Globaleyes

[The Game] The Box - Part 1

2009-09-14T16:12:06Z

A woman against a wall, her face exploding in a shower of bone and gore, gunsmoke drifting into view. The blond man, the man with different coloured eyes, sitting alone with a map. With a book. A history of the future.

]]> Chapter 25

'History is the shock wave of eschatology'
- Terence McKenna

Press play

Pokaran, Rajasthani Desert, India

Drop down over the desert, drift across the sand, the wind blowing galaxy-shaped sand swirls as you pass. A quizzical-looking camel meanders by, farting and spitting as he goes. Patches of green. A dessicated tree. A dung beetle pushes a ball of camel crap ahead of him, toiling, straining at the effort. A foot comes down from above, stops, momentarily looms over the bettle, steps over him and keeps walking.

A man, dark brown skin, brown eyes, two days stubble. White t-shirt, brown shorts and crushed, flat sandals. Holding a red and yellow pennant, he marches across the sand, the cloth flapping in the early morning breeze behind him. Following him comes a woman, a violently purple dress wrapping her body. Her face shimmers under a wave of silver chains, linking from her right ear to a piercing on her nose. She carries another pennant, snapping in the wind.

Ten metres behind them come two children, giddy, giggling, trying to march in time, their shorter legs struggling to keep up. Further back we look and see more coming, down over the dunes, flags flying a riot of colours, strips of a rainbow emerging from the bleached sepia sands. More and more of them. Dozens, hundreds coming from all directions, swarming down towards the highway. Reaching the road, the groups get larger. From hundreds of kilometeres away they have come, from towns and villages they have walked, day after day, night after night. Dodging the cattle and kamikaze motorbike drivers, avoiding the thuddering trucks, the hay carriers packed to the point of looking like an exploding loaf of bread travelling at 60 miles an hour, careering buses with blasting horns and the seemingly never-ending army of wild dogs who swarm around the procession looking for a scrap of sustenance.

Trudging and drudging, marching and laughing they come in their thousands. Towards the village they go, the rising sun pushing at their backs, closer now, the smiles growing broader, the laughs louder. Hindu, Sikh, Muslim in a sea of swirling colours. And, deep in the midsts of the throng, a woman appears. At first, no-one notices her arrive. Black hair. Blue dress. Pale skin. A scar on her face.

She drinks from a water bottle, breathes deeply. Men stare. But not for long. A short look from her is enough to make them glance elsewhere. She looks around, taking in the scence. Stretches her back. She spots a circular thatch house at the edge of the village. Glancing down at a pocketwatch, she nods to herself, satisfied that she's found the place she is looking for. Nearby, a group of three small Rajasthani girls stare at her and laugh. She looks at them, their giggles falling silent. She smiles at them. There's a moment's indecision where they look at each other. Eventually, the smallest girl smiles back. A pair of huge brown eyes, glittering in a round brown face fix on her. Amused, the woman takes her bag down from her shoulders and produces a large peach. She holds it out in her hand. Two of the girls look at each other, unsure of themselves. The third, the smallest girl with the big eyes and smile moves closer.
'Namaste' the woman says, stretching her hand out towards the girl.
'Namaste' comes the reply in a sing-song voice. The girl takes the peach, another smile lighting her face up as she scurries back to her companions.
The woman walks on, shouldering her bag, moving to the entrance of the small circular house. She enters.
Giving her eyes a few moments to adjust, she sees the old man sitting on his heels. He laughs a little, nodding his head. He smiles at her. She smiles back.
'Namaste' he says, a look of genuine relief overcoming him. He gestures for her to sit down.
'Namaste' she says.
He reaches behind him, lifts an old leather suitcase and sets it down. With reverential care, he opens the case and removes a box. Producing a small key from within his robes, he sets about unlocking the box. He holds up a sheaf of papers held together with strings.
'Thankyou' she says with a bow of the head.
'Chai?' he asks, pouring a small cup of liquid.
She takes the cup and sniffs at it. A look of quizzical disbelief comes over her face.
'Chai?' she asks him.
The man erupts into laughter. She laughs back.
'Chai' he says.
She nods, enjoying the joke. She takes a deep breath, thinking, evaluating. She looks at him again.
'Okay then' she says, necking it in one gulp.
He smiles again.
The man moves across the space, moving cushions to a position behind her.
'Please' he says, indicating with a hand that she should make herself comfortable. 'Safe' he says with another gesture of the hand, indicating the camp around them.
She nods again, feeling the first effects of the brew beginning to whisper in her blood. Slowly, taking her time to control the coming nausea, she lies herself down. The man drapes a soft linen sheet over her.
'Thankyou' she says.
He nods his head and smiles again, re-taking his seat.
'Stay' he says, pointing a finger at his chest.
'Please' she says.
He nods. Closes his eyes. Tilts his head backwards and takes a deep breath. Breathes out. Breathes in. She breathes in with him. In. Out. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. In. Out. Slowly, slowly, the vertabrae of the spine opening. He raises a hand on the end of a breath, and starts: panting. Panting furiously. In, out, in, out. She matches his breathing, her chest heaving under the linen. And stop. Slowly, in, out, in, out. In through the nose, out through the mouth. It starts - the electric tingling in the chest, the rib-cage opening. In and out, in and out. Synapses fire as the drug starts to take hold. In and out and then back again. Panting, pushing, pushing the breathing as hard as he can. She keeps pace, pushing with him, the fire starting to burn up from inside herself. She can feel it coming now, the rush in the blood, the white heat starting between her legs, radiating out from her. And back to slow. Deep breathing, slow breathing. In and out. In and out. Slowly, slowly. Twenty seconds a time, he brings her up and back down. Up and down. One final push. Breathe, breathe, push, push and then it happens: as the tingling in the muscles reaches fever-pitch, colours and swirls slosh around inside her eyes. She tries to concentrate on the spot between her eyes - the centre of her head. Struggling to control it now, hotter and hotter, faster and faster the swirls come. One sticks. A small pin-point of light in her innervision. It spins, reflects a light she can't see. And explodes. Into the future.

A fractal shatters open in front of her, a thousand images at once moving at the speed of thought and frozen in time at the same instant. Swarming up at her, she fights for control of the stream - each one is a story, an instance, a person, a history. She knows she only need nudge her attention towards one to access it, to open it like a book, to dive into the fabric of the moment. She scans, scans, down deeper into the fractal which shimmers open, each piece tethered to the next, to every other with invisible threads. She holds, an instant catching her attention. An army in bible-black uniform. A child's face behind a wire-mesh fence. A woman running for a border, panting up a hill, a bullet taking half her head off as she collpases to the ground in a broken heap. And another. A smiling man, surrounded by crowds of onlookers. The same man speaking, ranting in a boardroom. Blustering and convincing, impassioned words in important rooms with haggard expectant faces hanging on his every word. Mr. White, beside him, grinning so hard, it almost tears his face. Michael, alone and wounded, hunted. Tied to a chair, his head hanging, a trickle of blood dripping to the floor. She sees a child. Roma. Rajasthani genes, the brown eyes. The man again. Blond hair, a blue eye and a green eye. The same man, now a small boy; a child pulling insects apart in quiet study whilst the sound of a woman's crying drifts from another room. A pile of rubble. The ribcage of a shattered building, a floor collapsing in a cloud of dust and groaning girders. Archaeologists of the future, digging through layers of dirt, a foot sticking out from a dirt pile, the trowel carefully moving the earth away from the bones. The dessicated body of a woman cradling her dead child, empty eye-sockets. Michael, running. Blood on his hands, crawling. A hand grabbing him under the shoulder and hauling him up. Two spirals connecting and exploding. A woman against a wall, her face exploding in a shower of bone and gore, gunsmoke drifting into view. The blond man, the man with different coloured eyes, sitting alone with a map. With a book. A history of the future.

'Oh God no' she screams. 'Oh Jesus Fucking Christ no' she screams, her head pushing at the arms of the old man who is now holding her, making soothing sounds, trying to get water to her mouth.
'Oh God no. Not again. Oh God no'.

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[The Game] Just Visiting

2009-08-11T08:12:27Z

People stand back, pushing each other. Another cart comes towards them, larger, seemingly empty. Then Michael sees the man standing inside, propped up against a beam for the crowd to see. A middle-aged man, perhaps in his fifties. Bald-headed on top, scraggly grey locks sliding down his collar, face hanging downwards, ashen and broken, there's blood on his clothes and dirt on his hands.

]]> Chapter 24

"Seeing death as the end of life is like seeing the horizon as the end of the ocean."
-David Searls

Press play

A creature. Small. Cellular, feeding, blind, moving in fluid, growing on creatures smaller than himself; a mouth, a digestive system, an asshole and shite. Too small to see, too small to comprehend, too small to know that behind him, above him, around him lies an seemingly infinite universe of light, food, monsters, war, rampant sex and cheerfully amoral death. Back, back, we spin, his size dwindling to a pinprick, the pinprick being consumed by another mouth, that mouth dwindling to a pinprick, to a mouth, being consumed by another, the bigger creature eating the smaller, the bigger being eaten again by another and back, back, back we pull, out and up, our vision breaking the surface of the fluid into an oxygen-based atmosphere, the surface receeds, a puddle coming into view, a man standing at the edge, looking in to the tranquil ocean of creatures before him, back to see a puddle on the side of a road, in a sparsely populated city, back, back, back we go, smaller and smaller he gets, back back, the city dwindling to a blur, smaller and smaller to become part of a land mass, a land mass in a body of water, a body of water on the surface of a squat, squashed floating ball in space, a ball in space orbiting a burning rock, a burning rock on the outer rim of a coral of stars, a coral of stars on the edge of a spiral at the end of a galaxy, a galaxy two thousand light-years wide, reduced to a lightning-coloured smudge on a spinning pinwheel, a pinwheel on the end of larger spiral, spinning in slow-mo glory at a light-year a second, revealing back to a cluster of galaxies, huddling together in the hushed ink of space.

And pause. And reverse. Down, down, down, we go. Spiralling inwards at a light-year a second, we tear through time and space, revolving downwards we go, in and in and in, down and down and down, until the stars stop streaking by, space levels, the clocks return to normal and we arrive, hovering above the shoulder of a young man in black coat, standing by the side of a road looking at a puddle.

A London street. Early morning. The sky still rose-tinted from waking. Dirt-paved, track-marked torn and broken ground. Trees. Grass. A rabbitt appears, stops to look at them. It's nose twitches and instant and it bolts for cover. An abandoned, dry wood cart nearby creaks in the breeze. Houses, simple constructions, poking their shapes through the morning haze - seeping out of the distance like unfinished watercolour drawings in sepia. Reality renders itself around them. Nearby, a large prison looms out of the mist, a pointed tower angling above the main structure, staring down at them as they stand. A silence covers all. Three figures stand, heads turning, a slight bewilderment clouding all three. One looks to the other two.
'This' he says, stretching his arms above his head and grimmacing, 'might be a good time to get some sleep'
'Damn straight' agrees the other man. Irish accent. Nervous eyes. He looks up from the dank puddle he has been gazing into, his reflection glaring at him accusingly. He yawns.
'Agreed' say the woman, walking up a shallow hillbank. The other two follow her, over the lip of the road and down into the ditch.
'That oughta do' says the first man, pointing at a barn some thirty meters away.
Taking their time, they make their way across the scrubby field expanse. Checking there's no-one around, they quietly sneak inside and settle down.
And sleep.

Noise. Bedlam noise. Michael wakes up with a jolt.
'Wassa?' he yelps. He sees Gabriel, sitting up also, looking at his pocketwatch and cursing.
'Trying to find out' he says.
Michael looks around him, his head clearing. He goes to move and finds something holding his hand. Victoria, still asleep, lying beside him, her mouth open, hair drooping across her eyes. She mumbles slightly, her chest moving up and down. Black coat draped over her.
Michael leans over, closer to her. 'Wakey wakey' he says, looking at Gabriel's back.
She snarls, releasing his hand. Turns over, groaning. Her hand reaching out for a water bottle she has inside her coat. The noise filters through to her, making her raise her head up.
'What is that?' she asks.
'I'll go look' Michael says.
Gabriel grunts. 'Be careful'
Michael walks down some steps and towards the barn door. Carefully, making sure not to give his position away, he looks through a cracked section of one of the wooden walls and outside.

Across the field and up the bank he looks. A crowd. Massive, a heaving swarming throng. Thousands. Tens of thousands. Swirling like a puddle it shifts and gloops.
'Fuck this' Michael says, opening the door and stepping out. He walks across the field again, towards the road above the rise. The other two follow him. They stop some feet from the roadside. No-one seems to notice them.
Scroungers, whores, thieves, drunks, lawmen, peace officers, constables and javelin men, packs of dogs sniffing at scraps in the dirt, huddles of children, their faces filthy with grime, running in circles, weaving and bobbing. A woman holding aloft a sheaf of papers, screaming aloud that this is the last true confession and speech of the dying. A droop-eyed prostitute eyeing passers-by, a pimp hovering some feet behind her - a look on his face you can't quite describe but which instantly incites the desire to commit violence on his person. A smugness that seems to leech from every pore in his body.
'What the hell is going on?' Michael asked.
'I may be wrong' Gabriel said, slapping the side of his pocket-watch violently, 'but I think this is the Tyburn fair'
Michael sighed. 'And that is?' he asked looking over his shoulder.
Victoria bit into an apple she had managed to get from somewhere. She sat down on the side of a seemingly abandoned cart, as laid back and as carefree as though she was in her own back garden, soaking up some rays. 'Execution' she said through a mouth full of apple.
'Execution?'
Gabriel spoke up. 'Monday. Execution day. The Tyburn fair. Prisoners brought from Newgate prison, paraded through the streets, boozed-up and then, well, dispatched with. At Tyburn.'
'Nice' Michael muttered, looking at the surrounding scrum. 'And that's in London I assume?'
'Yep. You know where Marble Arch is?'
Michael nodded.
'Well, that's more or less where Tyburn was. I'm guessing that that is Newgate prison' he says, pointing at the looming edifice.
Gabriel, his eyes fixed on the pocketwatch, sits himself down beside Victoria and makes him self comfortable, his gaze still fixed on the screen of the pocketwatch.
'I'm, ehm... I'm...' Michael begins.
'You're what?' Victoria asks, her mouth chomping on apple.
'I think I'm, you know, sensing a link...'
Gabriel looks up at him. Victoria stops chewing. 'Think you could be clearer than that?' Gabriel asks.
'Ehm, no. Sorry. Can't help much just now. Just a sense of something...' he trails off, taking a few steps up the bank, his head craning to see over the throng. Suddenly the noise grows louder - something is causing the crowd to split open, to shift aside. A cart is trundling it's way through the mob. Big wheels grind the dirt, rattling and shuddering it comes. Eyes, in faces, peering over the edge. Terror and bravado in equal measures. Faces pass by, some comprehending, some dazed. Pink, tear-streaked eyes stare through a gap in the cart's sideboards, fixing Michael on the spot. A second cart trundles by, the crowd baying and crowing. Some throw objects - rotten heaps of vegetables, clods of earth, a pile of shit. A second cart bangs past - more faces, more fear. A woman weeps. A man curses at the throng. A third cart, a smiling face of a clearly uncomprehending man grinning inanely at the crowd as he rolls by. Some laugh. Some cheer.

Then, a moment of almost silence as a gap opens up in the procession. People stand back, pushing each other. Another cart comes towards them, larger, seemingly empty. Then Michael sees the man standing inside, propped up against a beam for the crowd to see. A middle-aged man, perhaps in his fifties. Bald-headed on top, scraggly grey locks sliding down his collar, face hanging downwards, ashen and broken, there's blood on his clothes and dirt on his hands.
A woman steps foward from the mass, slipping alongside the cart. No-one speaks. Her face puffs up in a mask of fury and red-cheeked ire.
'You fucking Catholic cunt!' she screams, launching a stone at his head. it hits him with a crack, his head slumping for a moment. His neck snaps back into line, his head coming up. Screams explode from every angle, every manner of insult known to man thrown in his direction. The hangman, driving the cart, cracks the whip for the donkey to move on faster. The man looks from side to side, his eyes momentarily catching those of Michael's. For an instant, the two men regard each other, their gazes locked, time slowing to a metronome heartbeat, the dust motes in the air hanging in stasis. There is no sound. No motion. Nothing. Only the two men locked in staring at each other. Michael's breath catches in his chest. Click.
With a snap, the cart lurches onwards, turning to the left. Lawmen appear, hitting the members of the crowd who are getting too close. Michael turns and walks back down to Gabriel and Victoria.

Gabriel looks up at him as he approaches. 'So, let's assume that your and Claudia's little theory is correct'
'Ha?' Michael asks.
'Let's assume that this is all a game and that we have to play our way out. So, last we knew we were on Pentonville Road right?'
'Right' Victoria says with a nod.
'And that' says Michael, pointing a finger over his right shoulder, 'is a prison'.
They look over his shoulder at the silhouette of Newgate prison. They look back to him, their expressions suggesting that they are none the wiser.
'Jail' Michael says. 'Just visiting'
'Ahhhh...' come the two voices at him.
'And now? What's next on the boa..'
'Well whatever about that, I have a feeling that I know what we have to do next.'
'Which is?'
'Follow that guy on the last cart. I'm quite sure he has something to do with all of this'
'You getting that spidey-sense thing again?' Gabriel says with a barely supressed smirk.
'Something like that' Michael replies.
'Michael?' Victoria interrupts, 'what was that? What happened there? You sensed something on that last cart. With him.'
Michael looks at her. 'I think I know who that guy is. And if I'm correct, he's about to have a very bad day'
They both look at him.
'I'm fairly sure that that was Oliver Plunkett'.

