Where you can find missing stories

I've recently received a few emails about taking stories down from this site. If you've already read them, thanks!

In the meantime I've taken the plunge and published them as an independent ebook publisher.

Stories like In Media Res and Beginnings and three others are now available at Smashwords where you can read them on your Kindle, PC, iPad, iPhone, Sony Reader and even the humble old PC. You can view the first 20% of each story free, and if you like them read the remainder for the reduced price of $0.99!

Just published my second short story on Smashwords

Writing update time. I just published my second short story on Smashwords.com. It's called Justice Follows the Grave and you can read it here on most e-reader platforms like Kindle and e-readers for iPad and iPhone

Short story now available to buy...cheap too

JUST took my first venture into proper ebooks with the publication of my short story Watching the Watched on the wonderful Smashwords website: there you can buy a copy at a very reasonable price for your own delection and delight to read on Kindle, iPad or whatever takes your fancy.

You can read a sample here, and buy from the same page! Hope you like it!

Have-a-pop 'hero' hacks

I HAVE to say, right off, that I enjoy my work. Yes, for some managing a communications team, and contributing writing and strategy, isn't exactly up there with brain surgeons and NASA scientists but sometimes I know that what I do makes a (tiny) difference.

And, yes it is true that I do sometimes ruminate that I should get off my lazy arse and publish my creating writing, spend time critiquing pseudo-science, stand up for my atheism, or set my stall out in the music trade.

Of late I have been rather irritated by the attitude of the self-declared experts and the have-a-pop 'hero' hacks populating some of the lower selling Northern Ireland newspapers.

I'll give you two cases in point by way of example.

The first concerns a media enquiry a colleague received about a report issued this week. The report was the result of almost a year's hard work by other colleagues. Their work has already produced numerous positive comments, and may result in some real change. But this hack with an agenda was already halfway through penning his article. When asked whether he wanted a copy of said report he commented that he wouldn't have enough time to read it...though he did ask for the executive summary if one was available.

This says more about the hack's agenda than it does about the report itself. And, one of the people he offered up in the article, surely had not read the report, even if they had a copy sent to them in advance.

The other example is the goading on talk shows on topics that the average caller will not have taken the time to delve into. Cue up a self-appointed controversial commentator to vent his spleen then open the phone lines. Said commentator is one whose views I listen to, and on a rare occassion even agree with; but that he too had clearly not bothered to read the report in anything resembling detail speaks more about his agenda than anything else.

Once, many moons ago I was a full-time hack too; even a moderately successful one in a very limited sense. I know that I, at times, took short cuts when deadlines were tight. But I never jumped to too many conclusions. The hack and the commentator above seem to have leaped unthinking towards self-thought-fulfilling conclusions.

Or, could it be they prefer their own agendas over objective journalism.

Such objective journalism is a rare commodity in a celebrity obsessed media landscape, where the latest manufactured act and psychic occurence are preferred over evidence and real talent.

Witness the channels dedicated to psychic shit and 'alternative' medicine [for alternative medicine read: not tested by any reliable scientific method].

Yesterday I reported on the sad passing of Trevor Fleming. Trevor was the guitarist in Belfast band Sweet Savage. Few of the X-Factor generation will ever have heard of Trevor or Sweet Savage. Yet Trevor appeared on a song that may have contributed qute a few shillings to the Northern Ireland economy. He was in the Sweet Savage line-up that recorded a song called Killing Time. Metallica covered that song. Such is the popularity of Metallica across the globe that royalties came back to 'Norn Iron', where Sweet Savage were able to spend a few quid...

Sadly Trevor's passing will go unnoticed in a city where pubs imitate X-Factor and be-jewelled barely clad girls strive to aspire to lesser spotted WAG status.

Which leads back to the point of this post. The media used to be a reflection of society: reporting on foibles and critiquing the actions of the great and the [not so] good.

Now, it believes it can set the agenda.

It believes it can pout and preen, setting out a stall with an agenda and a plan to demean those that work hard and actually take an active part in this less than civil society

It believes that pseudo-celebrities are more important than real stories.

And with falling sales its disinterested readership is turning to the web...

BTW- which UK recording act topped the charts in 21 countries worldwide?

Clue - It wasn't a Simon Cowell act, and it wasn't some reality TV wannabe.

Don't know yet?

It was Iron Maiden, with their 15th studio album.

Next question: Are The Beatles the biggest selling act of all-time?

Answer: No, and not by a long shot. That would be AC/DC.

There are the smarmy gets who prefer shoe gazing nobodies to the hard, cold facts that they may damn the Iron Maiden's and AC/DC's of the world, when such acts actually earned their stripes gigging without Louis Walsh and co offering pithy comments. They call Maiden, DC and Metallica derivative and 'adolescent' but fail to note that Morrisey is an undergraduate lyricist at best and Duke Special ain't that special [Tim Minchin has better dreads, better and funnier songs and he can really play!]

