Social service was last, two snarly people, a man and a woman who treated me as if I were some dirty criminal. They didn’t believe me when I said I had no family, no place to live, no money. They said anyone with my accent must have some wealthy family somewhere. The result was that I was placed in a juvenile facility until I was to turn 18 and then I’d be on my own. I would be tested for my scholastic knowledge and placed in a program appropriate to my abilities, some trade school, she said.
I took their tests. Three times. Mostly because they didn’t believe the results the first time. Nor the second. They accused me of cheating. So they watched me take them the third time and they were convinced I really was that smart and put me in an accelerated class in a preparatory school where I boarded.
It wasn’t bad; it was out in the countryside with fresh air, good food and lots of exercise. I was smaller than the other boys were and somewhat behind in social skills, didn’t participate in the social events. So much had changed since the seventies. Computers, cell phones, closed circuit TV, pay-per-view, world travel, and globalization. And the news programs!
I realized how incredibly foolish and lucky I had been to stalk Kitty’s murderer. No sane teen in this time would dare travel alone at night on the tubes or take a five year old on a coach trip. So many children disappeared today to be found slain or not at all.
The school was called Posthwaite Prep and guaranteed its graduates a place in Eton, Harrow, Yale or any other University of note. I was on the top floor, the fourth in a building of non-distinct character save that it resembled an old cotton mill and I had been told the it had been such; converted into an exclusive boys school in the early seventies right before the recession and petrol wars.
I had been too young to worry about the price of petrol but I sure noticed how everything else had jumped in cost.
A ticket on the tubes used to cost a sixpence and I could ride on it all day. Now, they wanted nearly a pound or rather, a Euro for a station-to-station stop. And taxis! Highway robbery.
When the first holiday came and I had nowhere to go home to, I decided to ride into London and visit the old neighborhood. I was totally lost; so much had changed in the ensuing years. Urban renewal, areas that had been highly posh was now rundown slums. The high rises were awe-inspiring and I found my nights spent climbing to the tops of them with astonishing ease and learned that no one hid their business from prying eyes when they thought they were on top of the world.
I saw drug deals go down, pay offs to police officials, high-class prostitutes servicing their clients. I knew where they kept their cash and learned how to break in and steal it.
I took only the cash, nothing else and because of my naivete, thought I could just walk into a bank and deposit it. When that didn’t work, I tried to find a way to hide it in my room but with random drug searches, I was afraid it would be discovered. So, I took it with me in a backpack, bought an excursion ticket for a two-day trip to Cornwall. I booked a sleeper compartment, bought new clothes, had my hair trimmed, styled and set off with trepidation. The closer I rode to Penharris, the worse I felt. Even the conductor noticed and asked if I was ill. I shook my head and huddled into my jacket, sinking deeper into the seat.
Later, when the carriage went forward for tea, the ticket collector brought me a cup of very hot, very sweet tea with cinnamon buns. I gave him a brief smile, thanks and tried to give him some cash. He sat down opposite me and refused it.
“What’s your name, son?” he asked. He was young, about my dad’s age---thirty with curly haircut long and spikes in his ears, one through his tongue and his eyebrow. He had wise brown eyes and creases at the corners.
“Aidan.”
“You’re not a runaway, are you?”
“No, I’m an orphan,” I answered and he sighed.
“Sorry, man. That sucks. Where are you headed?”
“Strathgallant. Losthwithial.”
“You are going up for the Festival?”
“What festival?”
Now he looked at me strangely. “Oh, just the biggest Medieval Fair and Festival that’s been going on for the last five years and half the kingdom runs to see.”
“I’ve been locked away at school,” I said.
“Must have been in bloody bumfuck Egypt,” he muttered. “You be careful. There are a lot of predators out there, especially for a good looking boy like yourself.” he laid his hand on my knee and smiled. I looked at it, back at him and he picked it up.” Sorry. Didn’t think it hurt to ask. You’re not…”
“No. I’m not.” I knew what he meant and now it was my turn to study him. “How did you know you were like…that?”
“You mean queer? I was born knowing it,” he admitted. “I prefer older boys, too but you had that air.”
