The Glastonbury Triangle E-Book

Stephen Ford

• Herausgeber: Cinnamon Press
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 427

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Journalist Simon, reporting on the Knights of Camelot theme park run by an eccentric Marquess, is drawn into a tangle of intrigue, witchcraft, alternative lifestyles, mythology and secret technology as he investigates mysterious disappearances in Glastonbury, including his new girlfriend, Jenny. On Jenny's trail, Simon joins Abballon, a female dominated community inspired by worship of the goddess Gaia, where the role of men is to serve obediently, modern technology is banned and all must obey the tyrannical ruler, Philomena. Cast out from Abballon, Simon uncovers a fiendish plot by a deranged scientist to transform abducted people into mythical creatures, from centaurs to satyrs, intended to populate the Marquess's new Mythological Magick theme park. Will Simon be able to rescue Jenny in time to prevent her metamorphosis into a mermaid?

Leseprobe

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

About the Author

Half Title

Knights of Camelot

Night out in Glastonbury

Oldest Profession

News Desk

Going Away

On the Trail

Missing Person

Mendip Moon Coven

Into the Unknown

Abballon

A New Day in the Community

Beltane

Trapped

Favoured by Philomena

Ivy

Frankie

The Wild Side

The Outcasts

Escape

Fanciful Work of Fiction

Gathering of Forces

Reconnaissance and Infiltration

Rescue Operation

Negotiation

Enmeshed within the Enterprise

The Glastonbury Triangle

Stephen Ford

Published by Leaf by Leaf an imprint of Cinnamon Press,

www.cinnamonpress.com

The right of Stephen Ford to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patent Act, 1988. © 2024, Stephen Ford.

Print Edition ISBN 978-1-78864-891-2

Ebook Edition ISBN 978-1-78864-878-3

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data. A CIP record for this book can be obtained from the British Library.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior written permission of the publishers. This book may not be lent, hired out, resold or otherwise disposed of by way of trade in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, without the prior consent of the publishers.

Designed and typeset by Cinnamon Press.

Cover design by Adam Craig © Adam Craig.

Cinnamon Press is represented by Inpress.

About the Author

Stephen Ford is Walks Secretary for the Surrey branch of the Long Distance Walkers Association (LDWA), whose membership relishes longer distance treks at a brisk pace over challenging terrain.

The son of a geologist, he had a varied and nomadic childhood in Africa and the Middle East. From childhood, Stephen has been inspired by wild places, mountains, rivers and forests, places where nature reigns, not people.

Now, inspired to write, Stephen explores these themes: What is nature? Is nature alive? What is life? What distinguishes a human from an animal? Do people have spirits? If people have spirits, then perhaps animals do too? Can spirits exist also in inanimate entities, rivers, trees, mountains, valleys?

The Glastonbury Triangle is Stephen’s third novel, following Destiny of a Free Spirit and Walking out of the World.

The Glastonbury Triangle

Knights of Camelot

An ancient mustiness hung in the room, the lingering essence of centuries of dust, clinging to nostrils like air breathed through an old blanket.

On the library bookshelves were old tomes covering natural history, meticulously illustrated studies of botany, the complete works of Shakespeare and publications of nineteenth-century authors I’d never heard of, beautifully bound in fine leather.

My eye was drawn to a volume on a side table. I sidled over to take a closer look, taking the liberty of opening it; the title promised mythical creatures of Greek legend. It flopped apart, revealing a finely drawn illustration of a satyr, with the upper body of a man and the horns and hind legs of a ram, prancing and priapic, improbably well endowed.

My attention was diverted by a discreet cough and shuffled feet. I glanced behind towards the Marquess’s butler, a tall, immaculately groomed gentleman of indeterminate mature age, an edifice of starched formality, impassive and imperturbable, with a well-honed ability to subtly convey disquiet by slightly clearing his throat. He raised his eyebrows, lowered his chin. He had a basilisk stare of disapproval on the open book.

Resisting the temptation to turn the page I backed away, letting my eyes wander around the portraits of the Marquess’s illustrious ancestors, admirals, British generals who enjoyed victories around the globe, exquisitely costumed countesses and, incongruously, a couple of racehorses poised to gallop across Epsom downs.

A door at the end of the room opened. The Marquess, a lofty and solidly built man in his mid-fifties, emerged accompanied by a wide eyed excited looking man in his forties. The man wore a crumpled and ill-fitting off-the-peg greyish suit from a mass market department store, a creased shirt with a check pattern, a thin blue tie twisted to one side and scuffed unpolished brown shoes.

‘These new coding sequences are particularly exciting,’ claimed the Marquess’s guest as they wandered past me. ‘We are seeing outstanding progress in the accelerated breeding programme.’ 

The Marquess and his butler halted as they reached the end of the library, their gaze cast expectantly in the direction of the door leading into the vestibule, but the man continued with his animated explanations. ‘With our xeno-tolerance developments we have really opened the doors for hybrid organisms in a groundbreaking way.’

As his guest paused for breath the Marquess seized his opportunity. ‘Dr Shorbody, thank you so much. It was illuminating to have heard such a thorough and detailed report of the excellent progress you are making in your research. It will be delightful to hear more in due course.’

His butler, sensitive to his lordship’s wishes, held open the door, positioned to make it clear at this point the man was expected to depart.

His excitable guest having withdrawn, the Marquess glanced in my direction, nodding to the butler as he made his way back to the door opposite. The Marquess was expensively but understatedly dressed in country style tweeds, expertly tailored, probably by the same Saville Row firm outfitting the Mendip family over generations. He moved decisively but was unhurried, exuding confidence.

‘His lordship will see you now,’ the butler announced to me.

As he came up alongside in the middle of the room, the Marquess stopped and beamed at me. ‘You’re the gentleman from TheDaily Trumpet, I take it. Welcome to Mendip House.’

