A sneak peek inside ...​

Chapter One

Memories

 

And it must be said that the pagan threat is not to be underestimated. The fiery old pagan gods of days gone by have been subdued by church building, the power of the monasteries and the brave Knights Templar. The old pagan gods have fallen away and are slumbering in the four corners of the kingdom. But do not underestimate their doom-mongering powers. Their old and wily magic is woven into the fabric of Britain. Its power is steeped in every root, branch, ancient village, and standing stone. It would not take much in the way of rituals and spells to bring it back. If this should happen, then Christianity will be doomed, as would the modern world, which the pagan gods despise, being miserable old so-and-sos.

– Extract from Sleeping Gods – A Treatise on Ancient Paganism

– By the Right Rev. Jonathan Pryce-Davis, Bishop of Ravensmere, July 1870.

 

Bill Blackthorne woke up with a start, sat bolt upright in bed, and looked around the room with a dazed, wild-eyed glare. Gloomy light poured in through the leaded windows – revealing a gnarly, worm-infested wardrobe and a faded Indian rug covering old blackened floorboards. A stuffed owl on a chest of drawers gave him a glassy-eyed stare, and an intricate tapestry hung on a panelled wall – a chin-thrusting knight on horseback. Bill was under heavy blankets in a large, four-poster bed with a mattress as lumpy as a sack of potatoes. The air was chilly and smelled musty, like mouldy old socks. Something was wrong. Very wrong. But Bill didn’t know what.

    Then he noticed something that gave him the fright of his life. Lurking in the shadows, but moving forward to reveal herself, was a crazy-looking, middle-aged woman, gazing at him in a disturbing way. She was clutching a silver breakfast tray in her bony white hands. On it was a boiled egg in a cup, a plate of toast soldiers, a steaming pot of tea, and a plain brown book. She wore a white, robe-like dress printed with strangely shaped symbols. He noticed a glint from diamond-drop earrings. Copious amounts of red lipstick smeared her fat lips, and her hair was lightly permed. As she got up beside the bed, she continued to stare as she placed the tray on his lap and loomed over him like a vulture over carrion.

    “I said, wake up for breakfast. Bill, darling, how are you? All better?” She gave him a close and searching look that creeped him out. “You look so very different from before, a mere boy. How can that be?”

    Bill was confused and scared. He’d been too groggy to gather his thoughts, but as he began to wake up, he realised he had no idea if this was the first day he’d slept in this bed or the hundredth. As he searched his mind for answers, he realised, to his horror, that he couldn’t remember a single thing that had happened to him – not a whiff of something vague or even half-remembered! He tried desperately to recall his past, but there were no jolly childhood holidays by the seaside, no running through fields on sunny days. He’d never known Father Christmas, bedtime stories, or even a long and boring day at school.

His life, it seemed, had begun on this chilly morning when he’d woken up in a musty old four-poster bed, in a dark corner of a wood-panelled bedroom, in a gloomy old house he somehow knew was called Brimstone Manor. He knew the world and everything in it – everything except his place. He felt terrified, trapped and all alone. He turned to the woman with a wild-eyed look, hoping she could supply some answers.

    “Who are you?” he mumbled, half to her and half to himself.

    The woman puckered her fat lips and ignored his question, grabbing him by the hand and peering into his eyes like a stage hypnotist. “Do you remember, Bill?”

    “I … who are you? What am I doing here?”

    Bill could see that this very odd woman was becoming angry. “The Cabinet of Rebirth, you must remember that. It’s your cabinet, your pride and joy. Think!”

    Bill shook his head. “My name’s Bill, you say?”

    “The feeder jars? Remember them? The blood, you must remember the gallon of blood?”

    The gallon of blood? He felt like this woman wasn’t telling him anything sensible. She was raving like a lunatic. “But what am I doing here?”

    “Anything at all about last night? You must recall – you must! Here, take a look at this. It may help.”

    She picked up the book off the tray, which Bill realised was a battered old journal, and handed it to him. He opened the first page and read – the Journal of Doctor William Whitebeam. Then he flicked through several pages and saw what he guessed were complex scientific formulas – scribbled in small, florid handwriting.

    “Do you understand it?” she said.

    The woman seemed to think this book was vital and would help him remember, so he carefully examined its pages. But all he could see was yet more indecipherable scrawl and strange-looking, endless diagrams. It meant nothing to him.

    “Sorry.”

    “You must understand it. You have to find the answer. It’s in here somewhere. Just look!”

