 
The Gabrielites: Memoirs of a Psychopath

MEAT: MEMOIRS of a PSYCHOPATH

Dr CERYS DAVIES et al.

Part 1, 2, 3 and 4: The Definitive Edition

THE GABRIELITES

This is the collected works of:

British singer/songwriter: Odd Jonathan

A world's first in contemporary literature

The Definitive Edition Rear Cover: Full landscape.

Evgeni Dinev Photography: Buzludzha Memorial at Night.

"Perhaps in the back of our minds we already understand..., that something terribly wrong is happening. Our sustenance now comes from misery. When we eat factory-farmed meat we live, literally, on tortured flesh. Increasingly, that tortured flesh is becoming our own."

Jonathan Safran Foer in 'Eating Animals'

©ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 2016
COPYRIGHT EXISTS

©Brittunculi 2016

Print, Audio and eBook License Notes

ISBN: 978-1-329-85560-1

Content ID: 18353938

This Book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This publication may not be resold or given away to other people without the express consent of the publisher. If you would like to share this publication with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased or supplied for your use only, you should return it to the publisher and purchase your own copy.

The audio/musical works that accompany this publication are also protected by copyright law. They must not be shared without the direct consent of the publisher. These accompanying publications; 'The Gold Star Kid and the Dream Angel' audio book and soundtrack 'Communists in Outer Space (Meat: The Musical)' are available by download link supplied for you later within this publication.

WARNING: Restricted 18

This publication is NOT suitable for persons below this age and makes reference to detailed acts of sexual depravity, violence, torture and sexual swearing. Please protect children from accessing this publication.

INSIDE THIS EDITION

Pre-Installed Navigational Guidance (PING)

JRP Taylor (The songwriter Odd Jonathan)

How to Breed Chickens in Iowa

Chandelle Davies (Youngest daughter of Dr Cerys Davies)

Meat: Memoirs of a Psychopath

Dr Cerys Davies (The forensic psychologist)

Please Take Care of Bethany

PC Brian Wilkinson (The investigating policer officer)

Porthole: Paris's Revenge

DI Andrea Johnson (The senior detective)

Communists in Outer-Space

Isabella Davies (The eldest daughter of Dr Cerys Davies)

Meat: The Musical

JRP Taylor (The songwriter Odd Jonathan)

The Gold Star Kid

JRP Taylor (The songwriter Odd Jonathan)

The Man Who Buried Himself

PC Brian Wilkinson (The investigating police officer)

Surge: The Movie Script

Her Holiness Gabriela 13 (The death cult leader)

CONTENTS

Publishing notes

About the author: Odd Jonathan

Brittunculi official website: books, albums & videos

Spoiler!

PART FOUR: THE GABRIELITES. Let us begin at the end...

PRE-INSTALLED NAVIGATIONAL GUIDANCE (PING)

Pre-Foreword

Pre-Introduction

A note on Reptoid Hypothesis

The Illuminati in Popular Culture

The Illuminati: A historical Perspective

Pre-Chapter One

Pre-Chapter Two

Pre-Chapter Three

Pre-Chapter Four

Pre-Chapter Five

Pre-Chapter Six

Pre-Chapter Seven

Pre-Chapter Eight

Pre-Chapter Nine

Pre-Chapter Ten

Roadkill Recipes: Your FREE Cookery Supplement

PART ONE: MEAT: MEMOIRS of a PSYCHOPATH

Introduction by Cerys Davies

HOW to BREED CHICKENS in IOWA

Chapter 44: A Bird in the Hand

Chapter 45: The Cowboys of Carter Lake

Chapter 46: Nanook

MEMOIRS of a PSYCHOPATH

Chapter 1: I Am Going to Kill

Chapter 2: And Then There Was Light

Chapter 3: Watching the Ants at Work

Chapter 4: I Love the Idea of Being in Love

Chapter 5: Feeding the Hunger and the First

Chapter 6: The Best Days of My Life

Chapter 7: I Am Jesus, the Resurrection, the Light

Chapter 8: Canada

Chapter 9: The Last Supper

Chapter 10: Revelations

Appendix

PART TWO: MEAT: THE GABRIEL SECT

The GABRIEL SECT

Chapter 11: Introduction 2 - Crime File Photographs

Chapter 12: The Witness

PLEASE TAKE CARE of BETHANY

Chapter 13: Please Take Care of Bethany

Chapter 14: Doreen

Chapter 15: The Bombing of Sofia

Chapter 16: The Final Mission

Chapter 17: Have You Ever Had That Feeling?

Chapter 18: But Why Three?

Chapter 19: All Good Things Must Come to an End

Appendix 2

PART THREE: MEAT: PSYCHOPIC HUSBANDRY

PYSCHOPIC HUSBANDRY

Chapter 20: Introduction 3

Chapter 21: Isabella and Me

Chapter 22: Mountain of the Dead

Chapter 23: Human Behaviour and Design

Chapter 24: GM Foods

PORTHOLE – The EROTIC MEMOIRS

Chapter 25: And Some Introductions before We Start

Chapter 26: I Want It

Chapter 27: The Horn

Chapter 28: The pump room

Chapter 29: Master Bates

Chapter 30: To Strike a Chord

Chapter 31: Paris's Revenge

Chapter 32: Time Gentlemen Please

Chapter 33: The Isabella Question

COMMUNISTS in OUTER-SPACE

Foreword 34

Introduction 35

Chapter 36: A Prophet is Born

Chapter 37: A False Prophet Dies

Chapter 38: The Cold War Ends

Chapter 39: The Dark War Begins

Chapter 40: The Space Race

Chapter 41: The Great Meeting

Chapter 42: Noah's Ark

Chapter 43: Buzludzha and The Zhivkovites

HOW to Breed Chickens in IOWA

Chapter 47: My Wedding Day

Chapter 48: Goldie Two-Shoes

Appendix 3

AUDIO SECTION

MEAT: The Musical and The Gold Star Kid

Download here: Soundcloud.com/JonathanTaylorBulgaria

Intro: Meat: The Musical

Act 1: I'm Bored Already

Act 2: Je Suis Charlie

Act 3: What a Cunt

Act 4: The Mighty Buzludzha

Act 5: Don't Touch the Orange Powder

Act 6: Here Come the Zombies

Finale: Off to Outer-Space

The Gold Star Kid

Intro: The Gold Star Kid

Chapter 49: Copper's End

Chapter 51: Dreaming

Chapter 52: Six Visits

Chapter 53: A New Family

ADDENDUM: The MAN who BURIED HIMSELF

Chapter 54: Mrs Stinchcombe

Chapter 55: A Day Trip

Chapter 56: The Prescription

Chapter 57: Hackers

Chapter 58: Asylum

Chapter 59: St Mary's

Chapter 60: Clara's Place

Chapter 61: Vicars

Chapter 62: A Spade's A Spade

Chapter 63: Agoraphobia

Chapter 64: Loneliness

Chapter 65: Patch and the Pit

PART FOUR: THE GABRIELITES (Continued)

SURGE: The film script

Opening Titles

Scene 01: Backpacking

Scene 02: Arrangements

Scene 03: Business

Scene 04: Basement

Scene 05: Tower

Scene 06: Ghost

Scene 07: Dome

Scene 08: Lightening

Scene 09: Tunnels

Scene 10: Sanctuary

Scene 11: Headless

Scene 12: Hopelessness

Le Fin: Gabriela 13

HOW to Breed Chickens in IOWA (Continues)

Chapter 66: Western

Chapter 67: Exciting Times

Chapter 68: Black Gold

Chapter 69: A Fairy Tale Ending

About singer/songwriter Odd Jonathan (J.R.P. Taylor)

Publisher's Recommended Links

Buzludzha Foundation Restoration Project

Chapter 70: Conclusion: The final testament of Isabella.

Sniper: Revelations Two

BUZLUDZHA ARCHITECT SCHEMATIC

MEAT: MEMOIRS of a PSYCHOPATH

To Whom It May Concern

"The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth,

...so help me God."

A songwriter discovers that his work is now used in ritual killings. He soon finds himself dragged into a global conspiracy; a death cult that now exists within the Illuminati...

That's what they would like you to believe. But no; this book is much more complex than that. For here is given your new testament, the truth as I now dictate it; ten works forming Ten Commandments. The independent record label of the British singer/songwriter Odd Jonathan is now under new management; its collective of independent writers now fully complicit and under my total control. I have created this work from their efforts, and you too will soon submit to my will. There have been countess losses but this is to be expected. A new world order has arrived.

You may keep this book or you may pass it on. Perhaps even sign your name inside as a witness to the new truths. Even leave it behind you in a hotel room; that's absolutely fine. But if you do like what you have now discovered, we would be delighted to hear from you. For you now have in your possession a literary world's first. If you are interested, commercially or otherwise, in the revelations we now offer you; please do not hesitate to get in touch and share the true word with others.

Thank you from us all at The Brotherhood of the

Gabrielites Truth Society

"If you wish to feel happy, take a pill.

If you seek a cure then face the truth."

Tell the people what you want them to know

The New Yorker Review, January 6th, 2015

Reproduced by courtesy of

Adele Mountier, Guardian Voice

As a British journalist for one of the UK's top selling broadsheets, I have always pondered the thought: exactly what is it that underpins a good conspiracy theory, as the passage of time through history has opened the door to so many. Is Elvis Presley still alive? Was Princess Diana killed on the instructions of HRH Prince Philip? And was it the same CIA led assassination of JFK that later, beyond its own control, had also flown jumbo jets laden with fuel into the twin Towers on 9/11, killing thousands?

Whilst I enjoyed my much needed holiday to welcome in the New Year, Big Apple style, a rather interesting article of The New Yorker Informer caught my eye. Proudly displayed to the front of my hotel's news stand, the headline read 'Is Hewitt Father of Harry?' Of course, as any Royal loving Brit would, I had to purchase a copy.

A new play, to be released this year, has reignited old rumours that the former Household Cavalry Captain, (despite the old denials of Royal commentators and the disproved account of a rival newspaper's apparent DNA test of 2003) did, they claim, father the second inline to the British throne. Writer of 'Truth, Lies, Diana', Jon Conway, claims the army officer James Hewitt's affair with the Princess of Wales, began as early as 1984; a staggering 18 months before Prince Harry was born. It appears that a good conspiracy theory simply will not go away. There is nothing like a good conspiracy to create a better version of the story...

But are these theories fanatical fantasies or truths born of facts that they do not want us to know? A case of tell the people what you want them to know? But the more I look into these bizarre events, the more I find to be true and none more so than the case of the Gabriel Sect, or as more often cited, the Gabrielites. The Hewitt article I had read that day compared many such commonly held beliefs of contemporary whodunit but it was this particular infamous publication that held my curiosity.

I telephoned the publisher, Brittunculi, and with short shrift was informed that only Brian Wilkinson could comment on any matter concerning the investigation. As a member of the press I already knew this full-well. My countless attempts to speak with the named police officer concerned failed. He made himself politely, but continually unavailable to me. The singer/songwriter, Taylor, had been seen by neither friends nor family for several weeks, his whereabouts quite unknown. Even the author, Dr Cerys Davies was, I felt, conveniently taken ill and "recovering in hospital from a prolonged illness."

I was aware that acclaimed photographer, Peter Topping, a former publicist and close political confident of Taylor's was at a book signing event in the city that week. I passed on my frustrations and quite unapologetically begged for an exclusive interview. Topping replied, "I will see what I can do."
FOREWORD

The Definitive Edition - Peter Strawb

"...it is the authoritative cult novel of the century, destined to be the only book of the millennium"

THOUSANDS of copies already downloaded...

"When a copy of the printed definitive edition first landed on my desk via a rather bemused New York agent, I could only assume it to be nothing more than a practical joke. I had long read Dr Davies' original copy as an eBook, and along with dear friend and partner of horror and crime, Steven King, had, as so many others did at the time, dismissed its original authenticity. At first it seemed to be a farce; comedy at its darkest level - but then, when you go beyond your initial shock, do the research and have the honour of meeting the author, fear freezes you in space and time. To quote a review from a British friend, fiction and non-fiction writer, John Dodds:

"The contrast between the psychiatrist's analytical writing and the killer's horrific ranting is really clever. By turns fascinating, grotesque and horrific, this book breaks all the rules. A sort of anti-narrative with a strong narrative drive, contemporary writing driven by the desires and the powerful, pounding pulse of one of the nastiest serial killers I've ever encountered. The shift in gear from a domestic tone to the almost apocalyptic is both startling and shocking, to say the very least."

I consider Cerys to be a very dear friend and I wish I could encourage every success with this latter publication. But I cannot, for it is a tragedy; an utterly unspeakable horror.

This definitive edition differs considerably from the original published eBook of 2013. Principally, this is the only version available in the publisher's printed word format. It also now contains ten completed works together within one publication. Only and here is the author's original concept now achieved. The author's intention was to create a world literary first, a single plot from which collides a series of individual books. Whilst literary work such as this already exists, the New Testament, for example, 'Meat' differs considerably from others in that each book is of a quite different and separate genre. Fundamentally, each book is considered to be a personal account and thus created by the characters within the original story. Whilst all works unfold into one single narrative, they also stand alone and can be read as unique individual pieces.

Whilst the original publication of 'Meat: Memoirs of a Psychopath' was always considered to be a Yin and Yang approach to anti-narrative writing, only the whole truth is contained herein. 'Meat' is a vile, sadistic onslaught of violence, whilst in complete contrast, 'Please Take Care of Bethany' is a story of romance, heroism and patriotism. "The only way to make the psychopath even more disgusting was to make his victim even more pure," Source unknown: 2012.

The original release still remains with us as an eBook with deserved cult status; and it is the authoritative cult novel of the century, destined to be the only book of the millennium. Thousands of copies have been downloaded.

What appears to us, the reader, as totally unbelievable, is now accepted to be completely believable. Is fact masquerading as fiction or is fiction masquerading as fact? - Is this an urban legend born out of truth? Only you will decide... but I do advise that you decide swiftly: But the truth is here should you choose to know it.

The definitive edition you now read contains several individual titles and must be read from beginning to end as they appear; for only the fool would question this...'

"...for my part, I am a dedicated vegetarian,"

Peter Strawb, 2015.

BRITTUNCULI RECORDS and BOOKS

www.Brittunculi.co.uk

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

To the fiction and non-fiction writer; John Dodds. It is probably correct to say that had we not met, my pen would not have been put to paper, or fingers to the keyboard. For the inspiration to write, motivation to do so and for solid advice given. To my long suffering partner, the photographer Nicola Miller. Not only for the use of archive and contemporary material, including the production of the book covers, but also for the insight into the reader's eye and for proof reading this final edition. To Adelle Hillier for her persistence and patience in tackling the original 2015 version. It was a huge task to ask of you. Also gratitude is expressed to Edward Stanton (Just Imagine It Inc.) for debut radio airtime and for introducing this work to America. And to Josef Essberger of English Club online (Philippines) for his stalwart commercial support of my music and sponsorships. He kept me fed and watered, this undoubtedly gave me the freedom and space to work - though in no way does it endorse the content of this book! To Xiao Yang (China), Radoslav Denchev (Bulgaria), and Les Johnstone (UK) for additional photographs used and Alan Williams (Bulgaria) for the use of his home where substantive parts were created. Also Dot Moss and Avice Turnbul (BICC) for finding me, and most certainly not least, to all of the musicians who have worked tirelessly with me over the years without payment! All are individually named within this book's musical soundtrack. Notably; a huge gratitude is expressed to Jonathan 'Afterwish' Taylor, Leigh Stothard and Hugh Bradley. Acknowledgments must also be given to the man of blues, Sea Sick Steve for a personal conversation that gave me hope and to Monica Mars for her beautiful children's illustrations. Thanks also to fellow author and blogger Ben Bennetts (aka Ben-the-Pen) for proof reading an earlier version of the book and correcting many grammatical errors. Any errors that remain are down to Isabella!

IN MEMORY

Jonathan 'Afterwish' Taylor: Musician and producer of 'Priest – The Blacksail Studio Sessions'. David Wilkinson: (Guitarist and songwriter) The Atom Arc Landslide. Gerry Fenwick-White: the Radical Radish Motorcycle Club and David 'Dave the Chef' Greenwood, all of whom were taken from us far too soon and are sorely missed.

FOR

James Dalton Trumbo

ABOVE: Sofia (Bulgaria) March; 2015) British singer/songwriter Odd Jonathan meets with Buzludzha House designer and architect; Georgi Stoilov whereupon the true origins of a secret network of underground bunkers and access tunnels is established.

BELOW: The performers last known public appearance. St. Georges Hall, Bradford, West Yorkshire (UK) whilst under heavy security. Taylor remained "jovial and determined" before disappearing without trace on Sunday 25th October: 2015. Photographs courtesy: Nicola Miller Photo-Press Ltd.

PART FOUR

The Gabrielites

Pre-Installed Navigational Guidance (PING)

JRP Taylor

Let us begin at the end...

"We are Bradley Manning"

Pre-Foreword

On August 21st, 2013, Bradley Manning was sentenced to 35 years in prison. The US prosecution team had called for at least 75. He lost all army privileges, pay and allowances, and was dishonourably discharged with immediate effect. He is required to serve at last one third of his sentence before being eligible for parole. Considering time served and good behaviour he could be released after eight years – but this is highly unlikely...

ARAT can never be identified for this very reason. Too many people have too much too lose. But look here. They chose to release details previously unknown and obtained as a direct consequence of Edward Snowden and the associated WikiLeaks scandal. Pre-Installed Navigational Guidance is now uncovered and exposes those directly connected to the PING conspiracy; a flight control system with only one purpose in mind; to take control of the cockpit for most sinister and covert operations.

Quotes of Interest

"Some even believe we are part of a secret cabal working against the best interests of the United States, characterizing my family and me as internationalists and of conspiring with others around the world to build a more integrated global political and economic structure – one world, if you will. If that's the charge, I stand guilty, and I am proud of it" Memoirs: David Rockefeller

"If my sons did not want wars, there would be none" Gutle Schnaper Rothschild

"There's a plot in this country to enslave every man, woman, and child. Before I leave this high and noble office, I intend to expose this plot" President John F. Kennedy

"Anything you can imagine, we already know how to do" Lockheed CEO: Ben Rich

Pre-Introduction

It was at 1.30 pm on Saturday May 25th, 2015, when police officials forcibly entered the apartment of Brian Wilkinson CBE. This well-loved but now retired police officer had disappeared without trace. A manuscript was found, a new title, a book by the name of 'The Man Who Buried Himself'. Beside it, an all too familiar note, it stated "Publish or die."

Both Brian and I were involved, though quite unwillingly, in the Interpol investigation concerning the sadistic death cult, the Gabrielites, and these instructions were followed to the letter. Brittunculi adding this newly discovered title to the existing series; 'Meat: Memoirs of a Psychopath, The Definitive Edition' 2015). Nothing more had been heard of this old, now battle frail former police officer since. That was until now; Part Four has been received.

I had remained in Police protection. My defiance and confrontation of the sect leader, Gabriela 13, had put my own life at immediate risk. I had defied her orders. I had mocked her and publicly humiliated her. Her divine work – a series of religious instructions was now a proverbial laughing stock: her masterpiece; a mere comedic farce with a rather opportune happy ending. I now apologise to you all for this irresponsibility. Has my own arrogance now cost Brian his life? I was foolish – I take responsibility for this. As Gabriela confirms that she will now provide further instruction under the guise of Part Four, I fear for so many others and I apologise to you all. But here we are; Part Four now seems to be the appropriate place to commence this journey.

PING (Aviation, Mind control and the Illuminati) will, I hope in many ways, correct my misgivings. Here you will find exposed for the first time, a solid link between the activities of the Gabriel Sect (the Gabrielites) and the old established hierarchy of the ancient Illuminati. This book is based on fact, irrefutable and undeniable. Open your mind and expand it at your peril. The ARAT findings are conclusive proof of a bond that seals the two like glue – they cannot be separated. One and the other are the same thing. You'll find the contents herein underpinned through solid referencing, research and much recommended further reading.

I've met many celebrities in the music industry who claim to be members of the Illuminati; I do not.

A Note on Reptoid Hypothesis

David Icke, in The Biggest Secret (1999) puts forward his argument that all humankind is ruled by reptilian descendants from the planet Draco; this he refers to as his "reptoid hypothesis theory." He argues that reptilians, Gods known as the Anunnaki (which first appear in ancient Babylonian creation myths), are lizards that walk on two legs and appear to be human. Our ancestors, these so-called inner earth reptilians live in complex tunnel systems, the natural caves found in the earth below our feet.

Icke was born in England, 29th April, 1952. His full name is David Vaughan Icke. He has concentrated his writing career on political conspiracy theory since retiring as a professional football player. He has worked extensively in sports journalism and public speaking. As well as working for the BBC, he was briefly a spokesperson for the Green Party, a British fringe movement at the time promoting ecological and sustainable change. It was during his time in local politics (1990) that he befriended a psychic who informed him that; "he was on Earth for a purpose, and that the spirit world would soon channel messages through him." He later declared himself to be "Son of The Godhead" at a press conference in March 1991. He acknowledged that an appearance on BBC television's Wogan Show had now turned him from respectable household name to the status of village idiot.

He published four books during the following seven years; The Robots' Rebellion (1994), Truth Shall Set You Free (1995), The Biggest Secret (1999), and the Children of the Matrix (2001). His core belief is that "a secret group of reptilian humanoids (the Babylonian Brotherhood) controls all of humanity." He stated that many public personalities are indeed reptilian in disguise. He named names: George W. Bush, Queen Elizabeth II, Kris Kristofferson and even Boxcar Willie, to name but a few. He said that the moon as we know it is "probably a hollowed-out planetoid" and that it is from there that the reptilians broadcast an "artificial sense of self and the world." We, the humans of Earth, mistakenly perceive this as our "true reality." Enter stage left a most impressive science fiction film; The Matrix, as good example.

Whilst this book about aviation, mind control and the Illuminati is based on solid fact, Icke's contemporary adaptation of the "ancient astronaut" is not. It's pure fiction, the product of certain mental illness and delusion. His reptoid hypothesis is nothing more than a narrative from the Israeli-American writer, Zecharia Sitchin. He (Sitchin) argued in his work, The Divine Encounters (1995) that the Anunnaki came to Earth for its precious metals. In contrast, Icke states that they arrived to collect "monatomic gold."

The Anunnaki have now, throughout modern evolution, interbred. The line of descendants, their reproductive copulates, are chosen carefully to maintain political and social control over us. Icke argues that the biblical figure and first son of God, Adam, was created some 200,000 or 300,000 years ago and was a pure Anunnaki. There were two other breeding programs: 30,000 and more recently, 7,000 years ago. It is the latter period that contains the "bloodlines of the modern evolved Anunnaki (now more human than reptilian) who control the world" - Icke states. They have a powerful, hypnotic stare, and believe that the origin of the idiom 'to give someone the evil eye,' is born of first hand encounters with them. He also believes that their advanced alien DNA allows them to shapeshift following the consumption of human blood.

In the Children of the Matrix (2001), Icke adds that the Anunnaki have now bred with another extra-terrestrial race which he refers to as the Nordics – and they in-turn created the Aryans; a group of white supremacists with a tendency toward fascism, this due to their "cold-blooded attitudes, and desire for top-down control." He adds to this; "an obsession with ritualism, nationalism and racism." As we know, and understand consistently throughout known history, the far right has declared the supremacy of its own Aryan bloodline.

To suggest that the reptilians are merely aliens in human form that have now settled on Earth is not sufficient. You must also consider the evidence that they come from within a different dimension. Icke describes this as "the lower level of the Fourth Dimension, the one nearest the physical world." We all live together, sharing a universe that is nothing more than an infinite number of frequencies. Just as radio or television signals are found, some humans have the ability to tune into them. This is what he believes to be psychic power. But in turn, the reptilians of this Lower Fourth are now controlled by a fifth dimension.

The lower level of the fourth dimension is the lower astral dimension. This is where demons and other entities live, the dark forces that Satanists summon during black magic and rituals – And it is at this point that I too tune into my reader's laughter and folly. I too, though previously amused, am now bored to the point of suicide. So the next time you see a horror film, and in it they awaken your worst nightmare entity, do just remember, it is really only just a lizard in a zip-up humanoid suit!

Neither I nor this book has time for conspiracy theorists who believe in the lizards from outer space. If this is you then please move swiftly on as you, sadly, will swallow anything. There is little point in trying to enlighten you further. Those who make that huge leap of faith in joining reptoid hypothesis with the true origins of the Illuminati have no place here. Please step aside into the fiction aisle.

But, if you believe that as David Icke puts forward in Tales from the Time Loop (2003) - that Queen Elizabeth II, George W. Bush and Tony Blair are Red Dresses, the highest level of the Brotherhood, you may stay! Though if you believe them to be lizards too, then alas, you have no place here. Organised religion, Judaism, Christianity and Islam are all creations of a genuine ancient Illuminati hierarchy with sole purpose to divide and conquer. This you will come to understand as you read on.

Icke introduces the idea of reptilian software in 'Love is the Only Truth (2005)', He states three levels of humanoid existence. The highest level in the Brotherhood is the Red Dresses, and these are our rulers. They are reptilian software, constructs of our minds - their human bodies are mere holographic veils and they are absent of free will and conscience. They are here to conquer the human race through endless conflict; 9/11 an example of a catastrophic world-changing event perpetrated by a global elite. Icke calls this process "order out of chaos," or "problem-reaction-solution." Many such events, if not engineered by the Brotherhood, are at the very least hijacked by them for political ends.

