《Stories From Summonitores Libro》 NOVEMBER 1991 - Part 1 DERMOT Dermot sat at the same table every day. He rocked his torso and rolled his head aimlessly, humming and hawing in intense conversation that always looked so meaningful, except nobody else was anywhere near him. I couldn''t sit with Dermot again. I had already witnessed two epileptic fits in class, the second of which bloodied my nose as his seizure flung him rigid to the side, his oversized helmet catching me square in the face as I instinctively turned my body to support him. His fits seemed so random, so completely out of nowhere. Even as a ten year old, I pondered what it must be like to live in such continual fear. My heart felt heavy with guilt every time I saw him. Eventually he left school for a more suitable learning environment, much to everyone''s delight, including the teachers whose collective relief was reflected in their improved attitude toward our raised hands and inane giggling. His empty chair stayed empty, as if not to tempt some similar eventuality. To me, its image became a cruel epitaph to his time at school. I know I didn''t try hard enough with him, as a kid I couldn''t describe the feeling I got when glancing at his table. In adulthood, I recognise that feeling to be shame. Not by choice, I was seated permanently with Ben in class. A gangly boy with an attitude problem, the kind of kid an adult would describe as having a chip on his shoulder and likely the son of a salesman, given his stingy lunch-box swaps. Always two of my things for one of his. I lost a lot of puppy fat in year 5 of junior school, my mothers strawberry compote sandwiches were swapped regularly with carrot and cucumber sticks. Ben, trading beans for cattle, became wide and unwieldy. His neatly cut hair, rose red cheeks and seemingly inexhaustible supply of pristine uniform, belied his stupidity. I detested every word that came from his mouth, especially when he sensed weakness or unease. Dermot was always easy pickings for Ben, a quick fix when verbally torturing other kids became too challenging for his limited intellect. Six months into the school year, still sat with Ben, the headmaster introduces our new teacher, Mrs Tapscott. The unruly class gradually quietened to total silence as she sat at the piano with her tilted head resting on the palm of her hand, smiling broadly. Mrs Tapscott never had to ask for silence, her kind eyes and smile encouraged compliance in a way the headmasters red-faced bellowing could never achieve in school assemblies. She was a new breed of teacher. Absent were the fire and brimstone hand waving demands for respect, instead she adopted teaching principles that gently informed you of your responsibilities, delivered in parabolic tales that seemed to have been gathered from every corner of the earth and for every possible indiscretion. For the first time in most of our young lives, we were allowed an opinion and to form interpretation born of our own discoveries and not those of our parents. Commonly held working class principles became malleable and made way for versions of our elders stories that were rooted in love, not fear. Ben, of course, saw no sense in anything she had to say. One winter day in 1991, his wretched mouth would deliver me to the malevolence. Our return from half-term holiday came with changes. The tables and teaching apparatus had been moved into a semi-circle and Dermot''s table had been assimilated somewhere within the new arrangement. Ben''s eyes widened as he closed in on the space next to mine and with typically irreverent ardour declared ''who will be sat at the spastic table?''. Spastic was not a new word to me, my father had referred to me regularly as a spastic whilst shaking his hands limply from the wrist and moving his eyes upward, usually when I had returned from the shops with something similar to what I had been sent to get, but wasn''t quite what was asked for. I understood it to mean a person with limited mental capability. I knew how it made me feel, I knew that Mrs Tapscott would feel hurt by its use. She turned her head in our direction, looked at me warmly and smiled. DAD The telephone never rang at home, and if it did, someone had died. I expected this call to inform us of the death of my grandad who had recently undergone a cataracts operation, a minor surgery inflated in importance by the neurosis of my mother. My sister and I sat cross legged in silence as dad pushed on his thick forearms to lift himself out of the armchair and lumber toward the telephone. The receiver disappeared in his huge hand and looked as if he was holding just a fist to his ear. He answered in the same way he greeted people at the door, on the radio at work and whenever I looked like I had a question but wasn''t brave enough to disturb his peace.''Yeah?'' he barked. He turned his torso and the eye that I could see was looking up and down at me. I knew that look. I got the same one when I broke the shed door. I knew nothing of my fathers history. Nothing about his parents and very little about his surviving brothers and sisters. Our extended family were distant, a select few gathering once yearly at Christmas in