Category: Story

I still miss my old friend Murphy. I can’t believe that it is almost eight years since I last saw my old mate. He’s gone out of my life… gone somewhere else, maybe he’s needed somewhere else, but I miss my old friend of nearly thirty years, I grew-up with him, we went to the same school, did everything together. We had so much fun together but no more, he’s gone now, out of my life but he is not forgotten.

I remember so well the fateful events in Kalgoorlie beginning when I saw Bob Clark at the Two-Up School in Broad Arrow. I had never expected to see him there, I knew he was not a gambler so why was he here I wanted to know. He hadn’t mentioned a country trip when I talked to him the previous week and I had divulged my plans to visit Kalgoorlie over the New Year holiday. I was to research my book Kalgoorlie Gold and I hoped to gain valuable info from the local gold miners who spent their lives in search of the precious metal in the Goldfields.

Broad Arrow, Kalgoorlie, Western Australia Jan 1 2006

“Are you following me around Bob, or are you here on some secret business with Ginger?” I asked as I sidled up beside him. He showed little surprise at my sudden appearance, he just mumbled.

“Let’s take a walk to my car, we need a beer.”

“Cheers Bob and a Happy New Year.” I said as he handed me a cold can. “So what’s the story, I would never expect to see you in this place, you haven’t taken up gambling have you?”

“I didn’t expect to be here either and I’m not so sure I should be.” he replied in hushed tones even though we were alone in his car. “I not sure it’s such a good idea, it might go all wrong”

He’s not making much sense I thought but I was determined to find out what was causing him so much anxiety.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you anything, it was all hush-hush and not supposed to be in this place. The WACA or Subiaco Oval would have been better venue but they ruled out using anywhere in Perth. I’m up here because of Ginger’s invention. You coming here suggested this might be an alternative site, that’s why we are here in this miserable place.”

I had to agree with Bob it was a miserable place, it being a gambling joint in the middle of the bush, a rough concrete floor in the shape of a ring enclosed with rusting galvanised iron, the sky peeping through holes in the roof. A few rough wooden benches served as seating for the many punters who regularly won or lost thousands of dollars on the turn of two pennies. This was the great Australian gambling game of Two-Up

Before the advent of casinos this was the only legalised Two-Up school in Western Australia. Gamblers from overseas as well as locally were lured to the place. It is also something of a tourist curiosity; a place to spend a little time or money, there is nothing else there except the spinning coins.

“I’m here because of Ginger’s invention.” Bob continued. “If it works, if it’s a success, it could be our saviour, it’s the best idea he has come up with yet, and I do hope it works. They’re all here, watching.”

“Who’s here watching?” I asked. “Who’s here and what are they watching?”

“The police, the army, ASIO, maybe the Americans, there’s a lot of suits in there, they are here to watch the testing of The Anti Terrorist Arrester.”

“What’s that, what does it do?” I wanted to know.

“It works on the suction method, like a giant vacuum cleaner. It can lock on to and grab an object falling from the sky, such as a bomb or a missile and gently lower it safely to the ground.”

“That sounds exciting Bob, I hope it works.” I remembered previous inventions Ginger had worked on, some had not been what could be called successful, but he was not one to give up easily and the odds would say he must get one right eventually but Bob was worried about this one, he was not happy at all.

“So it’s happening to-day here at the Two-Up School, the big test, that’s why we are here.
Four suction beams are set-up outside the gambling ring, disguised as portable toilets, powerful batteries ready to be switched on when the aircraft arrives, hopefully everything will be fine.”

“I hope so too, Bob. Your mate Ginger is a real trier.”

“Yes he is, isn’t he, by the way are you up here on your own or has Murphy tagged along?”

“Ah you know it’s difficult to get away from those two characters. He’s here somewhere, but I haven’t seen him for a couple of days, he’s been taking flying lessons I think?”

Flying lessons! Oh No, it couldn’t be, not Ginger and Murphy. Oh God No!

“We’ll soon know.” Bob said as he checked his watch “It’s almost midday, it’s time. I think it best we stay in the car, just in case something should go wrong.”

He doesn’t seem too confident I thought, then I heard the sound of a low flying light aircraft approaching the Two-Up ring, then the almost silent hum of the suction beams as they were switched on by Ginger from inside the control room that was hidden in the rear of a school bus. All was now in readiness for the big test.

The little plane circled the site a couple of times, the pilot was recognisable as my old mate Murphy, dressed in his green flying suit. A few quick passes to show-off his flying skills then he climbed and swooped in a sneak dive-bomb attack. Ginger on full alert grabbed the bomb and dropped it exactly where he wanted it, beside Bob’s new car. It was a ten-litre can of striped paint, previously borrowed from his shed.

The punters inside of the gambling ring were blissfully unaware of the unusual activities outside. Anyhow watching the two spinning pennies was much more important than the antics of some crazies trying to catch paint bombs.

“That was impressive; Bob, Ginger seems to have got it spot on right at last.”

“Yes it was, but it’s a long way from being over, he’s got to do it at least five times before it can be called a success, and you can bet the next bomb will be bigger and heavier.”

“Well fingers crossed then, what’s next I wonder?”

We didn’t have long to wait. Even as we spoke we could hear the drone from the engine of the little plane as it took off from the salt lake a few kilometres away. Soon it was directly over the two-up school. The payload was much bigger and heavier as Bob had predicted it would be. It looked like a bag of cement as it plummeted from a great height towards the target of unsuspecting gamblers.

Once again Ginger was on top of the situation, the suction beams locked-on and it was but a simple matter to lower the parcel-bomb onto a nearby utility. Well it was almost as easy as that, if the bag hadn’t burst when it hit the blackboy, bringing loud moans from the observers hiding in the bush. However the suction beams had worked well. It was two out of two.

“It’s looking good, Bob.” I was beginning to feel confident in the Ginger and Murphy team. Maybe they could be great? Murphy could handle the light plane well and he was up there with the best at target practice. Bob still in anxious mood wouldn’t commit, only to mumble, “We’ll see!”

The next two attempts went very well, in fact almost perfect. The sawn-off telegraph pole with the sharpened end resembling a rocket was the easiest to capture and it stood like a totem pole between the cars in the middle of the bush car park. No cars were damaged in this attempt. The ball bearings proved to be more difficult, because there were hundreds of them falling in all directions but the beams quickly sucked them in and spat them out the other end.

Once again they had shown they were capable of success and had done what was demanded of them without a hitch. It was a perfect score…So far.

“Better now, Bob?” I asked. Although he looked more at ease he was still being cautious.

“There’s one more to go.” He said, without smiling.

“Is everything Okay over there Ginger?” he shouted.

“Yes everything is A.OK. The last test is coming up.” Ginger sounded confident but I could see that Bob was still not happy.

“He’s going to grab the plane next.” Bob said. “Let’s hope Murphy is in good mood, it’s going to require a lot of nerve and skill.”

“Grab the plane! You’re not serious?” I was shocked to hear such news.

“Well that’s the plan, it should be quite simple and if they can get this one right it should be the clincher.” Bob explained the strategy. “Murphy will fly slowly along a pre-determined flight path and when given the signal from Ginger he will shut-down his engine, the beams have been programmed to follow those co-ordinates and the plane will then be totally in Ginger’s control. The target this time is that burnt-out utility about two hundred metres west of the gambling ring. At least that’s the plan.”

The little plane came into view once again on its final trials run; it was coming in very fast and heading straight for the Two-Up ring, not for the agreed target. Something black and ominous was strapped to its undercarriage. The plane continued on its approach. Murphy had completely ignored instructions; he seemed determined to do something foolish.

“Something’s wrong, Bob.”

“I thought something like this might happen, I had a bad feeling about the whole thing.” Bob groaned. “What’s gone wrong, Ginger?”

Poor Ginger was in a panic, the controls were locked in and he couldn’t free them. Murphy wasn’t answering, he was out of control and what was that gadget hanging from the under-carriage? That was not supposed to be there!

The plane was now in a steep climb, way out of range of the control beams, it appeared to stall for an instant, then with engine screaming it went into a nosedive down, down, aiming for the Two-Up School. What the hell was Murphy up to?

At last the watchers and the gamblers realised that something was wrong, a mass exodus ensued with persons racing for cars or charging into the bush, away from the soon to be demolished gambling ring.

Murphy in the flying bomb seemed intent on mass destruction. Ginger in the control room was fighting a losing battle with a computer that frustrated his every move. In desperation he hit the escape key one last time and with a mighty roar the Arrester Machine was activated, but it started to blow…not suck.

The suction beams had become four uncontrollable blowers generating a wind velocity in the form of a mini tornado. The iron gambling ring was picked-up and sent skyward into the path of the suicide dive-bomber. A massive explosion signalled the end to the final test of the Anti Terrorist Arrester.

* * * * *

The Aftermath

The explosion fortunately was absorbed by the metal structure so there was no loss of life at ground level and apart from minor scratches mostly attributed to the mad scramble through the bush, most got off scot-free. Many cars however were damaged in the fall-out and the gambling ring was blown into thousands of small pieces, scattered in a wide radius. The little plane and its pilot were part of that scenario.