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[The Game] Pentonville Road

2009-08-05T08:00:20Z

]]> Chapter 23

"Men in the game are blind to what men looking on see clearly"
- Chinese proverb.

Press play

Pentonville Road, 2nd December 1981

Rain, falling hard, a sharp swirling breeze whipping it upwards in slithering sheets that slap at passing cars. A horn sounds, lights flash. A figure in a black coat is pulled backwards by the collar, off the street and out of harm's way. On to the pavement he lurches, his companion shaking her head in exasperation. He rights himself, opening his eyes. A third figure, a man, huddles under a bus shelter and produces a pocket watch from his waistcoat. He sits down, smacking at the side of the watch, grimacing intensely. The other two figures begin having a conversation.
'Hey' Michael says with a smile, 'I didn't puke!'
'Yep. You just nearly got yourself knocked over instead' says Victoria, sitting down beside Gabriel under the bus shelter.
'I must be getting better at this' he announces. He looks around him, taking in the scene. An Austin Allegro zooms by. He grunts to himself. 'Late 70s?' he asks over his shoulder.
'80s. Early 80s' Gabriel says, his eyes fixed on the watch. A bus passes, belching a great wave of filth into the air, the majority of it splashing on Michael. He stands, arms open, mouth flapping as brown liquid pours down his face.
'Motherfucker!' he screams at the chugging red monster. 'Cunt!'
'Pentonville Road' Gabriel announces, closing the watch with a curse. 'Signal is stil crap. Can't get a lock on the next jumplink.' He looks up at Michael, who is still swearing at the dissapearing bus.
'Ignorant-ass, fat fucking shitface cuntsplatter!'
'Michael?'
'What?' comes a snarl.
'Any ideas?'
Michael's shoulders heave up and down. He turns on his heels, twisting his head this way and that. After a time he closes his eyes momentarily, breathes deeply, slightly swaying on his feet. Eventually, he turns left, raises an arm and points.
'That way' he says opening his eyes.
There's a moment's silence.
'You know some day, when we have a second to sit down' Victoria says with a tilt of her head, 'you must tell me how you do that...'
'Yeah, me too' Gabriel adds.
'Do what?' Michael asks.
'That' Victoria replies, 'how you always seem to know where the next link is. Usually we need one of those' she says with a nod indicating Gabriel's watch, 'to tell us. But you seem to be able to find them on your own'
'I dunno' Michael replies, kicking at the pavement with his foot, 'I just kind of feel them'
'Feel them?' Gabriel asks, exchanging a glance with Victoria.
'Yeah, I know that doesn't, well...'
'Make a shred of sense' Victoria adds.
'Yeah, guess not' Michael replies. 'Shall we?' he asks with a nod towards the road beyond them.
'We shall' says Gabriel, rising to his feet and pulling the collar of his coat tight around his neck.
They walk, three abreast, collars up, heads down.
'You'd think these feckin coats would have hoods' Michael mutters.
'Ha?' Victoria grunts at him.
'Well, they do every other bloody thing. Bend space and light, stop bullets, act as a shield against the forces of unspeakable darkness...'
'They don't stop bullets' Gabriel said with a smirk.
'They don't?'
'Nope'
'Fuck. Well, just saying you think they'd have a hood like'
'I guess we overlooked that' Victoria says.
'Guess so' Gabriel adds. 'How far?'
'About five minutes or so. I think'
'Groovy' Gabriel answers. Michael looks at him.
'You do realise that that makes you sound like an old fart, don't you?'
'What does?' he asks, looking back at Michael, rain pouring down his stubbly face.
'When you say "groovy". Makes you sound like a relic from Studio 54 or something'
Victoria sniggers. Gabriel stops walking.
'What?' Michaels asks, looking between them.
'I went to Studio 54, you little shit'
Michael stops walking and considers him a moment. 'How old are you?'
Gabriel regards him, his face a mask. 'Not so old that I can't kick your arse from here to fucking Scotland'
'Sorry' Michael says, turning his head back again and beginning walking. 'C'mon then' he says cheerfully, 'let's be moving'.

Five minutes later, they arrive at a bin on the side of a street. Gabriel and Victoria look at each other, pause and then look at Michael. He smiles and plunges his hand in to the bin, rummaging. 'In here somwehere' he says with a wince. The other two stare incredulously. After a few moments he emerges from the burger wrappers, soggy fag ends and beer cans holding something which makes Victoria jump backwards.
'Jesus Christ' Gabriel says, a look of intense disgust on his face.
Michael holds the item, an ancient looking boot, it's open torn toe staring at them like a gaping mouth, at an arms length but manages another smile. 'This is it' he says with a radiant grin.
'You sure?' Gabriel asks, holding his sleeve up to his nose.
'I think you're forgetting what game this is that we're playing' Michael replies.
'Fair point' comes the reply.
'C'mon then' says Michael, an impish grin spreading across his face.
Nearby, a red-eyed tramp, emerging from an alleyway, stops to consider them. He lists like a galleon, his eyes screwing up in concentration. He raises a hand to speak, seems to forget what he was going to say and closes his mouth.
Reluctantly, looking the other way, Gabriel tentatively places his left hand on the boot. He shudders from head to feet. Victoria steps forward and slowly places her hand on also. Her nose screws up
Michael looks at the tramp and winks.
They vanish, the boot falling to the ground with a wet splat.
'There it is' he says.

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[The Game] The Rules Of The Game

2009-07-08T13:46:02Z

'Because although we have no idea how most threads and links got created, we do know that some have the ability to use the threads to trap another. They can create a game, a series of bastard hard challenges, designed to either kill or trap the adventurer. What Victoria is trying to say...'
'Trying?'
'Ya ha. What Victoria is trying to say is that it looks like this is what's happening here. Someone is messing with us. But there is a way out. We simply have to figure out what the rules are - what the pattern is and then play our way out'
'Play our way out?'

]]> Chapter 22

"I think it's wrong that only one company makes the game Monopoly."
-Steven Wright.

Press play

Euston Underground Station, 10 May 1941

Sitting down where they could Michael, Victoria and Gabriel took in the underground station around them. Despite being at least twenty metres below street level, they could still make out the sounds of bombs falling above. Every once in a while, one would land somewhere nearby, a small trickle of dust slipping from a crack in the curved roof above.
It was difficult to tell how many people were down here. Hundreds at the least, possibly a thousand. Huddled and curled up, every inch of space taken, dimly-lit faces peered from the hazy gloom, blanket-smothered and swaddled in layers of clothes, mothers held their children, elderly men staring stoically into space, the faint sound of a woman crying into someones shoulder. It smelt ripe too: sweat, smoke, burnt clothes, piss and fear. Candles flickered all around, a distant mournful, half-hearted song drifting from the other end of the platform.
'Where are we?' Victoria asked them.
Gabriel looked to Michael.
'I think we're in Euston station' said Michael, his eyes flitting from side to side.
Gabriel sighed. 'We need to figure out what's going on here. A merry jaunt around London was fun for a bit, but this isn't right. This has been engineered. It's like someone is playing a game with us'
'Yep' Victoria said, 'I was getting the same impression'
'What do you mean?' Michael asked, looking between them.
Victoria moved closer to him, lowering her voice. 'This seems like it's been engineered. Like someone is mucking us about, sending us on a wild goose chase of some kind. What we need to do is figure out what the pattern is. We need to figure out what connects the places we've been. There has to be something - it can't simply be arbitrary...'
Michael raised a hand. 'Stupid question time' he said.
'Shoot' Gabriel said.
'How did the rips and the links get created in the first place?'
It was Victoria's turn to sigh. 'Truth is, we're not entirely sure. Excavations carried out in Baghdad about twenty years ago dug up a locked chest with clay tablets in them. The tablets tell the story of someone called 'Isa'. We don't know much about this person, I mean we're not even sure if Isa was a man or a woman...'
'She was a woman' Gabriel interjected helpfully.
'We don't know that' Victoria said somewhat testily.
'She was'
'He was not'
'She bloody well was...'
Michael interrupted. 'Yo. Geek Squad. Back to the story please'
Victoria continued. 'So anyway, yeah, Isa seems to have developed 'Vuja De' skills. What we now call rip-jumping. Isa could move through time - backwards, always re-emerging back to the point where he started off...'
'She' Gabriel added, looking the other way and giving a small, curious little girl who was sitting beside her sleeping mother a smile.
'Can you please shut the fuc...' Victoria started.
'Language' Gabriel intoned solemnly, with a raised hand.
Victoria rolled her eyes and looked back to Michael. 'Isa is the earliest record we have of one of us. But the tablets don't specify if he created the rips or if he was simply using existing threads through space/time to move around. But, the tablets do specify one interesting thing, and this is why I bring Isa up; they say that Isa was a master of something called "The Game".'
'The Game?'
'The tablets tell the story of Isa's journey through a series of challenges, each one more weird and gruesome than the next. Monsters, death traps, riddles, puzzles and chases across a maze of different times. What's important here is that Isa's journey was set up for him. Someone designed it - someone who wanted to stop him from getting to where he wanted.'
'Which was?'
'Home'
'And this relates to us how?'
Gabriel cut in. 'Because although we have no idea how most threads and links got created, we do know that some have the ability to use the threads to trap another. They can create a game, a series of bastard hard challenges, designed to either kill or trap the adventurer. What Victoria is trying to say...'
'Trying?'
'Ya ha. What Victoria is trying to say is that it looks like this is what's happening here. Someone is messing with us. But there is a way out. We simply have to figure out what the rules are - what the pattern is and then play our way out'
'Play our way out?'
'Yep' said Victoria with a nod.
'Okay' Michael said, looking down to his blackened hands, 'then what have we got so far? We've been in the 14th century and met Geoffrey Chaucer'
'Yep' Gabriel chimed.
'Then we came out in 1888 and met that nice man Jack'
'Uh huh'
'Then we moved backwards again, to meet Thomas Paine' Gabriel added.
'Sound man' Michael said.
'Then,' Victoria carried on, 'we come out here. In the blitz.'
The three of them went silent. They looked at each other. Then at the floor. Then around them. Then back to each other.
'Okay' said Gabriel, 'What connects Chaucer, Jack the Ripper, Thomas Paine and the blitz?'
Again, no-one seemed to have anything approaching an answer.
Victoria went to speak, opening her mouth momentarily and then closing it again. Gabriel shifted his weight from one side to another. Michael pursed his lips, staring across the platform at the wall of the tunnel. 'Maybe we're meant to meet someone else here? Someone famous like the other three' he said.
'What makes you say that?' Victoria asked him.
'Well, only that it was clear from what happened that whoever, or whatever that person in Whitechapel was, he could do what we do. He could rip-run. And he was good at it.'
'But' Gabriel said quietly, 'the other two couldn't'
'True' Michael conceded. 'They couldn't'
'Hmm' they said collectively.
'Hang on' said Michael, sitting up slightly, 'what about connections between those times?'
'I thought of that' Victoria said. 'I can't find any obvious links between 1941, 1791 and 1888. Oh and, whatever year that was when we were on the road to Kent...'
'What did you say?' Michael asked.
'I was saying that I can't find any connection between those dates...'
'No, no. You said something about Kent'
'Yeah we were on the road from London to Kent...'
'And then we were in Islington, right?' Michael added, excitement growing in his voice.
'Right' said Gabriel uncertainly, looking from Michael to Victoria.
'And then Whitechapel, right?'
'Uh huh'
'And now we're in Euston'
Victoria looked from Gabriel to Michael and back again.
'Sorry Michael, you've lost me'
Michael counted off with his fingers. 'The Road to Kent. Islington - the Angel pub. Whitechapel. Euston...'
'Sorry, I'm lost as well' Gabriel said.
Michael sighed and started again, one finger at a time. 'The Old Kent Road. Whitechapel. Angel. Euston...' he said with a growing grin. 'Jesus! Weren't you two ever kids?'
'Oh God' Victoria said, her jaw opening. 'Oh my God'
'There it is' Michael said.
'There what is?' Gabriel asked.
'Let me help you' Michael said. Leaning forward and using his finger, he drew a large square in the dirt. Within that square, he drew another one, creating a border inside the lines of the main square. Starting in the bottom right hand corner, he began to divide the border area into smaller pieces - each one marked off from the other. Michael stabbed his finger into the first one. 'The Old Kent Road' he said, 'Whitechapel' he carried on, his finger stabbing into the second quadrant. On to the third; 'Angel'. Then the fourth: 'Euston. You see it now?'
Gabriel's face screwed up in bafflement for a few moments and then, slowly at first, his face changed, his mouth opening into a huge 'O', his jaw hanging down.
'Claudia was right' Michael said, 'she was telling us the truth'
'What? What do you mean?' Victoria asked him.
Michael looked at her and smiled. 'It is just a game'
Gabriel sat bolt upright. 'Oh for fucks sakes! You're telling me that we're on a...'
Victoria cut him off. 'Language please'
The little girl giggled.

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[The Game] The Revolution Will Be Twittered

2009-06-16T13:19:03Z

"Where political rhetoric had trained people to see only a world of differences between our cultures, religions and national desires, the world suddenly saw the emergence of an attempted cyber-revolution; led not by a political elite or any form of recognised party, but rather by a massive, global army of geeks, democrats, hackers, comedians, bored housewives and Iranian kids armed only with cell phones and laptops, which was playing a dangerous real-time game of cat and mouse with a totalitarian regime in the only way it could - by trying to win the war for the control of information in and out of the country And it was, at least in the long-term, if not immediately, winning. "

]]> Chapter 21.5

'You can't stop the signal'
- Mr. Universe

Press play

June 16th 2009, Rome.

Claudia sat herself down on the floor - a slightly dusty expanse of tiled Roman opulence gone to seed. It was a pleasant early summer's day, the sky was clear and there was no-one around. The sun's rays broke through the walls and columns, shafted between the tiles and the cracked wreckage of a long-gone empire and spread themselves across where she sat with what seemed almost like enthusiasm. Birds sang. She drank from a bottle of water and looked around her, taking in the few tourists that were around. To their eyes, she was just another tourist - a vistor from another country. Not another time.

She opened her bag, taking out a sealed leather booklet, held fast with thin leather straps. Fixing her sunglasses on her nose and adjusting her sitting stance, she unwound the straps from around the leather holder and opened it up. A sheaf of papers sat before her. So, this was it, she thought to herself. The book that people were willing to kill for.

She sat a while, staring at the title sheet, its printed words and elegant signature in black ink. She whistled slightly and took another look around her. Two women stood nearby, one posing for pictures and the other gleefully snapping away. Claudia turned the page and began reading.

'Mysterious Ways: A History Of Evolution and Design In The 21st Century. Chapter 1 - "The Revolution Will Be Twittered"'

Compiled from notes taken by Liam O'Neill in January/February 2098, taken in interviews with members of the People's Council of Narrative and Story, Basel, Switzerland.

According to testimony given to Cardenio Agent Liam O'Neill, the history of the 21st century can be condensed to several key themes: the collapse of the globalised, corporate model and it's domination over the human life-cycle, the re-emergence of small, localised economies in tandem with the rise of super-national, borderless states of cultural and economic exchange, the ultimately cataclysimic race for eugenic supremacy amongst the world's remaining monetary elite, the exhaustion of carbon-based energy resources and their replacement with renewable resources in the form of a Global Renewable Energy Efficency Network (GREEN), the causes and outcomes of the Third World War and the collapse of most of the major totalitarian regimes in the face of hyper-mobilised 'grass-roots' citizen movements.

This last feature will be the subject of this first entry.

The world began to see the first signs of a 'metaphysical mutation' following the Iranian Presidential elections of June 2009. The alleged attempt by the Iranian authorities to rig the result of an election in favour of the Supreme Council's favoured candidate, the incumbent President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, produced such a wave of revulsion, not just abroad (as was perhaps to be expected), but within Iran itself, that it set in motion a train of events which would lead to a seismic shift in government, not just with the Islamic Republic, but across the surface of the whole planet.

The fatal mistake that the Iranian authorities fell into was in allowing the Iranian populace to believe that they were actually taking part in an authentic democratic process. The 2009 elections had widely televised Presidential debates, allowing the citizenry to have an objective, unbiased opportunity to pass personal judgement on the mettle of each candidate from the safety of their homes, away from the interference of the 'morality police' and other state agencies. In addition to the more 'usual' (in the west at least) event of a series of televised debates, the 2009 elections were the first to see the widespread usage of what was then, rather quaintly, being called 'social media' - that is rudimentary mobile phone SMS services, primitive, instant messaging chat facilities and predominantly text-based social networking services such as the now defunct 'Facebook'*.

More pertinently, the text-based news-feed streaming service known as "Twitter" rose to a position of prominence after the fall-out from the election results (which according to recovered records, were announced a mere three hours after the polls had closed) which saw it become the premier cybernetic information loop (based on the principles devised by Norbert Wiener) on the surface of the planet. It is perhaps one of the greatest ironies of the 21st century that the systems which would ultimately lead to the creation of a planet-wide consciousness and a nascent global government, came not from a body such as the United Nations or the well-intentioned principles of organisations such as Amnesty International, but rather from the attempt to create a more effective system for shooting down Nazi bombers during the Second World War.

In a desperate attempt to silence dissent, the Iranian regime set about blocking off, closing down or just smashing to pieces as many communication systems within the country as they could. Initially the "scorched-earth media strategy" paid dividends. Foreign journalists were denied access to government facilities and were forbidden to record or photograph on the streets and eventually expelled. Prominent 'websites' (early cyberspace news article and video streaming facilities) such as the BBC World Services' 'BBC Persia' found themselves mysteriously blocked off, blogs were hacked, SMS systems crashed and phone lines jammed.

