jumped by a 'Skinny Man' and, yesterday, had chummed for a 'Gaggle of Ghouls', I could only reply with my most eloquent shrug. "I hope so, Mr. Jackson."

He pulled a face. Like me or not, I was always polite, and my steady grades made him look good. I waited, but he stomped away without a parting shot.

I heaved a sigh of relief, gathered my wits. Yet again, I'd completed my job-sheet early and well. Yet again, Mr. Jackson had hummed, hawed, but given it my usual 'A'. He was notoriously reluctant to grade above 'B'. In fact, there was a long-standing 'pool' for who-ever got his first 'A+'. We joked he'd even find some fault if saved with CPR...

I looked around for potential 'stupids'. Our faux site was 'isolated'. No trippy cables trailed, no stray conduits rolled. The work-shop's long-suffering Technical Assistant would see to the rest.

After grabbing coat and bag from my locker, I headed out into that damp, dull November afternoon and caught a timely bus to 'The Strand'. Usually, I'd go up the bus station's escalator to the main shopping floor and its many discount stores. Today, I walked around the outside to the 'Lower Entrance', with its conveniently relocated Post Office.

After queuing for only five minutes then showing a surfeit of ID, I signed for two padded envelopes, each about 'reporter notepad' sized. That done, I studied the 'Store Guide' at the foot of the adjacent stairs to the main floor, drew a blank. Where-ever Amazon Locker 'Horatio' was, it had not reached the official map. Plan_B was to knock on the near-by 'Facilities Management' office door and pick their brains.

"Oh, yes !" The lonely secretary seemed glad of any distraction to run her clock down. "It's up on 'Level 5' ! You can't miss it !"

As the store guide lacked a cross-section with floor numbers, that didn't help. I knew the roof's multi-level parking was numbered, but I never went there.

"Sorry, which is 'Level 5' ?" At eighteen, I'd claimed lessons as an 'Educational Essential', to help me learn a fork-lift truck or other site 'Handler'. Though I'd passed first time, held a full licence, I could not afford a car.

"One up."

"Please, I'm not driving. One up from where ?"

"Oh ! Well, this is 'Level 4', the main concourse is 'Level 5'. The Amazon Locker is next to the parking payment machines in the aisle beside the 'Argos' catalogue store." She pulled a face. "I thought we'd updated the 'Strand' guide when it went in..."

"Seems not..." I shook my head. "But, thank you."

"You're welcome ! Have a nice day !"

"You, too ! Hope the rain holds off !" I got out before my nape hair could prickle. I hadn't realised there were three extensive sub-levels beneath my feet, now saw the possibility of lurking abhumans...

The long, orange Locker was exactly where I'd been told. It took my code, released a parcel about the size of two big shoe-boxes. This just fitted my larger shopping bag. I soon filled the smaller bag at my usual discount store. After riding the down escalator to the bus station, I lifted my collar against the damp and chilly dusk. My ride arrived more or less on schedule, but then got stuck in the tail-back from some lingering road-works, At least the bus was warm and dry. The cold, dank hike from my stop to my bed-sit was neither. I was very glad to get indoors, even to be greeted by shin-rubs from the wet 'Minx' who came dancing through from the back.

"Hello, Little Monster ! I may have a nice box for you ! I do have a can of your favourite..." After clumping up the stairs, I unlocked my bed-sit, staggered in, unloaded. 'The Minx' watched from my desk chair with avid curiosity as I set out my dinner's simple makings, then put the 'chiller' stuff in my small fridge. Its ice-box was barely big enough for a chill-pack and a cube tray but, on shopping days, I could get and promptly zap a budget pair of 'From Frozen' meals. Today, 'Succulent Roast Lamb with Greens and Roast Potatoes'.

While their spaced stack rotated on a plate in the microwave, I tackled the deliveries. My first padded envelope held another envelope. This yielded a 'corporate' credit card in my name, peelable from a backing leaflet of 'terms and conditions'. The second also held another envelope, its plain sheet bearing a big network's SIM card's 'match book'. The 'book' had been opened, perhaps to log the number, but the card was un-touched.

After making sure 'The Minx' could not abscond with those, I turned to the Amazon parcel. Beneath a layer of air-bags, I found a nicely-boxed Android smart-phone, matching the WIRS' model. A 'refurbished' sticker made me feel less guilty about the likely cost. To complement it, there was a 'Tuf-Case' bordering on 'bullet proof'. There were also two 'in-car' chargers, two 'house' chargers, two sets of ear-buds and some 'utility / OTG' cables. Under those, were two USB adaptors for SD and micro-SD cards. Beneath them was a handy 'power bank' kit with a 'remaining' display, two sockets, a built-in torch and a conveniently coiled cable. Right at the bottom, a pair of 'hanging cards' held neatly cased SanDisk Extreme 'micro-SD' cards with SD adaptors. Not the budget range, they were 64 GB apiece, and camera-fast.

For a while, I just stared. Then, noticing the microwave's timer running down, I grabbed a lunch-box from my collection, piled in all the small stuff, secured the lid against feline mischief. 'The Minx' looked disappointed until I put the empty Amazon box on the floor near the door. She bounced once half-way, made it her own...

Even doubled, my budget microwave meal was no feast, but mopping the thin gravy with a stale bread roll helped stretch it. I'd have the last roll for supper. Now, while my first coffee cooled, I set about unpacking WIRS' bounty. The phone needed and took that micro-SIM card. One micro-SD card fitted into a tiny, tiny drawer. I put both phone and 'power bank' onto charge, slurped my coffee, shook my head. Although I really, really wanted to explore the phone's facilities, my college work took priority.

Part_3

I spread today's notes and hand-outs on my cheap desk, read Dr. Andre's Physics assignment. I blinked, looked through my notes again. They didn't match. Either I'd had a mental outage, or the questions were wrong. Reading the page-codes more carefully, I found two numbers transposed. The assignment was for an 'Advanced Mechanics' module that was certainly not on my HND course, not even next year. Multiple pin-jointed static beams' forces, to be solved with matrix math ? Oops...

In theory, our assignment was now available from our EDU server, but my Chrome Book found only the 'wrong number'. Also, the 'Advanced' group had the same questions, not ours. Again, oops...

I woke my budget phone, texted one of my few contacts on the course, made and drank another coffee. Ten minutes later, a 'ping' announced, 'HA / OURS WRONG TOO / HAVE NIGHT OFF.'

For a default 'C' ? Yeah, right...

I knew the rudiments of static analysis from school. Likewise, some matrix math. Crafting the various 'input' and 'operator' matrices for this required theory and 'sign conventions' I'd not met. Processing the matrices with the specified App was impossible on my Chrome Book or a standard Mac. Hand-calculating the many complex matrices would take days, be so very easy to get wrong...

I stared at the two worked examples, narrowed my eyes. I felt sure I'd seen something like the simpler first before. At school, we'd solved such using basic Sines and Cosines to dissect the vectors, then separately summed their vertical and horizontal forces. No fancy matrices required. I grabbed for paper, pen and my old 'Scientific Calculator'. I was a bit rusty on this stuff but, after fixing several missteps and typos, the correct answer emerged. The second example had a twist in the middle. Its 'out of plane' forces had to be analysed in several stages. To my surprise, those yielded the correct answer, too.

Emboldened, I tackled the first assignment question. After some lateral thinking and much wary math, a plausible result emerged. Back-calculation confirmed I was right. The rest would just take focus and patience...

I was a couple of questions from the end when 'The Minx' sat up in her box. She trotted to my door, scratched at it. I scooped up the box, grabbed the waiting can, opened the door in time to greet Ashlee at the top of the stairs. "Evening !"

"Hi, Tim !" She wore a padded jacket, leggings and hoodie, casual 'college' clothes rather than ornate ruffles and ribbons. "Hello, 'Minx' ! Tim been minding you ? Ooh, a nice box ? And a big tin ? Mister Brown, you're spoiling her !"

"Self defence," I admitted. "Good evening ?"

"Yeah." After a few moments, she realised I was not going to ask, so added, "Melinda had an 'Open Mic' night at the 'Lock and Quay', wanted some support."

"Go okay ?"

Ashlee pulled a face, admitted, "I swear this 'Minx' could sing the Blues better but, hey, what are friends for ?"

"True..."

Grinning, her Winter-booted ankles wound by that loudly purring sable feline, she toted box and tin into her bed-sit. I finished off the last questions, checked everything twice, bagged my college stuff. The new phone was not showing a full charge, but had found its network and two signal bars. Of course, its phone book was empty. After some thought, I fetched out Ms. Jones' business card. Rather than a personal code or an HMRC office, it only bore 'WIRS' and a free 0808 800 number. Greatly daring, I rang that.

"Weird Incident Reporting Service !" The lady had a lovely Scottish burr. "May I help you ?"

"Hi ! I'm Tim--"

"ID confirmed-- Hello, Mr. Brown ! Welcome to WIRS ! Thank you for calling so promptly ! And well done for nailing your Halloween 'Skinny Man', they're canny Bogles !"

