Satan’s Rock

Part Nine

The Coming of Howard

Morning was slow to discover Francine’s recumbent form, the sunlight needing to creep over the bole of the uprooted tree before it could find its way into the pit that forest giant had created; lighting first upon her back, then, when it had enough warmth to offer, bringing a gentle glow to her cheek which caused her to stir.  Had she slept?    Had she fallen?

The blessing of the sun was welcome, for the rock beneath her, so possessive of her whole being the night gone, was warm no longer.  It was merely stone now, and whatever mystic properties it might have harboured to entice her had fled, leaving her with a sense of loss so intense it brought her near to tears.  There would be precious little time to grieve, however, because she was not alone.  Footsteps were shuffling behind her, and the sound that roused her to complete wakefulness that of heavy breathing, loud enough to all but eclipse the gentle rustling of the wind.

“Here!”  A man’s voice thick with accent, a foreign burr, although of what origin she could not tell,  “It is her!  It is the woman!”

Another voice  answered.  Someone not yet sharing his companion’s position in the pit yet, possibly not even in view.  “You’re certain?”

“Yes, certain!  Yes!  Come, help me – we must get her out of here!”

The other voice’s owner, making complicit sounds, was drawing nearer.  Hands that were not gentle closed about her shoulder.   “You, woman!  You must come with us!  Get up!”

Francine tried to shake herself free.  The rough hand grabbed her wounded arm from under her  and she screamed at the pain.  “Sir!  I beg you…”  She twisted her head angrily, to find herself looking into eyes so cold they conveyed the utter futility of begging.  He was as bronzed, this man, as he was lean – as he was strong, but there was no mercy in him; no kindness.  He began dragging her, half-carrying her because her feet would not, to the side of the pit where his companion stood watching dispassionately.

“Help me here!”  Francine’s captor snarled.  “Take her arms!”

But now there were – were there not – other voices.  English voices raised in a hue and cry.   Desperate to resist this man, Francine wrenched herself away, shouting,  “help me!  A rescue!”  As loudly as she could.

With muted expletives the bronzed man caught her again by that painful arm,  clamping a hand across her mouth and she bit down upon a finger, or maybe two, as hard as she could.

“This way!”  A voice she knew;  “See him?  Take him down!   Shoot, man!”

In immediate answer the lusty thunderclap of a fowling piece echoed in the cold air and the man who had been reaching down to hoist her from the pit rocked backwards with an agonized yell.    New voices were all about Francine now, gaining substance in the shapes of men – two at least of whom had guns.

With their appearance her captor became the captured; the pit a bear trap in which he was the wild creature, snarling his fury.   He clutched Francine to his chest, shielding himself as he backed towards a trodden ramp of mud that seemed his easiest ascent. 

“You, fellow!  Give yourself up!”   Arthur!   Arthur was there, standing at the lip of the depression with a duelling pistol.  “You have no means of escape, sir!  Release the lady now, do you understand?”

It occurred to Francine at that precise moment that her captor was unarmed.  Had he been in possession of even a knife this was the moment he might be most expected to have it in his hand.  It occurred to her also, as it probably already had to those assembled, that without help from the top of the slope this creature would be hard put to keep her between him and Arthur’s party when he attempted to climb from the pit.  His companion was no longer in evidence –  she judged that he had either fallen or fled.    Francine was not a great burden but she could be an awkward one, and if she were a dead weight…

Francine fainted – or at least, she appeared to do so.

She heard the shot, felt the arms that clawed at her jerk as she fell,  and the body that she was pinned against become as limp as she.   Then there were other arms, many arms to raise her up, cradle her and carry her.   And the only arms she wanted to carry her were there, and they were Arthur’s.


It was a parched springtime, that year.   Day followed day, week followed week with little rain. Late April was hot: lengthening days, longer and longer hours of sun. In early May the first storms began.

Peter, who loved fierce weather, walked Levenport Esplanade en route to his lectures many times with thick mists of cloud overlaying the town and rain lashing the pavements in untamed percussion.  On such days The Devil’s Rock was a grey shadow, Saint Benedict’s House a shrouded Valhalla barely visible at its peak.    When lightning flickered behind them rock and house were silhouetted like some great behemoth from the mythology of the sea: if the lightning struck, as it sometimes did, a white trace joined house to sky for a telling moment, a brief pathway between earth and heaven.   Then the thunder banged so loudly it seemed the basalt itself would split, and dry echoes crackled around Levenport’s sheltering cliffs.  At times like these Peter could easily imagine he was listening to a conversation of the gods.

Melanie rarely joined Peter on such tempestuous journeys, she being deterred by such practical difficulties as hair, wet clothes, and a nervousness of thunderstorms.    On finer days, though, she often met him on the Esplanade, and as the summer became ever wetter and less welcoming, spent more and more of her evenings wandering the Arcades with Peter, or ‘hanging’ with him in his room.  The reasons for the growing closeness of their companionship were defined one evening at the beginning of May. Their conversation was drawing to a close upon a reflective note.

Melanie asked,  “Did you ever hear from Vincent again?”

Peter shook his head,  “No, not after that phone call.   It’s really strange, thinking back to all that.  I suppose everything was OK, though.  I mean, that guy didn’t get shot, did he?”

When the attempt on Senator Goodridge’s life was broadcast on the television news its effect on the pair was sensational:  yet neither Melanie nor Peter knew how Goodridge’s life was saved because the details were never announced.   Peter had managed to persuade Melanie that his piece of clairvoyance was a one-off: some kind of anomaly or trick which they should keep as a confidence between themselves.  He had his own reasons for this as we shall relate, but it was true that he had not been contacted by anyone, and assumed that the mysterious purpose of his visit to St. Benedict’s House had been met.

Melanie did not disguise her jealousy.  “Shame.  You get to go to all the interesting places.  I should like to see that house, and your tablet of stone.  I wonder what would happen if I touched it?”