‘Yes, your lordship. Simon Chewton. How do you do, sir.’

The quarter of a century age difference between us was insignificant next to our difference in styles. The Marquess, still in the world of the 1920s, was a full century behind my contemporary dress, with my lithe six foot frame clad in a pair of chino trousers, a light blue open neck shirt and a tailored denim jacket.

The Marquess beckoned for me to precede him, with the butler taking the lead. For a moment I felt like a prisoner escorted by guards, front and rear. The butler held open the double doors and stood aside for us to pass into what was evidently the Marquess’s study, withdrawing back into the library, closing the doors behind him.

The study on the corner of the frontage of Mendip House was generously proportioned. Around the edges of the room were side tables laid with models of what I assumed were the Marquess’s latest project. Also scattered were drawings and sculptures featuring another of his evident interests, mythical beasts: centaurs, griffins, dragons, sea monsters and mermaids. Some illustrations were in a strangely detailed style, as if of dissections in a medical textbook. 

In the corner of the room, away from windows, the Marquess’s expansive Georgian mahogany desk faced out, overlooking his estate’s extensive landscaped grounds. The Marquess led me to the opposite corner where antique easy chairs and a sofa were set out within the area well-lit by the hazy April sunshine beaming in from the large windows on two sides of the room.

As we approached, a striking blonde woman in her mid-thirties stood in acknowledgement. Without having spoken, her presence, the gaze of her flashing eyes, her commanding stance, dominated the room. She was in the style of Queen Guinevere and must have been playing some central role in the Marquess’s enterprise, the Knights of Camelot theme park. Her outfit was sumptuous, made of the finest of fabrics, adorned with subtle but intricate patterns, set off by fine jewellery and exquisitely tailored to accentuate the lithe curves of her figure. It was altogether far more elaborate than the kind of cheap outfit a theme park might normally provide.

‘May I introduce Philomena, my spiritual and cultural advisor. Philomena, this is Simon Chewton from TheDaily Trumpet,’ announced the Marquess.

I sensed his deferential manner was more than mere good manners. 

Her eyes were on me, unsettlingly, like a cat looking at its prey. I couldn’t discern her motivation, but sensed something carnal. She held out her hand, which I grasped in a firm handshake. She gripped mine softly, but as I let her go, she let hers linger as if claiming possession. Her eyes fastened me with an examining gaze, her face almost expressionless yet asserting authority.

‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Chewton,’ said Philomena in a neutral, formal tone. I had work to do building rapport while reclaiming my autonomy.

‘Likewise, Philomena, delighted to make your acquaintance. I must congratulate you on your outfit. It ties in with the Arthurian theme of your new park wonderfully, and tastefully too, if I may say so?’

Just the barest hint of a smile flickered on her dead pan face. ‘Nice of you to say so.’

‘Please, do sit,’ said the Marquess. ‘May I offer you coffee?’

‘Lovely, thank you.’

‘What do you think of the Somerset countryside, Mr Chewton?’ 

‘The epitome of traditional England,’ I enthused. ‘Charming, bucolic and fruitful.’

‘It has more than surface charm. There are deep cultural roots too, stretching eons into the rich legacy of legend woven into what makes us English, heritage which is the driving inspiration for the Knights of Camelot.’

‘It is good to see our heritage celebrated.’

The butler padded in quietly with a tray, setting out the coffee and accoutrements.

‘Our park is entirely different from those established elsewhere, in Florida or California.’ The Marquess’s face wrinkled. ‘For the Knights of Camelot authenticity is key. We offer a vision of real history situated in the very landscape where the legendary events occurred.’

Content everyone had been served, the butler drifted silently from the room.

‘Are there particular legendary events that you focus on?’

‘The Round Table experience is one of our highlights. Visitors are invited to take their place at the table among the knights of King Arthur’s court, served mead and authentic comestibles.’

‘Sounds fun.’

‘Jousting between Sir Lancelot and the Black Knight is a great favourite.’

‘Could be dangerous, couldn’t it?’

‘We take precautions. It is well choreographed. Then there are the magic powers of the wizard Merlin.’

‘I guess the magic is choreographed too.’

‘Yes, and we have tremendous special effects people too. We bring in the young prince Arthur proving his entitlement to the throne by drawing the sword from the stone and the sword Excalibur appearing from the lake in the hand of Lady of the Lake.’

‘I have always been confused by those sword legends. How is it Excalibur could both come from the stone yet also be provided by the Lady of the Lake?’

Philomena intervened. ‘The sword in the stone was Arthur’s first weapon,’ she explained. ‘It was broken in combat with King Pellinore. It is after Arthur is rescued by a spell of enchantment cast by Merlin when he is equipped with his indestructible replacement Excalibur by the Lady of the Lake.’

As she spoke I was drawn to her beauty, how her eyes lit, oozing charisma and femininity. I reflected she made an excellent Guinevere. Sir Lancelot would have been putty in her hands.

I would have welcomed more time to drool over Philomena’s allure, but this was curtailed by the opening of the double doors. The butler led two purposeful men in semi-formal cheap suits, chain store shirts and ties. ‘I am sorry to interrupt, my lord, but these gentlemen were most insistent.’

The older man stepped forward. ‘I am Detective Inspector Bellard from Glastonbury CID and this is Detective Sergeant Lunnton. We have a warrant to search these premises in pursuit of enquiries into missing persons whose last known whereabouts were in the vicinity.’

If the Marquess was shocked, his face showed no sign; there was only a slight quizzical tightening of his eyes followed by a subtle sardonic twist of his mouth. He rose. Far from betraying annoyance the Marquess approached them as honoured guests.

‘Well, gentlemen, I’m sorry to hear of these missing persons. It is most important they are found. It must be terrible for their loved ones. We will assist in any way we can.’