"I--"

"To business: Please leave your new phone on over-night, there may be multiple messages.

"Also, your card PIN is 8-7-4-6. That is eighty-seven, forty-six. Please change it at your earliest convenience."

"Thank you--"

"No, no ! All part of the service ! Sorry, we've another call--"

And, just like that, she was gone.

I sat heavily, shook my head, caught my breath. A Royal Charter from Queenie One ? 'Terms and Conditions' crafted by 'Bill the Bard' ? The gall to use HMRC's behemoth as an umbrella ? A call-centre to rival the 'Fortean Times' ?

Yeah, right...

I nibbled my final stale bread roll, studied the phone's 'quick start' guide, mastered the rudiments. Then, finished for the night, I tried to settle. With my head full of vectors, Sines and Cosines, plus residuals from the hectic weekend, sleep came slowly...

===

The duvet escaped twice, leaving me shivering. My lucid dreams weren't too bad. The worst found a knives-wielding 'Giant Tink' hunting 'The Minx' and I through the Strand's unfamiliar and very dim sub-levels. After much frantic running and dodging, we reached three re-charging fork-lift trucks. Locked, of course. No time to hot-wire them for a 'Ripley'. Instead, I grabbed a CO2 extinguisher from their adjacent fire-point. Between icy-cold blast and oxygen lack, the 'Giant Tink' faltered, stumbled across the lift-forks, fell. Hasty blows from my extinguisher sufficed to smash that giant bug's exoskeleton. Blue blood everywhere. 'The Minx' claimed the left antenna, which had broken off. I took those hafted stone knives...

Part_4

Tuesday morning, my WIRS phone showed no messages. I left it and the 'power bank' on charge, snatched breakfast, caught the bus to college. I joined the short queue outside Dr. Andre's tiny office, where the other students in our group took their smug turn to say, 'Sorry, wrong questions'. He sat with his head in his hands. He didn't even look when I plonked my assignment onto his desk's pile, until I said, "Sorry, I had to do them without matrices."

"Huh ?" He sat up, peered at my wodge of manuscript. "You did them ? Without matrices ?"

"I went a bit retro," I admitted, as he grabbed for my work, began turning the pages.

"Worked example, yes. Worked example, yes. Yes. Yes. Yes, yes, yes and yes... I'll be..." He focused on me, peered at my pendant Student ID. "Tim Brown ? Finds quirky solutions to CJ's 'Electronics' assignments ?"

"Uh..."

"And you solved these without matrices..." He shook his head, asked, "Is there some reason you're not doing a full degree course ?"

"I'm 'Zipper Club'," I stated. "I keep having to drop out for surgery, then repeat the year."

"Ah... Would you mind if I show your workings to my 'Advanced Mechanics' students ?"

"You're welcome..." I qualified that with, "I think these problems date from 'pre-matrix' times. They analysed too easily."

"I think you're right," he said, peering closer at several pages. "Yes, matrices are a brute-force approach. Just load the 'sausage machine' and crank out results..."

"By the way," I mentioned. "Even if I'd figured the sign convention and matrix format, your App won't run on my Chrome Book or a basic Mac..."

"Ah... No-one warned me about that. Thank you."

I shrugged, asked, "Have you a copy of the correct questions handy ?"

"Why ?" Dr. Andre patted my work. "This is 'A+' !"

"Not for this module."

He smiled, nodded, said, "I'll send one along."

"Thank you."
==

The morning's three lectures went okay. Lunch was a thick potato and lamb stew, cheap, hot and filling, but otherwise forgettable. Janet, our petite, too-perky blonde Counsellor, intercepted me afterwards and delivered Dr. Andre's sheets with yesterday's correct questions. She wanted to know all about my 'Orientation Weekend'. Locations, agenda, activities, feed-back, everything. Preferably minute by minute. To her dismay, I could only repeat what little I'd told Ashlee and CJ. She seemed to take my repeated 'NDA' pleas as a personal affront. Not my problem...

My afternoon labs passed off without disaster. No messages awaited me on the WIRS phone. After a bland meal, I tackled the day's assignment, which was from our maths 'refresher' course. As I'd done this material twice at school then twice before at 'Hugh Baird', it put up scant fight. Dr. Andre's was much more interesting, took rather longer.

A scratching at my door announced 'The Minx'. After claiming her daily fuss and ear-scritches, she wanted out. I watched her trot down the stairs, listened for the back door's cat-flap. That had just stopped swinging when my WIRS phone chimed thrice.

The first text held phone numbers for Mike, Geoff and a 'JJ'. I added them and my personal phone's to the directory ahead of the lonely WIRS call-centre.

The second text mentioned that Simon Baker had posted Jess' carefully munged photos to 'Deviant Art' under a pen-name, received prompt acclaim.

The third text asked me to travel to Hebden Bridge, up in North Lancashire, after college on Friday. Bring overnight bag. Charge ticket to corporate card supplied. Text 'JJ' when my train pulled out of Liverpool Lime Street, for an hour and a half's lead-time to arrange collection.

I smiled.

===

Wednesday passed without incident, as did Thursday's college. Per the previous week, I went via 'The Strand' afterwards. Before doing my 'Friday shop', I visited their 'Facilities Management' office. The staff were delighted to be thanked for their colleague's excellent directions to the new Amazon Locker. I didn't mention that the bold 'Guide' stood just feet from their door still bore no clue. On the way around my usual discount stores, I detoured via the 'Halifax Bank' and its convenient 'auto-teller' machines. There, I checked my personal account's fragile cash-flow, then re-coded my new 'corporate' card.

As for last week, I bought a six-pack of bread rolls plus the makings of a cold supper for Sunday. Another six rolls would travel with me. I also wanted several packs of sandwiches or filled rolls, but all were short-dated.

The rain caught me half-way from bus route to bed-sit. Fortunately, it blew from behind rather than in my face. I was not surprised to be greeted by a very wet 'Minx'. She rubbed herself on my shins, escorted me up the stairs then scratched at Ashlee's door.

"In you come-- Oh ! Hello, Tim !" She peered at the two big, ring-pull tins of cat food I was extracting from my larger bag. "Ooh !"

"I've another 'Away Weekend'," I explained. "And these were on offer."

"Thank you," Ashlee said. "I hear you've astonished Dr. Andre ?"

The college 'grape-vine' had struck again. I sighed. "He gave out the wrong questions, but I went full-retro on them and figured the answers. No big deal..."

"Ha ! 'No big deal', he says ?" Ashlee laughed musically. "Melinda's cousin Pete's on that 'Advanced Mechanics' course, was totally thrown by the last two !"

"I got lucky," I warned. "They were really old questions, re-cycled and re-packaged."

"You reckon ?"

"They were meant to be solved the old-fashioned way."

"Which you spotted..."

"Only after I managed to hack the two worked examples..." I found an analogy. "Like when a complex design neatly fits standard fabric widths and lengths ?"

"Gotcha !" Ashlee laughed again. "Yeah, they take some crafting ! Thanks, Tim !"

Part_5

Friday morning, I mentioned my forthcoming weekend to 'CJ', got a conditional deferment for my electronics assignment. A quick read showed it held no surprises, would just take time and application.

Following college, I caught a bus to Oriel Road station, rode into the city as far as Moorfields. One stop on the Loop Line took me to Lime Street main-line station. I was a bit nervous using my 'corporate' card for the first time, but the £29 transaction went through. Plan_B was to break DJ Jim Cobham's as-yet untouched fifty. I'd twenty minutes before my first train, a 'TransPennine Express', changing at Manchester Victoria. That gave me time to peek in a few concourse shops. I bought two longer-dated cheese rolls lurking behind some sad-looking 'discounted' packs. My own money, mind. With no guide to my 'corporate' card's usage, I was wary not to abuse that, even by accident.

As requested, I texted 'JJ' as the train pulled clear of the Edge Hill tunnels and cuttings, received a 'smiley' by return. Between studying my assignment and making notes on possible solutions, the early evening's half-hour journey to Manchester soon passed. I found the platform for my second train with a quarter hour to spare. That gave me time to nibble my first cheese roll, study the ebb and flow of commuters. The second train trundled Northwards for half an hour until I could alight at Hebden Bridge. I was impressed by how the station had been refurbished, yet kept a rather retro look.

"Evening, Tim."

"Erk !" Again, WIRS' big guy had ghosted from the shadows. I caught my breath. "Hi, Geoff !"

"We're over there." That long-wheelbase, matt-black, crew-cab van waited a few yards down the station's car-park, facing the exit. Needing the leg-room, Geoff took the front passenger seat. I sidled in behind him, sat opposite Ms. Jones who was busy with her smart-phone.

"Ma'm," I murmured, parking my bag, then finding and latching my seat-belt. Catching the driver's mirrored eyes, I added, "Mike."

"Evening, Tim." Ms. Jones looked up from her phone. "Our contact lives in Hebden Bridge. The incident took place mid-evening on Halloween in Heptonstall, which is up a side-valley. There was an extended 'Yellow' hit in this area around that time. Almost thirty seconds. But coverage here is sparse, the 'tricorn' fix was twenty miles across. Geoff ?"