“Probably nothing.”  Peter shrugged,  “I think the things I saw had more to do with those iffy cakes of Alice’s than any stone.”

(But this was a lie.  He still dreamed those images, and one of them in particular haunted him.  He feared, really feared, that in some way and for some reason Melanie might one day get to touch the rock, to see the things he had seen)

“Alright,”  Melanie said,  “play it down if you want to.  Me, I think you’re a great seer – which, incidentally, makes you just a little bit creepy….”

“You speak truth.  As for creepy, I do occasionally get an urge to read the thoughts of your innermost mind.  Isn’t that normal?”

“Normal?   Lol.   Speaking of creepy (which you are) do you know my beloved mother has gone out tonight?   I am alone in that big dark house?   Don’t wait up for me, that’s what she said!”

Peter smirked,  “Do you want me to come over and look after you?”

“What,expose myself alone to the tender care of a letch like you?  Er….no!”

“Letch, now! Better dust off the garlic then.”

“Yeah, cheers.   Night babes!”

The next morning was a wind-blown and rainy one.   The more surprising for Peter, then, that he found Melanie waiting for him, sitting huddled in one of the shelters on the Esplanade.   Her face was traced from recent tears.

“Hey, “He greeted her, “Whassup Mel?”     Peter could not remember seeing Melanie cry.

 “I had to get out of the house.”  She said miserably.


“This morning I came downstairs and there was a man I’ve never seen before in the kitchen.   He was just, like, wearing underpants or something. It was horrible!”

“Ah!”   Said Peter.

“Alright, go on; tell me it had to happen.  I know – I knew it.   Mum’s a good looking woman, entitled to a life and all that….stuff.   It still doesn’t help when it does happen.  She’s my bloody mother!”

“It may not have happened;” Peter suggested gently: “I mean, he may just have slept on the couch, or something?”

“Oh, it did!   You should have seen her when she came down.   She was drooling all over him…it was just sick!”     Melanie wiped her hands across her face. “Oh!  Oh, and his name’s Howard, she insisted on telling me!   Howard!  As if I wanted to know his bloody name!”

“You’re upset.”  Peter sympathised, putting his arm around Melanie’s shoulders.        Truthfully, he had known that Karen, Melanie’s mother, would find a new companion.   His mother, Karen’s friend, who was expert in divining the nature of people, had told him so.  “She’s not a woman who likes being single” she had warned.   “Melanie is going to have to come to terms with that.”  Well, the prophesy had proved to be right – rather sooner than anyone (except maybe Karen) would have wished.

Even so it was difficult to accept, not just for Melanie, but for Peter too.   His own family lived in an oasis of calm amid troubled seas; for whatever you could imagine Bob and Lena to be, they were metaphorically joined at the hip.  You could not imagine them as separate from each other.   Once, in the days when he first knew her, Karen had appeared to Peter to have something of this same unity with her first husband, Marco, because children of the age he was then do not enquire into the stability of relationships, and his friendship with Mel had not deepened enough for her to trust him with tales of late night arguments, long absences, icy silences.   But whatever Karen was as a person then, she was very different now.

“Maybe he’s not….well, you know, permanent?”   Peter suggested lamely, aware even as he said it that his thoughts had led him in the wrong direction.

“Oh!   So my mother sleeps around now, does she!”   Melanie grinned at him weakly.  “Peter, will you come home with me tonight?  I mean, I don’t want him to be there again and me to be on my own, yeah?”

Peter hugged her shoulder: “Sure Mel, ‘course I will.”

And, after college that evening, Peter did as he promised.

Thus began a routine which developed:  before long Peter was walking Melanie home on a regular basis, and soon he was staying for half an hour, or an hour, in which the pair might go through their college work together or play video games.

Peter became an accepted visitor at Melanie’s house.   Karen seemed to see the value of his companionship.   She was not unaware of the tumult that a new man’s presence in her life would cause, or so determined as to ignore her daughter’s feelings; and if Peter, who was mature for his years, might buffer the effects of this collision she was thankful enough.   After that first ill-judged night when she had let passion overcome discretion and then seen the gravity of her error in Melanie’s face, Karen kept her relationship with Howard at arms length for a while.  But she knew where it was leading: and certainly Melanie would have to live with this.   Then, on a more practical level, as Mel spent a greater and greater proportion of her life with Peter, visiting him in the evenings, spending time with him at weekends, she was able to devote more of her own time to Howard.

Nevertheless, Karen trod carefully.   She made certain Howard was never there when Melanie returned from college, and she always told her daughter when he was to visit.   If she planned time away, she took care to involve Melanie, no matter how grudging the response.   With a delicate balancing act always in her mind, she juggled the lives of the people she loved (or was growing to love) in such fashion for a while: and, for a while, it seemed that things might be working out.


When the hot summer northerly is blowing, an aircraft landing at Al Khubar must approach from the sea, where the runway is built out upon a man-made peninsula into the Bay of Ulman, or as it was known in early pirating days, the Sea of Thieves.