The two police officers were taken aback, presumably more accustomed to hostility.

The Marquess’s sangfroid was impressive; his aristocratic upbringing had instilled effortless superiority combined with a suave diplomacy. Far from putting him at any disadvantage, his perfect manners accentuated his command, crushing the police inspector’s authority. He turned to me.

‘Mr Chewton, we will have to curtail this interview. Please accept my sincere apologies.’

‘Of course, I quite understand. I would be happy to wait here while you take care of matters,’ I replied, cheekily hoping to listen in on details about the missing persons for what promised to be a juicy story for TheDaily Trumpet.

Inspector Bellard’s face contorted; he stood poised to regain the initiative and have me thrown out, if necessary by force. Sergeant Lunnton, heftily built, spread his legs and jutted his elbows.

The Marquess smiled. Before DI Bellard could intervene he said, ‘You will be wanting to see the park, I am sure. If you accompany Barstairs he will happily arrange a guided tour.’

Barstairs, the butler, said nothing but, standing hard against the easy chair I was sitting in and eyeing me expectantly, his intention was clear.

Despite the pressure, I tested the situation by remaining seated a few more seconds, feigning indifference to the various stares. It was only when the two police officers advanced in my direction my defiance cracked.

I stood, playing for time with conversation. ‘Well, my lord, I am most grateful for your time. It has been wonderful hearing about your marvellous Knights of Camelot attraction.’

‘The pleasure was mine. Barstairs will provide you with anything more you may need.’

I turned to the Marquess’s charming spiritual and cultural advisor.

‘And, of course, Philomena. It has been delightful to make your acquaintance. I do hope we can continue our most interesting conversation in due course.’

‘Goodbye, Mr Chewton. Enjoy the tour,’ she replied coldly.

I looked around, hoping for further means of prolonging my presence. 

As I reached the doorway I paused, hoping to linger in the background eavesdropping. Barstairs closed in like a sheepdog encouraging a reluctant ewe into a pen.

Night out in Glastonbury

It was mid-afternoon when I extricated myself from the throng of excited children and teenagers among whom I had shared the thrills of St George slaying a scary fire-breathing animatronic dragon, Queen Guinevere’s rescue from the clutches of the evil Maleagant, unfortunately not on this occasion played by the delightful Philomena, mortal combat between Sir Lancelot and the Black Knight, noble Sir Galahad rescuing a damsel in distress and a boat trip through the magic grotto into the sparkling court of King Arthur accompanied by a musical arrangement of lutes and lyres.

Still surrounded by noisy families I took the Knights of Camelot shuttle bus service into Glastonbury, depositing me near a large supermarket. The earlier sunshine had given way to wet blustery clouds. I huddled to withstand the drizzle and chilling breeze for the brisk five minute walk to the Ananda Guest House, a dwelling decorated in eastern style with statues of Buddha and scented with incense.

‘The yurt is still available, if you prefer,’ offered Adelena, the landlady.

‘Well, I don’t know.’

‘Wonderful for connecting with the natural world outdoors, with ensuite open air shower.’

‘Not sure how I feel about being outdoors.’

‘It’s wonderfully peaceful now overflying has been banned.’

The noise from low flying aircraft was not my primary concern. I was more deterred by the bracing chill when I took a shower. ‘I think I’ll stay indoors, if it’s alright.’

‘Have you plans this evening?’ 

‘Yes, I’m meeting someone.’

‘Anything beforehand?’

‘No, I’ve got a few hours to kill.’

‘We offer alternative therapies. I can do reiki, crystals and chakra massage in the meditation room through here.’ She beckoned to a conservatory extension laid with cushions, candles, smouldering incense sticks and a statue of Ganesh, a Hindu deity with an elephant’s head on a human body with extra arms.

I shook my head. ‘I think I’ll just go for a walk in town.’

Having established my territory in my room with toiletries and spare clothing extracted from my rucksack I made my way out. I glanced at a copy of the Glastonbury Gazette laying on the hall table. The headline complained that north Somerset had the worst mobile phone reception in the UK with dead zones especially prevalent in the Mendips.

Opposite the guest house I was enticed over the threshold of the Mendip Grenadier by their promise of a wide range of local ciders and real ales. The pub was a workaday place geared for the needs of the working population without a hint of hippy or new age aesthetics. It was old and would have still felt familiar to someone returning after an interval of 30 or 40 years. The bare bricks and rough wood fittings were largely unchanged for a hundred years. Some chairs and tables would have been replaced in the interim, but their replacements were in the same simple style as their predecessors. The same could be said for the pub’s patrons, different individuals hewn out of the same gene pool and West Country tradition. I propped myself on a barstool and ordered a foaming pint of Meadow Dew ale.

‘You’re not from round here, are you?’ said the tough young man sat on the neighbouring stool in his broad West Country accent. Dressed in working clothes, blue jeans, check shirt and a denim jacket, he had a mop of longish unkempt curly blonde hair framing a confrontational expression on his broad face. His sturdy frame indicated a physically active profession and his assertive stance suggested he would not hesitate to deploy his muscular physique.

‘No, I’m from London.’ I felt a slight bristle of hostility, as if I represented a class of oppressive overlords.

‘What brings you here then?’

I pondered. ‘Girlfriend problems.’

‘Ha! You’re not the only one. What sort of problems?’

‘She’s run away, from London.’

‘What did she run away from?’

‘I wish I knew. Jacked in her job, too. Doesn’t make sense.’

My companion eased closer on his stool, his air of suspicion ebbing. ‘I’ve got problems with mine and all. She’s got mixed up in hippy witchcraft stuff.’

I swung to face him. ‘Really? Mine too. She’s really into it, Wicca and all that.’