Tortuously this brings me back to the original point. Too often the hacks who sit behind the desk, fingers poised over a keyboard think little of their personal agenda. Too often the self-congratulatory columnist never asks about the reality rather than the cheap quips...

This rant is now over.... :)

Metal short story...

One I wrote some time ago, a bit daft and inspired by Blue Oyster Cult!

1




Four years of fighting, and no sign of victory.



Another year and he could retire to teach at what was left of the Academy. Four years and only two days of respite per month. Just 96 days of relief. In his hands he played with the headset. Such a relic. They were his only real respite, a window to a past gone for more than 900 years. A relic that had been left from his long-dead relative, passed through generation after generation, with none knowing what the silver discs contained.



Each month he had sat, connected to the dumb terminal, researching, reading what ‘ware he would let into his mind, always careful that no neural bombs had been left by the ‘bots.



Finally, two months ago he had broken the code, assembled a converter and copied the files to his ‘ware. Almost 2,000 files lay within, each labelled with obscure titles, and even more obscure names and organisations. It was another month before he dared to open one, fearful that the ancient codes would have decayed and corrupt his neural interfaces. When he finally opened them he was shocked for the first time since joining up in the ‘ware marines. He expected codes, ‘ware, even text downloaded via the ancient headset. Instead, three brief lines from someone whose name had been lost in the centuries passing, explaining the concept of music.



Music, a small word. A word that he had to look up in the library ‘ware. It was a word and a definition that baffled him, until the first chords blasted through the headset. He had laughed in shock.



Now it was his only solace. He had to face up to probable defeat. Commander of the Software Division of the United Earth Space Marines, and commander of a division that was slowly, but surely being defeated by the ‘bots. There had been some glimmer of hope this past three weeks, but until he could marshal a counter-attack…



2.



“Sir, the divisional reports are ready to be uploaded,” said Samuels, his Exec Officer, who bustled into the room, still smelling of the stimulant he tolerated, but frowned upon; especially it’s use among his Official Cadre officers and ‘ware specialists. It might keep them awake and alert for a few extra minutes in death space, but it made them rash and, at times too impulsive against the ‘bots.



“Okay Samuels, thanks. You had any downtime?”



The man had been a competent marine when programming, but lacked the inherent strength of visualisation while in 'ware time. Where most marines visualised rich tapestries of sound, vision, smell and touch, Samuels preferred the quiet visualisations of boardrooms. It matched his straight bearing, impeccable uniform and angular face. Topped by the neatly trimmed grey hair he looked less like a marine and more like a member of the administrative cadre. He was in total contrast to the dishevelled demeanour of his commander.



“Yes, sir and I’m due relax trance tomorrow.”



“Okay, dismissed.”



Relax trance. What a stupid word combination. It was nothing to do with relaxing. The trance was designed to age his men and women. Their fights with the ‘bots were in a world where time was measured in a different framework compared to the rest of the human population. His four years in the wars had seen normal time fly by in a blur of more than 50 years, his body ageing slowed by the perverse nature of the quantum world the ‘bots occupied. The ageing was necessary, because without it the brain systems would overtake the neural wetware that bridged complex brain areas; a pathway of tiny interfaces measured in diameters of electrons and neutrons. The interfaces crossed posterior parietal cortex and anterior cingulate cortex, effectively linking the motion-processing areas of visual pathways and body-mapping areas.



The sense of space constructed by this cortex was linked to the cingulated cortex, using its focus and crossroads between planning and emotional impulses in the brain to translate higher functions and boost attention. The link enabled the visualisation of colours, environment and other interpreted senses from the battlefield, using the impression of senses to do battle in the quantum world where the bridges of intervention changed every aspect of the virtual battlefield.



Just another year. Even he, commander of the ‘ware marines, was limited to five years’ service – almost 70 years in real time. Any longer and the risk of akinetic mutism from damage to the anterior cingulate cortex increased exponentially. He’d seen too many friends, too many of his marines struck down with q-syndrome, as the soldiers had dubbed it. A weird zombie-like state first clearly understood and then diagnosed correctly almost 1,000 years ago. It had been known about for years before that, but the damage they incurred in the battle with the ‘bots was irreversible. Zombies with full consciousness, but no motivation, no urge to move, to do anything, not even speak. All who suffered were discarded from the service. The lucky few were given terminal neural interface connections by their relatives. It was a merciful death.



“Think too long on this shit and you’ll never hook up again Jonas,” he thought, suddenly deciding that it was time for work. The division was so depleted of resources even the commander was forced to enjoin the battles.



He donned the headset first, loading up another song, from what he presumed was a 20th Century religious movement, Blue Oyster Cult. Veteran of the Psychic Wars.



“How fucking appropriate!”



3.



Earth colonies had been gradually, slowly and cautiously exploring their distant corner of their galaxy for more than two centuries since they first mastered the art of sending drones to terraform uninhabited planets and then leapfrogging them with the sub-light driven ships, delivering colonists desperate to escape the dying throes of Earth.