“I’m just twelve, mister. Jail-bait.”
“I know. The tea’s on me, Aidan. I’ll see to it you get off at your stop safely. You have somewhere to stay?”
“Maybe. I don’t know until I get there.”
“The station is another twenty minutes, Aidan. Enjoy your tea.” He got up and wandered off down the aisle towards the engineer’s car.
I’d meant to ask him if the piercings hurt but his revelations on his sexual preferences had stunned me. More had changed in the years since I’d died than I could fathom.
Chapter 13
The long entrance up to the farm had been beautifully maintained, the fences lining both sides were freshly painted, the trees measurably taller and larger than my five-year-old recollection.
The coach had let me out close to the entrance and not a scheduled stop. The driver had chatted amiably when he heard I wanted off there. He told me all about the local tragedy, how the old lord and lady had lost their only child in a freak accident thirty years back. The little boy of five years had fallen from the roof onto the wrought iron spears of the garden fence; been impaled through the chest and belly and he’d died in his mum’s arms. The Earl and his lady had gone crazy, tearing down the fence and the gardens and nearly destroyed the house, too. If it hadn’t been for the farm manager and the young maid, no telling what would have happened to the farm.
I had asked how the place was doing presently and he’d said that Cryllwythe Farms was now one of the top producing enterprises of the EU.
“Mr. Pendennis is the manager?”
“In his sixties, he is. Still as hale and hearty as ever. His son helps out, took agriculture management.”
So, he’d let me out at the beginning of the drive and I walked stolidly forward.
A crushing sensation attacked me, sat heavily on my chest. The further I walked towards the mansion, the worse it became until I was gasping for enough air to breathe. The minute I turned round and retreated, the easier it was to draw in a lungful. No matter how hard I tried, or how many attempts I made, I could not walk past the halfway point of the drive; I couldn’t even catch a glimpse of my childhood home.
It was the same when I walked back along the side of the lane towards the village. Even though it was a goodly hike of 12 kilometers to town, I could approach no closer than five from the outskirts could. Eventually, I gave up and stuck my thumb out, hitching back onto the A389 towards London. I was hoping I could get someone to take me to the train station and pick up a berth back. I still had the other half of my ticket unused.
The ticket man had been right, now that my attention was diverted from the goal of returning home and my parents; I noticed the unusually large amount of vehicles traveling to Losthwithial. I soon learned not to be standing too close when one of the big lorries passed; they created a suction that nearly snatched me underneath their tires.
I walked for a couple of hours, did some nine or ten kilometers in that time, and took an exit feeder into a small village where I asked directions at a petrol pump to the train depot. The attendant was a pimply faced teen with a pierced tongue, painted white skin and a surly attitude. He told me to buy a map; he wasn’t no fucking Rand McNally and w
ent back to his girly sheet.
I asked him if the tongue thing hurt. He went on in graphic detail that it had but he liked pain.
“Doesn’t it feel weird hitting your back teeth and the roof of your mouth? It makes you talk funny. What’s with the black nails and white paint?”
“Goth, man,” he sneered. “Where you been, under a rock? I worship the devil, the Great Master Satan.”
“Yeah? I met the other.”
“Yeah, right,” he snorted and I flushed. “How’d a runt like you attract God?”
“I died. Twice. The first time I was impaled. Died in my mum’s arms, went into the light, and saw all the people who’d gone before me. Was brought by my friend, Ned. He was my imaginary friend in childhood or so everyone thought. Ned really was a ghost, stuck with me until we both crossed.”
“Ned?”
“Edward. Plantagenet. The Tower Prince.”
He laughed and mocked me until I showed him the gold signet ring I wore around my neck on a chain made of common metal. The ring glowed with that particular radiance that only 18K gold possessed and the ornate design of the House of Tudor inscribed on it convinced him further.
By the time his shift ended, he had offered to take me to the depot himself and I agreed, thanking him again as we mounted the motorbike with me holding tight round his waist. He twisted and turned with the bike’s motion and I enjoyed the ride. He smelled of sweat and something else, a heavy musk that teased my nose.
