Episode 19

The boy looks around him in amazement. The door is closed, effectively cutting them off from the Demon Huntress and the broken city. On this side of the wall there is…….nothing. Just sand dunes and scrub for as far as the eye can see. He turns his gaze upwards to the temple over the massive gate, but it looks empty and neglected, as if it has long since fallen into disrepair. There are no trumpeters, no priests, and no blood. More than a hint of decay hangs over the discoloured slabs of stone that had previously shone whitely in the sunshine.

“What has happened to the temple? It looked new, just moments ago.”

“I told you that time is different here,” says Senjur.

“And where’s the girl? What happened to her?”

“She is gone. She was sacrificed to enable you to pass safely through the gates. Her job is done. She and the temple are needed no more…until the next time.”

“But where is everybody,” the boy keeps insisting.

“They are actually still there. It’s just that we can’t see them anymore.”

“The boy is about to ask another question but the messenger pre-empts him.”

“No. I don’t know why. If I did I’d probably be one of them and then you wouldn’t be able to see me either.”

“Well, where are we? Where are we going? There is nothing here. Why are we here?”

“Don’t let your eyes fool you. Things are not as they seem. We are now in the land of sorcerer’s and magicians. The laws of nature are suspended here.”

“But where’s the girl?” Joshua just can’t let her go.

“She is dead. She has passed on. And so must we. The witch who is following us won’t be held for long by a mere wall. We must go.”

While these two noisily debate the issues of existence, the old lady climbs awkwardly down from the camel, who has sunk to her knees from exhaustion. The poor old thing is completely blown and looks like she is about to pass away, moaning and dribbling and swaying her head from side to side.

“We won’t be going anywhere tonight,” she says to the two boys, taking the last of the water over to the camel and allowing it to sip at the canteen. “What is done is done. We must eat and get some rest. We will all feel better in the morning.”

The old woman kneels down in the dust and runs her hand through the soil. Then she sits upright on her haunches and looks at the clouds. The blue sky sits so peacefully inside her. She and it are so much the same now. She is so close to it. How lucky she is. Blessed. And look what God has given her in her final hours. A young boy to warm her heart…and her old bones if it gets too cold. He is the one who will carry her over the final threshold. She looks down at him as he sits, always, at her feet. But he is sad today. The first day after the gate - and the girl. What an honour they have paid him. If only he could see it that way and carry it proudly forth with him…… But he is young…and misses his mother. He cried in his sleep all night and she had to cradle him to her bony old chest. Today he is sad, quiet, and sulky. He won’t eat or drink. His face is tear-stained and smeared with dirt.

The boy looks out dispiritedly into the desolate landscape. He is sure he can hear a song in the shifting sands.  And then it is gone again. Sometimes he thinks it is his mother calling. But where is she? Why can’t he remember her? If he doesn’t think too much he can feel her close, like a second skin, but when he tries to find her she slips away.

“We have to go now,” says the messenger. The boy looks at him sharply. He has become very suspicious of this journey.

“I don’t like this place. I want to go home.” He has no idea where that is…but it isn’t here. “I want to go back to the gate.” Little boy lost in the wide world… even Senjur feels sorry for him. He has to grow up and become a man very quickly.

 The camel roars with pain from all her strained muscles. The mad dash for the gate all but killed her. The messenger has to massage her tail with his teeth again to get her going.

 Downcast, the boy shuffles along in the dust at the camels side…the two of them making a dour pair. He doesn’t bother to look up for he would rather not see what trouble lies ahead. The old woman watches him with concern. She hopes that he will, like all small boys, soon snap out of it and find something interesting to occupy his mind.

“Look,” shouts Senjur from up ahead, and despite himself, the boy’s interest is piqued.

In the distance they observe a strange sight. It is a big box…a cube of sorts, floating in the air. For the next few miles they walk without taking their eyes off the strange object. It is the only thing in this barren landscape they have seen for many days. Closer and closer they come until eventually they can make out a giant wooden box, tumbling and turning in mid-air, completely unsupported. As they get closer they see it is a gigantic, rickety old thing with hundreds of flaps and doors, many of them so ill fitting that they are wont to fly open and shut as it turns, banging away continuously, offering the group tantalizing glimpses into hidden rooms within.