    Bill shook his head. He dragged the heavy blankets up until they were almost under his chin. “I have no idea who you are or what you want. Leave me alone.” He noticed a steely glint in this deranged woman’s eye as he spoke. He didn't like or trust her. She’d not told him anything about his lost past or seemed keen on doing so.

    She clasped the book like a precious child and sighed impatiently, turning something over in her mind. “It looks like we have a serious problem.”

    “What’s your name? How do you know me?”

    “My name’s Beryl, and I am your – how shall I put it? – your sort-of mother.”

    “But … my sort-of mother? My mother? But I don’t remember you, my own mother. I don’t recognise you at all. Who am I? What am I doing here?” Bill was growing horribly agitated. There must be something seriously wrong with his brain. Was he in a lunatic asylum?

    Beryl held a red-nailed finger to her lips and made a shushing sound. “I cannot say right now, darling – it would not be a good idea. It would be too great a shock, and you may go insane. You’re not ready, not in any way, and I don’t know what to do, if I’m honest. I’m not an expert in these matters. I need to speak to a colleague of mine, arrange for you to have treatments, then you’ll remember every darn thing, hopefully.”

    “Do I have friends? Can I see them?”

    “They’re long dead and buried, gone now forever.”

    What could she mean by long dead and buried? He picked up his tea and, with a shaking hand, took a tentative sip, horrified. He tried to think, but nothing came, no mother, no cabinet, no notebook.

    “I will telephone Professor Nox at once. I am sure he’ll be able to fix this whole sorry mess.”

Beryl, without a word of goodbye or reassurance, left Bill in bed. He tried his best to calm down, but his hand was still shaking as he held his cup on his saucer. Bill ate the soggy toast and the runny egg and drank the strong tea, then realised he couldn’t spend forever in bed, confused, alone, with no answers. He pulled back the blankets, got out and felt the cold floor on his bare feet. He was naked, so he went to a dusty old wardrobe and opened it. Clothes were hung up neatly inside, with shoes at the bottom, and as he put various things on, he realised that the strange garments were so stuffy and formal they made him look like some pretentious Victorian fop. What sort of oddball was he to have clothes like these? He realised his vision was a little blurred, so he put on a pair of thick black glasses he found on a bedside cabinet. They brought everything into sharp focus. He gazed into an oval silver mirror and smoothed down thin shoulder-length hair, staring at a young, bright-eyed face he’d never seen before. How very strange!

    What now? He left the bedroom and went down the passageway, looking at the ancient portraits, suits of armour, and dark furniture. It was an old house containing many old things, and Bill found it spooky and strange. He opened a cabinet and searched inside – trying to find something that would give him some clue about who he was – but found nothing but dusty old papers, trinkets, and bits of mouldy old junk. He went through each room, searching every cabinet and drawer he could find. Then he went downstairs and looked through countless leather-bound books in the library, but found no photographs of his younger self – no toys, no birthday cards, no children’s books or kept mementoes, no schoolbooks or comics. Not being able to remember your past was weird enough, but finding no evidence that it had actually ever existed was even worse.

    Bill bumped into Beryl.

    “Remember anything yet?” she said. “I have telephoned Professor Nox. He’ll be here in the early evening, after lectures. We will treat this most unfortunate development, I promise, no matter the cost to you.”

    “Why is there nothing of mine in this horrible old house? Did I grow up here?”

    “I wouldn’t say that,” Beryl said, considering something for a second. “Come with me and look at your laboratory. It may help jog your memory.”

    She guided Bill into a room, where he saw a cabinet. It was around seven feet tall, had a polished brass door and was connected to two large glass jars on stands. He opened a refrigerator and found it full of bottles of dark red blood. Chemical-stained tables were scattered with glass phials, Bunsen burners, and labelled glass pots filled with toxic chemicals. He wondered if this stuff was what his so-called mother had asked him about in bed earlier. He couldn’t think of anything more puzzling or perplexing.

    “This is the Cabinet of Rebirth. Remember what you did with it?”

    Bill shook his head. His day was getting stranger by the minute. Bill picked up a jar of chemicals and looked at the label, but couldn’t decipher the finely scrawled handwriting. “What’s this stuff? You could open a chemist’s shop with all this lot.”

    Beryl puckered her fat red lips. “It’s not worked. You still know nothing.”

    “I’m sorry.”

    “Unfortunate. I have some important business to attend to, preparations for a nighttime job. Urgent work. I must get on.”

    She turned and left the room, but Bill followed her down the passage, anxious to know more.

    “I’ve had enough of these silly games! What am I doing here?”

    “I don’t have the authority to discuss such matters. Let me get on.”

    “But it can’t be normal, surely? Maybe it is. But then again, how would I know? Oh God, this is such a weird day! Or is this a normal day?”