"Ma'm..." Geoff pulled his lap-top out on its arm. "Informant, Ms. Rina Bancroft, runs 'Moonchild', a small 'New Age' book and gift shop with associated web-site. Lives upstairs. Shop belonged to her locally-born, ex-Hippy single mum, 'Madrigal Moonchild', neé 'Sheila Bancroft'."

Over his shoulder, I could see its Google Earth image, with a surprisingly large 'kitchen garden' neatly laid out on the rising ground behind.

"Born 1980, raised 'Wiccan', Rina Bancroft got a good degree in Sociology. Did ten years as a social worker in Halifax area. Blew the whistle on a nasty trafficking and child exploitation ring after 'Social Services' and local Police ignored it. They'd tip-toed around that extended 'Tribal Region' family's 'Cultural Sensitivities', unquote. Won a big pay-out for 'Unfair Dismissal', plus formal apologies and extensive 'Damages' for many scurrilous statements and news reports.

"Returned to Hebden Bridge, helped run the shop. Took over after her mum's death. Writes steadily selling books, booklets and pamphlets as 'Sabrina Moonchild'. Does most of her business by mail order.

"There are indications she is very active in the local Wiccan community, but she keeps a low e-media profile."

"Yes." Ms. Jones nodded. "My contacts suggest Ms. Bancroft is the local priestess' deputy, facilitator and fixer. She's certainly the 'go-to' for the local 'New Age' community when they collide with reality.

"As to why we're here, she's taken in a pair of stray teens. She fears they may be Time Travellers."

Part_6

"You're kidding... No ?" I couldn't help myself. "Sorry, Ma'm."

"I used stronger language," Ms. Jones admitted. "Given Ms. Bancroft has not been 'Read In' to Walgate and its implications, we may have Solutreans, 'Atlanteans' or something unfamiliar, though apparently human...

"Guys, the pair may be harmless, but I am authorising 'Weapons Free'. Your call."

"Ma'm."

"Ma'm."

"Okay, Mike. Could you find 'Moonchild' ?"

He threaded our bulky crew-cab van via rail, river and canal bridges to the North bank of that congested valley. A steep side-road rose from the small town's centre on its narrow flood-plain, led to a side-street with several short terraces. Mike paused outside an end-terrace, beside a lane climbing to the moors. Almost twice the width of its narrow neighbours, 'Moonchild' must have been planned as a convenient local shop. There was a curtained 'bay window' to the left of the central door, a busy display window to the right. In the dark, it looked remarkably banal.

Driving a little further, Mike turned the van around, parked in deep shadow. He and Geoff 'armed up', then Ms. Jones led us to Moonchild's dark entrance. Its flip-card read 'Closed', but the tinkling bell-push brought an inside light, then lights. The door opened.

"Ms. Bancroft ?" Ms. Jones had her ID out. "I'm Jenny Jones. Special Investigations, 'Section D'. We're the help you requested."

Behind the display window, the now-lit interior was remarkably under-stated. Yes, there were some dangling chimes, mandalas, dream catchers and such. Yes, there were several racks of herbs, spices and seed-packets, some labelled 'Home Grown'. Two twirly stands bore books and booklets. A waist-high floor-box held rolled posters. There were tasteful displays of 'artisanal' craft. Yet, somehow, it all looked too business-like, almost staged.

The same could be said for Ms. Bancroft. Tall, strong-boned, a 'Farm Daughter', she was dressed in black on black over swirling, floor-sweeping black. Only her face showed beneath a pointed, wide-brimmed black hat.

"One moment..." She stepped away, shed hat and layered habit, tossed the lot onto a clear part of her traditional sales counter. Beneath, she had loose, dark, elbow-length hair with lighter roots, wore a neatly darned, pastel-blue fleece top over grey leggings, odd sox and dark garden clogs. "Sorry, the witchy look doubles my Skype trade. Come in."

We filed into the shop, where Ms. Bancroft studied us with steady blue eyes. She didn't flinch at the glimpse of Ms. Jones' laden shoulder holster. Mike and big Geoff were clearly our team's muscle, though her gaze lingered briefly on their open carry. Then she looked past them to me.

"Sun, Moon and Stars !" She took a too-hasty step backwards, collided with the counter. Raising a defensive hand, she hissed, "Your eyes ! What are you ?"

"Chimera, Ma'm." That didn't register, so I gently added, "I'm partly my non-identical twin."

"You--" She dropped her voice to a tight whisper. "You have the 'Second Sight' ?"

"No, Ma'm." I shook my head. "Just sesqui-trichromat."

She blinked, lowered her hand, smiled, allowed, "And a keen wit..."

I made no reply.

Turning to Ms. Jones, she said, "Your team's not what I expected..."

"HMRC 'Section D' investigates anomalies." Ms. Jones shrugged. "If mundane, we hand off to appropriate authorities."

"Anomalies..." Ms. Bancroft shivered, gave me a wary side-glance. "How much were you told ?"

"That two, very distressed, strangely dressed teens knocked at your door late on Halloween--"

"Samhain." She pronounced it 'sow-een'.

"Samhain..." Ms. Jones' pronunciation was acceptably close. "And claimed sanctuary. Unspecified incident in Heptonstall. Although they appear harmless and human, they remain uncommunicative, even with each other."

"A fair summary." Ms. Bancroft nodded. "A young man and woman, probably mid-teen but exact ages uncertain. They seem kin, but not sibs. They resemble our traditional local folk, appear healthy and well nourished. Their lack of weathering, their soft, unblemished skin suggests a sheltered upbringing.

"They are familiar with knife, fork and spoon, but are happy with finger-food. Though neither are vegetarian, they do not refuse such. As yet, they will only eat small portions. They enjoy lemon tea, will drink weak coffee with a little milk and sugar. They are carefully modest, competent with my small washroom's facilities, maintain strict personal hygiene. They show no alarm when I operate electric lights, but shrink from my iPhone.

"They have nothing to indicate their identities or origin. Their clothing and accessories are a bizarre mix of styles and eras, but functional, seasonally appropriate. Their big 'map-case' contains numerous documents whose languages and scripts I cannot identify. Their map makes no sense. Their 'picnic case' contains a handsome set of plug-mounted crystals. I am familiar with 'Orgone' and other focus devices, there is some resemblance, but I have never seen these before. There is no indication how or where such are used...

"In my professional opinion, the two are severely traumatised, literally struck dumb with fear. Given their anachronistic clothing, wary demeanour, alternative technology, minimal familiarity with our era etc, I reluctantly surmised they may originate else-when."

"Logical." Ms. Jones nodded slowly. "That's a fair hypothesis."

Ms. Bancroft blinked, whispered, "You believe me ?"

"I believe the two are severely traumatised," Ms. Jones stated. "Establishing the cause may aid their welfare, prevent further incidents."

"Agreed."

"Do you know how they came here from Heptonstall ? 'Moonchild' is not near their likely route. And, with respect, not easy to find..."

"I do not know. My Sisters and I were celebrating our Late Sabbat when they banged on my door. There was some alarm, some confusion." Ms. Bancroft shrugged. "By the time we thought to look, there was no evidence of their arrival, by mundane or other means."

"Fair enough." Ms. Jones nodded. "Also, given the date, you would be concerned about pranks, hoaxes or malicious damage. Do you have trouble from fringe Evangelicals and such ?"

"Of course." Ms. Bancroft smiled unkindly. "But they rapidly alienate the wider community, soon leave."

The document...

Part_7

"May we see your strays ?"

"Surely. This way, please ?"

A small office / stock-room lurked behind the shop's counter. To our left, via a fire-door, a narrow hall-way ran back from a coat-hung, boot-parked nook set against the front wall to a glimpsed kitchen with garden door and cat-flap. Beyond the hall, a smart reception / dining room stood open. There was an empty, 'Sheila Maid' Victorian-style, ceiling-hung slat airer above the steep stairs which rose from the hall, took a turn near the top.

Ms. Bancroft led the way up to a compact landing. Several bedrooms and a tiny washroom opened at back and sides. The front was one big, big room, traditionally timber floored, with tall, wide, box-shuttered windows that would overlook both street and lane by day, catch a lot of light. It may have begun as an artisanal workshop, for spinning or weaving. Now, strong shutters closed and double-barred, it was dimly lit by two small 'night' bulbs in neat wall-sconces.

The room was sparsely furnished. Some simple wooden stools and folding tables waited beside the door. Other folding tables stood open near the windows, bearing the strays' accessories. Their bizarre wardrobe was arranged on multiple hangers hooked along the traditional picture rail.

The centre of the room held a double air-bed, two garish sleeping bags zipped together, several plaid blankets heaped. Huddled among them, in mismatched sweats, were the two totally terrified teens. 'Deer in head-lights' scared, without a doubt.

After a few moments, I noticed three careful, concentric circles chalked around them, archaic script and symbols between, within and without those traditional wards.