The box is made of thick, weather worn mahogany, and the whole contraption rattles and bumps as it turns like some crazy off-kilter gyroscope, creating vortexes of dust beneath on the sand. That is its only contact with the earth.

The scenes behind the doors are all different and fascinating. They are given little peeks: at sumptuous ballrooms filled with ladies and gentlemen in great swirling dresses and costumes; at torch-lit monasteries filled with monks and smoking altars; a sultan’s boudoir with naked bodies cavorting and tumbling topsy-turvy on huge silken beds. There are wizard’s chambers with steaming potions and pipettes; strange, savage landscapes with giant ape-like creatures; caves full of diamonds and pearls; worlds of pure ice and worlds of fire.

“Quite a sight hey….heh, heh, heh.” An elderly white-haired man in a grey threadbare business suit appears seemingly out of nowhere. They had been too preoccupied to notice him. His expensive jacket and pants are filthy and stained from sweat and blood and god-knows-what. His fancy leather shoes are scuffed and split at the soles.

“See anything you like?” he says, strutting his stuff and staring at the old woman the way the other men used to stare at her. The boy doesn’t like this and moves to stand in front of her.

“Aha. I see you have a little knight and protector,” he smirks with his toothless mouth. “So tell me little knight...where is your little sword……ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha.” Then he dramatically flings an arm up at the box. “Behold. The box of earthly delights. See anything you like? Look.” He points again and this time they see that there are strange symbols carved upon each door. There is a peacock…and an anvil, a goat, crossed swords, a bunch of grapes, and a baby’s dummy. 

On one door there is carved a cupid with a bow and arrow, behind which issue the most terrible shrieks and moans, long drawn out cries of pain as if from a torture chamber.

“Some folks have strange tastes,” says the white-haired man, leering at the old woman meaningfully. At that the camel gives out a roar and lunges for the man who has to step niftily out of the way. Clytemnestra has taken a disliking to this fellow. He is taking liberties with one of her charges.

“GGAAARRRRR,” she roars again, her big sloppy lips quivering with anger.

“What is it?” asks the boy, indicating the box generally.

“It is a crossroads,” says the messenger. “Behind one of these doors lies our journey.”

“But which one shall we take?” asks the boy.

“’Fraid you don’t get to choose ole chap,” says the elderly man. “The box will choose for you…in its own good time,” he says.

“Time is getting short for us, for we are being pursued,” says the messenger.

The man laughs. “Aren’t we all? Well you just have to wait. No hurrying the box.”

Just at that moment a door swings by with a dollar sign engraved upon it, and the man’s eyes follow it hungrily. He puts his hand in his pocket and begins frantically fiddling with his small change. He has obviously been alone for some time.

“I’ve been waiting here for fifty years,” he says, watching it go sadly by. They all stand and watch the huge contraption continue to turn, light and smoke emanating from the cracks and crevices and making a devilish noise.

“You’ll be here for a while I guess,” he says.

The messenger pauses for a moment to consider, and then gathers his cloak around him and sits down in the sand to wait. The old lady goes some distance away and squats. Lifting her skirt, she urinates in the sand. The man practically falls over with excitement, his coins jingling like crazy in his pocket. The camel swivels her long neck around and stares with diabolical intent at his doings. The man desists and backs off a bit.

It is hot.

They wait.

The box turns.

Episode 18

Samuel was familiar with the slow turning wheels of bureaucracy. The forms, the interviews, the statements; in duplicate and triplicate, and going through the story again and again to make sure they had all the details. Then when all was done and typed out, the papers and statements and forms had to be read back to the relevant people and signed until Clara wanted to scream with frustration.

“What about my son?” she said, wringing her hands beseechingly.

No one seemed very keen to want to get up from behind their desks and do anything. God must have a special place in hell for civil servants such as these.

One of them spoke. An untidy little man with cigarette ash on his lapel. They all stank of cigarettes. That’s all they seemed to do. Smoke.

“Now don’t you worry. All that can be done is being done. It’s all under control. You just leave it to us.”

All of two hours must have passed and no one had moved a muscle. Some officers even had their feet up on the table and were laughing and joking with one another.

And all the while Beulah sat holding her mother's hand, giving it an affectionate squeeze every time she felt her mother start to unravel.

“I’m afraid there’s nothing more you can do here Mrs. Mitke…Mr. Mitke. You should go home and get some rest.”