As the scale of the protests became apparent to the regime, panic set in with the Supreme Council announcing that they would investigate accusations of electoral fraud. Widely seen as an attempt to placate the million-strong protests in the streets, it gave the regime time to unleash it's attack dogs and silence dissenting media outlets. Bloodshed was widespread, panic sweeping the streets of Tehran, with regime forces seemingly assuming control of the city.

What the regime hadn't counted on was simple text-streaming services such as Twitter. Impossible to hack due it's multiplicty of feed sources, global reach and real-time 'duck and dive' capability, it became the primary source of counter-regime activity over a frantic 72-hour period which saw a full-scale cyberwar erupt between Iranian activists and the agents of the state.

Most notably, Iranian protesters were aided by a global army of "hacktivists" only too willing to help the nascent democratic movement. Posting rotating proxy numbers, war-dialling government websites and maintaining a running battle with government misinformation officers, Twitter and its associated ecosystem of picture, video and blog sharing spaces became the site of a "digital blitzkrieg". If the government lost control of the information war, it seemed, they would lose control of the country.

What was chiefly significant was that the activities mounted against the Iranian government were not necessarily coming from Iranian citizens: the source was global. This was a movement which paid no heed to notions of borders, ethnicity or nationality. Where political rhetoric had trained people to see only a world of differences between our cultures, religions and national desires, the world suddenly saw the emergence of an attempted cyber-revolution; led not by a political elite or any form of recognised party, but rather by a massive, global army of geeks, democrats, hackers, comedians, bored housewives and Iranian kids armed only with cell phones and laptops, that was playing a real-time game of cat and mouse with a totalitarian regime in the only way it could - by trying to win the war for the control of information in and out of the country.

The results, as we now know, were staggering, setting in motion a chain of events which would lead to what many claimed to be the first stirrings of 'the global brain'.

End excerpt.

* Information on "Facebook" is scarce after the great data wipeout of 2042, when British Government server-farms in Durham unintentionally released a lethal software-eating virus after DNA databases of UK criminals had become sentient and attacked the early 'internet'. However, earlier recovered resources (ironically from almost the same time as the Green Revolution in Iran) indicate that Facebook may have been complicit in its own Ourobourous-like demise.

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[The Game] Keep Calm And Carry On

2009-06-10T14:01:07Z

A body on the ground, pieces, the sound of an infant inside a building. A severed leg. A china cup. Blood. Piss and shit. A crack of timber. Fear. The screeching of sirens, howling of fire engines, the ceaseless barking of dogs, the monotonous drone in the sky, the coughing 'ack ack' of anti-aircraft fire, thudding above the skyline, the clouds themselves lighting up from inside, rubble and glass raining to the ground. A moment's silence giving way to an explosion she felt before she heard it, the very ground shaking beneath their feet, shuddering buildings, a rain of glass shattering down into the empty street to their left...

]]> Chapter 21

'The goal of life is to make your heartbeat match the beat of the universe, to match your nature with Nature.'
- Joespeh Campbell

Press play

10th May 1941

Emerging out of a time-rip was always disorienting. Victoria had never really enjoyed the experience, even after all these years, but she could control the sensations that came with it. She'd no idea how many jumps she'd done now but over the years the nausea had faded, the tingling pins and needles in the feet and hands had given way, the woozy unbalanced head snapped back into focus faster than before and the summersaulting stomach had calmed itself to a numbed but controlled growling. Michael on the other hand, she knew, was still struggling. Every one of his jumps invariably resulted in him puking his guts out. Or at least spending fifteen minutes post-jump trying not to. Gabriel she could always depend on. He'd taught her how to jump - a veteran of the art since his early teenage years, he could always be relied upon to be there, levelheaded, calm and in control whilst those around him were losing control of their minds. And bowels.

Considering all of this, the jump out of Islington came as a shock. Emerging out of the rip, Victoria felt the air hit her like a slap in the face. It wasn't just the intense heat, the screaming noises in the darkness that seemed to surround her or even the obvious smell of burnt bodies but something else - something undefinable. Something insubstantial but tangible. Fear. It was fear. The fear of an entire city. She came out easily enough, her feet touching the ground without problem. But with a crunch beneath her. As her vision swam back into focus, she could see what made the sound: glass. Shards of shattered glass. Hundreds, possibly thousands, of them. Breathing deeply, she raised her head to look around. Slowly, with an intake of breath, her jaw dropped. Before her lay a perfect vision of hell.

Above, the sky above was a bruise, battered brown and bleeding, the clouds black as soot. Every few seconds the air would tear open as another explosive ruptured the blackness, flashing the sky orange and brown. Streaks of orange zipped into the air, criss-crossing, zig-zagging, tearing the night open in seemingly random sequences. Explosions, high, high above them bubbled and belched, chugged and clacked. Looking down, ahead of her, no street lights were visible. Fires tore through buildings all around, flames lighting up the collapsing, smashed rib-cages of the structures, masonry crumbling like rotten timber, the smash of glass windows exploding behind them, a building groaning like a ancient monster, as its walls teetered on the edge of collapse.
'What the fuck is going on?' said Michael's voice from behind her, cracking with strain.
'Keep your head down' she could hear Gabriel say, the sound of a body being hauled up off the ground as he said it. Instinctively she knew that Gabriel had him by the shoulders and was holding Michael so as he wouldn't run screaming into a firestorm.
'We need to move' she said, 'now'.
''No shit' came Gabriel's voice, as his hand found hers.
Half-blind, terrified, submerged in a cacophany of screaming sirens, distant sky-bound clacking and the wail of nearby fire engines, they staggered up the street, trying their best to make out where they were, trying to discern a shape, a sound, anything that could guide them along. After a few paces a deafening explosion tore the top half of a building off about two streets away. The three of them instinctively dropped to one knee.
'Blitz' said Michael's voice, breaking with sickness and fear. 'We're in the fucking blitz'
'We need to get underground' Gabriel shouted above the din of a screaming in the sky. 'There's got to be a tube stop near here. Let's move'
Victoria grabbed the other side of Michael's body and hauled him upright. Faster now they moved, almost running, their free hands covering their mouths to block out the dense, all-pervasive choking smoke that seemed to be covering everything.
'Keep moving' Gabriel barked at them. Not that they needed to be told. Victoria's legs were almost moving independently of her. She'd seen some scary shit in her time on this job, but this was about as bad as it had ever gotten. She genuinely wondered for a moment how the hell they were going to get out of this. And then she saw one. A white spark. Another.
'Oh shit' she heard Gabriel say.
Swirling from above, drifting, weaving, almost gracefully towards them, fluttering down into the dark shadowed spaces, clumps of incendiary bombs fell. Two dozen in two seconds. A platoon of murdering devices, sliding down to earth with all the pretty innocence of a child's Halloween sparkler. With a sequence of bubble-wrap pops they flashed brightly, then quickly simmered down to pin points of glittering white, burning ferociously in the shadows. Some went out. Some did not. Some caught. Some sparked. Some took hold. Soon a yellow flame leapt up from the white center. They had done their job - another building was on fire. In seconds, the inferno seemed to engulf the street around them, flames leaping through the dark, hunting out food to eat.
'We're going to be dead in seconds' Gabriel roared, lifting them both back up and hauling them to a moving pace.
'Left' Victoria heard Michael croak. 'Left'
'What?' she managed.
'Left. Go left. Station. Left...'
They didn't disagree and started moving as fast as they could.
Flash, bang. Flash, bang. Above them, getting closer, the sound of grinding engines, buzzing like a swarm of angry aliens in the sky, getting closer and closer, the whining of metal on metal becoming unbearable, the ack-ack of anti-aircraft fire wildly tearing up the sky, streaks of fire flailing through the London night.
A body on the ground, pieces, the sound of an infant inside a building. A severed leg. A china cup. Blood. Piss and shit. A crack of timber. Fear. The screeching of sirens, howling of fire engines, the ceaseless barking of dogs, the monotonous drone in the sky, the coughing 'ack ack' of anti-aircraft fire, thudding above the skyline, the clouds themselves lighting up from inside, rubble and glass raining to the ground. A moment's silence giving way to an explosion she felt before she heard it, the very ground shaking beneath their feet, shuddering buildings, a rain of glass shattering down into the empty street to their left. They lurched across the road, almost banging into a flaming car obscured by the smoke, around a corner, tripping over a curbside and crashing to the ground. Victoria managed to outstretch a hand, breaking the fall. Something wet on her hand. Blood? Oil? Both?
She heard Michael hit the curb with a bang, Gabriel tumbling with a curse.
'Up! On your fucking feet' she heard a voice shout, 'Get up!'. Not a voice she knew. A woman. A hand grasping hers. 'Take your friends' hand. Hold on. Do not let go of him.'
Through the murk she could see a figure taking Michael's hand and thrusting it into hers. The figure moving again, taking another hand, Gabriel's, and thrusting it into Michael's. Through the dark a helmet visible on her head. Three letters in white paint: ARP.
'If you want to live, hang on to each other and hang on to me. Now let's go' she barked.
Victoria nodded, unable to speak, her throat feeling like it had just been sandpapered.
'Follow me' the woman ordered.

And they did, moving in tandem, the blind leading the blind, the smoke swirling like black soup about them, an explosion in the next street that made them crouch down, a scream from the woman to keep moving, another road to cross, another twist, a wrench of metal hinges, a grinding of steel on concrete, a hand thrusting her inside, another hand on her head guiding her in, stopping her from cracking her head off something. A slamming of a gate. A door. Steps down. A lamp. Light on a face. Patning, sucking the air in. Deep breathing. Michael slumping down a wall, his legs giving way, his face streaked with dirt and his eyes bloodshot to red. A woman's face, black with smoke and filth, panting and cracking a smile from the corner of her mouth to reveal white teeth and a pink tongue.
'You three. Do you have any idea how close you were to getting blown to pieces?'
'Thankyou' Victoria said through a cracking throat. The woman handed her some water. Victoria took it, placing her other hand on the woman's shoulder, a squeeze of thanks.
'Where are we?' Gabriel asked, leaning against a wall.
'Euston. You're in Euston underground station' came the reply.

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Inspired by the work of Ernie Pyle.

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[The Game] Lazarus Juice

2009-05-27T07:13:44Z

'Listen' Michael said, 'I have no idea where this is going to put us, but I'm convinced now that this is not arbitrary'
'What do you mean?' Victoria asked.
'Just that I know it seems random - where we keep ending up, but its not'
'This is because of what Claudia told you. In a dream...'
'Not just that' Michael said, 'if you look at where we keep emerging, there is a slight pattern to it'
'Which is?' Gabriel asked.
'London. Since we got lost, all of the location have been in London. I mean, I know they're random as hell, but they are all in London'

]]> Chapter 20

'We don't stop playing because we grow old; we grow old because we stop playing.'
- George Bernard Shaw

Press play

Cardenio, Dublin. Present Day

Cardenio system initialising, standby. Standby. Log-in. Password. Logging-in. Thankyou. Welcome to the Cardenio system, Director. The date is May 27th 2009. News feeds loading. Cardenio Recovered Artefact Database loading. 21 items recovered and logged since you last logged in. Image feed loading. Agent Status Updates feed loading. Gabriel is M.I.A. Ryuichi is foostering in the basement. Melissa is in 18th century Nova Scotia. Amanda is on the bog. Kiko is reading about Norman Weiner's Cybernetic loops and the invention of the computer mouse. Rob is stalking himself in 1984. Victoria is M.I.A. Dave is chasing whaling fleets in Japan. Pierre is having twins. Gabriel is M.I.A. Michael is M.I.A. The Director is sighing and wondering what to do next.

Angel Pub, Islington, London, January 1791

Michael had never been good with hangovers. At the best of times he was a pathetic post 'the night before' type, moaning and groaning, frequently found lying on a floor, seemingly close to death and bleating for a priest and a doctor. But this was different. This was a hangover on a scale he'd never really thought possible. A headache like an earthquake, a stomach that felt like a bloated corpse had crawled up his arse, a tongue that felt like a roll of carpet and a throat that actually seemed to have been sandpapered all added up to make him look, smell and feel like the most miserable wretch that had ever imbibed an alcoholic drink. Add to this the fact that he was stuck in late 18th century London with two time-travelling freaks who now expected him to lead them into another jump - to God knows where - and he was beginning to feel, perhaps for the first time since this entire farce had begun, that he might not be able for it.
'I want to die' he moaned miserably.
'Okay' said Victoria, 'there's only one way to deal with this: Lazarus juice'
'Lazarus juice?' Gabriel asked, looking up from the flickering display on his pocketwatch screen.
'Remember that time in Istanbul? With Steve the Greek and the cross-dressing priest?'
'Yeah?' Gabriel said uncertainly.
'Well, you remember when Steve needed to wake up that prostitute who'd been drinking and smoking weed all night and he whipped up some brew and chucked it down her throat?'
'The one with three nipples?'
'Yeah, her'
'Oh yeah. Steve stuck a funnel down her throat and poured it into her'
'Exactly'
'Wonder what ever happened to Steve?'
'Ten years for exposing himself to a minor'
'Wow'
'Anyway, we need some of that'
'Need what?' Michael asked, his bloodshot eyes making contact with hers.
'Michael. Just for futture reference: drinking an entire bottle of absinthe is never really a good idea whilst fiddling with the fabric of the universe. It tends to make things messy. Now stay there for a few minutes and I go get this sorted for you'
She walked out of the room and made her way downstairs. Whilst she did Gabriel sat down opposite Michael and shook his head in despair.
'Don't say a fucking word' Michael moaned.
'Wasn't gonna...'
'Uh huh'
'So, what did Claudia have to say for herself?'
Michael laughed, instantly regretting it as the shudders made him feel nauseous. 'You say that like it was real. It was just a dream'
'You sure?' Gabriel asked. 'Sometimes dreams can open time-rips'
Michael looked at him carefully. 'Seriously?'
'Yep - I'm not saying that everything you experienced was 'real' in the strict sense of the word, but I'd put money down on the fact that she had a dream about you too and is currently sitting somewhere in time, wondering what the hell that was about.'
Michael thought about this for a moment, the sensation of her skin against his coming back to him in a flash; her smell, her warmth. A memory swum up through the fug, bursting to the surface with an effect that made him shudder from head to toe - Claudia, winking at him, her expression an image of perfect childish misbehaviour. Michael breathed deeply.
'I dunno man,' he said, 'she was very friendly like. Not her normal self'
'She didn't try to hit you?'
'Quite the opposite. She was almost affectionate'
'That'll piss her off'
'Yep'
They both went silent, Michael sliding back down to a lying position. Gabriel returned to tapping away on his pocketwatch screen, trying to get a solid signal. Enough to send a message back through the loop to let Cardenio know that they were ok. Nothing. Several minutes passed and Victoria returned. In her left hand was a large tankard, frothing at the brim. Michael eyed it suspiciously.
'What is that?' he asked.
'Best you don't know' Victoria replied. 'Drink it' she said, offering the vessel to him.
Slowly, as though he expected the thing to erupt at any moment, he raised the lip of the tankard to his mouth and, closing his eyes, scrunched up his face. As the first drops touched his tongue, Victoria leaned over, pinched his nose closed and used her other hand to up-end the tankard into Michael's mouth. 'Down in one' she said, grabbing hold of him as he squirmed like a child. Half of it seemed to slop over the front of him but ten seconds later the tankard was empty.
Victoria took a step backwards, Gabriel standing up from where he was sitting. Judging by the look on his face, Michael seemed to have drifted out of consciousness, his eyes fixed forward, staring, bloodshot and crazed. After a few moments, his mouth opened, a look of the most intense anguish and horror overcoming his face. A single tear rolled down his cheek. Suddenly, seemingly filled with the fury of hell itself, he leaped off the bed, burst through the open door and took off down the hallway with both hands clasped to his throat.
Gabriel and Victoria exchanged glances as they heard the privy door almost torn off its hinges and the sound of an ungodly scream erupting from within. Some seconds later, when the screaming was reaching a pitch which could wake the dead, they heard the sound of a head being plunged into water, submerged howling, fists pummeling off a wooden surface, bubbles gurgling on the water like a frenzied jacuzzi and a final, ungodly wail of agony as a head resurfaced, gasping for air.
'Tabasco?' Gabriel asked.
'Marmite' said Victoria.

One hour later

'You understand' said Michael, holding up the now empty absinthe bottle from the previous evening's revelries, 'that I have literally got no idea where this will spit us out, right?'
Simply holding it was making him feel like throwing up again. There'd been a goodly deal of that in the last sixty minutes - wretching, heaving, screaming, moaning, dunking in water and puking. The only reason he didn't throw up again, Michael found himself reasoning, was because it was literally impossible at this stage. There was nothing left in there. He was pretty sure that he'd puked up something that had been in there since the late 80's. He put the bottle on the table.
'I hear ya' said Gabriel.
'How you feeling?' Victoria asked.
'Like I want to die'
'Sounds about right' she said.
'Listen' Michael said, 'I have no idea where this is going to put us, but I'm convinced now that this is not arbitrary'
'What do you mean?' Victoria asked.
'Just that I know it seems random - where we keep ending up, but its not'
'This is because of what Claudia told you. In a dream...'
'No. Not just that' Michael said, 'if you look at where we keep emerging, there is a slight pattern to it'
'Which is?' Gabriel asked.
'London. Since we got lost, all of the locations have been in London. I mean, I know they're random as hell, but they are all in London'
Victoria nodded. 'Yep, they are. But to figure out how to get the hell home, we need a pattern better than that. It's not that unusual to get stuck in a link-loop based around one city or country, but this is weird. I can't make any sense of why we're ending up where we end up'
'Me either' Gabriel added. 'And I'm bothered by the fact that we can't get a signal at all. That's downright weird.'
Michael nodded. 'There has to be a connection between the places we've been ending up. I mean, first we come out in the 14th century in the South of London, right? The Road to Kent. Then we get Whitechapel in 1888. Next it's Islington. There has to be a link between those three places'
They looked at each other, each hoping that the other would have some magical explanation. None was forthcoming.
Victoria shrugged. 'Shall we make a move? Maybe another location will suggest something to us'
'It better' said Gabriel.
He nodded, and placed his hand on the bottle. Michael winced and motioned for Victoria to do the same. She did. Exhaling loudly, Michael brought his hand down on top of theirs. And they jumped.