Within 150 years more than 500 planets had been colonised, and then the first contact with the ‘bots came, bringing what seemed to be the beginning of the end. The ‘bots had appeared as physical ships to the first colony that they contacted. A ship set on course to colonise in their own unique way by a civilisation many millennia ago. There was no explanation offered by the ‘bots; no physical contact, simply the gradual neural dominance and extinction of the host via attacks based on a weird combination of imagined space and quantum physics. Their mission appeared to be simply to eradicate all biological codec that did not conform to their DNA and RNA sequencing programmes. At a rough estimate less than 20 per cent fitted their approved sequence.



Thankfully more than half of that fortunate few of the original colony decided that they owed it to the rest of humanity to warn them of the insidious invasion and slaughter that it precipitated.



Now there were less than 50 colonies, plus Earth system resisting, and more than 35 billion ‘defective’ DNA sequences eradicated. Samuels mused on the war. He’d been welcomed by the ‘Bots and carefully groomed in q-space to work on their behalf with the only force still resistingassimilation, the ‘ware marines. He thought sometimes of the people he’d helped kill through passing on ‘ware specs. He thought of their deaths. Sometimes he cried. Then, as he linked up with the willing survivors he felt the community of brain linkages that joined humanity with the long distant creators of the ‘bots – one huge galactic wide net of linked individuals and colony ‘bots. An efficient process, ordered and quiet.



To help him in his position as an infiltrator the ‘bots downloaded specialist ‘ware to his hippocampus. The convergence of neurons and their snapshot imagery of the rest of his brain activity was a perfect base for capturing and re-imaging neural activity to make Jonas and all his associated colleagues in the Human Defence Forces think of Samuels as nothing more than a dull but loyal EO.



Unfortunately the ‘ware managed to create chaos within a small section of the cerebellum that controlled sweat glands, leaving him with the whiff of coffee, long-outlawed in its concentrated form in the colonies.



4.



Whatever organisation had been called Black Sabbath soothed Jonas with their sweeping aggressive music as he coursed through the battlefield, fending off ‘bot attacks, launching counter-attacks through neural viruses. The q-fields were adapted according to each marines’ own personal visual interpretation. His choice was an ancient game, played by his ancestors through clumsy visual interfaces. They had been called role-playing games and first-person shooters. The names were appropriate to what was his job. Cutting through swathes of code, using every type of programming language ever invented by humanity to sabotage the ‘bots manipulation of quantum fields. The very processes humanity had used to speed its computing capabilities to colonise their corner of the galaxy had been turned against them. Only the speed, flexibility and adaptability of the human brain could now provide a counter.



Black Label Society switched to Kiss, before Metallica took over...



For the first time in months they were making real progress. He switched to the separate ‘ware controlling his divisional deployments, marshalling a counter-thrust in three separate sectors.



The Offspring played on, followed by Alice Cooper focussing his mind...



“Sector four, press forward, div. two, they’ll drive into that noose you’ve got forming. Lock those codes in there. When they try to break through in binary, lock ‘em down and release neural bombs.” he projected to his divisional commanders, before switching back to his own field of combat.



Led Zeppelin, System of a Down and then Nine Inch Nails...



5



“I don’t know why he won’t just die,” Samuels projected to the ‘Bots. His own visualisation was of a boardroom, appropriate for an Executive Officer.



“I’ve released every neural pathogen, every neural bomb and dozens of viruses. He seems to have a way of combating each and every one. And some of the Marines seem to have developed that same ability.”


The ‘Bots, shed of the crude machinery that most of humanity believed them to be, appeared as fields of shimmering material in q-space. Their every move and his every observation changing the matter and the visualisation.



“What is music?” one asked.


“I don’t know.”


“It seems to be the virus they are using,” the ‘Bot replied. “It is like a wall, which we cannot penetrate, and we cannot sequence quick enough when they have it activated to fight them off. It is not appearing on any of the pathways we map of the Marines ‘ware, nor their physical neural activity.”


“What is an Ozzy?” another asked.


“I don’t know.”


“What is a Motorhead?”


“I don’t know.”


“What is a Ramone?”

“I don’t know.”

“What is an AC/DC??


“I don’t know.”

The boardroom shuddered.

“The Marines have breeched all our secure neural sites.”


“What, you told me those were the hubs to…”

“There’s something coming along…”


“You told me you couldn’t lose…”

“Samuels, what is headbanging?”

His boardroom exploded, the visualisation cut apart by seeming arcs of fire and explosions. Walking through the debris was Jonas. The image was one of a man 20 years Jonas’ junior, carrying an ancient projectile weapon and laughing. As he fired the weapon the quantum fields slithered and rolled, the programming languages cutting the ‘Bots internal integrity down to nothingness. Samuels knew he was seeing Jonas’ visualisations. And if he could see them, quantum law dictated that both he and the visualisation could be altered by that observation. He had to think fast, alter the vision before Jonas…


“Hey Samuels!” Jonas called out at him. The tired Commander was laughing. His hair seemed longer and he was dressed in ancient combat fatigues.