“But where’s my boy?” said Clara, not budging an inch.

“Come on Clara,” said Samuel, touching her gently on the arm. Clara screamed and leaped away from him like a live wire.

“Don’t you touch me. Don’t you ever touch me again.”

The shabby policeman looked at Samuel suspiciously.

“Come ma,” said Beulah. “Let’s go. He isn’t here. We’ll talk at home and work out what to do.”

Clara simply nodded her head and let Beulah lead her out of the room.

The two women sat in the front seat next to Samuel on the way home. Everyone was quiet, just waiting for the journey to end…except for Clara. Her eyes flicked this way and that as they drove, continually searching for any sign of Joshua or the old lady.

From the light of a streetlamp sweeping into the car, Clara saw the blood on Samuels knuckles and wondered briefly what that was all about.

“Our boy is missing, Samuel,” were the only words she spoke all the way home.

Gently they helped her out of the car and into the house. Beulah made her drink a cup of tea and then coaxed her upstairs to her bedroom.

“I don’t want to go in there,” she said.

“That’s okay,” said Beulah. “We’ll go to my room.”

Without removing their clothes, the two of them got into her single bed and Clara was asleep before her head touched the pillow.

When Beulah came downstairs an hour or so later, Samuel and Alice were still sitting round the kitchen table – as still as the grave.

Beulah went to the fridge – took out a yogurt, opened it, and sat down without looking at them. When she finished the pot, Samuel asked.

“How is she?”

“Asleep.”

“Umm,” said Samuel, listening to the faint rumble of thunder through the window. ‘Storm coming,’ he thought. ‘Damn, better get that car heater fixed.’

“Hadn’t you better be doing something?” asked Beulah.

“Like what?”

“Like looking for your son,” she said quietly.

He shrugged.

“The police are doing everything possible.”

“You used to be a policeman. Shouldn’t you be out there ‘doing everything possible’?”

“Someone has to look after your mother.”

“I can do that. Alice can do that.” She looked questioningly at him, refusing to let him off the hook. Without a word he picked up the car keys and walked out of the house. Beulah continued to sit and stare at her empty pot.

“There’s no more,” she said to Alice, pointing at the fridge. “There’s no more yogurt. Weren’t you supposed to do the shopping? It’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Or is it?”

Alice didn’t answer.

“Tell me Alice. Exactly why are you here?”

“I’ve come to help…..”

But Beulah had already turned her head away disinterestedly. With an exaggerated yawn she got up and poured herself a glass of milk.

“Well, I’m looking after them now. So you’re not needed anymore.” She wasn’t a child anymore.

“Your father will tell me when I am not needed anymore.”

“I’m sure he will.” She winked at Alice and took a drink of the milk which left a white moustache on her upper lip. Looking at Alice meaningfully, she licked it off seductively.

Alice was watching Beulah now with her snake eyes. It seemed she wasn’t dealing with a Clara clone here. No. This girl had some of her father’s blood in her. Alice’s blood. She gave a little knowing smile and sat back in her chair.

“We’ll ask your dad to decide. Then we’ll see who he likes best.”

“Yes. But I’m his daughter…and I’m still a virgin – and you know how he likes virgins.”

For two hours the girls sat unmoving – staring at each other, hardly even blinking. The battle had commenced. Only one of them would walk away from this in the end.

Eventually Samuel came in. From the kitchen they heard his slow, tired movements as he hung up his coat and walked through to the kitchen. Neither of the girls wavered. Without a word he sat down at the table. Samuel looked at the empty teapot for a moment – but on second thoughts decided he couldn’t be bothered.

“I’m going to get some sleep,” he said, and they heard him receding into the hallway and up the stairs.

A minute later he was back down again in complete disarray.

“She’s gone!” He shouted.

“No she’s not,” said Beulah. “She’s in my room.”

“No she’s not. She’s gone.”

Tick, and the time winds by in foreverland…leaves drifting on a midnight lake. A child’s toy, a teddy bear, fallen and discarded…like a life - soon forgotten - the child is nowhere to be seen, just this haunting reminder of where he has been. And she cannot move on from this place, for this is all there is, the place where he was last, where she could imagine him, alive and laughing on a sunny day. And time ticks once more and the leaves sink, or drift to the shore. This is time going by…without him…the discarded teddy bear still smiling its eternal grin, and each tick of time strikes a death knell until it has struck all twelve…..midnight and the hour of no return.