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[The Game] It's Just A Game

2009-05-19T07:48:27Z

You've forgotten what I told you, haven't you? What did you tell me, he asks. When did you tell me? When we first met, she says, bringing her face next to his, her mouth close to his. He can smell her breath. Do you remember what I told you? No, he says, his throat going dry. She smiles, her mouth opening slowly. It's all a game. Just a game.

]]> Chapter 19

'The true man wants two things: danger and play. For that reason he wants woman, as the most dangerous plaything.' - Nietzsche

Press play.

'A Stairway To The Stars'

Michael breathes. Standing still. An empty glass-wrapped ballroom. On a pier, the sound of the waves gently lapping against the woodwork of the boards below. A light rain falling against the glass, a seagull passing, its head momentarily turning to look in at him, wheeling away into space. An empty dance floor, chairs against the walls, lace curtains, iron fittings and supports, a single sheet of music on the ground, arching Victorian struts, a solitary, discarded rose on a bare floorboard. Where am I? Brighton's West Pier, a voice answers in the distance, its notes echoing through the air around him, stacatto staggered as each phoneme slips through a time-crack. That's a nice trick, he says. Taking in the room he sees there's no-one around. Another seagull passes overhead, spinning around, landing on the gallery outside, peering in, it moves from one foot to the other, its black, unblinking eyes staring at him through the tinted glass. He nods at it. It nods back.

Michael walks across the room, the sound of his boots echoing on the floor beneath him. When am I? 1894. August 17th. 2 a.m., the voice replies, getting closer. The echo of a couple laughing, bouncing around the room, slips past him and falls away. A child crying. A mother consoling it. A grief-stricken man, sobbing quietly. The sound of lovers, their hands working on their skin, washes through a wave below. Michael walks to the window and stares out, looking east. He can see the lights of the shore, reflecting back into the water, the lines of the pier sluicing through the black slosh beneath, the white dandruff of the surf breaking on the stone rocks on the beach. He sees a man walking the promenade. Alone. Looking directly east, the Palace pier glares in the darkness, looming, threatening him. A flash. Fire. Flames. Screaming. A snatch of light from another time. Fading away into cascading echoes, the scene blurs to nothing and he returns to where he is, standing in the middle of the ballroom. Empty and alone.

I'm glad you made it, she says, her voice coming from above, from behind, from below. He spins around, looking for her. She's nowhere to be seen. Her laugh echoes off the walls. She's everywhere to be heard. A hand touches his shoulder. He turns slowly, expecting her to vanish at any moment. Distantly, echoing, shimmering in time, a piece of music begins to play. A melody he recognises but cannot name. Hello, he says. Hello, she says. They stand for a time, looking at one and other. Is this real, he asks her. She laughs, placing her arm around his shoulder, pulling herself closer. Gently, slowly, in small circles, holding onto one and other, they begin to dance, rocking to the echoing music. I don't know, she replies, a shrug of the shoulders. I don't think this is real, he tells her. You're hair is different, he points out. It's red. She places her head on his shoulder, her hand moving up his back. Why not, she asks. Because you're being nice to me. She giggles a little. Good point, she says. Also, I've been drinking absinthe. With a founding father father of the American state. Oh yeah, she says, which one? Thomas Paine, he tells her, his hands moving around her, sensing her relaxing into him. No, which absinthe, she asks. Oh, I don't know, he says laughing at himself. He can feel her nuzzling into him. Calming. The rage slipping away from her. Hands to yourself, she says. I hear ya, he replies. There was a notebook, he begins, did you send me a message? Yes, she tells him. And you passed out before you could answer properly. Next time, try to write back. I will he says, noding his head. I also got your other message, he tells her. The one you left in Cardenio. In the notebook. She says nothing.

Time passed. No time passed. How long have we been here? I don't know, she says, her head coming up off his shoulder, her mouth by his ear. He feels her breath on his neck, his heart-rate quickening. But I do know something you don't know, she says. What's that? She holds him closer again, her skin pressing against his. I know why you are lost. I know why you can't find your jump to where you were supposed to go. I know why you can't figure out the pattern. What pattern, he asks in bafflement. The pattern of how you are moving through time. It's not random Michael. It's not arbitrary. I know it seems arbitrary, but it isn't. He looks down at her, her eyes, her mouth, her nose, the pores on her skin, the smell of her overwhelming him. He tries to calm himself, to stop himself from kissing her. You've forgotten what I told you, haven't you? What did you tell me, he asks. When did you tell me? When we first met, she says, bringing her face next to his, her mouth close to his. He smells the scent of her breath. Do you remember what I told you? No, he says, his throat going dry. She smiles, her mouth opening slowly. It's all a game. Just a game.

I don't understand, he tells her. She smiles again, resting her cheek against his.Time to get up off the floor Michael. Time to take control. Time to write your story. I don't understand, he tells her again. You will in time. You will. Now, would you like to know how to get home? How to find the story? Yes, I wou...

Michael jolted awake.
'Fuck' he said, a notebook falling to the floor from his hand.
'What?' said Gabriel's voice from behind. Slowly, agonisingly, Michael turned to see Gabriel and Victoria sitting on a bed behind him, both looking suitably smug and amused. The room spun. He groaned miserably.
'I had a weird dream...' he said feebly, 'Claudia. It was Claudia. She was trying to tell me something...'
'Oh yeah?' Victoria asked, with what sounded like a laugh. 'What did she say?'
'That she knows why we're lost and why we can't figure it out. Something she kept saying - that it's all just a game. I think I'm gonna puke.'
Gabriel said nothing but simply looked at Michael for a time. Eventually Victoria spoke.
'You have any idea what that means?'
'Nope' said Michael, wincing in pain. His skull felt like it had been used as a toilet.
'Well, let's get going' Gabriel said. 'This book isn't gonna find itself.'
'Hang on. Hang on. One more thing' Michael said, dragging himself to a seated position, 'I think I know how we make our next jump.'
'How?' Gabriel asked.
'With this' Michael said, holding up an empty absinthe bottle. 'This is the jump link.'

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'A Stairway To The Stars' by Caretaker. Find the album here.

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[The Game] A Paine That I'm Used To

2009-05-13T07:00:26Z

]]> Chapter 18

'Remember you are just an extra in everyone else's play.'
- Franklin D. Roosevelt

Press play.

Islington, London. January 1791

A wide street, swept with wind and a thick snow. Three figures appear in the darkness, coats flapping in the breeze. Two huddle closer, shivering and pulling their coats closed. The third lurches to the side, looking like he's about to vomit. His chest heaves up and down, pushing air into his lungs. The other two hunch over a pocketwatch, trying to discern the features on the glass through the blizzard.
'You got anything?' Michael asked, righting himself and beginning to shiver.
'I don't believe this' Victoria said.
'What? You've got a signal?'
'I've got a faint one, but that's not the problem. We've gone backwards. Fucking backwards'
'How the hell is that possible?' Michael asked.
'I thought we were getting closer' Gabriel said.
'So did I' Victoria answered. 'And that's not all. We're in a totally different part of the city as well. We're in Islington'
'What? How the... what the...?'
'Jesus wept, it's bitter' Michael said, his teeth starting to bang together. 'Can we get out of this? I'm fecking freezing. And I'm starving'
'Yeah, I'm hungry' Victoria agreed.
They looked around the street, their eyes squinting at the swirling snow and howling wind.
'There' Gabriel said, his hand pointing towards a distant light. 'Let's go'.
Five ice-box minutes later, they staggered up to the door of a building in a courtyard. Stepping over the broken glass and horseshit, they peered through the white swirl to see a sign mounted on the wall of the courtyard, above the door. It showed a crudely painted angel, it's eyes raised in supplicant prayer. They looked at each other, shrugging.
'Good enough for me' Michael said.
Gabriel started banging on the door. After a time, they heard a bolt being slid across a plank of wood. A crack opened, light spillling out and an eye peering around the door. Michael thought to himself what a pathetic trio they must have looked - half-frozen and shaking so much they much have looked like they were dancing.
'Yes?' said a gruff voice.
'Forgive the hour' Gabriel began, 'we were waylaid on the road to London and need somewhere to sleep. We can pay' he finished hopefully. The owner of the eye said nothing for a moment and then barked a question.
'How much?'
Gabriel rummaged in his coat pocket and dug something out which Michael couldn't see, but which clearly impressed the innkeep, as the door suddenly swung wide open to reveal a portly middle-aged man who wore a beaming smile.
'Come in!' he yelled, his arms wide open.

Twenty minutes later Michael sat in front of an empty plate and a half-full tankard of ale. He wasn't entirely sure what that was that he'd eaten. There was something in there that tasted like beef but he couldn't have been sure. He decided it was best not to ask. He sat in a large wood-panelled room on the second floor of the inn, alone save for a crackling log fire and one solitary figure that sat on the other side of the room. The innkeeper occasionally wandered in and idly cleaned a surface. Michael suspected he was keeping an eye on him. Gabriel and Victoria had crashed out as soon as they'd finished eating. Michael had declined to join them just yet, saying that he fancied a drink first. He regarded the figure on the other side of the room. He was a man in his late thirties, clean-shaven, dark-haired with a kind but intense face. His head was down, engrossed in writing something. A bottle and glass sat on a table in front of him, but neither had been touched in a while. Every so often he would sigh and shift through the large sheaf of sheets beneath his hands, his face screwed up in the most powerful concentration. The innkeeper appeared again.
'Right young sir' he said with a sleepy smile. 'I trust I can leave you to find your own way to bed?'
'Yes I can thankyou. Very kind'
The innkeeper smiled. 'And don't let our mutual friend here' he said, nodding towards the solitary writer across the room, 'try to make a revolutionary out of you.'
Michael laughed. 'I shan't. And thankyou again' he said, raising his glass. He looked across the room to see the man smiling at him.
'Irish yes?' he said, in a soft British accent.
'That I am' Michael replied. 'You?'
'From Norfolk, although I have moved about a bit. Dublin, yes?' he asked.
'Spot on. North of the city. What you working on there? The great novel?'
The man laughed. 'Not exactly. Something rather less fun I'm afraid. I just returned from political business in France and was writing, well, I don't know actually. Something inflammatory hopefully'
'I like it already. Listen, does the innkeeper keep anything better than this behind the bar?' he asked, raising his tankard.
The man fixed Michael with a penetrating gaze for a moment, sizing him up.
'Well, now that you mention it...' he said, rising from the table and making his way to the other side of the room. He opened a press and produced a leather satchel. From within it he pulled a fat green bottle with a cloudy looking liquid. He held the bottle up, turning it round in his hand.
'A specimen I brought back from Paris. Rumour has it, it was from the stock of the late royal family themselves. Probably complete lies of course, but I couldn't resist it.'
'Is that what I think it is?' Michael asked, sitting up in his chair.
'Well, that depends. If you think it's absinthe, then you would be correct.'
'Beautiful' said Michael, extending a hand to the man. 'My name is Michael.'
'Thomas' said the man, taking his hand with a mischevious smile, 'Thomas Paine.'

One hour later

'So hang on now and let me ensure that I have this correct' Thomas said, his left eye closing slightly as he tried to focus on a now slightly blurry Michael. 'You're telling me that you know for a fact, that in two hundred years or so, the son of a white woman and negro man will be elected President of the United States? Is that what you're telling me?'
Michael wobbled slightly in his chair, lifting the glass of green liquid to his lips. 'Yep, that's what I'm saying'
'Balls'
'I'm telling you. It's going to happen'
'I mean don't get me wrong,' Thomas exclaimed excitedly, his glass tilting to one side, absinthe slopping over the brim and on to the sheaf of papers below, 'I applaud the sentiment. It's a noble one. But the problem is that in the New World of now, we have slave owners flogging their slaves like cattle, raping them like madmen and killing with impunity. I just don't see how that changes. I'm all for it. I believe negroes have the right to lop the heads off royalty as much as the average white man. I just don't see how a situation can arise that where that same white man would allow it'
'Well, okay, listen up. You see, there's this family called the Bush family...'

One hour after that

A scream of laughter rent the air as Thomas' hand slapped off the table. Michael gasped for air, his chest heaving up and down, tears streaming down his face. Suddenly he stopped moving and froze, his face held in a paroxysm of some kind. Just as it seemed that he might die from the simple act of forgetting to breathe, he took a great whooshing breath of air in through his mouth and then exploded into another fit of whooping and screaming, his fists pummeling into the table.
'And then he says...' he managed, his whole body shaking in convulsions, 'The Aristocrats!'
Two mouths opened, frozen in space, faces like volcanoes, tears flowing down their cheeks, their heads gently bobbing in screaming, agonising, head-shatterring laughter.

One hour after that

'I mean it man, you should see her. I mean seriously like. She's...' Michael trailed off, his eyes swimming in his head, his hand making small circles in the air.
Thomas stared at him blankly, his mouth pursing up like a frog. 'She's what?' he said through a small burp.
'She's fucking gorgeous' Michael slurred, his hand reaching for the bottle. 'Beautiful. Graceful. Funny too.'
'Nothing better than a funny woman' Tom said sagely.
'She's got dark hair. Beautiful skin, pale like. Red mouth. Big lips...'
'Ya ha, ya ha'
'And her eyes, oh my God you should see her eyes. Blue. But not blue. Not blue really. Like a colour so far into blue that it's out the other side of blue and into something else? You know what I mean?'
'I do. I do.'
'And her legs. Sweet Jesus. The legs on her. She could kill a man with those legs...'
'Oh yeah?'
'Oh yeah'
'A strong woman then?'
'Oh yes. She looks small and weak but she's actually put together like an ox'
'Hmmm...'
'And her eyes. Dear God her eyes'
'You said'
'Oh yeah. I did'
'So,' Tom said shifting in his chair, 'have you told her. Have you said it to her? Told her how you feel?'
'I did. Well, not really. I mean I sort of did. But not quite, if you know what I mean'
'Not really no. What did she say?'
'She told me to fuck off'
'Hmm. Shame that. You think she meant it?'
'No idea really. Well, yes I suppose she did. I mean, she threw me off a building'
'That would seem pretty definitive.'
'Hmmm. It does, doesn't it?'
'So why do you keep thinking about it? Why not let it go?'
'Hard to say Tom. I mean,' here Michael paused again, his blood-shot eyes sweeping around the room, 'have you ever met someone and just had the strongest sense that you were supposed to be with each other?'
'Yes. Yes, I have' said Tom, looking into the distance.
'Like the two of you were actually made for each other? Someone who just makes sense? Someone who...'
'Someone who understands you' Tom said mournfully, a tear welling up in his left eye.
'Yes. Someone who meshes with you to make something better, bigger'
'Right. Someone who understands where you are broken and doesn't care'
'Someone whose teeth fit your bite marks'
'Precisely. A pain that you're used to'
'Exactly'
'Spot on'
'Tom?'
'Michael?'
'I think we might be drunk'
'What makes you say that?'
'Cos there's something buzzing in my pocket and I know I don't have a phone with me'
'A what?' Tom said, slightly dribbling.
Michael rummaged in his coat, slowly, methodically, with what looked like a superhuman effort, producing a small, leather notebook. The one which Claudia had left for him at Cardenio. It was vibrating.
'What the fu...?' Michael began, flipping it open on to the first blank page. A few moments later, through a green haze Michael saw a word appear on the page. Then another. And another. Each one appearing in a simple handwriting, as though they were being written by an invisible pen.
"Hello Michael" it said. "What ya doing?"
'Tom. You're not gonna fucking believe this,' Michael began, turning himself round to show him the notebook, only to see Tom's head smash into the table, sheets of paper flying across the room. A moment later a loud snoring could be heard.
'Oh shit' said Michael, looking back to the notebook. He pulled out the small pen attached by a hoop at the side and slowly, carefully began to write.
"Hello" he managed, his tongue sticking out the side of his mouth. "Who's that?"
"Who the fuck do you think it is, you twat?"
"I think I might be about to pass ou..."

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Ontological Arguments by Dr. Joanne

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[The Game] One Night In Whitechapel

2009-04-29T10:18:50Z

Noiselessly they moved, creeping through the shadows, keeping close to the wall. Gabriel stopped, slowly extending his arms around them both and drawing them deeper into the shadows. They waited, silencing their breathing. Something was getting closer. Michael closed his eyes, reaching out, breathing through the space, sensing the streets around them. He could see the cops, see the streets, see a child sitting in a doorway, a working girl nervously peering through a cracked bottle-green window, a gentelman's club, the air thick with smoke and the laughter of the gin-plastered, a silent cat watching the streets below, a lone man stumbling in a drunken stupour his legs moving like automated pistons following a homing beacon. But there was something else. Something darker than the sky above. Something so sickening he struggled to keep the bile down. A sound, coming closer...

]]> Chapter 17

'You can discover more about a person in an hour of play than in a year of conversation.'
- Plato

Press play

Whitechapel, London. Sunday, 30 September, 1888.