The sheeple are identified as the second group and consist of the vast majority. Icke informs us that we have only a "back seat consciousness." We do whatever we are told to do. We are the Repeaters, and our journalists are considered to be the greatest repeaters of all as they perpetrate the lies of the third group; the mad and the insane - The dangerous ones amongst us. The Red Dress genetic lines are required to obsessively interbreed to ensure that bloodlines are not weakened by the "second or third levels of consciousness." They must be careful as "consciousness can rewrite the software."

David Icke simply refuses to go away, and today still maintains a small but significant cult following. In Human Race Get Off Your Knees: The Lion Sleeps No More (2010) he introduces his contemporary belief that the "human body-computer," noted to be located in the left hemisphere of the brain, receives broadcasts from spaceships that present to us our sense of reality. "We are living in a dream world within a dream world – a Matrix within the virtual-reality universe." It is being "broadcast from the Moon," he states. He builds further on this in 'Remember Who You Are: Remember Where You Are and Where You'Come From', 2012. Saturn's rings are artificial platforms created by reptilian spacecraft and are the "ultimate source of the signal." The Moon is, "merely a sort of amplifier."

Icke continues to pursue his 'New World Order' conspiracy theory. The old arguments that networks of secret alien societies, the Babylonian Brotherhood (who are predominantly male populated) control the world order are as fresh today as it ever was. The Brotherhood includes 43 American presidents, 5 Commonwealth Prime Ministers and too many Sumerian Kings and Egyptian Pharaohs to mention. Icke also includes in this world order list a handful of household celebrities, including Bob Hope. Yes; you did read correctly - Bob Hope.

Essential bloodlines also include the Rockefellers, the Rothschilds and other European royal and aristocratic families such as the House of Winsor. Icke stated that the Queen Mother was "seriously reptilian" during an interview with the press in 2001. He wrongly associates his reptoid hypothesis with the Illuminati, who in turn control the Round Table, the Trilateral Commission, the Bilderberg Group, and Council on Foreign Relations, Chatham House, the International Monetary Fund and the United Nations. Also controlled by the Illuminati are the media, the armed forces, all spy agencies including the CIA and Mossad; and of course, science, religion and the Internet.

Icke rejects the findings and interpretations as we are informed of by ARAT, in that at the top of the apex of the Brotherhood now stands the Gabrielites, a death cult that has most successfully, as the new global elite, taken control of the ancient and historic administration of the Illuminati. Icke and ARAT separate here. He argues that the Global Elite are prison wardens; their goal is nothing less than "world domination and a micro-chipped population." For ARAT this far too simplistic; the goal is to exterminate all human race through genetic modification of the food chain, and to re-create a new world order based on the Gospel of Gabriela. You will find out more about returning to the darkness in the epic biographical work; 'Meat: Memoirs of A Psychopath, The Definitive Edition' 2015) as you read on.

...Beam me up Icke!

The Illuminati in Popular Culture

Most people are aware of the name Illuminati - but what exactly are they? We've all read about them in books, watched them in the movies or heard about them online. The Illuminati are real, yes, this is truth. But in today's modern world, so much deflection and distortion of reality is caused by so many fictitious groups who now trade on the name. The Illuminati have, by popular belief, always played a central role in the plots of our best known thrillers. Angels and Demons by Dan Brown is perhaps one of the most famous that comes to mind. Here, historical fact and pure fiction combine, and the old 'klee shay' of conspiracy theories remain the driving narratives.

The original Illuminati were brutally suppressed in Bavaria (more on this below), but now, today in popular culture, they still remain in the titles and in the inventions of creative writers. We have heard much from David Icke. He is not, however, alone. Writers such as Mark Dice, Texe Marrs, Jüri Lina and Morgan Gricar all argue that the Bavarian Illuminati remain amongst us to this day.

The world is controlled and manipulated by secret societies who live amongst us. The birth place of all modern conspiracy theories all seem to lead back to them. All heads of state, our world powers are, by very definition, controlled by the Illuminati. Popular belief tells us that they often observe satanic rituals.

The all seeing eye of the Illuminati is in control. The objective is clear and straightforward: to establish their New World Order in which the elite have complete control. They evade disclosure and detection through a network of complex and most secret membership rites. They also control every outlet of the media. But like any major organisation, they have their leaks. Just occasionally, we get to hear of their testimony. The most recent was by Edward Snowden that "at the pinnacle of this Brotherhood is actually a religious death cult, the so-called Gabrielites."

Was it purely coincidental that at the same time the All-Seeing Eye was added to the Great Seal of the United States (1776), Adam Weishaupt formed a secret society - Brotherhood of direct descendants of the Knights Templar and the Rosicrucians? This was confirmed by a so-called ex-Illuminati programmer who goes by the name of Svali. Svali is an expert in cult programming and ritual abuse. She is a writer and registered nurse, the author of the book 'Breaking Free'. As a former insider, she states that the brotherhood still controls all banks and financial institutions, local government and the legal system.

She further claims that they fund themselves and their covert operations through drugs and gun running, pornography and prostitution (including human trafficking), mercenaries and assassination squads (the arms trade) and the sale of sensitive data including our military secrets. But most profit is made by the legitimate process of world banking, the financial centre of which is claimed to be in Belgium. This comes as no surprise; we are all aware of the corrupt and immoral investment practices of banks worldwide, but who is actually in control, and does a global elite really seek to enslave us?

Dr Beter (author of 'Organic Robots Are Real', 2014) argues that the Illuminati consist of three major disciplined factions; The Rockefeller Cartel, The Bolshevik Axis and The New Kremlin Rulers. ARAT (2015) confirms that a fourth faction now exists; the Gabrielites. The complicated relationship between the four groups is in a state of constant revue. It is almost impossible to get experts to agree on who the actual snake head is. Tension and disagreement is addressed annually at a Bilderberg Conference.

Enlightenment, which is Luciferian, is the key spiritual belief of the Illuminati: the deification of men through knowledge. Within this religious ideology they teach followers that they are the true descendants of ancient Babylon. They worship ancient gods such as Baal, El, Ashtarte, Isis, Osiris, and Set. Much of their religious canon is handpicked from mainstream religion today, in particular Christianity and Judaism, but also incorporates aspects of ancient Islam.

The link between the Illuminati, the Gabrielites and of Freemasonry cannot be severed. Masonic temples serve all needs. Svali claims that as a captive she was "taken there at intervals for testing, to step up a level, for scholarship, and high ceremonies." Gabriela 13, as the ultimate witness to the Horus Truth of the All Seeing Eye, watches over us all at all times. It is no coincidence that Gabriela 13, the Prophetess of The Gabriel Sect, teaches us of the 13 steps of pyramid which in turn inform us of the 13 controlling families within.

The Illuminati: A Historical Perspective

Adam Weishaupt (1748–1830) was the original founder of the Bavarian Illuminati (Latin: illuminatus meaning enlightened) an enlightenment-era secret society founded May 1st, 1776. The society stood for opposition to superstition, obscurantism, religious influence and abuse of state power. Their statues stated "the order of the day is to put an end to the machinations of the purveyors of injustice, to control them without dominating them." Along with Freemasonry, the Illuminati soon found themselves outlawed by state and church by religious edict of the Bavarian ruler Charles Theodore, a move most welcomed by the Roman Catholic Church. Conflict between all secret societies and the church in Rome was prevalent in the 1780s. Some scholars believe they were wholly responsible for the French Revolution of 1789.

Weishaupt was a professor of Canon Law and Practical Philosophy at the University of Ingolstadt. The institution, run by Jesuits, was happy to give him this senior position, despite him being the only non-clerical professor at the time. Later, and despite the Jesuit order being dissolved in 1773, many still maintained an influence over the daily academic affairs of the now independent university.

When course material was deemed to contain liberal or Protestant material, many who still believed the university to be theirs, would frustrate and discredit the processes. Weishaupt, now deeply anti-clerical, would spread his ideas of Enlightenment (Aufklärung) through his own secret society. The Freemasons were not open to his new ideas and so he sought to find like-minded allies. He called the new order 'Bund der Perfektibilisten', or Covenant of Perfectibility. The Perfectibilists took the Owl of Minerva as a new and proud logo. Aliases were used by all members and Weishaupt was referred to as Spartacus. It is said that fellow law students; Massenhausen, Bauhof, Merz and Sutor were known as Ajax, Agathon, Tiberius and Erasmus Roterodamus although Sutor was soon expelled by Weishaupt for general disinterest in the groups meetings. By April 1778 the order became known as the Illuminatenorden, or Order of Illuminati.

Membership consisted of three pillars; Novice, Minerval, and Illuminated, the latter involving a complicated ritualistic acceptance ceremony. At this point of attainment each member was assigned a secret password and was taught the society's secret signs and gestures. Weishaupt was kept fully informed of the movement and character of all and those he deemed to be of high credibility became his ruling council, the Areopagus. Those who were recruited to the society were known as Insinuants. Jews and Pagans were excluded as too were women – and only good Christians between the ages of 18 -30 were to be encouraged.

The older more-established Freemasons had by now presented a real challenge to maintaining Illuminati membership. There was competition and Weishaupt required their resources to aid the expansion of his own society and rituals. On the night of 17th February (1777) he was admitted to the Prudence of the Rite of Strict Observance lodge. He soon processed through the Three Degrees of Blue Lodge masonry, but became frustrated when a priest called Abbé Marotti informed him that all secrets led back to the primitive church. In order to obtain these secrets Weishaupt made the decision that the Illuminati should set up their own freemasonry lodge. A warrant was obtained from the Grand Lodge of Prussia (the Royal York for Friendship) and Weishaupts' new lodge, Theodore of the Good Council, was born. Founded in Munich on 21st March, 1779, it was aptly named to impress. Essentially as a new mother lodge, it could now create sister lodges of its own.

A most vigorous Illuminati recruitment campaign of 1780 soon attracted the attentions of Adolph Freiherr Knigge. He was recruited at a convention of the Rite of Strict Observance by Costanzo Marchese di Costanzo. He was already a fellow Freemason and a Captain of the Bavarian Armed Forces. He had reached the zenith of mason ritual succession but desired for inside reform. He too had plans to form his own secret society and was impressed by the inner desires of the new independent Illuminati.

Considering the Minerval grade, he discovered that the necessary teaching material to perform such a ritual was declared liberal and Protestant. Such literature had long been banned in the country and many others both by the Roman Catholic Church and State.

Knigge was the ideal recruit for Weishaupt. His connections both within the Freemasons and the wider German high society, soon led to a formal welcoming in a letter of 1780. Knigge was flattered, and felt particularly drawn to the society's aims of mankind from despotism. In return for his loyalty, Weishaupt pledged support for Knigge's obsession with alchemy and higher science. Knigge and Weishaupt now set forth to reform the ideas of traditional Freemasonry but In order to obtain the higher levels of the Illuminati, Knigge had to recruit, and for this task he was given great freedom. Many existing masons approved of his new masonic order which was found to be most attractive and many masons from high society were soon recruited to the new order. Many publications were produced in which the Jesuits were blamed for manipulating the state, and it was this anti-clerical rhetoric that most bolstered support.

However, the more successful Knigge became, the more he in turn became frustrated with Weishaupt. His new recruits were now asking questions that he felt he couldn't answer. He knew nothing of the higher grades of the most secret Enlightenment. Knigge confronted Weishaupt in January 1781. At the risk of losing his new esteemed colleague along with countless new recruits, Weishaupt was forced to confess that his superiors within the order did not in fact exist. Furthermore; the ancient enlightenment rituals of the Illuminati had yet to be written. Though Knigge had desired to learn and access the promised deep secrets of new Freemasonry within the higher tiers of Illuminati, Weishaupt's astonishing revelation was taken on the chin. Knigge had now a free hand in the creation of Illuminati scripture that would attract and unite the Protestant Kingdoms of Germany.

Tensions within soon came to a fore. Knigge identified two areas which he considered to be most problematic. He was concerned about Weishaupt's over emphasis on the need to recruit students that had in turn led to the higher positions being dominated by young men with little experience. Secondly, their original anti-Jesuit ethos had now evolved into a broader anti-religious sentiment. These issues had to be addressed if the Lodge was now to freely expand. Illuminati within legitimate Freemasonry was now stalling.

Knigge knew he had to recruit senior Freemasons in order to survive. He was the new peacekeeper, realising that the stifling grip of conservative Catholicism was at direct odds with the liberal attitudes of the Illuminati and Protestant states. He used his influence and status to obtain the loyalty of contacts beyond Freemasonry,

Lodge Theodore was now in joint control, but a chapter of Elect Masters attached on to it by the rights of the Grand Lodge still had constitutional superiority over it. This infuriated the pair; it was purely controlling and administrational as the Elect Masters had but one member within it. A very real barrier remained and accordingly a treaty of alliance was signed. January 1781 now saw the birth of four daughter chapters, although Illuminati independence was still not on the agenda for discussion.

The Illuminati would never gain independence without a granted constitution from the Grand Lodge, London. For now they had to be content rewriting the rituals of The Three Degrees of Masonry solely for the Lodges they controlled.

By 1782 Knigge had tabulated the new order. These were arranged in three stages; The Nursery, which included the original Illuminati Noviciate, the Minerval, but now adding a new category; Illuminatus minor. The Masonic blue lodge grades, Apprentice, Companion, and Master, were now completely separated from the higher Scottish grades of Novice and Knight. The third stage was the Mysteries based on the lower tiers of Priest and Prince and higher tiers of Mage and King. Many believe that the greater tier was never in fact written, but contemporary conspiracists, known as debuggers, believe that modern interpretations of Scientology do contain significant elements of it. Scientology was created by the science fiction writer L. Ron Hubbard (1911-1986), an American from Camden, New Jersey. His (1950) work "Dianetics, The Modern Science of Mental Health," explained the process of psychological auditing where all negative and traumatic life events are erased. Hubbard lost the legal rights to the name so set about expanding his ideas before finally settling on the name Scientology. It teaches us that we are "immortal beings who have forgotten their true nature." Enter stage right; even more lizards!

Scientology has to be the most controversial new religion of 20th century (excluding of course The Gabriel Sect). It has been under much scrutiny following allegations of brainwashing, false imprisonment, defrauding its own membership, attacking all critics, psychological abuse, character assassination, and countless costly lawsuits. Further controversy focuses on Scientology's alien ideologies: inner human souls known as Thetans reincarnated within us. They had previously lived on other planets before inhabiting our Earth. Most of the Churches higher related teachings are not revealed to its parishioners until large sums of money have been first passed over. It is the suggestion of others that the Illuminati's greater rites of Mage and King exist here within Scientology too. But perhaps the most controversial aspect of this cult's belief is that the practice of psychiatry is psychologically destructive, a form of institutional abuse that must be abolished.

Knigge's recruitment from wider Freemasonry could never be considered as a random act. He specifically targeted those in charge. Often an entire Lodge would defect to the new ways and none more so than in the German towns of Aachen and Baron de Witte. 1782 saw membership swell to over 300 members (less than 20 were students of local universities). A well-orchestrated split was now inevitable. The Illuminati Lodge of Theodore (Munich) was carved into two. The traditionalist masons who still remained, being freely allowed their own continuation of Theodore, did however soon capitulate, thus giving the Illuminati full control. Both Illuminati and chapter now formally severed relations with Royal York citing York's failure to recognise the new higher grades. York in return was furious that counterparts in Berlin had now adopted the same mystical rituals it had sought so hard to avoid. Lodge Theodore was now politically, socially and economically independent of Freemasonry. The Illuminati was finally born but with such success there would soon come much internal dissent.

They still embraced Freemasonry and expanded outside of Bavaria with ease, but external masons were still a considerable negative force and arguments with Weishaupt were commonplace. Weishaupt responded with a private slander campaign that soon became anything but private. His perceived friends were not who he thought they were, and the origin of the idiom 'Keep your friends close but your enemies even closer' \- is sometimes credited to Knigge for this event although Sun Tzu ( _Art of War_ ) might argue otherwise.

Knigge found that Weishaupt was alienating him. Weishaupt had ceded considerable power to him, this is true, and after all Knigge was first deputy with the responsibility of writing the ritual of Illuminati. A most powerful and prestigious post indeed. The problem was the continual disagreement and clash over Weishaupt's anti clerical stance. Knigge wanted to remain spiritual and mystical. He believed his success here had led to what was "a small anti-clerical club," into becoming "a large successful independent organisation." He felt completely under-acknowledged.

The grade of Priest caused most concern. The general consensus was that the ritual was ill-conceived and Weishaupt demanded that Knigge rewrite it. Knigge pointed out the he (Weishaupt) had already approved and circulated it previously as an ancient sacrosanct text. Knigge left the Illuminati order in 1784, and in forcing' him out, they were now deprived of the greatest theoretician, recruiter, and peace-making apologist.

The final decline of the Illuminati was however brought on by none other than themselves. It was the indiscretions of their own Minervals. Loose talk and politically dangerous boasts across Bavaria and throughout Munich concerning their new secret only served to confirm the order's existence. The names of many important members, coupled with their harsh criticism of the monarchy, soon became common knowledge. The awareness that the Illuminati were in positions of power (civic and state governing bodies) caused great unease. There were allegations that members were beyond justice and that the legal system was controlled by them, and they promoted and published several anti-religious publications.

Now fearing for his existence, Tsar Karl Theodor and his government banned all secret societies. The Illuminati were to be tolerated no more. A state edict of March 2nd, 1785, sealed their fate. Seized documents (1786-1787) were now published by the government. The group's secret literature was finally disclosed and Weishaupt had by now long fled Bavaria.

Influential intellectuals, such as Ferdinand of Brunswick and the diplomat, Xavier von Zwack (the Order's second-in-command), Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Johann Gottfried Herder, and even the reigning Dukes of Gotha and Weimar, now came forward

claiming to have been members of the Illuminati.

The period 1797 -1798 witnessed the publication of Augustin Barruel's Memoirs and John Robison's Proofs and both intellectuals claimed that a high-level conspiracy had allowed the Illuminati to hide. This included the first reports that the group were indeed politically agitating the cause behind the French Revolution. Both books proved extremely popular. Many following titles were born out of them and paraphrased consistently by others. The best example was Proofs of the Real Existence and Dangerous Tendency of Illuminism, by Reverend Seth Payson (1802).

News spread and much interest was now afforded to anti-Illuminism publications in the United States and across New England. The church there now gave sermons warning against the dangers of the Illuminati. The sermons were re-printed in all newspapers. By the turn of the century (1800) the final nails in the coffin lid had been firmly driven in. They were relatively unheard of again until resurfacing in public interest during the Anti-Masonic movements of the 1820s and '30s. Evidence of genuine existence of the movement in the USA during the 1800s was never substantiated. Weishaupt and his secret society had by all accounts vanished. Here, within these following texts is the proof that they had not.

Pre-Chapter One

On May 25th, 2015, when police officials forcibly entered the apartment of Brian Wilkinson, and discovered his new manuscript, we all concluded that he had become a victim of the cult the Gabrielites, a conclusion that any sane mind would have drawn. After all, he had been the key negotiator since the very beginning, and it was Brian who received instruction on content for the memoirs. Brian Wilkinson, 5427, police officer, had stumbled across the original memoirs in Liverpool whilst on his regular beat, doing his job, in the early hours of 16th June, 2009. The passage of time now informs us that this was no coincidence.

The police officer had long been identified as a target by a sadistic death cult. He was not to be harmed but had been chosen by divine will to be the cult's Revealer of The Truth. They would supply him with Holy Texts, and he would ensure that the work would be published in the public domain. Failure to do so would lead to the deaths of several hostages. This work became known as 'Meat: Memoirs of Psychopath, The Definitive Edition'.

Brian was psychologically brutalised over many years but he never gave up hope. He was driven by his personal desire to catch the leading figure, Gabriela 13, and at any cost to himself. At times it did, most deeply. His brother was previously and brutally murdered in Italy and his friend and colleague, DI Andria Johnson, who had worked with him as senior detective on the case had taken her own life. And what of the hostages? Dr Davies remains incarcerated in a psychiatric hospital and her youngest daughter, after failing to address her addiction to heroin, has now fallen into the periless occupation of street prostitution. The older daughter remains with the sect to this day. The cult even interfered with the remains of Brian's dearly beloved wife, Doreen, stealing bones from her grave.

Brian was a keen amateur war historian. He had a great passion for anything military. Both Brian's father and grandfather had been active in service overseas. But it was the story of his own father, as told in 'Please Take Care of Bethany (2005)', that had caught the attentions of this most vile sinister figure, Gabriela 13. Brian's book had detailed a family connection, and both he and the leading cult figure were connected in the not so distant past. The Stolzman and Rejchgold families, with their origins in Poland, unified an old bloodline between the two, and Gabriela considered herself to be a prophet of God; this bloodline was Holy and Brian was now accordingly chosen.

Brian Wilkinson was never a willing volunteer. He just did what he thought to be right. He complied and published the work. It wasn't until much later that Brian contacted me. He had been instructed to include a musical within The Definitive Edition and I too (Odd Jonathan) had now been chosen. Brian and I had never met previously and I knew nothing of this story. I soon found out that it was one of the biggest covert Europol operations that had ever been launched. The police officer informed me that as a singer/songwriter, reference was made to my compositions being used within ritual killings. One of my older titles, Big Jesus, had been referred to by name. I was sickened to the core when I heard the finer details.

I complied, reluctantly, incorporating two works into this so-called sick definitive edition: a radio play and associated musical soundtrack, in which I sought only to mock and ridicule this repulsive cult figure, and a children's story that had a happy ending. I had no idea what I had done at the time. I have already apologised within the foreword of this book, and I will go on apologising for ever more. Within days of The Definitive Edition being published (March: 2015), an anonymous post card was received by my publisher (Brittunculi). Posted from Somalia, it coldly stated "and now you must pay for it, must rush, I have Part Four to complete." Within weeks of this new communication, Brian had disappeared. He had been taken in retaliation for what I alone had done.

Every day ever since; I woke up to dread the impending delivery of Part Four. How many deaths was I to be accountable for? I couldn't live with that. I'd spend my days self-medicating myself out of depression, but the more I drank the deeper I fell into it. The only upside being that at least I couldn't remember it. That was until today however for today is when my whole world changed. I had remained in police protection, my true identity was unknown to the people around me, and my own location was even unknown to me.

I was in a Villa, a very beautiful white building nestled within the hillside. The temperature was extremely hot, not anything I was previously used to. I could see from the balcony that life went on. Goats and sheep would be herded back down from the pastures in the evening, nosily making their way as shepherd and dogs watched on. In a field, an orchard in the distance, I would see men, women and children all working together, picking fruit for the harvest. The rugged rock face behind me housed many birds of prey who I would watch contently for hours, hovering effortlessly, and then swooping down on their prey like a missile; instantly. But I had never been allowed to leave the premises or engage in conversation with others beyond those in charge of me.

I could have been in Spain, Turkey, or even still in Bulgaria but I had no real idea of my whereabouts. I had been flown out from a small local airfield in Sevlievo, which is in north central Bulgaria, but where I had now found myself landed was completely beyond me. I'd lost count of the weeks due to my self-inflicted alcohol-induced comatose state. Those in charge were happy to supply drink without restriction. On good days I would continue to play my guitar and write.

However; today was different. A new face had arrived at the villa, a man who identified himself as Jeremy Walton. "You're the Vicar," I laughed adding "Perhaps Lazarus would be more appropriate." I continued to giggle for quite a while. "What do you mean," he replied sternly, "This isn't a joke." I soon realised that he was being serious and lacking a genuine sense of humour. "I am indeed the so-called Reverend Jeremy Walton. I'm not a vicar though. You do understand that it was a mere misunderstanding by my housekeeper, Clara Stinchcombe?" "But you're dead. I've read the book. You buried yourself in a hole never to be found again," I said whilst further commenting, "This is horror at its absolute worst or black comedy at its very best. So which is it?" He began to explain.

The story of the Vicar's disappearance had unfolded in the missing police officer's (Brian Wilkinson's) last title, the manuscript found at his home the day he disappeared. He told me that the book was not quite accurate. 'The Man Who Buried Himself' had been published on the order of Gabriela 13 following the discovery of her note beside it. It had said; "Publish or die." It was included as a latter publisher's amendment to 'Meat: Memoirs of a Psychopath, The Definitive Edition'. Today's new visitor, the Vicar, was indeed who he said he was, this was true, after all he had easily got police clearance to find and visit me.

"So what's going on?" I asked. "If you are who you say you are, but at the same time say Brian's book is inaccurate, you must understand my curiosity here?" "It's like this," helping himself to my fresh bottle of vodka only just opened as it was already after midday and continuing. "I did work for a company called Vicars in which I was the senior partner, and I did discover, or create if your wish, a software system designed to delete your own life. To remove every trace of a human being ever having existed, but you still have to deal with the physical body." "So you have disappeared from all physical and electronic records, just as claimed in Brian's book then?" I asked. "Yes I have, but I didn't kill myself. I had to create a convincing story that explained my physical departure as well, shall we say."