She walked as a ghost, accompanied by his memories, his laughter echoing emptily in the cold landscape. A wind picked up and Clara wrapped her coat tightly about her. She found herself in the local children’s playground. The chilly wind was gusting up and gently turning the merry-go-round. Clara watched it for a moment and then sat down on one of the swings, squeezing her hips in between the chains.

“This is where Joshua plays,” she said as if reading out of a book to him. “This is where Joshua used to play. Will play,” she corrected, and started to cry.

The swings squeaked in sympathy at the sound.

“Shut up! Shut up, you foolish woman,” she said. She got up and began walking around; looking left and right, as if Joshua might be playing there somewhere out of sight. She ran up to the tumble-horse, but there was nothing inside.

 Deep down in her womb she felt a scream begin to build. She knew if she didn’t stop it, it would grow like a gathering tidal wave and not stop until all was blackness. He was still alive. She must remember that. There was at least a chance that he was still alive. She had to hold on and not surrender to the darkness.

She’d always been afraid of the night, now she had to live in it. When she had lived in the light she had taken it for granted: complained and criticized, moaned about this and that. Now she couldn’t stand the normality of daylight: the bare facts so starkly illuminated and irrefutable; common sense and logical conclusions brightly stabbing at her eyeballs. At night it didn’t seem so cut and dried…it didn’t seem so inescapable and irresolvable. Things were softer. In the night she could feel him close to her, as if he was with her in a halfway world where life and death didn’t matter. So she walked and talked to him while she looked for him all over. Mad mother of the night, clinging to one little ray of hope...her life this close to being over should that light go out.

Then without warning she collapsed to the ground and lay there, unable to move. It felt as if her legs were paralyzed. She tried to get up but she couldn’t. Her breathing became heavy and laboured, pain striking deep into her chest. “Oh God,” she thought. “Please don’t let it be a heart attack.” And she began to cry. She hadn’t cried since the incident. She had been too busy trying to cope. Now the floodgates opened and there was no closing them. Soon she was howling her pain up at the moon, and all the dogs in the neighbourhood took up the call.

But no one came, and after a while she settled down into some comfortable sobbing. The wind plucked at her collar as if trying to console her. Then she fell asleep and there was quiet again. Not a soul stirred and nary a dog barked. The wind blew a leaf or two against her still body. After a while a shadow detached itself from the darkness and walked over to her. It was the young man from the bus. He took off his jacket and placed it over her. Then he sat down next to her and kept watch over her.

When Clara awoke a little while later, he was gone. She never even knew he had been there. She got up and dusted herself off. She looked down sadly at her scraped knees and torn stockings; then with stony heart and leaden feet, turned her steps towards the town.

She had been walking most of the night but she didn’t even feel the pain of her broken blisters, the exhaustion in her legs, or how her back ached. Where was he? Where could she look? There were over ten thousand residences in Mercia: two hundred shops and offices, fifty hotels and boarding houses, millions of backstreets and alleys and empty lots; garbage dumps and sewers, and parks and garages and garden walls to hide behind. Was he still alive? And why had he disappeared? Clara was pretty sure the old lady had a hand in it…but why? And where would she take him? Was she a witch, or just crazy…just collecting things…like a child? Why would she want a child?

At one stage Clara had found herself at some traffic lights on the edge of town near the ‘City Limits’ motel. For more than an hour she had stood hypnotised by the changing traffic lights in the fog….as if they somehow held the answer, as if a door would open when they changed to green…or red, and let her through into the afterlife, or otherworld, to finally be with her beloved son. She did not mind being anywhere…as long as he was there…alive or dead…she didn’t care.

Then she had a thought. Perhaps her mother was there? She was dead. She was an old lady. She met all the criteria…perhaps she knew? Perhaps she was with Joshua right now? With new resolve, Clara turned her footsteps towards the graveyard where she was buried. Perhaps she’d find the answers there. Perhaps her mother would finally speak to her. Perhaps now Clara would finally listen to her.