'This is not good' said Michael, surveying the closing mob of police officers. There was something undefinably sinister about late 19th century police uniforms which gave Michael the willies. Then again, he thought briefly, it could also have been the drawn truncheons.
'Stay calm' said Gabriel, raising his hands.
'Identify yourselves now' barked a rough voice.
'My name is Victoria...' she began only to be cut off.
'Shut your mouth whore'
'Okay, now let's not get carried away here' Gabriel said with a smile.
'And you, shut your mouth before I shut it for you' the voice snapped. 'You' it said, a hand pointing at Michael. 'Where are you from?'
'Dublin' said Michael quietly.
'Fucking Irish' the voice said to a chorus of mutters. From the dark a large figure stepped forward, the faint glow of a street light revealing his face. A cruel, moustached visage came into focus, a red scar on the left cheek, rising up to a slightly closed eye.
'Sorry?' Michael said. The truncheon hit him full force across the upper-body, sending him clattering to the ground.
'Okay, now steady on' said Victoria. 'There's no need for that.'
'Oh really?' said the officer in gleeful condescension. 'You fink, do ya?' he said, raising his arm to level a blow at her. He never made it. Before his hand had been fully raised, Victoria seemed to be behind him, twisting his arm in an un-natural direction. He screamed. And then all hell broke loose. The next thirty seconds saw a flurry of limbs as officer after officer was sent flying. Looking up from the ground, Michael could see Gabriel standing there, waiting for an opportune moment to get involved, but at the rate that Victoria was kicking arse one would not be forthcoming. A final phalanx of three of them rushed her, only to be met with a series of violent kicks to the head which sent two flying and the third on his arse with blood pouring down his mouth and chin. Victoria stood still, her arms lowering down to her sides. Around her lay a heap of groaning bodies.
'Fucking fascists' she snarled at them. 'Some things really never do change do they?'
'Let's go' said Gabriel, dragging Michael to his feet and taking Victoria by the other arm. He set a quick pace, dragging them down the street and into an adjoining yard.
'Michael, do you have any sense on a jump point?'
'Yes. It's faint, but I think it's that way' he said pointing up a street to their right.
'Let's get the hell out of here' Gabriel said as the sound of police whistles started ringing through the air.
'What the hell is going on?' Victoria asked. 'What the hell was wrong with them? It's like they were looking for a fight.'
'Not sure. But if I'm right, we've just stumbled into the middle of a serious mess' Gabriel said, tilting his head to the left.
They made their way quickly, heads turning, watching for any more cops. Suddenly Gabriel stopped, raising a hand to signal for silence. After a few moments, he motioned with his hand that they turn in through a wide gate near them. They made their way into a yard, the blackness enveloping and hiding them. As they did so, an appaling feeling of fear and horror overcame Michael - something visceral, horrid and scabrous squirming through the spaces inside his head. He could feel that the jump link was nearby, but that something beyond evil was guarding it. He shuddered.
Noiselessly they moved, creeping through the shadows, keeping close to the wall. Gabriel stopped, slowly extending his arms around them both and drawing them deeper into the shadows. They waited, silencing their breathing. Something was getting closer. Michael closed his eyes, reaching out, breathing through the space, sensing the streets around them. He could see the cops, see the streets, see a child sitting in a doorway. A working girl nervously peering through a cracked bottle-green window. A gentleman's club, the air thick with smoke and the laughter of the gin-plastered. A silent cat watching the streets below. A lone man stumbling in a drunken stupour, his legs pumping like automated pistons following a silent homing beacon. But there was something else. Something darker than the sky above. Something so sickening he struggled to keep the bile down. A sound, coming closer. No, something else. The sound of a pony and cart coming down the street and towards the entrance of the yard. Creaking, clattering, scraping it came, swinging off the street towards them.
It stopped and they could hear a man stepping down from the carriage. His footseps were faltering but he was getting closer to them. Suddenly, there was the brief flash of a match being lit, its light momentarily illuminating the mans face and beneath him a scene of unimaginable horror. A body. A woman. Dark hair. Lying on her side. Her face a contorted mess. Blood spattered in all directions, oozing through the gaps in the stones beneath her, her eyes wide open, staring straight at them. The light of the match only lasted a few seconds but it was enough for Michael to see the gaping double slash on her throat, the thick dark blood bubbling from the wound. The man ran, screaming, calling for the police.
Gabriel, seized them both, readying himself to run. And then two things happened which would haunt Gabriel and Victoria for days afterwards. The first was the sound of Michael's voice. In their heads. No words spoken. No sounds uttered. No phonemes formed. Simply the sound of his voice, speaking, commanding them, deep inside their minds.
'Don't. Fucking. Move.' he told them.
They froze. Across the yard, from beneath the shadows of an ill-lit archway, a hand emerged. Behind it, uncoiling into the gloom, a figure slowly crept into the moonlight. It was impossible to discern any features from where they were, but they could see that it was a man, large, strong with broad shoulders, dressed in a large black cloak, a burnished top-hat and black leather gloves. He stood panting on the spot, his chest heaving, staring towards the prone body. He didn't see them, the darkness shielding them from sight. Not that he would have noticed them, Victoria suddenly found herserlf thinking, if they had been under a stage light. His focus was fixated solely on the body between them. His fury was obvious. A curse of pure rage escaped his mouth, the voice coarse and guttaral and then, with a sudden jerking, insect-like movement he ran, bolting down the street with remarkable speed.
Michael burst from his hiding spot and took off like a flash.

Left. Right. Twist. Turn. Jump and up. Kicking off the side of a house, Michael split the air open and moved twenty feet ahead of the sprinting figure, north up Berner Street. He landed, toppling over and rolled upright, straightening himself for the fight. And saw nothing. Above him, the sound of a tile giving way on a roof startled him. He saw a black-cloaked figure leap across a space between two buildings, moving towards Commerical Road, the tell-tale flash of light sparking behind him as he moved.
'Motherfucker' Michael said, taking off at a sprint again. He used a water-trough as a launch-pad and used the small leap to propel himself up into a rip that spat him out on the roof behind the figure. He was one building, one rooftop ahead. They ran, leaping, moving, shifting the space between them and the next landing point. Michael was gaining on him, but he could see that the man was skilled. He moved with the speed of a professional, twisting through the space with guile and economy.
'Hey. Fuckface!' Michael screamed at him.
The figure stopped. Turned. It's shoulders heaved, pausing in disbelief. A snarl could be heard as it turned and sprinted away again. Michael went after him, running as fast as he humanly could, splitting the air and crashing onto the rooftop, rolling upright he started running again.

Up Commercial Road they went, building after building flashing below them, roof tiles spinning off into the streets below with distant clatters. The man sped up, making larger and larger jumps, risking injury and mishap as he did. Michael could sense the anger, the hate growing in him. Then suddenly he wasn't there anymore. Michael skidded to a stop, frantically looking around him. Then he saw him.

Below. On street level, sprinting between the streetlights. Making for New Road. Michael pulled himself back a few feet, clenched his teeth and ran, throwing himsel off the side as hard as possible. He waited, letting his weight open the rip and propelling himself into it as forcefully as he could. Inside, he grabbed at the thread and pulled with everything he had, pushing to maximise the jump. He burst out on to a rooftop on the corner of Nelson street, hitting the ground with a bang, skidding to a stop, dust kicking up. He stopped and looked down. The man was still below him, at street level, moving at an amazing speed. He barged a man and a woman out of his way, their hollow shouts echoing into the empty black streets around them. Michael paused, using his elevated position to see what the man did next, where he moved to. The figure disappeared momentarily and then re-appeared two streets away, on Walden street turning on to Turner street. The hospital. The bastard was going for the London Hospital. Michael took off, rooftop to rooftop, jumping as fast as he could. He crashed out on to a slippery rooftop, just in time to see the figure flip over a ledge and right itself on the roof of the hospital. He saw Michael and stared, his eyes reflecting a beam of moonlight. Although Michael could not discern any features that he might have been able to later describe, he could see enough to see that this man hated him with every fibre of his being, perhaps more than he had ever hated anything or anyone before.

They glared at each other, both pausing to see what the other did. A chill wind blew, coats and cloaks gently moving in the air. Soundless. Motionless. In an instant, the man spun on his heel and took off. Michael followed. Left. Right. Twist. Turn. Kicking off a wall, Michael side-shifted through three walls and emerged in a ward on the third floor, sending a man flying as he passed. He ran and dived out an open window, the scream of a woman behind him. Down, on to Whitechapel Road. Running and running he kept after him, his lungs screaming, legs shaking, hands trembling, his heart thumping like a jackhammer. On they went, up Mile End Road, Michael closing all the time. In a desparate lunge the figure twisted left, kicking off a kerb and upwards on to the side of a building on the corner, a darkened brewery. Two girls standing on the corner screamed as Michael almost flattened them. Up Cleveland Way he went, panting for air. Right he bent, kicking in a rotten door and leaping up a wall onto a house at the side of the brewery. He caught a glimpse of a plaque above the door which said "1863". He ripped through onto the roof, a piece of glass shattering below him. One stretch and he had him, his hand catching the tail end of the cloak as he prepared to jump again. The figure spun on it's heel, wildly slashing out with a knife. Michael managed to avoid the blade and caught the man's wrist with his left hand. With his right, he threw the hardest punch he could muster, followed with a kick from his right leg, aimed at the knee in an attempt to break a bone. The punch landed but the kick didn't. Instead the man deflected the kick and drove his head into Michael's chest, trying to run him backwards off the edge of the building. From below them the barking of dogs and police whistles could be heard coming close. Someone was screaming the word 'Murder!' over and over again. Michael twisted, launching another punch at the man's face. It connected with a crack, the figure reeling backwards and suddenly, unexpectedly plummeting off the rooftop.
'Shit' Michael hissed, scrambling to the edge. He looked over the lip to the street below. An empty street glared back up at him. At its far end, a trio of police officers came sprinting around the corner. Michael pulled back and slumped to the ground, wheezing. He lay still, catching his breath, his chest heaving in exhaustion. He closed his eyes. And tried to slow his pounding heart.

Some minutes later a pair of bodies made their way to the roof. Gabriel and Victoria.
'What the fuck do you think you are doing?' Gabriel asked. Victoria stood behind him hands on her hips, staring at him in a condition somewhere between enraged bafflement and genuine relief.
'Chasing that bastard.'
'Do you have any idea who that was?' Victoria asked.
'Of course I do' Michael said with a laugh.
'And it seemed like a good idea, did it?'
'It was worth it' said Michael, still panting.
'For what?' asked Gabriel.
'To get this' he said, holding up a polished, but now crumpled top-hat.
They stared at him. 'What the hell did you want that for?' asked Gabriel, incredulous.
Michael reached inside the inner brim and with a tearing sound pulled out a folded up piece of paper.
'For this' he said simply. 'Our jump link out of here'.

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[The Game] Go!

2009-04-22T06:03:50Z

'Greetings' Gabriel said amiably, extending a hand. The tall traveller at the front bounded his last few steps towards them and after seizing Gabriel's hand began pumping it frantically.
'Terribly nice to meet you' he said, a massive, toothy grin hoving into view. 'My name is Geoffrey'
'Gabriel' said Gabriel, managing to wrest his hand back. 'This is my wife Victoria,' he went on, Victoria noddding politely, 'and this is our, ehm, nephew, Michael'
'Nephew?'
'How wonderful!' said the traveller. 'And what, prey tell, finds you on this road?'
'Going to London?' asked another insanely happy voice from behind. And another: 'Pilgrimage was it?'
'Ehm, well...' Gabriel paused, thinking.

]]> Chapter 16

"Computer games don't affect kids. I mean if Pac Man affected us as kids, we'd all be running around in darkened rooms, munching pills and listening to repetitive music"
- Marcus Brigstocke

Press play

Cardenio, Dublin. Present day.

Gabriel, Victoria and a somewhat sullen-looking Michael stood before the Director. Behind him was Cardenio's nerve-centre - the giant wrap-around plasma screen banks and computer towers which an anxious looking Maria was now sitting at and fevereishly tapping away on. Images and maps flitted across the screens, showing shots of 1960s London.
'This time', the Director said with a pointed look at Michael, 'the three of you will be going along. And you won't just be observing. Your job is to retrieve the package. We have reliable information that one of the parts of the story is located in a house in Mayfair, London in 1967. You can probably expect some resistance in retrieving the document, but I'm sure that it's nothing that the three of you can't handle. But let me be clear. Michael?'
'Yes?'
'Gabriel is in charge. That means you do what he says. Nothing more, nothing less. OK?'
'Gotcha'
'I hope you do' said the Director with a sinister arch of the left eyebrow. 'Are you ready?'
All three of them nodded.
'Right then. Maria? Ready?'
'Sure thing Chief' she said over her shoulder.
Nodding, the Director walked over to a table to the side of the main computer units on which a small metal box rested. He opened it and produced a square envelope. From inside that he slid out, carefully, almost reverentially, an album cover. It was an original copy of Sgt. Pepper's.
'Nice' said Michael.
'Yes it rather is' said the Director with a smile. 'Damage it and I'll kill you where you stand'
Gabriel chuckled. 'C'mon you two. Let's get this show on the road'
Saying nothing, the three stepped to the table where the Director had lain the album cover down on a velvet surface. They looked at each other, nodded and slowly placed their hands down on the cover. Gabriel's hand first, Victoria's on his, Michael's on hers.
'Good luck' said the Director with a kindly smile.
Michael opened his mouth to speak. 'What happens if...'
And they jumped.

On an unseasonably warm April day, on a dirt road through the hills, with neither man or beast in sight, three figures appeared by the side of the road. One moment they weren't there, the next they were. Two men and a woman. The older, taller man and the woman seemed calm, unperplexed. The third man, a younger man, heaved to one side and staggered to a nearby tree. He leaned against it for support, taking large gulping breaths. After a time, his breathing slowed and he drank deeply from a water bottle which the woman handed him. She seemed to find his predicament amusing. Eventually he stood upright and walked away from the tree, giving her back the bottle. The older man peered intently at a silver pocketwatch, his face scrunched up in confusion and concern. The woman and the younger man came to stand beside him. The woman began to say something only to be interrupted by the sound of the younger man whirling away and puking loudly. She handed him the water again.
'What's wrong?' Victoria asked Gabriel, turning away from Michael who was now doubled over groaning.
'There's something really wrong here' he replied. 'We're supposed to be in London in 1967'
'I was about to say, it doesn't look much like it' Victoria said, casting her eyes around.
They were on a unpaved dirt-road, low-lying hills on all sides of them. An occasional tree dotted the landscape, but nothing jumped out to let them know where they were.
'Where the hell are we?' Michael groaned, struggling to a standing position.
'That's the thing' Gabriel said, his fingers prodding and poking the touch-screen on his watchpiece. 'I have no eartly idea'.
'Huh? Victoria mumbled, reaching for her pocketwatch. She flipped it open.
'You got anything?' Gabriel asked her.
'Nope' she said, staring at the screen and chewing her bottom lip. 'Garbled signal. It makes no sense. It's like there's something blocking the uplink. I can see it connecting but then something cuts it out. Michael, can you look at yours please'
Michael fished the watch out, his other hand clutching at his stomach. He grimaced as he opened the lid and waited.
'Nothing' he finally mumbled. 'Dead. Isn't this not supposed to happen?'
Neither Gabriel nor Victoria replied, but simply looked at each other and then around them in different directions.
'How about we ask them?' said Victoria, flicking her head up the road. They looked.
A couple of hundred yards ahead, moving towards them, was a group of about a dozen figures. They wore rough looking garb - cloaks and sack-cloth garments, with rough boots on their feet.
'Look medieval' said Gabriel.
'What the fuck is going on? Did we come out in the wrong time?'
'Yeah' said Victoria, 'medieval alright. I'm guessing 14th century?'
'Sounds about right' Gabriel said. 'Let's go talk to 'em'
'You sure that's wise? How do we know they're not some band of lunatic crusaders?' Michael asked.
They both looked at him.
'Fair enough' he said quietly.
They started walking towards the group. After a short time, someone at the head of their group raised a hand in salute. Gabriel raised his.
'Wave back' he said.
Victoria and Michael did. As they got closer, Michael could begin to discern the features of the figure leading the group. He was tall, possibly six foot four, some facial hair and with an insanely large, gleeful smile on his long, impossibly happy face.
'Helooooo!' he called out to them, waving his hand in an excited manner.
'Seems friendly' Michael said.
Gabriel grunted. 'Hello there!' he called back. The entire group waved back and shouted hello in unison.
'Very friendly' said Victoria.
'We're gonna get eaten alive aren't we? Michael asked. Victoria sniggered.
'Michael...'
'Sorry' he said. 'I'll be nice'
'Good morning!' called the figure, a huge beaming smile lighting up his face.
Behind him, twelve or so more faces were peering at them with precisely the same insanely happy expressions. Judging by the look of rapt joy on their faces, they'd never met anyone on a road before and considered the experience to be nothing less than a religious ecstasy. 'Helloooo!' came a chorus of cheerful voices.
'Er, hi' Michael managed.
'Greetings' Gabriel said amiably, extending a hand. The tall traveller at the front bounded his last few steps towards them and after seizing Gabriel's hand began pumping it frantically.
'Terribly nice to meet you' he said, 'My name is Geoffrey.'
'Gabriel' said Gabriel, managing to wrest his hand back. 'This is my wife Victoria,' he went on, Victoria noddding politely, 'and this is our, ehm, nephew, Michael.'
'Nephew?'
'How wonderful!' said the traveller. 'And what, prey tell, finds you on this road?'
'Going to London?' asked another chippy voice from behind. And another: 'Pilgrimage was it?'
'Ehm, well...' Gabriel paused, thinking.
The entire group leaned in towards them, as though he were about to utter the lottery numbers, beatific smiles on their hoplessly loving, expectant faces. 'Truth is, we're slightly lost' Gabriel finished.
'Lost?' came a chorus of voices. 'Were you waylaid?' asked Geoffrey.
'Yes, waylaid. That was it. We were waylaid.'
'I see'
'By bandits' Gabriel carried on.
A collective gasp met this latest piece of information.
'Gabriel?' Michael said gently.
'Not now'
'Yes now'
Gabriel smiled at the gaunt figure of Geoffrey before him and turned his head to scowl at Michael. 'What?'
'I think I know how to get us out of here'
'How?' Victoria asked.
'By using the jump-point connected to whatever it is he has in his bag'
'How the...? How do you know he has one in his bag?'
'I can see it. I can feel it.'
Gabriel paused an instant. 'Are you still dizzy from the jump?' he asked.
Michael bristled. 'You're telling me that you can't feel it? It's in his bag. I can see the link glowing from here.'
Gabriel and Victoria turned their heads, looking over their shoulders down to the bag that man was holding. He looked down to the bag too. They looked back up to him. He looked back at them and smiled. They smiled back and turned to Michael.
'I can't see anything' Gabriel said.
'Neither can I' said Victoria. 'You sure about this?'
'Positive' Michael insisted, 'It's there. A jump link. I guarantee it. It must be a book or a picture or something. Ask him if we can trade for it.'
'Trade? Trade what' Gabriel asked.
'Hang on. I think I can guess what it is they have,' said Victoria, a sudden rush of impatience overcoming her. She cleared her throat, turning back to face the grinning faces.
'Forgive us. We are a travelling family, lost on the road to our kin. We need to get to the city of London. But we were waylaid by bandits and all our possesions stolen...' she paused here for dramatic effect, the group oooing in sympathy, 'and we know not where we are. Can you direct us?'
'Well of course my lady,' said Geoffrey with a serious tone. 'This is the road to Kent, from London, traversed by pilgrims such as ourselves, as we make our way to pay respects at the tomb of Saint Thomas Becket at Canterbury Cathedral.'
A 'eureka look' came over Michael's face. 'Ah haaaa...' he said under his breath. Gabriel stood on his foot to shut him up.
Geoffery hoisted his thumb over his shoulder. 'London,' he said with a theatrical waggle of the eyebrows, 'is that way'.
Upon this announcement, the group erupted in a raucous bout of knee-slapping and guffawing. Michael whimpered.
'And could we,' Victoria further ventured, 'ask you to find it in your hearts to furnish us with a map? Perhaps a spare one which might show us the way?'
Faces looked at each other. Heads bobbed in unision. Mutterings were rousing.
'Why certainly my lady' said Geoffrey, opening the bag and pulling out a parchment. From where Michael was standing, it glowed blue. Gabriel looked and saw just a parchment. 'That it?' he asked out the side of his mouth.
Michael nodded, biting his lip.
'You're too kind sir' Victoria said.
'Oh but there's a cost, my lady' he said with another waggle of the eyebrows and a titter from the group. Gabriel and Michael tensed.
'Which is?' she asked tersely.
'A tale'
No-one spoke.
'I'm sorry?' Gabriel finally said.
'A tale' said a woman's voice from the back of the group.
'A story!' another helpfully chimed in.
'You want us to tell you a story?' Victoria asked, tilting her head.
'Precisely'
'Uhm...' she trailed off. She looked to Michael and Gabriel. They both shrugged.
'Thanks' she said. Turning back to Geoffrey, she smiled weakly. 'Any particular type?'
'Oooo! Something funny!' said the woman again to a chorus of approval and clapping.
'May I ask why you want the story?' MIchael interjected.
'Well, because that's what I do' Geoffrey said with a grin. 'I collect stories. This is a story teling pilgrimage. To while the hours away, we trade tales. So, what shall we call yours? What is your name?'
'Ehm...' Victoria began, 'Ehm. Miller. Yes, Victoria Miller.'
The group paused, exchanging puzzled looks. Victoria smiled.
'What an odd name. Well, If you say so. And what would your tale be?'
'Well...'