He took me downtown into an apartment area where the city had built a complex of standard housing for the less socially advantaged. Housing projects, they called them. Groups of teenagers hung around the parking areas and the entrance ramps, a few waved as we drove by.
“Hey,” I said. “Where’s the depot?”
“Just back of the flats,” he said over his shoulder, pointed with his chin, “Two streets beyond.”
He turned between two buildings and stopped, his feet going out to hold the heavy bike upright. Four more chaps came out from the shadowy niches to stand around us. I let go of his sides as one of them dressed in chains, black clothes and more piercings than I’d ever seen reached for my backpack. He tore it off me, pulling me backwards off the bike to fall on the chipped macadam.
I skinned my elbows and banged the back of my head, leaving me somewhat stunned. They stood over me, talking. “Holy Christ, Zane,” one said. “There’s like 10,000E in here. What did he do, rob a bank?”
The teen named Zane replied, “Dunno. I picked him up at work. Wanted directions to the train station. He’s only twelve, a virgin, an orphan, got no family, and no friends. Perfect present for the ritual. And his eyes. They’re fucking weird. Pale purple.”
“Oh man, I’d given up hope of finding a gift for the Master,” another said. “Too many locals go missing, the coppers get antsy. As it is, the neighborhood’s been noticing all the missing and dead pets.”
“Samhain’s the perfect day. Only a fortnight away. We have time to purify the sacrifice.”
“Where will you stash him?”
“There’s that old hut on the Freeling track near the Heath where they take the horses for gallops. No one’s been there in years.”
“No, too open. They would spot anyone hanging about. Take him to the Beast’s. He has that old house with all those cellars.”
“Give him something to knock him out so he don’t scream.”
“His head’s bleeding. He hit it on the concrete when he fell. I think he knocked himself out. Besides, I gave him a couple of roofies when he drank at the station. He won’t be feeling nothing for hours. Pretty, ain’t he? Got really cool purple eyes. If we didn’t need no virgin, I’d fuck him myself.”
“Is a virgin boy the same as a chick? Does that count?” A voice sneered.
“The vessel must be pure and untouched so the master’s seed can fill the sacrifice and prove a worthy gift to call the Master Belial forth,” he quoted. “If we touch him and the Master finds out we had a perfect sacrifice and defiled it, he’ll kill us. I’d just as soon not be the one hanging by my heels watching my bloody intestines dangling out of my guts. Let’s get him out of here and hidden.”
One of them picked me up and threw me over his shoulder. He had that same punky smell; his hair was dirty and greasy under the black dye job.
“Says his name is Aidan Argent, his address is some posh Prep School in Peacomb. I thought you said he was just an ordinary bloke, no family.” He was accusatory as he found my papers.
“That’s what he told me. Hey, pretty boy? How come you got such a cushy berth?”
“Scholarship,” I murmured my brain with no inhibitions. “No one knows or cares I’m alive.”
“He said he died twice. That’s why I snagged him,” Zane offered. “He’s seen that light, he’d be a perfect gift, maybe even the one.”
“Satan’s balls. If we found the one who could bring Satan onto earth permanently, we could rule this fucking world.”
Too late I remembered the queer man’s words, don’t trust anyone; evil walked in such innocuous masks I would not recognize it until it was too late.
Chapter XIV
My subconscious didn’t want to let me wake, part of me expected to be dead so it was with some surprise when a disembodied hand slapped me awake. Everything round me was dim and gray; I saw the vague outlines of walls that looked lumpy, mottled. It was cool and damp. My feet were hanging over the edge of something and my hands were tied and pulled back over my head. I was horizontal or nearly so. My mouth tasted horrible, dry, parched, and my head pounded. I felt ill, nauseous, puked and it hit someone in the chest.
They jumped back with a curse and some of it fell on me, steaming, stinking and disgusting.
A tall man, heavily built with great whippy muscles stood there; he was dark haired with gray tinted through it and light brown eyes in a high forehead and pinched face. He was no more remarkable in his appearance than the next-door neighbor or grocery manager. I thought he was there to rescue me.