awkward silence. I remember a girl running over to me at school before the Christmas holidays, announcing that we were cousins. I had never seen her before. After sheepishly approaching my father with questions, I learned that my uncle Tom lived two streets away. A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. Not wanting to push my luck with dad, I quizzed my mother and discovered we had six uncles and aunts living in the same town, all of them with children. It wasn''t until my fathers death 30 years later that I discovered he and his siblings were subject to the tyranny of an alcoholic father, a shared trauma that bound them together as young people, but separated them as adults for fear of any discussion about experiences that they all took decades to recover from. In adulthood, I understood his demeanour. As a child, he was more frightening to me than any closet lurking monster could possibly be. Mum had an easy time of it whilst he was a work, the appearance of his hulking silhouette at our open bedroom door when returning from a late shift and having received a rundown of the days events, was enough to keep us all in line. Father was a senior detective for Surrey Police. A couple of visits to his place of work impressed upon me the need to communicate clearly with him, especially when you are in the wrong. Hard but fair was the crux of the collective eulogy on his life from peers at his funeral. He never looked more like a policeman than he did looking at me with the phone in his hand. Despite his casual wear, I saw him in his uniform. I knew I was in for some questions, but also that I had done nothing wrong and that he would know I was telling the truth. I couldn''t maintain any lie, my right eyebrow would wobble with the stress. ''Did he?, hang on a sec.'' he said, placing the receiver on his chest, he turned to fully face me. ''Did you call some kid a spastic?'' At first, I made no connection between the claim and what had happened at school. I wracked my brain for answers. After an uncomfortable pause, it dawned on me what was happening. I spoke angrily in response. ''No. That wasn''t me, that was Ben Arness'' My fathers face immediately turned into a half smile and he placed the receiver back to his ear. ''He says he didn''t. Looks like he''s telling the truth to me.'' His responses seemed so abstract, I couldn''t work out what was being discussed. He then looked directly at my sister with his smile broadening. ''We were looking at a permanent place like that for him anyway, we caught him sucking a door handle when he was five.'' My sister blurted out a laugh and pushed me to one side. The event referred to, brought up as often as it could remain funny, made me embarrassed. ''Yeah, that''s fine by me. Okay. Thanks, bye.'' ''What happened?'' I asked. ''You my son, are going on a little field trip.'' MRS RABASANDRATANA We were driving somewhere in rural Surrey. A thick morning mist made visibility poor and there were several stops to allow deer crossing the road a safe path into the adjacent meadows. Mr Column, the school caretaker, was driving, with Mrs Tapscott in the front passenger seat. My father had warned of the potential for travel sickness, giving a detailed description at the school gate of the time I projectile vomited onto the back of his head as we drove toward our static caravan in Great Yarmouth. Before too long, I could feel my stomach churning. Every now and then, Mrs Tapscott would turn her head around, smile and ask if I was doing alright. I nodded, afraid that opening my mouth might encourage a now liquefied breakfast onto the back of Mr Columns head. In reality, I only ever vomited once in a car. My fathers reaction and tall storytelling had filled me with anxiety. On every subsequent journey my imagination worked overtime to convince me there would be an outrageous regurgitation event. I then imagined puking so violently that my face bursts with the pressure and organs are ejected all over the windscreen, sending us skidding off the road to our deaths. I needed the journey to be over. We turned off a main road onto a shingle path. There were lightly wooded fields either side. I became distracted from my thoughts by the people tending to flowerbeds. Many were joyful, raising their hands and clapping. Some were just stood staring at others working. One man was very close to the car on the side I was sitting. I turned my head to look as we passed. His eyes seemed too small for his face and his jaw was large giving him a grimaced look. Correcting my posture, I began to look closer at others as we slowly rolled by. Most of them had a similar appearance. I looked forward and caught Mrs Tapscott watching me in the rear view mirror. There was no smile this time. I had no idea what was happening, but remember feeling dread, despite the effervescent vocables that could be heard all around me. The car began to turn with the path and a grand house partially covered in red creepers, came into view. The car stopped, with Mrs Tapscott exiting without a word to either me or Mr Column. She disappeared into the open half of a thick wooden double door and returned seconds later pushing an old