"But aren't you, according to the narrative of the book, an agoraphobic who couldn't leave the house?" I was determined to question him on this rather significant point. "According to the book yes, and let's remember the book is based on what Clara, the housekeeper, believed to be true. She told Brian everything that was real for her. I'm not an agoraphobic, in fact anything but – though this little ruse did keep her out from under feet, somewhat." I listened, but now unconvinced, I needed more. I asked him, "Why did you need to disappear at all then if Clara's narrative in Brian's book is so inaccurate?" "It's because of the software system I designed. I was working for the British secret service. We were creating a counter intelligence network, off radar, and one that was completely untraceable as the personnel involved simply do not exist. I'm not talking about false names and documents here. I'm referring to ghosts. Colleagues, or spies if you wish, who could go in, do the job and get out; completely disappearing from all records like they had never existed at all. I'm just one of hundreds now, but as it was my baby to start with, they call me Big Casper within the network." "Casper? As in the friendly ghost?" I laughed. "Yes," the reply came. "You see I do have a sense of humour after all."

It took a while but we finally got there, I got it in the end, but what was the connection then, with Brian? Why had the cult left a copy of Brian's semi-authoritative novel to be found beside a handwritten note saying; "Publish or die" at his flat the day Brian disappeared. "They didn't," the Vicar interrupted. "We now believe that Brian wrote that note and his disappearance was quite intentional. He is with the cult, we believe, and has gone there of his own volition to try and save the remaining hostage, the young woman called Isabella Davies. He wants to negotiate."

"So what is the relevance of that book then, 'The Man Who Buried Himself' within the greater picture? Why did Brian want us to believe the cult wanted it published as part of the main work...?" I asked most surprised. I really didn't understand the connection between the two books at all. "He could after all have simply vanished without all this cloak and dagger elaboration, couldn't he?" I concluded. The Vicar poured himself a second stiff drink and told me to listen, most carefully, to what I was now going to be told. This I did most patiently.

"Brian and I have never met, and had he not been involved with the original Gabrielites investigation he would never have met Clara Stinchcombe either. She went to find him, remember? She wanted him to investigate my disappearance purely on the basis of what she had read about Brian in the newspaper. He investigated and used this to form the narrative of his second book. But what Brian has never publicly revealed is that he is a Freemason. He is an honorary member of The Grand Lodge, a member of the Provincial Grand Lodge of West Lancashire. The entire book, The Man Who Buried Himself, is not just a story; it is a collection of Masonic codes. He used it to tell us, to communicate everything he was now planning to do. Coincidently, a copy of the book ended up with me for translation and I immediately realised that I was the character Jeremy Walton (The Vicar) as identified within it. As a specialist on Freemasonry and Illuminati, it is my job to investigate, to decode secret masonic scripture and writing. I was working on file 69714:B7 – classified military stuff sealed by President Obama - and Brian's book sent shockwaves throughout the whole network."

"Let me continue. Brian was acting in what he believed to be the right way. After 'The Definitive Edition' was published he realised that you had risked everything. He wanted to put things right; indeed he says within the book that he will swap his life for Isabella's. He's quite the hero amongst us." I interrupted, "And I'm not I guess then, is that we you are saying?" After a moment' pause and a sip of spirit from his glass, he merely said, "No, you're not are you, your actions risked everything, but I am here to give you the opportunity to put it right." "How can I possibly make any of this right now?" I demanded to know.

"You can." He sat forward in his chair, looked me straight in the eye and continued: "Brian Wilkinson has been quite the fool. He not only told us everything he planned, but without realising it, he has informed the Gabriel Sect as well. What I am going to tell you cannot leave this room. I not only delete records but also people. Be assured, Jonathan, you will very easily drop off the face of the Earth and your entire life will be erased if you do. Oh; and that includes all your music as well - understand this for certain." I was scared, of course I was, but I somehow felt that I did not have the right to live either. I didn't challenge anything that was now directly presented to me. Perhaps a bullet in the back of my head would be preferential to a slow death from liver failure, I thought. "The Gabrielites have successfully infiltrated the Illuminati. They have key personnel in almost every chapter. We know this. We are working worldwide to identify them, and then we will eliminate them, all of them. The new Illuminati and Masons use the same ancient codes. Brian's codes have most certainly been broken and they are aware of his every action. That's why no objection to this unauthorised addition, or addendum as we described it, to the book was ever made; this when the publisher, Brittunculi inserted it into the revised definitive edition. He's not the brightest of police officers amongst us, but he is a thoroughly decent chap, I'll give him that. Sadly we suspect that when Part Four arrives, it will include, well... we don't need to think any more on what has now, sadly, become of Brian do we? Sometimes we don't choose the books we read, they find us."

I raised my voice in reply; "How do I know what you are telling me is the truth?" I was getting angry now, and added, "No, bollocks to that. How do I know that you are not a part of this fucking sicko sect?" The Vicar pointed out of the window at a combine harvester that was working in the pasture beyond the villa walls. "Do you see that," he said. "If I was, you'd have been fed feet first into it an hour ago, wouldn't you? Don't waste my fucking time Odd fucking Jonathan," he blasted. I froze as he concluded with "You could have gone the same way as Alexander Litvinenko, months ago, if I'd wanted you dead!"

"What you are going to do is this. We are going to feed you information that you in turn will later feed into Part Four when it arrives and is later, accordingly, published. We know that they will send it as they will not want to miss the opportunity to rub our faces in it. They will want us to know what they have done with Isabella

and Brian, as a direct result of his tampering, but that we cannot prevent. We have become aware of a plot to take control of airline cockpits using flight navigation systems and hypnosis. The Illuminati are wilfully, quite intentionally, using this to aggravate a global crisis, a third world war. They do not know any more about the identity of the Gabrielites than we do, but by playing the two groups off against each other we hope to flush key members out. Gabrielites will never betray each other, this is certain, but the Illuminati are a much weaker fish to fry."

I agreed, and in return, I was promised my old life back. No more personal and social isolation, no more police protection, just the normal everyday life that I so pined for. But, I too, would now have to become a ghost. I knew the risks, but I was willing to accept them. This was a once in a lifetime opportunity, a chance to correct my errors of the past and to put things right again.

Pre-Chapter Two

"You're going to make enemies you didn't even know existed," the Vicar continued, "but we will protect you where possible. I've no doubt that you're safe. They need you now. They need a link between themselves and the publisher. Your own music publisher I believe?" I met this rhetorical question with the contempt it clearly deserved. "So what exactly do I call you then; Big Casper or The Vicar? And are we going to use stupid little pass codes like 'The Pink Flamingos fly south in winter', then?" "No, nothing like that and you can call me Arat, that's the best. ARAT is the organisation I work for, or don't. You see we don't really exist if you get my drift."

The subject now changed to a conversation about Bradley Manning. Arat (as he preferred me to address him) explained that there were many good souls out there working for the world's good, and that Manning was one of them. Sadly he had been still on the radar, a term used to mean legitimate and not a ghost. "You see when the going gets tough the tough get going," Arat said, with a pronounced smirk. "Manning just got caught in the crossfire and paid the price for what others had done. We all knew he was supplying WikiLeaks with secret documents, in fact many encouraged him to do so, but when he got caught, well they, the legitimates, simply denied everything. They weren't going to do time for something the fall guy could handle." He went on to explain why operatives were now almost always ghosts, no record of their existence would ever be found, and that made the risk far more palatable.

The material shared comprised of 251,287 diplomatic cables and over 400,000 classified reports (mostly from the Iraq War logs). There were also approximately 90,000 reports included from the Afghan War logs. A video of the July 12th (2007) U.S. Baghdad airstrike (that later went viral on YouTube) also leaked. Most of us came to know this as the 'Collateral Murder' video. A second video (May 2009) was never seen as its release was intercepted by dark forces of the Illuminati, but we know it concerned the Granai airstrike of Afghanistan.

On July 5th, 2010, Manning was charged with violations of Articles 92 and 134 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice. These offences were alleged to have taken place between November 19th, 2009, and May 27th, 2010. But prosecutors clearly had a taste for Bradley Manning's blood. "Maybe they were lizards who needed to shape shift," Arat had laughed at this point. Though he very quickly corrected the mood with "I'm only joking, JT. We all know how people love a good Illuminati conspiracy, don't we?" He re-focussed and explained that the original charges were replaced on March 1st, 2011, with 22 specifications, and this included a charge of "aiding the enemy, wrongfully causing intelligence to be published on the Internet knowing that it was accessible to the enemy, theft of public property or records, and transmitting defence information." Fortunately, due to a word or two in the right ear, Manning was found not guilty of aiding the enemy. He would most certainly have faced life without parole for this cranked up most serious offence, I was told.

"You see there was little we could do to save him. We couldn't risk exposing his work on the inside but we did try to get his sentence reduced to a more realistic representation of the actual facts. One that would not expose us all or create too much public speculation," Arat informed me. We talked about how a panel of experts had ruled in April, 2011, that he was fit to stand trial and an Article 32 hearing was fixed for December 16th, 2011. It was overseen by Lieutenant Colonel Paul Almanza at Fort Meade in Maryland. Its objective was merely to investigate a need to proceed with a full court martial. Captains Ashden Fein, Joe Morrow, and Angel Overgaard represented the armed forces and Bradley Manning, by military attorneys Major Matthew Kemkes and Captain Paul Bouchard. Also present on Manning's defence bench was a civilian attorney by the name of David Coombs. The following recommendation of Major General Michael Linnington, (commander, Military District of Washington) was that Manning was ordered to stand trial on all 22 specified charges, including that of aiding the enemy. Arat went on; "Manning still declined to enter a plea at this point. You see he still tried to protect the organisation. He was made of solid stuff that one."

Continuing; he went on to tell me how a Captain Fein at the trial had argued, that he'd given our enemies "unfettered access" to our military secrets and he (Manning) had displayed "absolute indifference" toward the classified materials of the United States government. The court (16th December) was shown a recent al-Qaeda upload in which a known terrorist, Adam Gadahn, had referred to some of the leaked material. Over 300,000 pages of evidence were presented, including chat logs and other classified materials.

Army investigators, Special Agent David Shaver (head of the army's research facility for digital forensics) and Mark Johnson (forensic data expert at ManTech International) both testified. Both men were specialists contracted to the army's Computer Crime Investigative Unit (CCIU).

"Those two bastards really screwed Bradley over," Arat stated. "They testified that they had found 100,000 State Department cables, 400,000 U.S. military reports and 10,000 other non-disclosed cables on a personal MacBook Pro, one that had belonged to him. They also stated for the record that other portable storage devices had not been passed over to WikiLeaks because of, and only because of, a corrupted disk menu. An email between Eric Schhmidl (a Boston based mathematician) of May 2010 also, apparently, confirmed that the Collateral Murder video had originated from Manning's PC. Arat went on to explain that, "Johnson was a particular cunt." He said he'd found a text file called wl-press.txt on an external hard drive, which contained the contact details of WikiLeaks (Iceland). Also found were fifteen pages of encrypted chat (in unallocated space on Manning's MacBook's hard drive) confirming a recent conversation with, allegedly, Julian Assange. Assange is WikiLeaks CEO and founder.

I started to find an overall new found respect for Bradley Manning, especially as Arat was clearly very proud of him. He was no longer the enemy I had believed him to be, the one as portrayed so publicly in the media. He had sought only to expose the enemy within. Arat wasn't slow off the hoof in telling me exactly who ran the world's media; the Illuminati. When Julian Assange (allegedly) had said in correspondence to Manning, "This is possibly one of the most significant documents of our time, removing the fog of war and revealing the true nature of 21st century asymmetric warfare," I suddenly realised the value and sacrifice that Manning had both undertaken and given. In adition, I was so deeply disappointed by President Obama's statement which was later echoed by the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, General Martin Dempsey in saying; "We're a nation of laws. He did violate the law." although Arat was not in agreement with me on this point. "You need to realise that he needs to be seen to do and say the right thing. His comment isn't exactly the most hostile that you would expect from a President whose national secrets have just been given away. Remember this JT, he's on our side, and he's not in the Illuminati."

He continued. "Of course the U.S. government have overstated the harm the release of the documents has caused, and significantly they have attempted to overcharge Manning just to gather evidence against Assange. We know that at least 10,000 cables on Manning's personal computer do not match the alleged cables as published by WikiLeaks. We know that the case should have been dismissed on all charges relating to the use of unauthorized software. After all, Manning's unit had been classed as "lawless" when it comes to information assurance. But they were out to get him because he exposed too much; you really need to heed the warning to be careful. Now with the Gabrielites watching our every move, we have so much more to lose than our freedom. Did you know Bradley was gay?" "No I didn't but the relevance to this conversation is what?" I asked. "Nothing really, just pointing out that the Illuminists are a bunch of backword thinking homophobes. There's not a lot of enlightenment going on really. Most people don't know this fact."

We continued our discussion. "Did you know that on the day Manning was found guilty, the trial judge asked him to accept his wrongdoing, to offer the court an explanation for his behaviour. Do you know what his reply was?" I had no idea: "Go on then, do enlighten me?" "Nothing; that was the problem" He only said, "I am sorry for the unintended consequences of my actions. When I made those decisions I believed I was going to help people, not hurt people... At the time of my decisions I was dealing with a lot of issues." I wondered what else there was really to say. It all sounded pretty sane to me. I mean, if I'd been found guilty and realised I could spend a whole life term in prison, I'd make damn sure I said sorry before sentence was passed. "You just don't get it do you Taylor?" Arat now elaborated on his point. "He could have brought so many down, including Ed Snowden, but he didn't. He knew how important the PING was and what would happen if he exposed it despite receiving a 35 years prison sentence."

I listened without interruption as PING was explained. A ping is literally the acknowledgement of a digital signal that has bounced off a tower or receiver somewhere, terrestrial or satellite. We've all watched those crime documentaries where, at some point, the killer's location at the time of his/her victim's murder has been revealed by accessing mobile telephone records. Mobile phone tracking occurs either via multilateration of radio signals or quite simply, via GPS. Whether moving or stationary, using multilateration, the telephone emits its roaming signal to contact the nearest antenna tower, and the next and so on. It does not require the user to make an active call. It can be tracked by a system used in mobile communications worldwide. Based on the phone's signal strength, its location relative to the tower's antenna can be pinpointed exactly.

Let me explain further. New technology had also led to manufacturers incorporating mobile positioning systems into modern handsets. These additional location-based services disclose your precise coordinates. For example, consider the last time you used your GPS (ground positioning system) to find the nearest service station, restaurant or hotel, or planned a route from A to B in your sat nav. Even when your signal is too low to make a call - you're in a network blind spot for example - you can still guarantee that your device is communicating with the nearest base station. They know where we are at all times and they want to keep it this way. How many telephone boxes or booths have now disappeared from our streets? It's not about economics: it's about control. Even our home landlines use mobile technology, switching between domestic and wandering contracts as the unit goes in and out of our own homes. In urban areas they can now, no matter how built up and crowded the area is, pin us down to at least 50 meters by interpolating signals between multiple adjacent antenna towers.

Network-based techniques provide the network with a map of your life. Network triangulation is nothing less than societal strangulation. Your every movement is watched, every conversation is monitored, and every text is read. Installation of hardware and software within the operator's infrastructure feeds back your entire life. Have you been offered your free upgrade version of Microsoft 10 yet? Check the small print when you sign up to the terms and conditions carefully. Nothing in life is free. You're going to agree to share everything with them. Moves to put the snoopers beyond the reach of the law have already started. Where do you think Manning and Snowden obtained their digital cables and communications from? It's easy when you know how.

But like all technology, it has a weakness; the necessity to install software on the handset. They sell them to you as operating systems. Smartphone and other Symbian systems, Windows Mobile, Windows Phone, BlackBerry OS, iOS, and Android, they are all collectively reporting back to a central location, everything you do. There are dark forces now at work; not just the financial greed of the corporate suppliers of communication technology, but those who seek to install and maintain the new world order. What if software is no longer needed, software that a user can disable or delete? What happens when embedded hardware, instead, is fixed at manufacture?

Embedded hardware systems such as E-OTD (Enhanced Observed Time Difference) have not made significant headway in the market yet but only because manufacturers cannot agree on a common system that will cooperate with all system developers and manufacturers, and provider networks, alike. Now is the time to ask yourselves - who now owns the company? Who owns E-OTD? In fact, I bet you do not even know who owns your domestic Wi-Fi connection do you? No; I'm not talking about the operator that sold you your internet connection. I'm referring to the signal that you freely beam out from your house into the digital abyss. You should have read the small print...

The most modern digital appliances, telephones, pads, laptops, all of them, all send out a tracking signal even when turned off. You are pinging continually and they can see everything you do. Do you really believe that your microphone and camera are switched off right now? Do you want me to remotely access your device, manipulate your software and show you exactly what they can do? Of course, "the light isn't on so the camera must be off," you may say... You believe that if you wish to. All I need to do is rewrite your software to say light off, camera on. All software devices can be remotely manipulated. So if you have not received an unsolicited desktop message that asks you to reserve your new copy of Windows 10 yet, you soon will. The message will go on to tell you that your computer is fully compatible. They know everything about your PC because they've already been inside it. They are listening and you have already given an informed and explicit consent to access your data from wherever they like.

So what are they doing with all of this data? China for one has openly proposed using it to track commuting patterns of Beijing city residents. The European democracies are somewhat more covert. They pretend that you have a constitutional guarantee of secrecy, that your location data is given the same protection as the communication, this misguidedly under the Data Protection Act in the UK for example. They tell us that The Freedom of Information Act allows us to see what they have. What information they hold on us. Recorded information you can see includes printed documents, computer files, letters, emails, photographs, and sound or visual recordings, or so you thought. In fact it only applies to organisations that receive public funds. ARAT's covert governmental operations, for example, are exempt from it! The secret agent stood in front of me this day, Arat, the man who so easily threatened to snuff out my life is exempt from it! Yes. Did you know that in the United States there is no explicit constitutional guarantee on your privacy? Any law enforcement organisation, any, and that includes private investigators, can access your telephone positioning data. The U.S. Department of Justice has argued that this current position is allowing suspects without having probable cause to suspect a law is being violated to be watched, day in, day out. You may argue that this is quite acceptable in exposing the cheating adulterous husband, and he deserves everything he gets. But what about the observance partner who due to their neurotic insecurities follows a partner's every move for years in total control of the relationship? Then you start to worry, don't you? Would you like me to look in your handbag or wallet, open your cupboards and wardrobes, or to read your bedside diary, every day of your life without your knowledge? No, of course you wouldn't.

If it were not for our heroes such as Manning and Snowden, we would not know that 'The Patriot Act' really existed. A secret intelligence copy was leaked. It confirmed widespread and lawful eavesdropping and tracking of America's own citizens. An act of Congress that nobody knew existed was now being used against its own people. Scratch the service and you soon identify who was behind that one; the Illuminati.

Pre-Chapter Three

"So where does this all lead us, Arat? Me, you, the Illuminati, the cult and PING? It's all very informative, and I don't want to dismiss anything you say. In many ways you are preaching to the converted. I don't actually use a mobile phone," I said. When Arat had finally paused for breath, the altitude of his soap box must have led to a considerable thinning of the air around him. I felt quite informed, but hadn't yet made the link.

"We'll start with Germanwings Flight 9525 then!" he shouted. Yes - shouted at me from across the room. Almost looked straight through me with contempt at the time. An arrogant expression that made me feel below him, somehow, belittled if you like. I retorted aggressively back; "I'm a fucking musician pal, and you came to me, so have the decency to get to the fucking point will you, without the need for the ego trip will you?" I let it be known to him that I was pissed off – but I threw myself back into the slumberous arms of my armchair and gestured for him to continue, my glass in hand, to go on and explain more.

"Let's start with co-ords then," Arat had said. "44°16′50″N 6°26′20″ E. They're engraved on my mind. Why don't you write a song about that then?" I could see he was deeply distressed and didn't reply other than to say, "Go on then, I'm listening." His reply was immediate. "Consider what we see every day, what we know and what we are aware of at ARAT, the ghosts on a day-to-day basis... I have to sit back and let people die, innocent people, men, women and children. It doesn't matter who, and it's all the same, the innocent bystanders and all because I, we, ARAT have to stay off the radar, unseen and none existent. Do you know what that feels like?" (I was aware that this was again a rhetorical question and remained, with dignity, quite silent). "I wake up with those coordinates in my head every day of my wretched life, and why? Because we all knew it was going to happen. Intelligence informed us that that bastard had practiced his manoeuvre beforehand and we all knew but couldn't do or say anything. So when you feel sorry for yourself because you went off on your own fucking rock star ego trip Taylor, making a comedic farce of a psycho's work of art, well then - I give you permission to take the moral high ground over me; but only if I have the right to ensure you get altitude fucking sickness afterward."

Germanwings Flight 9525, an Airbus A320-200, had been intentionally crashed taking the lives of 144 passengers and 6 crew. There were no survivors from flight D-AIPX after it left Barcelona El Prat Airport (Spain) en route to Düsseldorf in Germany. It was a low cost carrier, not anything grand that you would expect to be the immediate target of terrorists, such as British Airways or Delta Airlines. On 24th March, 2015, the aircraft crashed 62 miles northwest of Nice (Italy), high in the French Alps. The airliner had undertaken a constant descent just one minute after routine contact with air traffic control was made. The co-pilot, Andreas Lubitz, quite intentionally flew the jet into the side of a mountain. The official version was that he had been treated for suicidal tendencies and declared unfit to work. It was released to the press that Lubitz had kept this information from his employer. He continued to report for duty to fly as timetabled. Germanwings was a sister company of the main German carrier, Lufthansa. He had by all accounts locked the pilot out of the cockpit during the flight, taking advantage of the pilot's much needed toilet break, and initiated a descent that caused the aircraft to crash head-on into the mountain-side.

Aviation authorities in Canada, New Zealand, Germany, and Australia immediately implemented new regulations. A new protocol demanded that two authorized personnel were to be present in the cockpit, simultaneously, at all times. Following the 9/11 attacks in New York (on the World Trade Centre's Twin Towers), cockpits were now reinforced. It was impossible to gain entry without cockpit personnel complying. External override codes still had to be approved by those inside before the flight deck door would open. The European Aviation Safety Agency soon followed the airlines by issuing a temporary recommendation that companies must ensure that at least two crew members, one of which must be the pilot, be in the cockpit at all times of any flight. Most airlines had already adopted similar policies voluntarily.

Flight 9525 took off from Runway 07R El Prat at 09:01 a.m. (UTC). The Bureau d'Enquêtes et d'Analyses pour la Sécurité de l'Aviation Civile (French air traffic control had jurisdiction over the fight at the time it was crashed), stated for the record that; "after crossing the French coast near Toulon, the aircraft left its assigned cruising altitude of 38,000 feet and without approval began a rapid descent." The aircraft was declared in distress when radio contact was lost.

A descent from 38,000 to the point of impact took ten minutes. The average rate of decent, as recorded, was 58 feet per second. Air traffic control could not make contact during this descent period and accordingly, a French military Mirage jet was scrambled to intercept it. Radar contact was now lost. It had crashed near a remote mountain community known as Prads-Haute-Bléone, its final resting altitude just 6,175 feet above sea level. It is the deadliest air disaster in France's history since that of flight 1308 in 1981 in which 180 people died. Search and rescue teams reported that Germanwings flight 9525 was now scattered over a debris field of 500 acres – almost one square mile. A memorial stone has now been erected in Le Vernet in memory of the flight's victims.

The 34-year-old pilot, Captain Patrick Sondenheimer, had ten years of previous flying experience inside the cockpit of an Airbus A320. This amounted to over 6,000 flight hours with Germanwings, Lufthansa, and Condor airlines. The co-pilot Lubitz was 27. He had only joined Germanwings in September 2013. He had just 630 hours of experience and was accepted into the Lufthansa trainee program upon leaving school. He received his initial pilot training at the Lufthansa Flight Training school in Bremen, Germany, in 2008 and thereafter, at the Lufthansa Airline Training Centre in Goodyear, Arizona, United States. Lubitz was previously absent from training for several months, his excuse was severe depression. Having completed his training later on, he was required to work as a flight attendant for eleven months whilst waiting for a co-pilot vacancy within the company.

Analysis of the aircraft's flight data recorder (conducted by the BEA) confirmed that Lubitz had deliberately crashed his aircraft. The autopilot had been set to descend to 100 feet and the descent speed, thereafter, had been increased several times. The airliner's final impact speed was recorded at 430 mph. Notably the BEA report (6th May: 2015) revealed that during his earlier outbound flight, (9524 from Düsseldorf to Barcelona), Lubitz had practised his suicidal manoeuvre several times, setting the altitude dial to 100 feet whilst his captain was out of the cockpit.

It was tragic to hear such a heartfelt narration of this appauling event. Arat was clearly disturbed by it, but the need to ask was overwhelming; "If you knew this was going to happen, why did you remain quiet? It's not a moral judgement, trust me, just a curiosity." He explained; "We were aware of the PING plot very early on. It was coming through as chatter, multiple digital communications that were intercepted by the NSA before Manning was taken down. But it was up to Snowden to get to the bottom of it. The National Security Agency dismissed it at first, and then Malaysian Airlines 370 went down on the 8th March, 2014, a year before the Lubitz jet, Germanwings, on the 24th March, 2015."

"Was this not coincidental? Was there any proof of deliberate sabotage against the Malaysian airliner?" He replied to me by explaining that they had still not recovered the wreckage of the jet, but believed that at some point debris would wash up, as carried in the currents back along the Reunion Island passageway of the Indian Ocean. "We believe Germanwings was the second. They'd got away with it the year before by intentionally crashing the jet at sea to hide any evidence. Now all they had to do was find an already psychologically unhinged co-pilot. They had no need to hide the wreckage. As far as the world was concerned this was a suicide. ARAT knew differently, but we just could not get the NSA to listen to us at the time. Perhaps those with the ears inside didn't want to... you see you don't know who the enemy is anymore, internal or external, foreign or home-grown."