‘Yeah, Wicca, that’s what mine calls it too. Can’t get my head around it.’

We were almost bosom buddies now. We introduced ourselves. He was Harry Mallet, working as a storeman at Mendip Constructions, a civil engineering contractor in Glastonbury.

‘My girl, Ivy, these days she cares more about Wicca hocus-pocus than me. She’s into chakras, ashrams and that.’

‘Whatever they are. From what I’ve seen, there’s a lot of that sort around here.’

‘Too right. Too much of it altogether. She’s got daft ideas too. Told me she should take charge of sex and that. Had to give her a good slapping to put her right.’

I paused. ‘They get those ideas, I know.’

‘What about your bird?’

‘Mine is called Jenny. I had only just got to know her and then she’s off, back here for some weird reason, spiritual empowerment or something. Got my boss to send me here for work, so I could catch up with her.’

‘What work’s that?”

‘Investigation, finding things out, reporting things.’

‘What, you mean, like a detective?”

‘Sort of. I’m a journalist.’

‘Look, empty glasses,’ Harry observed. ‘Fancy another?’

‘No thanks, better be going,’ I replied, draining my glass. It could easily have become a long session of mutual commiseration, but I was due to be seeing Jenny later.

Ambling into town it felt like passing a portal gradually transitioning from the normal world of earning, raising kids, pastimes like ten pin bowling, football and bingo, into an alternative lifestyle of legend, hippies and the supernatural. Interspersed among the artefacts of everyday life were cards in shop windows advertising talks by gurus, tarot readings and spiritual healing.

I passed a Georgian building, now a holistic health and educational temple dedicated to the supreme Goddess Gaia. According to a notice, a Mother Earth Temple where the incumbents lived and worshiped following the ideals of love, care and support for each other, Mother Earth and Her spirit the Goddess Gaia. What would that involve? Reiki, crystals and chakras I shouldn’t wonder.

I was diverted by a commotion opposite, close to the entrance to Glastonbury Abbey, a loud confrontation between a fervent group of conventional well-groomed individuals and an assortment with unkempt hair clad in shabby chic outfits, mostly ragged, a mixture of brightly coloured patchwork and black adorned with pagan emblems, pentangles and phases of the moon. Smelling not only the hippies but a potential story for TheDaily Trumpet, I moved in.

The shaggier group had placards proclaiming themselves Pagan Pride. A woman dominated their opponents, loudly decrying their desecration of a sacred place with the works of Satan. I had seen her before, Lady Ophelia Jardinair, leader of the Moral Multitude, a crusading organisation asserting Christian moral standards and what they referred to as common decency. She was accompanied by a tall, heavily built, serious clergyman, who, when he could get a word in, spoke in pontifical terms like a modern Jerimiah, warning of the calamitous dangers of the occult and invoking heathen deities.

Considering the conservative leanings of TheDaily Trumpet’s readership I focussed initially on the Moral Multitude’s viewpoint. I caught the eye of a concerned middle-aged woman on the fringes. ‘What is all the fuss about?” 

‘It’s these pagan people, they’ve got hold of my girl,’ she replied in a broad West Country accent reminding me of cream teas in the countryside. ‘Corrupted her, they did.’

‘Oh dear,’ I commiserated. ‘What do you mean, corrupted?’

‘Devil worship. Strange goings on. And I always brought her up to be a good Catholic.’

‘I’m Simon, by the way.’

‘Elsie Langport, pleased to meet you.’

‘And your daughter, what’s she called?’

‘Ivy. Don’t know what got into her, getting mixed up with this lot.’

‘So, what just happened, to bring all this about?’

‘That lot, they’ve been doing filthy things, jumping around with nothing on, over there in the Abbey. That’s sacred ground, that is. Disgusting.’

‘I can see it would be upsetting.’

‘Well, I wasn’t going to stand for it, I wasn’t. So, I calls them Moral Multitude to put a stop to it.’

A policewoman pushed between the jostling groups.

‘How dare you interfere with our worship,’ proclaimed a corpulent woman clad in an expansive robe featuring a prominent pentangle emblem.

‘The Abbey’s management are within their rights to eject those they consider undesirable,’ said the policewoman.

‘Religious persecution, that’s what it is,’ shouted the large woman. ‘They have Christian services all the time. But they don’t allow Wicca. It’s discrimination.’ 

‘This is a Christian site,’ boomed Lady Ophelia Jardinair. ‘We can’t have this sacred place desecrated by Devil worship.’

‘Leave it to me, madam, please,’ said the policewoman. She turned back to the Wicca woman. ‘You are free to conduct your religious ceremonies as you see fit, but you must do it elsewhere, somewhere it is allowed.’

‘This has been a sacred site for thousands of years, long before there were Christians,’ asserted the large woman.

‘I dare say, madam, but you still can’t do your devotions here. You will not be permitted back on Abbey premises. Now, if you don’t all disperse I will have no option but to make arrests for a breach of the peace.’

Elsie Langport exclaimed excitedly, ‘There she is, our Ivy.’

Elsie made her way towards the motley band of pagans and I followed. It was then I saw Harry Mallet, the threatening fellow from the pub, striding in front of us, reaching Ivy first.

Ivy was a fresh faced girl in her late teens among the other women dressed like her in what they must have considered witch’s outfits, typically a loose fitting smock dress tie-dyed or otherwise patterned in assertion of their rebellious pagan identity, together with some form of cloak, decorated by an assortment of pendants and brooches.

Harry seized Ivy roughly by the wrist, making to haul her forcibly from the throng.

The next moment I was taken aback to see my Jenny thrust herself forward between them, grabbing Harry’s arm to make him to let go. Her rescue attempt was futile, Harry used his superior strength to shake her off, dragging Ivy across the road before the approaching policewoman could intervene, followed closely by her mother, Elsie.