lady in a wheelchair. She waved me out of the car and as I approached asked me to introduce myself to Mrs Rabasandratana. Dad warned me about people that looked like the old lady, claiming I needed to stay away from them or I''d end up being turned into a toad. He called them Gypsies. Her face was pursed and looked like my grandad did when he removed his false teeth. Her jet black hair was visible through an untidily fitted headscarf and her dress was navy blue with white dots. I remember her bare feet looked remarkably young, with pristine toenails painted pink and entirely absent were the thick green lines visible on my own grandmothers feet. I sheepishly said hello, before Mrs Rabasandratana took my hand and shook it gently, speaking words in a language I didn''t understand. I was asked to roll her back into the building, but didn''t quite have the strength to push the wheels through the shingle. Mrs Tapscott was about to take over when Mrs Rabasandratana stood up and and skipped inside. I had no idea what to make of it, but instinctively looked behind me for the exit. Mr Column had already gone. NOVEMBER 1991 - Part 2 PURPLE SHIRTS I was led room by room around the enormous estate and read sections of an information booklet between introductions. Victoria House was built and owned by a Rhodesian silversmith, named in honour of the Queen at the time of its completion. When the grandson of the builder died, he left in in trust to the charity he founded, also called Victoria House. At the time of my visit it housed 160 people with developmental and learning disabilities. I discovered that the strange looking folk I saw outside had Down Syndrome. Once we had arrived at the halls of residence, I was taken into a small room by a tall bearded man and given a list of rules to memorise. I was not allowed into the halls until I could recite them all. One rule stood out, the last on the list and the only one I accurately recall. Do not talk to residents wearing purple shirts. I was lead into a large hall with zigzagged parquet flooring and three very tall windows with semi-circle Celtic wooden toppers at the far end of the room. A very old piano sat centrally and a man with a step ladder was working above it, fiddling with wires in the ceiling. Dust was falling onto the top of the piano and glistened on its descent as the sun broke through the clouds and flooded into the hall. A large peacock coloured tortoiseshell light-shade rested on the floor nearby. I had never seen a place like this before, It looked like more money had been invested in the soft furnishings than in the entirety of my parents house. Mrs Tapscott walked me over to the windows. I touched the curtains that accompanied them. They were otherworldly luxurious on my fingers. Here I was introduced to Rosie, a middle aged woman with Down Syndrome in a pink dress, with a large sunflower bow clipped to straight shoulder length brown hair. She had seen me touching the curtain and began running her hands on them before backing into one and wrapping herself inside. Cocooned, I could see her bending her knees up and down. It seemed the luxury of Victoria House was not lost on Rosie. She giggled until giggling turned into total rapture and a staff member was summoned to calm her down. Her laughing was music to me and I was caught smiling from ear to ear by Mrs Tapscott. I was told that I''d be reading to Rosie and that I should pick a book from the reading corner and take a seat. As I strolled across, a group of six residents made there way into the centre of the room and began to ask questions of the electrician. He seemed completely at ease with them, made his was down the ladder and sat at the piano. The room was then full of music I recognised. Despite my mothers neurosis, she had always been liberal with the arts and what I was allowed to see as a child. We were both big horror fans and together would consume works by auteurs of the macabre in print and on celluloid. Despite never fully understanding context, at eight I had read every Clive Barker novel and short story, regularly rifling through mothers book collection for the nastiest looking cover I could find. When it wasn''t all about the horror, it was all about Doctor Who. Mother insisted the best Doctor was Patrick Troughton, whom I recognised as the priest from The Omen and so had decided the same. The electrician was playing the Doctor Who opening theme with gusto. After a few minutes observing the scene, the body language of the residents was beginning to change and I could sense something brewing. They were swaying from side to side, as if anticipating something. The electrician seemed none the wiser, said something I couldn''t make out and got up from the stool. One resident walked slowly toward the electrician and slammed his hand onto the top of the piano. After a few awkward seconds he shouted ''play . . it . . again''. The others shared glances, then began to support his demand with shouts of ''yeah'' and ''play''. I couldn''t see the electricians face, but could see he had a defensive posture, raising his hands, palms facing forward. Before any further escalation, the tall bearded guy appeared