In a short time the experts at the scene had mobilised and a full-scale alert was initiated. We were quickly rounded up for medical assessment and our safety. That’s what they told us, in other words we were to be detained under the new Anti Terrorist Laws, which was detention without charge for twenty-eight days.

I saw Ginger in handcuffs being bundled into a paddy wagon. Bob and I were separated and taken to different locations in Kalgoorlie. Then the questioning began. What had gone wrong, why had Murphy turned feral? Why did he become a suicide bomber, what were his motives? Did I know if he was in the pay of some foreign power? The questioning went on for hours and hours, all I could do was to tell the truth, but it seemed we were all under suspicion and I was one of the prime suspects.

They had a whole lot of questions that needed to be answered before I would be released onto society again, but I couldn’t give them answers, because I knew nothing of the test or that Murphy would be involved in it until I met Bob that morning at the Two-Up site. There was no way that I was responsible for what had occurred. That’s what I told them, over and over again, but to no avail, the grilling went on for hours for day’s maybe. I was locked away in solitary somewhere, I knew not where. I soon lost track of time, I didn’t know if I was still in Kalgoorlie or even in Australia.

After what seemed an eternity I was given a document to sign, I was told it was the Official Secrets Act and I was made aware of the consequences if I were to divulge anything I had seen or heard regarding the incident at Broadarrow. After signing, I would be free to go about my business, just keep your mouth shut and you might live to be a ripe old age, I was warned. “Remember we know all about you. There is nowhere to hide.”

I signed the document gladly, hoping to get out of that place as soon as possible but first I would be made aware of the official slant to the unfortunate accident.

An underground gas explosion caused by a minor earth shift possibly the result of excessive mining in the district demolished the Two-Up School. James Francis Patrick Murphy was killed when the single-engine plane he was flying was unfortunately directly overhead when the explosion occurred.

Two days later I found myself back in Kalgoorlie cop station where I was to be prepared for release back into society, a final lecture on the protocol demanded and the dangers of relating anything of what happened at Broadarrow. My previously confiscated personal property was returned to me including my car, which was in a sparkling clean condition. The experts had probably pulled the thing apart, fortunately nothing was found to link me to any subversive activity otherwise I wouldn’t be walking free for a long time. I was an innocent man caught up in circumstances not of my making yet they had locked me away for ten days without apology and put my life in a position of eternal fear.

“Go back to Perth, Mr O’Sullivan and forget what happened here.” The old policeman told me. “You don’t want the spooks on your back for the rest of your life; they will be watching your every move, so be careful, just go home and forget it, I’m sorry about your friend, Murphy. He has named you as next of kin so you must formally identify the body, it’s just a formality, and it’s something you must do so we can cremate the remains. The state of W.A will take care of the details; all you have to do is to sign the papers.

Reluctantly I agreed to do my duty for my old friend, no matter what dreadful tomfoolery he had got involved in and he had paid the ultimate price for his foolhardiness, we had been friends for a long time I really didn’t hate him for causing the troubles I was now faced with.

In the morgue I saw a nondescript shape covered with a sheet, Murphy was but a small collection of incinerated bones. “Just sign the paper, the old cop prompted, the cremation is in two days time maybe you would like to stick around for that, and then you must put it all behind you and forget it ever happened.”

On Friday Jan 14th at 3pm a large crowd gathered at the crematorium chapel to pay last respects to the good man who had lost his life in that terrible accident. After a brief ceremony conducted by Fr Burke PP of Kalgoorlie the remains of James Francis Patrick Murphy were committed to his final resting place in the Garden Of Remembrance. I commissioned a plaque with words I thought apt for the occasion, it will read. Rise To Great Heights and Go Out With A Bang.

I noticed some teary-eyed female mourners at the service that day, Murphy had been a likable fellow and was never short of company, he made friends easily.

I didn’t see Bob or Ginger there, I reckoned they must be still in custody; I said a final prayer for the immortal soul of my departed good friend and left for Perth next morning at dawn.

Back in Perth and hoping to resume normal duties was not easy, how could I forget or pretend the events I had been part of did not occur. I had gone to the goldfields to research my book “Kalgoorlie Gold” but alas that had not happened. I had basically made no progress on that project, and would need to return at some later stage, but I had become involved in a series of intriguing events that I am compelled to wipe from my memory.

That was not easy to cope with, I couldn’t accept that something as serious as what had occurred could be covered-up by the authorities and erased from the minds of witnesses using threats of imprisonment and perhaps death to achieve their aims. I didn’t believe it to be the norm in the free world. But I was wrong. The truth was hidden in a conspiracy of lies in the name of National Security.

I tried to get back into my former life, to resurrect my writing career but the creative juices were not responding, my head told me to get on with the job but in reality I was still locked in solitary somewhere scared and threatened. Although free now to move around as I pleased, the threat was ever present.

“They will be watching your every move.” the old Kalgoorlie cop had warned me, I think he was right; I had that feeling of not being entirely alone.

I missed the presence of Murphy, there was never a dull moment with him around, and he always had something out of the ordinary or unusual on the agenda. I often ended up as his fall guy but I had never known him to actually do anything illegal but he was capable of being pigheaded and silly sometimes.

I couldn’t accept he was gone out of my life forever, he had named me his next of kin so I busied myself in putting his affairs in order, the next few weeks were filled with all the legal arrangements required by law, and I became the heir to his modest fortune.

Bob or Ginger had not shown up in their usual places, I rang several times but there was no response except for an answering machine that clicked in an unusual manner, I imagined there was someone listening, so I didn’t leave a message. I called round to Bob’s unit only to find a For Sale sign out the front, a neighbour told me they had gone overseas just after Xmas and had no plans to return to Australia. Ginger had been offered a well-paid position in the America, working for the Defence Department.

That was certainly a revelation, what was going on I wondered?

After hearing that piece of information I began to wonder if there weren’t more slants to the happening at Broadarrow than we were expected to believe, there seemed to be a few extra twists to the bow, maybe even a conspiracy or two.

What was the outcome to that fateful afternoon apart from proving the Anti Terrorist Arrester really was a success? That had been demonstrated on four separate occasions when Murphy had flown the light plane unerringly to the nominated target. Why then did the final fifth test run become a disaster resulting in destruction and the death of my friend? There was more to that incident than a rogue pilot going off the rails and there was something else too…why did Ginger’s computer malfunction at that critical moment. Was the “test” a demonstration of something far more sinister and were Ginger and Murphy mere pawns in a game played for high stakes?

Although there was nothing I could do without attracting attention and landing myself in gaol or worse, I was determined to clear Murphy’s name at least to my own satisfaction. I spent many hours going through his personal effects looking for a sign that might link him to any illegal or criminal organization. I found nothing incriminating in the several suitcases that stored his personal papers and letters and his bank balance was as I would have expected it to be, modest but in the black. If he had received payment for his crazy activity it wasn’t in his bank, I found nothing to link Murphy to anything more sinister than he being a man determined to have a good time out of life. So what had caused him to act in such a reckless manner and was he just the fall guy?

I was convinced that Murphy’s death was not of his making, he was no terrorist he was not a criminal, there had to be something else, something that had gone wrong resulting in the tragedy but whatever it was I was in no position to learn. How could I hope to clear his name with the fear of reprisal uppermost in my mind, I reckoned the answers lay in the goldfields and I had a legitimate reason in going back there and poking around. I still needed to do research for my book otherwise it would never be finished, I should say never get started, I had neglected my writing over the past year and a half, the Kalgoorlie Gold title was the only positive move I had made in that project.

I decided to return to Kalgoorlie as soon as possible, but I would make some arrangements to safeguard my hide. I would tell anyone who would listen of my plans and how long I would be there and when I should be expected to return hoping I might avoid some nasty accidents along the way. I may be paranoid and over-cautious but I always believed preparation being paramount to any successful operation.

As Bob and Ginger had not returned to Perth and the unit in Spearwood had long been sold, I imagined that would be the last I would see or hear of them. I could only hope they would do well in the United States if that was where they now call home. I think they may have done very well according to the article I read recently in The New Scientist Magazine.

The Americans are testing a new anti-terrorist defensive weapon, a series of powerful suction beams that will be able to lock on to flying or falling objects and deposit them safely onto the ground. That sounds familiar.

My road-trip to the goldfields was completed without incident and on arrival I booked a room for a week in Paddy’s Ale House in Hannan Street. My first task was to revisit the site of the Two-Up site where it had all happened, the memory of that day so fresh in my mind it might have been only yesterday although nearly eighteen months had elapsed.

I found all trace of the disaster had been wiped clear, the bulldozers had done their job of levelling and filling the site and the bush had regenerated with shrubs and wildflowers in abundance. Man, machine and nature had combined in a great cover-up. Bush Two-Up at Broadarrow is now just a memory but I found there is a modernised version of the game called Fun-Time Two-Up operating at Sheffields Bar & Grill Burt Street Boulder where you can relive the excitement of the toss of the pennies and learn the rules of the historic game.