The upheaval having subsided, Jenny and I were left facing each other. She had gone to some lengths to emphasise her counterculture pagan identity: her naturally blonde hair streaked with red and black and plaited into spiky dreadlocks, goth style makeup, black lipstick, whitened face, dark smudges around her eyes and ragged garb. With Ivy departed, despite what some would see as her unsightly outfit, Jenny stood out as the youngest and prettiest of the group, her bright blue eyes and a loose-fitting dress doing little to disguise her lithe but curved figure.

I put on a smile, but Jenny glared back in disgust.

‘What were you doing over there with those bigots?’ 

‘It’s alright, I’m not with them. I’ve been here to see the Marquess of Mendip about his new Knights of Camelot theme park. I was just passing when I saw the commotion.’

‘But you were over there with them, talking to them and helping them abduct Ivy.’

‘I was only trying to find out what was going on.’

‘But you won’t get anything useful from them, just hate and bigotry.’

‘I was only trying to find out the basic facts. Besides we need to understand their point of view.’

‘Their point of view is hatred and prejudice. There must be no platform for their intolerance.’

‘But wouldn’t it be intolerant not to listen to them?’

‘But some points of view, like theirs, are unacceptable,’ Jenny insisted.

‘How do I know until I hear them out?’ 

Our heated conversation was interrupted by the policewoman. ‘Come along, you two, move along now. You can’t go on like that in the street. Any more and I’ll have to arrest you both under Section 5 of the Public Order Act.’

I looked at Jenny in what I hoped was a winsome fashion. ‘Come now, we don’t want to fight, do we? Let’s go over there and make up.’ I suggested, indicating a bench on the other side of the road.

Jenny looked back defiantly.

‘Please.’ I was trying to look charming.

She pursed her lips, weakening slightly.

‘Come on, peace and love.’

‘Oh alright.’

I took a seat towards the middle of the bench. Jenny sat at one end to leave as much space as possible between us.

‘Look, honestly, I was just passing and all I did was ask the first person I came up against what was going on. I don’t agree with their busybody interference and intolerant religious attitudes at all. Nor with them dragging Ivy away. Not in the least. Believe me.’

‘Well, alright. But I don’t know if I can trust you, given who you write for, that hate rag, TheDaily Trumpet.’

‘Journalism is difficult to get into. When you are starting like me, you can’t be choosy.’

‘So, you just sell out, is that it? I’d prefer you had principles.’

‘Well, the fact I have a job means I can afford to take you out to dinner tonight, if you still want me to, that is.’

Jenny weighed me up. I did my best to look friendly and playful. ‘Well, alright, but I’ll be keeping an eye on your attitude.’ 

‘Righto. No time like the present. Where shall we go?’

‘What, you don’t mean now, surely? I’m not ready.’

‘How do you mean, not ready. We are only going out to eat something. It doesn’t require preparation.’

‘Of course going out needs preparation.’

‘What would you be preparing for? We’re only going for something to eat and a chat.’

‘Yes, but I don’t want to go out like this,’ she said, looking down at herself.

‘But you look great, as far as I am concerned.’

‘What do you know? You’re a man.’

‘But you’re going out with me. If I think you look nice as you are, surely that’s what matters. Who else are you trying to impress, apart from me?’

She was stumped. ‘But I want to go home and freshen up, get changed.’

I leaned across and sniffed her neck. ‘You smell great. No freshening up needed as far as I am concerned. And your witch’s outfit is fetching too. You’re my perfect partner for the evening already, just as you are.’

For once Jenny was at a loss for words.

‘Right, well, there’s a nice pub over there on the corner. Shall we go?’ I concluded.

In its style the Oak and Holly was simultaneously in tune with the latest trends while purporting to of a bygone era, a simpler medieval time of mystery replete with folk memories from ancient legend. The decorative motifs were of goblins, dragons, gallant knights, wood nymphs and pre-Christian deities. At the bar I ordered Jenny a half of Natural Dry cider and a pint of Meadow Dew ale for myself. As the pretty barmaid served us, Jenny was sullen. Realising I was better letting her mood subside, I turned my attention to the barmaid, catching her eye and smiling, which did not escape Jenny’s notice. 

‘Did you notice the commotion outside just now?’ I enquired.

‘I heard something but I was stuck in here so I didn’t see anything. Do you know what it was about?’

‘Some morality campaigners objecting to pagans doing stuff at the Abbey. It got shouty and confrontational and the police had to calm it down.’

‘Yes, it’s happened before. That morality lot have really got it in for the pagan folk. Live and let live is what I say,’ replied the barmaid.

Jenny curled her lip. Saying nothing, her face set in annoyance, she took her drink and sat in a quiet corner of the bar while I paid.

‘Wasn’t quite right, what you told her, was it?’ accused Jenny, a steely look in her eyes.

‘How do you mean? I only told her what happened.’

‘Some bigots aggressively obstructed our freedom to worship, that’s what happened.’

‘I didn’t know what her attitude to these things was. I had to keep it neutral.’

‘No you didn’t. You are with me. You could stick up for me, and what’s right.’

‘It’s better not to get into fights with people, if possible.’

‘Some things are worth fighting for.’

I considered for a moment. ‘I notice you didn’t say anything. You could have done.’

‘It was you talking to her, not me. Anyway, how come you were talking to her instead of me?’

‘You weren’t very talkative. I was being friendly.’

‘Are you usually that friendly with other women when you are taking someone out?’

‘Oh come on, it was just normal conversation. I wasn’t chatting her up or anything.’

Jenny glared, saying nothing.

‘Well, why didn’t you say anything yourself about what happened?’ I reiterated.

‘You were doing the talking.’

‘But you didn’t like what I said. You could have put your own point of view, if you’d wanted.’