again and led the antagonist away. With that the others dispersed and made their way separately through various doorways. I retrieved a copy of The Hobbit, sat on one of the chairs and waited for Rosie. Now that she was completely calm, Mrs Tapscott brought her over accompanied by the bearded man. Behind him I could see the piano slamming man sitting on a chair, arms folded, wearing a purple shirt. THE BEARDED MAN Rosie wasn''t remotely interested in what I was reading, though I persisted for thirty minutes or so, her agitation was obvious throughout. Mrs Tapscott asked repeatedly what the matter was, at which point Rosie would look at the bearded man, as if seeking permission to speak, then would readjust her sitting position and cease looking around for a few minutes before resuming the behaviour. I caught Mrs Tapscott glaring at the bearded man, who seemed too focused on Rosie to notice. When he decided it was fruitless to read any further, he stood and announced there had been enough excitement for one morning and led her away across the hall and through a bottle green door. Stolen story; please report. I placed The Hobbit back into the shelves when a frayed book, sitting atop a row of leather bound encyclopedias, caught my eye. It was called Summonitores Libro. It looked old, with thick yellowing pages, many of which were loose, a few floating onto the floor as I opened it. As I reached down to recover them, Mrs Tapscott suggested we should go and meet some of the other residents. Placing the book under my arm, we walked side-by-side toward the green door. As we were about to push it open, a man accompanied by a police officer in uniform entered the hall. The bearded man opened the green door as we were about to go through it, almost knocking Mrs Tapscott backward. Without a word, he made a beeline straight for the man in the suit. I heard the man introduce himself as DI Broad. The female officer with him looked over at us and tilted her head slightly, then made her way over. She referred to me by name, and asked me if I was Derek''s son. Stunned, I said yes. She smiled and said that my father had shown her a photograph of me and my sister on Holiday in Great Yarmouth and that my mother had babysat her when she was a kid. Her smile disappeared, the pleasantries ceased and I was questioned as to what brought me to Victoria House. Mrs Tapscott interceded, moving slightly to one side, ushering the officer away from me so they could speak privately. I had been asking myself the same question. What was I doing there? Why me and not Ben? She knew me well and couldn''t possibly have thought it had been me saying those words. And my father showing photographs? It seemed as though he could barely stand to be inside the same house as me most of the time. The alleged display of sentimentality was way out of character. I tried to hear what was being discussed by the bearded man and DI Broad. From what I could work out, one of the residents was missing, something was said about needing a statement and the voices were raised. The bearded man looked ashen as they shook hands. The inspector, whilst slim, was sweating profusely and wiping his brow throughout their short conversation. The bearded man departed into the little room where he had shared the rules with me and the officers now stood together. They were whispering to one another, holding their hands over their mouths. Broad looked over took a couple of steps toward me. ''Keep your eyes peeled son'', he said. As they made their way toward the exit, the Down Syndrome man wearing the purple shirt shouted ''he fed Gilly to a worm''. Both officers turned around to see who spoke out, looking confused, they glanced at one another and left. I walked over to the hall windows to see the officers standing on the driveway next to an unmarked black car. In the back seat, I could make out the figure of a large man. I noticed the burning tip of a cigarette and a large cloud of smoke escape through the drivers door as DI Broad entered the vehicle. The figure felt familiar, someone I knew. All of my fathers male colleagues were big men, seemingly a prerequisite in 1970''s police recruitment policy, utilized for intimidation and compliance. As they drove away, I felt a drop in my stomach. THE RAIN Mrs Tapscott decided that after lunch our field trip should be cut short and made arrangements for Mr Column to return and pick us up. From the hall windows I could see black clouds were swarming. I had only ever seen clouds that dark during the hurricane in 1987. They didn''t look real, as if painted onto the sky. Lurching toward Victoria House, they brought a howling gale that animated pot plants and tested the flexibility of the bushes and newly planted trees in the fields beyond the driveway. Before too long, the gloom had smothered the area and everything appeared as dusk. With every minute that passed, the drum rolls of thunder grew louder, as if the clouds were accompanied by a descending army on horseback. Then came the rain and I could barely see a few feet out from the window. I wasn''t sure how sensible it was for Mr Column to drive to Victoria House, I certainly didn''t want to