I next visited Kalgoorlie Cemetery to say a prayer at the final resting place of my friend Murphy. I was relieved to see the commemorative plaque was in place as I had instructed, also the Garden Of Remembrance was maintained in beautiful condition. I reckoned Murphy would have nothing to complain about sleeping in such pleasant surroundings.

The End, for now.

“I will prove that you, Joseph Gregory Hardin did on the twenty-second day of November 2012, wilfully kill George Arthur Wilson. That you used your powerful Holden Utility to force the car driven by Mr Wilson off the road at Hawkins Bend and so caused his untimely end.

“I will also prove that you did before many witnesses in The George Hotel saloon bar threaten to kill Mr Wilson just two days previously and that you were heard to shout, “I will kill you, you bastard!” There are many patrons who will testify you deliberately bumped into him and spilt a jug of beer down his shirt-front and when he demanded an apology you gave him a two-finger sign and told him to get stuffed. You did kill Mr Wilson! I will prove that you did.”

I shuddered as the prosecutor glared in my direction. What was I doing in this courtroom, I had done nothing wrong, I hadn’t killed anyone, I had never done anybody harm. I have had a few disagreements with several guys since I arrived in town but that’s all they were, just arguments after a few beers mostly but I don’t get involved with anything more serious. I have never done anyone harm but the police wouldn’t listen to me, they had an open and shut case, they said. They have witnesses to say that I caused the trouble in the George Hotel that night, but they have only one side of the story and they want to pin the killing on me. Someone did kill George Wilson and I won’t say I’m sorry, but it certainly wasn’t me.

“I will prove that you used your powerful Holden Utility as a weapon, that you forced the smaller vehicle off the road at Hawkins Bend where it smashed into the trees and burst into flames so causing Mr Wilson to lose his life.” the prosecutor continued.” You have a reputation of being a hothead and you have had several encounters with the police especially in regards to your driving…you like to speed don’t you Mr Hardin and you drink to excess sometimes, up until now you have been lucky. This time you have gone too far…you killed George Arthur Wilson…I’m going to put you away for a very long time.

I Am Innocent! I wanted to shout, but they need to convict someone and they are dead set on finding me guilty. Won’t someone listen to me? I have done no wrong. Sure I shouted that I would kill him but that was only after he had bashed me and called me a stupid bastard. He hit me several times but it seems none of the police witnesses saw him do that. I was no match for him, he being the local tough guy and he often boasted that this was his town because he reckoned everyone was scared of him. I’ve seen him bash lots of guys and take beer and money off them. I know of plenty fellows who could have knocked him off, maybe even the police themselves, but it wasn’t me. But who’s going to help me, they won’t listen to me?”

“Hey! Hardin wake-up, your lawyer Mr Gibson is here…I don’t know how you can sleep with such a serious charge hanging over your head”. Senior Constable Jones sneered. “You must be a cold-blooded bastard.”

“No, I’m not cold-blooded and I’m not guilty of anything. I am innocent!” I retorted. ‘You lot are the bastards trying to pin that crime on me. I have done no wrong!

The lawyer was unsmiling and didn’t look very friendly as he shook my hand and I wondered if he would be sympathetic to my cause. He came straight to the point and asked.

“Mr Hardin. The police have made serious allegations against you, what’s your story… if I am to represent you and try to get you out of this mess I must have the truth. Did you kill George Arthur Wilson last night?”

“No I did not, I‘ve told the cops so many times I didn’t see him or his car last night!”

“Well the police do appear to have a good case against you and when they locate your vehicle they say they will have it all sewn up.”

“Stitched-up is more like it! That’s what they are doing to me.”

“Maybe you got drunk and hit his car unknowingly, that’s a serious crime but not wilful murder…you might get away with five years for that?”

“No I did not.” I insisted. “I didn’t drive my car last night; I had to thumb a lift into town. I had been cadging lifts all the week”

“But the police insist your utility was the vehicle involved?”

“Maybe it was but I wasn’t the driver. I didn’t drive my ute last night”

“Why was that, why didn’t you drive your vehicle?” The lawyer inquired.

“Because it’s in Wrights Garage having a new motor fitted, has been there for more than a week.”

The lawyer nodded his head in agreement he smiled and said

“Let’s get you out of here, Mr Hardin. I don’t think they will object. I have a few words to say on your behalf. Someone has a lot of explaining to do. Let’s go.

The sound of a brick thrown through the bedroom window was enough to spur the old fellow into action, crime was a problem in this area and home invasions were on the increase. He had no intention of becoming just a victim and certainly not a statistic he was not going to be another newspaper headline ‘Great-Grandfather Bashed and Robbed in his Home.’ He was prepared for the invaders, the scum of the earth he liked to call them, miserable dregs of a sick society who thought themselves to be above the law when they took whatever they wanted from the old and defenceless. He was determined not to give up without a struggle; he would protect what was his no matter what the cost.

He hadn’t fought in two wars helping to safeguard the wellbeing of the good citizens of the world to have his final years plagued by this pathetic sub-culture spawned from drug-soaked dropouts from generations past. He remembered well the so-called free spirits and their slogans that signalled the beginning of the end as he knew it, ’Make Love Not War.’ ‘Live for today, take what you want.’ Free love and drugs would have to be paid for later ‘but not by us’… that was their philosophy. But he was not going to be intimidated by the mongrels he would fight to the end as he had always done.

He knew the system had worked well in the past, it was uncomplicated and simple, you worked hard, saved your cash and bought what you could afford and did not expect anything for nothing. Society acknowledged the rights of the owner to protect his own and back then a man’s home was indeed his castle, but alas in the present society the law-abiding citizens had been ignored and had become the forgotten… they had become almost second-class citizens. The rights of the criminals were protected to the detriment of the good people who had worked hard to make the world a better place. Especially affected were the elderly who just wanted to live a peaceful life and to enjoy their last few remaining years safe and secure in their own homes.

He would protect the home he and his dear wife had worked so hard to achieve. It was all he had left since she passed away six months ago, it was his castle and a man must defend his castle against all invaders. He had fathered three sons and was grandfather to a dozen grandchildren and many great-grandchildren but they were too busy buying the newest cars and bigger and better houses to worry much about him, he was on his own as were many of his age group. We are like dinosaurs in a modern world, he thought. ‘He’s way past his use-by date.’ he once heard himself described as being. The times and the values of society change rapidly and the old ways no longer apply.

He knew how to use the half-meter long club he always kept under the bed in anticipation of a situation such as was now presented. He had learnt a few things throughout his long military service. He knew it required but a few strategically placed light blows to render most individuals incapable. The collarbone was a fragile bone and could snap easily so putting the attacker out of action without causing too much damage. That was his target as the head and shoulders of the intruder immerged through the shattered windowpane, unfortunately for the would-be raider, the old fellow ignored the shoulder completely and delivered a savage blow directly to the back of the unprotected skull. The intruder collapsed unconscious, bleeding badly; amongst the broken glass where he lay until the police and ambulance arrived.

The old fellow was questioned at length then he was taken away to the police station where he was charged with unlawful wounding. He was warned that it might well be upgraded to the more serious charge of attempted murder.

The fact that he had kept a weapon on hand and had intended to use it could be considered as a calculated act in using unreasonable force against an unarmed housebreaker.

He smiled at the irony of the situation as he tried to imagine defenders of the castles of old asking their attackers if they were able to swim because there was a moat around the place or if they had protection against the boiling oil pouring down from the battlements.

Sure they could lock him away if they choose; it was probably safer to be in jail these days. He had achieved two objectives in this rash act, one was to highlight the unfairness in the law, and the other was to shake-up the uncaring family member’s who would almost certainly find time to think of the old fellow now. They would all gather round to assist him in his time of need especially as there was property and cash to squabble over when he was gone. He had not made a will so he could visualise the battles to be fought in court as they all claimed a share, he would wait for the cancer to end it all…soon.

He smiled and voiced a prayer ‘Thank-you Lord.’

Many others would follow his example. There would be no stopping the Grey Warriors now as they battled to reclaim the status and protection from the law. They had paid their dues and deserved protection… it was their right.

Aged 84 years and eleven months he was the first of the group to take some positive action.

He was a fighter right to the end.

Nothing much ever happened in Glendale. The little town nestled on the western shore of beautiful Lake Preston where hundreds of holidaymakers spent their annual leave in peaceful solitude, far removed from the frantic rat race of the big city. Tourists and holidaymakers and the dollars they brought with them were the lifeblood of the town. They came back each summer to escape even for two weeks the stresses of the hectic city lifestyle. They came for that perfect holiday, for the fishing, the swimming and the mountain climbing or for just plain relaxation in ideal conditions, in lovely Glendale, where not much ever happened until something evil came amongst them.