On such a summer day an airliner, heading first out to sea, will drop steeply as a stairway from the clear, azure sky and, as it passes below two thousand feet, turn tightly eastward for its final approach.   The cabin has been made quiet by the precipitous descent, until that banking turn.   Then it is common for an almost unanimous gasp of admiration to be drawn from strangers’ lips, as they get their first view of the miracle that man has worked upon the shore of the bay.   For the city of Al Khubar is such a testament to the capability of man to create beauty, that all those who have not seen it before, and many, too, who have, will be awestruck at the sight.  The graceful arch of the Sharm-Ayah suspension bridge which spans the whole bay stands so high you feel the plane might easily fly beneath it: then beyond, in the marinas of the western shore, line upon line of the most elegant yachts that were ever built lie at anchor.   But it is not these which draw the stranger’s eye; nor is it the smooth half-moon of verdant green grasses and trees which follows the shoreline so precisely from West to East.  No, all this is lost; for beyond the bay, beyond the green park-land which consumes two and a half hundred thousand precious gallons of water a day; beyond even the eight-lane highway which skirts the Park’s northern rim, stands such a city as western eyes have never seen.   Towers of tinted steel and white concrete rise in perfect symmetry.   Where there is a sickle-shaped skyscraper rising a thousand feet to the east, another to the west must be just the same.  Galleried glass tiers of shops and offices rise in steps, their profile clover-leafed into courtyards, storey upon storey.   Each courtyard is a space with trees and grass to sit, or stroll, or meet with the trams which network the city at every level.  The dome of the Great Mosque is the hub of lawns and hedged gardens which spread from it like a wheel, two great fountains behind it firing jets like crossed swords into the sky.   In a land where water is wealth there are even canals here, bisecting the new city with Venetian roads.   Amidst all of this the old town of Al Khubar sits, antiseptically white, within its defensive walls.   And amidst the old town, its walls even higher, stands the mighty palace of His Majesty King Assan.

Salaiman Yahedi had seen this sight so often down the years, yet it surprised him each time with its capacity to rob the body of breath.   As one who had long been stateless, Yahedi had no particular preference for any of the great cities of the world:  each was an interlude, a brief stop-over, a job to be done.  Yet, for all that, Al Khubar and its people drew him as certainly as any homecoming could.   He always felt a tinge of regret that he could not rest longer here.

After the air-conditioned plane had delivered him through the air-conditioned gate to Arrivals, and he had collected his minimal suitcase, Salaiman scanned the busy air-conditioned terminal for faces that he knew.   Mahennis Bourta stood out easily from the crowd.  The big Moroccan was at least half-a-head taller than most: his face, a tight, muscular mask of sinew and flesh, was split by a horizontal gash of a smile.

“Yahedi my friend!    Allah be praised!   Why, you look so well!”

The wide, slashing grin vanished as the pair made their way through the throng.  “I have a car for you.   I am to take you to the Hyatt, where you are booked in under this name.”   Bourta slipped a passport into Yahedi’s hand.  “Sleep Salaiman. We are to meet tomorrow at the usual place.”

“Really, so soon?   What is the mood, Bourta?”

“The mood, my friend, is that London did not go well.   The mood is not good.”

“There were reasons – not of my doing.  These things happen.”

“Ah!”  Bourta said, expressionless.  “There were bigger reasons, Yahedi, bigger than you know.   Here is the car.  We will talk in the morning, and |I urge you.”  He rested his hand on the assassin’s arm, “To prepare yourself.”

   © Frederick Anderson 2021.  Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the author is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Frederick Anderson with specific direction to the original content.     

Image Credits:     Harry Grout on Unsplah

 Sangga Rima Roman Selia on Unsplash

Continuum – Episode Eighteen: Venom

In the previous episode:

After her drunken attempt to seduce Celeris at the Spring Rising, Alanee accidentally stumbles upon a tiny speaker concealed within her pillow.   Portis and Ellar summon her to a meeting in which she learns some of the City’s history and discovers The Book.  She asks to meet Cassix, the Seer.

Meanwhile, in his vantage point at the edge of the Dometian disaster zone Councillor Trebec, discusses the genocide of those Dometians who escaped the destructive wall, and learns from his commander, Zess, that one aerotrans pilot is still missing…

In the deep forest a steady rain falls.  Dag Swenner has lost all sense of time, lying where he fell when he could no longer cling to the tree bough that had been his refuge for a while.  Beside him, cheek by jowl, the monster that so nearly took him from the world; his adversary then, companion now on his lonely road to death.    His ancestors are gathered in his Heaven, sombre-faced, waiting to welcome him home. 

He knows he cannot not keep them waiting long.

High in the canopy of the forest a raindrop finds a leaf and runs its length, following a vein until it ends, then drips and falls to a blue, serrate leaf  that waits below, and thence downward over half a hundred different shapes and colours on its descent to the forest floor.  From each leaf it takes a little substance, a savor so delicate and subtle it will look unchanged, taste unaltered.  It falls finally upon the lips of the man who lies dying, and its moisture comforts him.


Alanee is in the ante-rooms of the High Council Chambers when Valtor the Convener intercepts her.  Valtor is a small, pallid Protean with a confidential air.

“My Lady.”  He treats Alanee to a sweeping bow, making her take two surprised backward steps.  “He would grant you an audience.”


“Yes, Lady.  He! Great Sire Hasuga.”  Valtor articulates these words in a reverent whisper.

“Oh, him.  Tell him to give me an hour.  I’ve got to collect some clothes in the City.”

Such colour as Valtor has leaves his face and his jaw drops open.  His hands, effete at best, fly to cover his ears.  “Lady Alanee!  I did not hear that!  I did not hear that!  He is the Great Sire Hasuga; our sovereign benefactor!  If I take such a reply back to him my life will surely be forfeit!”

Alanee leans in towards him.  “Mister whoever you are, if he is the Great Sire Hasuga you say he is, he already heard it.  No harm will come to you or him in waiting.”  She turns on her heel and heads for the Courtyard, leaving Valtor speechless in her wake.

In her defiance of Hasuga, Alanee is not merely being self-willed.  She needs time before she confronts the strange, unnatural boy, time to assimilate all she has heard and learnt.  Ellar’s few simple explanations that should have been all she needed to join the pieces of the jigsaw her life has been, that made everything fit so neatly, will now throw up a multitude of new questions.  How in the name of the Great Habbach is it possible?  How can the deeds and actions of mankind be decided by the thoughts of a small boy?  Yet she sees it to be true, just as she sees The Book, and all the thousands of lines of unreadable language that now rest somewhere in her head, has provided her with answers – if only she could read them.