The closer she got to the cemetery however, the slower she walked; her eagerness now overshadowed by doubts and misgivings. This was insanity really. This was one step away from voodoo dolls and stuff. She had to be careful. Didn’t want to lose her mind and end up in the ‘Sanny’. Joshua would never find her in there. But still she had to try.

Like a shadow, she slipped in the same gate her daughter had emerged from earlier, the Virgin Mary still standing there forevermore. By the light of the streetlights she made her way round the side of the church to the graveyard at the back.

Then she was on her knees at her mother’s grave, and to her surprise, despite all their bitter battles, she had tears in her eyes and genuine affection in her heart. She ran her fingers lovingly over the unkempt grass above her dead body.

“Hi mom,” she said. ‘How you doing down there,’ she thought, and had to reign in her giggles: the ultimate sign of a mad woman.

“I need your help,” she said, sniffing and gathering her thoughts. “I suppose you know Joshua is in trouble. He’s in a coma…and now he’s disappeared. We think an old lady has taken him.”

Clara stopped to listen for a reply. Nothing. For the first time her mother was silent. Clara laughed out loud at the irony. Rocking back on her heels she sat her bum down in the damp grass and smiled at the joke God had played on her. Isn’t that just the way it goes? She relaxed and leaned back on her arms. So quiet here. Peaceful. A blackbird flitted onto a nearby gravestone and gave her his beady eye. ‘Soon he’ll be up and away, singing his midnight song in the trees,’ she thought. She looked at her mother’s tombstone.

‘Jemima Wichall. Born…died…and caused all sorts of hell in between. Tight-lipped, tight-arsed, and…….easy girl. That’s not going to get you anywhere’.

She sat quietly for a while, trying to still her thoughts and concentrate on what she wanted to say.

“Please mom. If you help me find Joshua, I’ll…” she began, but was interrupted when a white haired old lady, as pale as a ghost in the moonlight, rose from behind the tombstone where Clara knelt. For a moment her heart stopped as her mother came to life before her eyes. She gave a shriek and fell over flat on her back. Quickly she scrambled to her feet and rubbed her eyes but the apparition was still there, looking, however, distinctly older than her mother at second glance, and not quite as dead as she thought at first.

“Who are you……?” And as the old woman smiled, the recognition came flooding in like a river. “YOU! You’re the one who took my boy,” she shouted so loudly she set the crows a cawing in the old ash tree.

The old lady merely lifted a warning finger to her lips and came a little closer.

 “What have you done with him?” said Clara, her fingers curling in anticipation of grabbing the old crone by the throat and squeezing the information out of her.

“Touch me and you’ll never see your boy again. If you do anything but what I tells you, you’ll never see him again. Understood?”

The two women stood confronting each other over Jemima’s grave.

“What have you done with him? Is he alright? Why have you taken him?”

The old lady waited until Clara had run out of words and then spoke quickly in a low tone of voice.

“Your boy is safe and well…for the moment. I’m a qualified nurse so I knows how to look after him.”

“Then why have you kidnapped him?”

“Because I need you to do something for me; your husband actually.”

Clara stopped fretting and turned her full attention to what the old woman was saying.

“I also have a son,” she began, looking down at her hands. “He was also taken away when he was quite young. Not as young as your boy, but close. And I want him back.”

“Taken away? Where….how?”

“He was….put in prison…for something he didn’t do,” she added hastily.

At the mention of prison Clara began to get an inkling of what was to come.

“I know your husband works there as a warden. I want him to release my boy. Set him free. Then you can have your son back. You give me mine and I’ll give yours back to you. But see you don’t tell no one. No police, nothing…or else.” The old lady put her finger to her lips again.

At that moment the blackbird began to sing in the old ash tree overhanging the graveyard.

  

Episode 17

Previously… 

 

“Run. Don’t let her have died in vain.” The boy wipes his tears and moves towards the gate, but the camel has gone into meltdown. Her wobbly knees know not whence nor where. They are no longer connected to her brain. Her toes dig into the sand and she refuses to move. Undaunted, Senjur goes round the back of her and taking her tail gently in his hand he bites down hard. Clytemnestra takes off like a racing camel. Had the old woman not been wedged in between the humps she would have flown off the back. The camel outstrips the boy in mere yards, heading like hell for the gates of doom.

Behind them come the demon woman and her Gravidores, running at such a pace that the backwash of their saliva looks like a comet trail behind them, racing to get to the boy before he reaches the gate. 