Three hours later

'You know what? You are one disturbing woman Victoria' Michael said. She said nothing whilst Gabriel just smirked and examined the map.
'And you can see a jumplink on this map Michael?' Gabriel asked.
'As clear as day'
Gabriel and Victoria exchanged glances.
'Where did you get that story?' Michael asked. 'I mean, that stuff about the poker up the arse. Was that really necessary? Where did you hear that story? Seriously, where?'
Again, no-one answered him. 'Oooh, going all cryptic on me again are ye?'
'It's a map of London for sure, but I mean, it's all messed up.' Gabriel said, entirely ignoring Michael. 'As best as I can make out we're in what would now be south London, but which in this time is almost unpopulated. The nearest village is Southwark. This is all very weird. I still don't know how we ended up here.'
'Well, how about we get out of here?' suggested Victoria.
'Fine by me' Michael replied.
'Okay, let's see if this works.' Gabriel said placing the document on the ground and his hand on it. Victoria kneeled and placed hers on his. Michael followed, pausing before placing his on Victoria's. 'I didn't say I knew where this was going, OK?'
'Don't worry. We came across this link for a reason. It's more than likley going to throw us out into 1967. Happens sometimes, links to links. Let's go.'
Michael nodded and placed his hand on Victoria's.

A street. Cobblestones and the reflection of rainwater in a moonlit sky.
'This is not 1967' Michael said.
'Nope. It ain't' said Victoria looking at her pocketwatch screen. She closed it with a grunt.
Gabriel looked around them, taking in the buildings. He spotted something on the ground, a piece of paper, rolled up and muddied. He picked it up and carefully unfolded it from the ball it was in. He read, leaning under the lamplight nearby.
'1888' he said.
Michael sighed deeply. 'Well, I suppose we're getting closer'
'I have a bad feeling that I know where we are' Victoria said.
'Yeah? Where?' Michael asked.
'Whitechapel' she said plainly.
'Whitechapel?' Gabriel asked, alarm passing over his face.
'Whitechapel? How do I know that name?' Michael asked no-one in particular.
'Oh shit' said Gabriel, his head turning to take in the street. 'Oh shit, oh shit...'
And then, from seemingly nowhere, ten police officers bounded around the corner, whilstles blowing, dogs barking, shouting their heads off. From the other direction, more came. Before any of them knew what was happening, they were surrounded.
'Move and we kill you' said a voice.
'Fair enough' said Michael.

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[The Game] Wrong

2009-04-15T08:22:05Z

Faster now, faster she moves, the sweat beading on her arms and back, her hands slap together to a bass drum fighting with a snare, a bassline having a drunken punch-up with a guitar hook, a melody caressing a two-step beat. And then it happens: up. Up, up and up, the explosion building between her legs, the heat searing at the skin on her hand, the spiral glowing at the edges, the beat hammering at her, twisting her like a lover, she explodes, time ripping open like a scream, a howling scream coming from her mouth, a smile she can't control. A laugh escapes. Yes. Fucking yes.

]]> Chapter 15

"A journey is a person in itself; no two are alike. And all plans, safeguards, policing, and coercion are fruitless. We find that after years of struggle that we do not take a trip; a trip takes us."
- John Steinbeck

Press play

Darkness split by green lights and echoes of a distant city, soundlessly a pair of legs walk past. Black boots, bare skin, a dark blue dress swinging as she moves. Her hands move gently as she walks, one carrying a music player and headphones, the other a bottle of water. Her right twirls the bottle, momentarily revealing a black, spiral tattoo on the inside of her palm. She stops, opens it and lifts the lip to her mouth. She takes a small drink, screws the lid back on, looks around the gallery. She smiles a little, deciding where to go next. She pauses, her legs slightly open, her stance motionless, closing her eyes. She sways for just a moment, her body moving gently to a rhythm only she can hear. Her eyes open. She smiles.

A girl. Fourteen years old. Lying on a table, on her back. Shotgun shack, hospital curtain. White coats, soft hands, gentle voices. Eyeglasses peering at her, glinting, blinding her with the glare, clinical, chlorine and fear. Sheets sticking to the back of her legs, feet squirming in restraints. A hand touches her forehead, gentle, consoling, chilling her to the bone. Puke yellow light, a sickly sweet squeak of rubber gloves. Cold on her legs. Her body twitches in fear, her neck muscles spasming. Now now, they tell her, this will all be over soon. All be over soon. Nothing to fear Claudia. This will help you. Let us help you. Help us to help you. Help us. To help you. Strapping her arms to the bed. She whimpers. Mouthpiece bite down. Don't gag. No fear. Help us to help you. There's something wrong with you. Wrong. Sponge pads. End of the bed, a figure stands. Black eyes, staring at her. It touches her foot. Don't leave us, it says. Gently, noiselessly, she begins to cry. Help us to help you. Don't leave us, please. Help us. To help you. Touching her temples. A crackle of energy. And here we go. Help us. To help you. Ready? A nod of the head. No, wait, please. Go.

She enters the Parthenon gallery, her boots squeaking off the floor, enjoying the sound, the echo, the isolation. The sense of fuck you to the whole thing. The Imperial Swag Bag, hers to play with, to violate, to molest and hack at. Wrong. The universe at her fingertips, she giggles. She steps to the centre of the great hall, no camera seeing her. She stands, stretches her arms out and up, circling them around and above her, locking her fingers she stretches out her back and legs, slowly tilting forward, her hips bend and she lowers her head, pulling out her lower back. Knee-bend and up, hands circling together again. Twisting her arms around each other, crossing elbows, she makes a pose, her shoulder blades opening, legs wrapping around each other. Breathes. Breathes. Ten seconds and switches sides. With a smile, she reaches inside her bra, takes out a pill and pops it in her mouth. With a swig of water, she swallows, places the bottle back down on the floor and slides down to place her hands on the floor. Pelvis tilted, ass up, she stretches her calves out and holds. Down dog. Down girl. Sliding down into child, she breathes and smiles, the cold marble kissing her skin.

A girl. Nine years-old. In her grandmothers house, Rhode Island, USA. A spare bedroom, feet dangling off the bed. Glasses and bangs, she sits humming a tune to herself, black shoes, white socks. Over and over. Mummy will be back soon. Daddy not happy. Mummy back soon. Milk okay? Thankyou, she says, drinking in gulps, a white line on her lip. She smiles. Humming and humming, a tune she heard on the radio, a song she can't shake, a rhythm she can't release, over and over. She sings the few lines she knows. There's something beating here inside my body and it's called a heart. You know how easy it is, to tear it apart. I always liked those biscuits she says to her. Me too, Claudia says, her eyes looking to the floor. The carpet is old, but unused. Placed here moons ago but not walked on. Not loved. Not used. Wrong. Nice of you to visit, her granny says. Nice to see you, she says back, her voice small and wispy, breath catching in her throat. The door opens. What are you doing? Who are you talking to, her aunt asks. To Granny. Claudia, that is not funny. Not funny at all. You know Granny is dead. That is not funny. That's wrong.

On her knees, her back arched, arms reaching behind for her heels, she stetches over, her chest opening, breathing, pushing her shoulders apart. She hangs there, smiling, the world downside-up, blood pounding at her temples, a tear rolling down her left cheek. Swinging her arms up, her body rights itself. She can feel it starting, glances at the watch on her wrist, not yet she tells herself, wait. She spins on a heel and swivels upright, a smirk creasing her face. She takes a drink of water, feeling her heart rate picking up, the whispering in her blood, the voices at the edge of the silence. She plugs her earphones in and presses play. After a few moments, her left foot begins to tap to the rhythm. A slow smile lights up her face as a bead of sweat slowly rolls down her neck. She breathes.

A girl. Sixteen years old. A doctors' office. A principals office. A counsellors office. You make too much noise. You demand too much. You ruin your classes. You need to control your temper. The violence is unacceptable. You're wasting your talent, your abilities. What do you want to do with your life? Do you know what you want to do with your life? You must learn to curb your destructive instincts. You must learn to control your temper, your passions, your body. You must learn to control your tongue. Such a waste. Such a waste of such talent and brains. Brains to burn girl, your mother is heartbroken. Your father is distraught. Have you taken your pills? Your pills, you have to take them. There's something wrong with you Claudia. Wrong. You have to control this. You have to assume responsibility. Have you taken your pills? A hand raised, silencing the room. Wrong? Fuck you, she says. And the altar boy you rode in on.

Slowly at first, her body starts to move to the beat, swaying and shimmying, her shoulders rolling to the percussion. She lets her eyes close, her arms doing what they want. She feels the bass moving through her, from her feet, to her knees, to her hips. She senses the rush coming, the increase in the heart rate, the heat growing in waves, the twist in the stomach, the rage burning up from inside, the taste of adrenalin in her mouth. She washes her mouth with water, the drops spilling onto her chest. Faster now, faster she moves, the sweat beading on her arms and back, her hands slap together to a bass drum fighting with a snare, a bassline having a drunken punch-up with a guitar hook, a melody caressing a two-step beat. And then it happens. Up. Up, up and up, the explosion building between her legs, the heat searing at the skin on her hand, the spiral glowing at the edges, the beat hammering at her, twisting her like a lover, she explodes, time ripping open like a scream, a howling scream coming from her mouth, a smile she can't control. A laugh escapes. Yes. Fucking yes. She spins on her heel, jumping out and kicking off the wall. In an instant, she is thirty feet behind herself, the air ripping like a sheet. Twisting in the air, she flips over, her legs landing on the ground, spinning on a heel, her left hand reaches out to the the object, the link. The palm of her hand connects. And she jumps.

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[The Game] The Message

2009-04-08T06:31:47Z

'Michael?'
'Yep?'
'Try to keep your wits about you. Be objective and don't let your feelings cloud your judgement. I know how you feel about her, so please try not to fly off the handle'
'I'll try'
'And remember what you're dealing with here'
'Which is what exactly?'
'A complete whack-job'

]]> Chapter 14

"I prefer the company of women, and I have deep respect for them. I'm buzzed by the female mystique. I always tell young men there are three rules: they hate us, we hate them; they're stronger, they're smarter; and, most important, they don't play fair."
- Jack Nicholson

Press play

Cardenio, Dublin. Present day.

Michael sat on a chair, Victoria dabbing at his face with a cloth.
'Ouch' he yelped as she worked at the sizeable black eye that was forming.
'Don't be such a baby' she said softly, working at the cut on the corner of his mouth.
He grimaced and looked at Gabriel who was standing on the other side of the room, leaning on a table with his arms folded.
'You gonna shout at me?' Michael asked.
'Nope.'
'Cool.'
'It's not me you have to explain yourself to.'
Michael said nothing and simply looked at Victoria who was now sticking a plastic stitch over his left eye. She met his gaze for a second and studiously went back to what she was doing.
'Okay.' Michael said. 'Who's that then?'
'The Director'
'The Director?'
'The Director. The main man. You're going to explain yourself to him'
Victoria straightened up. 'We're done here' she said, wiping her hands with a cloth and throwing it into the bin.
'Come with me' Gabriel said, standing up and walking to the door.