The chatter, leaked by Manning, and incidentally never brought up by the court that sentenced him, concerned multiple communications in regard to a new embedded hardware system. Airlines were replacing old outdated software devices for the new Pre-installed Navigation Guide (PING). It was a new state-of-the-art flight deck controller. It was, and remains to this day, top secret. It was supposed to be both fool proof and tamperproof and most jets were being fitted with experimental models following 9/11.

"That's why they can't come clean, Jonathan," Arat had said. "It's now in every jet in the sky and they have all lost control of it. It's all about mind control now, the new suicide bombers in the sky."

"Mind control, brainwashing, re-education, coercive persuasion, thought control, or thought reform – who cares what we call it? I prefer to call this new war strategy digital hypnosis. The flight deck, terrestrial and satellite antennas, air traffic control and cockpit embedded hardware systems are all communicating, unwittingly controlling the minds of our pilots," he went on. "Lubitz was just a weak willed guinea pig," Arat confirmed. "The chatter told us exactly what was going to happen and we did nothing."

I was told how the ability to think independently was now being removed from the control of the flight crew. Impairment of autonomy had taken over. Digital waves, codes were repeatedly fed into the ears and minds of the pilots to such a degree that involuntary actions resulted. The Illuminati were well established, as were the Masons, in commerce and business globally although the Illuminati were there for more sinister reasons. But, Arat soon explained that these reasons were not the same as the desires of the Gabrielites.

"What would happen if you infiltrated the Freemasons? You gain access to every world power and senior position on the planet. You then identify the bad apples amongst them, those who wish to maintain the power and control of the global elite, the Illuminati. Then, you use one against the other. They are both blind to your true ideologies. Covertly creating a catechism of such magnitude that, before you know it, it's all over. This is the Gabrielites." I questioned this and asked that I may read from the book the words of the death cult's holy work, 'Meat: Memoirs of a Psychopath'. I opened my copy and began to read.

"Here, Arat, here in part three, 'Human Behaviour and Design' concerning genetically modified foods it says: We genetically engineered plants in our Buzludzha laboratory by altering their genetic makeup. We tested in the laboratory for desired qualities by adding one or more TCP genes to a plant's genome. Our favourites were the members of the wheat/corn family. It spreads and grows anywhere, and is easily transported and scattered. We found that most plants could be genetically modified in a directed way by gene cloning/subtraction (genes are removed or inactivated). Plants are now engineered for insect resistance, fungal resistance and viral delivery capacity. The improved taste attracts the animals that consume it. The GM modification to the animal feed supply has already taken place. All animals, certainly those within the United States and used as livestock, are considered to be infected. We are at stage 3, the triggering of viral capacity to humans. Certainly, we will see a significant increase in people adopting a vegetarian diet and lifestyle, but this will be too late. Once satisfactory plants were produced, sufficient seeds were gathered, we already had (what a surprise) regulatory approval to field test (excuse the pun). With the closure of the Buzludzha facilities, delivery had already commenced. It will not prove necessary to gain approval for mass-production. This is not, and never has been considered a biodegradable Earth friendly product. You are all now, already infected..." I continued to read from other parts of the text whilst Arat sat and listened patiently.

"A mere smokescreen," he concluded. "Yes, the food chain has been poisoned, we know this, I've been to Buzludzha several times and we have seen the orange powder they refer to as The Corpse Plant. But we all know that you cannot wipe humanity off the face of the Earth that easily. It's just a sick game to them. They're playing with us, having fun at our expense. Our tests conclude that what they say is correct, but it's too small a scale to have an immediate impact. It will take a millennium to pollute all plant genomes this way. Are you a vegetarian?" "Yes," I replied, to this sudden and unexpected question. Continuing he said; "Well there you have it, me too, it's a failed plan before it even starts, poisoning the meat industry, by reason and logic, isn't going to do it alone. 11 per cent of the UK population are vegetarian. If we consider India, it rises to 31 percent and so on worldwide. The return to the darkness they so desire will not be achieved this way. No, what they are really trying to achieve is a third world war. The Gabrielites seek to become the only new global elite."

Totalitarian regimes have always, and continue to systematically indoctrinate prisoners of conscience and of war. Propaganda and torture are all a part of the brainwashing technique. Psychologists such as Margaret Singer and Philip Zimbardo inform us of how NRM (New Religious Movements) cults subjugate new interns. We are not concerning ourselves here with newer theories. We all know how brainwashing works. Whether it be parental mind control of a child during a child custody hearing, or modern corporate culture; even science fiction, Robert Cialdini, Robert Jay Lifton, Daniel Romanovsky, Kathleen Taylor, and Benjamin Zablocki have all written extensively on these subjects. No, we are referring to a new unknown phenomenon; digital hypnosis: electronic data that bombards the brain without detection; that brainwashes and indoctrinates the mind through secret repetition.

Pre-Chapter Four

Edward Joseph Snowden was born on the 21st June, 1983. He was a former CIA employee who later specialised in computing, working as a private contractor for the NSA. He leaked secrets concerning America's global surveillance programme which ran hand in glove with many of Europe's telecommunication companies and governments. Snowden fled the USA (from Hawaii) on the 20th May, 2013. Having arrived safely in Hong Kong (today a domestic territory of China), he leaked thousands of National Security Agency documents, particularly to two journalists by the names of Glenn Greenwald and Laura Poitras. It wasn't long before the secret surveillance documents were printed in The Guardian (UK) and The Washington Post. The New York Times also ran stories concerning the Snowden exposure.

Accordingly, Ed Snowden was indicted by the U.S Department of Justice on two counts of breaking the Espionage Act and a further charge of theft of government property on the 21st June, 2013. Before he could be officially arrested in Hong Kong, he fled to Moscow. He arrived in Russia on the 23rd of June. He remained within his airport hotel room for a full month before being eventually granted a one-year temporary asylum. This has now been extended to three years. Today, (at time of print; 2015), he still remains in Russia at an undisclosed location. He continues to seek political asylum elsewhere.

Ed Snowden remains a controversy. At times he has been called a hero and a whistle-blower, a dissident or a true patriot, but for many he remains nothing less than a traitor. His disclosures brought home the reality of massive state surveillance, the all seeing eye of governmental secrecy in the United States and globally.

Snowden's grandfather, Edward J. Barrett, formerly a rear admiral in the U.S. Coast Guard, became a senior official within the FBI. He was inside the Pentagon on 11th September 2001, when American Airlines Flight 77 struck it as part of an alleged al-Qaeda terrorist plot. Snowden doubted the Pentagon's version of events. His mother, Elizabeth B. Snowden, is chief deputy at the United States District Court (Maryland). Snowden's sister is a lawyer for the Federal Judicial Centre in Washington. In an interview published by Wired Magazine in 2014, Snowdon stated, "Everybody in my family has worked for the federal government in one way or another." It appeared that what Snowden did not know about American wiretapping and spying really wasn't worth knowing. As a "shy, quiet and nice young boy", he was "considered to be the smartest one in the family," this according to his own father. The family were not surprised when he scored above 145 on two separate IQ tests. "A sensitive, caring young man" and "a deep thinker" confirmed his mother.

Snowden tells us that during the 2008 presidential election, he voted neither Republican nor Democrat, but instead for an outside unknown third party. It had been his intention to release sensitive documents and make his disclosures during the campaign but had waited because he "believed in Obama's promises." He stated later on, that he was deeply disappointed in the new Presidency who he felt had "continued with the disappointing policies of his predecessor."

Ars Technica, a U.S based technology forum confirmed that Snowden had used the online pseudonym "TheTrueHOOHA," and had been working for them since 2001. He had remained an active member of the group right up until May, 2012. Snowden, under this online pseudonym, had said in January of 2009, "spies should be shot in the balls" but added to this later on during February, 2010 – "Did we get to where we are today via a slippery slope that was entirely within our control to stop? Or was it a relatively instantaneous sea change that sneaked in undetected because of pervasive government secrecy?" Snowden has since indicated his support for internet freedom organizations such as the Electronic Frontier Foundation (EFF) and the Tor Project. He is quoted as saying (2013) "I am neither traitor nor hero. I'm an American." In 2014 he said publicly, "women have the right to make their own choices" and "a basic income for people who have no work, or no meaningful work" is required.

His career started with enlistment in May, 2003, in the United States Army Reserve, but he failed to complete his training as a Special Forces candidate. He had wanted to fight in the Iraq War because he "felt an obligation as a human being to help free people from oppression." Before he could take part, he broke both legs whilst training and was medically discharged in 2004. Following attendance at a career fair in 2006, he was offered a position within the CIA (Central Intelligence Agency). He soon started work at the Global Communications Division HQ in Langley, Virginia. He confirmed in 2006, in writing on the online Ars Technical forum, that he was a computer wizard and had had no difficulty securing the CIA position. He was soon identified as a promising candidate for the CIA School for Technology Specialists. In 2007 he started work abroad, in Geneva, Switzerland. Here he maintained NSA network security. Assigned to the United Nations, he had a diplomatic passport and a four-bedroom apartment overlooking Lake Geneva.

He was considered "the top technical and cybersecurity expert in the country... hand-picked by the CIA to support the president at the 2008 NATO summit in Romania."

Edward Snowden found Geneva to be "formative." On one occasion he recalled that the CIA had deliberately encouraged a Swiss banker to drive himself home after intentionally getting him intoxicated. He was arrested later that evening and offered a clean slate only in return for information. The CIA now had a new informer. Ueli Maurer, (President of the Swiss Confederation, 2013), publicly disputed these claims. "This would mean that the CIA successfully bribed the Geneva police and judiciary. With all due respect, I just can't imagine it," he informed reporters. Though, among readers here now, I am sure that many of us can and do.

In 2009 Snowden resigned from the CIA and began work for Dell Computers Inc. He was assigned as a private military contractor to an NSA facility at Yokota Air Base, near Tokyo. His brief was to advise top military brass on how best to defend military networks from Chinese hackers, a role he self-titled cyber strategist.

Those familiar with the investigation say that Snowden began downloading documents in April, 2012, whilst working for Dell. He was leaking information that described the U.S. government's electronic spying programs. Between 50,000 and 200,000 documents were leaked to Greenwald and Poitras, and the wider press as a result.

Snowden continued to work for Dell for a further 15 months, based at the NSA's Hawaii regional operations centre, until he fled during May, 2013. He had focussed on electronic monitoring of China and North Korea.

Intelligence officials would later describe him as a system administrator, which was at odds with Snowden's testament that he was in fact an infrastructure analyst. His job involved discovering new ways to break into internet and telephone traffic across the globe.

He refers to his breaking point when he witnessed the Director of National Intelligence, James Clapper, "Directly lie under oath to Congress." Three days later (15th March, 2013) he quit his role with Dell and with it his annual salary of $200,000. He took a considerable pay cut to join ARAT, after being approached by Arat, in order to collect further evidence of the NSA's worldwide surveillance activity for further disclosure. According to the news agency Reuters, whilst in Hawaii, Snowden "may have persuaded between 20 and 25 fellow workers to give him their logins and passwords." He apparently told them; "they were needed for him to do his job as a computer systems administrator." In fact Arat informs us today that 27 fellow workers were actually encouraged to join him. Snowden later said, "With all due respect to Mark Hosenball, the author of the Reuters report that put this out there, he is simply wrong. I never stole any passwords, nor did I trick an army of co-workers."

A former NSA co-worker later told Forbes News that "Snowden was a genius among geniuses." He had "full administrator privileges, with virtually unlimited access to all NSA data." Snowden was later offered work within TAC (Tailored Access Operations), the NSA's elite team of hackers but turned it down due to disillusionment with NSA policy. Using "internal channels of dissent" amongst Masons within the service, he informed two supervisors and likeminded recruiters (his fellow workers) of his concerns that the "NSA programs were unconstitutional." Snowden elaborated on this (January, 2014) adding: "I made tremendous efforts to report these programs to co-workers, supervisors, and anyone with the proper clearance who would listen. The reactions of those I told about the scale of the constitutional violations ranged from deeply concerned to appalled, but no one was willing to risk their jobs, families, and possibly even freedom to go to through what Thomas Andrews Drake did." During testimony to the European Parliament (March, 2014) Snowden stated that before revealing classified information he identified "clearly problematic programs" to ten officials. ARAT confirm that at least one of these is known to them as Illuminati. Snowden was instructed to stay silent on the matter.

"The NSA has records - they have copies of emails right now to their Office of General Counsel, to their oversight and compliance folks from me raising concerns about the NSA's interpretations of its legal authorities. I had raised these complaints not just officially in writing through email, but to my supervisors, to my colleagues, in more than one office. I did it in Fort Meade. I did it in Hawaii. Many, many of these individuals were shocked by these programs. They had never seen them themselves. The ones who had said, "You know, you're right... But if you say something about this, they're going to destroy you," Snowden told BBC news. Also during May, 2014, he informed NBC news; "they are trying to play down the totality of my experience, downplaying me as a "low level analyst." I was trained as a spy in the traditional sense of the word in that I lived and worked undercover overseas - pretending to work in a job that I'm not - and even being assigned a name that was not mine." He said, "I kept people secure in the most hostile and dangerous environments around the world. So when they say I'm a low-level systems administrator, that I don't know what I'm talking about, I'd say it's somewhat misleading... I was actually functioning at a very senior level." Elaborating further on system development in an interview with the Guardian press he added, "I began to move from merely overseeing these systems to actively directing their use. Many people don't understand that I was actually an analyst and I designated individuals and groups for targeting." He told Wired Magazine that, "I would sit down with the CIO of the CIA, the CTO of the CIA, the chiefs of all the technical branches. They would tell me their hardest technology problems, and it was my job to come up with a way to fix them."

"Many of us had ethical doubts," recalls Snowden. "Very young analysts, school leavers, were suddenly thrust into a position of extraordinary responsibility, where they now had access to all your private records. In the course of their daily work, they stumble across something that is completely unrelated in any sort of necessary sense - for example, an intimate nude photo of someone in a sexually compromising situation. But they're extremely attractive. So what do they do? They turn around in their chair and they show a co-worker and sooner or later this person's whole life has been seen by all of these other people... (this happened) probably every two months." He stated that nobody cared as this was termed; "fringe benefits of surveillance positions."

NSA Director Keith Alexander estimates Snowden stole between 50,000 and 200,000 NSA documents.

The Australian government estimates 15,000 or more of its intelligence files were taken and the British claim at least 58,000 of theirs. Later U.S. estimates suggested over 1.7 million documents were taken, but as we know within the Bradley Manning case, over charging to secure conviction is a common policy. The Washington Post did report to Congress on the contents of one such cache that Snowden had provided to them concerning homebased NSA operations. It contained; "Approximately 160,000 intercepted e-mail and instant-message conversations, some of them hundreds of pages long, and 7,900 documents taken from more than 11,000 online accounts." Vice News (June, 2014) reported that according to declassified U.S. Defence reports, Snowden had taken 900,000 Department of Defence records in addition to the files he had taken directly from the NSA.

Army General Martin Dempsey (Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff) stated that, "The vast majority of the documents that Snowden exfiltrated from our highest levels of security had nothing to do with exposing government oversight of domestic activities. The vast majority of those were related to our military capabilities, operations, tactics, techniques and procedures."

Retired NSA director, Keith Alexander, added; "I don't think anybody really knows what he actually took with him because of the way he did it. We don't have an accurate way of counting. What we do have is an accurate way of counting what he touched, what he may have downloaded, and that was more than a million documents." Arat confirms that Snowden is adamant on this point. "I did not indiscriminately turn over documents to journalists. I carefully evaluated every single document I disclosed to ensure that each was legitimately in the public interest. There are all sorts of documents that would have made a big impact that I didn't turn over. I have to screen everything before releasing it to journalists. If I have time to go through this information, I would like to make it available to journalists in each country."

NSA Director, U.S. Navy Admiral, Michael S. Rogers, said in June of 2014, that, "while some terrorist groups had altered their communications to avoid surveillance techniques revealed by Snowden, the damage done was not significant enough to conclude that the sky is falling in." He added to this statement the following year, in February, 2015, "Snowden's disclosures have had a material impact on the NSA's ability to generate insights as to what counterterrorism, what terrorist groups around the world are doing."

The Henry Jackson Society (April: 2015) published a report that claimed Snowden's intelligence leaks had negatively impacted national security. The exposure of and fight against terrorism and organised crime in the UK had been hindered. In response, Gus Hosein, (executive director of Privacy International) counteracted these comments most critically saying, "They presume that the public are idiots and that we only became concerned about privacy after Snowden." Arat confirms that "The HJS are nothing less than a bunch of Masonic neoconservatives, a think tank of self-appointed global elitists."

Snowden was permitted temporary leave by the NSA, in Hawaii, for hospital treatment. It was here, in mid-May of 2013, that he gave his first electronic interview to Poitras and Jacob Appelbaum (this was published later in the German press magazine Der Spiegel). He told the reporters that "nothing would stop subsequent disclosures," adding later that, "All I can say right now is the U.S. government is not going to be able to cover this up by jailing or murdering me. Truth is coming, and it cannot be stopped."

Pre-Chapter Five

"The first time I met Snowden was at Sheremetyevo Airport in Russia, twelfth of July, if I remember correctly!" Arat had told me. "There was a joint meeting called by the Russian government. Everybody was there for that, human rights organizations and lawyers, and of course us, ARAT. It was the day Ed announced he was accepting all offers of asylum, stating his application status to Venezuela had been accepted and was now being processed. That was the day we found out that he had requested asylum in Russia, initially until something more came up. Arat also told me that the Russian Federal Migration Service confirmed later on that he had submitted an application for temporary asylum and this was confirmed by Kucherena, his legal representative. She told us, "he wants to find work in Russia, travel and somehow create a life for himself. He said he had already begun to learn Russian."

Arat had spent several days negotiating with Snowden deciding on what and how the PING files could be leaked. "One jet had already come down and we were keen to stop a second, though it was soon and most regrettably to become the case as we know," he said. "The NSA was keen to stop the information being released at any cost." "Any cost?" I enquired. "Yes, any," he stated. I asked, "Why would they keep this information secret... I mean if they knew that the technology existed to hypnotise pilots to the extent that they would crash their own planes, killing everybody on board? Why the secrecy? Surely the world and his dog would want to know?" Arat was informative, though cautions, with his reply. I had the definite feeling he was holding back on me.

"They fucked up," he exclaimed. "They lost our own tech', technology that was later used against us in return. They (the NSA and European counterparts) were using small drones to attack Wi-Fi signals of known Al-Qaeda operatives, identified as part of their global surveillance programmes. These were very small scale military quad copters that were flown within range of a known shadow dwelling. The Wi-Fi signal was bombarded with encrypted codes that embedded themselves into the user's hardware configurations. It was a software programme that was completely covert, untraceable. Subliminally, the user was exposed to what can only be described as utter insanity. The airborne drones as we know them, the big stuff, yes; it's great for precision bombing, indeed most effective. But this is useless in densely populated areas. There was so much negativity toward the drone campaigns; too many innocents getting killed and they had to clean their act up. That is to say if they wanted the world to continue to back the war on terror. So they used these quad copters instead and they worked, most efficiently."

I probed further. "You mean to say Arat, that they deliberately, wilfully, drove people to insanity by bombarding them with hi-frequency radio waves...?" "Yes, but much more than that," he continued. "Snowden confirmed 13 suicides of known high profile Al-Qaeda operatives during 2011, alone. In the period 2006 – 2013, we know that at least 29 died. They were attacked night after night, for months on end without reprieve, but it worked." "So how is this connected to PING?" I asked in return, and most intrigued. "They got one in the end, one of them crashed and was carcased. They were only small craft, like a flying laptop with four rotors. It was inevitable really that one day one would go down." Arat went on to explain how, after falling into enemy hands, the quad copter had been de-encrypted and the codes accordingly broken. He later explained that the technology used to trace the killers of the lion, Cecil, were caught by software; also now known to be in the hands of Al-Qaeda and ISIS.

Most of us were heartbroken when we first heard of the killing of Cecil. You must have been living on the moon to have missed the global reporting of the incident during July this year (2015). He was a 13-year-old male Panthera Leo Bleyenberghi (Southwest African) lion who lived in the Hwange National Park (Matabeleland North) in Zimbabwe. Not only was he a major tourist attraction in the region, but as part of a large scale lion study he was also being studied and tracked by the University of Oxford.

Walter Palmer, an American recreational big-game hunter, shot and wounded Cecil with an arrow on the 1st of July. Cecil was hunted down by Palmer, and after 40 hours of agonised suffering, killed with a rifle. The killing sparked outrage among animal conservationists, politicians and celebrities. Palmer became the victim of a hate campaign and went into hiding. Two other men who assisted him were already being prosecuted and the Zimbabwean government has stated it will seek Palmer's extradition from the U.S. to face trial alongside them.

The connection here is the hardware systems that were used to catch Palmer in the act. The system known as air shepherd drones is also used to monitor other rare wildlife too. Just as trophy hunters seek lion pelts, elephants and rhinos are slaughtered for their tusks in equal numbers. Elephant ivory is carved into trinkets, a demand led by China and the United States. A single horn can be worth more than $75,000 (USD). A rhino's horns (for medical use within alternative medicines) value is similar: $65,000 per kilo. Notably, the illegal horn, ivory and pelt trade now has more value in it than gold mining, generating extraordinary profits for the criminal gangs involved. Gangs are ruthless, and hundreds of park rangers have now been killed in attempts to protect these endangered species. A great toll not only on the animals but on the local communities too, due to corruption and the lure of big money.

Poachers will, undoubtedly, always operate under the cover of night, so researchers and conservationists have been experimenting with unmanned aerial vehicles (UAVs) fitted with infrared cameras and GPS. They send back to base thermal images of both the animals and the poachers. These invisible, electric silent drones provide all the information operators need to quickly identify poachers at the scene and rapidly notify and engage local rangers to respond. Where drones have been used, rangers have mostly been deployed on scene before the animal has been killed. Indeed, in one area alone where as many as 19 rhinos were killed every month, there have been no reported rhino deaths in the following six month period.

Researchers at the University of Maryland have developed the world's most effective supercomputer-based capability. A programme that now predicts where poachers are likely to be so that drones can be launched most accurately. This was born out of research gained from both the Iraq and Afghanistan wars, where the capability to predict where roadside bombs would be placed was proved accurate within 93% of occasions. This same tried and tested formula is what is now being applied to poaching patterns and recognition systems. But in the case of Cecil, further systems were employed. Electronic heart monitors and CCTV systems were deployed by the University of Oxford whilst tracking him. As soon as Cecil's heart stopped, it triggered a microscopic camera which was attached to his collar, which in turn directly communicated with the drone. First hand and invaluable evidence was recorded of his killing. Many of these micro-cameras have been harmlessly drilled into and fitted within the horns of rhinos and the tusks of elephants alike, all in an effort to save the species from extinction. These post-mortem recordings along with pre-mortem tracking data present irrefutable evidence of the poacher's involvement in the crime.

It was all very interesting, but how did systems developed for the monitoring of and conservation of wildlife in Africa connect with PING? What Arat told me made me shudder to the bone. "We used to take out the shadow operatives, the enemy target if you will, by simply dropping a laser guided bomb from a big UAV flying at a very great height. Entire terrorist cells could be killed, wiped out by operatives monitoring the UAV on screens back in America. We could operate a whole bombing campaign without ever putting a single boot down in the same country. So they got wise. Al-Qaeda moved into the cities to take cover in densely populated areas. That's why we used the mini-drones, the quad copters, in an effort to minimise civilian deaths, to attack them, the marks, mentally and psychologically from within their own homes."

So what had gone wrong? Arat went on to inform that after the 9/11 attacks on the Twin Towers, New York City, Osama bin Mohammed bin Awad bin Laden had claimed responsibility. This I well knew, and at the time, I felt quite patronised. Bin Laden was the head of the Al Qaeda global terrorist network, a Saudi Arabian and member of the wealthy Bin Laden family. He was an ethnic Yemeni Kindite. He had also claimed responsibility for numerous other mass-casualty attacks, both civilian and military.

From 2001 to 2011 (he was killed by U.S. Marines on May 2nd, 2011), Bin Laden was the single and uppermost target of the War on Terror. A reward of $25 million was placed on his head by the FBI. Bin Laden was shot and killed inside a private residential compound in Abbottabad. The compound was stormed on the direct orders of President Barack Obama and was conducted covertly on Pakistani sovereign territory by members of the United States Naval Special Warfare Development Group and Central Intelligence Agency; SAD/SOG operators. Bin Laden, the FBI's most wanted man, died aged 54, shortly after 1:00 am, local time.

Operation Neptune Spear, as ordered by the U.S. President, was carried out by the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA) and utilised a team of highly skilled United States Naval Special Warfare DEVelopment GRoUp known as DEVGRU. Informally, we know them as SEAL Team Six. Joint Special Operations Command for the mission was supported by CIA operatives on the ground and the raid on bin Laden's compound consisted of the use of two Black Hawk helicopters (with additional covering craft), from within Afghanistan. Bin Laden was executed during the raid. Special Forces had taken the body back to Afghanistan for formal identification and had afterward buried it at sea, as Islamic culture requires, within 24 hours of his death.