Ms. Bancroft brought up the room's lights in slow stages. With short, almost buzz-cut brown hair, brown eyes and very similar features, the teens were surely kin, 'Kissing Cousins' or closer. They had a local look, lacked obvious foreign ancestry. Their proportions were certainly not 'alien' or 'abhuman', which was a relief. Also, though wan, the pair were a natural colour. The way that too-pale 'Skinny Man' had reformed his ruined face after my felling strike still made me shudder. None-the-less, Mike and Geoff carefully positioned themselves wide to left and right of the doorway, surely to provide cross-fire.

"Hello." Ms. Jones showed her badge. "I'm Jenny Jones. May I ask you some questions ?"

Their eyes followed her hand, returned to her face. They made no reply, indicated neither 'yea' nor 'nay'. She photographed them with her phone. They flinched at the flash, but made no comment.

"Ydych chi'n siarad Cymraeg ? Parlez vou Francais ? Sprechen Sie deutsch ? Italiano ? Hellenic ? Espanol ? Solutrean ?" When those failed, Ms. Jones whispered, "Guys ?"

Geoff and Mike took turns trying what were probably Middle-Eastern dialects. Mike ventured something vaguely Far Eastern. Geoff rumbled a few careful words in what could have been Russian. Nothing drew a reply.

"May I look at your kit ?" Ms. Jones' wave took in the exhibits. She took their non-response as acceptance. "Thank you."

I stayed by the open door and, clear of our gun-slingers' sight lines, watched Ms. Jones photograph then examine the hangars' garb. A curious, almost eclectic mix of function and frivolity, with elements of 'Regency' extravagance, Gothic formality and 'Victorian Adventurer', their wardrobe certainly fitted Ms. Bancroft's reluctant hypothesis of hapless time-travellers. Two wig stands bore near-Baroque 'His' and 'Hers' confections, plus over-accessorised hats. Moving on, Ms. Jones studied the assortment of documents laid out on two side-tables. She photographed them by turn, lifted the lid on their 'picnic case' and photographed its contents.

"Geoff ?" He waited for Ms. Jones to take a 'guard' position, then circled behind Mike. He studied the documents intently, shook his head.

"Mike ?" They traded places warily. Mike lingered over the documents, kept returning to one, but finally shook his head. He handled one of the cased crystals with great care, returned it with a silent but eloquent shrug.

"Tim ?"

"Ma'm." I waited for Mike to return to his position, crossed behind him.

The documents all seemed manuscripts. They were variously penned by different hands in an assortment of nib-widths, off-black inks and weird, not-quite Arabic fonts. Most were on thick, hand-laid paper. Some had ragged edges. Others had been trimmed, but not quite square. Several had been torn or re-folded unto fragments, were now held together by gummed patches. Two of the documents were inked on leather. One was heavy hide, the other surely soft chamoix. The documents' weird fonts ranged from totally florid near-Fraktur to spidery, almost feathery italics, but not a word made sense.

I unfolded the largest, most fragile document last, found a wide, hand-drawn map, annotated and amended in several phases and styles. The shapes and markings did not conform to our modern world, but something about it seemed familiar. I turned it about, peered at it skew, nodded. Allowing for cartographical errors and exaggerations, this could be the Solutrean Empire. But, it was not the thriving and, I now knew, real Empire of the 'Cycle' books, which held sway from their Atlantic coast to the Arals, from the Baltic to the Two Niles' junction. No, this showed but traces and remnants. A bit like our now-fragmentary Roman legacy of military roads between former strategic sites still named 'Caster' or 'Chester'. Such complete collapse and tangential recovery must surely require millennia...

More ominously, the map seemed to show a much lower sea level, perhaps an Ice Age 'low stand'. Their Western coastline followed the continental shelf-break. Their long, narrow 'Alboran' sea-way was closed. Their mutated Med was reduced to several isolated Messinian salt lakes, fed by deeply incised river gorges...

More support for Ms. Bancroft's 'Time Traveller' hypothesis ? Perhaps...

As Mike had been, I was drawn back to one of the early texts. A long block of script in one of those weird fonts, my fresh study found several phrases and part-lines kept repeating. An incantation ? A chant ? A formal plea or greeting ? Though it lacked punctuation, it seemed to have a pattern, almost a rhythm-- Not Shakespearean, I hoped !

Giving up on those documents, I took a closer look at the pair's clothing. Beyond the bizarre yet seasonally functional mix of styles, their wardrobe appeared artisanal rather than machine-stitched. Ashlee would understand such better...

I shivered, turned to the 'picnic case', which was timber framed panelling rather than basketry, covered in a matting-strong, hand-loom fabric. A padded internal lid protected a dozen nests, a mounted crystal in each. About five centimetres, three finger-widths' tall, these were colourless, ground and polished to pointed prisms. Translucent rather than transparent, each had similar but not identical clouds, swirls, possible micro-fractures. That suggested they were natural, not cast glass or acrylic. Each was wrapped by a coarse silver wire spiral which clenched the crystal to its slim gold or gilded base. I lifted one, turned it about.

I blinked. My nape-hair rose. I took a long, slow breath, looked again. I knew institutions and standards may endure due sheer utility or 'Founder Effect'. Look at the quarter-inch audio jack, the RCA phono socket ! But would the humble 4 mm 'banana' wander-plug's design survive millennia ?

Part_8

I peered closer at the crystal's plug base. The golden 4 mm 'spike' had a side-spring, perhaps gilded. It looked very even, but exquisite artisanal craftsmanship could achieve such. I thought to wiggle then twist the body of the plug. It unscrewed half a turn, then a little more, before halting at the thick wire's splay. It showed the start of a fine screw-thread. Again, such could be artisanal, using a tiny, clock-maker's lathe. Still, it further raised my doubts.

I'd checked the pair's clothes, but without skill. I'd studied their documents, found little I could recognise, more questions than answers. Their crystal assemblies seemed anachronistic. Puzzled, I returned the mounted crystal to its nest, looked about.

The 'map case' remained. Covered in the same strong, hand-loom fabric as the 'picnic case', with similar timber framed panelling, clunky brass buckles, leather handles and a surfeit of straps, it had travelled badly. The stained cover was scuffed and scraped, darned and patched. I undid the two closed buckles, peered inside. The two leaves' slim frames supported a matching fabric liner with sundry toggle-closed pockets, large and small, all now emptied. Several of the smaller pockets were missing, their strong hand-stitching unpicked. I reckoned such had become patches. The liner extended across the hinge-line, to better protect the contents. Short wooden legs could pivot from within each corner to allow the whole to be flipped, opened flat to a wide, but low map-table.

I nodded politely, then stopped. Form often follows function, but there was something oddly familiar yet very wrong about this table, its proportions and construction. I took a closer look. Unlike the liner, the cover was not pinned or stapled to the wooden frame, but neatly buckled, sharing straps with the closures. That would be handy for repairs, but the strong buckles showed more use than I'd expect. Curious, I undid one, peered beneath the fabric, caught my breath.

"Tim ?"

"A moment, Ma'm..." I undid the cover's other buckles. As the fabric fell away, it revealed a bold, geometric shape painted on the panel beneath. Stripping the case further and opening it out gave two halves of a big nine-pointed star with, yes, a 4 mm hole at each apex. Perhaps a crystal plugged into each, plus a few spare, to be sure ? Yet, the painted shape was flat, not plaited. And, the shape did not physically link across the hinge-line...

I hesitated, part-folded the case, stood it on end. That gave me access to the liner's loose fabric across the hinge-line. I peered within, tilted the 'map case' to get the light just so. My doubts confirmed, I checked the outside edges of the frame, found two 4 mm holes beneath a buckle's strap.

"Tim ?"

"Getting there, Ma'm." I stepped back, studied the ajar 'map case' again. Its proportions still nagged, but a notion grew. I felt around the frame, nodded. I went back to that puzzling document, the one both Mike and I had lingered over. This time, I closed my eyes to slits, turned the page steeply skew. After a few seconds, I whispered, "Gotcha !"

"Tim ? What have you found ?"

"Ma'm, may I have a quiet word ?" She stepped close. I continued in a low whisper, "I've no doubt this pair have been severely traumatised, scared witless, but they are not 'Time Travellers'. Their clothing is a fun, mash-up style known as 'Steam Punk'. They're LARPs. Live Action Role Players."

Part_9

"Actors ?" Ms. Jones quietly queried, throwing them a glance. "Are you sure ?"

"Yes, Ma'm." I pointed to the 'map case'. "Under the bling, that's an el-cheapo decorator's pasting table. Amazon or 'Home Depot' budget range, re-purposed. Folding legs and wire braces replaced by those eight corner stubs. Hinge-line moved to the wide side. Those crystals' bases are modern 4 mm 'banana' plugs. Standard Hi-Fi stuff. Matching sockets in the panels, disguised by the cover's patches and darning. Pair of sockets in the frame. Totally modern wiring behind the liner, looks like a plaited star--"

"Show me." She peered behind the 'map case' liner, studied the shadowed cabling, stood, nodded thoughtfully. "That's nicely made, a 'Walgate' variant, not a 'Type 2'. So, possible traumatic abhuman encounter, with wits derangement..."