    “No questions. You’re to wait until Professor Nox arrives. Here’s the journal of William Whitbeam. You must read it as many times as possible. Think! Try to recall.”

    She handed the small leather-bound book to Bill, who took it but didn’t open it. He noticed a nearby window, saw a thick line of woods across a gravel drive, and was intrigued by a lane that led off through the trees. He thought of escape. Bill knew for sure that there was something very sinister and dangerous about Brimstone Manor and its strange inhabitant. He longed to get away, find somewhere safe where there’d be answers to his questions. What was in the world outside the mouldy old manor? He knew his mother, but how many others lived outside, down that lane? He could see that the curious journal she was so obsessed with would not reveal anything.

    “Those trees,” he said, holding her bony arm so she wouldn’t leave.

    “That’s Bogmire Wood.”

    “And what’s past that?

    “There’s a village called Underwood – a sleepy place. Nothing much happens normally, but today’s the annual village fête.” Beryl checked herself. “But it’s no concern of yours. I must be getting on. Go and study the journal. Read it in the library. Look at the formulas. Understand the diagrams. I order it!”

    She pulled her arm away, turned, and walked off.

    When Bill was sure she’d gone, he went into the hall and, after flicking through dozens of cryptic pages that meant absolutely nothing, left the book on a table. He opened the front door and crept out of the house. The sun was warm on his face, and flowers scented a light breeze. The day was bright and airy, and it felt wonderful after the damp and musty air in the manor. He walked across the drive and went down the lane – gazing at the trees, the dappled shadows cast by the sun, and many wildflowers. Behind the trees were rolling meadows, neatly hedged off, and beyond those, in the far distance, was the brooding, hazy shadow of a mountain, a place Bill knew was called Tor Idris. How did he know this? He had no idea! He came into the village, Underwood, and recognised the maypole, the village shop, and the old stone houses – he’d been here before!

    Distant voices and music drifted through the air, so he followed the sounds, wandered up a track and came to a field with standing stones he knew was called North Down. It was full of people. There were bullocks and pigs in pens, sheepdogs running after sheep, and several makeshift stalls and tents selling homemade cakes, jams and beer. A vintage organ played a hurdy-gurdy song. Bill walked into the crowd, overwhelmed by the crowd.

    A skinny young man with long, straggly hair and a happy-go-lucky grin walked past. He wore faded blue jeans and a black t-shirt with a colourful picture of wildly dressed musicians on the front.

    “How do,” he said. “Not local? Been to our fête before? I’m Arthur Small. What’s your name?”

    “Hello. My name’s Bill, and no, I don’t think I have.”

    “Where are you from?”

    “I live at Brimstone Manor, at least I think I do, with my mother. At least, I think she’s my mother.”

Arthur was confused. The son of the weird woman who lived up at the big house? Nobody knew she even had a son.        “Do you want to meet my dad? He’s the vet. Come and have a look at the sheep show. Sheep are cool.” They walked away, with Arthur chatting incessantly, asking Bill many personal questions to which he didn’t know the answers.

    He was introduced to a middle-aged man with glowing red cheeks, a bulbous nose, and bushy eyebrows, wearing brown corduroys, a battered tweed jacket and a pair of wellington boots. It was Arthur’s father, Jim.

    Bill spent several happy hours with Arthur and his dad, pottering around the animal enclosures, looking at a sheep with a sore hoof, and watching a balding man in a white coat pin a rosette onto a young bullock.

Bill found Arthur and Jim very easy to talk to, and Bill decided to let Arthur know about his life at the manor. He wasn’t sure what this young man made of him when he confessed that he’d lost his memory. He went on to describe Brimstone Manor and the things he’d seen, including the mysterious Cabinet of Rebirth, hoping that by telling someone about his memory loss, they’d reassure him and say he hadn’t lost his mind. But Arthur had only said it was all very freaky and didn’t know what to make of it.

    Late afternoon came, and Bill was starting to feel hungry.

    “We’re done with all the veterinary stuff,” Jim said. “Come back for a bite to eat.”

    “That’d be nice,” Bill said, realising he’d not eaten since breakfast.

    They walked back down the lane to the village – with other people returning now that the fête was ending – and went across the village square and up a cobbled street. Jim rang the bell at a crumbling three-storey place festooned with ivy – Arthur’s family lived in the veterinary surgery. Bill waited until Arthur’s mother opened the door – a plumpish, happy-looking woman in a floral dress with a shock of curly hair.

    “How ya all doing?” she said with a broad smile, looking at Bill with curiosity.