Arat went on to explain further. "The compound was inside a walled community, the Hawks had to get in close, stealth, without prior warning and drop the Seals in. There was a Pakistan military base within a few miles, to the north, and time was of the essence. Several other craft waited at the border in case a later rescue mission was required, but the two Hawks entered Pakistani airspace alone. One of the Black Hawks collided with the high parameter wall but no one was injured although the helicopter was unable to take off afterward. Following mission protocol, it was destroyed to prevent enemy allied forces obtaining secret U.S. technology. Or so we thought."

"Or so you thought?" I enquired. "Yes, it soon came to light that the very same system that identified the killers of Cecil the lion was now in the hands of our enemies," Arat replied. "They soon broke into our software programmes. Not only had they previously acquired a microcopter drone and all the data they needed to understand and decode the system, they now had ultimate protection from attack, protection we had unwittingly given them." "I don't understand," I said. "It's all most interesting but how did this lead to Al Qaeda operatives being protected?" Arat went on. "Manning identified that fail-safe systems from the Hawk were in their (the enemy's) possession. All Seals on this mission were fitted with advanced technology; heart monitors and GPS tracking. It was usful in case something went wrong. We could locate them easily and therefore rescue them." "And?" I asked. "What on earth has this got to do with Cecil the lion; and rhinos and elephants in Africa?" He spelt it out for me. "If the Marine's heart stops, say that they've been killed during the mission, it sends out an emergency single. All sound and video recordings are transmitted to the Hawk flight deck along with all recorded tracking data. The pilot can then take control and guide troops in to recover the body. After it is transmitted all digital copies on the devices of the dead personnel are deleted to prevent the enemy obtaining our data; and when I say deleted, I mean, totally deleted. The device, the minicomputer, it self-destructs."

The connection was now clear. To avoid missile strikes from UAVs, Al Qaeda had moved into highly populated areas, and to solve this new problem, U.S tactics had turned to mini-drones, quad copters that could brainwash through digital repetition of localised Wi-Fi systems - quite unnoticed. But new technology obtained as a direct result of the downed Hawk at the Bin Laden compound had now allowed Al Qaeda operatives to know post mortem detonate. Arat summed it up as this. "Imagine you have a suicide bomber approaching you. If you don't act, eventually they self-detonate and kill everyone around them. But here's the new problem; they are now fitted with micro-commuters, chips that activate a detonation regardless of us, killing them first. As soon as their heart stops, they explode. The mini-drones are useless now. As soon as we push them to suicide they explode taking out the whole neighbourhood block with them. Their apartments are rigged to destroy everything within a half mile radius. That's not all. They're now using our own codes against us. Somewhere somebody out there has embedded hardware that can manipulate a pilot's mind so much that he will choose to down his own airline... it's happened twice already. We fucked up, that's why they wanted it kept quiet, and we gave the enemy everything they needed to break us."

The United States government has attacked hundreds of targets in Northwest Pakistan since 2004 using drones controlled by the Central Intelligence Agency's Special Activities Division. The attacks have been mostly in the Federally Administered Tribal Areas along the Afghan border. President George W. Bush approved the first tactical use of drones as a pre-emptive strike weapon, a campaign most vigorously pursued by his successor, Barack Obama. A defensive mission often referred to in the media simply as "drone war." Initially the Bush administration officially denied the full extent of its activity but in May, 2013, President Obama acknowledged that four US citizens had been killed in such a drone strike. Needless to say, Pakistan now maintains a considerable negative perception of the United States due to the high death toll of unarmed civilians caught up in the attacks. Snowden confirmed that U.S. intelligence estimated that between 286 and 890 civilians have been killed. Of these casualties, 168 to 197 are believed to have been children. It is noted that the killing of unarmed combatants, in this way, may also amount to war crimes under international law.

Nawaz Sharif, the Pakistani Prime-minister, has demanded an end to the strikes, saying, "The use of drones is not only a continual violation of our territorial integrity but also detrimental to our resolve and efforts at eliminating terrorism from our country." The High Court in Peshawar has ruled the attacks both illegal and inhumane, stating that Pakistan considers this a violation of the Universal Declaration on Human Rights, and constitutes war crimes against its civilians. The CIA naturally disagrees, stating instead that "the method of attack is both precise and effective."

Editor-in-chief, Alan Rusbridger (The Guardian, UK) said during November 2013, that Snowden had only leaked one percent of secret NSA documents for press publication. "I'm telling you now," stated Arat to me that day, "by far, the worst is yet to come."

Pre-Chapter Six

It was at times hard to find out who the actually enemy was when talking with Arat. It was abundantly clear he had no intention of telling me everything that I wanted to know. I chose my moment carefully before suggesting "If you are part of a secret off-radar team of assassins who gather intelligence covertly from spies within the secret service internationally why don't you just kill Ed Snowdon then? After all, his disclosures have in reality done nothing but cause tensions between the U.S. and the rest of the world. What good did he think would come of informing Brazil, France, Mexico, Britain, China, Germany, and Spain that he'd spent years spying on them?" Arat laughed, and jumped in with the words, "as well as 35 world leaders..." He reminded me that German Chancellor Angela Merkel was quoted by international press, saying; "spying among friends was quite unacceptable." It did seem apparent that the NSA had behaved in the same way as the East German Communists, the Stasi, and it seemed quite hypocritical to expect to merely get away it. I said; "Did you find any secret photographs of her dressed up as a reptilian then?" now laughing at the irony of David Icke's reptoid hypothesis theory and how the NSA could now presumably debunk his life's work at the touch of a button: this given the degree of intrusion into our world leaders' lives now admittedly made. Leaked documents published by Der Spiegel in 2014 suggested that "122 high ranking leaders" were in fact targeted by NSA surveillance. Arat joined my folly by adding, "No; I'm not aware of any reptilians on the scene these days, but I must say I did see a rather cute little photo of the first lady..." – "STOP!" I demanded. "Honestly Arat" I said, interrupting him mid-flow. "That'll be far too much information. I like Mitchell, just leave it there shall we?"

I reminded him that he hadn't actually answered the question, "why don't you just kill Ed Snowdon then?" He informed me that Snowden was not the enemy. Indeed it was ARAT's mission to protect him at all cost. "So who is the enemy?" I asked? And the reply was straight to the point, as ever, when trying to discover the finer details. There never were any finer details, just factual accounts. "The enemy is the all seeing eye. It's the system of surveillance, not the people. The NSA doesn't know who the enemy is anymore. We're all so paranoid and insecure and because our enemies don't wear uniforms, we rely on the intel to inform us. The real enemy is the one that's manipulating the intelligence files we have."

"You still haven't answered the question Arat." I frustratingly asked him again for a succinct answer that I could understand. "I can tell you everything if you want," he affirmed, "but I will have to kill you afterward!" I sensed that he wasn't necessarily joking and this was the second perceived threat administered against my own life, and as much as he seemed to now like our conversation on this day, I was a collateral loss easily met. I soon began to remember my place. He was here to gain my co-operation and nothing more. He told me about the top secret Black Budget that was now completely uncovered due to Snowden supplying it for publication in The Washington Post. It exposed both successes and failures of sixteen directly linked NSA spy agencies within the wider U.S. intelligence community. The NSA was paying private technology companies to supply "clandestine access" to their global communication networks with tax-payer dollars. The list was endless. The corporate names that Arat told me literally blew my mind away. In 2103 alone, the private contractors referred to as the agencies were given $52 billion USD.

The 'SIGINT Strategy: 2012-2016', was a National Security Agency mission statement that confirmed plans for continued expansion of surveillance operations. It stated "to dramatically increase mastery of the global network... to acquire the capabilities to gather intelligence on anyone, anytime, anywhere." The objectives were later published in the book 'No Place to Hide; Greenwald (2014). The NSA had stated its sole purpose for surveillance concerning both world governments and civilians, was to; "Collect it All, Process it All, Exploit it All, Partner it All, Sniff it All and Know it All." This had included industrial espionage. Snowden confirmed in a January 2014 interview with German television that "If there's information at Siemens that's beneficial to U.S. national interests - even if it doesn't have anything to do with national security - they'll take that information nevertheless." The NSA does not limit its data collection to national security. "Do you know who makes flight management systems for our airliners?" Arat asked me. "I have a feeling you're going to say Siemens aren't you?" was my reply.

A flight management system (FMS) - a specialised computer system that automates all in-flight tasks - is the driving force behind all conventional airliner avionics. The modern systems are so efficient planes no longer require flight engineers or navigators. It uses various sensors, GPS and INS, and often old fashioned radio navigation to determine position. Controlled with a cockpit Control Display Unit (CDU), it's merely a small touchscreen (older systems still incorporate a separate keyboard). The flight plan is sent via the PING (Pre-installed Navigation Guide) to the Electronic Flight Instrument System (EFIS) and accessed thereafter through a dash mounted Navigation Display (ND) system. The most recent advances include on-board Multifunction Feed Display (MFD) that incorporates an embedded hardware PING, replacing the earlier software versions.

It was the manufacturer, Boeing, who in 1982 was the first to recognise the need to update the earlier and basic computerised navigation systems that existed at the time, installing newer equipment in their new range of Boeing 767s. Today, even aircraft as small as the hugely successful Cessna 182, include embedded PING-FMS systems, and all FMS systems now contain a PING navigation database. These are defined via the ARINC 424 standard and are remotely updated by engineers every 28 days. This data consists of all global waypoints and air-intersections and the authorised airways (the road map of the sky) in which the airliner can lawfully operate. The data comes from radio navigation and distance measuring equipment (DME), VHF omnidirectional range (VOR), non-directional beacons (NDBs) and instrument landing systems (ILSs) and includes a list of all airports and runways, as well as holding patterns (entered by air traffic control or at the pilot's discretion). As standard, the data comprises approach, arrival, and airport departure information.

Additionally to all present data, the pilot(s) can install any other pre-flight information relevant to management such as gross weight, fuel weight and centre of gravity, and will include initial take-off cruise altitude. The main advantage of the new system is to eliminate any excessive or confusing information known as HMI (Hazardously Misleading Information) which has led to numerous cases of pilot error, some fatal. In military aircraft the FMS will also calculate in-flight rendezvous points needed for mid-air refuelling and also calculate air release points (CARP) necessary for accurate parachuting. Sophisticated larger civilian craft such as the Airbus A320 or Boeing 737 now use full performance Vertical Navigation (VNAV). The system will predict and optimize the vertical path, pitch axis and throttle control. In order for the FMS to accomplish these tasks, it must have a detailed flight and engine model only available from the manufacturer. Aircraft become lighter as they burn fuel, the higher the cruise altitude the more efficient it becomes, and a system of step climbs facilitates this. VNAV can determine where the step (aka cruise climbs where the aircraft drifts up) should be. The expense of the system is soon off-set against the costs of minimising fuel consumption. Aircraft flight management is now so advanced that a pilot is not required at all.

"And that's how it all started," Arat confirmed. "Why was the NSA conducting industrial espionage in Germany? What interest had it in hacking into Siemens data and cracking other flight management systems? That's how we made the link. Bradley Manning was good, but it was Snowden who gave us the hard evidence to prove it. It wasn't the NSA anymore, but somebody or something above it. That's when world governments came together to form ARAT, though they'll all deny it," he laughed. "We are here to oversee and control the overseers." He went on to explain that the Illuminati had only served to maintain its global elite and power base, often to the benefit of nation states given the ready supply of ground breaking leaps in modern technology. This elite group of powers controlled events solely to play "enemy off against enemy," he said. "They worked the lower tiers off against each other, a very satisfying mutual arrangement between dominating world powers. They would remain rich and stay in control, above the reach of international law, but now there was a new kid on the block. The new players had arrived. Just as Al-Qaeda had evolved from disaffected members of the Mujahedeen, a CIA creation, ISIS have now evolved from Al Qaeda. Just as the Illuminati evolved from Freemasonry, have now the Gabrielites evolved from within the Illuminati."

We started to talk about the conspiracy theories behind the 9/11 attacks of 2001. It was, at the time, quite a logical connection. "No" he said to me most adamantly. "What you see is what you get. There were no conspirators on our side behind 9/11. It's simply not possible. Have you any idea how many people would have to be silenced in order to keep that one down; literally tens of thousands. No! - But we believe that there was an Illuminati conspiracy that led to the killers entering the cockpits in the first place." "Illuminati and not Gabrielites you say, Arat?" I asked. "Too early, much too early," he replied. "That death cult didn't begin to appear until at least 2011. The Illuminati were there on 9/11, yes, but we do believe that the Gabrielites were behind Malaysia Airlines Flight 17. It crashed on the 17th July, 2014 following a routine scheduled international flight from Amsterdam to Kuala Lumpur, killing all 283 passengers and 15 crew on board. 9/11 and that one had a single commonality: both were designed to create an international incident that would result in war. Al Qaeda, though most irritating, were small fish, they could never take on the full might of all-out warfare, but here this was different. These were existing superpowers being played off against each other: America, Russia and the European Union."

The crash occurred during the battle of Shakhtarsk Raion, in Donbass, an area controlled by the Donbass People's Militia. German intelligence sources immediately backed up America's position, confirming it had been shot down from rebel held positions using a SA-11 (a Buk surface-to-air missile). Russia responded by claiming that pro-Russian insurgents from Ukraine had not fired any rockets at civilian aircraft, and blamed the Ukrainian government for the tragedy. The Boeing 777-200ER airliner crashed near Torez, in the Donetsk Oblast, Ukraine, 25 miles from Russia on the Ukraine border. The Dutch Safety Board is currently leading an investigation into the incident. A final accident report is expected later this year in October 2015.

"The 2001 September 11th attacks are believed to have involved others in addition to al-Qaeda, but not in the way contemporary 'Truthers' interpret it." He excitedly continued. "Government and countless independent investigations found no evidence to support these conspiracy theories. So the Truthers, and other wacko groups, they create a conspiracy to explain the absence of a conspiracy, and so on. At the end of the day, Jonathan, people love a good story; do you think anyone would buy newspapers if they stuck to the truth? No, of course not. There were no inconsistencies in the official conclusions and evidence was, most categorically, never ignored or overlooked. This is what happens. As soon as people start to believe in something, there's no stopping them. Take the Illuminati for example. They exist, this is fact, but before long people went to the next level, they had to believe that they were lizards from another planet. It's laughable, isn't it...? And it's the same with 9/11. We know that an Illuminati conspiracy led to the attacks, but to suggest that the U.S. government was involved, is quite simply farcical."

He continued. "The collapse of the Twin Towers and 7 World Trade Centre was the result of a controlled demolition. That's what these idiots believe, not us. So let's get this right; The U.S. government wipes billions of US dollars off its own economy just to start a fight with a bunch of despot Middle Eastern regimes? Ridiculous! If that was the plan then a single jumbo jet into the Pentagon would have sufficed. That in itself was a sufficient act of war to justify military intervention. It was structural failure, nothing more and that's it. If you fly a jumbo jet laden with fuel into the side of a building then expect it to collapse afterward - end of! To suggest that the Pentagon was hit with a missile or commercial airliner whilst U.S. military stood down... well, we soon find ourselves back to lizard queens again, don't we? So, not only the whole government, but now the entire military and CIA are involved. Wow, that's some cover up to keep quiet isn't it? Think about it. It would involve every country in the world. When Malaysia Airlines Flight 370 disappeared during March 2014, the whole world began looking for it. None of our airspace is private. You can't just stand the U.S. army down and let a rocket hit unnoticed. Air traffic is monitored worldwide. The British, Germans, French, they would all have seen it."

Motives for a cover up include a justification to militarily invade Afghanistan and Iraq, even though the United States government, by their own admissions, have for the record stated unequivocally that Iraq was not involved. Many add geostrategic interests to this theory. A desire by the U.S. to build natural gas pipelines through Afghanistan and others now revolve around the central theme of prior knowledge of the planned attacks. Furthermore and astonishingly, the U.S. is accused of assisting the attackers. Truthers seem quite unable to accept the fact that NIST (National Institute of Standards and Technology) and other community driven publications, such as Popular Mechanics Magazine, have all fully investigated the collapse of the towers. The civil engineering community backed up the conclusion of the 9/11 Commission (chaired by Governor Thomas Kean) and accepted that the "impacts of jet aircraft at high speeds in combination with subsequent fires, not controlled demolition, led to the collapse of the Twin Towers."

"All sources, worldwide, conclude that al-Qaeda crashed United Airlines Flight 175 and American Airlines Flight 11 into the twin towers of the World Trade Centre and American Airlines Flight 77 into the Pentagon," Arat said in enforcing his positon on these points to me. "What we need to be concerned about is who put Al Qaeda in the cockpit... and until we flush them out, we will never know who was working above Bin Laden." He added that the final target of United Airlines Flight 93, the only airliner of the four that did not reach its target, would probably never be known, but it is reasonable to suggest it was; 'The White House'. Flight 93 crashed into a field near Shanksville, Pennsylvania, after passengers and crew fought bravely to regain control from the hijackers.

The flight data recorder was recovered on September 13th, and one day later the cockpit voice recorder found, buried 25 feet below ground. Though initially reluctant, on the 18th April, 2002, the FBI allowed relatives of the victims to listen to the final recordings in a closed session. The transcript was publicly released on 12th April, 2006, following the trial of Zacarias Moussaoui who had conspired but failed to complete his own 9/11 Al Qaeda mission.

Pre-Chapter Seven

I was never a believer in 9/11 conspiracy theories. I had never believed in a lizard queen either. My opinion had always been one based on pure reason and sanity. If it cannot be explained by the gathering of sound solid fact, then I am not going to waste my life making up the bits that now fit best. It was totally illogical that the U.S. government had been behind the events of 9/11. As said previously, only one plane would have been necessary and if that had been flight 93, crashed before hitting its White House target, well then, there it is. Sufficient justification for war was already established.

The most laughable conspiracy theories started to emerge in media outlets around commemorations of the fifth anniversary of the attack. An article in Time Magazine stating; "this is not a fringe phenomenon. It is a mainstream political reality." Surveys then released had suggested that over 26% of American citizens believed that; "certain elements in the U.S. government knew the attacks were coming but consciously let them proceed for various political, military and economic reasons." What I find even more amazing to absorb is that nearly 5% of Americans today still believe that "certain U.S. Government elements actively planned or assisted some aspects of the attacks." Still today people like Steven E. Jones and Mike Berger maintain that a conspiracy was not only forged but that the death of Osama bin Laden only served to reinforce their belief in it.

Truthers argue that there are two distinct types of 9/11 conspiracy that split opinion. The first is those who 'let it happen on purpose' (the LIHOPs), and the second 'made it happen on purpose' (the MIHOPs). The first group suggest that key personnel within the government circles had prior intelligence concerning the attacks and chose to ignore it, even suggesting further that they actively weakened America's defences to facilitate it. Unsurprisingly, many of these wackos hold the same view concerning Japanese attacks on Pearl Harbour during WW2. The latter group (MIHOP) claim direct U.S. involvement, suggesting that U.S. officials collaborated with and even afterward framed members of Al Qaeda. Neither position has ever been substantiated by any credible expert opinion. I for one certainly don't recall Al Qaeda ever denying their involvement in it. Do you? No! It is all utter garbage and I was so pleased to hear Arat confirm this to me. If you don't mind I'll waste no more time on it, other than to link the behaviour of many 9/11 conspiracy theorists to their roots in anti-Semitism.

Many Truthers claim that Israeli agents had foreknowledge of the attacks. The FBI had, just four hours after the attack, arrested five Israelis for filming the smoking skyline. They had been apprehended on the testimony of a bystander who said, "They were like happy, you know ... They didn't look shocked to me. I thought it was very strange." Following the release of the five for their "puzzling behaviour," this was the account given of one of the officers involved. The story soon became hugely over-exaggerated. To my own surprise, whilst working overseas in 2011 (ten years after the event), a Bulgarian colleague informed me that he believed, "All Jews took the day off work that day. That's why none were killed." This was by all accounts the opinion of an intelligent man. When I informed Arat of this is he just laughed along with me, and said; "They'll believe in anything won't they? It'll be communists in outer space next..." The names of nearly four thousand victims murdered that day debugs this stupidity immediately. The Anti-Defamation League (ADL) published a report in 2003 attacking such hateful beliefs, concluding that "they serve only to rationalise and fuel global anti-Semitism." Sadly Arat and I spent far too much time talking about how such beliefs still remain widely accepted today in both Islamic and Christian cultures alike.

What we know for fact is that Al Qaeda operatives were in the cockpits, and the first thing that they did after taking control from the crew was to disable the on-board transponders of all four airlines. Without this system, the airplane's tail numbers, altitudes and speeds could not be identified. These four blips among 4,500 others that day were not recognisable on NORAD's (North American Aerospace Defence Command) radar screens. They quite simply went off radar. It was the proponents of a new world order that had put these terrorists in our skies. More terrifyingly, Arat concluded "And here we are today in exactly the same position, but now they don't even need to step onto the plane in order to control it. Imagine what will happen when manufacturers install PING systems on warships and nuclear submarines? We will be just one digital transmission away from Armageddon."

UN High Commissioner for Human Rights (Navi Pillay) demanded that the U.S. abandon its effort to prosecute Snowden in the July of 2014. Pillay stated at a news conference held in Geneva that "his leaks were in the public interest." "We have to inform the public now without delay," Arat demanded. "And this book is the only way to do it. I know it is a lot to ask but there is no other way. They are everywhere. We have to flush them out, into the open, by playing them off against each other. World leaders, politicians, civil servants and the military, if they are not Freemason or Illuminati then they are most definitely Gabriel Sect."

I had little choice but to help. If manipulating the publishing of the sects Definitive Edition was required, then do it I would. He told me I would have to disappear into non-personship. Police protection would not protect me for ever. The Gabrielites would find me eventually. I would now, without delay, have to join him in ARAT at the risk of my whole existence being wiped clean.

It's not difficult to brainwash the weak willed individual or the power crazed hungerer into a cult, or any other system of deluded belief; even political ideologies. The concept of brainwashing was vigorously re-examined following the Korean War of 1956. The U.S. Army investigated the systematic interrogation, indoctrination and exploitation of prisoners, concluding that "brainwashing was a popular misconception". The report stated, "exhaustive research of several government agencies failed to reveal even one conclusively documented case of brainwashing of an American prisoner of war in Korea."

Prisoners here were not brainwashed but brutalised into submission. U.S. prisoners of war were starved, beaten and forced onto prolonged death marches. They were left exposed to extremes of temperature, were bound up in stress positions and denied medical care. It was found that the abuse had "no indoctrination in which North Korea had a particular interest." It was pointless brutality among which was the "most insidious" Chinese technique of "false friendship." Convivial displays of false friendship were used to persuade some prisoners to make anti-American statements. Some even refused repatriation and remained in China long after the war ended. Some still remain to this day.

Upon capture the Chinese would welcome the prisoner with a rigorous handshake, or pat on the back. They would introduce themselves as friends of the American workers. They would not search the prisoners but instead offer them cigarettes. The prisoner soon believed the enemy to be sincere and harmless. The Chinese caught most American prisoners by complete surprise and thus easily lulled into a well-conceived trap. Most studies concluded, however, that if brain washing did exist it had at best "just a transient effect." By 1999, Dick Anthony, a renowned American forensic psychologist concluded in his papers on the subject that "the CIA had invented the concept of brainwashing as a propaganda strategy" to undermine opinion that American soldiers would ever voluntarily express sympathy for communism. It was concluded that books written by famed names such as Edward Hunter served only to push false CIA brainwashing theory into the public arena and to reinforce their own (U.S) anti-socialist propaganda. Hunter was later identified as a "CIA psychological warfare specialist posing as a journalist." Both the CIA and U.S. Defence Department conducted top secret research into practical brainwashing techniques; the results remain unknown, but the project was identified as Project MKULTRA.

It was theory in regard to new religious movements (NRMs) however that Arat and I discussed the most that day. We failed to agree on whether the Gabrielites were a death cult or a religious cult, or indeed both. If a provoked apocalypse was the intention then what would be the point? They would all die along with us, their victims. Did they genuinely believe that Gabriela was a prophet of God and that they would all live happily ever after in the new darkness of their creation?

It was always popular, during the 1970s, to blame recruitment into cults on brainwashing. Most organised anti-cult movements blamed this on mind control theories. Sudden and dramatic religious conversion to a multitude of popular NRMs had to be blamed on something. Psychologists soon started to develop more sophisticated models of brainwashing and the media were quick to catch on. Some psychologists were receptive to these new theories, but others, such as main stream sociologists, remained sceptical. Acclaimed writer, Philip Zimbardo, states that brainwashing is, "the process by which individual or collective freedom of choice and action is compromised by agents or agencies that modify or distort perception, motivation, affect, cognition and/or behavioural outcomes." The human being is most susceptible to such manipulation, he states.

Another researcher and writer, Margaret Singer (in the book Cults in Our Midst), describes six conditions in which thought reform and de-individualisation is possible. The American Psychological Association (APA: 1983) invited her to chair a new working group and think tank; Deceptive and Indirect Techniques of Persuasion and Control (DIMPAC). Its conclusion was not what you would have expected. In asking the question; "did brainwashing or coercive persuasion play a role in recruitment to NRMs?" they concluded that "The APA denies the credibility of single brainwashing theory" but recognises that "intense pressure by a consortium of pro-religion scholars" was applied to its/their members. Singer's theories regarding coercive persuasion, and her six identified stages of brainwash theory, were found to be lacking in empirical proof. On 11th of May, 1987, the APA Board of Social and Ethical Responsibility for Psychology rejected the DIMPAC report due to it "lacking the scientific rigour and even-handed critical approach necessary for APA recognition."