A riddle, then; but not the most confusing riddle, Alanee thinks.  How did she move The Book, lift it from its place, and why, when she did so, had she the feeling that its progenitor, its ancient father, belonged to her?  From the moment in that chamber when her eyes rested upon The Book she felt an insipient presence, another mind, another knowing, melding with her own.  It had left her now, as precipitately as it had come – where did it originate?  In The Book?   She knows she was not alone in her mind while it was with her, possessing her.  In fact, a part of her wonders if she was there at all?

She calls Sala.

Sala’s voice is ragged:  “Oh, Ba, I swear I could sleep for a year!”

Alanee says:  “I’m going to see the demon child.”


Then Alanee remembers.  Sala will never have heard of Hasuga.  She does not know that he exists.


“I have made you powerful, haven’t I?”  Hasuga is perched upon the edge of his bed, his little face creased in a leer.

Alanee stares.  “Powerful?  How?”

“You have learned about The Book.  Ellar cannot resist you now, Portis cannot match you!  I have given you power.”

“Are you telling me it was you inside my head, in that room?”

“Did you enjoy the sensation?”  Hasuga asks.  There is a vibrancy about him that is unpleasant.  His young features are twisted in a way that no longer speaks of innocence, but of bitterness and pain.  His bedchamber, too, is greatly changed.  The complex machine which consumed so much space last time she was here has grown yet more.  Rampant, it spirals about the room.  There are no street scenes to augment its composition now, it is a structure of obsession, a homage to Hasuga’s apparent fixation with snakes.

Alanee prods it.  It is cold and unyielding.  “What does it do, this thing?”

“What I want.”

“Yes, you said that last time.  It occupies most of your room, so it does something important.  What can this ….”

Hasuga cuts her off. “Watch!”  With one tendrilous finger he points.  As if his spark has given it life, the machine  transforms instantly into a serpent, a boa constrictor of whipping tail and rainbow colours that rears its head to heaven then glares down upon Alanee with cold yellow eyes.   Jumping back, for a frozen second she fears its strike, but it plays a different game.  In a rasp of friction its endless body wraps and wraps again into a tightly-wound coil at Hasuga’s side.  

Alanee’s heart rediscovers its rhythm.  She forces herself to look up at the snake’s broad head which regards her evilly, wearing an expression very like a smile.  The smile of the Music Man and his gently inveigling tune, with an enticement only the eyes of a serpent can bring.  What is within its protection?  What do those coils hide from her?  She is consumed by a wish to see what it holds within.  And as if in answer to her wish the image of the snake that was only ever in her mind fades.

Two life-sized figures materialise in its stead, each so real she might reach out to touch them and be met by flesh; and this is the more disconcerting because one of the figures is herself, her partly-clothed image engaged in some awkward, almost mannerly form of dance.  So mortified is she by this violation she does not at first identify the other figure; a man clad in a robe, as Celeris.  Celeris grotesquely aroused   For a moment she believes he might actually be real, so substantial does his image appear. He is dancing too.  The images are close to one another, almost touching.  It is clear that Celeris is in distress; as if he is in a vortex from which he cannot escape: his face is puckered, tears roll down his cheeks; he tries repeatedly to cover himself, to hide his shame.

“Stop it!”  Alanee rounds angrily upon Hasuga, “It’s disgusting!  Switch it – turn it – whatever you do – off!”

“You do not like Celeris?”  Hasuga has been watching her with what she will remember as his ‘dungeon face’; enquiry, curiosity, absorption, an utter lack of compassion. The images vanish.

“My feelings concerning Celeris have nothing to do with – with that!  That was voyeurism, exploitation.  You’ve been watching me, haven’t you?  You’ve seen me with him!”

Hasuga does not answer.  Those first emanations of malice seem to have dissipated.  Once more she believes he is emotionally uninvolved, that he sees her reaction as nothing more than a missing piece of information.  He says quietly, his voice a sibilant hiss:  “Then perhaps this will better please you.”

Beneath her feet the grey texture of the floor is altered to green.  Her toes touch the cool inquisitiveness of grass.  All around her a crowd, roaring and hungry and from somewhere – from nowhere – an agile figure in red and black appears; her man!  Kalna-meh, across the years, so real she might grab him now and hold him, stop the moment she already sees must follow; but no.

Hand-springing upwards upon muscular arms to catch a disc of 12 inches diameter between his feet, her husband’s arm eludes her as he turns to deliver the perfect pass, a thrust that will send the disc up-field where a second identically-clad figure waits, plucking it from the air then ducking as an opponent in blue and brown-striped clothes flies above his head.  With a sweeping movement of his foot, the red and black figure launches the disc so it spins with awesome speed towards two posts in the distance.  The crowd-sound reaches a crescendo.  A foot-game is in full swing.

Now the whole field is opened up for her to see.  Feeling the gorge rising in her throat Alanee chokes out in her fury:  “No!  Don’t do this!  NO!”

She stands amidst it all.  The twenty players in their contrasting strips, the vast banks of humanity that watch them,, the green of the pitch, the blue disc that never falls to earth unless a player pins it there.  And there he is, in the red and black of his Hakaani team, his dear features set in that deep, concentrated stare she knows (knew) so well!  As the disc is re-launched he is running, leaping, twisting to intercept.  He takes it on the catch-stud at the tip of his right foot, already poised for the answering shot, not seeing the blue-striped adversary who has committed to the same target, the same position.  Mid-air, mid-twist they meet foot to head, and her beloved Kalna crumples and falls to earth like a doll made of rags.  The crowd is reduced to stupified silence.  The rag-doll twists and twitches for a few last seconds in the grass, then is still.  The scene is lost in misted grey, fading until the room is normal once more..

Alanee cannot speak.  In white horror she just stares at the place which showed Kalna-meh’s final moments.

“He was your coupling?”  Hasuga’s eyes have never left her.

“Yes.  How did you…?”

“I am Hasuga.”

“You are a bastard.”  Alanee says, with gravitas.

“I know the meaning of that word.  I am not a bastard.”