    “A friend of Arthur’s called Bill. He’s come for tea.”

    She looked at Bill, thinking he was dressed very formally for a young lad. “I’m Daisy. You look as skinny as a rake and could do with a good feed-up, my boy.”

    Daisy let Bill and the others in, and they went through a tiled hallway and into a kitchen filled with hanging copper pans, an Aga stove, and a long wooden table. Dishes were piled in the sink, and a brass kettle was steaming.

    “That was a lovely fête, one of our best,” Daisy said. “I ate six cherry pies!”

    “I didn’t see you there,” Bill said, warming to this plump, jolly woman. She couldn’t have been more different from weird, intense Beryl.

    “I came back a couple of hours ago to make the hotpot.”

    Arthur’s gangly older brothers, Davy and Jimmy, were sitting at the table poring over a Haynes manual for a Norton Commando motorbike. His younger sister Rosie, wearing a floral summer dress, was sitting on the other side drinking tea.

    “How do,” they all said in unison.

    “Hello,” Bill said as a couple of dogs brushed past his leg. He noticed a trio of cats watching him from one of the chairs.

    “Guess who I saw at the bric-a-brac stall?” Rosie said with a cheeky smile. “Our Jimmy all mooning and chatting with Helen Tillington, like a right love-struck twerp! He was offering to take her for a ride on his motorbike.”

    Daisy smiled. “What if he did? Helen’s a lovely girl. You sweet on her son?”

    Jimmy looked a little flustered. “Our Rosie spent half the day at the coconut shire because Barney Brice was there, helping his parents run it and mooning like a goggle-eyed fool.”

    “Not sure if I like the sound of that,” Jim said, “those Brices are always down the Unicorn, drinking till all hours, coming home singing in the street and waking everyone up. A right drunken rabble and no mistake.”

    “Barney’s not like that,” Rosie said, then added quietly, “though he did offer me some cider.”

    “Now then, Rosie, you’re too young to take up cider, at least not as much as the Brices drink.”

Bill stood and listened to the conversation, trying to keep up with who was who but failing to follow half of it.

    “Don’t just stand there like a lemon,” Arthur said. “Sit down.”

    Bill sat and gazed at Arthur’s family – his brothers poring over their book, Jim chatting to Rosie about the perils of too much cider, and Daisy pulling a cast-iron pot out of the Aga. He looked at their homely faces and listened to their cheerful, jokey banter, and immediately felt at home.

    Arthur had vanished but came back carrying a battered brown suitcase. He opened it, and Bill could see it was full of books, clothes, and flat square things with pictures he didn’t recognise. He began packing a pot of jam, tins of corned beef and spam into the case.

    “Now you be good and make sure you telephone every night,” Daisy said. “Tomorrow, I’ll fill the thermos and make you a pack of sandwiches.”

    “Don’t fuss, mother,” he said, pecking her cheek.

    When they saw Bill looking confused, Daisy said, “He’s off to university tomorrow. My youngest lad, his first day there. My word, he’s a messy kid and plays those darn records much too loud, but I’m going to miss the little blighter.”

    “I’m a bit nervous, to tell the truth, all those big city people. But I’ll show them what us Underwooders are like.”          Arthur considered himself the hippest and most progressive lad in Underwood, which wasn’t that difficult when its entire population of young people consisted of yokel sons and rosy-cheeked daughters of crustily eccentric farmers. Arthur had grown up with them all in haymaking, strawberry picking, dancing around the maypole kind of childhood.

    “Bill’s the son of the woman who lives up at the big house,” Jim said to Daisy, raising his eyebrows.

    “Really? I’ve never seen you around here, Bill, my boy. Lived there a long time?”

    Bill didn’t know what to say. As far as he could remember, he’d lived there one day. He felt embarrassed, like a freak and hoped the Smalls wouldn’t question him too much.

    “He can’t remember,” Arthur said. “He told us about it before – some loss in the noggin. But it’ll all come back, sure it will, Bill, don’t look so worried.”

    Bill nodded but continued to look worried.

    Jim added, “Only temporary. You probably fell and got a bump on the head. Old Jim Geely got a bump on the noggin’ last year, thought he was the King of England for a while, the silly old sausage.”

    Arthur’s brothers and sisters joined in. “We don’t mind if you can’t remember anything. Probably for the best, for some people, what with the shenanigans they get up to – if you know what I mean, not you, I mean.”

    “You poor thing,” Daisy said. “Get some of this down you. It’ll cheer you right up. Whenever something gets you down, a good feed and you’re right as rain, that’s what I say.”