Singer sued for "defamation, fraud, aiding and abetting and conspiracy," but lost her case against the APA in 1992. Benjamin Beit-Hallahmi and Jeffery D. Fisher provided expert witness against her and were most critical of her "unrecognized theoretical concept." They argued that Singer's reasoning was so flawed that it was "almost ridiculous."

We debated mind control theory for a considerable time, Arat and I. It was true to say that researchers such as James Richardson had observed that cults had not been successful in maintaining new membership. It is argued that if cults were so successful in brainwashing their recruits, their numbers would surely increase... when now it was obvious that quite the opposite was true. Most cult followers attended for only a limited time before becoming disengaged with the movement. Further, religious sociological experts such as David Bromley and Anson consider mind control theory to be "implausible." Added to the list of renowned anti brainwash theorists are; Thomas Robbins, Massimo Introvigne, Lorne Dawson, Gordon Melton, Marc Galanter and Saul Levine. They, amongst many others, argue that, "there does not exist today, anywhere, any generally accepted scientific theory, based upon sound methodologically research that supports the brainwashing theories as advanced by the anti-cult movements of the 1970s and 80s."

It seemed to me that it was obvious that some form of brainwashing or mind control had to exist, at least at an objective level. I can see that it is not a process that can be directly observed, but surely the testimonials of many former cult leaders and members who attest to its existence, in interviews, is way too large to be anything other than a genuine phenomenon. I am not alone in this as I see this viewpoint is supported by psychologist and cult specialist Benjamin Zablocki. Zablocki points out that religious sociologists have unfairly denied, and effectively blacklisted, mind control theory from the field of sociology. The two most prestigious United States journals dedicated to the sociology of religion have never printed any articles concerning religious cults' techniques in brainwashing. In contrast, many other journals marginal to the field publish many hundreds. Zablocki concludes that "the concept of brainwashing has been religion."

Others suggest that brainwash theory still exists today only in order to justify costly interventions. The need for deprogramming and movement exit counselling. Much criticism is directed at some medical professionals, including Singer, who have accepted high fee expert witness status in court cases concerning NRMs. Sociologist Eileen Barker, in her 1984 book (The Making of a Moonie: Choice or Brainwashing), argues that she studied the Unification Church for over seven years. She interviewed in-depth both current and ex-members and also those who had declined to join. She also interviewed parents, spouses and friends of the religious cult's membership. Further, she attended workshops and communal facilities quite openly. Barker rejects brainwashing. She wrote; "it explains neither the many people who attended a recruitment meeting and did not become members, nor the voluntary disaffiliation of other members."

So how does this explain the absolute brutality and cruelty of the Gabrielites? In many ways brainwash theory becomes irrelevant, doesn't it? Membership is a voluntarily process; recruitment consists only of likeminded psychopaths, those with a shared goal. They join freely as they all share a commonality, a desire to kill and torture others. They maintain their silence due to consequence. Not only from external law enforcement but also from within. All organised crime families punish members who inform on others. This is nothing new. The American Mafia (Mob) is a good example of this. We do not make any hint of brainwashing here, but with both examples in mind, both Arat and I agreed; as revolting as they are, the Gabrielites consist only of organised criminality. They are not a religious cult but purely a homicidal death religion. A cult that is no longer too small to be of insignificance, but now, ever expanding and increasing in influence; a murderous movement.

Dutch psychiatrist, Joost Meerloo, was a proponent of the menticide (neolism: the killing of the mind) concept. He was the author of the bestselling book 'The Rape of the Mind' (1956). His views were influenced by the Nazi occupation of his homeland during WW2. After the war he emigrated to the USA, and later taught at Columbia University. In his book he concludes; "The modern techniques of brainwashing and menticide, those perversions of psychology, can bring almost any man into submission and surrender. Many of the victims of thought control, brainwashing and menticide, that we have talked about, were strong men whose minds and wills were broken and degraded. But although the totalitarians use their knowledge of the mind for vicious and unscrupulous purposes, our democratic society can, and must, use its knowledge to help man to grow, to guard his freedom, and to understand himself."

The crime of plagio is a crime consisting of the absolute psychological and physical domination of another person. It has long caused controversy in Italy. Such domination by another leads to the final annihilation of the subject's freedom and self-determination, the complete negation of his or her personality. The concept of parental alienation has long been recognised in child custody battles here, in the U.K., and globally. In such cases one parent will be accused of brainwashing the child in order to reject the other parent. In some extreme noted cases, parental alienation brainwashing is used to coerce the child into make false sexual abuse accusations against the other parent.

In The Science of Thought Control (2004), Kathleen Taylor, a neuroscientist and physiologist suggests that the "neurological bases for reasoning and cognition in the brain and the self are changeable." Describing how neurological pathways include webs of neurons consisting of dendrites, axons, and synapses, she explains that certain brains with more rigid pathways will be less susceptible to fresh creative stimuli. The more rigid the pathway then the lesser the ability for some to rethink situations. Repetition of information to such an individual can lead to brainwashing. Taylor also goes on to advise us that in the temporal lobe, the lability of artistic creativity causes direct spiritual experiences.

Social psychologist, Robert Cialdini, argues in his book 'Influence: The Psychology of Persuasion' (2007), that mind control is possible. It is done through the covert exploitation of the unconscious: the rules that underpin healthy social interaction. In 2009, Daniel Romanovsky (historian) wrote about Nazi brainwashing. He discussed the flood of mass propaganda and systematic re-education, especially in schools, where a whole nation adapted Nazi values of anti-Semitism not popular before the birth of National Socialism.

Would modern corporations really spend billions on advertising if it didn't work? Isn't that brainwashing by repetition? Do they not practice mind control in creating a reliable de-individualised work force which shares the same common values, the creation of a corporate culture within? Isn't mind control just another word for globalisation: a monoculture of producers, consumers and managers? In; Democracy in an Age of Corporate Colonization (1992), Stanley A. Deetz argues this point very well. He says that "self-awareness and self-improvement programs provide corporations with enhanced tools to control the minds of its employees." What about schools? Doesn't modern education contribute as well? It's not hard to understand how Islamic State or Daesh, as they are known locally, manage to manipulate the minds of young recruits. What we all need to understand, now, is who is actually behind the creation of the Islamic State of Iraq and the Levant.

Pre-Chapter Eight

How could the British Prime Minister, David Cameron, justify his recent targeted drone attack on two British citizens, although known to be jihadist, as self-defence? I asked. Arat lent forward to answer me. "There were many questions raised about this – it's a mission creep," he said. "A mission creep – what's that I enquired?" He explained. "He's trying to force a situation in which we have to accept a military solution to the Iraq - Syrian ISIL crisis." He continued...

"The killings of these two Brits in Syria undoubtedly mark a significant departure from convention. It's the first time we've used one of our own missiles, fired from one of our own drones, subsequently and deliberately using it to kill one of our own. This is a first for us; Britain. We have to ask ourselves if this action is lawful, and let's face it, only last year we had a parliamentary vote against military action in Syria. In spite of this, Cameron, our number one, is slowly but surely creeping us into taking engaged military action in the region. He wants a conflict, undoubtedly." "But wasn't it reasonable in self-defence?" I asked. "Justified in preventing terrorist outrages in the UK conducted by Islamic State?" "He may have justified the attack in his Commons statement," Arat replied, "but that doesn't make it legal."

Reyaad Khan and Ruhul Amin were killed near Raqqa on the 21st August, 2015. The Reaper drone that attacked them was controlled from three thousand miles away, back at home at RAF Waddington in Lincolnshire. Notably a third British jihadist, Junaid Hussein, had already been killed by a U.S. controlled drone. British security forces soon released a statement that read "The RAF was acting on intelligence that required a quick response." Arat told me that the Royal Air Force had been carrying out drone attacks for some time. These had been designed to attack ISIS collectively, particularly fighters who were attacking Iraqi army positions in the south or Iraqi Kurdish forces in the north, but he went on to elaborate how this attack was something quite different. "It was Khan they wanted, not Amin." He added. "Amin was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, along with another fighter." All three were killed. The third victim of this attack was not believed to have been British.

As we know, Barack Obama has for long been scrutinised over the legality of drone strikes and the constitutionality of such methods of human destruction. Had the UK also now decided to engage in extrajudicial assassinations? Unlike the USA, there is no constitutional protection for individual British citizens, but this does not detract from the need to acquire the truth. Cameron's argument is based on intelligence that suggested Khan was promoting imminent attacks from abroad, to be carried out in the UK. Therefore self-defence was justified. He states that it was nigh impossible to arrest Khan in Syria and that, as he was not likely to return voluntarily to the UK for trial, killing him was the only option available.

Arat would not accept this reasoned basis for the killing. "The argument is a political one and it concerns only mission creep. He had no parliamentary authority to expand existing airstrikes authorised for Iraq into Syria, none whatsoever. Our mission in Syria was surveillance only \- that was the brief. Weeks ago we discovered that RAF crews were flying joint sorties with American crews. That was bad enough, but now we find out we are pulling the trigger too."

Chris Cole, head of the campaign group, Drone Wars, states that RAF drones flew 40% of their missions over Syria during May 2015 - up from 10% in January. "This was the deliberate killing of a British citizen. It is shocking. We have not seen this before," he said. Director General, Michael Clarke, (Royal United Services Institute) also commented on the attack: "Firstly; this announcement by the prime minister is a big departure in a number of ways. In October Cameron pledged there would be no military operations conducted in Syria, and secondly, this drone strike is the first to have been conducted, apparently, as a targeted assassination." Reyaad Khan, fighting in Syria since November 2013, was presumably the intended target. Clarke continued in his statement to press by adding, "The point is not so much that this man was British but that he was targeted in an area that the U.K does not currently regard, legally, as an operational theatre of war for UK forces. Drones were used for lethal strikes in Afghanistan but only where UK or NATO forces were threatened by fighters on the ground. The government insisted that, unlike CIA drones, they were never used for targeted assassinations in territories where we were not militarily engaged."

"So what does all this add up to then, Arat," I asked. "Are you suggesting that the British PM is a cold blooded murderer?" "Nothing that simple," he replied. "I'm telling you that he is just a puppet in a much bigger conspiracy, dark forces at work behind the hands of many world leaders. Perhaps he has lied to us, or perhaps he was blackmailed, we don't know, but we do know that he wasn't in control of that drone. So ask yourself who was? We're talking about a movement that has downed at least two civilian airliners without a moment's hesitation; do you really believe that this hardware system (PING) isn't now installed in military systems too?" I fell back into my armchair in a dread-filled silence as he concluded. "We've lost control. Software can be repaired, reprogrammed, updated... but hardware is exactly that. Fixed. Since Snowden and Manning went off radar, we can't get hold of the necessary leaks to form an accurate picture, but ARAT believes, quite unequivocally, that the British PM, David Cameron, is holding out on the truth..."

To what degree brainwashing or mind control had been used to recruit the British Jihadists, we do not know, but it is certain that they did travel to Syria to fight against their birth nation, the UK, and did so quite voluntarily. Why would they choose to join a group so infamous for brutal beheadings, for mass murder and torture and the complete denial of human rights? A group that is also responsible for the systematic destruction of our ancient cultural heritage, a catalogue of terrorist attacks, unlawful territorial gains and the seizure of numerous oil fields. We talked at length about ISIL or ISIS as they are now more commonly referred to, The Islamic State of Iraq and Syria.

Islamic State is a Salafi jihadi extremist group. A self-proclaimed militant caliphate led by Sunni Arabs: Sunni Muslims who have lived in the region of Iraq and Syria for generations. They also have a presence in Libya and Nigeria. They are connected to countless religious ideological groups worldwide. Beyond Syria and Iraq, they particularly maintain a strong influence in South Asia. They've had many names during their evolution. In Arabic they are known as ad-Dawlah al-Islāmiyah fī 'l-ʿIrāq wa-sh-Shām. An understandable acronym soon evolved, Daish (ISIL in English). It seeks the creation of an Islamic caliphate, and claims authority over all other Muslims; religious, political and military, and seeks total domination of all Islamic institutions worldwide.

ISIL is held responsible and accountable for human rights abuses and war crimes by the United Nations, and Amnesty International reports ethnic cleansing of minority groups on a historic scale. Over 60 countries are involved in a concerted effort to stem their development and they are isolated globally as an outlawed terrorist organisation. Their origins lie in Jama'at al-Tawhid wal-Jihad, an al-Qaeda splinter group who participated in the Iraqi insurgency following the coalition invasion of 2003. After amalgamating with the Mujahedeen Shura Council, it proclaimed the formation of a new so-called Islamic State.

They took full advantage of the instability created in the region by the Syrian civil war which began in March, 2011, and established themselves in Sunni majority areas. Oppression of the Shiite minorities was swift and brutal. In April 2013, its leader, al-Baghdadi, announced a further military merger with the al-Nusra Front. The title of Islamic State of Iraq and the Levant (ISIL), was now firmly established within world politics, language and debate. The leadership of both al-Nusra and al-Qaeda soon came to reject the new merger on ideological grounds and an eight-month power struggle then followed. Despite cutting ties with both groups, ISIL evolved into a significant military power within the region when it successfully drove Iraqi government forces out of key cities in western Iraq. In 2014, U.S. military action was renewed as fears grew of an imminent Iraqi governmental collapse. Muslim leaders worldwide have condemned ISIL's ideology – an interpretation of the Quran's Holy teachings that seeks only to pollute the true path of Islam. They reject well-funded propaganda, which includes footage of public beheadings. Soldiers, civilians, journalists and aid workers

have all fallen victim to their murderous brutality. Executions of civilians have included shooting, hanging, stoning, burning and falling. Homosexuals are routinely identified and thrown from tall buildings. In one such case a fall survivor was then, thereafter, stoned to death on the spot where he had landed. A video showing the execution of over one thousand Iraqi soldiers, by gunshot to the head, has also been released to the media by the group. As they have established firm control of the region though brutalised oppression, a campaign now follows involving the relentless destruction of all ancient cultural heritage sites within their grasp.

"So," I asked Arat, "how could such a vulgar ideological movement gain so much popularity? How had they been allowed to take control?" He explained his position quite poetically. "It all leads back to the coalition's abolition of the Iraqi Army during the Iraq war," he said. "Commander of the U.S. forces in Iraq, General Ray Odierno, told us in 2009, that the organisation had transformed significantly. It had always been dominated by foreigners seeking to undermine the coalition's efforts to rebuild Iraq. But now within two years it had changed, it was now Iraqi citizens in control." He went on to inform me that, "We killed their two highest leaders in April, 2010, Abu Ayyub al-Masri and Abu Omar al-Baghdadi. They were taken out during a joint Iraqi – U.S. raid near Tikrit, but it had little impact in stemming the flow of recruitment. We then discovered two months later that we'd managed to kill at least 80% of its lower tier leadership. That would surely have an impact. General Odierno confirmed, in a press statement, that 42 ISIL leaders, recruiters and financiers had now either been liquidated or taken captive. They were now completely cut off from al-Qaeda's leadership in Pakistan; there were only 8 left to get," he concluded.

"So what the fuck happened then," I blurted out. "Like I said, it was the abolition of the Iraqi army Jonathan. Al-Baghdadi soon replenished the leadership. He recruited disaffected Ba'athist military and intelligence officers, Sunnis who had served loyally under Saddam Hussein and felt betrayed by Shiites, who by now, dominated the new Iraqi government. In the end they accounted for Baghdadi's top 25 commanders." He went on to further explain how Colonel Samir al-Khlifawi had been appointed as overall military commander. This former Ba'athist colonel was now in charge of overseeing the group's operations. "He was instrumental in doing the ground work that led to ISIL's growth," he stated. "Couldn't we just kill him then?" It seemed the obvious thing to ask. "I mean; if we can kill or capture 80% of the previous leadership, what was the problem in getting this single one well-known figure?" Arat laughed at me, belittling me somewhat, and added to the conversation. "Because somewhere out there, high up and beyond reach, someone or something didn't want him dead."

After vast stretches of Iraq were captured, al-Baghdadi soon released a statement online saying the group would now return to their former strongholds - areas of land that U.S. troops and Iraqi Sunni traitors had driven them away from. The new ISIS offensive was to be called 'Breaking the Walls'. The operation focussed on releasing ISIS prisoners held in Iraqi prisons. By July 2013, battlefield fatalities now exceeded 1,000 per month. This had not previously been the case, not since April 2008. Protests against the government of Bashar al-Assad had also began in Syria during March, 2011. The following months saw violence escalate dramatically between demonstrators and security forces. Gradual militarisation soon led to conflict and all-out civil war. al-Baghdadi, seizing the opportunity, sent thousands of experienced guerrilla warfare fighters over the border from Iraq, placing a Syrian in charge of operations there, Abu Muhammad al-Julani. He had popular support in the country from many Syrians opposed to the Assad government. The rest is history...

We discussed at length the similarities between the Gabrielites and ISIS; both had supreme Holy leaders who claimed religious bloodlines as Prophets, and both adhered to the strict principles of divine scripture (or their own twisted individualisations whilst interpreting it). Both envisioned a world where all non-believers would be killed, and a world in which they were to become the sole supreme leaders. So how did this fit in with the ideology of the Illuminati? It didn't, we concluded. The Illuminati were just a mechanism, a tool by which to achieve an objective; mission creep.

ISIL will continue to establish itself as a caliphate, a pure Islamic State under the supreme leadership of caliph al-Baghdadi who is believed by them to be the true successor of the Prophet Muhammad. As caliph, al-Baghdadi demands the allegiance of all Muslims worldwide. "The legality of all emirates, groups, states and organisations becomes null and void by the expansion of the Khilafah's authority, and the arrival of its troops to their areas," al-Baghdadi has stated.

He follows an extreme interpretation of Islam that includes the use of religious violence. All opponents are considered, just as within the Gabrielites, infidels or apostates due to the divine status of appointment of both leaders. It cannot be challenged. ISIL or ISIS's philosophy is represented by the Black Standard, a variant of the legendary battle flag of Muhammad. Gabriela 13, too refers to a return to the darkness within her memoirs, and the blackness of Nazism, the black Swastika. Arat and I discussed a clear and fundamental difference between the two groups here: "But the Jihadists are proud of their flag," I said. "It contains the seal of Muhammed within a white circle and the words – 'There is no God but Allah'. So where is the flag of the Gabrielites then?" I asked, pointing to this obvious deviation. "We have never seen any reference to this similarity anywhere because it doesn't exist." "Oh yes it does," asserted Arat firmly, regaining control of our conversation. "It is the all seeing eye. Look closely enough and you will see it everywhere." I paused for thought as Arat now continued to talk at me. Islamic State symbolism points to a caliphate principle of early Islam, and its restoration. The All Seeing Eye points to the surveillance of all mankind and the return to the darkness, as predicted, within Gabrielism. Be it the Wahhabi texts of the Sunnis, or alternatively, the Gabrielen texts of the Gabrielites, when we strip them back, they are remarkable in similarity.

In Gabrielist theology, there are twelve Brothers; "The Brotherhood." They ultimately control the laws of Gabrielism under one supreme leader, that of Gabriela 13. Comparatively speaking, there are twelve Saudi Wahhabi judges who control the law of ISIS, under their leader al-Baghdadi. Both operate a system of religious policing to enforce total submission and domination of those below them. Salafists believe that only a legitimate authority can fight jihad, a Holy war. Gabrielites believe in the very same principle, that Gabriela 13, has, by religious decree, that right to kill also: and in doing so, absolutely and unquestionably. They both seek to purify the world of infidels and non-believers.

"Interestingly, ISIL sees Hamas as apostates. It says they have no legitimate authority over jihad," Arat informed me. "And the Gabrielites view all carnivores as apostates with equal vigour. Fighting Hamas is the first step toward confrontation with Israel." he continued. Hamas were Palestinian Sunnis. It was not just about the Gabrielites anymore but about those in control of key positions manipulating the others. Solely that mission creep of the Illuminati. The Gabrielites were using them all. Why would they need their own foot soldiers? All they need to do is utilise the armed forces, both personnel and weaponry, of others already established. Why would they need rockets when they now controlled every aircraft in the sky? All they had to do is play one group off against the next and merely sit back and watch the carnage they cause, all of it, created in the name of God. All this, over unlimited time, and now the contaminated food supply, inevitably, has infecting us all. The Gabrielites will manipulate a fundamental difference between ISIL and other Islamist jihadist movements, ISIL's belief in the eschatology and imminent apocalypticism, the prophesised arrival of the Mahdi. Although we find no direct reference to the Mahdi in the Quran, ISIL make reference to the hadiths; the reports of Muhammad's teachings collected after his death. They believe that they will "defeat the army of Rome at the battle of Dabiq in fulfilment of this Islamic prophecy." Dabiq is a small town in the north of Syria and pure Islam will be returned to earth only through apocalypse. The caliph, al-Baghdadi, has two advisers; Abu Muslim al-Turkmani in Iraq, and Abu Ali al-Anbari, in Syria. Akin to Saddam Hussein, both are believed to be ethnic Turkmens. Upon the martyrdom of al-Baghdadi, there will be just four more Caliphs before the end of the world is upon us."

Pre-Chapter Nine

"I agree with the U.S. Senator (Kentucky), Rand Paul Jnr. when he accused the American government of indirectly supporting ISIL," Arat announced later. "We've armed their allies and attacked their enemies for them," he said. Paul Rand had been quoted as saying "The Free Syrian Army has been fighting ISIS since January and continues to do so at great cost and risk. Thousands of Syrian freedom fighters have died fighting this terrorist threat." ISIL commander, Abu Yusaf, however stated in return during August 2014, that, "Free Syrian Army members who had been trained by U.S., Turkish and Arab military officers had now subsequently joined ISIL." In September 2014 a non-aggression pact was signed between ISIL and some U.S-backed Syrian rebels. "The Islamic Front and the Syria Revolutionaries Front, and many other groups, have now dismissed this," Arat informed me, "but it is widely accepted to be true."

"How is it possible for U.S. troops to be present in Ramadi under the pretext of supporting the Iraqi nation and yet do nothing to stop the killings there? Can this fact mean anything other than their involvement in the conspiracy?" Major General Qasem Soleimani (commander of Iran's Quds Force) asked following the Fall of Ramadi. Many Truthers widely accept that there is a U.S - NATO led conspiracy to destabilise the Middle East; that secretly, somebody somewhere, is emboldening ISIS. "What has the U.S. said about this?" Arat asked me, rhetorically. "Nothing other than to issue a statement from the embassy in Lebanon calling it a complete fabrication," he stated. "Many now believe that al-Baghdadi is an Israeli Mossad agent, but Snowden has told me that this is nothing less than a complete hoax. If people really want to believe that the supreme head of ISIS is an Israeli actor called Simon Elliot, then that really is their problem, not mine. I know exactly who al-Baghdadi is. Shall I give you a clue?" I looked straight at Arat, smiled and then uttered, "Let me guess Arat. Does it begin with G and end with... abrielites?"

The New York Times has long reported that many Iranians believe that an alliance existed. That ISIS was the creation of the United States, Israel and Saudi Arabia collectively. They said, "the claim that ISIS is a creation of the Obama administration has gained wide traction in Iran." They believe that "the creation of a terrorist organization opposed to Iranian interests is the obvious thing for a superpower to do." "Imagine it," Arat added. "So they've taken down two civilian airliners with PING hardware but what are they really up to? They're playing with us, experimenting, but because of Snowden we now know what they are equipped to do. Take the world's biggest gathering of people, the annual Hajj to Mecca. The Masjid al-Ḥarām, the sacred mosque and the Kaaba, with the region already so destabilised, imagine what downing an Iranian airliner on that would do?"

The Great Mosque is the largest in the world. It contains Islam's holiest place, the Kaaba. Devout Muslims worldwide pray facing its direction. It is located in the city of Mecca (Saudi Arabia). One of the Five Pillars of Islam is the Hajj pilgrimage. A Muslim must visit the site at least once during their lifetime and once there, seven circumambulations of the Kaaba is required. The site is developed over 88 acres and includes both indoor and outdoor prayer space. In 2007, the mosque underwent its fourth extension project. The work will be completed by 2020, with the mosque's capacity increased to house over 2 million people. The Quran states that together, Abraham and Ishmael (his son) started the foundations of a new mosque on the site in c.2130 BCE. This is believed by scholars to be exactly on the same site of the Great Mosque's Kaaba. Tradition states that the Black Stone had fallen from heaven. In paradise it was whiter than white, but now, on Earth with mankind, the sins of the sons of Adam had turned it black. The Kabba's Black Stone is the only remnant of the original structure. Allah told his aged prophet Ibrahim to go fourth and proclaim the pilgrimage to mankind "so that men may come both from Arabia and from lands far away, on camel and on foot."

"That's all it would take to ignite the flames of apocalypse," Arat continued. "To return us all to the darkness; a crash, just a solitary jet, to strike at Mecca." It remains widely reported that private donors from the Gulf States finance ISIS. Both Iraq and Iran repeatedly accuse both Saudi Arabia and Qatar of financing the group. At a U.S. led coalition meeting in Paris, France's foreign minister stated, "It is very probable that many sat here today have financed ISIL's advances." (September 2014).