“Hanging out with the our low-life robotic quantum motherfuckin’ friends. It’s fuckin’ crazy man, we’re getting them beat.” He seemed drunk or high to Samuels.

“It’s not how they think it goes any more. We’re winning and we won’t live as slaves to these small quantum fuckers. If only they’d learn how to love us, and forget to hate us. Maybe it’s not too late for them. Will your mental wounds heal before I kill you.

“No guess not, all aboard the Crazy Train - you’re gonna die traitor.”

After the loud blast of the projectile weapon cutting across quantum space, Samuels heard a maniacal laugh and someone screaming, “All Aboard’. Samuels’ treachery died along with him.



ENDS

Weird...

Well, sometimes things are weird...Constant Readers (TM Mr S King) will have read the story Voices on this site. Now work on that was started, to use the vernacular, yonks ago. Then what do I hear last week...The BBC are doing a series of programmes on local accents, called "Voices".

All so weird that I may need to lie down! In the meantime don't forget to post your comments on the site; any agents, publishers or filmmakers aer welcome to send brown envelopes stuffed with mixed denomination, used non-sequential, non-marked, non-Northern Bank notes to the usual address...

Southbound

Instead of a short story I've posted a treatment. That means, in one sense, a rough guide that can be used to prepare a script for a film or TV show. As it was the erection of the statue to Phil Lynott (see http://belfastmetalheadsreunited.blogspot.com/ for more info.) this is 'sorta' topical. Anyway I hope you enjoy, post your comments to let me know!

J
PS - the abbreviations are CU - Close Up; INT - Internal; EXT - External; etc...

SOUTHBOUND

Prologue:
1.
CU - A hand drawing on the front of a school jotter the cover of a Thin Lizzy album. A voice shouts - Armstrong, when you've finished your artwork can you tell us what John Donne was referring to!
2.
EXT - Crowd outside concert venue in Belfast
3.
INT - Concert venue - crowd shouting "LIZZY, LIZZY"
4.
INT - Enterprise train to Dublin, Man is sitting in the first class carriage. A laptop computer is in front of him; an open briefcase is beside him, and he has headphones from an MP3 player on. The Thin Lizzy song 'Southbound' is playing.
5.
CU hand holding a gun, pull out to see gun is pressed to the side of a man's head
Act 1.
1. Two teenagers, obviously below the drinking age are standing outside an off licence in South Belfast, egging each other on to see if they can be served. They are both wearing black concert t-shirts, motorbike jackets and cut off denims, emblazoned by the legends of rock and metal acts. They are bantering and nervous, until they see an older man, also wearing a motorbike jacket approach. He offers to go into the off licence for them.
2.
EXT: Connolly Station, Dublin, the man seen earlier on the train is on the escalator to street level, laptop bag on his shoulder, briefcase in one hand, suitcase in the other. He is wearing a conservative suit but his hair is slightly long for the business 'look'.
3.
EXT: Lisburn Road, Belfast. Then two teenagers seen earlier getting help to buy a carry-out are walking along the road, obviously worse for wear. They have been joined by several others, similarly dressed. The group is singing, off-key, the Thin Lizzy song "Jailbreak". One sees an approaching police Land Rover and the singing abruptly stops. Attempts to present themselves as sober end up in giggling and much holding on to each other to pretending to be capable of walking in a straight line.
4.
EXT: Outside Connolly Station
The man seen earlier hails a taxi and directs the driver to take him to a city centre hotel, not too far from the Point Depot. The driver asks him if he's in town for business. The man says it's a bit of both as he's going to the concert tonight. The driver responds by saying "The Lynott Tribute? Me and the missus'll be there, maybe we'll see you later."
5.
EXT: Crowd outside same Belfast concert venue as before.
The teenagers we have seen earlier are pressed up against the doors, waiting for them to open. We can see only 10 or 15 of the crowd, but the noise and hum make it clear that there are many more also in the press to make sure they are among the first through the doors to make sure they are at the front. The conversation is about who they can score a spliff off and any other illicit substances as there's no drink on sale inside. One of the teenagers pulls out a plastic baggie. Inside it is crammed with magic mushrooms. Amid whoops of joy the final beer cans are toasted and dozens of mushrooms are passed around.
6.
INT: Taxi in Dublin
The man is getting out of the taxi. CU. We see him passing not only his fare to the driver, but a bulky brown envelope. The taxi driver says "What about we meet up for a pint in your hotel before the concert? The missus would love to meet another fan."
The man replies yes, and mutters I'll be in the bar about half seven" And steps away from the taxi.