    Daisy dished the hotpot onto large plates, and they all tucked in. There was apple pie, custard, and a mug of tea for afters. When Bill had finished, he felt so full he thought he would explode. But Daisy was right. He did feel much better.

Davy and Jimmy produced a pack of cards and asked Bill if he’d like to play. Bill was about to answer when there was a loud rapping on the front door. Jim went to answer it and came back, looking at Bill. “It’s for you,” he said with a puzzled look.

    Bill went to the front door and saw a snooty, pot-bellied, imperious-looking man wearing a smart grey uniform. Bill noticed a short black truncheon attached to his belt on the right-hand side and wondered what it was used for, as it looked lethal.

    “Hello,” Bill said. “Who are you?”

    “Mordred, sir. I’m afraid we haven’t been introduced since you lost your memory. I work for Miss Blackthorne and have been sent to fetch you. You were the devil to find. I had to ask around. Most inconvenient, sir.”

    Arthur, Daisy and Jim were standing right behind Bill, looking at Mordred with ill-disguised curiosity. “He’s freaky,” Arthur said.

    Jim looked at his son as if to say, ‘Don’t make rude comments.’

    Bill turned to Jim and Arthur and said, “I guess I’ve got to go. And my surname must be Blackthorne.”

    “Do come back,” Jim said. “A friend of the family now.”

    “I’ll make you a great big pie,” Daisy said. “Far too skinny by half.”

    Arthur grinned and shook Bill’s hand vigorously. “I’m staying in halls but back here at weekends. I’ll come and give you a knock when I get back.”

    Bill wasn’t entirely sure what ‘giving him a knock’ meant, but smiled, nodded, and said he’d like that.

    Mordred opened the door to a black 1930s Rolls-Royce parked outside. Bill got in, and Mordred drove off, went around the square, up the lane, and back to Brimstone Manor.

​

He told Beryl about his adventures, but she grew angry and said he shouldn’t have left. Professor Nox had been waiting and was angry. Bill was introduced to a muscular, bearded black man wearing a long crimson kaftan embroidered with a black paisley pattern. Bill didn’t like the way he looked, which made him feel intimidated.

    “And you are the infamous William,” he said in a deep voice with a slight Jamaican accent. “I guess I have to pretend we have never met. How amusing. Haha! Good day to you. I am Professor Julius Nox.”

    He held out a meaty hand, and Bill shook it, resisting the urge not to whimper as his fingers were crushed.

    “I want you fixed. You have important work to do.”

    “Work?”

    The Professor looked surprised. “You do not know, man? You must save our dear Queen of England from her insanity. Did Beryl not tell you why you are here?”

    Bill didn’t know what to say.

    Professor Nox took a yellow envelope from Beryl and opened it, reading with interest.

    “What’s that?” Bill said.

    “Nothing to concern you, merely your medical records.”

    Medical records?

    “Now, Bill, let us start with light hypnosis and psychotherapy, accompanied by some injections of an exceptional medicine. If they do not work, we will progress to electro-convulsive treatments.”

    “Electro-what?”

    “Electrocution of the brain, but it’s only sixteen volts, initially. It will not hurt the nerves with spasms, not yet.”

    “Sixteen sounds like a lot. And I don’t like the sound of the spasming nerves bit.”

    The Professor scowled. “Enough! You’ll do as you’re told or have other treatments. The cellar is extremely well equipped.”

    Beryl led Bill to a wingback chair, where he was forced to sit. His wrists were tied to the armrests, and his ankles were tied to the chair legs. Bill gasped as a long hypodermic needle pierced his skin. A few seconds later, the room spun and went in and out of focus. Bill freaked out and tried to move his arms and legs, but they were tightly bound. What were these people doing to him? The Professor dangled a pocket watch in front of Bill’s eyes and spun it slowly.

    “See the watch. See nothing but the watch,” Professor Nox said in a soft and soothing voice, like he was trying to get a baby to sleep.

    Bill began to feel very strange indeed.

    “Think back, Bill … back a few days.”

    “I can’t-”

    “You must cross over into the void, the mysterious void! Cross over now!”

    The room seemed to shrink away. Bill was floating, piercing a dark cloud ...

​

He could see a couple of test tubes and a pair of hands, his own hands, but somehow different, picking them up. He could see glass phials and a Bunsen burner lit under a spherical jar filled with bubbling liquid. His hand placed a glass slide onto a brass microscope. He looked into it and saw cells moving, dividing. Beryl asked him something important, but he couldn’t understand what she meant. A needle was attached to a plastic tube. He looked inside the Cabinet of Rebirth and saw it was lined with brass pipes and bare metal wires. He closed the door, and in the polished brass, he could see his reflection – an older face, careworn and lined, with thinning hair, thick black glasses and large mutton-chop sideburns ...