When Jenny Boyd disappeared one evening after choir practice even sleepy Glendale takes notice. Nobody ever went missing in that peaceful place, until now. When the sixteen years old student who was also a member of the church choir had not returned home at her usual time her parents were not overly concerned at first but as the time elapsed and she still had not arrived and her concerned parents failed to locate her at any of her friends homes the police were called in. A search of her room gave no indication that she may have decided to run away from home, nothing was taken except the clothes she had walked out in and she had also forgotten to take her phone that evening. A check of her phone showed nothing out of the ordinary just the usual chit-chat between teens. A police action squad quickly initiated a search for the missing teenager

No sign of the girl was found that night and the next day also proved fruitless. State police were requested to assist the local cops and soldiers from nearby Deaken Army Camp were mobilized to comb the countryside and police divers checked Lake Preston. But that also proved unsuccessful. There was no sign of the girl…Jenny Boyd had vanished without a trace. There were no suspicious circumstances and no suspects and there was no reason for her to run away from home.

Detective Inspector Mark Woods and Detective Sergeant Victor King interviewed Jeffrey Thomas the choir-master who was the last person to see her as she left the church hall that evening but he was not able to give the police much help. He told them all he knew…as he locked the hall he saw her turn into Church Lane, the shortcut to the Clarkson Estate just a short distance away. He remembered seeing her before she disappeared from his view down the dimly lit laneway but he had no reason to believe there might be any danger there as it was her usual way home and the shortcut was used by many.

He was uncomfortable being questioned by police but was anxious to help in whatever way he could. He told police he felt responsible for all the members of his choir, they were all young people and he cared for their wellbeing.

Jeffery Thomas is a troubled young man. He has not been sleeping well since the death of his mother six months ago. Jeffrey had been her sole companion and carer as she had been confined to a wheelchair for many years after a stroke. She had depended on him for everything. Her untimely death due to her falling down the basement stairs has caused Jeffery much concern and anxiety. He has blamed himself for leaving her alone asleep in her chair whilst he went to the shops to pick up a few essentials. It was only for ten minutes or so but if he had taken her with him it wouldn’t have happened…it was his fault.

Now he feels responsible for keeping the choir ten minutes later than usual that evening…if they had finished on time, if he wasn’t such a perfectionist, if they were not in rehearsal for the Christmas play…all ifs, but would it have made any difference. Still he did feel some responsibility.

Then there is the recurring dream he has been experiencing every night since his mother passed away, he watches his as she tumbles down the steep steps to her death onto the hard-packed dirt of the basement floor. That dream causes him to wake-up drenched in a lather of sweat and unable to get back to sleep…that’s why he feels somewhat responsible for Jenny Boyd he imagines that something horrible befell the poor girl that evening.

‘Check-out the choirmaster again.’ DI Woods instructed DS King. ‘He was the last to see Jenny Boyd that night and he’s the only lead we’ve got. Get on to it Vic, but carefully we don’t want to upset someone who works for the church. He’s not a suspect …yet.’

Three nights later eighteen years old Angela Sutton a computer science student at the local technical college was waiting for a bus at 9.15 pm outside the school when she was grabbed from behind by a man who tried to drag her into the bushland behind the school. Angela had some self-defence knowledge and she knew what to do when attacked. Screaming loudly and using the defensive moves she had learned she managed to fight him off and he raced off into the bush. Angela was shaken but unhurt and had kept her cool in a situation that could have proved fatal. The only description she could give to the police was that he was tall and strong and fit looking, she had not seen his face and he wore a hoodie which masked his features. She imagined he must be aged 25 to 35 years old judging by the way he moved.

Glendale is on edge, one of its young citizens is missing and another has been attacked by some pervert intent on rape and perhaps murder. The once easy-going lifestyle of the peaceful town has been turned upside-down, the population of nearly three thousands have all been questioned without any worthwhile clues.

Everyone wants to help but it seems nobody knows anything…

‘Somebody out there knows, let’s get him.’ Di Woods encouraged his squad to greater efforts.

Joyce Cooke, barmaid at The Ship Hotel never reached home after finishing her evening shift at 11.30 p.m. on Friday night. Her car, with keys in the ignition was found several hours later parked in a side street. There was no sign of a struggle, like Jenny Boyd she too had vanished.

The town is now in a state of shock…the people are scared and terrified, their doors locked and bolted and only the bravest will venture out after dark. Where once was carefree freedom and innocence is now a fortress of terror. Two disappearances in as many weeks have shaken the little town where nothing really bad had ever happened before. The residents cry out for help, but there are no answers to their prayers. The police still have no bodies and no suspects. Only a handful of guests were in The Ship Hotel at closing time on the night Joyce Cooke disappeared and all could account for their movements, most were small groups of holidaymakers and were residents in the hotel.

One local man who did pop in for a beer just before closing time was Jeffery Thomas. He did so every night in the vain hope that a few drinks before bedtime would help him find some peace and hopefully a night free from the night terrors that were causing him so much angst.

Inspector Woods has called a crisis meeting of his officers. After three weeks of exhaustive detective work they are no closer to finding any trace of the missing girls alive or dead. They have no suspects but Jeffery Thomas was connected with at least two of the girls. He was the last to see Jenny Boyd the night she went missing and he was drinking in The Ship Hotel at closing time the night Joyce Cooke disappeared. ‘Have you been keeping an eye on him, Vic.’ he asked DS King.

‘Yes, I have, but like everyone else he just gets on with his business and he has helped in every way and answered all our questions, but he did get jumpy when I asked him about his mothers’ death.’ DS King answered.

‘Oh he did…Did he?’ the inspector

‘I think he feels guilty about something and maybe we should check on her death as well. It’s all we have to go on.’

Three red flags indicating where the disappearances and the attack had occurred were stuck on a large map of the township as DI. Woods pointed out the crucial points to his troops. ‘What we have is The Ship Hotel car park, across the street we have the technical school bus stop and just around the corner is the church…which leads us back to Jeffery Thomas. I think it’s time we had another talk with the choir-master and take a look inside of his house and especially the basement.’

Jeffery Thomas had no problem in talking to the police again but he was reluctant to let them into his house and he was concerned that they considered him a suspect.

‘It’s just routine at this stage.’ DI. Woods assured him. ‘You are the only person to have a connection with at least two of the missing girls and we do need to eliminate you from our enquiries so we must explore every lead, no matter how small. You do understand don’t you, Mr. Thomas, but if you prefer we can have this chat down at the police station.’

‘No! I don’t want to go with you to the cop station but I do want to help you catch whoever is responsible, come in if you must but I don’t know what else you want of me, I have already told you everything I know?’

‘Thank you…will you tell us again what happened the night Jenny Boyd disappeared maybe there is something you remember that you haven’t told us before?’ DI. Woods coaxed.

‘It was about 8.15pm as I was locking the church hall door I saw Jenny turn into Church Lane the shortcut to her home only a short distance away and that was the last time I saw her.’

‘Are you sure it was 8.15…how can you be so certain, maybe it was earlier or much later?’

‘We were rehearsing for the Christmas play and should have finished at 8 o’clock but we were running ten minutes late that night because I wanted to get something important worked out. If we had finished at the usual time she might still be here, I feel responsible and so sad she was a lovely young lady and a fine singer.’

‘What did you do after you had locked the church hall that night?’

I went home and cooked a late meal. I had a can of beer in the fridge, which I drank whilst I watched television for about an hour. I went out for a short walk as usual, had a beer in The Crown Hotel, I left there around 10.15 and I was in bed by 11 pm.’

‘So you were alone all that evening, you didn’t have any visitors?’

‘I was alone, as I‘ve explained to you already, I’m alone every night since my mother died.’

‘You don’t have a girlfriend do you Mr. Thomas?’

‘No I don’t…I’m still trying to get over mother’s death, we were very close, I didn’t have time for girlfriends then, Inspector.’

‘Tell me, Mr. Thomas did you know Angela Sutton?’

‘I didn’t …I don’t know anything about her, only what I have read in the papers.’

‘The night Joyce Cooke went missing you went to the hotel just before closing time, is that right?’ The inspector asked.

‘Yes I did! I haven’t been sleeping very well since my mother’s death and Jenny Boyd’s disappearance has upset me a lot so I now take a walk to the hotel for a couple of beers before retiring …I find it easier to get to sleep after I have done that…that’s why I was there that night and every night since.’ Jeffery explained.

‘Did you talk to Joyce Cooke that night? Did you arrange to meet her outside and did you see her after she had finished her shift…Mr. Thomas?’

‘Yes I did talk to the lady that night, there was nobody else to talk to in there, the place was practically empty and no I didn’t see her after I left the hotel, I went straight home… alone.’

‘But nobody saw you go home, did they Jeffery?’ The DI insisted. ‘Tell us about your mothers’ death, it was an accident wasn’t it? Tell us what happened.’

Jeffery Thomas looked decidedly uncomfortable when asked to describe his mother’s death, his face reddened and he mopped perspiration from his forehead with a white handkerchief and in a voice that was almost a whisper he told of shock in discovering her body at the bottom of the basement steps. ‘I only left her for a short time, fifteen minutes at most, the basement door was unlocked and she must have…look I don’t want to talk about it, it’s too painful and it was my fault for leaving her alone and for not keeping that door locked…It was my fault I shouldn’t have left her.’

The inspector noticed the door to the basement was bolted and padlocked now.

‘What about your father Jeffery, where is he?’