Act 2:
1.
EXT: Belfast Street.
The two teenagers seen before are walking to school. They are now dressed in uniform. They are bantering each other about sickness. One was sick during the concert, and the other is insisting it was the drink, while the one who vomits maintains it was the mushrooms. Just before they reach the school gates they slope off to an alleyway where they share an illicit cigarette. They concoct plans for the weekend to steal the stash of cannabis one of their brothers has accumulated.
2.
INT: Crowded Dublin hotel bar - the business man seen before is now wearing ripped jeans and a Thin Lizzy tour t-shirt from the Thunder and Lightning tour. CU we see his hand is shaking as he lifts the pint to his lips. A voice hails him and a small amount of the beer spills. As we pull out we see the taxi driver from earlier. He is with a woman and both are wearing Lizzy t-shirts from the 80s. The woman is considerably younger and looks disinterested. After introductions our man from the train offers a drink, but taxi driver declines, instead giving his partner money and instructions to get three in at the bar. As she leaves grumbling he turns and says "You were 10k short". The reply is "And I've not seen a fucking thing yet." The taxi driver replies: "Take this and see" before offering a hotel key card.
4.
INT: Small bedroom.
Our two teenagers from earlier are laying back on fold out beds, trying to smoke joints and both coughing and spluttering, but from the giggling and the beer it appears they are succeeding. On the hi-fi Thin Lizzy's "Suicide" is playing. As the giggling calms down conversation turns to careers. One talks about the police, the other about academia. Both agree that when they are 18 they are stopping the joints, but keeping on the booze. Together they say, "Well, maybe the odd joint the odd weekend" and burst out laughing.

5. Hotel room.
CU as hands open a small suitcase, identical to the one seen earlier. In it are rows of plastic bags containing white powder. We see a hand slice one open, use a small spatula to scoop a tiny amount into a test tube. When the liquid in the test tube turns blue, the hand holds it against a paper of graduated blue tints.

6. Crowded hotel bar from earlier
The man, the taxi driver, and the disinterested partner are drinking. The taxi driver encourages them to depart to see the start of the gig. As they are putting coats on we see an envelope slip between two sets of hands.

Act 3.

1.

INT. Large living room, tastefully decorated. The camera pans around the room, lingering on pictures of well groomed and presented children on the mantelpiece. The Thin Lizzy song 'Emerald' is playing in the background. As the camera passes the television, we see the businessman that we saw earlier in a hotel bar, slumped in a chair. The camera pans to focus on the man. In his left hand is a can of beer. In his right a gun. He is lifting it to his ear when we hear loud bangs, coming from what appears to be the door. He looks at the mantelpiece, as the camera pulls out. We see his hand shaking and the sound of voices, shouting, "he's in here"

3.

The businessman is again on the train. This time the Enterprise is northbound. He is looking the worse for wear but is nursing a large glass of what appears to be whiskey. CU We see him typing a message into his mobile phone. It reads: "Deal done, coming across the border in 20 minutes meeting to go as planned".

4.

A crowd is emerging from Dublin's Point Theatre. We see the two men and woman from earlier. They are animatedly talking about the concert; about the fitting tribute it is to Lynott, and to how it will be a long time before that sort of show is in Dublin again. They stop into a nearby bar. Once again the woman goes to the bar for the men. When she is gone the taxi driver leans over. His face is mock conspiratorial. He tells the man that the handover is at 5 o'clock in a small bar in Belfast. He warns the businessman to be there or…CU we see him make the shape of a gun and pull the pretend trigger with his forefinger, before bursting out laughing. "Sure, you're the best mule we've ever had! Perfect cover a wee wankstain businessman. Just kidding!"

5.

We see the two schoolboys from before, this time out of uniform and wearing jeans and a t-shirt. They are walking towards a North Belfast school, joking with each other about the grades they are not going to get in their 'A' Levels and whether they will be going to university, and what they plan to do there. One brandishes two concert tickets, declaring that that can all wait until after Deep Purple at Knebworth!

6.
INT. The living room as before
The businessman is sitting with the gun to his temple, when two masked men 'burst' through the door. At the same time the window smashes. Through the broken glass comes a smoke grenade. The room fills with smoke. The last image we see as the smoke clouds the room is a CU of the gun barrel to the man's temple. A voice booms through the broken window declaring that armed police are outside and all inside must throw down their weapons or they will use deadly force.
Finally the smoke obscures the room.
We hear a gunshot…

Voices

Been away a while now, but finally got something new for the blog with this story that started life as a poem (I kid you not!) in 1994 after another bloody series of deaths in Northern Ireland's sick little conflict. Resurrected it last year and turned into this wee ode to twisted Hammer Horror style fun in rural Ulster. Enjoy!

Voices

“Sure I’ve been walkin on the Twelfth for years. I’ve never missed it - until this year that is. I’m gettin too old for the shenanigans. And, I don’t understand it anymore. Sure of course, I’m still an Orangeman, and I still believe in most everything it stands for. But I’m not sure if some o’these others understand a thing about what it stands for.