‘I didn’t want to contradict you.’

‘You mean you left it to me as the man to do the talking and take the flak for it.’

‘If you were a proper man you would be glad to stand up for me.’

‘I did. I handled things diplomatically to avoid causing you embarrassment.’

‘But that’s not what I wanted.’

‘Jenny, when we met you told me how much you were in favour of women’s equality. Actually, there was more. You told me women were superior. So how come you are now saying you expect men to fight your battles?’

Jenny grimaced. Something in her face told me she wasn’t feeling quite as antagonistic as she pretended.

‘I am right though, if you weren’t so obsessed with being diplomatic you should have said hate-filled bigots were forcibly obstructing our freedom to worship, shouldn’t you?’

I turned and beamed a smile at her, taking both her hands in mine. She didn’t resist.

‘Yes, of course that is what I would have said, if I had been speaking my mind,’ I assured soothingly.

‘Well, that’s alright then.’ She sipped her cider. ‘Why is it you think those Moral Multitude people hate us so much?’ 

‘From what they said, they think you were defiling the Abbey’s grounds, land they consider sacred.’

‘Well, yes, it is sacred, which is why we need to hold our ceremonies there.’

‘The problem is, each religion considers itself to be the only true one, so in their opinion they deserve exclusive use of what they consider sacred.’

‘You are annoying. You always see everybody else’s point of view.’

I sensed she wasn’t really annoyed, enjoying the parry and thrust. As was I, entranced by her feistiness. Relieved to have got over our difficulty, I acted quickly to turn things around. ‘Jenny, love, you have only told me a little about Wicca. I’m interested.’

‘What would you like to know?’

‘From reading up about it, Wicca comes in various guises. What variety does your coven follow?’

‘We follow the True Natural Path. We come out of the Dianic Wicca tradition, so we believe in the supremacy of the feminine, but unlike the original Dianic Wicca we have reincorporated the male, but put him in his appropriate role.’

How convenient, I thought; men do stuff for you and protect you, but you put them back in their place under your thumb when it suits you. I questioned why I was still there, but then I looked at her and knew. She was gorgeous.

‘What is the reason behind the feminine being supreme?’ 

‘The Earth is our Mother, the embodiment of the feminine, nurturing us, and Gaia is her spirit, the Goddess. We owe our whole existence to Her.’

I nodded, wide-eyed at Jenny’s beauty, if not her words, encouraging her to expand.

‘Gaia, the Earth Mother is both the supreme spirit and physical embodiment of every other entity on Earth, both spiritual and physical. There are millions of spirits and physical sentient beings on Earth, those of rivers, mountains, trees, flowers, insects, birds, animals and people, all of which are nurtured and suckled by Gaia. Harmony on Earth requires every spirit be aligned with and incorporated into the body of the Earth Mother, literally at one with and built into Her Being.’

‘Surely there must be some role for the masculine too.’

‘Yes, the Horned God, Green Man, Holly King and Oak King stimulate fertility and mark the seasons, forming part of Gaia’s realm to fulfil Gaia’s purpose.’

‘The Horned God is supposed to be sort of on a par with the Goddess, isn’t he? I’ve seen them depicted side by side as if they were equal and opposite, like Yin and Yang.’

‘We in the True Natural Path don’t believe that. The Goddess Gaia is supreme and must be for the sake of peace and harmony. The evils prevalent in the world stem from the inherent supremacy of the feminine being usurped by an out of control patriarchy. The patriarchy is the paramount form of oppression from which all other forms stem.’

‘Really? How is that?’ I raised my eyebrows.

‘Take warfare, wars are motivated by male aggression and planned and fought by men. Male greed leads to male-dominated corporations looting the world’s resources, subverting governments through bribery and extortion and suppressing technologies threatening their commercial domination. The male priesthood of established patriarchal religions drives societies with dogma to justify and perpetuate the status quo of male domination. Men form secret societies to advance the dominant male clique. Wherever you look it is toxic masculinity wrecking things.’

‘How is it just a masculinity thing? Might it not be human beings in general?’ 

‘No,’ Jenny said firmly. ‘The very nature of men and their testosterone inspired tendencies made them unsuitable for leadership roles; their domineering nature has driven them to seize. The evidence is clear. Criminals, especially violent criminals, are mostly men. All men are potential rapists if left unchecked and permitted to indulge testosterone-driven urges. Male dominated society makes it routine and normal to reduce women to the status of sex objects.’

‘So, what is the answer to those problems?’

‘The only way is to overthrow the existing patriarchal order and replace it with the natural order, a reconstituted society based on feminine leadership, under the guidance of the spirit of our Mother Earth, the Goddess Gaia.’

‘That could take a while,’ I mused.

‘We can’t afford for it to take a while. This is urgent because advanced technology makes warfare too dangerous to be tolerated and only female supremacy can realistically shape society to make warfare obsolete and unthinkable. Female supremacy will place Woman, the civiliser, in charge of Man, the warrior. Women being fundamentally more moral than men will, with feminine leaders, raise the moral standards of society, including the moral standards of men. Feminine power with its different set of values and energies, softness, wisdom and intuition rather than abstract intellectualism, combined with mutual nourishment and emotional expression as a creative form, will raise civilisation to a higher level.’

‘So how might this improved state of affairs be brought about?’

‘We must revive the ancient religious order that held dear the Earth Mother, Gaia, before being usurped by the false patriarchal beliefs of the Judeo-Christian era. This new spirituality will unleash a reservoir of healing, comfort, tenderness, sensitivity, feminine dignity and purity, to the benefit of all, including men. Men will be guided to curb their coarse and aggressive instincts and instead channel their strength and energies as directed by women who get their inspiration from the Earth Mother, Gaia.’