be in a car during a storm. I imagined a series of grimly ending vignettes in anticipation of our journey home. Quite a lot of them included vomit. My father had always stressed to me, typically when commenting on my school work, that if something sounds or looks important, it probably is. His instruction, bolstered by twenty years of experience in the police, wading through undulant swamp in search of gold, was to write everything down. In the absence of pen and paper, repeat it over and over again until you can recite everything you have seen or heard, backwards. I could feel his influence, and just for a moment, his hands on my shoulders. It felt like pressure to speak up. I needed to better understand what I was doing at Victoria House. My gaze left the violence of the weather and my eyes browsed the hall for Mrs Tapscott. She was standing beside the bearded man, who was wearing a coat, as if he were ready to leave the safety of the building. I heard him say, ''I''ll be back soon'' before he left. I had questions in my mind, but wasn''t sure how I could ask them to get satisfying answers, I wasn''t exactly a talker. I ran through the observations I had made. One. Excluding the bearded man, there were only 4 members of staff that I had counted during introductions. This seemed oddly light for 160 residents and it didn''t seem at all surprising that a resident had gone missing. Two. Mrs Tapscott seemed very familiar with everything that went on and seemed to know the bearded man quite well, this needed an explanation. Three. Purple shirt man was still sitting, arms folded, in the same chair and two hours had passed. Despite his calm, this seemed cruel. Four. The information booklet I was reading said that people with Down Syndrome can easily become frustrated, I would be out of my mind sat in the same chair for that length of time, how could he be so calm? Five. Where were all of the other residents? Of the 160, I had only see a handful come into the hall and I had seen none of those working on flowerbeds when I arrived, return. I was going to make my way over to Mrs Tapscott when I heard a tap at the window. It was Mr Column. Maybe these questions wouldn''t need answering after all. NOVEMBER 1991 - Part 3 DOORS & WINDOWS Mr Column, stood beneath a suspended plant pot that topped the window outside, was bone dry. Neither his hair or his coat were blowing with the wind. By this point the rain was so heavy around him that large pools of water had formed in dips in the shingle where cars had driven through. I could see rainwater dropping onto his shoulders as it spilled from the pot, but there appeared to be no impact splash. He stared back, and shrugged as if to suggest I should be doing something I wasn''t. He then pointed toward the entrance, pushed his index finger against his thumb and made a turning motion with them. I called to Mrs Tapscott that Mr Column had arrived and that he couldn''t get in. She looked puzzled and made her way through the double doors to the offices and reception area. I turned back to see Mr Column walking calmly off to my left. I ran after Mrs Tapscott, through the double doors to find her talking to Mr Column through a letterbox, from which a beam of sunlight pierced the darkness of the windowless entrance hall. My skin tingled. As Mrs Tapscott explored the entrance hall of Victoria House for light switches, Mr Column held open the letterbox to allow the sun in. Peering through it, I could see nothing but darkness outside, despite the light that shone through on our side of the door. I could hear thunder and the sound of heavy rain, but Mr Column insisted he was bathed in winter sun, even stating in bad taste that the residents behaviours were rubbing off. Eventually, after every office accessible from the reception had been explored, Mrs Tapscott made her way up a flight of stairs and ordered me back into the main hall as she ascended. Mr Column stated he would make his way back to the car. I did as I was told and decided that if I sat and read a book, nothing bad would happen and time would pass quickly until the bearded man returned. I had been carrying Summonitores Libro in the back of my trousers, hidden under my school blazer. Having flicked through the first three pages, my interest had been instantly peaked by the bizarre images and decided it was worth the risk and the wrath of my father to sneak it out of Victoria House and get it home. I had time to have a closer look and so took a seat in the reading corner to digest the content. Much to my annoyance, the book was written in a foreign language. I examined the images, most of them animals reminiscent of the kind in Dungeons and Dragons. Along with beasts from known fantasy lore, like fairies and the manticore, were demons, horned clouds and wisps riding bulls and warthogs. The images were illustrated beautifully in black ink, the vision of each monster realised with a shading style that made them bulge from the pages. After an hour or so had passed, I heard the door swing, lifted my eyes from the page and saw Mrs Tapscott stride across the hall to the bottle green door. As she went through, I noticed Mrs Rabasandratana had