‘He left when I was about twelve years old, he just walked out and never came back…we didn’t miss him because he was a drunk. He was drinking all the time, he was often violent and he bashed us regularly. We were glad to see the back of him and we were better off without him. Jeffery explained with teary eyes.

‘Did you notice how edgy he got when I mentioned his mother’s death and that story about his father sounds a bit iffy …I think there’s a problem there Vic, it’s time to get ourselves a search warrant. We must see what’s in the basement and I wonder why that door is padlocked when he is the only one at home.’

‘Yes! He was in a bit of a panic, I thought he was going to burst into tears he was so emotional. I reckon he is hiding some dark secrets.’ D.S King agreed.

‘Vic go chat to his neighbours maybe they can give us some idea what occurred in that house many years ago, especially regarding the father and why he would leave home and never come back?’

Jeffery Thomas’s nightmare is more vivid than ever… He sees his past, he sees his drunken father and the beatings and abuse he inflicted on mother and son. The kicks and punches and the wanton sexual attacks the youngster had witnessed all too often. Jeffery felt nothing but hatred for the bully as he drove the carving knife deep into his evil heart…the bastard would never abuse them again. They buried him in the basement where he has lain forgotten for more than twenty years until his dear mother had become senile and a danger to them both. She had to go too…before she blabbed to some nosy parker. He had loved his mother dearly, but she had to go. Now the police are asking questions, soon they will be into his house and down in the basement where they will find answers. Jeffery Thomas can see his future unfolding and he knows what must be done. They must not take him alive…he is in control.

‘I got some good info from one of the neighbours’ DS King informed his boss’ Mr Brown has lived next door to the Thomas family for more than 50 years and he can tell what a strange mob they really are. The dad was a hopeless drunk who made life hell for young Jeff and his mother, he was a terrible person and upset not only his family but most of the neighbours as well. He abused everyone when under the influence and people crossed the street just to keep out of his way. When he left home the neighbours did not bother to ask about him they were just glad to see the back of him. Jeffery was domineered his whole life by his near-crazy mother and she controlled everything he did, since her stroke he was her virtual slave. He had a strange upbringing, he is a good singer and musician but never had a chance, but don’t be fooled by his quiet demeanour he has a nasty temper just like his drunken father.’

Next day armed with a search warrant the police seek out Jeffery Thomas but he is not at home the house is locked and his car is in the garage. His neighbours on either side tell police that they have not seen him since the previous day when he had talked to the police, but one neighbour reckons that is not unusual as Jeffery Thomas has a history of going missing, he has done so many times in the past, sometime he’s not seen for many days. The police gain entry and turnover the house but find nothing of an incriminating nature. When they dig-up the hard-packed dirt floor of the basement the skeleton of what appears to be that of a tall well-built male is unearthed from a shallow grave, all indications are that it had been there for a long time, probably for twenty years or more. No recent activity was evident in the basement but where was Jeffery Thomas?

‘He’s gone into hiding, now where would a loner like him hole up?’ D.I Woods asked no-one in particular…anyone got any ideas?’

‘He spends a lot of time in the church; remember he is the choir-master.’ D.S King reminded his boss. ‘Maybe that’s where he’s hiding.’

‘You’re right Vic! Well let’s get over there, come on you lot we can’t do anything else here, forensics will sort this lot out.’

Father Tim Holden the parish priest was helpful to the police in allowing a full-scale search of the church premises including the crypt and it was there they found Jeffery Thomas lying in a pool of his own blood, the carving-knife lodged deep between his ribs into his heart. He was quite dead…the blood-stained note explained everything.

He had stabbed to death his drunken father twenty years ago. And he had caused his mothers death by pushing her down the steps into the basement. He had never meant to harm the girls… he was not to blame.

Something made him do it…the bad dreams …the voices…telling him.

‘He was an evil man.’ Father Holden said as he administered The Last Rites. ‘He’s damned for all time, and I thought he was a fine young man.’

‘He was a weirdo and a maniac.’ Inspector Woods said and he took the easy way out. No doubt we will find the results of his foul deeds down here. Now it’s over…the people can relax again.’

‘Thank God!’ Father Holden replied as he sprinkled holy water to all corners of the crypt.

‘Dad! Did they really build the Great Wall of China to keep the rabbits out?’

‘No Son! Not really. It was built because of the millions of young Chinese who were hanging around with nothing to do except draw the unemployment cheques and get up to mischief. It was the first big work for the dole scheme… if the young people didn’t work they didn’t get any pay… so it was a good opportunity to build something that would last a long time.’

‘But why did they build a wall Dad, what good did it do?’

‘The Emperor! Yu Chew Fat was a powerful man at that time… he was a God and he had a vision of the future, he saw that one day China would open up it’s borders to the rich peoples of the world so he built ‘The Wall’ as a tourist attraction, a kind of Oriental Theme Park.’

‘Oh! That was a good idea. Is that why they built Hadrian’s Wall and The Berlin Wall?’

‘No, they were built for entirely different reasons. It was the thousands of Romans who were holidaying in Britain at that time they built Hadrian’s Wall. They were a peace-loving people and they couldn’t stand the wailing of the Scottish bagpipes night after night. When the people complained about the horrible drone of the pipes the Caledonians just gave them the one-finger sign and showed them their bare bottoms. Naturally, that conduct couldn’t be tolerated by the peaceful citizens of Rome so it was easier to build a wall to shut them out than to argue with inferior savages who didn’t wear underclothes.’

‘And why was the Berlin Wall built, Dad?’

‘The Berlin Wall was built to keep the communists inside and the rest of the world out. The leaders believed that communism was good for their people… that’s why they built the wall to keep the people inside.’

‘What was communism Dad?’

‘Oh, I think it was a situation where everybody would happily work together and all would be treated as equals. They would enjoy all that the State had to offer and everything would be fine as long as they obeyed the rules without question.’

‘What happened if they didn’t obey Dad?’

‘Then they were punished and many were executed for not being good communists but some did manage to escape before the wall was built.’

‘But Dad, if communism was so good for the people why did they want to escape?’

‘That was because their leaders were real baddies. They were dictators, they ruled with an iron fist and made life a misery for their people and they were never going to allow democracy in that country. They built the wall to keep the people enslaved and so the outside world couldn’t see what was going on inside.’

‘What’s democracy Dad?’

‘It’s when the people of a country have the right to voice their opinions without fear of persecution and to elect a government of their choice. The people are free to make the choices that suits them best… just like we do here in Australia.’

‘Is our Prime Minister a dictator, Dad?’

‘No Son! He’s not a dictator but if he was we could not get rid of him at the next election. The banks and the multinationals are the real dictators in this country… but we can’t get rid of them… we are stuck with them and there is nothing much we can do about it… they are the ones who really control our lives and our democracy.’

‘Dad! Why are our soldiers in Iraq?’

‘They are helping the Americans and the British to force the people of that country into a democracy so they can be free like you and me.’

‘But why do we have to go to war to do it, Dad?’

‘That’s so we can have a lasting peace there Son. You can’t have peace unless you have a war first… that makes sense doesn’t it.’

‘Dad! What is Peace?’

The Banshee: Gaelic name for The Fairy Woman who has been known to wail for the departing souls of certain families in Ireland. Her mournful cry can be heard hovering directly above the home as the soul of the deceased is released from its earthly habitation and it progresses skywards until out of range of normal earshot.

The night The Banshee cried for me was also the night I had my first victory… that seems to be a contradiction in terms because normally the Fairy Woman only cries for someone whose soul is departing this earthly existence to its eternal reward, hopefully into the home of his creator. But who or what the great creator is we do not know. Is it a kind and compassionate being who will welcome its children back home where they will be rewarded when they have completed their terms of enlightenment on their allocated planet or will the creator turn out to be something so horrible that we cannot envisage? We can but hope for the best because nobody comes back to this world after The Banshee cries for them, or do they… I know I did?

It was the night my Uncle Pat passed away… September 22nd 1950. I remember the date well because it was also my birthday. I would be twelve years old when I awoke the next morning…but I almost didn’t make it although I didn’t recall much of the event until much later, in fact I’m still remembering and putting pieces together after so many decades. I reckon that’s the way they planned it, a gradual reawakening so as not to place too much burden on my all too simple brain. But let’s go back to that night and to my close encounter with beings that may be the real creators.

Uncle Pat was a man who always kept an open mind about things he didn’t understand. He was an avid listener and did not scoff at those who told tales of night terrors and encounters with whatever evil was abroad in the hours of darkness. Pat would just nod his head in agreement as if he had firsthand knowledge of what they were describing and he would then relate one of his own escapes from the demons of darkness. He could if given a few beers and the right encouragement talk for many hours of the unusual experiences he had endured in his almost eighty years of life on Earth. It seems he was constantly aware of some unseen presence and it had nothing to do with religion… Pat was not overly inclined although he was a regular churchgoer, but they were all regular churchgoers when I was a youngster. No matter what your other beliefs may be… you went to church often and whenever required. That was village life and nobody acted differently.