“Alright then, you’re a ghoul, a monstrous little fiend!”  Alanee cannot restrain her tears.  “I loved him.  Do you understand ‘love’?  Like your love for your Mother, but much deeper, much more personal, and – and how could you show me that?  How?”

“I am Hasuga and I am learning.”  His voice remains completely dispassionate. “Go now.”

“Go?   Leave?”  Alanee can think of no riposte, no revenge she can wreak upon this creature, though she would take his evil machine and twist it around that scrawny neck if she could.  So she forces her embittered soul to execute an elaborate curtsey and drags the ruins of herself from his royal presence.

In the elevator, then later in the gardens beyond the city where she can be alone, she might weep, and does, for the images she has been shown will last with her, perhaps for all of her life..  But although the gardens are busy with the first miracles of the coming summer, no fresh green shoots can lift the djinn of grief from her soul.  Her footsteps lead her by the riverside, where few City-dwellers will see her hammer and hammer furious fists upon the guardrail until her white flesh is bruised and broken; or hear her wounded soul declare itself at one with those great white floes which snarl like wrestlers in the fast-running current.  In the maelstrom below the bridge a luckless boat left loose-moored by its painter, a workers’ boat, no more than a skiff probably used to dredge for crayfish when summer comes, is punched and crunched against the bank.

There is little enough, Alanee feels, to distinguish her own fate from that of the tiny craft.  A farmer’s girl untutored in the ways of the big city, tossed and turned as she clings to a slender thread that must at last give way…..

There is a marble bench where she sits, seeking an answer in the deep black waters, until late in the afternoon.  There were times in the hours and days that followed Kalna-meh’s death when she had thought about the value of her continued life.  If the mucous jaws of the melting river should open to invite her in, is she tempted?  Who would see?  The rail is low: the desired result is certain.  A minute, no more, in that frigid gateway to better things beyond, to a place where Kalna-meh’s open arms wait to greet her.  And Dag – is Dag there, too?  Her thoughts are confused.  Grieving, she stares into the turbulent darkness and dreams of home.

Is she sleeping?  There is a leaf – just there – upon a tree that overhangs the water:  one she has not given credence before.  A tree made peculiar by gnarled and tangled branches as though it stood upon a windswept moor.  She plucks the leaf, toys with it in her hands, not questioning how she reached it without moving from her seat upon the bench.  Then another strand of foliage, much different from the first: she takes this frond from a fern-like source at the riverside.  Then more:  she sees each leaf, each plant minutely, she knows what each will bring to her, their proper sequence.  A blue serrate example – surely out of season?  Three – four – five – six – soon twelve contrasting samples of spring growth rest within her grasp.  Such is the depth of her knowledge she can remember them all.

Now the rain; a heavy beat upon her back.  When all the leaves she holds in her cupped hands are wet from the downpour a sudden compulsion makes her clutch them to her stomach and hold them there. Although the evening air is chill a radiant warmth rises like a vapour around her

“Lady Alanee?”

The voice at her shoulder stirs her.  Instinctively she glances down at her hands, resting empty on her lap. They are – she is – dry.  No rain falls.  Was it really just a dream?

“Lady Alanee you look unwell!”  Celeris is there.  Celeris, a mirror of concern; his clear brows puckered, eyes a-brim with anxiety.

“Celeris!  Oh, Celeris it is so good to see you!”  Alanee’s delight is undisguised.

“I could not pass by.”  His hesitancy reminds her of the awkwardness of their last encounter.  She reassures him.

“I am glad you didn’t. Come, please, sit with me?  Talk to me?”

“Talk. Of course, I will try.”  He sits beside her on the bench, and the careful way he arranges the hem of his toga lifts her heavy heart.  “What shall we talk about?”

“Oh, of the coming of spring, of life and stuff – just talk!”

“Very well.  The coming of spring is very – regenerative.”

Alanee cannot help laughing.  “Lots of plants and flowers; you know, growing things.”

Does he colour just a little?  “I suppose so.”  Then he notices:  “Your hands!  What have you done to your hands?”

“Oh nothing.”  She has already forgotten the bruising she inflicted upon herself.  “They don’t hurt me.”  Unspoken, the words:  ‘Only people can hurt me’ bring forth a truth.  Physical injury is a consolation, a way to expiate the pain inside.

The gardens are quiet.  A few older couples idle on the bridge while an odd drab or two can be seen beavering among flower-beds on the hill. 

“You know, back in the Hakaan when I was a girl, spring was a season for new friendships.  After the winter rains, just to come outside and sit on a riverbank like this, maybe with a boy you’d not really talked to before, was a great adventure.  You might see something in his eyes that you liked, and he’d be shy, and neither of you could find much to say at first.  But there’d be that instant when your arm might brush with his, and your hands might touch….”  Scarcely aware of what she does, Alanee takes Celeris’s hand in hers…  “Then you might turn and find your lips were close to his, and it would be so easy to kiss; but of course….”  She turns, offering the invitation, then corrects herself swiftly, “This is not the Hakaan, and such behaviour in the Consensual City would be completely inappropriate, wouldn’t it?”

“Lacking sophistication.”  He agrees.

“Quite uncouth!”  Finally, with a laugh:  “Are your eyes really black?”

“I do not know.”  Celeris murmurs, his eyes seeming to get even blacker.  He returns his gaze to the racing river.  “The things you describe sound very attractive to me, Lady Alanee.”

For a while neither speaks.  Alanee cradles his long, sensitive fingers in her hand. 

They are alone.  Even the drabs have shouldered their tools and departed for the evening.  Her mind has a gentle music.  She thinks of the treasures she might discover were she to delve deeper into her affinity with this enigmatic man; of the secrets she might find; the pleasures she might teach.  At last, sighing, he asks if she has eaten: she shakes her head.

“I’m not hungry.”

Nodding as though he is conscious of the gravity of this moment, Celeris says: “Then I shall escort you to your door, Lady.”