entered without me noticing. She was staring at me. Mrs Rabasandratana continued to glare at me from the opposite side of the hall. As much as I tried to avoid looking straight back, I couldn''t for fear of losing track of her. A series of much shorter vignettes of my imminent death had been playing in my mind. I closed the book, put it on the floor and struck up the courage to ask if she was okay. She stood from her wheelchair and began a painfully slow walk toward me. I could hear her muttering something in a foreign language. I again asked if she was okay before her slow walk turned into a full on sprint. I gripped the arms of the chair as the muttering became full on screeching. I peeled back and closed my eyes once I realised I had delayed too long to get out of the chair and escape. Her hands were on top of mine, holding them down. I opened my eyes to find her smiling at me. She said ''the more she sacrifice, the more she gain''. She released my hands, then looking like an old woman again, hobbled back to her wheelchair. I was fast becoming a wreck. Mrs Tapscott, much to my relief, came through the green door and propped it open with a chair. The residents of Victoria House came pouring into the hall. SANDWICHES Mrs Tapscott, who at that point was showing no signs of panic, explained to me that the doors and windows were locked and the phones disconnected. The members of staff who were present in the morning had all abandoned the property, leaving Mrs Tapscott and myself in control of 160 people in varying degrees of distress, each dealing with either a physical or intellectual disability. She smiled softly and said that I needed to show maturity and asked if I made sandwiches at home. My mother was paranoid I would burn the house to the ground and so never allowed me anywhere near the kitchen, but a sandwich? Two slices of bread with something spread inside seemed well within my ability and so I simply said yes. Rosie was volunteered to help me prepare and we were led toward the bottle green door. On our way through, Rosie asked the Down Syndrome man in the purple shirt if he was okay. Eyes closed and arms folded, he remained silent. I challenged Rosie to a culinary duel. Whoever could make the most sandwiches in the shortest amount of time would win the Mars bar that we found in the fridge. Powering ahead, I noticed that she was much more concerned with creating a delicious sandwich than she was the speed at which they were made, rolling her tongue around her lips in near unbreakable concentration. I looked at my growing pile of scraggly sarnies and decided that Rosie had the right idea. We chose 3 different fillings to try and cater for every resident. I chose strawberry jam, Rosie chose peanut butter with chocolate spread and her favourite, pre-grated cheese with a chutney preserve. When we were almost done and our silver platters were piled high, I took the opportunity to question Rosie. She left me hanging on every question until she had meticulously spread and sprinkled the next layer to the very edge of the bread. She wasn''t going to answer my questions until she was good and ready. The missing girl had been planting flowers by a collection of beds close to Rosie who was doing the same, when the bearded man came to give Gilly a purple shirt. She mentioned the bearded man, named Simon, had led Gilly away into Victoria House. Then came second hand testimony about Gary, the purple shirt man sat in the hall, who had witnessed a worm, or the long monster, emerge from the ground in the main hall and eat the girl. When asked why residents were wearing purple shirts and why they couldn''t be spoken too, Rosie suggested that they had been naughty at various points during the day. I wondered what DI Broad would make of that information. If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. I told myself the police could make sense of it and that I would have to report it to my father as soon as I arrived home. I said to Rosie that we could stop making sandwiches and offered her the Mars bar. As I handed it over, I saw she had made an impressive Star of David with her central pile of sandwiches. As we re-entered the main hall, I noticed the residents had been been separated into two groups. The ones on the right side of the hall were facing away from the windows, the ones on the left, all wearing purple shirts, facing toward it. Perhaps oddly, Mrs Tapscott said that those wearing purple could eat, but only after the others had already finished. I wondered why she would be enforcing the unnecessary punishments of Simon, confirming in my mind an established link between my teacher and the staff of Victoria House that went beyond arranging the occasional field trip to teach big-mouthed kids a lesson. I kept my eye on her as myself and Rosie, armed with sandwiches, walked the lines between the pensive looking residents. Behaviourally, they were in stark contrast to the residents wearing purple shirts who repeatedly asked to re-attire, claimed to need the toilet despite numerous visits and overall displayed signs of high anxiety. With every request one of them made, others would put their hands up and ask exactly