Pat had often talked about The Banshee and the unusual fact that she only cried for certain families. He had learnt about her from his grandfather who explained that there were special people in each of the families who had been given certain powers over and above the normal. There was always at least one member of those households who had some form of special gift not usually given to others. Some had the gift to be natural healers who were able to help their fellow humans overcome the many obstacles they would encounter in everyday life. Others were adept at treating animals and they would always know what to do in a crisis at a time when domestic animals were of great importance to the poor people. Some had beautiful voices and were singers and teachers of poetry and song whilst others were natural community leaders with the ability to make correct decisions for the betterment of the village people. All were poorly educated in the strict sense of the word, they had but a very basic education but they were a vital part of rural life at a time before technology ruled everything, but they each had The Special Gift.

Somewhere amongst that lot Uncle Pat had a position although it was sometimes questionable as to what that position really was. He could be best described as a man of many parts a sort of Jack of All Trades in that he was not afraid to try out new ideas and was always there to lend a hand to anyone who might be in trouble. He had many fine qualities he was kind and friendly, generous and helpful to all, and it might be expected The Banshee would cry as his soul departed it’s human receptacle to his eternal reward. And She did cry for Uncle Pat but the downside was… I was taken as well.

Uncle Pat’s health had deteriorated rapidly once Parkinson’s disease had taken away his independence and made him totally reliant on others and I believe he was ready to pass on. He indicated to me several times that he had done all that was expected of him and it was almost the time to go to his reward. He had fathered no offspring of his own so I was almost like a son to him; he was my mentor and good friend and he taught me a lot of life skills that I can still call on today. That last day when we talked he told me his time was near and he gave me a few final words of encouragement, he explained that we are all called to do something special in this life and even if we feel that we are not worthy we are here for a purpose and we must try to do the best we can…if we do, then we will be rewarded. Later that evening he received the Last Rites from Fr O’Malley and he was not expected to see the next day dawn.

Sometime around midnight as I lay sleeping in an adjoining room he passed away peacefully in his sleep but I awoke to feel my spirit being pulled from my body and dragged towards the brilliant white light in the sky. The wailing screaming noise of some powerful tractor beam as it transported my soul to its destiny was weird and unearthly and it did indeed resemble the sound of a woman crying. Could it be The Cry Of The Banshee?

Then I found that I was in a room that appeared to be a hospital operating theatre… my spirit was lodged in a container that resembled a large medicine bottle and from somewhere quite close I heard gruff voices arguing loudly in words that I could barely understand.

“You have mucked it up again. Sooose! You’ve taken two when only one was scheduled… can’t you ever get it right?”

“Don’t always blame me… it’s this old equipment we have to put up with, I can never guarantee accuracy because everything is clapped out and outdated. It’s not my fault Baaass”

“Don’t blame the computer. Sooose! They don’t make the mistakes…but we do and now we have a big problem, what to do with this one.”

“We can abort him into space Baaass or we can send him below like we did to them older ones that we took last week. I reckon that’s the best idea, I’m sure Satan would be delighted to get a young one like this.”

“Well we must do something and quick before he wakes up…this one is very young indeed, there could be problems…why can’t you be more careful Sooose?”

Then as the voices grew louder and nearer I could see the characters who were plotting my future existence. They were two of the ugliest looking beings that I could ever imagine, more animal-like than human. Short skinny bodies covered in thick fur, a large head with bulging eyes; above the eyes they had two vicious-looking short horns. Their arms were skinny and abnormally long giving them an apelike appearance. I couldn’t see their feet but I could imagine cloven hoofs. They were obviously intelligent discounting their nasty appearance and they were about to cast judgement on my immortal soul.

The heated argument continued between the two horrible creatures and I was helpless to avoid whatever fate they were planning for me.

Then I heard another voice, a voice so strong and powerful as to fill the room and to cause the two horrors to fall prostrate onto the floor in fear or respect.

“You will send this one back to Earth immediately, prepare for his safe return and make no mistakes this time.” The booming voice commanded to be obeyed.

“This one is special, he will work for us. We will instruct him and guide him as we have done to many others before. He is young and has potential and he can go far, he can be very valuable to us…send him back at once.”

I awoke from that peculiar dream or nightmare to learn that my Uncle Pat had died whilst I slept the blissful sleep of youth and The Banshee had wailed twice that night. The neighbours reckoned Pat was indeed extra special.

Over the years as I have remembered bits and pieces of the strange event I have been able to comprehend the true meaning of the Wailing Fairy Woman. As for my potential I’m not sure if I have succeeded as they had planned but I am still here still doing what must be done. I try to do my best always and I have had a few successes along the way but that first win when I was 12 years old was sweet victory indeed.

I awoke to a new day and felt totally refreshed after the best nights sleep I had had for months but I was not in my own bed at home or in any other bed I should recognise, instead I was lying on a bunk in what appeared to be a hospital. But I couldn’t remember or imagine why I should be in such a place unless something unusual had occurred at last night’s party where I had been the guest of honour at a lavish celebration organised by my staff to mark my retirement from the company I founded almost forty years ago. It was their way of saying “Thanks” for the good years we had together, and what a party it was to be sure, well it must be because somewhere in the wee hours I slipped quietly into oblivion and that was all I remember until I awoke in this strange place.

I was blessed to have had the services of such a loyal and successful group of technicians and assistants who had served me faithfully and put-up with my many unreasonable demands over the years. They have been well rewarded for their hard work and dedication and they are all are major shareholders in a blue-chip company. Now at seventy-five years of age I would reluctantly bid “farewell” to everything that had been so important to me for so long. I will leave with the knowledge that the company is very strong and in the safe hands and not in need of a chairman who can no longer function to maximum capacity. I have noticed recently the signs of approaching senility… old age catches up with us all.

But where am I and why am I here? I’m in what resembles a hospital room, but it’s not like any I have seen before but it has that certain smell and clinical-cleanliness feeling about it. The room is cylindrical in shape, the only furnishings being the bunk that I’m lying on and a small desk and seat that seem to be cast into and forming part of the wall. On the roof above my bunk I see a digital display that is slowly counting down or going backwards whichever way one interprets is movement. Apart from that the room is bare with the walls and the ceiling decorated in an unusual greyish green colour or is it brown or white, it’s difficult to ascertain because the décor appears to be changing hues as I watch, unless my eyes are playing tricks on me. A faint hum almost resembling the rhythm of a powerful heartbeat permeates the room. I’m alone here in this cell-like compartment but I’m not afraid, in fact I feel really well, safe, secure…it’s almost uncanny.

Although my body is completely nude and there are no apparent covers over me a pleasant warmth envelops my whole being making me feel completely relaxed and at ease. If there was some way of experiencing life in the womb I reckon this would be similar. I feel as if I could just lie there forever, safe in the security of my virtual mother but that was not to be because I am a man of action. There must be something that needs doing. I try to sit-up only to discover that I’m unable to do so as my body appears to be restrained to the bunk with invisible bonds and it’s then I begin to feel concerned and thrash about trying my hardest to get free form whatever was holding me captive flat on my back and defenceless. I must have achieved my purpose because suddenly my right arm jerked free and my fist lashed hard into the wall beside my bunk. The wall reacted and moved away from the pressure of my knuckles and a small voice I believe to be female cried; ’OUCH’ and then sternly ‘You shouldn’t be awake yet…this is indeed a problem.’

What the hell! The wall is alive and talking to me…that can’t be right. I must be hallucinating; they must have spiked my Guinness, I thought. And there it goes again…that talking wall. It’s a male voice this time.

‘Don’t panic N Six… we do have a slight problem but it’s nothing we can’t handle, it has happened many times before…they wake up and they panic… we just erase the memory entirely and send them back to attend to their roses and they never know anything unusual happened or that they have been here. You leave it to me N Six…I’ll handle this problem. It’s my job to deal with the unexpected.’

‘Thanks D One. You take over the procedure from now?’

‘Mr O Sullivan! We have a problem… you shouldn’t be awake yet! N Six hasn’t finished her work on you so we may have to reverse the process.’ The talking wall chided.

‘What the hell’s going on?’ I demanded. ‘Where am I and what are you doing to me?’

‘You are in one of our debriefing and regeneration units where we prepare people like you for retirement on your world.’ The voice answered

‘I have retired…yesterday.’ I shouted. ‘And why is that bloody clock going backwards?’

‘We know you are scheduled to retire to-morrow the 30th of June and that’s why the clock is going in reverse, you see we have the ability to play around with time. Here we are the masters of time… we are not its slaves. In fact we can do as we wish with time because the past, present and future are as one in this world.’

‘What are you telling me?’ I demanded.

‘You have not retired yet on your world because we have not debriefed you properly. You have to do what is expected of you…you have no option. You are not capable of continuing in the important position you have held for many years but you just can’t walk away without making the final contribution and for that you need our assistance.’

‘Who in Gods name are you, are you telling me that you have abducted me and I am no longer on Earth?’