Michael followed him out, turning onto a narrow gallery passageway. Gabriel moved quickly, sprinting up a stairs, making no allowances for any injuries that Michael might be carrying. Michael limped after him, wincing. His left knee was giving him hell. Gabriel reached the top of the stairs and set off at a pace, striding purposefully away. Michael half-ran, half-walked behind, grimacing and muttering. Another twisting staircase upwards and they made it to the top floor. At the end of the top gallery, just beyond a seemingly never-ending wall of glass-mounted bookshelves, Gabriel stopped at a large oak door and paused. He glanced over his shoulder, allowing Michael to catch up.
'Don't even think about trying to bullshit him, ok?'
Michael thought of something smart-arsed to say, but stopped himself and just nodded. Gabriel let his eyes linger on his face for a moment and then turned to knock on the door.
After a few moments, the door began to open, silently sweeping backwards into a dimly-lit room.
'Come in' said a chirpy voice from within.
Michael looked to Gabriel. He said nothing and simply tilted his head towards the open door, motioning for Michael to go in. Swallowing, Michael took a step inside, his eyes adjusting to the lowered light. The room was large, perhaps thirty metres by thirty. Tables and desks were swamped under piles of papers and objects, the walls filled from floor to roof with leather-bound tomes and raggedy sheafs of paper. At the far end of the room was an enormous desk, lit by a Tiffany lamp. Sitting behind it, peering down into an open book was a large, dark-skinned man.
Michael heard the door close behind him.
'Come in Michael, take a seat' he said, without looking up. His voice was deep, a resonating mid-western American accent. His hair was greying, white in patches, eyeglasses hanging off the end of a broad African nose.
Michael walked over, his feet sinking into the deep pile carpet. He slid himself into a leather seat, a loud squeak as he did so.
'You made quite the mess of your first job, didn't you?' said the man with a smile, his eyes still peering at the book before him. Michael now noticed the white gloves he was wearing, his long fingers carefully turning a page.
Michael said nothing for a moment, mulling his words. 'I suppose I did, yes'
The man looked up, and met Michael's eyes. 'You suppose?'
Michael coughed. 'So. You're the boss?'
He looked up again, smiling slightly. 'They told me you were a cheeky little shit. Yes, you could say that yes. But "Boss" isn't really a very accurate term. My title is "Director". You can make of that what you will. Michael, why did you try to speak to Claudia?'
Again, Michael paused before answering, his eyes shifting from the man behind the desk to his own hands and back to the peering face opposite him.
'I don't know really'
'You don't know?' he said with a small laugh.
Michael shifted in his chair. 'I don't know. I thought I could get her to talk to me'
'Why did you want to talk to her? You were warned how dangerous she is'
'Yes, I know, but, I mean, she didn't kill me...'
'Not from a lack of trying from what I can see' said the man, his finger pointing to the stitch above Michael's eyes.
'True. We did have something of a scrap.' Michael said with a grim expression.
The man considered Michael for a moment, letting the book rest on the desk before him.
'You have questions, yes?'
Michael shifted, thinking carefully. 'About a thousand. What was in that bag? Why was she willing to fight for it like that?'
'I can't be sure, but if I'm right, and I generally am, it was a story. One of a collection of stories which were gathered together during the 1970's'
'Stories? What kind of stories?'
'Stories from the future. Stories, which when put together, constituted a history of the 21st century. They were collected by your father into one volume'
Michael considered what he had heard an instant. 'How is that possible? I thought it was impossible to move forward'
The Director laughed a little. 'Well, so did we. But your father found a way - and kept it from us until it was too late for us to help. White got to him before we could. Before I could help him...'
Michael paused a moment. 'You knew him?'
'Yes. He was a good friend'
'Right. And this book is what got him killed?'
'Yep. Do you know why?'
'Well, because a history of the 21st century could give whoever had it unimaginable power...'
'Precisely. That book, in the wrong hands, could be catastrophic'
'You mean White's hands'
'Yes, I do'
'Okay' Michael said, sitting up straight in his chair, 'how do we get it back?'
'By finding something we've been looking for for a long time...'
'Which is?'
'The missing section of the Bayeux Tapestry'
'It has a missing section?'
'Oh yes. Been missing since the medieval period in fact. Many men have died trying to recover it. We don't know what it shows, but legends tell us of a great secret in that missing panel. Something so shocking that it was torn off and hidden almost as soon as it was made. The stories in the book your father collected were split up into separate sections. Initially we thought it was Claudia who had done it, because we know that the bag your father was carrying at the time of his death was, at one point, in her posession. But it seems some sections are still missing. And she's trying to find them.'
'Why? Why does she want them?'
'Truthfully, we don't know. But, we think that the missing section of the tapestry may tell us how to get to the book. And she seems as determined as we are to find it. We were hoping that you might be able to help us resolve this'
'Me?'
'You have a certain connection to her'
'Odd. She didn't exactly see it that way'
The Director grinned. 'Well, whether she likes it or not, you are connected.'
'How?'
'Show me your hand please Michael'
Michael lifted up his left hand, opening the palm to reveal the black, single spiral tattoo burned into his skin.
'Through that.'
'I'm lost'
'Aren't we all? A spiral mark is part of what we are. Everyone gets one after their first or second shift. But, with you and Claudia, well, there's something a little different there'
'What's that?' Michael asked, leaning forward slightly.
'Well, prior to your arrival here, we'd only ever seen one person with the mark on their hand. That was her. I mean, we all have one. Mine is on my back. Gabriel's is on his left leg. I gather you've seen where Victoria's is?'
Michael said nothing, merely going slightly red.
'That's what I thought. Anyway, Claudia's is on her hand. And so is yours.'
'And why is that important?'
'Because of this book' the man said, his head nodding down towards it. 'I won't bore you with what it is exactly, but sufficeth to say it's very old, very odd and very dangerous. And it contains a prediction. About a person with a spiral mark. On their hand. The one who would become the most powerful of all of us. The person who could release the stolen souls.'
'The what?'
'One thing at a time. Naturally, when we first encountered Claudia we assumed this was her. And when she left, well, it almost tore this place apart. There were some here who thought she was the messiah Michael. Others thought she was the Anti-Christ. Turns out she was something else entirely. The truth is that her leaving Cardenio was considered one of the greatest failures in our considerable history. We'd never seen anyone with her abilities, that is, until we found you. I consider it more than a coincidence how the two of you keep banging into one and other. It's obvious that there is a connection of some kind between you.'
'I don't understand'
'Neither do I' said the man with a chuckle. 'At least not fully. But, I think there may be a way of shedding some light on all of this'
'Which is?'
'Downstairs' he said, rising to his feet. 'Follow me please'. He turned his back to Michael and walked to the wall behind him. Michael followed. The Director stopped at a bookshelf and pulled out a volume on the third shelf. Almost predictably, the shelf beside it made a hissing sound and began to pop out. After a few seconds, it slid aside, revealing a metal door. The Director pressed his hand to a clear panel on the surface and the door split in the middle to reveal an empty lift. He stepped inside, Michael following behind him. They turned around to face the closing doors and began moving down. They descended for ten seconds, a faint sound of floors rushing by the only noise. Coming to a stop, the doors slid open to reveal a huge, cavernous space. Guessing by the ancient stonework, Michael guessed they were somewhere deep underground. Spreading out before them were miles and miles of storage shelves, each one sealed with a glass panel. Each glass panel carried a number and letter sequence. The Director started walking briskly. Michael's jaw hung down as they made their way through the space, amazement overcoming him with every second case he saw.
'What is all this?'
'Recovered artefacts. Recovered stories'
They came to a stainless steel doorway. There was no handle, no markings, nothing save a grooved spiral shape carved into the steel.
Michael looked to his companion for an explanation.
'In the short time that Claudia was with us, which was about six months all told, we gave her this room for her own studies. She was something of a genius you see, but deeply troubled. So we set her up down here, where she could have some privacy. We gave her everything we could give her. A private space to work and research in. Truth be told, it was easier for everyone else to have her down here. She scared the hell out of everyone else.'
'This was her room?'
'Yes'
'Can I go in?'
'She sealed it when she left and we've never been able to get back in'
Michael considered the spiral marking on the steel and looked down to his left hand. He looked back up to the Director. 'You think that...'
'I do. Let's find out shall we?'
'Okay' said Michael with a sigh. He stepped forward and carefully placed his hand on the mark. Nothing happened. And then a hissing sound could be heard. Michael yelled in pain as the mark on his hand glowed red hot. Just as he thought he would fall over from the pain, the hissing stopped and a loud crack could be heard. Slowly, noiselessly, the steel door parted in the middle and opened wide.
'Ok. I'll leave you to it for a bit. When you're done you can come back up to me through the lift you came down in. The panels will work with your handprint. '
'Cool'
'Oh and Michael?'
'Yep?'
'Try to keep your wits about you. Be objective and don't let your feelings cloud your judgement. I know how you feel about her, so please try not to fly off the handle'
'I'll try'
'And remember what you're dealing with here'
'Which is what exactly?'
'A complete whack-job'
'I hear you'
'One more thing: whatever you find in here is for you and you only. Do not share what you find with anyone else here at Cardenio. Not Gabriel, not Victoria. Whatever it is that's between you and her has to be resolved between you and her. There are those here that don't feel fondly towards her so speaking of whatever happens will not do you many favours. If you need help however, ask me. Putting it simply, you two are potentially dangerous together. You must be careful. Ok?'
'Ok'
Michael stepped into the room, the door sliding shut behind him. A bed. Pillows and cushions. Two book shelves, filled with novels. Wuthering Heights. Slaughterhouse Five. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. The Third Policeman. A shelf of CDs. Depeche Mode. Front 242. Skinny Puppy. Chopin and Beethoven's 7th. A wardrobe, door leaning open, clothes on a rail, dresses hanging limply, shoes neatly placed on the floor. A picture on the wall, Claudia, younger, smiling outside the National Gallery in Dublin. Looking happy, carefree. A Map of Greenland on the wall. A desk with a small leather notebook on top. A piece of paper on top of it. Michael stepped over and looked at the note. It had one word written on it. His name. He lifted the notebook up and opened it. The pages were lined but empty. Puzzled, he flicked through the pages, looking for anything - a word, a line, a dot. There was nothing. He sighed, taking in the room. Nothing obvious sprang out at him. He looked back to the notebook and flicked through it a second time. He stopped. Although he could have sworn it wasn't there when he had first looked, the first page had a rectangular black box on it. Michael paused at the page, his face screwed up in confusion. He moved the notebook around, trying to catch the light to see if there was any hidden text below the black space. Nothing was visible. Then slowly, at first so faint that he thought he was imagining it, small flecks of white appeared in the box, swirling and appearing in different places. The box seemed to crackle a moment and then, from seemingly nowhere a play button appeared in the middle of the black space...

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Gravity by Amber

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[The Game] A White April Fool

2009-04-01T08:34:53Z

'So here it is: I've been watching. Now, I gotta be honest with you boys. Speaking plainly, you're a pack of talentless gimps who couldn't hold a tune if your miserable lives depended on it. You're entry into the world of music is about as welcome as a skid-mark on a wedding gown and, let's be honest here, you look like you were dressed by a troupe of blind, retarded circus midgets. As for your songs? Sweet Jeebus, but if I shat into a rusty tuba and handed it to a brain-dead badger I'd get better fucking music. No two ways about it: you guys are a shit sandwich without the bread. But, no matter, I've seen worse. Way worse. So, here's what we're gonna do: we're gonna make you famous. We're gonna make you rich. We're gonna fix it so that the whole world knows your names, where you're from and what sweet, sweet boys you all are. We're gonna fix it so that blue-rinse biddies will dote on you, men will envy you and a relentless, never-ending army of giggling seventeen-year old girls will want to sit on your faces and wiggle. So, whaddya say? Are you in?'

]]> Chapter 13

"I can smile, and murder while I smile"
- Shakespeare, Richard III

Press play

April 1st A.D.1076. Bayeux Cathedral, France.

The Tapestry hangs, awaiting inspection. Matilda paces, controlling her anger at the invasion of her rights which she has just learnt is coming. She looks at the completed work. It spreads out, small in height, but long, wrapping its way arond the walls of the chamber, over seventy metres in total. Nodding her head in satisfaction, she notes that it's a thing of rare beauty and she makes a promise to herself to congratulate the artisan again - to gift him with a present worthy of such labour. A voice from behind. A fine piece of work, it says. Matilda spins quickly, shocked by the presence which she did not sense. Four men stand behind her, dressed in cloaks. Three faces are obscured by their cowls, heads bowed. I didn't hear you enter she tells the one who has spoken. Apologies for our stealth, he says, pulling back his hood. A mirthless smile lights up a bronzed face, his eyes creased slits. He steps past Matilda and up to the tapestry. A fine work and no doubt he pronounces. Why are you here, she asks. What business do men of the cloth have in dictating what is acceptable in matters of art? Oh it's not simply a question of art, he says, running his eyes over the work, smiling and exhaling. It's a question of what is appropriate. A question of what we want future generations to think of us, to know of us. I'm sure you understand he tells her. I do not, she replies flatly. Well, he says, stepping closer to a section of the tapestry near the end, this for example, is a problem. What is, she asks. He points to a depiction of a young man and a woman. The man's hand is outstretched, reaching for the young woman, as though he is about to touch her, to place his hand on her head. It is bad enough that this is included, but what comes after, well. This is, he says with a small laugh, really rather problematic. It'll have to go. On his words, the three cowled figures step forward and produce knives. Matilda screams in horror as they set about cutting off the final section of the work. What in the name of the King do you think you are doing, she exclaims. Making sure, the man with the shining teeth says, that your venerable King keeps his end of the bargain. Bargain? What bargain, she asks. The one he made with me, says the man. He takes the section of the tapestry which they have cut away and begins to roll it up. The three figures turn as one, knives drawn, motionless. What bargain? The one that made him King, he says. They move towards her.

April 1st A.D.1604. Rome, Italy

A jail cell. Thatch, rats and piss on the floor. The artist lies on his side, not sleeping, not waking, but somewhere in between. Drugs and alcohol flood his blood stream. He groans, the smell of vomit and shit filling his nostrils. Bruises on his face and ribs ache, the taste of blood in his mouth. He struggles to recall how he got here, images of a naked woman and flying fists bubble up from the darkness. He recalls an officer of the law attempting to restrain him as they dragged him from her bed. Violence followed. He knows that he hurt one of them, but which one, or precisely how, he cannot recall. Outside, there is conversation, animated, angry. Voices are raised, someone objecting to the presence of someone else in the jail, asking for entry. The voices of the officers are angry, offended. Who do you think you are, one asks belligerently. Another voice speaks, calm, soft, soothing, musical. Oily and unctuous, it's song relieves the tension. Why I only need a few moments with Signori Merisi. A friend. An old friend. I come with the wishes of the Cardinal. You wouldn't wish to offend the Cardinal would you, he asks. No, of course not, says the officer. So, you will allow me to enter and speak then. I will allow you to enter and speak, says the officer. Bolts slide, the door moves, creaking on a hinge, light cuts like a knife into the cell's gloom, a rat scurries for shade and a man enters. He sighs. A sad state of affairs for Italy's living greatest artist he announces. Who are you, the artist asks him. A friend, says the visitor, a wide, sparkling smile glittering in the dark. Do I know you, the artist asks. Oh yes, he replies, everyone knows me. But let us not trouble ourselves with formalities just now, he says. I am here to help you. To help you as I have helped so many others, in so many places, in so many times, in so many darkened hours. The artist sits up on his bed. Help me, he asks, how? By making you a legend says the man, his smile spreading to reveal pointed teeth and squinting eyes. The man produces a parchment from within his great cloak. It looks old, older than this jail. He steps over to the artist and in a movement so rapid and so gentle that the artist barely sees or even feels it, he slices open a cut on his arm. The artist considers the trail of blood now slicking up his skin. He notices that the blood looks just like ink. Drunkenly, he giggles. A quill appears before him. Something of a cliché, I know, says the visitor, but it is a requirement. The artist considers him, trying to place the countenance, convinced he has beheld it before. He hiccups. And takes the quill.

April 1st A.D.1990. Dublin, Ireland

Backstage, five young men sit in a dressing room. Their faces Oompa-Loompa orange from dodgy sun-beds and two inches of concealer, they await their visitor. A man, they have been told by their excitable manager, who can make this happen. A man who knows everything. Who has been everywhere. Who has seen everything. Who can do anything. Mr. White. The Magic Man. Just hear what he has to say, the manager has told them. They wait quietly. Two exchange glances, one pulling at the corner of the pink, sleeveless tank-top he's wearing, another absent-mindedly worrying at a spot on his chin, another wondering if his chipped teeth will see him ejected from the band. Not to worry, the manager has told them, when we sign this deal there'll be no end of money to fix that kind of thing. The door opens suddenly, the sound from the main stage pouring into the room as it does. A man stands there, framed in the doorway. Wearing a white suit, black shirt and airforce sunglasses, he looks every inch the record-industry twat - legs akimbo, shit-eater, crowbar smile splitting his face into leathery creases. He shouts, boundless joy in his voice. I gotta tell ya boys, he says clapping his hands together, I like what I see and I see what I like. The young men say nothing, look at each other and then back to him. Oh don't be shy, he says. The world is your oyster. Your fucking Oyster card no less. No wait, too early for that yet. Your oyster. The world is your oyster. So here it is: I've been watching. Now, I gotta be honest with you boys. Speaking plainly, you're a pack of talentless gimps who couldn't hold a tune if your miserable lives depended on it. You're entry into the world of music is about as welcome as a skid-mark on a wedding gown and, let's be honest here, you look like you were dressed by a troupe of blind, retarded circus midgets. As for your songs? Sweet Jeebus, but if I shat into a rusty tuba and handed it to a brain-dead badger I'd get better fucking music. No two ways about it: you guys are a shit sandwich without the bread. But, no matter, I've seen worse. Way worse. So, here's what we're gonna do: we're gonna go to work on ye. We're gonna make you famous. We're gonna make you rich. We're gonna fix it so that the whole world knows your names, where you're from and what sweet, sweet boys you all are. We're gonna fix it so that blue-rinse biddies will dote on you, men will envy you and a relentless, never-ending army of giggling seventeen-year old girls will want to sit on your faces and wiggle. So, whaddya say? Are you in? The boys laugh. He laughs too. One voice, the voice of the youngest boy, speaks up. What do you get from all this, he asks defiantly. Oh not much, the man replies. Money I suppose, he says. The satisfaction of a job well done. The smile on a young mother's face. A tear on the cheek of an innocent child. A line of cocaine snorted from the upturned arse-cheek of a twelve year old. He closes the door, spinning to look at them. So, are you in? Slowly at first, but more certain as the moments pass, they nod, looking at one and other, smiling broadly. Good, says the man, cracking his knuckles. Now then, he says opening his jacket and reaching for his trouser belt. Let's get started, shall we? With a flick of the wrist he drops his trousers to the floor and grins. Hands on hips he looks from face to face. So, he says, a glint of the light on his teeth, who's first?

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[The Game] When Michael Met Claudia

2009-03-25T08:00:29Z

'Listen, I think we'd have fun. You know, together?'
'You mean you think we'd end up having sex?'
'No. No no. Not at all. Sex never even entered my head. I never said a thing about sex...'
'You didn't have to. You've been staring at my tits the whole time we've been talking.'
'I have not.'
'Yes you have.'
'I have no... I was watching your hands to make sure you wouldn't hit me again. Look it. I just want you to have a drink with me.'
She sighed. 'Well, I need to think about it,' she said, pausing for a moment. 'Okay, I've thought about it. No.'
'Okay. Not quite the reaction I was hoping for' he said, wiping the blood from his mouth and considering the stain on his coat sleeve. He glanced back up, just in time to see her dive over the side of the building.
'Oh for fuck's sakes...'

]]> Chapter 12

"You have to learn the rules of the game. And then you have to play better than anyone else"
- Albert Einstein

Press play

Cardenio, present day.