And now...
 

The house was as quiet as a mouse when Clara got home. She took off her shoes and tiptoed gently up the stairs, trying to avoid the creaks. It was the only time she could bear to be in the house - when everyone was asleep. She only came home because it helped her feel some sort of normality; gave her something to do too, instead of just going crazy with worry. She still hated leaving Joshua, convinced that he was going to wake when she wasn’t there, but took some solace in the fact that the old cleaning lady was always there and seemed to dote on him. Anyway, it was good to sleep in a bed for a change and not in one of those uncomfortable armchairs. She stopped at the top of the landing and listened for any sounds. Silence.

On her way to her bedroom, she sneaked a look in Joshua’s room. She knew he wasn’t there. She knew Alice was sleeping on his bed but she couldn’t resist. Just in case…as if by magic. But there was Alice….and there was the dog, sleeping on the end of the bed. It somehow upset her…because that’s where it normally slept with Joshua, after sneaking up the stairs when Samuel had fallen asleep.

The poor thing had been distraught the first few days that Joshua was missing, apparently searching and sniffing the house from top to bottom and whining continuously because he couldn’t find him. She knew she was hard on the dog sometimes but that’s only because Samuel had brought him home. She only liked him because he had adopted Joshua.

Suddenly she just couldn’t stand going into her bedroom and climbing in beside Samuel. She was finding it harder and harder to stomach the sight of him. She was becoming openly caustic and scathing of him and his habits. But that wasn’t good. It wasn’t Christian…for all that she believed in religion…or didn’t. Still it tended to make her feel worse…not better.

Tired as she was, she turned around and tiptoed down the stairs again. Putting on her shoes and coat, she opened the front door. 

‘Oh my Joshua, why did this have to happen to you?’ she thought. A cold fear clutched at her heart – perhaps he’d never wake again. But she mustn’t think things like that. While he was still alive there was hope. She must trust.

She hurried her steps now – eager to see how he was. Something was pulling at her. Perhaps he had woken up. She could feel something had happened…was happening. She hoped he was alright. She began to run. Oh God, she hoped he wasn’t dead. She thought of all the children that die every day around the world. What a lot of pain and heartache. How did the mothers stand it? She didn’t think she could cope if he died. She wouldn’t want to. Her pride and joy….the light of her life…her only reason for living, her reason for coming home. All these much used clichés now took on a real meaning.

From the very beginning she’d felt a close connection with him. Unlike Beulah, who didn’t seem to want to come out of the womb, Joshua was an easy birth. He never cried as a baby and had no trouble feeding from her breast. Beulah on the other hand, true to her nature, would not suck - she didn’t do anything she was supposed to - so she ended up being a colicky baby because she didn’t get the good bacteria she was supposed to get from the breast milk.

Joshua had been a good boy, quite content to play by himself…keep himself amused. Sure, he went through his phases and rebellions, but that never got in between them. The bond they had was gentle and accommodating. Beulah on the other hand was her father’s child. A little bossy-britches that never listened to anyone. With that fringe of hair that hung in her eyes, you could never tell what she was thinking. Bad tempered, moody, sulky…she listened to the echo of her words and suddenly heard her mother’s voice. This was exactly what her mother had said about her. Had she turned into her mother without noticing? Had her mother reincarnated in her when she hadn’t been watching? No. She was sure she didn’t behave like that to Beulah. Beulah was just a very difficult child. She was different to her mother; she thought to herself…but wasn’t entirely convinced. And thinking of her mother she felt another twinge of guilt. She hadn’t visited her mother’s grave in ages. Perhaps she should.

Thankfully at that moment she found herself at the hospital door and was quite relieved to be able to leave her mother outside in the cold. There was no one about, but she knew the way to Joshua’s room without even thinking. Quickly she weaved her way down the corridors to the children’s section, past the duty nurse sitting in her little alcove with a muted lampshade on her desk.

She turned into his ward and immediately her eyes fell upon his empty bed. She stood stunned for a long, long moment. Then her brain scrambled into action. Surely they hadn’t taken him away. They never moved him…except when they were taking tests….and this was far too early…surely? Her blood ran cold and alligators began crawling across the top of her scalp. The bed was empty. A thousand thoughts fought for clarity in her beleaguered brain…the bed was empty and freshly made up.