“Before I start answering yer questions I suppose ya want me to introduce myself for that tape recorder thing of yours. Well my name is John McSeverick, but everyone ‘round these parts calls me Tam. I’m 68-years-young, and I can’t remember why people started calling me Tam, but it’s just about the only name I answer to. I’m a retired butcher, I belong to Knocknaughrim Presbyterian Church and LOL 65 Sons of William Temperance Lodge. I was born and brought up in a farmhouse, trained to be a butcher after working with me Da on the farm. He came back from the war, hurt by shrapnel in the arm, and tol’ me he didn’t want me ever to be stuck for a trade. Mind you, it might have been he wanted someone to slaughter the cattle proper!

“I never left this wee country until I was 45 when my sister persuaded me to go to Canada to see our cousin, and since then ya haven’t be able to keep me here. If I don’t get abroad each year… None of this is answering your question is it?

“Okay, here’s the answer. I hate everything that’s happening, and not just this rumpus at Drumcree. There’s talk about sitting down with those murderers in the IRA and there’s Orangemen walking with the LVF. The Unionists are all over the place, and Paisley’s lot want us all to go back to the fifties. I don't know what to do any more.

“My church has been so important to me. I’m an elder, and I spend a lot of time there. We’ve a new Minister there this past year or so. I like him. He’s but 33, but he listens. The oul’ minister was fine, but he could talk for Ulster. He’d blether on about anything, and he could blether forever. It meant Church was fine for social things but not much else... Until this new man came I had forgotten that Church was about God. Now, don’t be picking it up wrong. I never stopped believing or praying, I just stopped pulling the heart out of myself. This new man; he listened to me, and when he asked a few questions I found myself talking. It’s a bit like that machine of yours, except he seemed to, oh I don’t know how to say it, do more than listen. He might not agree with my views, but he understands why I have them. Yes, that’s it. I’ve also started reading the Scriptures again. I mean really reading them. And, that’s hard for me, because I was never that good at reading, it took me a bit of time at school to get the knack of it. And, that’s why I think I’ve been given a chance now, and why I agreed to do this interview with you. In the past year I’ve had something to think about and understand. And I have understood, understood what the Church is supposed to stand for. It's about recognising your sins, and then doing something about them. Mind you the minister might have a thing or two to say if he heard me say that!

“But, you want to hear what I think of Drumcree. Well, not a lot. I went down on the Tuesday after the first protest. It was just like it was at Twelfths in the fifties and seventies. Masses and masses of people, all clustering into fields. There was colour everywhere. And there was Lambegs. There’s so few of them played proper these days I was glad to see two or three men who knew how to control them.

“There was a mass of cars - there weren’t but two or three of them when I first joined the Orange Order - crowding every road towards Drumcree when we arrived at first. All the cars were stopped in queues at checkpoints when we got to Portadown. But they weren’t really checking the cars. The Constable looked just bored with the driving licences as we got closer, and he was just downright ignorant when we got there.

“Sure there was no need for that. When I started walking with the lodge most of the police had been in a lodge, and to put it like they put it on the news there was equal opportunity policing in them days. They stood no nonsense from anyone, Protestant, Catholic or Dissenter. And woe betide anyone that stepped out of line.”

Joe stopped the tape. Tam was working out fine, probably one of the best interviews he’d laid down to date and it was only getting started.

“Take a wee sip Tam, stop your mouth from drying up.”

“Thank you. Do never get tired listening?”

“Ah, no. I just, well to tell you the truth Tam, I’m just about interested in everything. When this wee freelance job came up for the Beeb; well walking around with a tape recorder, talking to people you knew, asking them questions someone else wrote, and getting’ paid for it…C’mon Tam, was I goin’ to turn it down?”

The gruff, ruddy man before him laughed slightly, before settling into a coarse laugh rounded from many years of smoking.

Joe was a city boy, but he’d somehow fallen into reporting in rural Mid-Ulster after he left university. Working on local weekly papers was an apprenticeship recommended to him by one of the top editors in Northern Ireland who had said, “You don’t need those namby pamby courses. You need to get out and do the friggin job.” It took a year of covering Women's Institute meetings, school prize days and general crap before Joe had realised what he meant.

Mid-Ulster in the late nineties was in upheaval with sectarian violence. The price of working the community beat had paid off as he gradually got to know the community in Portadown, Lurgan and its fractious rural hinterland, its politicians, its peace workers and its paramilitaries. And its terrible toll of terrorist deaths.

He’d been an oddity for the traditional men staffing the three or four papers in the area. He’d been called a long-haired freak, a city boy, a poof, a hippy among a host of other things. Most were gentle teasing, some were more biting, as both sides didn’t know his religion, a fact compounded by his surname, Ramsbottom. One councillor who thought himself a wit frequently called him Goats Arse, but the joke wore thin after the first few quips, even if the idiot didn’t realise this.