‘Well, fascinating,’ I said, truthfully more fascinated by her feminine curves than a female led society. ‘Why don’t we continue over something to eat? Is there anywhere you can suggest?’

‘Nature’s Bounty Café, that’s good.’

Jenny ordered falafels with a green salad, olives, hummus, pitta bread, chilli sauce and mint yogurt, while I went for mushroom and cashew nut flan, garlic potatoes and tarka dahl. We washed it down with a bottle of potent, locally made organic elderflower wine.

I encouraged her to expand on the benefits of the new order she envisaged under the blessed guidance of the Supreme Mother, Gaia, while I hung on her every word, conveying my appreciation of the wisdom of everything she was saying. She was not to know this was a standard journalistic technique, showing myself to be credulous, a convinced convert, enthusiastically eager to learn, tempting her into indiscretions.

Jenny was enjoying herself now, and, I sensed, increasingly warming to me.

As we finished our meal I placed my hand on her thigh, leaned in with a cheeky grin on my face. ‘What should we do now, do you think?’

She looked back at me frowning. ‘What do you have in mind?’

‘Well, I was thinking it was probably time we got to know each other better.’ I stroked her thigh gently with my fingers.

She clasped my wandering hand, firmly pushing it away. ‘You can’t have heard a word I said.’

‘Oh, sorry, about what?’

‘About toxic masculinity, treating women as sex objects, that’s what.’

‘Oh, right. Is it not allowed? You know, sex and that sort of thing. I didn’t realise.’

‘Love flows down from Gaia, channelled through women. Men have to let it come to them, not make demands. Male energy needing to be harnessed and channelled under feminine control.’

‘I take it Gaia’s love isn’t going to be flowing today.’

She looked at me with narrowed eyes. ‘No, not today.’

‘Does that mean not ever?’

She smiled slightly. ‘Not necessarily. Let’s see how it goes.’

I put a sad hangdog look on my face.

‘It is an important and significant step, making love with someone. First we would need to make sure the energy flow is right. You can’t just do these things on a whim. Spiritual energies have to be correctly aligned.’

I nodded, reflecting this might involve reiki, chakras and crystals. She sweetened the pill by cuddling to me, softly stroking my cheek and giving me a gentle kiss.

‘When are we going to see each other again?’

‘When I’m back in London.’

‘You’re going back?’

‘Yes, next week. I’ve still got my flat share. I’m looking for another job.’

‘But you already had a job at Drembold Industries. What happened?’

‘It was only temporary, filling in.’

Oldest Profession

The brown glazed tiles facing the old District Railway entrance of Earls Court underground station were reminiscent of an Edwardian public lavatory.

Having stoked up on a Cornish pasty I grabbed in passing at Paddington, I ignored the fish and chips on offer every day from the pub opposite the station.

At 7pm it was still peak business hours for the small shops lining the street, catering to folk like me, transient Londoners living in the tiny rented flats slotted into every crevice of the surrounding sprawl of residential buildings, an assortment of sandwich shops, fast food restaurants, pharmacies, foreign currency exchange kiosks and convenience stores.

On my side of Pembleton Gardens most late Victorian era terraced town houses were now small down-market hotels with imposing names, the rest generally converted into warrens of tiny studio apartments. One such miniscule rabbit hutch was my abode, one of four crammed into the third floor of one of shabbier buildings at the street’s end.

A man surreptitiously emerged from the building’s basement flat, glancing around warily, as had many previous men entering and leaving the basement premises of the lady calling herself Miss KattyKins—her online profile offered intimate consultations for generous gentlemen. Weeks before I had met the lady and adjourned to the pub for a chat.

I dumped my bag in the flat before popping out for a drink at the local hostelry, the Brunswick Star. As I was ordering my pint of London Best ale, Miss KattyKins made an entrance, dressed in a leopard skin effect skirt, beneath which suspenders held up her black fishnet stockings, visible along with her uplift bra pushing out her cleavage from her tight bright green tee shirt with ruffled sleeves. Her heavily made-up face failed to disguise a haggard, careworn expression.

‘Hello Kitty,’ I greeted. ‘Would you like a drink?’

‘Thank you, dear. Vodka and coke, if you don’t mind.’ I nodded to the barman. ‘After what happened today, I need it, I don’t mind telling you.’

‘Make that a double,’ I said to the barman.

‘Hard day, then?’ 

‘Yes, definitely. One of those days.’

‘Don’t know about you, but I need to take the weight off my feet. Why don’t we take a seat over there?’

‘Too right, I need a sit down.’

We took our drinks to a quiet alcove.

‘So, Kitty, what happened?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘You said, after whatever it was you needed that drink.’

‘Oh, right, yes, I did, didn’t I?’

‘So, tell your Uncle Simon all about it.’

‘What, with you working for The Trumpet? Not on your nelly!’

‘Kitty, I’m off duty and nothing will get in TheTrumpet about it, at least not from me.’

‘I don’t believe you. You reporter types are never off duty.’

I put my hand on her arm and looked into her eyes. ‘Whatever we say stays between us, I promise you.’

‘Yeah, right. I wasn’t born yesterday. I’ve heard promises from men before.’ She looked back at me defiantly.

A man looked over at us and blatantly stared at Miss KattyKins. He leaned over in my direction. ‘I wouldn’t get too close to her, if I were you. You might catch something.’

Kitty leapt to her feet. ‘Keep your dirty comments to yourself,’ she screeched, causing several people nearby to swivel in our direction.

‘That was uncalled for,’ I said to the man, hotly. ‘Mind your own damned business.’

‘They shouldn’t let the likes of you in here,’ said a prim woman to Kitty.

‘I’ve got as much a right to be here as you, stuck up cow,’ retorted Kitty.

‘Not if you’re in here propositioning the men!’

‘What’s it to you?’