“No.” Alanee declines.  “I can’t go back there.  There are cameras spying on me.  I can never go back there again.”

Celeris registers no surprise at this – which Alanee can forgive:  after all she imagines voyeurism is probably common practice in this loathsome place.  He says quietly:  “Very well; but you must have somewhere to sleep.  The hour is late.  Could I….dare I ….offer you my hospitality?  I would not intrude.”

“Aren’t there cameras in your apartment too?”  She reasons:  “They’re everywhere, aren’t they?”

“My poor Lady!”  His eyes are mirrors of her sadness.  “You would be my honored guest.  You have my word no-one will observe you!”

How quickly Alanee’s expression alters to one of open gratitude!  “Then I would be honoured, Sire Celeris.”

“The honour, Lady, is all mine.”


“I beg your pardon?”

“Not ‘Lady’ – ‘ba’.”  Alanee takes his hand firmly, to be rewarded instantly by his powerful, confident grip – so much in contrast to the diffidence and uncertainty in the man – as he leads her back into the City.

© Frederick Anderson 2020.  Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the author is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Frederick Anderson with specific direction to the original content.

Photo credit: Jan Kopriva on Unsplash

Nowhere Lane – Chapter Thirty-Eight   The hour of Counting

So it was that in a blizzard’s teeth on a night in March 1970, Patrick Hallcroft’s long search for Karen Eversley came to an end.  Although the woman who sat opposite him in the transport that would enforce his return to normal life had no memory of him, and he had not the vision to be sure she was Karen, her identity would be established in due course, just as in due course she would remember him.


“She’s here, isn’t she?”  Patrick said, watching Jackson, his father, as the old man stirred the embers in the grate.

Jackson nodded.  “Stayed last night, in the guest room.  She heard you drive in.  She said she’d wait in the snug, in case you didn’t want to talk to her.”

“Has she said anything – about the book, I mean?”

Jackson  shrugged his shoulders.  “Nope.  I guess this is all about the book, but I can still read people, and she’s hurting in a lot of ways.  Who knows?  You have to see her, don’t you?”  And he turned back to stoking the fire.


Karen Eversley’s road to recovery had been long, a year or more before her memories of a time when she had a name and loves of her own would come back to her.  Why was Patrick not beside her on that difficult road?   Why did he return instead to his Beaconshire home and the closet of his former life, leaving her to the mercies of those who had, in effect, been her jailers?

No sooner had the helicopter borne Edgar away from the frozen moor than the sharp-faced commander of their rescue ordered their return to York.  The woman who called herself ‘Poppy’, who Patrick believed to be Karen, was impervious to his questions, maintaining a withdrawn silence on that journey.

In York, they were admitted to what seemed to be a military establishment on the outskirts of the City, where an ambulance awaited the woman.  Patrick was ready to protest at this point, because the woman seemed disinterested in his attempts to talk to her, instead allowing herself to be separated from their group.  He had no idea of his rescuers’ identity, or whose interests they served.  As he moved forward, voicing his objections, a hand restrained him, resting on his shoulder.

“It’s all right, Patrick.  I think you’ll find we’re the good guys.”

He turned, startled just by the familiarity of the voice:  “Tim Birchinall!”

Tim grinned at him.  “None other!  Well done, mate.  You found her.”

Patrick still harboured a shadow of doubt, “I don’t know, did we?   Is that her?  Anyway, how the hell…”

“…Did I find out about all this?”  Tim finished his sentence for him.  “You called Bea Ferguson, didn’t you – before you came up here?”

“From The Hunters, yes.  And she told you.”

“Of course.  She’s a blabbermouth, that girl. I’m glad she did.  I’m Special Branch myself, these days – that’s who these guys are, by the way – so I asked to come along.  She’s in good hands; the very best.  Certain people will be falling over themselves to keep her onside.”

“If it’s Karen.”

Tim raised an eyebrow.  “Of course it’s Karen!  She looks as if she’s had a very hard time, so, you mustn’t expect too much from her.  She’s been systematically brainwashed for years, poor sweet.  I doubt if she’s seen anything beyond the walls of her prison for a long, long time.  Look, leave these newshounds behind and come and have a pint, you look as if you could use one.  You can tell me all you can about your part in this, and I’ll do my best to explain everything from my side.”

The ambulance drove away, and Special Branch’s debriefing process began, which required an escorted journey by train to London for Rebecca, Tarquin and Patrick.  He had not seen Karen since.

And now a generation and more had passed, and the time had come for counting.  Each of Patrick’s steps across the great hall of his decaying family home seemed hollow, as if the mocking permanence of the stones stirred an echo of a ruined chapel in a flooded field – a memory so vivid still, after thirty years, that he had to stop himself looking down, lest he see an alternative fate inscribed beneath his feet.  How often had he crossed this hall in better days, as a child, as a young man full of dreams and hope? When carpet muffled his tread, when the wooden panels of its walls were abloom with polish?  They were dead now, those panels; dry and cracked like the walls, like the stones, like his dreams, like his hopes.


The girl Karen had fallen into his arms once, long ago.  The woman Karen had no need of his or anyone’s support.  Those mercies offered by her former jailers were extremely merciful.  The principals of Driscombe Holdings ensured she was given the best medical care and comfortably settled financially – with the provision, of course, that she must talk to no-one about her experience.  She was anointed into that select few who, as a price for their abuse by the Driscombe family (mostly in the person of Stafford, it must be said), were ‘set up’ very comfortably in apartments scattered about London.  You might question Karen’s morality in accepting this arrangement, and then use her frail mental health as an excuse to make allowances, but on both counts you would be mistaken: the woman Karen had a very definite agenda, for which there was no better position than in striking distance of Stafford Driscombe.

At the door of the snug Patrick paused, drew a breath before he gave its handle an experimental turn.  Who would he find, beyond this last partition?