Tam had settled after his coughing fit. Tam was the last of the interviews commissioned by the Beeb. Some bright spark producer wanted to collect the views and thoughts of ‘real’ people across Northern Ireland. A Hell’s Angel, a councillor, two paramilitaries, a single mum, one petty drug dealer and now Tam; it was an eclectic collection well outside the normal Beeb definition of vox populi, but they seemed to like it and it put the current upheaval in focus. Tam was his piéce de resistance, Joe thought mocking to himself the middle class sensibilities he feared he was developing. Tam had the breathy tones of a man with a story to tell, with the regional intonations of rural Ulster. He was also a born story teller. And, some of what he said was disturbing. Some of what he said spoke of darker secrets than the terrorist bully boys could ever hold.

“Okay son, want to switch that box back on again?”

“When you’re ready Tam, welt away!”

“Where was I? Yes, the police. Yeah, some were bigotted small minded men, but most were fair. Firm, mind you, but fair. Now I’ve read some of the history from that time. And although I’m not a great reader I can make out well enough what the rest of the country must have suffered with, but the constables round here were different. They had been part of the community, ach well I don’t know what, but there never seemed to be much of what there was going on elsewhere. Nobody bothered.”

“What do you mean Tam?”

“Well, Roman Catholic, Church of Ireland, Presbyterian, Methodists, we all got on. We didn’t darken each others churches’ doors but apart from Sunday we sort of just got along. Even the ministers, priests, whatever, just got along. Sure, they fought like cat and dog over their scriptures, but it was more like, ach, I can’t find the words. It was like a gentleman’s argument.

“The people helped each other out. Then, well it all started to go, go downhill.”

“When was this Tam?”

“Och, it was about, let me see, it was when Rev. Wilkinson and Father Misskelly died. They died within three months of each other and it was in 1966. Their deaths were, I'm not sure how to put it right for a man of words like yourself Joe, but it was strange them dying so close to each other

“Then, well, the wee town started to fall apart. The new minister was hardline. Didn’t have no truck with what he called the Papist pretenders, and the new Priest was only interested in the GAA. The other ministers were too old to start building bridges and then the new people came close, but never moved into the village apart from one. People that just didn’t understand our ways, people that, well they were different. We had some old traditions; traditions that were linked to the blood in the soil.”

Joe’s mind was drifting. Tam’s voice was natural and soothing. He knew it would make a great interview when edited down, but he was tired. Tired because of a weekend of adventure, a weekend of partying and most importantly for Joe a weekend of solid, hard, pounding rock music.

What Tam was saying, he presumed, was a tale that could be told across rural Ulster around the end of the sixties, a tale that would resonate for the BBC, but held little interest to him. Then a phrase caught his ear.

“Ya see son, there’s the real story and the one we write in our own minds. This wee corner of Ulster was bought dear with the blood of sons and daughters of the land. The real story is about all our blood sacrifices.”

Joe thought there was a rant about spilling blood to feed Ulster, or the Great War of 1914-18, but he was wrong.

“Sacrifice is a holy thing. Sacrifice is what put the Lord on the cross, caused them Mexican Aztecs to leave behind hills of skulls, and caused much of what is good and much of what is bad in every land. Here, we believe in the real sacrifices to keep our corner of Ulster at peace. When we can’t make the sacrifices because someone is stirrin’ the pot, then, well, then things don’t sit too easy.”

“What do you mean Tam?”

“Well, if ya lived here a wee while you’d find out.”

2

Joe sat at home, playing with the DAT recorder the BBC had given him for the task. He marked the tape with Tam’s interview, and toyed briefly about just posting it on to the Beeb, when he decided to listen to it again, and see if there was anything that might be turned into a story for his paper. And he wanted to listen to that bit about sacrifice again. It bothered him.

3

“Well, how’d it go Tam?” said Father Hill

“Ach, exactly as ye said it would. Said almost everything that had to be said, everything you two said.”

Tam was sitting in a large, stuffed armchair in the Parish Priest’s front room. It was a room darkened by heavy curtains and cloistered by packed bookshelves. Aside from the comfortable chair there were a small two-seater sofa, its maroon upholstery faded and a tattered director’s chair, it’s pine arm jarring in the room. Perched on the chair was Rev Greene. His balding pate caught what light there was in the subdued room. The reverend was in his late thirties, but seemed like a man 10 years older. He was, like the armchair, over-stuffed. Every few minutes he fought through his clothes for a handkerchief to wipe a brow that was sodden with sweat even on the coldest days.

Greene reached across the room to Tam, holding the old man’s wrist tightly.

“Do you think he’ll pick up on it Tam. Will it be enough?”

Tam’s thoughts seemed to come slowly, as if somewhere they were being resisted. As if there was a part of his mind fighting to stop the answer coming; as if his own mind didn’t want to answer.

“I don’t know. I think it might start the wee fella wonderin’ but I don’t know. You’re right, he’s probably still the best we can hope for stop this. Man dear I couldn’t face another one. I mean it, I couldn’t.”

Father Hill stood up. Drawing the brief meeting to a close by opening the curtains a few more inches, the priest hesitated, as the ever dimming light struggled into the dank interior of his study.