I stepped between them. ‘Leave it, Kitty. It’s not worth it.’

The landlord came out from behind the bar. ‘Enough of that. I won’t have shouting in here. Any more of that, you’re barred.’

‘This man was grossly insulting to this lady,’ I explained.

‘Right, you, out,’ said the landlord to the man. ‘I’ve told you about this before.’

‘Wouldn’t want to be here anyway, if you let in low life like her.’

There was more shuffling and confrontation between the landlord and man in the process of him being ejected.

‘And you,’ said the landlord in our direction. ‘Just watch it, that’s all.’

We settled again. Even through her thick makeup I saw Kitty’s face was flushed red.

‘Bastards,’ I said. ‘Sorry you had to put up with that.’

Kitty sighed. ‘Don’t worry, I’m used to it.’

‘It was already a bad day, from what you said, even before that unpleasantness.’

‘Yes, it was.’

‘So, what was the trouble?’

Kitty looked at me with narrowed eyes. ‘Nothing you need know about.’

I shrugged. ‘You’re right. None of my business.’

‘Yes, it’s my business who I have come visit. Nobody else’s’

‘Of course. You can invite who you like. It’s a free country.’

‘Wouldn’t think so, the way some people go on.’

Kitty slurped back the remains of her drink.

‘Here,’ I said, reaching for her glass. ‘Let me get you another.’

‘Oh, would you? You’re a dear.’

I went to the bar and came back with our drinks replenished.

‘Ta, dear. You’re a diamond.’ 

‘Whatever it was that happened today, my commiserations.’ I rested my hand on her forearm.

‘It’s what some of them make me do, that’s all.’

I paused, wondering how best to draw her out. ‘By them, you mean the gentlemen who call in from time to time.’

‘Yes, them.’

‘Saw one coming up from your place a few minutes ago. Was it him that upset you?’

‘Yes. Well, not only him, but he’s the worst.’

‘Bad then, what he did?’

Kitty shuddered, curling her lips. ‘I don’t mind, usually. I’m used to it these days. But some things, they’re not right.’

‘Yeah, some things must be too much.’

‘Not really, if they’re paying they think they can do anything they want and I have to pretend to like it.’

‘Not anything at all, surely.’

‘They think so. Entitled to whatever they want.’

‘So, what did this guy think he was entitled to?’

She frowned, pursing her lips. ‘If he just wanted it one way, it wouldn’t be so bad,’ she said after seconds of hesitation.

I weighed this in my mind, failing to make sense of it. ‘I don’t quite follow.’

‘Well, you know, front or back or blowjob, one or other is okay, but more than that is just greedy.’

‘So, what did he want?’

‘All three, one after the other.’

‘You mean …’ I said, indicating in turn with my finger downwards, down behind my back and towards my mouth.

‘Yes, that. But worst of all, he wanted the blowjob last, which is disgusting.’

‘Yuerk,’ I said, screwing up my face. ‘He had better be paying well.’

‘Oh, he paid. He wants it three ways, that’s three tricks.’

‘So, like three times normal.’

‘Yes, but then afterwards he slapped me around and called me a slut and a whore and other things in Russian.’

‘Russian?’

‘Yes, someone from their embassy, I think. One time I saw him picked up in a car with diplomatic plates.’

‘So, he wasn’t just a one off punter.’

‘No, he comes regular.’

‘With what he does, I’m surprised you let him.’

‘It’s horrible, but he pays good money. Can’t afford to be choosy in my game.’

‘They’re not all as horrible as him though, are they?’

‘No, not nice, but not as bad as that.’

‘You have to go through a lot.’

Kitty reached her hand out under the table and stroked my thigh. ‘I wish they were like you.’

‘Come off it, Kitty.’

‘I mean it. It would be a pleasure if they were.’

‘Sorry to disappoint you, I’m spoken for.’

‘Pity. Lucky girl.’

‘Some of your gentlemen must be alright, surely?’

‘Well, yes, some are quite nice.’

‘What are the nice ones like?’

‘The posh ones, public school types, they’re usually nice. Polite and respectful too.’

‘What sort of things do they like?’

‘Usually like me to be their nanny, schoolmarm, and such, telling them off and spanking them.’

‘Ever thought of doing something else? A different line of business.’

‘I used to escort, strip; I did lap dancing and that sort, but I’m too old for it now.’

‘I meant something else completely, not on the game at all.’

‘Can’t think what. I don’t know anything else.’

‘Well, chin up. Tomorrow might be better.’

‘Could do with a day away from it, but I can’t afford to. Got bills to pay.’

News Desk

My piece on the Knights of Camelot theme park was tucked within the leisure and holidays section, but I was gratified to see my second opportunistic story about protests by morality crusaders against lewd pagan rituals in the grounds of Glastonbury Abbey appeared much more prominently, although not on the front page.

I was with my friend, Tim Bennston, who was manning TheDaily Trumpet’s news desk as I caught up with things on my return to the factory like bunker of a London office situated on land reclaimed from the old London docks, a location seen ablaze behind the City in old wartime photographs from 1940. The formerly derelict land had been cheap in the 1980s when TheTrumpet moved out from the traditional Fleet Street district. Now, right between the traditional City financial district and the newer financial quarter in Canary Wharf, TheDaily Trumpet was sitting on a gold mine.

Tim was companionable, in his thirties, short, well-rounded, a ruddy complexion with thinning hair, cheerful, humorous, level-headed and helpful even under pressure.

‘You did well with the piece on the devil worshipers,’ Tim observed.

‘Just a chance happening while I was there.’

‘Yes, but you spotted it and you were in there. That’s what makes a good reporter.’

‘Nice of you to say so.’

‘I don’t matter. Rebekah was impressed. That’s what counts.’

‘Really?’

‘Sure, you did well.’

‘So, what else have we got today?’