"Yes, Ma'm." I nodded, turned, tapped that page with the big block of weird text. "Also, this is English."

Ms. Jones' suspicious gaze followed my hand. She looked over the page again, shook her head. "Tim--"

"Round like a circle in a spiral like a wheel within a wheel," I murmured the opening lyrics.
"Never ending or beginning on an ever spinning reel
Like a snowball down a mountain or a carnival balloon
Like a carousel that's turning running rings around the moon
Like a clock whose hands are sweeping past the minutes of its face
And the world is like an apple whirling silently in space
Like the circles that you find in the windmills of your mind..."

"From 'The Thomas Crown Affair' ?" After a few seconds, she admitted, "I-- I still don't see it..."

"Hold the page real-skew, Ma'm, and sorta squint at it."

She tried this way and that, then took a sharp breath, whispered, "I'll be..."

"Mike almost had it, Ma'm," I allowed. "Took me long enough..."

"Role play ? Weird fonts ? You've seen such before ?"

"Yes, Ma'm. Alder Hey. The City's 'Games Workshop' crew organised a rota of volunteers, ran floating 'Dungeons and Dragons' campaigns. Usually on a map-board but, when they could, costumed characters, realistic props and such. Munged documents just took wacky formatting, a 'fun font'." I shrugged. "You can't expect kids to read real Hieratic, Linear_B or Klingon--"

"Klingon ?"

"Yes, Ma'm. They're passably reptilian. When Medieval-ish dragon-hunters followed rumours to their underground Cappadocian base, it was sword, shield and fire-spells versus bat'leth and disruptor. Totally silly, but lots of fun."

"If you say so..." Her eyes twinkled briefly. "Does it help these teens ?"

"I think so, Ma'm..." I hesitated, chose my words. "I think they're in a dissociative fugue--"

"I've seen such." Ms. Jones nodded shortly. "Sometimes, it just wears off. Sometimes, you can find a key, or throw a life-line..."

"I-- I think I've a key-phrase they'll recognise."

"Will it harm them if they don't ?"

"Unlikely, Ma'm."

"Go for it."

"Ma'm." I circled behind Mike, crouched near the outer circle, in front of the two still-terrified teens. After several slow blinks to draw their attention to my odd eyes, I gently, but clearly asked, "San-Check fail ?"

Their eyes went very wide. Their gazes locked on my face.

"San-Check fail ?" I repeated rather louder. I gave them some moments, hoped a third time proved the charm. "San-Check fail ?"

First the boy, then the girl began to nod like bobble-heads. Their eyes welled, their tears flowed. Helpless sobs followed. They clung to each other, wept freely.

I turned to astonished Ms. Bancroft, asked, "Bar-towel, please ?"

Part_10

While that stricken pair rinsed their tears-reddened eyes in the tiny washroom, Ms. Jones and Ms. Bancroft quietly discussed interview tactics. They agreed the latter's 'Social Worker' experience gave her the lead. We all ended up in that reception / dining room. The splendid table sat ten, which meant the two teens were not crowded.

Ms. Bancroft rolled in a folding tea-trolley laden with assorted mugs and a stack of stained coasters, plus a small plate of 'Sweet Digestive' biscuits to tempt the teens. She set out our drinks, formally stated, "Please eat and drink freely, without hazard, obligation or binding--"

"It's all my fault," the young man blurted. "I'm so sorry, Aunty Rina--"

"Huh ?" Ms. Bancroft almost spilled her mug. "You know me ?"

"You went to school with our Mums and Dads." Seeing her disbelief, he added, "I'm Christopher Wiston."

"No !"

"And I'm Melissa Wiston, Aunty Rina."

"Chatty Chris and Little Milly ? Older brothers Jack and Charles ? I-- I used to mind the four of you..."

"You read us the 'Jungle Book', 'Peter Pan', then 'Rewards and Fairies'," Melissa remembered. "You did all the voices so well."

"I-- Didn't your families move to Preston ?"

"BAE and the Nuclear place had work," Chris stated.

"Our new school was a bit scary at first, but we did okay," Melissa said. "Jack and Chuck got good apprenticeships, we're both second-year UCL."

"I took a gap-year so we'd level up," Chris stated. "Just shelf picking and stock-control, but that work experience won me a place on their 'Business Studies' course."

"I'm doing 'Media and Graphic Design'," Melissa proudly added. "And Calligraphy !"

"What-- What happened ?" Ms. Bancroft's wave embraced all.

"It was an accident, Aunty Rina," Melissa admitted. "We loved our school theatre club--"

"But UCL 'Footlights' only did 'Socially Significant', arty-farty stuff."

"So, we joined the SciFi group. Did CosPlay, 'D&D' and LARPing..."

"Eight of us planned a full-on 'Lovecraft Mythos' adventure for Halloween," Chris said. "Pete, our 'Dungeon Master', booked an old village hall. Arranged to borrow a mini-bus."

"We had everything sorted, rehearsed."

"Costumes, props, script, room plans, labels and masking tape..."

"Walgate Hall's ice-house 'Ritual Floor' had a big pentagram," Melissa said.

"We thought a portable 'Niner' would make a great McGuffin."

"Then, mid-October, the hall manager took fright and cancelled."

"I remembered that ruined church up in Heptonstall." Chris took a slow breath. "Pete checked on-line, agreed 'St. Thomas à Becket' was perfect. Lots of space. Looming, open tower. Spooky, skeletal nave arches..."

"On the night, Pete, Chris and I left the others in the mini-bus, began to rig our set..."

"Pete hooked the McGuffin's ground wire to a metal tent-peg. He used a catapult to shoot a thin wire over a cross-brace, high in the tower." Chris took a shaky breath. "But when he plugged--"

"It was horrible !" Melissa sobbed. "Horrible ! They came flying out of our McGuffin !"

"Dozens of them !" Even flat on the table, Chris' hands shook. "They weren't bats--"

Their words came tumbling, faster and faster.

"They weren't birds--"

"We could see and hear their dark leather wings flapping--"

"They went up the tower in a long stream--"

"There was a gap--"

"We grabbed our lamps and cases--"

"Ran back to the mini-bus--"

"The others saw the flock flying around and around the tower--"

"I-- I told Pete to come here, you'd know what to do--"

"But, when we knocked on your door, there was so much commotion--"

"Pete panicked and drove off--"

"And then we lost it, too. Everything was just a blur--"

"Until..." Chris caught his breath, looked across to me. "We totally failed our 'Sanity Check' roll, didn't we ?"

"I'm afraid so," I agreed, as saying 'Epic' would have been cruel. I turned to Ms. Bancroft, prompted, "Ma'm ?"

She took a slow breath, stated, "You've lost ten days--"

"No !"

"No !"

"Your friends must have covered for you," I suggested. "Seasonal 'flu ?"

"Yeah," Melissa allowed. "It was going around..."

Chris nodded. Perhaps belatedly, his swinging gaze took in Mike, Ms. Jones, big Geoff and their holstered guns. He blinked, paled. Even tizzy after his fugue, he must have realised such 'carry' was really, really unusual in the UK. In a very, very wary voice, he whispered, "Aunty Rina..."

"I thought you were 'Time Travellers'," she admitted.

Ms. Jones had her ID out again. "I'm Jenny Jones. HMRC, Special Investigations, 'Section D'. We correlate obscure anomalies--"

"Like 'Delta Green' ? 'Van Helsing' ? 'Pisces' ?" Melissa was wide eyed. "Or 'Torchwood' ? But you're the real thing ?"

"Yes."

"Wow !"

"We are so f**ked," Chris moaned, put his head in his hands. "Our McGuffin wasn't supposed to work ! How could it work ?"

Ms. Jones regarded him with a certain sympathy. "You'll all have to sign the 'Official Secrets Act', and there'll be no more plaited polygrams, thank you, but I'm more concerned about that flock of--"

"Three-eyed flying monkeys !"

Part_11

"Three-eyed flying monkeys." Chris' quiet words confirmed Melissa's description.

"We had two big LED 'lanterns' with fresh batteries--"

"We saw what we saw."

The long silence that followed spoke louder than swearing. Bemused Ms. Bancroft was murmuring something arcane. Mike and Geoff both wore 'Long Looks', as if ranging a target. Ms. Jones seemed distracted, perhaps searching far, far beyond her abhuman 'Usual Suspects'. My nape hair rose. Whatever these whatsits, they might not hail from volcano-ravaged 'Atlantis'...

Taking a slow breath, I gently asked Chris, "Could you confirm their wings were not feathered ?"

"Dark leather and slim bones, like a big fruit-bat," he replied, a bit shakily. "Beating strongly. But not attached to their arms or legs."

"Thank you." That would have been my next question. So, strike 'flying foxes' and 'sugar gliders'...