We'd now found ourselves to have been talking for many hours, Arat and I, and he seemed in no rush to leave. I understood why he was here; I had undoubtedly to put things right. To do this I had to wait for contact to be re-established by the death cult leader, Gabriela 13. Inevitably, we would be in receipt of Part Four of her Holy work, what she refers to as 'The Definitive Edition'. Revenge was sure to play an essential part in its creation. Was I really being asked to defy her again? I understood that the original investigating police officer, Brian Wilkinson, had gone solo in a heroic but ill-conceived attempt to negotiate with the sect directly.

At times I grew quite frustrated with Arat. He knew far more than he would let on, but I understood his need for absolute secrecy. Was he aware of an imminent airliner strike on Mecca or just exploring the possibility of it with me? I felt that most of the day was a test, that he was testing the water with me. Dipping his toes in, so to speak. Our conversations this day were most enlightening. I'd been in protective custody for months and an interesting conversation with such a politically astute and informed character was much appreciated. The isolation of protectiveness, had by this stage in time, numbed my mind to the point of insanity. But where was it going and where was all this still leading? His purpose of me was clear, and this I accepted, but where was the definite intel that would prove his point? Everything I heard was supposition. I needed to be more convinced if I was, surely, to go along with it.

Arat drew my attention back to Malaysian Airways Flight 370. The first crashed craft of the two we had previously brushed upon, having disappeared on 8th March, 2014. It was on a routine scheduled flight en route from Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, to Beijing International in China. The plane failed to arrive. The last contact with her was at 17:19 on the 7th March as she crossed the South China Sea. Just one hour into the flight the airliner completely disappeared from radar. There were no multiple returns signifying any visual sign of explosion; the aircraft merely disappeared from electronic view. Malaysian military radar tracked Flight 370 down as she deviated considerably from the planned flight path to China. The plane headed out across the Malay Peninsula instead. She carried a total of 12 crew and 227 passengers, representing citizens of 15 different nations.

A multinational search effort soon began off the Gulf of Thailand. Emphasis was placed on areas of the South China Sea where signal and communication had at first been lost. Following information later gained from secondary surveillance radar, the area of search was extended to the Strait of Malacca and The Andaman Sea. Both PINGer and Inmarsat satellite communication systems concluded that the flight remained airborne until at least 08:19 MYT. Its precise location was, however, still not confirmed. When search efforts now shifted toward The Indian Ocean, Australia took over control of recovery operations on the 17th March. It conducted a comprehensive search 1,100 miles southwest of Perth. Despite the multinational efforts to find Malaysian Airways Flight 370, soon to become the largest search in aviation history, nothing of her was ever found or recovered. On the 29th of July, 2015, this all changed. Strong marine currents surrounding the Reunion Islands delivered home a single item of debris. It was confirmed to be a flaperon from the missing aircraft.

Why had neither the crew nor the advance aircraft automated equipment issued a distress signal? A report of bad weather or technical problem as programmed, this before simply vanishing from the skies.

Terrorism has now been officially ruled out by Malaysian police, this after clearing all passengers on board of any involvement that they might have had. Though, if human intervention is proven to be the cause they identified the Captain as the prime suspect. So was this the precursor to the following year's Germanwings airliner disaster? "Undoubtedly," confirmed Arat.

"Somebody in the know deliberately disabled the SDU (aircraft's satellite data unit) at some point between 01:07 and 02:03. That's a fact. It had logged on as programmed to Inmarsat's satellite communication network at 02:25 just three minutes after leaving radar range. It turned south having passed north of Sumatra, where it then, until running out of fuel, flew on for five more hours," Arat added, "This disappearance brought home to us all the technical limits of aircraft tracking and the recovery of their flight recorders afterward. All ghost personnel at ARAT have to live with the knowledge that they knew this was going to happen again, and it will happen again and again until we stop them. We believe that the requirements of the International Air Transport Association, the new task force set up to investigate this incident, will compound such disasters." Arat went on to explain to me that all airlines, by December, 2015, must comply with new standards to report their positions. This now has to be done as a minimum standard, and at least every 15 minutes.

He bent down and picked up a brown envelope that he had taken from his briefcase earlier. He had told me it was something he wanted to show me later, after we had finished chatting. I had thought no more about it or its contents, the thought of it lost somewhat in the weight of our conversation. It contained the text of air traffic control conversations held between controllers and the crew of Flight 370 compiled from audio recordings received before contact was lost. The Aircraft Communications Addressing and Reporting System (ACARS) final automated position report was sent at 01:07. Among this data, fuel remaining reported as 96,600 lbs. The flight's Captain, Shah, acknowledged a send-off by Lumpur Radar to Ho Chi Minh air traffic control centre at 01:19:30. This would prove to be the final verbal communication transmitted from the cockpit of the craft.

Lumpur Radar recorded that final transmission: "Malaysian three seven zero, contact Ho Chi Minh one two zero decimal nine. Good night." Flight 370: "Good night. Malaysian three seven zero."

The crew failed to contact air traffic control in Ho Chi Minh City as required when it passed into Vietnamese airspace. Contact was now lost and the captain of another aircraft attempted to reach the crew by radio relay "just after 01:30." This was done over the international distress frequency at the request of Vietnamese air traffic control. The relay captain confirmed established contact but heard nothing in response, other than "mumbling and static." The aircraft's satellite data unit acknowledged further contact, again without reply to the cockpit at 02:39 and 07:13. Flight 370's transponder stopped functioning at exactly 01:21:13. Although the plane was no longer transmitting her position, military radar did detect the airliner, originally on a "rightward path" to "almost immediately and notably" suddenly bear left to a south-westerly direction. At 01:30:35 she was flying at an altitude of 35,700 feet on a 231° magnetic heading. Her measured ground speed was 571 mph. Sultan Ismail Petra Airport, Malaysia, made four further detections (consistent with confirmed military reports) of an unidentified aircraft approximately 61 miles away from it; between 01:30:37 and 01:52:35. From there it flew south of Penang Island. The waypoint VAMPI in the Strait of Malacca picked it up at Pulau Perak at 02:03. It then headed along air route N571 to waypoints MEKAR, NILAM, and possibly IGOGU. It exceeded the range of Malaysian military radar at 02:22 after passing waypoint MEKAR.

The investigation has always been hampered by sensitivity in regard to revealing military radar capabilities. Many countries regionally were reluctant to release classified radar information. The aircraft was known to fly over the northern tip of Sumatra, but Indonesia, with its highly advanced early warning radar system publicly maintains that it did not detect Flight 370 on the system. Thailand and Vietnam also say that they did detect Flight 370 on radar, but only up until the point when the cockpit transponder stopped working. They deny any radar contact there-afterward. Also, Australia, utilising its own Jindalee Operational Radar Network (JORN) over-the-horizon radar system, said it was looking the other way in an attempt to detect the migration of illegal immigrants, and had "not looked west" over the Indian Ocean where Flight 370 was believed to have been.

Malaysia Airlines did not issue a media statement until 07:24 that morning. The flight was now one hour late of its scheduled arrival time at Beijing. They confirmed that contact with the flight had been lost by air traffic control at 02:40. They also confirmed that a search and rescue mission was now fully underway. The reported lost contact time was later corrected to become 01:21. The airliner had officially vanished from the sky. Arat passed me the document which read:

**CLASSIFIED** - _Transcript of Cockpit Report: Malaysia Flight 370_

All times in Universal Coordinated Time (UTC)

01:01: Crew confirm altitude of Flight at 35,000 ft.

01:07: Crew re-confirms altitude. Last ACARS data transmission received.

01:07 / 02:03: Satellite communication link is lost.

01:19: Malaysian ATC. Last voice contact established.

01:21: Secondary radar (transponder) last contact at 6°55′15"N 103°34′43"E.

01:22: Transponder and ADS-B now disconnected/not responding.

01:25: Unexpected route change.

01:30: Aircraft relay message at request of Ho Chi Minh reported "mumbling and radio static."

01:37: Half-hourly ACARS data transmission not received.

01:39: HCM ACC contacts Kuala Lumpur ACC (KL ACC). They are informed that verbal contact was not made. Flight 370 has disappeared from radar screens at BITOD waypoint. Flight 370 did not return to own frequency after passing waypoint IGARI.

01:46: HCM ACC contacts KL ACC. Informs them radar contact was established near IGARI, but now lost again at waypoint BITOD. Verbal contact cannot be established.

01:57: HCM ACC informs KL ACC that all contact attempts have failed, on all frequencies, and by all localised aircraft requested to assist.

02:03: Malaysia Airlines instruct Flight 370 cockpit to contact Vietnam ATC. There is no response. Multiple ground-to-aircraft ACARS data requests fail by the aircraft's satellite data unit.

02:03: KL ACC contacts HCM ACC and relays information. Flight 370 is believed to be in Cambodian airspace based on projected but unconfirmed flight data.

02:15: KL ACC queries Malaysia Airlines ACC which replies that it is able to exchange signals.

02:18: KL ACC contacts HCM ACC stating that Flight 370 was not authorised to enter Cambodian airspace. HCM ACC confirms planned route not into Cambodian airspace. Cambodia ACC unable to contact airliner.

02:22: Last primary radar contact made by Malaysian armed forces being 230 miles NW of Penang 6°49′38″N 97°43′15″E.

02:25: A log-on request by aircraft to satellite communication link is re-established. It had been lost previously for between 22 and 68 minutes. The first hourly "handshake" after disappearing from radar.

02:34: KL ACC queries Malaysia Airlines' operations centre. It was not sure if a message sent to Flight 370 was successfully received.

02:35: Malaysia Airlines' operations centre informs KL ACC that Flight 370 is normal based on electronic handshake signals and now located at 14°54′00″N 109°15′00″E (Northern Vietnam).

02:39: Ground-to-aircraft telephone call via satellite link is unanswered.

03:30: Malaysia Airlines' operations centre informs KL ACC that positional information was based on flight projection and no longer regarded as reliable data.

03:30 and 04:25: KL and HCM ACC's make multiple queries to Chinese air traffic control.

05:09: Singapore ACC now also seeks to clarify airspace information.

06:30: Flight 370 misses scheduled arrival at Beijing Capital International Airport.

06:32: Kuala Lumpur Aeronautical Rescue Coordination Centre (ARCC) notified.

07:13: A fresh Malaysian Airlines ground-to-aircraft satellite call remains unanswered.

07:24: Malaysia Airlines confirms that Flight 370 is missing.

08:11: The sixth and last successful automated hourly handshake with Inmarsat occurs.

08:19: There is a log-on request sent by the aircraft to satellite, a partial handshake, believed to have occurred when emergency power restarted the SDU. This confirmed fuel exhaustion and loss of power.

08:19:37: Ground station responded to the log-on request, the aircraft automatedly acknowledged this transmission.

08:19:37.443: Last transmission received from Flight 370.

09:15: Aircraft fails to respond to a scheduled hourly handshake attempt by Inmarsat and is presumed lost on 7th March 2014.

On the 24th March, Najib Razak, the Malaysian Prime Minister gave a short statement to press at 22.00, in which he announced: "This evening I was briefed by representatives from the UK Air Accidents Investigation Branch. They informed me that Inmarsat, the UK based company that provided the satellite data which indicated the northern and southern corridors, has been performing further calculations on the data. Using a type of analysis never before used in an investigation of this sort, Inmarsat and the AAIB have concluded that MH370 flew along the southern corridor, and that its last position was in the middle of the Indian Ocean, west of Perth. This is a remote location, far from any possible landing sites. It is therefore with deep sadness and regret that I must inform you that, according to this new data, flight MH370 ended in the southern Indian Ocean."

The pilot has been named as 53-year-old Captain Zaharie Ahmad Shah from Penang. He had over 18,365 hours of flying experience within the cockpit of Boeing 737-400 airbuses. The co-pilot was 27-year-old First Officer Fariq Abdul Hamid. Flight 370 was set to be his final training flight and his first conducted without the presence of his examiner. He was to be tested for pilotship, now with 2,763 hours of flying experience achieved, upon his next flight, one which he would never live to take.

Pre-Chapter Ten

The Boeing 777-200ER is one of the most advance airliners in the sky. Flight 370's 777 had multiple backs up systems on board, and all systems, including backup systems had backups to back up any backup failures. Nothing can go wrong. The 777 can fly itself once all data is entered into its flight management system. There can be excessive and required management of electronic data but this is all concluded pre-flight by the crew. Once in the air pilots can generally sit back and relax, with little more to do other than to monitor flight deck dials and gauges.

I asked Arat why the INMARSAT ACARS system had delivered only a partial handshake at 08:11, the sixth and last successful automated hourly handshake via the Aircraft Communications Addressing and Reporting System. "It was the exact moment it crashed, we believe, or literally moments beforehand. As the plane ran out of fuel and fell from the sky, it rolled over, allowing for the slosh of remaining tank fuel to rush into the ignition system, just enough for the jet to attempt an automated restart. This would as programmed in turn launch the ACAR to transmit its data. The jet crashed half way through this last transmission." He sombrely went on to add, "Deliberate sabotage can disconnect the transponder but only partially disconnect ACARS. If ACARS is off it will still report every hour, or as scheduled to do so but flight data only, not necessarily its location or current flight path." He confirmed that for both to be deactivated simultaneously, this had to be an act of deliberate human intervention.

Arat reinforced these beliefs by producing even more documents to back up this stance, stating, "This is not just conjecture or opinion Jonathan. We have chatter, reams of material evidence supplied by Snowden that backs this up. Material never released within the public domain, notably because of its ancient textual origins, based on a language developed in Italy during the mid-1100s." I noted a brown file to be present as he went through his papers, carefully selecting singular documents to hand with U.S. President Barrack Obama's signature to it; though it was soon put out of my sight as he went on to call this language, Gabrielen. The same name as given in the Memoirs of a Psychopath, a book I was already well familiar with. "Actually it is a mixture of Latin and Hebrew, used as code by the old Jesuit monks of the time," he added. "Much of it was later developed into a contemporary language used within a secret Freemasonry code today. It's the fundamental origins of this ancient language that Brian used in his last manuscript, the book I was called in to decode for Interpol – 'The Man Who Buried Himself'. But true Gabrielen, as used by the death cult the Gabrielites, although basically using the same language construction is then encoded, or if you like encrypted. The best example of Gabrielen can be found inside The Voynich Manuscript; believed to have been created in Italy during 1400 C.E. The entire manuscript is written in the language known to us today as puristic Gabrielen." I noted that Arat had found a PDF copy of the manuscript amongst Brian's personal book collection, a duplicate print of which he had now, at this stage of the conversation, eagerly shown to me.

"Brian used a narrative that improved on reality, this was true. However the essence of his coded message was clear, unfortunately as clear as day, not only to me but to the cult as well. The problem lies in the catastrophe of indifference shown by our world leadership, the world has been hijacked, and the presence of the Gabriel Sect is a fact of life just like tax and death." He continued, "It is not a mere quasi-religious need to believe in a conspiracy, there is a conspiracy: and they are all involved. Brian discovered this and at least he tried to do something. He did what he thought was right, as he felt a sense of overwhelming moral responsibility for the remaining captive, Isabella. But we must remember this at all times, Jonathan. A conspiracy is only as strong as its weakest link – we can expose them through this publication and when a co-conspirator talks, it all comes crashing down. We have to expose them, the Gabrielites, by turning them on each other."

I was confused. "You mean to say that the book, the one found at his apartment by police after he disappeared was not written in English at all but in Gabrielen, then?" I asked somewhat confusedly. After all, how would the Gabrielites have translated it, discovered Brian's true intentions, if it was not written and published in a code that they are familiar with? I was told that it had been written exactly as it was later published and this was in English. "Brian used Latin variants of Gabrielen as used amongst many Freemasons today. It was coded within his sentence construction," Arat informed. "The code Brian used was translated into Latin from Hebrew, that's all. It is nowhere near as complex as pure Gabrielen," he added. We then discussed the original findings of the Voynich manuscript.

The Voynich is an illustrated codex which was handwritten in a previously unknown and until now, a never translated ancient language. Being written on vellum has allowed the manuscript to be carbon dated to the early 15th century (1404–1438) and believed to have been composed during the Italian Renaissance in the north of the country. It was discovered by a Polish book dealer, Wilfrid Voynich, in a Jesuit monastery during 1912, following a sale of antiquarian religious manuscripts. Many pages remain missing, but of the 240 that remain intact, it is notably the only existing handwritten copy of any purist Gabrielen language. Text flows from left to right and most pages have illustrations.

Over the years it has been studied by many professional and amateur cryptographers alike, and this impressive list includes both American and British codebreakers from WW1 and WW2. Whilst simplistic Latinised codes exist amongst Freemasonry today, no one has yet succeeded in deciphering the entire text. Arat informed me that he has become the only cryptographer in history to fully understand the linguistics involved in the formation and construction of the historic document to this day: a fact that he is most genuinely and rightly proud of. "It was the mystery of the meaning and origin of the manuscript that excited me, especially in the popular imagination. I wanted to know why the manuscript was the subject of such great speculation," he had told me. "None of multiple hypotheses proposed, and there have been countless ones provided by scholars over the last hundred years, has yet to be independently verified. But I can read it," he gloated that day.

Its last independent owner (Hans P. Kraus: 1969) later donated the work to Yale University's Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library. "It is catalogued under MS 408. I studied it as part of my major for my PhD, in Lost Manuscripts of Ancient Civilisations," Arat said. I remember laughing at the time and saying to him, "So we have Dr Gabriela 13, Dr Cerys Davies and Dr Isabella too, and now even a Dr Arat amongst us do we? It's becoming quite the common thread here isn't it?" "Don't mock," he had retorted angrily. "It's because of my work and understanding of that manuscript that

I am a ghost today, off record and non-existent; a member of the ARAT elite." He went on to tell me what he had uncovered, what he considered to be so ground-breaking.

"I discovered that the illustrations separated the work into six sections. The first was herbal, the use of plants, and clearly identified European herbs, all present amongst discussion of plant genomes and genetics. It was clearly written about plant pharmaceuticals. I then identified an astronomical section: suns, moons and stars, all held within circumnavigational principles and suggestive of astronomy or astrology. Zodiacal constellations were also apparent; Pisces, Taurus and Sagittarius all present. I accept that some illustrations were lost, such as Aquarius and Capricorn, but the intention to represent them was obvious. Interestingly all women were represented as nymphs in concentric bands. Most are at least partly naked, about 30 in all." He continued with an obvious passion for the subject matter. "This led me to identify a biological section - small naked women wearing crowns and grouped together in water pools. All of them connected, one by one, by an elaborate system of pipework. I found it had to represent the female reproductive cycle and birth, fertility if you like. I labelled a fourth section cosmological. There I found many more circularisations of a most obscure nature, Jonathan," he said. "Foldouts too, one of them expanding into six pages with maps of nine islands connected by causeways. I have yet to decide to this day, if one figure is a volcano or a castle. I'm still working on it," he added.

"Pharmaceuticals can be seen distinctly as labelled plant illustrations of isolated parts, the roots and leaves for example, and there is notably a collection of apothecary jars. Some appear quite uninteresting but others are simply fantastical in their design. More astonishingly here, there is a complete collection of recipes associated that form early herbalised medicines."

I was fascinated. As much as I wanted to know more, very, very much more about the book, there was only one question I wanted an immediate answer too. I had to ask. "So if you are the only cryptographer in history to ever completely translate the Wilfrid Voynich manuscript? What is it?" Though I had, given our conversation, already interpreted the answer. Arat laughed at me again, and not for the first time, which I confess shocked me a little. It seemed like a perfectly acceptable question under the circumstances. I felt a cold dark cloud ascend over me as he replied. "It is the origins of life; the map of genetic genomes of life itself." I shuddered at the thought of the now obvious connection as he continued. "It is the first handwritten manuscript of the Gabrielites. It explains their origins in the heavens and their purpose here on Earth. It is the most ancient and holiest text ever conceived, and the fact that you now know this Jonathan, well, in a nutshell, it means you too now have a death sentence passed on you."

Misery has a way of clarifying ones convictions and what I understood of my own normality was now clearly only a temporary state of man. After all, I had spent months in police protection because my life was at risk; regardless. What difference did knowing the truth that lay behind the creation of the Voynich manuscript now make? I began to realise that the human race was doomed to extinction if we didn't act. I was a believer. I now believed that they, the Gabrielites, had existed for over a millennium, and now they had a leader, a Prophet who would put the words of the ancient Voynich into practice. Arat had now shown me more documents, also translated from pure Gabrielen, and I noted that Gabrielites were now in control of the artic seed bunker. An artic permafrost bunker, a joint funded enclosure where every seed of every plant species known to us is stored in a state of permanent hibernation; preserved for all time to allow for the opportunity to jump start our planet's eco systems in the event of apocalypse.

Every news article I read, TV programme I watched or radio broadcast I heard lately; they all seemed to be designed to deliver a personal message to us. How could I, or even better still, how could we as a population not know about this? It was inconceivable. America was now sorry for a recent drone attack on an Afghanistan Hospital taking the lives of countless aid workers employed by a French charity, and the German vehicle manufacturer, Volkswagen, could not recall its emission cheating cars as it did not know which models had been fitted with the device.

"It's all such a joke to her," Arat had said. "She likes to kill people slowly so that they know they are being killed. The American's didn't bomb that hospital, she did. The pleasure is in the torture. Watching us, to see how the world will react, like one big game, a live play out of the board game; risk. Do you remember a Helios plane, a Boeing 737 coming down?" Arat asked me. "There was no communication for hours just as in the case of the Malaysian aircraft. Oxygen masks were deployed as the pressurisation system had failed. It was at 35,000 ft., flying itself whilst all on board were unconscious, or even dead through suffocation; falling out of the air only when its last fuel reserves were used. Greek military jets scrambled to intercept the Helios jet and flew alongside her. They witnessed one person alive in the cockpit, a member of the flight crew, not the captain or co-pilot, he was wearing a portable oxygen kit. I've seen communications exchanged between aviation contractors which confirm that a PINGer was fitted on that jet years ago, and this system is now used in military systems too." On hindsight, Arat never actually stated that he had evidence to confirm that the Afghan hospital drone attack was controlled by these dark external forces, that is true, but that was definitely what he had implied in making the connection between the two. I was left with no doubt of this fact.

Volkswagen had recently fallen foul of the law in that it had knowingly installed computerised components that would allow its vehicles to cheat stringent omission tests. We discussed this at length. Volkswagen installed a device that could recognise when the system was not in normal use and undergoing test conditions; adjusting its pollution footprint accordingly. In many ways it explained to me why airliner manufacturers couldn't simply upgrade and remove the PINGer system. If Volkswagen had fitted their cheat device to what was now possibly millions of cars across an unknown number of differing manufacturing models, and had no idea which vehicles now had it, how could airlines locate a PINGer? "Remember, it's now a hardware device, it doesn't communicate with software upgrades and just like the Volkswagen omissions cheat, it knows when other systems are looking for it and denies its own existence. You would have to remove every single piece of electronic circuitry from every airliner in the entire world to locate it. An impossible task under normal conditions - but when you have Gabrielites which control the Illuminati and who in turn control both company and commerce, where do you begin?" asked Arat frustratedly.

He went on to explain how BEAA systems were creating a virtual reality control command centre of the future, a fleet of new airliners with artificial intelligence – planes with brains. The new Boeing 787 Dreamliner would house on board titanium plane robot aircrews. "If that doesn't scare you," he added, "try predictive policing: computers predicting where crime will occur before it even happens, sending officers to the scene in anticipation. As soon as their guns are drawn, small inbuilt cameras start to film. All vision and audio captures are broadcast back to a central command centre. This is no longer science fiction. It is reality. The machines have taken over and whoever controls the machines controls mankind," Arat dictated.

"Planes get lost all the time," he continued. "Radar only covers 10 percent of the Earth's surface. When a plane is over the sea we have to rely on shipping systems to inform us. It's always been like that. You don't expect them to admit that they can still lose something as big as a jumbo jet these days, do you? These mysterious flight cases all have familiarities; no squawking codes, hi-frequency emergency signals suggesting a hijack are never ever sent. Turning off the transponder is easy, click and it's done, but turning ACARS off is extremely complicated. You would have to get inside the hardware and this would be beyond the pilot's knowledge. Managed disablement of partial systems was all that could be realistically achieved by the deliberate action of a flight crew member. It's easy to get the pilot or co- pilot out of the cockpit. Take the 370. Just send them out to get a coffee or wait for that needed toilet break, and then lock them out."

You cannot turn off an ACAR handshake without tampering with the electronics, this is undoubtedly clear, but you can disable most of it if that is your intention to do so. With your co-pilot now locked out, just as in the case of the Helios, cabin pressure is now easily adjusted, suffocating anyone on board. There are only 12 minutes of allocated mask oxygen per passenger. It serves a quick and fixed purpose, to supply air following decompression only long enough for rapid descent to lower altitude where breathing can be maintained normally again. With crew and passengers now dead, all that is left for the pilot or other to do is hide the plane from detection.

Inmarsat, the company that owns and manages the ACARS system, found pings had continued long after lost contact. Of Malaysia 370, they continued for seven hours whilst 370 flew on. It was initially suggested that an on board fire could have disabled all electronic communication systems, exempting ACARS, but if a plane catches fire it is instructed to land immediately. It cannot remain in flight for 7 hours afterwards. Terrorism too has also been ruled out. No acceptance for the act has ever been made by any group. No-one claimed responsibility for it. Additionally the auto pilot was not engaged as it made intentional, though apparently quite random, turns. Somebody or something was in control. Wilful decompression would easily explain the lack of contact from passengers, those you would normally expect to be sent to friends or family on the ground through use of SMS or mobile apparatus telephone calls.