the same thing, like a word plague that spread throughout the group in near synchronous waves. Seemingly, they were desperate to extricate themselves from whatever situation they had perceived themselves to be in. I surmised that Gary had worked the group up with talk of long monsters. He was with the purple shirt group of residents, though unlike the others, said nothing and stared through the windows of the hall. At 4pm, sandwiches distributed, I found myself staring out of the windows again. An old fashioned lamp on the driveway had come on, likely on a timer to light the way on short winter days. Rain fell with impossible ferocity, though the windows remained free of droplets. Bushes were dragged in every direction across the shingle, pulling small stones and dried leaves from the ground which would become briefly airborne, giving the uprooted flora the form of a living creature. I couldn''t work out if any of it was even happening. THE WORM I could see Mr Column''s car moving up the shingle path, this time accompanied by a fire truck and a police car a short distance behind. Relieved, I waved excitedly at them. I was surprised to see my father get out of the police vehicle along with DI Broad. I promptly put my hands by my side. I wanted him to see that I had coped well in this unusual situation and I certainly didn''t want to provide him with additional storytelling material. Once they had all emerged from their vehicles, they briefly huddled as a group before DI Broad went to the back of the police car, opened the door and roughly led Simon, in handcuffs, to the attention of the huddle. Mrs Tapscott appeared beside me, gave a tut and said ''Simon, you fool''. Mr Column began walking toward the window. When he got within a few feet, I saw him look upward, then slowly back away. I heard Gary shout ''worm'' from behind me. I turned to find him on his feet pointing out of the window. I jerked my head around to see Mr Column running toward his car and something large slithering at speed toward him across the shingle. The creature was quickly in front of Mr Column. It made the sound of an idle motorcycle as it reared, its head opening up into several circular rows of teeth. The creature then rested in its position, before quickly jerking forward and back. Mr Column had instinctively raised his arms, which were now missing hands, his bloodied stumps swiping at the air where his head used to be. My father and DI Broad had quickly noticed the creature and dragged Simon into the back of the police car. I watched as it turned to one of the firefighters, pushing its head between his legs and launching him so far into the air it took several seconds from him to plummet onto the hood of the police car. As he made impact, the creature slammed its head onto his chest, flipping the car a full 360 degrees. The other firefighter, armed with a high pressure hose, fired at the worm, which balled up and rolled away out of view. My father, Broad and Simon, now uncuffed, clambered from the vehicle and into the cabin of the fire truck. With full acceleration the truck hurtled down the shingle path, weaved through the trees in the adjacent field and back toward Victoria House. I knew they were going to smash through the building. I shouted at the residents to stand up and run to the back of the hall, most did as instructed, a few had their hands on their cheeks, bobbing up and down with slightly bent knees. I shouted at them again, this time giving a little push to a couple before making my way to the back of the hall. I looked around to see if there were any stragglers. Mrs Tapscott hadn''t moved from the window. She turned to Rosie who was sat calmly in the reading corner and said ''sorry, but no more'' and turned to face forward. The fire truck smashed through the windows, pulling Mrs Tapscott under the wheels and ejecting wood, brick and glass debris across the hall. Collective screams and yelps from the residents drowned out most of the impact sound. Dust circulated in the air, whisked by the cool breeze coming in from the gaps around the fire truck, which was only half way inside the building. The door of the fire truck opened and a body dropped onto the floor, shards of glass were embedded in the firefighters face and neck. My father thudded onto the floor beside him, looking like he had done nothing but take a casual stroll. DI broad opened the door on the other side. He had a large weeping gash across his forehead, as he dabbed it with a handkerchief, I noticed his little finger was bent at a right angle. Simon emerged last, largely unscathed, with the exception of a cut on his right eyebrow. My father lurched around the truck, grabbed Simon with one giant hand around his neck and said ''you failed to mention when questioned there was a massive fucking snake that rips peoples heads off''. He continued to berate Simon as I got on my hands and knees to look for Mrs Tapscott. I caught a glimpse of her under the truck and quickly wished I hadn''t. My father thudded around the truck toward the back of the hall. I sidestepped to see him, partially silhouetted, sway left and right. Adjusting my position, I could see that some