‘You are on Earth but it’s not your Earth, this Earth is in another dimension but occupying the same space… this is an anti-matter world where we can do much more with time than you can. My identity is of no importance and we work for a much higher authority. They are the controllers of the universe…we are the workers and we carry out their commands. One of our tasks is to recover data from the brilliant minds on your Earth and to safeguard that knowledge for the future and betterment of all of mankind. You are retiring because it’s time and you have been suffering a degree of short term memory loss…that’s why you are here.’

‘You have two choices in the dilemma we now face, you can have all memory of this encounter erased from your mind and that is what I would have done to you but for the intervention of my Superior Being from above. As you appear to be in a somewhat privileged category and may be considered of future use to the Lords of Time, you can choose to have that procedure done and have no memory of this encounter remain. The other choice is to go back and tell the world all about your adventure here. Of course no one will believe you, they will laugh at you as they have for years laughed at those who have seen UFO’s and such. They will ridicule everything you tell them and you will be called an idiot, a madman or worse but you know something they don’t…The Truth Is Out There.

‘The choice Mr O Sullivan is your’s. If you do choose the second option you can join a creative writing group… science fiction is always in demand.

The evening shadows were drawing in as I set off from my hotel in Dingle Co-Kerry on the twenty-five-mile drive to the village of Polaphuca. I thought I knew every town and village in Ireland as I had travelled the length and breadth of the island since I was a teenager, almost thirty long years as a rock-n-roll musician, but I had never been to Polaphuca, in fact I had never heard of the place until I received the message the night before.

And a weird sort of message it was too…an invitation, unlike any I had ever seen before, a note written in red ink on a black card. I don’t remember it being delivered to my room but it was there on my pillow when I awoke…how it got there I do not know, but I was somewhat out of it last night so anyone could have sneaked in and placed it on my pillow as I slept.

‘You are invited to the Polaphuca Monster Gig on June 21st be there at midnight. Bring your guitar. Come alone.’

A hand-drawn sketch gave some basic directions to the venue. And the date ‘June 21st…that’s today’s date.’ I wondered why I hadn’t heard anything about The Gig from my friends in the music game.

As I sped through the darkness towards the mountain region to Polaphuca, which according to the sketch was located somewhere amongst the rolling Magillicuddy Reeks that formed the border between Co- Cork and Kerry. I saw the weird glow in the sky and I heard the sound of the celebrations long before I could see where they were coming from. ‘They ‘re really having a ball up there.’ I thought as the sound from powerful amplifiers blasted out an ear-shattering awful noise, a strange medley of weird music and above that din the sound of a thousand human throats in torment or ecstasy. Whatever celebrations were being enacted up ahead I had never heard anything like it before.

I parked my ageing Ford Cortina on a side road, surprised that I was able to actually find a parking spot so close to the big party and I approached the commotion on foot through the massive oak trees that seemed to rear up into the heavens. As I got closer I was able to make some sense out that awful din and my musical ear determined that a large number of pop bands were there and they were all playing at the same time. Playing might be an exaggeration; they must be trying to outdo each other for the sheer volume of noise they were each band was generating. I imagined there might be a competition for big prize money underway.

I recognised most of the sounds as I drew closer and I thought there is no way all of the famous and best-known groups were together at the one venue…most likely it was some crazy DJ trying to impress the simple country youngsters. There in a natural amphitheatre set in the middle of the tree-shrouded hills, I saw the huge log fire with its flames leaping twenty feet or more into the night sky and around that inferno thousands of nude young people were cavorting around on the grass in an orgy of sexual depravity.

On a massive stage under a craggy outcrop in a sheltered area adjacent to the heaving mass of humanity the biggest rock concert I had ever seen or heard was in full swing. All the big names were there, the famous faces from across the world doing what they do best but this time they were exceeding all the limits with the never-ending recital of their hits… non-stop they blasted out the songs that had made them famous and very rich. No sooner had one number finished but another started.

I don’t know how long I lay there hidden amongst the trees because I was totally enthralled by what I was witnessing, maybe but for a few minutes or more likely it was much longer than that. I looked at my watch and saw it was approaching the hour of midnight and I was drawn from my vantage point down to that terrible musical fiasco, with my invitation in hand and my guitar over my shoulder I joined that reckless mob of humanity.

The noise was deafening and my eardrums ached and threatened to burst. The heat from that enormous fire was overpowering and soon I too was compelled to start shedding my clothing as the other members of that depraved assembly had already done. I stood there in a state of shock and confusion awaiting instructions or a greeting from whoever was running the show. And then I saw him as he cleared a path through the path of nude bodies… a very tall fellow wearing a skin-tight red bodysuit. He was the only one there in fancy dress in fact he was the only one wearing clothing of any type. I had no idea who he was but I felt sure I had met him somewhere sometime in the distant past. He called out in a booming voice that echoed above the awful din.

‘Welcome! I’m so glad you could make it…did you come alone?’

‘Yes! I came alone, as instructed.’ I stammered in my confusion.

‘Stoke up the fire,’ he roared. ‘Our special guest has arrived.’

The flames shot high into the sky as another batch of humanity were tossed into the flames, the screams of the victims drowned out by the drone of the unending cacophony.

‘Come! You must play for us.’ He was pushing me towards the nearby stage. ‘ You have done well for yourself over the years but you wouldn’t have without my help… now it’s time to play for your benefactor. It’s payback time.’

‘Don’t you remember our deal?’ He shouted and he grabbed my arm in a vice-like grip.

As he kicked more of the heaving mass of nude bodies out of the way I saw his cloven hooves and I knew then he wasn’t in fancy dress. I knew who he was. I had met him a long time ago when I was struggling to make a living on the Rock circuit. There were a great many rock concerts since then but I did remember the night when I had signed in blood.

I smashed my guitar into his sneering ugly face and I managed to break free from his grip. I ran from that terrible place as fast as my legs would carry me and I escaped with only the scratches from the oak tree branches that lashed my naked body as I raced through the undergrowth back to my car. Thankfully I had left the keys under the driver’s seat and I was soon heading back to safety and sanity… I saw the bridge just a short distance ahead and I knew I would be safe once I had crossed over running water.

I never played the rock scene after that night… that was one bad trip one I wouldn’t want repeated. Sex, Drugs & Rock ‘n’ Roll… never again.

“How come you’re not married yet? He asked. You’re not gay are you?”

“What do you mean… Am I gay, of course I’m not gay! It’s just that I never had any spare time to think about a wife and looking after the old woman hasn’t been exactly easy.”

“Ah! That’s just your excuse.”

“It’s been all hard work this past six years since she fell off the roof and chipped her spine and broke her hip, she had been house-bound. I had to do everything around the place, and that left me little time to go chasing after the ladies.”

“If you had looked after our mother properly you wouldn’t have had that problem. Why you let a seventy-five-year-old woman up on the roof on a day that was pouring down with rain I’ll never know. Surely you could have waited for a fine day to clean the god-damn chimney?”

“It’s alright for you to talk Bill… you don’t have to live here, but I do. She was the one who always insisted on going up on the roof. I was the fool that always got covered in soot. It’s no joke pulling a holly branch up and down the chimney flue, but you wouldn’t know about that would you …you never had to put up with such problems.”

The chimney had to be cleaned every year just before Christmas, it was a tradition in rural Ireland to clean the house from top to bottom in preparation for the Holy Season of Xmas and it had to be done when she wanted it done. Mother was headstrong and she always got her way. My brother Bill knew that too, but he was living far away in America and not involved, except to question my ability as a carer.

“Well she’s gone now. ‘The Lord Grant Her Peace’, so there is no reason why you can’t get yourself a wife. Don’t you want the Murphy name to continue in the old homestead?”

“Of course I do! But I think I’ve left it a bit late, it’s not easy for a fellow of my age to find a suitable partner. The young ladies round here don’t want a forty-six-year-old man as a bedmate when there are so many young fellas available. That’s part of the problem.”

“That’s just silly talk, there must be plenty fine ladies out there who would jump at the chance to move in here. You are just making excuses, you could find one if you put your mind to it!”

“This isn’t America, Bill.” I retorted “I’ve heard about the American girls who chase the men for their money, well I don’t have any money for them to chase and if I did, I wouldn’t be giving it to some gold digger. No way, I’m not that silly. Anyhow I’m much too busy to worry about women, I’ve got so much to do.”

“That’s just another excuse, Mick. I think you enjoy your own company too much, you like being alone, I reckon you are scared of the idea of marriage? Are you sure you’re not gay?”

“No I’m not bloody gay, I told I wasn’t. Just let it be, will you.”

I’ll be glad when he goes back to America, to that fat wife of his and her six spoiled brats. He walked into that one with his eyes shut… imagine marrying a widow with six children, just because she happened to be worth a few dollars and that was her late husband’s insurance payout. He wants me to be like him, My Unhappy Brother. He’s jealous of my freedom and my carefree lifestyle, I have everything I need here. I have my cows, my sheep, my dogs and nobody to nag me and I can make a few sales off the land any time the need for cash arises. So why spoil a good thing and what’s wrong with loving my animals and my land. If that’s being gay, well it’s a great life.

“No I’m not gay,” I shouted, “I’m just not interested at the moment, can we just leave it at that?”