​

Bill returned to consciousness with a start. What the hell was that?

    Professor Nox was wide-eyed with anticipation. “Well?”

    “I saw an old man, but ...”

    “He’s a difficult case,” the Professor said to Beryl, “a unique one.”

    “What now?” Beryl said.

    “The shot of coproxidrol will wear off shortly. We need to use the heavy-weight equipment, the fry-the-brain stuff, down at the university. He must be brought there tomorrow after lectures.”

    Beryl nodded. “I will bring him. Thank you, Julius, for your help.”

    “He’ll be brought back. I promise – even if it takes a hundred treatments. We can’t afford for him not to remember.”

    “No, we must get him back with us. Our very existence depends on it. This experiment has been a disaster, but what else could we have done?”

    “Nothing else. I will go now and see you both tomorrow evening.”

    Beryl nodded as Mordred showed the Professor out.

 

Bill was groggy. Time passed. He was vaguely aware of Beryl rolling up his sleeve and doing something painful. Eventually, he came to and felt a pain in his arm. He looked down and was shocked to see that his inner forearm had been tattooed with an image of a writhing salamander.

    “What the hell!” Bill said. “You can’t just go about putting tattoos on people when they’re half asleep. What’s wrong with you?”

    Beryl showed him her arm, which had a similar tattoo. “This is the mark of the Apostles,” she said proudly. “You are in our employment and must obey our orders, in every way, on pain of death.”

    Bill didn’t know what to say. He looked at his forearm and decided his so-called mother was as mad as a hatter.            “The mark of what-did-you-say?”

    “The Apostles. I decided you had to be initiated – to guarantee your loyalty. Now you must speak the pledge.”

    He was handed a bible and made to speak a pledge, repeating each line as Beryl spoke …

​

We are God’s holy flaming sword,

that strikes down evil in any form –

be it child, mother, or babe in arms.

We are prepared to die to fight evil.

We are prepared to kill to fight evil.

This is God’s will, our Heavenly salvation.

 

When it was over, a delighted Beryl said, "What a wonderful day! You’re one of us now.”

    “But what does it mean?”

    “It’s too late to explain your solemn duties now,” Beryl said. “I have work to do, and you must be tired. Go to bed, and tomorrow you will be treated.”

    A grandfather clock stood in the corner of the room, and Bill was surprised to see that it was almost midnight. He must have been unconscious longer than he’d realised. Bill nodded at Beryl and went upstairs to his bedroom, thinking of the strange day’s events. He thought of the Smalls and their kindness; Of Arthur, shaking his hand and grinning; Of Beryl, looming over him that morning; and of scary Professor Nox, his long syringe and the strange vision of the old man.

    Bill undressed, pulled on a long white nightgown he found in the wardrobe, and got into bed, trying to get comfortable on the lumpy mattress, wondering if his second day would be stranger than the first.

​

Later that night, Bill was awakened by creepy moans and sinister screams coming from somewhere deep within the house. He closed his eyes, but they continued incessantly. Someone was obviously in pain, and he wanted to help, wondering if it was Beryl or Mordred who was suffering. Maybe they’d had an accident? Maybe it was a burglar? He crept out of bed and ventured downstairs with only a flickering candle for illumination.

    Bill wandered into the hallway and got a terrible shock. He found Beryl with Mordred. They were forcing someone – who had their hands tied behind their back – through the cellar door. Bill gasped when this person turned and looked at him – he had curled, gnarly horns and bright yellow eyes! There was a halo of light around his head.

    “Mother, what the …” He was lost for words, convinced that he’d lost his marbles.

    Beryl left the creature with Mordred and went to Bill, grabbing him tightly by the arm. “Darling, forget what you’ve seen. Go back upstairs and sleep. It’s no concern of yours.”

    “But … what is it? How can I forget something like that? Is it even human?”

    Beryl glared. “Back upstairs now! Mother’s busy with her work.”

    “Your work? What work do you do exactly?”

    The creature began to mumble something. Mordred pulled out the truncheon from his belt and hit it a few times with some force, causing it to whimper and cower. Then he shoved it hard through the cellar door. Bill was horrified.

    “Why’s he beating that thing up?” Bill said. “It’s not right. Tell him to stop.”

    Beryl began ranting. “You may follow occult biology, Bill Blackthorne, and think science has all the answers, but we Abomination Investigators have our own beliefs. The tenets of the Christian Medical Cabal are sacred and immutable! Evil can be rooted out of the body, oh yes, rooted out with pain and degradation. We’re performing a mercy – that’s all.”