“Help,” I said faintly and he smiled.
“Yes,” he spoke with a soft Midlands accent. “You’ve come to help. I see you’ve been injured several times. Your name is Aidan?” he touched me lightly on the chest and belly, his fingers cold on my bare skin. That’s when I realized I was naked. I screamed and the sound echoed through the rooms and mocked me.
“Ah, Zane was right,” he crowed. “You’re perfect. Upper class, young, untouched. Your aura is pure gold and scarlet with a crown of blue. I’ve never seen one like it. Zane says you died twice. Is that true?”
I kept screaming and tried thrashing about but the moment I moved, all my weight was on the manacles about my arms and I slid down the tilted plank. My arms pulled my chest up and it was suddenly difficult to breathe. He let me scream and struggle until my voice became gasping pants but he didn’t touch me.
“You must be hungry. Zane overestimated how many roofies to give you and you’ve been out for two days. I gave you water but I was afraid you’d aspirate if I forced too much. Thirsty? The drug does that to you.”
“What are you going to do to me?” My words shook, came out fear filled and tremulous. “Are you going to stick your cock up my arse?”
He laughed. “Among other things, dear boy, but not for a week, yet. We’re saving you for the Feast of Samhain’s.”
“What?”
“We worship Satan,” he explained. “Alastair Crowley, the Beast. The end times are near. To hasten it, to bring the Great Master to Earth to rule now and forever, we need a pure, perfect sacrifice to bind him here. I think you might be it.”
“You’re mad!” I burst out.
“What, you’re not going to deny the existence of Satan?”
I shook my head. “He exists. I’ve seen him in mens eyes too many times now.”
“Have you? I never have, only taken him as the truth; only felt him in some dark, deep place in my soul. I believe but like Doubting Thomas, I want to
put my fingers in that hole, feel and taste the blood.”
“You would not survive the encounter.”
“How do you know? By faith? Intuition? Or did you meet him in some esoteric place?”
“You are a fool.”
“Who’s hanging from a hook waiting to be sacrificed to the Dark Lord? When you’re hungry and thirsty, call for your lord to provide. Maybe he’ll hear you. Ta, I’m off to work.”
“What do you do?”
“Assistant Prosecutor to the Crown, dear boy. Wear the wig and the robe. Criminal Barrister. Have a pleasant day. Scream all you care to, no one can hear you down in these cells. We’re next to the Army Proving Grounds. Aircraft and big lorries just ruin the quiet neighborhood. My people think I’m mad to stay here. Ta.”
He sauntered out of my sight and I saw he was dressed in a three-piece suit, now stained with my vomit. I hoped he smelled me all day.
He left the lights on. The room was a cell---no more than eight meters by eight, bare of anything but rocks piled neatly atop each other with little mortar between them. Different colors, mostly bluestone and granite. The floor was packed dirt, no windows, the door wooden with wrought iron bands and hand hammered hardware bolting it together. The lock was one of those big, ancient iron skeleton key types which I had learned to pick at home in my own cells buried beneath the Manor and if I could get out of the manacles.
I couldn’t see them but my hands were close enough together that I could feel them. Not modern handcuffs that ratcheted tight, these felt like the broad metal cuffs that were used in the 1800s. I thought, being small boned and slender, I could slide my hands through. I squeezed my thumb into my palm to make my hands smaller and twisted. As soon as I tried to pull them out, something inside clicked and sharp spikes dug into the entire circle of my wrists and held the flesh. To attempt to pull against it would shred my hands to the bone.
Blood flowed, coating them, making them more slippery yet I could not pull them out. I sobbed as it burned and throbbed. After ten minutes of torture, my hands went numb. I tried to take the weight off by sliding my legs to either side of the board and pushing up against the floor but he had calculated my height, the length of chain so that my toes barely reached and after a few minutes, my legs couldn’t take the strain; cramping up. I had to let go and hang from my hands again. After two hours, the board tilted by itself and I was lying flat on my back. The relief was enormous and I fell asleep, unable to do anything but be grateful for the respite.