But he wouldn’t leave it… he was insistent.

“You know what Mick, I think you might need help in finding a good wife, you’re not going to do it yourself, maybe I can get you introduced to someone. What do you say to that idea?”

What could I say, he’s so mad keen to see me hitched up, it might be fun to play along with him, but I mustn’t get too excited.

“What do you mean, you help me find someone, I told you before that I’m much too busy and I’m not really in the mood for love right now.”

“All the more reason you should have a good lady to look after you, and I think I know just the one for you, it’s my wife’s younger sister: Angelina. You remember her at our wedding, she was the one in the nuns’ habit.”

“A nun! You want me to marry a nun?” Bill must be losing his marbles I thought.

“She is not a nun any more; she left the convent two years ago after twenty-four years service. She has a good job now with prospects. She teaches junior school, she is single and like you not very interested in the opposite sex.”

“I’ll bet she’s not…and you ask me if I am gay.” But he wouldn’t be put off.

“Fly out with me next week, lock the place up and have a few weeks in the Big Apple, get to know Angelina. I’m sure you’ll like her.”

To get him off my back I finally agreed. I was lucky one of my near neighbour’s son John was home on holidays from Galway University where he was studying veterinary science and he was more than happy to earn a few quid and I knew my stock and property would be in good hands for the month I would be away.

I went with my brother Bill to New York to be introduced to Angelina, and what a cracker she turned out to be. Out of the drab grey nun’s habit she was stunning. She might have been forty years old, but she certainly had some form. I thought she was the most beautiful lady I had ever seen except in the movies and what a figure…wow.

I knew right away we would become real friendly and she was keen to learn all about my lifestyle and showed a genuine interest in me. “We seem to have a lot in common.” I thought. We felt completely at ease with each other as if we had been together for a long time not merely a few short hours. I knew then we would be more than friends. Angelina showed me through her spacious house from cellar to attic, leaving her bedroom until last. I looked for signs of convent life and was relieved to find there was none. She appeared to be a sensible down-to-earth person and I felt sure she would one day make a great farmers wife. I had visions of her milking the cows on a cold and frosty midwinter’s morning but I wondered if she would be prepared to give up the luxury of the good life in New York for the relative hardship of rural Ireland. But then…

Then came that wonderful magical first kiss…the long years of denial went into that first passionate embrace…twenty-four years of solitude she had endured behind the closed doors of the convent were forgotten, many lonely years of herding cattle and sheep erased from my memory as we explored new territory where neither of us had walked before, a world of pleasure, of rapture and delight. And then came the pain when Bill poked me hard in the ribs.

“Wake up Mick! We touchdown at Kennedy Airport in fifteen minutes.”

“Had a good sleep, did you?”

Most people would think it stupid to make any form of contact with one’s fellow travellers, but in the cramped older style trains once fashionable across the world it would be difficult not to make eye contact at the very least. But one would never ever expect to make bodily contact of the type I am about to describe. It was on such a train that I experienced this strange incident that was to have a profound influence on me and to cause me to look at my lifestyle from an entirely different perspective.

It was Christmas Eve 1984 and as usual I was very late in my efforts to get to my parents home in the West of Ireland. I had expected to catch the 3 pm train and be there in the early evening around 7pm. that was when the one and only train from Dublin usually arrived but a major hitch in my planning mainly caused by my overindulgence in the city highlife saw my departure delayed by almost four hours. I was twenty-four years old and living on the wild side determined to enjoy life to its fullest. I was footloose, unattached and playing the field and revelling in the many pleasures and temptations of the flesh and the crazy way-out lifestyle of the big city. Time and timetables did not always seem important to my mixed-up brain. That was the cause of my predicament on this Christmas Eve.

Houston Station was just about to close its gates for the long holiday weekend as I rushed on to Platform 9. I had defiantly missed the scheduled train but I was hoping I might be able to catch a late train to take me even part of the way to my destination in County Mayo. My luck was in; a train was about to depart and the porter shoved my heavy backpack and myself into the last carriage just before the train moved off en-route to the western side of the island.

“You only just made it this time, young fellow,” the elderly porter told me as he stowed my backpack in the overhead rack. “This is the last train west for three days. You’re lucky they put on this extra special to cater for latecomers such as you. It’s company policy to try to get you stragglers home to their loved ones for the festive season. This one is a non-stop express to Galway City and it looks as if you will have the whole compartment all to yourself. Have a safe journey, take care and have a Happy Christmas.”

I wished the old fellow a “Happy Christmas” and tipped him the price of a beer. I was indeed really lucky to get out of Dublin that evening, that special train being the only option, we didn’t have the luxury of an airport in the west and I settled down for the four-hour journey to Galway, from there it was a mere twenty miles to home and I could easily get a cab or cadge a lift. As I was the only occupant in the compartment I could grab a few hours sleep and hopefully arrive in Galway refreshed and in good spirits.

It was a special train, that’s for sure. I hadn’t seen one like it since I was a boy but I was not about to complain about anything that night. I was just keen to get home and to meet up with my family and the many friends of my youth who like me would be returning home for the Christmas holidays. This was one of the older types of carriages where each compartment was separate from the rest and as many as ten or twelve passengers would sit facing each other, sometimes without speaking on a long trip of many hours because they hadn’t been introduced. But that would not be a problem to me this night, as I was alone in that compartment I could lay down full length on the long seat and soon I was sound asleep catching up on many lost hours of rest.

I don’t know how long I slept until I was awoken by the sound of loud snoring and I saw the figure of an elderly man lying full length on the seat opposite. I had not seen him come on board at Westland Row Station and the porter said it was a non-stop train to Galway City, so I reckoned he must have been in another compartment and had decided same as me that a few hours sleep would be exactly what he needed. He was snoring loudly so I didn’t anticipate any communication with him.

I settled down for the second time that night but I found that sleep did not come so easily and through narrowed eyelids I watched my fellow traveller, there was something about him that was causing me a fair degree of concern but I knew not what or why. I had the feeling that I had seen this man before but could not recall where, an unkempt grey beard covered most of his face making it difficult to recognize, but I felt almost sure that I knew him from somewhere in the past. Maybe we had crossed paths in one of the many city hotels, where I was a regular patron but I guessed he was but a fellow traveller like me, going home to someone special for Christmas. I closed my eyes and once more I nodded off.

I was unaware of anything amiss until I was jolted awake for the second time that night by a heavy blow to my chest, I felt as though my ribcage was being crushed in a powerful grip. There was a flash and all the lights the compartment went out, plunging our space into almost complete darkness. Except for the one small globe in the access corridor outside the rest of the carriage lights had shut down. I struggled to sit-up but something very heavy was lying across my chest, pinning me to the seat flat on my back. It was my fellow traveller who was doing his best to choke the life out of me and I could do little to protect myself. He was very strong indeed and I was helpless as a baby, I was completely at his mercy.

His crazy eyes bored into mine, the stench from his alcohol-soaked breath and his unwashed body was unbearable, his untidy grey beard was streaked with spittle as he screamed obscenities at me. As he tried hard to throttle the breath from my body and as I slowly lost consciousness I saw two young people, a male and a female appear in the compartment. I saw the female plunge a hypodermic needle into the arm of the madman and then he slowly released his vice-like grip from around my throat and I was able to grab some life-saving air.

As they dragged him off my inert body I was able to clearly see his face and I knew then where I had seen this man before. It was a face I knew very well, a face I can never forget.

The young male smiled and said “Slow it down man! Heed well this warning. Remember this night… but it never really happened… just slow it down.” He shoved a hypodermic needle into the side of my neck behind my ear.

Then they vanished, gone as if they had never existed.

The porter roused me from my stupor in Galway City just after 11 pm and apart from a painful rib that may well be cracked when my backpack had tumbled down on me from the overhead rack whilst I slept I felt really refreshed as if I had slept for a very long time. I reckoned I had experienced a weird dream or nightmare or was my reckless highlife finally catching up on me. Whatever had occurred on that train it was the catalyst for a dramatic lifestyle change. I never told anyone about my strange experience until now…I just went about making subtle changes to my behaviour. My chest pain cleared up within a few with no lasting effects but to this day there is a small red mark on my neck behind my ear.

Well that was more than twenty years ago and it did indeed have a profound effect on my future lifestyle; I did heed the warning and I did slow down. I had been given a second chance and thankfully I was capable of recognizing the danger signs and doing something about them.

Luck was indeed on my side because I managed to find a job that suited my requirements and my personality. I worked hard and learnt a lot about commercial banking. I was rewarded well for my efforts and was promoted to the position of branch manager after a few short years of hard work. Now I have reached the top of the heap, where I hope to stay for a long time. The crazy lifestyle of the big city was no longer a magnet to me and I settled down in the safe familiar surroundings of the town of my birth. I was back home.

Now every time I look into the mirror I can still see the face of the madman who almost took my life that night. I appreciate my good fortune, my lovely family, my fine home and my position of importance. As I stroke my neatly trimmed grey beard I contemplate and wonder how differently my life might have turned out if I had missed that last special train out of Houston Station on Christmas Eve so long ago.