Yes, he might have contested the wall of silence the Driscombe’s put up to separate him from Karen, were he not married, and his first duty to his wife Jacqueline.  She had loved him for a long time, including a short but tempestuous interlude during which she had played second best, unselfishly, to Karen; and now, faced with the buffers of real life, she felt insecure.  For Patrick, the moral argument was uncontestable.  Karen was safe, he had done enough.  Jacqui was his wife; he had no desire to hurt her, and so he played his part in their life together with all the willingness he could muster.  He’d written, of course, to Tim Birchinall because he had no more idea where Karen was now than when she had been incarcerated in the vaults of Boult Wells, and Tim had replied, regretting he was prohibited from divulging her whereabouts, but assuring him she was well.

She was seated on the ancient leather sofa with a book in her hands when he entered the room, and when she saw him she got to her feet, coming to greet him, taking his hands softly in hers when they kissed cheeks.  “How good it is to see you!  Your father wasn’t sure you’d come.”

He found himself looking into a face he had not seen plainly since its owner was twenty–six years old.  Yes, the eyes were still that startling blue, the nose that touch too large for perfection, but there the affinity ended.  There were scars – why had he assumed otherwise?  There were lines – hard lines, not just the etching of years.  He disguised his reaction with a cautious smile. “You asked.  How could I refuse?”

“I saw you arrive,” she said, “I didn’t come to greet you – nervous, I suppose; isn’t that silly?  How long has it been?”

“Too long,” he said, “Thirty years.”

Seeing her, he was reminded; not of the sweet girl he once wrapped in his arms, all those years ago; not the girl of his memories, but rather the shade of a creature who emerged from misty dark on a gale-scoured heath, leading his sworn enemy by the hand.  This Karen was not, and could never again become the woman he had loved, or the dream he had sought to restore.  He might have felt bitterly sorry for the years of pain and humiliation that had made of Karen someone apart, damaged, remodelled. He might have felt pity, but he could not feel love.

“Tim was an angel.  He helped me an awful lot through those first years.  He’s a Chief Inspector now, I’m told.”

“You’re ‘told’ – have you lost touch with him?”

“I have.  He wanted too much of me, Patrick.  He always did, I believe.”

So she had finished with Tim Birchinall; discarded him, he allowed himself to think.  He had drifted apart from Tim himself after his divorce from Jacqueline.

“You’re no longer married?”  She was surprised, genuinely so.  “How sad!”

“We separated nearly twenty years ago.  After – what happened – we could never get back on track, somehow.  We just found ourselves following different streams. She lives near Frankfurt now, with the man who was our agent over there, in the old days.  We’re still friends, I suppose.”

Sighing, Karen turned her head away, letting her gaze stray through the dusty glass of the window to the parkland beyond.

“It’s always the woman who uses that phrase, ‘we’re still friends’.  The men put up with it, why, I don’t know;  perhaps in some vague hope that things can return to the way they were.  They never do, of course.  Such a cruel irony.  You, who strove so hard in the cause of love and honour, should be the one who pays the highest price.  Do you ever think about me?”

The directness of her question surprised him; her head was still turned so he could not see the face that asked it.  “A little,” he said.  “Should I ask the same of you?”

“I suppose so.  Yes, I would say I do.”

“The Karen I knew then was the person I should have spent my life with,”

“That was brutal!” She adjusted herself a little in her cushions, making it easier to avoid his eye. “Honest, but brutal.”

”It was a brutal question.”

“I had to change, you see?  I had to.  The woman you remember wouldn’t have survived.”  Karen lapsed into silence.

“And yet?”  He said.

“And yet…”

Starlings in a murmuration performing their last dance of evening, wheeling and twisting against a western sky dulled to the copper of sunset,.   The beech, elm and chestnut trees waited in black shadow to receive them.  There was the path that led to the lake, and in her haze of recollection Karen imagined she saw Petra sprinting madly along it, shouting her approval to the wind.  “The last time I was here it was Spring; I’d forgotten how beautiful it was.  You must have found it difficult to leave behind.  You live in Bakersby now, I’m told.”

“Bakersby and London.  I have an apartment in Islington.  I bought a couple of factories near Bakersby, and I had to be close to the hub so I moved there.  This place holds too many memories.”

“Islington!  My apartment’s in Chalk Farm.  Why, we’re practically neighbours!”

“You haven’t asked me about Amanda.”

“Sprog.”  Karen’s lips gave the nickname a laconic twist.   “I don’t have to, do I?  In fact, I could probably tell you how Amanda Setterwick QC is faring.  I never encountered anyone so thoroughly efficient and so elusive at the same time.  What was the phrase that was fashionable then?  ‘Flit like a butterfly…?”

“Sting like a bee’.  That describes my sister to a ‘T’.   I can put you in touch, if….”

Karen waved a deprecating hand.  “Oh, no, no, no.  My people are dealing with Amanda.”  She turned reluctantly from the gathering shades of the park, blinking a little to distinguish Patrick’s face again, in the twilight of the room.  “Why now, Patrick?  Why rake everything up like this?”

“Ah, the book.  Do you need to ask why?  Payment is due, Karen, something has to be done.  Maybe you didn’t see those bodies, but I did.  I tried, very hard to get the police to investigate, and they wouldn’t.  What will your people do, try to stop publication?”

“No.”  Karen gave a quick headshake. “I hope you have been fair to Edgar with your book, but we’ll ride out what comes.”

“How is Edgar?”

Edgar.  What did happen to him, after the helicopter had swallowed him up that cold night?  In the same silence that cloaked Karen’s existence, Patrick did all he could to find out, only to be rebuffed at every turn.  The newspaper story was quashed because Rebecca never gained an interview with Edgar, and a lack of tangible proof was pounced upon by the ‘Daily Record’s’ owner.  Edgar’s whereabouts were a closely guarded secret, because Tamsyn Honeyday had achieved her objective when she alerted Special Branch’s investigative team to his existence – she did not need to hang Edgar over Stafford Driscombe’s head to guarantee his withdrawal from their contest for a ministerial position; the very fact that Edgar’s existence was known by those who dangled the sword of Damocles (in this case those few high-ranking members of Special Branch who she had entrusted with the exercise on the moor) was enough.  As far as Stafford’s fortunes were concerned, worse was to come.