large glass fragments remained intact around the edges of the wooden frames of the window. Through them, the storm continued to rage outside whilst the last of the setting sun shone through where glass the had been. I saw him bend down and pick up a shard from by his foot and hold it in his palms. I did the same and stood transfixed by the unholy mirage playing out in my hands. A comforting pat on my shoulder came from Gary. I turned to look at him. ''Magic'', he exclaimed. The illusion was meant to keep us in. NOVEMBER 1991 - Part 4 QUESTIONS Gary spent some time explaining what he had recently seen. Though disordered, overlapping and impossible to build a reliable timeline from, his stories were heard intently by my father and DI Broad and accepted as truth. Whilst not always used for peaceful effect, Gary had a gift for rallying the other residents. Many came forward to corroborate fragments of his story, some simply calling ''I saw that'' and others filling in overlooked details. DI Broad had been writing at pace in his notebook before his Biro pen ran out of ink. It was then that they turned their attention to Simon, who was sat cross-legged by the bottle-green door, alone. DI Broad sat himself down next to Simon, my father remained on his feet looking down and pulled a dictaphone from his inside jacket pocket. Broad jerked forward and grabbed the back of Simon''s head and pushed his thumb into the brow wound. Simon yelped, loud enough to get the attention of the room. ''Just so you know we''re not fucking about. One word of a lie and we''ll throw you outside to that fucking . . . . thing.'' The detective barked, gritting his teeth. ''Explain the snake. What is the snake? Or worm, or whatever.'' my father added. Simon had more fear in his eyes with my father bearing down on him than I had seen on his face when the creature appeared. Without any further prompting, he answered; ''It came from a book.'' ''What? What fucking book?'' Simon took a short breath and explained that a small group of staff had been celebrating the charities 150th year. As the celebration began to wind down, a Latin speaking Mrs Tapscott, a trustee of the charity, began reading from a strange book they found in the reading corner. A cloud appeared in the centre of the room and began rolling around the hall before disappearing into the dormitories. It emerged a few minutes later, speaking through one of the residents. ''Why didn''t you mention this when you came to see us this afternoon? You told us you thought a another resident had killed the missing girl.'' Said Broad. This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version. ''Oh come on, you would have had me sectioned. I just needed to get you here . . . . to see for yourself.'' ''Okay, so what happened to the missing girl?'' Simon paused briefly, looked at the palm of his hands and said; ''We fed her to the demon.'' ''Demon? You mean the snake?'' ''No'' ''No? . . . . so there''s a demon and a snake?'' ''The demon controls the creature. It eats people, the demon takes the soul.'' ''How many people has it killed?'' ''One a month for the last eighteen months.'' ''So, what, this thing emerges and simply takes someone? Our friend Gary over there seems to think you bring it the food.'' My father interceded. ''We brought it here. It demanded souls. We came up with a system. If the residents act up, they get a purple shirt. The demon selects from those wearing them at 9.23pm on the 21st of every month, the time and day we summoned it.'' ''So why is it attacking us?'' ''I imagine you''re a threat to its supply.'' ''So this demon wants souls, or what? What happens if you don''t provide anyone?'' ''Six of us were present that evening. Only me left now.'' ''Ah, I see, so you''ll get the soul sucked out of you? ''Four wouldn''t participate, or put the experience down to there being too much alcohol that night. They were taken first.'' Broad, incredulous, said ''Bollocks, we''d have heard about four missing people from the same place, not to mention the residents''. ''They were all volunteers from another program run by the charity. All foreign nationals. Orderlies.'' Simon corrected. ''How have you hidden the rest? Haven''t relatives been asking questions?'' ''Families don''t bother once the problem is no longer theirs to deal with. Many of the residents have health problems and we have a crematorium on the grounds.'' I could see my father was angry at this point. He always rubbed his thumbs against his index fingers when close to explosion. ''So nobody was going to miss a bunch of spackers, right? Except Gilly''s family cared very much didn''t they?'' ''Gilly was a mistake. The shirt was meant for someone else. Some of the residents, I can''t tell apart.'' Broad seemed shocked by Simon''s statement, shook his head with disgust, stood up and made a brazen suggestion that surprised even my father, who looked at him disparagingly. ''I think I''d very much like to talk to this demon. Ask it here, would you?'' ''It''s the 21st . . . . she''s already here.'' Simon shifted his torso to look past my fathers legs. Everybody listening, including myself, followed his gaze over to the reading corner.