“Well, what’s done is done. I pray that we’ve done enough, and I pray that we don’t suffer the consequences and I pray that we can stop this now. I seem to be praying a lot lately for a priest that’s mixing with demons.”

“You know that’s not what they are! If only it was that simple.”

“I know Tam, I know, I’m just feeling tired that’s all, tired of the killing to save our souls.”

4.

Joe couldn't help but wondering. The following Tuesday night the paper was put to bed early but Tam's words still resonated with him. He'd turned the tape into the BBC with some careful edits, just bits cut off here and there and the bits about blood sacrifice expunged. He hadn't been able to stop wondering despite a weekend of drunkeness and fumbled debauchery to a backdrop of rock.

He sat in the car on his way back to civilisation after he and his colleagues fought to bring this week's edition to birth on tomorrow's newsstands, twisting the words through his mind until he resolved to call at Tam's house on a pretext. He was a journalist after all, he should be able to dig a little deeper to find the real story.

He drove through rural Mid-Ulster. Asides from the occassional planning blight it was still a green and fertile plain. Rolling hills cut in places by motorway and dual carriageway, there was hidden beauty in this land if you looked hard enough. In the twilight of dusk the shadows caught stands of trees amidst farmer's fields, silhouetted tractors heading home from the fields and as he drove down winding roads between one hole in the hedge and the next, but he still found Tam's words echoing in the back of his mind despite the tranquility. As he always did when trying to think of a storyline he began an internal discussion.

"Sure Tam was maybe laying it on a wee bit thick, all that stuff about blood and Aztecs. Maybe he wanted me to see something else about his village. Maybe he was just trying to use a metaphor about making big sacrifices to get along, like talking to the priest, that sort of stuff. But then, he's Tam, another big country man; metaphors aren't his style. Maybe the village has a deep dark secret he wants to tell. Well, there might be a story for The Sport about aliens cutting locals to bits if nothing else."

Joe's internal waffling came to an end as he drove into the village, trying to remember the old man's house.

After two brief circuits of the village he finally pulled up at the door. It was after 10 and he hoped the old man hadn't decided to head to bed. He cut the car's engine, silencing the Anthrax CD that had been providing company for the past half hour.

Tam wasn't in, but he heard what sounded like a party coming from the church. It was a short walk from Tam's house. Part of Joe never wanted to miss a party, but a party in a church he could usually skip.

But still, curiosity, cat, all that and finding out brought it back - he'd venture another five minutes to find out.

As he walked towards the church he couldn't help but notice that all the houses were dark. No lights and no flicker of television from behind the curtains. There were no noises apart from the raucous cacophony from the church. Joe, pushed open an old wrought iron gate into the church yard and he realised it wasn't so much a party as chanting. It reminded him of the rhythm of a football crowd or a rock concert just before the band came on stage.

The path to the church doors was framed by headstones of long dead members of the faithful, their granite slabs marking the mortality of life, mocking the fear Joe felt. As he closed on the door the light from the church flickered as if a thousand candles guttered in the slight wind.

Joe pushed his hand to the door of the church. Like many old churches in this area there was an L-shaped hall before you turned into the main body of the church. He paused, seeing shadows flicker and hearing the rhythm of the chant deepen into a slow shout. The word "Baal" echoed against the cold stone of the church. He braced himself and turned into the chamber. There beneath the cross a being stood. It was at least eight feet tall, covered with beastial hair; with the face of a hyena and the legs of a horse. In its taloned hands it held the limp body of a baby. As Joe watched it lifted the baby's body in the air and opened its maw to accept the dead infant's blood. As it drank the crowd of people sighed. They leaned forward. Church pews packed by villagers broke forward as they surged to the beast. A mute cross overlooked their eagerness as the demon spat the child's blood over them. The demon was looking down at its acolytes; jaw wide in what could have been a smile, when Joe saw one of the hellspawned congregation turn to him. It was Tam. Tam was wearing a white smock over what seemed to be ceremonial gowns. He mouthed two words to Joe above the noise of slaughter and hunger: "Help us!"

5.

Joe arrived for an interview with a leading rock magazine two days later, having posted his resignation from weekly newspaper journalism the next day and left Ulster for what he hoped was for good.

After the interview he sat reading newspapers on the London Underground. The stories were still filled with the Ulster Church tragedy. Mystery surrounded the deaths of so many people in a church. Police had ruled out foul play in the fire that had wiped out an entire village of 350 souls.

The world weeped, the Prime Minister, the Queen, the President and all the usual suspects expressed sympathy to the nation. There were no families to call upon as all everyone from the village was dead - no close relatives to attend the funerals of 350 people, except the professional mourners who had been well practiced with the seedy little war in Northern Ireland. Even they struggled for clichés to explain the horror of so many people burning in what seemed like an accidental fire in an oil heating tank.


6.

Joe couldn't get the smell of petrol off his hands no matter how many times he washed.


ENDS