I tackled it logically. A few quirky SciFi characters and those jolly Disneys from 'Toy Story' had three eyes. Who else ? Well, us, almost. Our very distant ancestors had, and some now-distant reptilean cousins still have a centre-line parietal eye, apparently used for bio-rhythm tracking. Ours evolved to the pineal gland, which does a similar job, if indirectly. And, yes, inspired a zillion woosters...

The first 'Solutrean Fables' featured something scarily similar to the 'Walgate Wyrm', which definitely had an odd number of simple eyes, including one on the centre line. But 'flying monkeys' ? No, not a word. Nor anywhere else in the 'Cycle' or its many spin-offs...

The nearest match I could find was Oz' Evil Witch's infamous aerial minions. Those were regular, two-eyed monkeys plus feathered wings, so six-limbed chimera like mythical centaurs, winged dragons, angels and devils. Sure, developmental defects could scramble a pair of four-limbed embryos, yield something with five, six or even eight limbs. I was at the benign end of such 'sports'. But I knew of nothing terrestrial beyond insects that naturally had six functional limbs. I certainly knew of nothing that had six limbs plus a centre-line eye...

Where could they be from ? Ms. Jones and Mike had told me so little about our parallel worlds. Solutrea seemed sufficiently documented to exclude. Ms. Jones did not recognise this flock as 'Atlantean' abhumans. If 'Lizard World' bio-engineered giant war-bugs, they may have crafted these, too. But, why three eyes ? 'Weird World' jokers aside, that brought me full-circle to the 'Walgate Wyrm', with one of its front arc of simple eyes set on the centre-line. True, no 'limbs' beyond scary, chitin tipped, tentacular mouth-parts, but what of kith and kin ?

Didn't Ms. Jones imply that both Andrews' and MacPherson's first, 'Walgate Type' portals had opened to 'Wyrm Land' ? Officially, 'Wyrms' were a 'Lazarus Taxon', like the coelacanth. Temperate to Tropical wet-land habitat, 'Saltie' niche', Victorian trapping location unknown. In fact, a grown one got through when the 'Carrington Event' serendipitously powered Archibald Salter's 'Ritual Floor'. I knew nothing of its native ecology beyond Ms. Jones' curt warning about hostile 'mega, macro and micro-fauna'. Even so, that implied an extensive trophic web...

I leaned closer, very quietly asked, "Ma'm, do all Wyrm-Landers have an odd number of eyes ?"

She hesitated, nodded once, albeit minutely.

"The others-- How many limbs ?"

She blinked, announced, "Excuse me, I need to send a text."

"Please," Ms. Bancroft allowed.

Ms. Jones hauled out her phone. Her fingers and thumbs danced rapidly, sent. Within moments, the phone pinged. While she was studying that brief reply, the phone pinged again. She read this, too. She sucked her teeth.

"You know what they are ?" Ms. Bancroft asked.

"Trouble," Ms. Jones stated, asked, "Did they stay in the Heptonstall area ?"

"I-- I don't know. I've not heard of anything..."

"Parrots," Ms. Jones decided, with a wry nod to me, then told Ms. Bancroft, "Rare, melanistic parrots. Smuggler freed them to hinder prosecution. Stress may trigger latent Psittacosis. Ring around, ask for sightings."

"I-- Yes, of course."

Part_12

After a few moments' thought, Ms. Bancroft fetched out her iPhone and called a 'favourite'. Answered within seconds, I was sat close enough to over-hear replies without being too obvious.

"Jackie, Rina. Those people you recommended turned up. I-- I'll tell you more over a bottle of Beaujolais. Um, perhaps two...

"The teens ? Safe and well. Out of their fugue, now. Coherent, totally embarrassed. UCL students. Doing role-play up at the 'St. Thomas à Becket' ruin. Where something happened to scare them witless...

"Remember old Jack Laithwaite got Psittacosis from his mucky pigeon loft ? Yes, nasty. Yes, you had to swab all his contacts and neighbours. All their kids and pets. All their friends. I had to talk the 'New Agers' around...

"Jackie, you'll have to trust me on this. Official line is a smuggler freed his un-tested flock of melanistic parrots to hinder prosecution--

"Jackie, listen. 'Latent Psittacosis' is the cover story, a convenient handle-- It's 'Invasive Species with Unknown Zoonotics'--

"Yes. F**k, yes. We must find them. Whatever they are. Given the weather, the flock may still be near here. Please, work your contacts. I'll work mine. Text sightings so calls don't clash...

"Oh, you'll know. This flock is the stuff of 'Urban Legend'..."

After ringing off, Ms. Bancroft said, "Jackie's our senior 'District Nurse'. We've been friends since pre-school, a double act since I came back to Hebden Bridge. Too few of our 'New Age' community were getting vaccinated. I'd seen the consequences in Halifax, entire 'Tribal Families' ravaged by outbreaks. So, I do full-on exorcisms of their vaccines for each group. Draw a complex Solomon's Seal around the vials and such. Burn herbs, every-one chants and dances. Then Jackie does the group 'by the numbers'..."

Ms. Jones' eyes twinkled. She admitted, "If it's crazy but it works--"

"It ain't crazy..." Ms. Bancroft completed, then grumbled, "If only it was so easy to convince our 'main-stream' anti-vaxxers..."

She sighed, began composing a lengthy text. Satisfied, she sent it. "There. That should poll a quorum..."

Ms. Jones had fetched three documents out of her jacket's 'Poacher Pocket', lain them on the table.

Ms. Bancroft glanced at the top copy's title, muttered, "You weren't joking about the 'Official Secrets Act', were you ?"

"Sorry," Ms. Jones said. "There's a 'Technical Appendix', too. Fair's fair: If Chris and Melissa don't feel sufficiently recovered, these can wait. Their friends and yours have kept their mouths shut. I'll catch them later..."

"Plaited polygrams ?" Ms. Bancroft mused. "But electrified ? How ?"

"It's still 'Beyond Theory'," Ms. Jones admitted. "We think the combination creates a temporary tesseract portal. Tim, the atmospheric voltage thing ?"

"Ma'm." I turned to Ms. Bancroft. "Unless a storm's brewing, there's a natural atmospheric gradient of a hundred Volts per metre. Very high resistance, you can't draw serious power. Lucky combination of geometry, height, cross-bar as antenna, possible telluric currents ? Sorry, Ma'm, I'm new to this, too."

"Happily, we now have a detection system," Ms. Jones stated. "It flagged something in this area, but only within a dozen miles."

"Tesseracts," Chris whispered, wide-eyed.

"Portals," Melissa offered likewise. "Summoning grids..."

"The 'Baghdad Battery' ?" Chris mused. He hesitated, whispered, "The-- The 'Carrington Event' ? The 'Walgate Wyrm' ?"

"Ah." Ms. Jones' eyes twinkled. She pushed her top two documents towards the teens, saying, "I think your wits are sufficiently recovered for 'informed consent'."

"If you don't mind," Ms. Bancroft stated, "I'll read through mine first."

"That's fair," Ms. Jones allowed. "The 'Appendix' is especially relevant."

While all three warily turned those intimidating pages, big Geoff produced a robust, metal-cased pen from about his person. It looked like a 'Tactical' whatsit, seemed to have a 'glass breaker' tip. Having seen Geoff wield his small pry-bar for that 'sonde' at Mount View Hall, I'd no doubt it was also a lethal weapon.

Even under severe stress, Ms. Bancroft was a quick study. "This appendix... I've never heard of it."

"I should hope not !"

"It-- It's a bit, um, retro..." Her lips moved as she tackled the beautiful, yet scary phrasing. "Almost Shakespearean..."

"No 'almost'," Ms. Jones stated. "Crafted by 'Bill the Bard' before he was famous."

"Your people go back that far ?" Melissa whispered, peering at hers. "Wow !"

"Not my favourite period." Ms. Bancroft looked very thoughtful. "But Mary was bad, and James worse. Hmm. Did Lizzie get some arcane threat, tell Walsingham to fix it ? He'd send John Dee..."

"Who hunted stuff all over Europe," Ms. Jones allowed. "Lurid cover stories ruined his reputation..."

Wordless, Ms. Bancroft took Geoff's pen, signed and dated her sheets, placed the pen between the teens. They hesitated, signed their sheets then, as one, grabbed for the biscuits.

"Later ?" Chris wondered, between coffee slurps. "Did Newton get involved ?"

"Unclear. His famous book on optics proposed a multiverse." Ms. Jones shrugged. "Most of his 'Alchemical' papers were lost in a workshop fire. The rest seem woo. Yet he did so much for what became 'Science'. His later breakdown may have been trying to square those laws of optics, motion and gravitation with that multiverse..."

"Um..." Chris hesitated, then nerved himself to ask, "The multiverse--"

"We reckon ours plus six," Ms. Jones stated. "Do not build another Portal. They bite, as do the mega, macro and micro-fauna that may come through. Then there's geology. We know of a flash flood, a geyser, even a lava flow..."

"Oops..." Melissa whispered. "A real 'Hell Gate' !"