'You ready?' Gabriel asked.
'Born ready' Michael replied with a waggle of the eyebrows. As they spoke, Victoria fitted his earpiece, switched his pocket watch on and generally fussed over him like he was about to go into mortal combat.
'I'm okay really' Michael told her.
'I'll be the judge of that' she said, pulling his waistcoat tighter, securing a strap at the back which held a metal tube in place.
She patted her hand on it. 'It's there if you need it'.
'Jesus this feels like a corset' he said.
'Worn a lot of corsets have you?' she asked.
'May have'
'Yeah, can we concentrate?' Gabriel said, 'Now, don't get cocky. Remember what I said: observe only. Just jump, find your way there, observe the exchange, do what you have to do and get yourself home via the jumplink at the museum, ok?'
'Rape, murder and pillage. Got ya'
'Michael? Please try to take this seriously'
'I am taking this seriously. I'm nervous. I make jokes when I get nervous'
'You've nothing to be nervous about. It's simple: observe record and do not interact. We're not interested in what's in the bag as much as where it goes. This stuff is getting through and we need to know how. Use your knowledge of the city to help you. You'll be there in the middle of Fallas so there'll be plenty of distractions to shield you when you get there. Maria will be here at Cardenio, monitoring your every move. We can hear what you hear and see what you see via the camera in your button hole. Just keep the watch turned on at all times. That's your transmitter. If you need guidance, directions, or well, if anything goes weird, you call for help. I said, you call for help. Got it?'
'Got it' said Michael.
'Okay' said Gabriel slapping him across the shoulder and turning him to the painting on the wall. It was a painting by Ignacio Pinazo Camarlench.
'All going well, you should jump into the city somewhere near the Turia riverbed. It'll be bedlam. Fireworks, hippies, cops, screaming and boozing'
'I remember. I used to live there'
'Yeah but this time you'll be jumping into the past. The disorientation may screw you up for a few minutes. This will, more likely than not, make you puke your guts out. When you get there, use the watch to track the bag being used in the exchange. We have a timestamp on it, so it should show on your screen as a green dot.'
'We're ready' Victoria said, pulling Michael's coat over his shoulders. Gabriel nodded at her, and then looking to Michael, opened his hand towards the painting. 'I think you know what to do from here'.
'Think I do' said Michael.
He took a deep breath, rolled his shoulders, stepped up to it and gently placed his hand on the side of the frame. He waited a few moments and then carefully, gingerly, he touched the palm of his left hand on the canvas. Just as the world shat itself and began to dissolve into a screaming mess, from deep inside the canvas a voice screamed like a crazed matador on crack: 'De Puta Madre!'

Time exploded, opening like a bursting bag of colour. Controlling the nausea, Michael scanned down into the spirals, images and sounds, smells and noise which were whistling past at light speed. He saw trams, horses, wide hats, an antiquated artillery barrage hammering a crumbling town wall, a naked girl with a rose between her teeth walking through the streets of a village, cats in holes in the walls, forward, forward, scanning and screaming down alleyways of an Alicante pueblo, television sets unloading from trucks, package holiday sideburns, tanks in the streets, the King addressing the nation, drugs in bars, parties in cars, forward, forward, scanning and falling, controlling the spirals, gangs and cops, fireworks and giant burning effigies. Slowing down, breathing through it, velocity decreasing, the movie wound down and stopped. Stepping out into the past, Michael smiled. Nausea washed over him. He groaned and reached into his coat for a bottle of water. Valencia. Arde nena, arde. The city of the bat. Fallas - the biggest fireworks and explosives festival in the world. Crema - the night of the great fires. The greatest party on earth.
'Michael, can you hear us?' said Maria's voice from inside his ear.
He threw up. 'Yes, I can hear you' he said.

Valencia, Spain. March 19th 2005, 11.27pm.

At the corner of Avenida de Francia and Glorieta de Europa, overlooking the City of Arts and Sciences, is the tallest building in Valencia. At the top of this gleaming white shaft of steel and green glass, sits a penthouse apartment. In this apartment, two men sat either side of a table on a balcony, looking out over the orchestrated insanity that was erupting across the city below. Rockets. Explosions. The world's biggest firework festival, the sky lit up like a Christmas tree on acid, the air filled with distant thundering, barking dogs, the streets filled with beer and trinket-hocking hippies, mangy dogs swirling at their feet, the honking of a thousand moped horns, terrified tourists, drugged up Goth girls, fishnets and labrets, Amstel and air horns, screaming and dancing, paella and pissheads.

The two men sat quietly, sharing a bottle of red wine, enjoying the unusually warm evening. Lighting a cigarette, the elder of the two, a 45 year-old Spaniard, opened a large sports bag and passed a small satchel across the table top. The younger man, a 27 year-old Swiss national, glanced down at it. He then reached behind him and handed over another bag: small, bulging with promise.
'Thank you' said the Spaniard. 'I don't need to remind you that you never saw me or spoke to me'
'Of course' the Swiss replied.
'No-one must ever know we were here'
'Yeah. I think the boat's sailed on that one' said a voice from beside them. They both looked up to be confronted by the sight of a woman with dark hair, a dark blue dress and biker boots standing before them. There was a large spiral tattoo on her left shoulder, another on the palm of her right hand. She was unarmed, but somehow managed, by the simple act of standing there, to suggest that extreme violence could be forthcoming at any moment. A momentary pause gave way to a flurry of limbs and flying objects. The table crashed over, wine sloshing over the balcony as the younger man tried to produce a gun from his jacket. Not fast enough. She was behind him before he had it aimed, twisting his arm around with an audible snap, the gun falling to the floor. He screamed. The Spaniard, almost too horrified to move for a moment, spun away from her and made a lunge for the door but somehow found himself running straight into her fist. She stood quietly as he collapsed to the floor, blood streaming down his nose.
'Thanks' she said, placing the satchel into the bag that was slung over her body and stepping onto the ledge of the balcony. Wincing, the younger man made a lunge for his gun, and fired off a shot. Too late. She was gone.

Less than five minutes later, and almost two kilometres away, Claudia sat herself down on the roof of an apartment on Caballeros, in the heart of the Carmen, the historic centre of Valencia. Twenty metres below her, the party was now in full swing. Crema had begun; the annual burning of the enormous sculptures which each barrio had spent almost a year making. Now after twelve months of work, all of them were going up in flames. She smiled, enjoying the noise. She took a sip of the beer she'd stolen on the street below and began to open the bag.
'I knew there used to be a lot of bag snatching in this town. I just never imagined it would've been you' said Michael.
Claudia looked up at him. After a few moments her face creased up in a smile. She closed the bag, letting her eyes run over him. 'Nice suit' she finally said with a satisfied smirk, folding her arms.
'You like it?'
'I dunno, I think that whole Victorian combat gear look is becoming a little worn-out if you ask me'
'Meh. Maybe. Well generally speaking I look like a bum, so this is an improvement'
'Yes. Very dapper. And yet, you still manage to make it look slightly shabby. So, you signed up did you? Became a good little Cardenio agent?'
'Looks like it.'
A firework exploded nearby, shaking the whole building.
'And, don't tell me, you're here to stop me making off with the bag? Well,' she said, shifting her weight to an elbow, 'let me ask you something: do you even know why you're here? I mean why you were sent here to get this?'
'Well, I wasn't actually. I was sent to watch the deal go down, but since you fucked that up for us I decided to intervene.'
'Intervene?'
'Yes. Well, that and something else. I'd like to buy you a drink'
'You'd what now?'
Michael reached into his pocket and pulled out his watch. Claudia didn't move. Slowly, so that she could see him do it, he powered the unit down. A volley of abuse could be heard through his earpiece, finally bleeping out to nothing.
'Gabriel won't like that' she said.
'Probably not, no'
'You want to buy me a drink?'
'Yes. Well, officially, I'm here because I want that bag. But, really I'd like you to stop, stay five minutes and have a conversation with me. A drink. In a bar. Us two.' He flicked his middle finger from himself to her and back to himself. 'Together, like normal, regular people'
'I hate to break it to you, but we are not normal, regular people.'
'I know that, but you know hey, we can pretend right? Just for half an hour'
'You said five minutes...'
'Yeah, but you'll be having so much fun that before you know it a half hour will have gone by'
'Really?' she said, smiling despite her best effort to hide it. 'You're that charming are you?'
'I have my moments. Seriously. Just have a drink with me. Just sit and talk to me for a bit'
'Not a chance' she said, rising to her feet. 'They looking after you?' she asked quickly, smoothing her dress down.
Michael looked at her, readying himself for her to make a move - a jump. Either off the building or for his throat.
'Yep, they're a good bunch I suppose'
'They are' she said with a nod.
'So why did you turn them down?'
She snorted. 'Too many rules'
'Will you have a drink with me? Or are we just going to have a fight over that bag?'
'A fight? Us? You realise I can kill you in an instant, don't you?'
'Possibly. But I'm hoping we can do this another way'
'Which is?'
'Well, how about we start with the drink?'
She took a step forward and looked at him carefully, looking into his eyes. After tilting her head an instant, she sighed, rolled her shoulders, frowned, the small scar on her face creasing up. 'Nah' she said slowly, 'let's not.'
In an instant she had shifted, her body beginning to slide away into a blur. He jumped as fast as he could, reaching out to take her hand. The force of the fist in his face caught him by surprise. His knees buckled, legs wobbling beneath him and after listing like a galleon, he fell backwards off the roof, and landed on a balcony, his ass meeting the surface with a loud bang. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.
'Ouch' he said.

'What's happening? What the fuck is happening?' Gabriel roared. Sitting in front of a giant wrap-around screen, Maria and Victoria monitored a map of Valencia, video streams and CCTV swirling into mini windows beside the map. Crackling audio feeds added to the sense of bedlam. Behind them Gabriel paced, furious. On the screen, a green dot was moving from building to building, racing across the labyrinthine streets of the Carmen. Some six to seven seconds behind that dot was another, a blue one, which was also moving from building to building. Although the pattern of the dots seemed to be almost random, jumping from building to building, street to street, they were getting closer, moving in tandem. They seemed to be making their way along Calle de Caballeros.
'What are they doing?' Maria asked, in genuine disbelief at what she was seeing.
Gabriel and Victoria exchanged glances.
'Playing' Gabriel said.
'What?' Maria asked.
'Playing. They're playing.' said Victoria.
'He's really done it now' Gabriel said under his breath.
'She's gonna kick his ass' Victoria said in agreement.
'In slow motion'
'Actually, I was gonna say she'd probably do it at 140 beats per minute, but yeah...'
As she finished her sentence, the door burst open behind them, with almost fifteen agents coming through the door, coats flapping, shoving each other out of the way to see what was happening.
'What the fuck do you lot want?' Gabriel barked.
They stopped dead in their tracks. Ryuichi, one of the younger recruits, was the first to speak.
'We heard that Michael is chasing Claudia. We wanted to...'
'Wanted what?'
'To watch'
'Holy shit' said a woman from the back of the group. 'Look how fast he's moving'
'Fuck me' came another voice.
'Okay, now everyone settle down and be quiet. This is still a live operation...'
'Jesus Christ on a bike he almost has her'
All heads snapped back to the screen.
'I doubt it' said Gabriel.
The voices continued from behind.
'Is that even possible.... how can they move that fast? Sweet Jesus he just jumped two buildings...'
'Everyone shut the fuck up' roared Gabriel.

Left. Right. Twist. Jump. Pulling across the empty space, Michael was spat out of a rip above a rooftop, an explosive the size of a house erupting just ten feet from his ears. He crashed to the roof, rolling as he landed. Momentarily clutching his hands to his ears, he staggered upright and started running again. Jump. Clear. Down again. Over the side. Letting gravity take control, he waited until he felt the pull of his own weight in the air, the moment of terminal velocity, saw the thread and kicked at it. An instant later he slammed into the ground in a street thirty feet away and started sprinting again. Up. Off the wall, he kicked outwards, side-shifting through a 1970s breeze-block horror and into the corridor of an apartment building. Through the window, across, rolling upright and keeping his legs moving. He caught a glimpse of her, dissapearing over the lip of a building. Seconds later he was behind her, slipping as he emerged from the rip. His hand managed to catch her leg. But not fast enough. The ferocity of the kick almost sent him off the building. He spun, catching her shoulder with an arm. She swung a hook at him, his arm deflecting it, another from the other side. Again and again, she launched punches and kicks at him, controlled, sequenced, a boxers movement in each one. Somehow he managed to block them. And then, just when it seemed he had his ground stood, she had him in a headlock, dragging him backwards.
'Persistent fucker, aren't you?' she snarled as she drove a knee into his back.
'You have no idea' he said, twisting out of the headlock and grabbing her by the waist. She lashed out with her other knee, walloping him in the face. He thought he heard a crack inside his head. Reeling like a drunk Michael tried to steady himself, her moving in with a murderous look and a raised fist.
'Wait' he yelled. 'Just fucking wait. Stop trying to, you know, murder me for five minutes and just listen?'
'No'
'Just shut... will you just stop for a second? Ha? Can you do that? Are you capable of shutting up for a second, and you know, actually just fucking listening for once in your life?'
She paused, looking at him. 'You know for a guy who just punched me, you've got some fucking nerve'.
Another barrage of explosives detonated twenty feet away, momentarily deafening them both. Flames from the fires below licked over the edges of the buildings around them, plumes of water from the fire engines filling the air above with smoke. An orange glow had filled the whole sky.
'Excuse me? You just tried to knee me in the nuts'
'Of course I fucking did, you twat. And I'm gonna do it again in a seco...'
'Just. SHUT. UP' he roared.
She did.
'Good. Now, will you please have a drink with me?'
'Didn't we just have this conversation?'
'Nope. A conversation is where two people talk to each other. You didn't answer me'
'Funny that'
'Listen, I think we'd have fun. You know, together'
She stared at him. Tilted her head. Opened her mouth and then closed it again. 'The what now?'
'Fun. I think we'd have fun'
'You mean you think we'd end up having sex?'
'No. No no. Not at all. Sex never even entered my head'
'Ya ha. Really?'
'I never said a thing about sex..'
'You didn't have to. You've been staring at my tits the whole time we've been talking'
'I have not'
'Yes you have'
'I have no... I was watching your hands to make sure you wouldn't hit me again. Look it, I just want you to have a drink with me'.
She sighed. 'Well, I need to think about it' she said, pausing for a moment. 'Okay, I've thought about it. No'.
'Okay. Not quite the reaction I was hoping for' he said, wiping the blood from his mouth and considering the stain on his coat sleeve. He glanced back up, just in time to see her dive over the side of the building.
'Oh for fuck's sakes...'

'His balls. I'll tear his balls off. So help me God Victoria, with my bare hands I wil tear his balls clean off and I will feed...'
'Calm down will you? He's doing fine.'
'He wasn't supposed to interact with anyone. Especially her.'
Victoria grunted, her eyes still on the screen. Maria tapped frantically on a keyboard.
'You know what he's doing don't you?' Gabriel asked. Victoria didn't look at him.
'He's actually trying to be charming with her'
Victoria leaned forward, leaning on a button on the desk. She spoke into the screen. 'Medical team on standby please'

Right. Left. Twist. Shift. Jump. Across another rooftop, scrambling across breaking tiles, coloured explosions ripping the air open as he ran. Her silhouette flipping over a balcony ledge, hitting the ground and running. He sprinted up the side of the building, jumping into a rip and emerging in front of her. His hand reached out, grabbing the bag strap. Just as he thought he had it, she seemed to spin through the air, twisting him around as she moved. He sensed the kick coming and blocked it with an arm. Another spin on her heel and he caught her again, her arm around him, wildly lashing at him with her free fist. He caught the hand just as it was about to split his head open and held on as tight as he could. Momentarily they froze, locked against each other, neither one able to pull the other down and neither one willing to let go, their faces close enough that they could feel each other breathing.
'What do you say' he wheezed, 'we have a break for a second?'
'No thanks' she said, launching a headbutt at him.
He reeled backwards, his head feeling like someone had just detonated a grenade in it. Another volley of explosives went off, the sky filling with blooming fireballs above them. Momentarily he was unsure if he was actually seeing them, or if he just had concussion. Then he noticed it. The bag. In his hand.
'Ha haaaaaaaaaaa!' he shouted, pulling the bag away from her and extending his other hand out to block her, a feeble smirk on his face. He motioned to throw the bag over the edge down into a burning Falla below. The flames were huge, slapping at the space around them. 'Seriously. Hear me out' he said with a giggle.
She paused, a look of volcanic anger on her face.
'I mean it Michael. I'll actually hurt you. Like really hurt you'
'Claudia?'
'Yes?'
'We could have a hoot together...'
'Oh Jesus tap-dancing Chr... I see. You reckon do you?'
'I do'
'Okay. And the fact that we've never spent time together, or even so much as spoken to one and other, doesn't make you question...'
'Yes, we have. You know we have. Don't bullshit me. You know we have. You know what happened in that nightclub wasn't just drugs, or some other mystical mumbo-jumbo sci-fi bollocks. That was real. I felt it, so did you...'
'That was not real' she said angrily.
'Yes it was. If it wasn't real, then how the fuck do you know what I'm talking about?'
She laughed again, derisively, her face a mask of fury.
'Shut. The. Fuck. Up. You know nothing. Listen to me: I'm not what you want or need. You just think you do. Now, fuck off'
'I can't do that. I can't let you leave'
'Because of the bag? Or because you want to get me into bed?'
'Again with this...'
She lowered her arms, stepped towards him, her stance softening. 'Michael?'
'Yes?'
'I'm gonna say this nicely, okay? It's never gonna happen' she said with a smile. 'Never. Not ever. You got that?'
He straightened himself up, sniffing.
'Okay. Fine. Grand. No problem. I hear ya. The whole me liking you, and you hating my guts thing? Yeah, grand, I can live with that. Fine. Fucking groovy in fact. But, seriously now, you're not leaving here with this bag.'
'Oh. Really? Ye reckon?'

'What the hell are they doing?' said a younger voice from the group at the back. The two dots had stopped moving and seemed to be in the same spot.
'Maybe they're talking?' said another.
'Please' said Gabriel loudly. 'Can everyone shut the fuck up?'
'They could be getting it on' said a woman's voice. Someone else sniggered.
'Well they are there a long time' said Maria, her eyes fixed on the screen. 'Maybe he's managed to get her to liste... no. Wait. Yeah, she's thrown him off the roof again'

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