    Bill was speechless, shocked. His mother was a crazy lady! Beryl gripped his arm tightly, between white, bony fingers, and guided him away, back up to bed. Bill was about to resist, but then he thought of Mordred, his truncheon, and the butler’s casual relationship with its violent application.

*

Late afternoon the following day, Bill was sitting in the back of the 1930s Rolls-Royce, gazing out of the window, watching farmers’ fields give way to houses, shops and parks as they entered the suburbs of Ravensmere. This ancient city was home to the University of Ravensmere and its three colleges. Conatus was the oldest and grandest of the three, specialising in Religious and artistic matters. Scientiam had highly regarded scientific research departments, and down by the banks of the River Ooze, Virtus excelled at sports, with rowing a speciality. Bill was relieved to be leaving the confines of the manor and escaping his odd mother and their creepy butler, but venturing into a wider, unknown world was scary.

    The Rolls continued into the city centre, passing gatehouses, pubs, churches and half-timbered shops – Ravensmere was an ancient city with many old, rather beautiful buildings. Bill saw a sign that read ‘Conatus College.’ Then he saw an imposing Gothic pile, topped with gables and cupolas, set back behind well-tended, tree-filled lawns.

    The rolls went through a gateway and glided up a gravel drive. The grounds were filled with many young, brightly dressed people carrying books and chatting, making Bill think of his friend Arthur and his brothers and sister. He was alone, had no memories, and felt a profound sense of loneliness.

    Bill spotted a group of older people and guessed by their age and long black robes that they were professors. As the car approached, one woman caught his eye because he saw a faint light shimmering around her head. At first glance, she looked perfectly normal, apart from a bent back and a limp, but as the car glided past, he took a closer look and let out a yelp of shock.

    She was just like the creature he’d seen at the manor! The eyes were normal, kind, and expressive, but at the same time, they had a strange, yellow hue. Her skin was pale, almost waxy, with red veins that spread like a spider’s web across her cheeks. The ears were long and pointed like a bat’s. He got a vague impression of curled ram-like horns on her forehead. He blinked and looked again, hoping he’d imagined things, but the bestial vision was still there! He’d convinced himself that the horned and yellow-eyed man he’d seen at the Manor the night before – being led into the cellar by Mordred – was from his confused and tired imagination. But here was another one! Was he insane? The other professors were chatting with this creature without a hint of fear. Were people in the world not scared of such things? Was it not real? This hell-beast of a woman looked super real to Bill and frightened the life out of him.

    The car pulled up outside an archway that led into the main quadrangle. Mordred opened the door, and Bill climbed out.

    Beryl emerged from the front door. “Darling,” she said, “try not to look too nervous.” She gave him a yellow-toothed smile that showed a hint of steeliness. Now that they were out of the manor’s gloomy light, Bill noticed her soft and curly hair was streaked with grey, the diamond drop earrings appeared cheap-looking, and the copious makeup was plastered to her sallow, wrinkled skin as if by a trowel. Her dress was the same as the day before – a robe-like outfit covered in signs and symbols, but now revealed as somewhat old and threadbare.

    “I’ve just seen another one! A woman, one of the professors, with those horrible eyes and the horns! Just like last night. It can’t be normal, Mother, to see things like that.” Bill was agitated. Who exactly were these horrible creatures? What were they doing here, living amongst us? Why couldn't other people see them? Why was Mordred leading one into the cellar? Was he losing his mind? So many questions!

    Beryl put up a firm hand. “Ignore them. I promise they will do you no harm in their current drugged-up form.”

    Bill noticed Beryl didn't deny their existence. He wasn’t mad! They were real! “But they’re monsters. With horns.            Horrible horns. What if they attack? Why is nobody else panicking about this?”

    “I told you to forget about them. Do as I say! I order you!”

    Bill could see that he would get no answers. “Yes, Mother.”

    They went through the archway and into the quadrangle – a beautiful square with elegant stone carvings. Students bustled past, and Beryl stopped a professor to ask about the time of Professor Nox’s lecture. When the professor had gone, Beryl looked annoyed.

    “Unfortunately, we have come at the wrong time. It’s just after five, and Professor Nox is lecturing until after seven. I have to leave now on important torture business.”

    “Torture business?”

    “Promise me you will go and see him. He will be in his rooms by eight. If you do not go, then you will be severely punished. His rooms are very close.” She led him to a stone arch, told him to go up the stairs, and take the second door to the right. “You will go, won’t you? Should I get Frank to watch over you?”