"Yes." Ms. Jones deployed her unsettling smile, played her trump card. "Besides, we now have that detection system."

Part_13

"Ma'm, the lap-tops ?"

"Please, Mike." Ms. Jones nodded, glanced to me. "Yours, too, Tim ?"

"No thanks, Ma'm." I shook my head. "It's just a basic Chrome Book. Hamster powered..."

Her eyes twinkled as Mike turned to Ms. Bancroft and asked, "May I leave your door on the latch ?"

"Surely..."

He was gone just long enough for the teens to finish off the biscuits. Geoff's machine was his 'industrial strength' model, looking smaller now un-docked from the van. Ms. Jones' was much bigger. It came in an impressive 'tactical' bag / case, had a wide-format touch-screen, was on-line in moments with a UK map. She began touch-typing. A perspective view of the Hebden Bridge area popped up. I could only see it skew, but the vertical scale was seriously exaggerated. She twirled the view, zoomed into Heptonstall.

Minutes slowly passed without reply. Ms. Bancroft wheeled the tea-trolley back to her kitchen, returned with more drinks and biscuits. We re-arranged ourselves around the table, with the four 'professionals' at the inner end, me and the teens at the other.

As our drinks cooled, the teens chomped several biscuits each. Then, Chris quietly asked, "Mister Tim ? How did you get into this ?"

I glanced along the table to Ms. Jones, who gave me a minute nod.

"Just 'Tim'," I said. "I'm a Mature STEM Student. I was walking home after running a DJ's FX desk on Hallow's Eve. 'Skinny Man' attacked me. I thought he and his two mates were drunken CosPlayers, just parried his grabs. When he wouldn't 'Stand Down', I knocked him flat. He-- His face reformed. His next swing tore up my coat. He made another grab. I-- I shanked him with my tool-belt's screwdriver..."

"Ouch ! That's gotta hurt..."

"The old saw about Fae and 'Cold Iron' may be true; he fell, leaked green 'ectoplasm', then his clothes just collapsed."

"Ooh !"

I shivered, tilted a thumb. "Cavalry arrived, dealt with the two mates, then recruited me part-time."

"Wow !"

"Wow !"

"We'd been hunting them for several weeks," Ms. Jones amplified, her eyes twinkling. "They're 'Psychic Vampires', their victims often seem 'Natural Causes'. To survive an attack, you must be quick-witted or lucky. Tim's both."

As I blushed, Ms. Bancroft allowed herself a tiny smile, then looked down as her phone chimed. Her eyes narrowed as she read, "Corner of Back Lane and Chuch Street. The Smiths' twin boys say strange owls keep looking in their bedroom window at night and scratching at the glass. They're 'Harry Potter' fans, but these were 'scary'."

As Ms. Jones and Geoff made annotations on their displays, Ms. Bancroft's phone chimed twice. "Repeated dog fouling in St Thomas' grave-yards, but no-one's seen the culprits. Hmm. Every starling gone from the Weaver's Square trees ? That is odd..."

The chimes kept coming. "Smithwell and Townfield. Possible fox attack on Jenny Atkins' rabbit hutch. Deep claw marks on the wooden frame, mesh held. Longfield and Hepton, two big hawks, query, took sparrows off the Jennings' bird feeders.

"Valley View, a raptor stooped on Jasmin Laithwaite's young tabby cat, who needed stitches. Hepton, opposite Longfield, Jack Laithwaite's nephew, Phil Walsall, is losing pigeons from his small loft.

"Smithwell Lane, the local school has repeated dog fouling, query, in enclosed yard...

"Noisome crows, query, in the trees by Back Lane. Bins raided along Towngate. Cliffe Street. Old Mrs. Lyons mobbed by big crows, query, as she put out her rubbish late on Tuesday evening.

"Hebden Bridge History Society report extensive dog-fouling around and beneath Old St. Thomas' tower. Acid rather than ammonia smell...

"Cross Inn, corner of Towngate. Bird fouling of outside tables. Just a nuisance until a delivery van and several customers' cars were damaged by similar droppings. Ate clean through to the base-coat..."

A hiatus was interrupted by the kitchen door's cat-flap flip-flopping. After a few moments, a black cat warily peered around the dining room's door-frame. I clicked my tongue. Our eyes met. I gave puss a long, slow blink, double clicked my tongue, rustled my right hand beside my chair. Puss eeled around the frame, padded in. Remarkably big and long, black as a panther, almost as assured, he was not a young cat. Sundry grey tufts and ear-scars suggested many adventures. But, he must have been 'king of the hill' for many years.

The teens glanced across.

"Bagheera ?" Melissa whispered. He looked up, lifted his tail politely. "Bagheera ! It is you ! Come to Cousin Milly !"

He didn't hesitate. He jumped onto her lap, head-butted her chin, permitted himself to be fussed by her, with help from an equally delighted Chris. I offered a finger for Bagheera's polite perusal, got a sniff, a cheek rub.

"Oh, Aunty Rina," Melissa said, "I didn't think Bagheera would still be going strong ! What is he now ? Fifteen ? Sixteen ?"

"Bag's nearly seventeen," Ms. Bancroft calculated. "Does take life a bit slower, now. Spends most of his time in the garden, rarely hunts the hill. Can't keep birds off the fruit any more, I have to net my rows and canes..."

"Oh, Bagheera ! I remember how we used to play ! We had so much fun !"

"And you beat up the neighbour's new dog when he jumped the fence," Chris added, scratching him behind an ear. "That was quite something !"

"Tyson was so well-behaved after that," Ms. Bancroft admitted. "Saved a lot of trouble."

"Wiccan ?" Ms. Jones wondered.

"Unethical," Ms. Bancroft stated. "An ultrasonic dog whistle, though-- Bark, bark, bark, bark, bark..."

As Ms. Jones' eyes twinkled, the phone began chiming again.

"Wiltons' Farm along Smithwell, facing the school, lost three free-range hens and two ducks, all at dusk. Buzzards, query. Barn-cats beat up two very big owls, query, that tried to roost in the tractor shed...

"Cleaners opening up New St. Thomas' last Sunday had to sluice dog-fouling off the porch step and path. Huh ? Several parishioners claim to have seen gargoyles on both bell towers..."

Nothing more came in for several minutes, then, "Beckett's Close and Hepton. Flamingo and gnome lawn ornaments vandalised..."

Despite the grim tally, Ms. Jones' eyes twinkled at that. After catching her breath, she said, "Locus seems to be the St. Thomas' twin towers. Geoff, Mike ?"

"Mossberg's a bit loud, Ma'm," Geoff warned.

"Night-vision and silencers ?" Mike offered. "Not ideal..."

Ms. Bancroft pulled a face. "Old St. Thomas' church is deconsecrated, but the Trinitarians would not appreciate gunfire on Hallowed ground."

I looked across from scratching Bagheera's shoulder, asked, "Ma'm, your fruit netting ? Tennis or mist ?"

"Mist--" She stopped, looked down the table to me, stated, "Quick, you are, young Jedi !"

As my ears reddened, Mike matched my logic and, with a nod to me, asked Ms. Bancroft, "Ma'm, have you any to spare ?"

"Several big packs in black. Have you paracord ?"

"Reel in the van, Ma'm," Geoff rumbled.

"Sounds like a plan," Ms. Jones stated, with a grim smile. "Sounds like a plan..."

Part_14

After some whispered instructions from Ms. Jones, Mike went off with Ms. Bancroft to fetch the netting. I kept scratching old Bagheera's shoulder, thought to tell the teens, "Your documents and map-case were well done. Took me a fair while to figure."

"We spent months on them--"

"And all gone to waste !"

"If you take out the plaited wiring, it's still a really good McGuffin," I allowed. "Very nice 'Messinian' Med map."

"Very convincing," Ms. Jones added. "And 'Windmills' fooled me."

"Uh..."

"I really liked those mounted crystals," I said. "Totally Carnacki."

"That was--"

I had to ask, "Why did you use banana plugs and sockets instead of quarter-inch jacks ?"

"Oh ! There was a big box of them kickin' around..." Chris sounded puzzled.

"If you'd used jacks, you could probably drive a small LED squeezed into each," I suggested. "Some steady, some multi-colour, some colour changing. Sorry, I don't know if affordable UV LEDs would make your crystals fluoresce. You may be able to fake it using anglers' fluorescent varnish. That stuff might work for 'revealed writing', too."

"Ooh !" Melissa's face lit.

"Twin bananas would work instead of jacks, but you gotta watch their polarity. Especially in low light. Unless the LED is a bi-colour, 'back to back' type." I took a slow breath, warily added, "Don't ever, ever fit fast-flicker LEDs. They can cause migraines, even trigger epilepsy."

"Huh ?"

"A too-flickery Pokémon cartoon back in, um, '97 hospitalised hundreds of Japanese kids."

"Eww..." Melissa squirmed.

"Stereo jacks and two independent 12 Volt 'ring mains' would allow more FX options. Just don't plait them."