Was he dead? Was he awake? But more importantly…where was he? She turned and called loudly down the empty corridor.

“Nurse….Help.” She lurched to his bedside and pressed the emergency call button…again and again and again.

“I don’t understand,” said the duty nurse, consulting her roster. “Unless the Doctor had him moved…but I would’ve known. Joshua was here not so long ago. I’m very sorry Mrs Mitke. I’m sure there is an explanation.” She turned to the phone, calmly, trying not to show her panic.

“Hello. Is that the duty doctor? This is Ward C. Nurse Deal. Yes fine thank you. Well actually not. I was wondering if you could come up here. It seems we have a missing patient.” She put down the phone and smiled wanly at Clara.

“He’ll be along in a moment.” But Clara was tired of smiling at people.  They stood in the frozen silence, waiting for the doctor.

A few moments later he bustled in trying to look calm and under control.

“I can’t understand it,” said nurse Deal. “He was here the last time I checked up on him. And no one has come in or out.”

“Have you checked the other wards?” asked the Doctor, but Clara could feel he was clutching at straws. If these two didn’t know where he was….no one else would. The nurse scuttled off down the corridor and the Doctor picked up the phone.

“Don’t you worry Mrs Mitke. I’m sure there’s an innocent explanation for this. Yes hello,” he said into the phone. Is that the night porter? Yes. I’d like you up on Ward C immediately please. And bring the staff nurse with you.”

The Doctor hung up the phone and turned to give Clara his most confident smile. At that moment she hated him more than anything else in the world. She was just about to lash into him for being such an…….

 “It’s that old lady,” she said, with sudden understanding. “She’s done something with him.”

“Which old lady?” asked the doctor.

“The old cleaning lady. She comes in every night…at about ten or eleven. She’s been looking after him when I’ve been away.”

“Are you sure? The cleaning staff only comes on in the morning. No one but the nurses and care-workers are allowed on the wards at night.”

“She’s been here every night,” said Clara adamantly. “She has her little cleaning trolley and…”

“Cleaners aren’t allowed on the wards after six pm.”

“I don’t care. That old woman has stolen my child.”

*

“GONE!” she shrieks, her voice three octaves higher than human hearing. “GONE!” She tries again, a little lower, so that Carrapacchio can catch the full drift of her meaning, and hopefully get a hint of what is about to happen to him as scapegoat-in-chief of the expedition. “You have failed.”

“But where in all this is it my fault, oh unimpeachable one?”

“If you hadn’t wasted precious time masturbating behind the dunes this morning then we should have him now,” she says, thrashing at his head with her stick.

He can’t argue with that.

“Ouch, ouch, ouch.”

Demona looks again at the door but it is firmly closed.

“Stupid eye,” she mutters, looking around for something else to hit. Then a huge sigh rises up from inside her and escapes with a deflating hiss into the air.

“I’m getting too old for this shit,” she says and sits down in the sands – her dreams in ruins around her.

“Never fear my most magnificent mistress that smells of rose petals and other things divine – we shall find them again.”

“What do you mean, you mealy mouthed muck pile?”

“Well, do you remember that the echoes spoke of…” and here he lowers his voice for dramatic effect, “…a secret tunnel. A dark secret tunnel,” he says with many a lascivious wink and much tongue lolling.

Demona gives him a steady evil eye.

“If you’re just yanking my chain again, I’m going to wrap it around your neck and throttle you.”

“Nooo, my mistress, nooo. This is true. So much true that you are going to love me again shortly…your faithful servant.” Carrapacchio does a little crippled dance on his claws at the thought of that.

“Soon we will have him and you will be Queen and I shall be King…..”

“In your dreams….” She murmurs under her breath.

“Do I not serve you well, oh juicy one?” he says, licking at her feet and slavering all over them. She has to beat him back with the stick some more.

“And you can stop staring at my crotch you moon-bred maundering malfeasant misfit. It’ll be a cold day in hell afore you sup at that well…………………again,” she says with a slight, stupidly lopsided, smile on her lips. It is……………..complicated.

Then the Gravidores begin mounting one another and Demona has to rush in there with her stick.

“Filthy creatures,” she says lashing left and right and hearing some very satisfactory thwacks meeting their mark.