“Edgar has what they term a ‘personality disorder’.  He’s much better now – proper medication and so on – but he’s seventy-five, so one doesn’t expect too much.”

“You married him.  Wasn’t that taking Stockholm Syndrome a little far?”

“The Company asked me to do it.  They wanted the matter of the title settled, and Edgar needed my motivation.”

“And a wife can’t be compelled to give evidence against her husband.”

“I don’t remember you being this cynical, Patrick. I suppose love takes many forms.  I comprehend Edgar:  I see what he is really about.  And I know the illness is not his fault, that he tries, so very hard now, to atone for what he is.  It’s hard to understand, I know, but no sooner were we apart than I began to miss him.  I love Edgar, and believe it or not, I know he genuinely loves me.”  She gave a wistful smile.  “Now do you wish you’d talked to me before you wrote your book?”

“Do you ever stay with him?  I mean….”

Karen smiled bleakly.  “Sometimes.  Clifton Drew, where he has a suite, is quite marvellous, and the staff there understand him almost as well as I.  I visit him once or twice every week.  It is not a normal marriage, it can never be that, but it is a marriage, of sorts.  I know you’ll find that hard to accept.”

“I do.  I find it hard to reconcile with the truth we both know.”

“He’s quite balanced in his everyday behaviour now.  He even takes his seat in The House, occasionally.  He made a speech last year – it was a bit rambling, bless him, but he got through it.”

“I presume your share of the title is no impediment, should you wish to exert your influence upon Driscombe Holdings.  With all you have on them, you would be hard to refuse.”

“Am I a member of the board, you mean?  Yes.  The existence of a titled board member is a prerequisite for a vehicle the size of Driscombe Holdings, and Edgar has no interest in that direction.  You would not believe how assiduously I have been building my own profile in the Company until now – this year – I’m ready to challenge for the Chair…”

“And as your kudos grows, Stafford Driscombe’s is diminished.  You’re capable of vengeance.  I get it, Lady Driscombe.”

“Do you like that?  Stafford’s wife doesn’t.  Jacinta and I are not exactly friends, either, since I introduced her sister to public life. Yes, I am vengeful.  For all those years, Stafford was my real jailer. I was his means to keep his brother suppressed.    I don’t blame Edgar, Patrick.  It was not his fault, all this.”

“Edgar killed people, Karen.  Edgar is a murderer!   That, I’m afraid, is what the book’s verdict must inevitably be.”

“So the police will come to arrest him in the early morning, break down the door, lead him away in chains – is that what you hope?  This is England, Patrick!  All that will happen is an action against you for libel and defamation. And as the CEO of Driscombe Holdings – a position I am virtually certain to attain at the next AGM – I will be forced to instigate proceedings!  Once our legals get hold of it they’ll come after you for everything you’ve got!”

“Amanda thinks otherwise.”

“Oh, Pat!  Amanda is very good, I agree, but at the hands of our legal team…”

“How many ways can I say this – he’s a murderer, Karen!  The developments in DNA testing mean there are so many new tools we can use to prove it.  There’s just so much you can get away with by disguising evidence. It’s not that easy anymore.”

“Edgar hasn’t been proven to have killed anyone!  He was a patient, my dear, he was – he is – ill.  We’ll commission learned opinion from every corner of the world to assure the court Edgar is harmless; incapable of hurting anyone.”

The sound of a car horn emanated from the forecourt.  Karen broke away, fussed with her handbag and withdrew a card.  “Speaking of DNA, I’ve ordered a taxi for eight o’clock, that’ll be him now.  I have to get the train back to town tonight.”  She handed her card to Patrick.  “This is my private number.  I’m hoping that when you’ve thought about this a little more you can come down from your moral high ground and negotiate.  Withdraw your book and to stay out of court, and all the publicity that implies we’ll pay you, handsomely.  Please consider it, will you?  I don’t want you to be hurt, Pat; given our history together it’s the last thing I would wish.  They wanted me to threaten you, my people, but I couldn’t do that.  Stafford, though, be careful of him, Patrick darling.  He is as vicious as a honey badger, and he never forgets.”

“I’ll be sure to look after myself.”

“I hope you will.  I don’t want to read of your mysterious suicide, Patrick:  I really don’t.  There!  I’ve been thoroughly discouraging, haven’t I?   I must go.”

“So soon.”  He said, as they walked to the door together, “I don’t get the connection, the urgency in returning to London, and DNA?”

“Oh, that!  Stafford’s solicitors have insisted Edgar take a DNA test, to reassure them he really is the eldest son of Lord St. John Driscombe, and therefore his true heir.  It’s a formality, really, but Edgar hates these things.  He’ll want me with him.”

“What if he were to fail it, this test?”

“I won’t even entertain it.  He wouldn’t  inherit anything, and that obviously isn’t going to happen!”

Patrick nodded, “Edgar on the loose without his titles to hide behind.  Imagine!  Have a safe journey!”  He said.

The last he saw of Karen, Lady Driscombe, was a fleeting smile as he closed her taxi door.  It was almost too dark to see her wave, quickly, through the closed window as the car drove away.  He stood in the drive watching until the taillights were lost from view, allowing himself to dwell, briefly, on all that might have been.  Then, as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders he danced up the steps to the venerable old front doors of Radley Court, and closed them behind him.



© Frederick Anderson 2019.  All rights reserved. Each chapter of this book is a work of fiction.  All names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events in the story or stories are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, places or events is entirely coincidental.  Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the author is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Frederick Anderson with specific direction to the original content