"Gotcha," Chris agreed, with a very visible shudder.

"Space may be too tight for laser diodes. Unless you give each crystal a nice plinth ? Cat-toy laser pens from discount stores soon burn through their button-cells. If you re-work them or, better, get a budget bag of discrete laser diodes from eBay or Amazon, each would need its own LM 317 regulator, wired as constant current. Simple circuit board the size of a postage stamp. One resistor to set current, a small capacitor for good practice. Cheaper by the dozen..."

"Ooh..." Melissa's eyes were distant. "Ooh..."

"You don't mind ?" Chris seemed bewildered, looking between me and Ms. Jones, whose eyes were twinkling.

"Not a bit !" Ms. Jones smiled like 'The Minx' after she'd nailed that first starling. Her 'poacher's pocket' dip found the refilled clip of WIRS 'business cards'. She passed about half of them down the table. "Now you're 'Read In', you add to our 'Eyes On The Ground'."

"Ooh !" Melissa's eyes had gone very wide. "Like 'Baker Street Irregulars' ?"

"Precisely."

Ms. Bancroft returned with Mike, his arms full of bagged netting. Turning to Ms. Jones, she said, "You could have had the nets gratis, and I'd have paid for my kin's train tickets to Preston, but I'm much obliged."

"You're welcome," Ms. Jones replied, dispensing some more WIRS cards for Ms. Bancroft's folk. Looking to the teens, she said, "When you get back to Preston next week, ring that number. A local agent will contact your group to sign both Act and Appendix. Understood ?"

"Yes, Ma'm."

"Yes, Ma'm."

"Now, if you don't mind, we'll take our leave." Ms. Jones' dark eyes had gone scarily cold. "Time to do some paranormal pest control..."

Part_15

Mike threaded those side-roads back to the centre of Hebden Bridge. He followed the A646 West almost to Mytholm before making a near-hairpin turn right onto steep Heptonstall Road. This curved up the long flank of the ridge, brought the two church towers into sight. Mike drove around their walled precinct twice to give us a feel for the layout, parked in deep shade facing the exit road.

"Net several wide arches, use torches to flush roosters, apply Asps to tangles ?" Ms. Jones summarised.

"Silencers and night-goggles as back-up, Ma'm," Mike requested, drawing a nod.

"Have you a spare Asp, Ma'm ?" I offered. "I've handled one for MMA, and I've played enough Badminton."

"I'd have thought you a Squash guy," Ms. Jones mused.

I shuddered, admitted, "There's no such thing as a friendly game of Squash..."

"Point !" Her eyes twinkled. "Yes, ours are 21 inch, but we've a spare 16-er."

"Thank you, Ma'm."

Geoff retrieved gloves, disposable dust-masks, a big roll of opaque trash-bags, the drum of paracord and a neat telescopic ladder from the back of the van. Mike handed out big 'search' torches, night-vision gear, silencers and Asps. Stepping clear, I took a few moments to familiarise myself with my baton's length, weight and balance. Our sport centre's Sensei had been more concerned with how to parry such, but wielding one helped grasp its strengths and weaknesses. Given I wasn't brandishing it like a 'Magic Girl' wand, I earned wary nods instead of a veto.

Loaded up, we headed into the churches' precinct, picked our way through the grave-stones to Old St. Thomas' side entrance. There was no mistaking an alien, acid, almost raptorial smell, quite unlike regular bird droppings. It was stronger and fresher near the open tower, so we kept our distance. I thought I could hear some batty wittering or twittering from high in the tower, but that could have been my imagination.

Mike and Ms. Jones opened out the first net. Geoff cut some lengths of paracord, used the extending ladder to fasten first one then the other top corner to pillars beside the nave. The second net went opposite. The third, using longer lengths of cord, hung across the open nave. That left several feet gap at their ends and some at the bottom, but the resulting wide, dark 'U' was almost invisible in the low light. Ms. Jones, Mike and Geoff stood behind their chosen nets, opened their Asps. Now, we had to hope these whatsits' flocking and mobbing behaviour would work against them.

"Okay, Tim. Light them up."

"Ma'm..." I edged to the tower's open doorway, eased my left arm inside, clicked the big torch on. Focused, it could shine its zillion lumen beam clear across an open field. It threw the dark tower's roosting denizens into a total tizz. No wittering now, but startled screeches and squalls. Wings flapped. Lots of wings. My waved torch triggered a multiplicity of dazzled collisions and complaints. First one, then two, then five tumbled almost to my feet. As most of the others flew up, those downed scrambled to their feet and launched down the open nave. One gained enough altitude, four met net.

Alarmed, tangled, these whatsits cried and screeched. That brought the tower-circling flock to mob the supposed threat. More and more collided with our nets, added to the distress calls. The WIRS team began swinging their Asps, hitting the trapped. Those injured added different, more piercing calls to the many cries.

More whatsits arrived, some diving from Old St. Thomas' tower's parapet, some flapping in from the newer church and other nearby roosts. Now, there were whatsits getting stuck on both sides of our nets. Some were bouncing off early victims or fluttering in dazed confusion.

I dimmed my torch, dialled the focus to wide, began swinging my Asp. About the size of a mink, with 'fruit bat' wings, whatsits were easy targets. One swipe to a wing would ground each victim, a clinical strike to head or neck finished the job. And, yes, they had three eyes, one either side of a narrow head, one on the brow, each lidded horizontally.

Their dying shrieks and screeches brought in a few 'afterguard', who we despatched like-wise...

Suddenly, the night was silent again. Very warily, I edged through the tower's open doorway, shone my torch about. The LARPs' antenna wire still dangled from a now droppings-fouled lower cross-brace. The metal grounding peg stood between floor slabs, half-buried in fresh dung. I focused my torch beam, sent it up the tower. Any-one home ? Despite the stench, I took my time, did a thorough scan.

"Tim ?"

"All clear, Ma'm. No wall-flowers."

"Good. Could you give a hand here ?"

One by one, they cut each tangled whatsit from their nets, added it to a waiting bin-bag. I collected and bagged the fallen, wary of nasty claws and omnivore teeth. My care found, finished and bagged several whatsits that had crawled or staggered away. Finally, we cut down the nets and bagged those.

I everted an extra bin bag, collected a generous sample of dung from the tower. I felt sure WIRS' scientists would appreciate my gift.

"Good thinking, Tim," Ms. Jones said, as we piled the last bags into the back of the van. "We'll night-stop at Burnley's Holiday Inn Express, just off the M65, junction 10. Our disposal team can meet us near there, transfer these bags. Hmm. Tim, have you eaten this evening ?"

"A cheese roll at Manchester, Ma'm."

"Mike, does the Burnley Mac run 24 hours ?"

"I think so, Ma'm. We've called there before."

"Well, I don't know about you, but I fancy a bite of supper." She shook her head. "This evening was supposed to be a straight-forward identify and debunk. Tomorrow, we investigate a cursed necklace in Croston. What could possibly go wrong ?"

Jack & Mary Bancroft, shepherds. isolated farm near HB
only child Sheila (SB) born 1957
during term or bad weather, SB usually stayed with Jack's younger sister Sheila Wiston (widow of Charles, nee B) in HB

SW is junior school teacher, a bit strict.
J&M die of exhaustion & pneumonia Winter '62~63.

1976, SB goes to uni for art & design. drops out after one year, goes hippy,
SW disowns her, retires to South Coast to live with her (Jack's) older sister Anne-Marie.
After several years, SB drifts back to HB, joins the small 'New Age' community. changes name to 'Madrigal Moonchild'. makes arty-crafty artisanal stuff, works part-time in a small 'New Age' gift & book shop.

1980 Early: MM sleeps with visiting 'real cool dude', 'Bruce qq Harris qqq', folk-singer / guitarist, Australian.
1980 Late: Sabrina 'Rina' Moonchild born. Raised New-Age / Wiccan.
1990 SM begins making arty-crafty artisanal stuff for shop.
1992 running the small shop shifts to MM, who changes its name to 'Moonchild'.
1998 SM discovers mum MM born Sheila Bancroft
1999 goes to Uni as 'Rina Bancroft'. Gets First in sociology. does decade as social worker in Halifax. Frustrated, returns to HB in 2012 to help ailing mum run shop.
2014 mum dies. 'Rina continues to run shop, uses 'Sabrina Moonchild' as pen-name for the steadily selling New Age & Wiccan booklets etc she writes, and the 'brand' for artisanal stuff she crafts or commissions.

Experience as social worker plus her standing as a Senior Wiccan empowers her provision of sage advice to the unworldly, oft-hapless 'New Age' community.

So, when a Sister's 'Young Adult' kids do something really, really stupid, who y'gonna call ??

Charles Wiston had younger brother Henry, who married Ann Laithwaite. Their two children were Charles (for uncle), and Stephen. They married sisters Rita and Jackie Overton, who had sons Jack and Charles (for uncle). Then Chris and Melissa...

Thanks for the last installment. It made keeping track of people easier. I wonder what they discovered from the "parrots" corpses?
as always a great story.