    “Who’s Frank?”

    “An obsessive yet well-meaning friend of ours from the Choral Society. Someone who will take care of you from now on. He’s loyal to us and very persuasive, very persuasive indeed. I hope you grow to like him – or at least obey him without question.”

    Bill didn’t know what to say. “No need to get Frank. I want to go, Mother. Of course, I do. I want my memory back. I want to understand what the heck’s going on. I’ll go up immediately and be outside his door waiting for him. Why would I not? Having this illness is horrible. I want to be cured.”

    Beryl relaxed and smiled. She cupped his cheeks in her hands and stared into his eyes. “Good. Very good. Mordred will pick you up when it’s done, around nine. I hope you are not damaged, bodily, I mean. Ring me when you’re ready.”

    “Bodily?

    “Ring me.”

   “Ring you?”

    “On the telephone. Professor Nox will show you how.”

    “I hope it works. I hope I remember.”

    “It will. Come hell or high water, whatever it takes from you, Professor Nox will keep pushing. You are to save our dear Queen’s sanity. She’s desperately ill. That’s your purpose.”

    “How can I save the Queen?”

    “You are important to us, Bill. You must do exactly what Professor Nox tells you to do. Bear his ministrations without complaint. Be a brave boy.”

    “What is it he’s doing to me? Will it hurt?”

    “He will inject a complex mix of chemicals required to restore your mind's balance. I don’t pretend to understand it myself. He's a very learned man who’s invented certain electro-convulsive and hypnotic procedures that will force your poor, deluded brain to recollect its past.”

    “I don’t like the sound of that,” Bill said. “Isn't there another way? One without drugs and electricity?”

    “No! You are an Apostle. You must serve us through any form of pain or degradation. If you hesitate, you’ll be severely punished!”

    “Yes, Mother, you win,” he said when he realised this fearsome woman would take no other answer.

Beryl stared into his eyes. “You have a momentous destiny, my dear sweet child. When memory is restored, you’ll start your great and important job, a difficult and dangerous task that only you can do. The Queen needs you. The Apostles need you.”

    Bill nodded and backed away, feeling freaked out, freeing himself from Beryl’s bony fingers. She gave him the Manor’s number, scribbled on a piece of paper, and told him not to lose it. Bill climbed a couple of stairs to Professor Nox’s room.

    “Wait,” Beryl said. “On second thoughts, I think it’s best if I fetch Frank. He will sit with you and make sure you don’t wander off. Frank is strong.”

    “I’m fine, Mother. I’ll wait here.”

    “I will be back in five minutes with Frank. Don’t go anywhere!”

    She waved him off and went out of the quadrangle.

    When she’d gone, Bill sat down on a step and sighed, wondering who Frank was. His mother said he’d take care of him, but he wasn’t sure if he wanted to be taken care of – especially by someone who sounded like this Frank chap.

He was about to climb the rest of the stairs, find somewhere to sit, and wait for Frank when he heard a familiar voice.

    “Hi Bill, you never said you were a student.”

    Bill looked up and saw his friend from the village, Arthur Small, grinning at him.

    “What are you wearing?” Arthur said. “You have to be rockin’ a hip look if you want to impress these sophisticated uni chicks. Check out this little number.”

    Arthur waved a lower leg to show off the flapping action on his bell-bottom jeans and opened his denim jacket to reveal a paisley t-shirt. There was a strong whiff of his dad’s highly pungent aftershave.

    Bill’s brown corduroy smoking jacket, white shirt and paisley cravat – found that morning in his wardrobe – suddenly felt very different from what all the other young people were wearing. “This is not good?”

    Arthur shrugged. His soup-stain moustache and wispy mutton-chops were just about visible in the autumnal twilight. “What are you studying?”

    “I’m just visiting. I’ve got to see Professor Nox about something. But he’s not around for a couple of hours, so I’m just hanging about.”

    “Oh, Professor Nox, eh? About something, eh? Very mysterious. I’m just off to my room for a chillout. Want to join me for a snifta of something herbal?”

    “Yes, please.” Bill couldn’t think of anything he’d like to do more.

    Arthur grinned. “Cool. I’ll introduce you to Crocodile.”

    Bill nodded and smiled, wondering what Arthur could be doing with a crocodile in his room. He was glad he’d met his friend from the village and glad to escape, for a short while at least, from his mother’s claustrophobic clutches.

The two young men went off together. Arthur chatted, and Bill found himself laughing, enjoying himself. He was glad he’d avoided this serious-sounding Frank character – he’d had his fill of crazy people telling him what to do.