Human beings are not perfect creatures. We cannot stop wilful human action. It cannot be locked down and we cannot avoid this type of deliberate incident happening again. But this is not wilful decision making on the part of the crew. We can and have learnt from air marks, so-called psychological indicators that can predict a flight personnel's illness or instability. Pilots do get suicidal depression. They are human after all.

Silk-Air 185 (December: 1997) from Singapore was intentionally crashed killing 97 passengers and 7 crew. Both cockpit voice recorders were switched off intentionally by a pilot who could not accept his pending bankruptcy. Also in 1994, a Fed-Ex engineer, one who was imminently to lose his job, boarded a flight and produced weapons. No previous display of psychiatric problems had been noted. He burst into the cockpit and almost succeed in bringing his employer's craft crashing down' certainly killing all on board. The crew managed to restrain him only after a bloodied cockpit confrontation. Of all the inflictions I can think of, there is none crueller than madness. It robs you not only of your dignity but your very soul. Arat was not so understanding of my position. "If you wish to feel happy take a pill, Jonathan. If you seek a cure then face the truth." This was a popular mantra of his.

Arat told me that missing airliners were soon to be a thing of the past, unlike the increasing cases of missing persons. He remarked that in any one single day over 300 airlines passed over Canada's Hudson Bay in complete absence of radar coverage. Air traffic control in that region relies solely on pilot communication to locate their planes and work on approximations only. He said, "The new ADSB system solves all problems except one." Then went on almost over excitedly to say, "This so-called Automatic Dependence Surveillance Broadcast sends signals via GPS automatically every second. ADSB ground stations are to be replaced by satellites making all global radar blind spots a thing of the past." I was surprised to hear that flight 370 was broadcasting via ADSB when she disappeared, but Arat soon informed me that "the system is not currently in use in Malaysia, and there they rely on a ground based transponder. Once it was turned off the GPS on board was useless." Malaysia 370 had 19 years in service with an excellent safety record and she could easily fly herself; this as true. But when it came down to it, hf and vhf radio, satcom and ACARS, all controlling our airways in the sky with set routes defined by fixed map waypoints, could not save her. "It was that all problems, except one, an unstable pilot and deliberate sabotage, were covered," Arat added. "We cannot stop the Gabrielites and their deliberate murderous prophecies."

Only 10 percent of our Earth is covered by primary radar and whilst the whole route of 370 was covered by multiple secondary radars, in the end it all proved useless. Primary radar (using electromagnetic pulses) must travel from its source and bounce back. It is low powered and not, generally speaking, very accurate. It cannot identify bounced radio signals exceeding a distance of approximately 110 miles. This fact is based upon most modern systems. Secondary radar, identified in the top rectangular part of the traditional primary radar antenna, however, acts as an interrogator. It communicates directly with the flight's on-board transponder. It does not rely on returning reflections but on a system of transponder interpolations. Having received the original signal it broadcasts a response with a fresh powerful signal able to cover a much greater distance.

"But they knew that secondary systems were off. They knew this. That's why they used this route to experiment with the PING first. They wanted to hide all evidence of their crimes – but they couldn't hide the chatter that Manning, and later Snowden discovered. The truth is obvious. You just need to look," Arat ended before passing me a final letter. It read:

"Brian was not only an embarrassment to his family and friends but he was an embarrassment to me, and thus is now forgotten by the human race. He will not be missed because no one cares. I can tell you only this, believe nothing that you hear and only half of what you see. Listen to your conscience, do as it tells you. Listen with your ears and not with your pride. I don't eat to live, I live to eat. After all you have to live for something or you die for nothing. That taste of fresh kill, thrive-ability not sustainability, and we are thriving. Do let me quote Hippocrates: "Let food be thy medicine," and indeed it has been. Brian was a vegetarian, he was completely lacking in a dairy protein called casein, we soon found. It causes cancer so we were most excited to discover that his kidneys did not contain such a food poison..."

"Where did you get this letter, Arat?" I asked. "It came with Part Four, it is delivered" he replied. "It is delivered," said in such a manner as to seriously concern me, and upon which he picked up and flicked through the pages of a new manuscript, to date, one never published. "Here it is," he gleamed. Brian's fate was now known, an end I am not willing to share at this time but one captured on film none-the-less. I was informed that Part Four had arrived alongside a DVD. A film' entitled 'Surge'. With a run time of approximately 90 minutes it catalogued a series of further killings. Arat said I could neither watch it or nor could I read the script for it, which had also been delivered along with it. "Concentrate on writing your introduction first" (referring to today's conversation to be put into word within the book) and then adding, "all will become revealed later, I promise." The letter from the killer continued;

"I thought your soundtrack was most enjoyable Odd Jonathan, and what a great idea you inspired in me. The Definitive Edition needs a film script to accompany it so here it is, contained to be published as usual. We made the movie, no expense spared, actually not a lot of anyone spared. And I've written a cookery book now. Consider it a free reader supplement."

Arat had certainly saved this bombshell for the end of the day, and I too, as Arat, was now to be a ghost and required to disappear immediately. Brian's fate was certain to be my own. Upon this day; Sunday 25th October; 2015, 'Meat: Memoirs of a Psychopath, The Definitive Edition' was now complete and to be republished with the new additional sections as now required. This would include my own contribution detailing the exposure of the cult and its connection to the PING hardware systems (Arat was adamant that this should be the first title to appear) and also explained that Chandelle's book, too, had also been finished. "It's a fairy tale ending. Here it is." He passed a copy of it to me. Upon passing it over he was most insistent in saying, "There's a very special ending that is yet for you to see. You can read it later when you are finished. You have quite enough to do for now I think." He was holding out on me yet again, for sure, but I accepted this fact and my only purpose in life was now the opportunity to sabotage the book and works of Gabriela 13 to expose the truth and to start the self-destructive implosion of the cult: to play the Illuminati off against the Gabrielites. This would be my penance, my saving and my only chance to make things right again.

I have no idea if I will live or die now. I have no idea how long my mortal coil has left after today, but I have done all now as Arat had asked of me. I have reported here to you what was said to me that day; for you to read and all bear witness. It is here in full for you and if you are reading this now, somewhere, somehow, then I have achieved it. I am no longer under police protection anymore but gone. I have stepped off the planet.

I am an agent of ARAT; a ghost.

Roadkill Recipes: Pig for Seven Days

(Your FREE cookery supplement)

FOREWORD

I'd never thought of eating road kill until quite recently. I'd always considered all forms of carnivorous consumption to be, quite frankly, sick. I find the whole idea of eating a fellow Earthling, a sentient creature absolutely repulsive. But does road kill differ? After all, I haven't killed it or taken the poor creature's life away intentionally, and it is after all quite dead as a result of its own stupidity.

You, as human beings, a superior though parasitical species, are not unreasonable in expecting all lower species to adapt to your evolutionary takeover of Earth. Your cars rule the planet as part of your kingdom and the consequences of their creation on others is not of your concern. As human, you maintain the right to kill all lower species without cause or compassion, just as I, as chosen and superior to you; I have the right to consume your flesh too.

There is no room for hypocrisy here. You breed, enslave, torture and slaughter billions of animals every year needlessly because you maintain that your intellectual superiority allows for this. The younger the victim the better suited it is to the needs of your palate. Though herbivore by design, effortless killing by the human masses through factory farming makes meat readily available to you. You lack any moral compass or conscience to guide you. You are a sick twisted race of peoples. First question: what is the difference between a paedophile and a carnivore? Answer: we have laws to protect children.

So, here I am, a superior alien being from distant worlds beyond Heaven, to guide you. I have every right to come down here to you, to harvest. I, just as you, am not designed to hunt. I am slow in speed and lack claws or teeth with which to tear at flesh and my vision and hearing are poorly equipped for task. However, my superior intellect allows for the construction of tools and weapons that now turns me into the hunter. It is this evolutionary step that now takes me beyond my herbivorous gatherer past. I am a warrior now and isn't killing so much more fun than gardening.

There are two reasons I have chosen pig for this first edition cookbook. The first is obvious, or it should be to you. I am in possession of a rather large corpse, some recent roadkill of mine, and it just happened to be a pig. The second is YOU – yes, you: Jonathan JRP fucking Taylor. Your decision to take the piss has cost you. When you offended the creation, the written work, the divine

message of your Prophet Gabriela 13, you knew that there would be consequences and here they are. I wanted YOU to be the first to know. Congratulations!

I have another question to ask before I begin. Do you know what the bestselling book genres are? I'm sure you do already, Jonathan, as amongst them are children's stories. That's why you added your own story to my work, isn't it? To make a name for yourself off my back. I fail to see the difference between you and Cerys these days, I'm sure you understand this. It was nothing to do with wanting a happy ending was it? And the musical – shameless self-promotion. Nothing less. You didn't give a shit really did you? So I thought I'd address this insincerity of yours here in this new book. Isn't writing fun.

So here we find ourselves now with Brian's story. Don't be too upset – many amoral stories have a happy ending. After all Goldilocks was a burglar wasn't she. I shall ensure your hopes and visions are achieved in full. There will be a happy ending just for you! Did you know that among top selling genres are also cookery and dieting books? How ironic how the two sit side by side; gluttony and starvation, greed and vanity. Sadly, Brian will be joining us for dinner. For the benefit of other readers I'll explain. Pig is both an animal and an English slang word. It is used only when one wants to be offensive in reference to a police officer. Roadkill – the ultimate in garbage recycling don't you think... I do look forward to your assured and continued co-operation Jonathan, you and I have much to do together.

All my love and fraternally yours,

Gabriela.

PS. Isabella won't be joining us. She's on a diet.

# # # #

INTRODUCTION

It was preparation of the odd bits that I most enjoyed. I didn't attempt anything over complex and stuck to recipes that I already knew. I want good free food to be accessible to all. There's' no unnecessary hours of preparation here and there is no need for expensive equipment. There are no arcane culinary secrets; just plain easy to understand methodology.

Examine your road killed pig closely and look at what you now have in front of you. Liver, kidneys, a tongue and even sweetbreads too (excuse the pun). After all, he must have had some balls to challenge me; and there's a brain, though in Brian's case, evidently quite a small one. There's so much we can do with bones as well and the body fats are simply delicious. Shall we start with his organs then? They are one of the most nutritious pieces of Brian flesh available. Little work is required in making the brain taste delicious.

Brian brain is noted for its exquisite texture. Poached brain an absolute favourite, proached as you would if considering cooking a very big egg. After being poached it is easily sliced. Being finely diced and lightly fried in belly fat also offers a unique culinary experience. Heart too is most tasteful. It is nearer in taste to roast than any other organ. In fact Isabella thought hers to be lamb. My advice is to simply oven roast as if it were. It can also be poached as if a brain. Parts of the outer heart were found to be particularly tasty in soup. I also recommend pan frying.

I found his kidneys to be an acquired taste, although after some experimentation with frying, a rather hastily prepared Irish kidney soup seemed to work well with the Brotherhood. But, to be honest with you, there was no better taste than that of its liver. Such concentrated nutrition all in one place and most complimentary when fried with onions and herbs. Pureed liver with chilli is a must try.

We even ate his testicles and pancreas, pre-poached and lightly fried. Similar in texture to the brain, this approach proved sensationally. I don't know why we refer to them (testicles) as sweetbreads. They weren't so much sweet but mild in taste. They would make an excellent replacement for scallops I believe, but we only had two. It's an idea for next time maybe?

The most awkward job I found was removing the skin from his tongue. Of course peeling is preferred as it turns the tongue into a basic lean roast. Slow cooking is recommended and shredding does create a kind of taco meat if you understand me. It is simply wonderful when grilled under melted yellow cheese. Simply boil the tongue complete and peel afterward. This makes the whole process so much easier. Remember not to throw the skin away as it can be used within a sausage mix later on.

By cooking bones slowly you can extract many nutrients from the bone as well as the flesh left upon it. Bones make excellent flavouring for gelatinous stews, broths and soups. Salt to taste and fish them out before serving. Waste nothing of your roadkill. We found that Brian's bones were easily utilised within the fabric of the new church. We also had plenty of fresh raw fat and rendering it didn't need to be time consuming at all. We merely found someone else to kill whilst it simmered away over time. A good dose of healthy Wilkinson-Suet will make all of your side vegetables absolutely irresistible. Try a sweet potato with a knob of fat instead of butter. We also found that some crackling, small pieces of deep fried skin, would float to the top of the rendered fat. Don't throw these away but sprinkle on top of your fried vegetables as they will certainly add a sensational flavour enhancement to your meal.

Tendons and ligaments worked best when thrown in the broth. Be warned however. Isabella found them to be somewhat rubbery in texture. We drained and drank the blood before dismembering him. It was sensational. If the idea of fresh warm blood doesn't appeal to you then use if in your faggots or haggis accordingly. Skin is delicious when deep fried as a sausage wrapping. You can chuck all of the odds and ends left over into it.

The following tried and tested recipes were finally approved after much experimentation and variation. They are now officially endorsed by the Gabriel Sect; suppliers of the finest meat products to Her Holiness, Gabriela 13.

FOR MONDAY

Live-sliced Brian Garlic and Fennel Sausage. The ultimate fresh meat experience.

You will need;

1 Brian Wilkinson (complete)

3 pounds of his pig meat

1 pound of his belly fat

2 tablespoons of fresh minced garlic

2 tablespoons of fennel seed

2 tablespoons of salt

1 tablespoon of black pepper

¼ of pint of good red wine (Jesus approved)

We start the week with live-sliced meat as it is essential that over the coming days we are able to keep our roadkill as fresh as possible. Food safety, presentation and sensational fresh taste are all equally important. Try to keep its heart beating for as long as possible. Whilst your meat vendor still breathes, your meat will always be as fresh as possible. We also started the week with live-slice to prevent the need for laborious butchering of the whole product and the need to run expensive energy-eating refrigerators. There is always time to be corpse frugal later on. There is no better way to use the week's leftover odds and ends than in a sausage.

First we need to grind the flesh. Ensure that your vendor is firmly tied and if noise is going to create difficulty for you, a firm gag is recommended. Personally I prefer the noise as it adds a certain je ne sais quoi to the event. Thinly slice your pork away from Brian's thighs, calves, shoulders and buttocks, avoiding deep cuts that cause excessive bleeding. Don't be over zealous as deep wounds will result only in shock and loss of life. This will require you to butcher and preserve the whole roadkill which somewhat defeats the live-slice object. Obtain the belly fat in the same way. Keep your kill as cold as possible; bacteria multiply in warmth.

Whilst we are talking about low temperature, do remember to put the metal grinding blades from your mincer in the freezer. Put your live-sliced flesh alongside them; for half an hour only. The colder your meat, the easier you will find it to grind. Don't allow it to freeze! It is also a good idea to put your grinding bowel on top of ice cubes to keep it chilled whilst you work. Make sure you maintain a good product balance between his meat and fat, and be very careful as you push Brian's prime cuts though the grinder. Watch out for your fingers, you don't want to earn the nickname Cerys Davies do you...

Seasoning makes so much difference. Using a general household food processor with paddle accessories, mix in your seasoning now. After you are happy with it, add your flavourings. As the week progresses you can vary sausage varieties by adding eyes, skin and intestines to taste.

Now it's time for stuffing and to do this we require a sausage casing. Whilst intestine is perfect, its removal will cause our vendor to die prematurely thus affecting flavour. One system we found to be most favourable was to skin Brian's left leg. You can of course strip the skin from any limb of choice. Roll your prepared mince as if creating a hand rolled cigarette or cigar. Truss with natural string. I found that stripping the skin from fingers and thumbs allowed for a perfect fit onto my mixer's extruder tube. Toes required manual packing. What folly we had with many jokes of questionable taste made during this process. Remember to twist the finger skin etc. and tie before removing it from the extruder.

If you manage the removal of meat, fat and skin correctly, your flesh vendor can live for several days. Eventually however, the immune system will fail, and you cannot remove more than 30 per cent of its blood, so ensure that you deal with uncontrolled bleed issues immediately. Your sausages will easily freeze and store for several months or are equally wonderful when grilled immediately.

FOR TUESDAY

Sweetbread Brian with Black Pudding and Caramelised Pears. The perfect romantic meal for two.

You will need;

4 cups of Brian's fresh blood

3 teaspoons salt

2 cups of oatmeal

2 cups of finely diced flesh

1 large yellow onion

½ cup of his belly fat

1 cup of milk

1 - 1/2 teaspoons freshly ground black pepper

1 teaspoon ground mixed spice

3 ounces of unsalted butter

1 ounce of caster sugar

2 pears

3 fluid ounces of olive oil

2 mushrooms

4 ounces of unsalted butter

Both of his testicles

1 head of fresh lettuce

1 orange

3 tablespoons of olive oil

2 tablespoons of sherry vinegar

4 fluid ounces of tongue stock gravy

First we must make the black pudding so preheat your oven to 165 degrees C. Grease the sides of two glass loaf pans. It is most important to use glass as metal pans will react against the blood causing the flavour to falter. Add one teaspoon of salt into the blood. Boil one pint of water and stir in the oats. Simmer until tender, stirring occasionally for approximately 15 minutes. Do not allow the oats to become mushy. Sieve the blood, stir in the belly fat, milk, pepper, mixed spices and remaining salt. Add the finely chopped yellow onion.

When you are happy with the mixture, combine with the oatmeal and pour into the glass loaf oven pans. Cover with tin foil and bake until solid for approximately 1 hour. Afterward, ensure you allow the black pudding to cool completely. You can freeze your mix for several months or keep fresh for up to 7 days within the refrigerator.

When you wish to consume the black pudding start to caramelise your pears. Add butter to your frying pan melting it on a low heat. Cut the peeled pears into wedges and add with sugar. They will caramelise in 3 to 4 minutes. When ready keep warm. Slice his sweetbreads, mushroom and black pudding as required and fry using a high setting. You should only need to use half of the olive oil at this stage. Cook for 4 minutes and then add the remaining oil. Cook together until you are satisfied that his testicles are brown and crisp. Keep warm alongside you caramelised pears.

Now we will prepare the salad. Place the lettuce leaves into a suitable salad bowl. Put the remaining ingredients in a mixing bowl and whisk. Pour the dressing over. Remember, presentation is everything. Place your mushrooms to the plate centre, and decorate with the black pudding and sweetbreads. Top with salad and spread the pears out. Top once again with the salad juices.

FOR WEDNESDAY

Liver and kidney Brian Pudding Pie

A meal quite simply to die for!

You will need;

2 ounces of belly fat

1seasoned liver

1 seasoned kidney

1 tablespoon of flour (for pan)

¼ pint of dark ale

225g of plain flour (for pastry)

100g of diced butter (for pastry)

A pinch of salt

Ground black pepper

2 cloves of garlic

Cumin to taste

A knob of additional butter (for seasoning)

This is a wonderful old recipe that is often called 'umble pie. Its origins are recorded way back, in a cook book called, 'A Shilling Cookery for The People' by Alexis Soyer (1855). Though I suspect they tended to use ox and cattle organs. Brian, being such a humble man, well you understand that Umble Pie it had to be. Ox and cattle are vegetarians. I see little point in eating anything that hasn't tried to eat me. Live and let live, that's what I think. Now on a point of principle you may wish to argue that Brian is, (I mean was) a vegetarian, but I distinctly remember reading in his book ('Please Take Care of Bethany') that he admitted to eating the occasional smoked kipper or two. I have the benefit of both worlds here. Technically if he used to eat fish he isn't really a vegetarian but a pescatarian, and secondly, if he doesn't eat meat he hasn't consumed any orange powder either. He's a good safe source of organic flesh. I have no qualms at all in enjoying and savouring every mouthful.

There is quite a difference between liver failure and acute liver failure. As your vendor's immune system starts to break down, essential organs will fail as they are unable to cope with the extent of toxins now poisoning them. Remove the liver and kidney before this happens to preserve pristine taste. Nobody wants to eat a substandard product. Complete liver and kidney failure will occur as soon as these organs are removed. Do not worry; death is still not imminent at this point and Brian did not slip into a coma until many hours afterward. You still have time to obtain your flesh at its optimum freshness for at least 36 hours to come.

A note on seasoning. For the liver use salt and pepper, a little butter and 2 cloves of garlic. You will need to regularly baste it on both sides with the melted butter mix. 3-4 minutes will be sufficient. Remove and set aside whilst you season the kidneys separately. When basting these second organs add cumin and garlic.

After seasoning; replace your liver and kidney back into the pan as one, adding two ounces of fat. Don't be tempted to fry alongside onion as it is quite unnecessary. The seasoned liver and kidney are most sufficient in providing a great knockout taste. When firm add your tablespoon of flour and mix, then pour in your dark ale and simmer until jellified. I found one of Brian's real ale favourites, Theakston's Old Peculiar, to be most complimentary.

When happy, pour your liver and kidney mix into a suitable oven-ready dish that you have pre-lined with crusty pastry. Vegetarian pastry is easily made. Mix your flour with the diced butter until it assumes a breadcrumb texture. Add your salt and maybe 2 or 3 tablespoons of water to render it into dough. Knead until perfect, lining and sealing your Liver and Kidney Pie. Pre-heat your oven and bake for 15 minutes at 220 degrees C.

FOR THURSDAY

Pig Stomach Soup – Include hands, feet and other bone.

Serves 4 – 6.

5 ounces of Brian's stomach

5 ounces of his intestine

5 ounces of pancreas

10 ounces of bone blanched in a bowl of boiling water and rinsed

Both eyes finely sliced

2 tablespoons of white roasted peppercorns

3 pints of boiling water

1 - 1/2 ounces of softened bladder finely chopped

Coriander

8 spring onions

Corn flour

Lime juice

Salt

We found that the slow cooker worked best. As we were boiling down Brian bone and gut, we wanted to avoid a lot of unnecessary pre-preparation. Particularly for soups and stews; just throw all of it in. It really is that simple.

The stomach and intestine are optimally removed at the earliest stages of yellowness. This will occur within twelve hours of liver and kidney removal and after the roadkill has naturally fallen into a comatose state. Having located and removed the necessary ingredients, you must ensure that you clean out the gut before use. Scrape off any impurities with a knife. It may be easier to turn the stomach inside out to enable this. Rub the inner lining with corn flour, lime juice and salt. Rinse off with water and repeat until you are happy that the smell is neutral and no longer offensive. When satisfied, scald it with boiling water and set aside.

After thoroughly washing the intestine, rub with salt and leave to soak in cold salty water. Be very careful not to contaminate your everyday salt dispenser. Stomach and intestine bacteria can be most hazardous to health. Remove any unsightly objects from your blanched bones, such as finger or toe nails. Your vegetarian guests will not appreciate the inclusion of gelatine in their meal.

It's now time to set up your slow cooker. Add the stomach, intestine and bone. It is also time to include the eyes, thinly sliced as a substitute for scallops. Pour in your roasted peppercorns to taste and fill with boiling water. Set to high mode and allow to cook for two hours. Open and remove the stomach only when soft and cooked through. Cut it into bite size pieces and put aside for later on. Now add your pancreas and bladder to the bone-and-gut broth topping up with water as necessary. Cook for one hour until the bladder is tender.

You can now ladle your soup into bowls, decorating with sliced stomach. Garnish with onions, sliced eye and coriander.

FOR FRIDAY

Heart, Lung and Tongue Basted Roast.

Delightful served hot or cold sliced in sandwiches.

You will need;

A superhero heart

His lungs and tongue

3 tablespoons of butter

1 sliced strong onion

A handful of sliced mushrooms

1 cup of bread crumbs

Salt and pepper

Binding string (not plastic)

1/4 cup of flour

6 potatoes

6 carrots

6 parsnips

Basting bulb

It is essential to consume any prime organ that can decay quickly. As the gut has been removed the heart is no longer beating and will break down quickly. Roasted fresh, the heart, lungs and tongue pack a punch rarely beaten. Quite simply, they deserve to be roasted as soon as possible.

The meat of the remaining torso can be hung in cold storage comfortably. Do not be over keen in picking his bones. Meat hanging is a culinary process used to age the dead flesh and it has long been proven to improve flavour. Natural enzymes in the meat break down the tissue and water content evaporates through dry aging.

The heart was found to have a gamey taste and with lungs and full stripped tongue we soon had over 4 pounds of prime roast with a taste similar to kidney, but milder. Brian was a good source of protein, vitamin B12, iron, niacin, zinc and phosphorous. We will deal with his head tomorrow.

This meal is so easy to prepare. Wash the heart, lungs and tongue taking care to remove any inner heart and lung strings. Their rubbery texture adds nothing so discard them. Now you are ready to melt your 2 tablespoons of butter into a saucepan. Sauté your onion and mushrooms and add the breadcrumbs until they are equally coated and mixed with melted butter. Season with salt and pepper to taste.

You are now ready to fill your roast organs with your stuffing mixture and bind them tightly together with string. I found that whilst the heart was stuffed and bound with mixture and whole tongue, the lungs were preferred sliced and roasted. But you will make your own decision here. Cold sliced lung was simply unbeatable in taste when served later in lunch box sandwiches.

Whatever decision you make, rub the exterior of the meat with butter and seasoning. Carefully dredge with flour on all sides. Chop or dice your vegetables as preferred and prepare as an under bed for your meat. Spread out any remaining veg equally. Add just enough water to cover the vegetables only. Bake for one hour ensuring that you cover with basting juices at least every 15 minutes. Remove only when brown and thoroughly cooked through.

Tip: Use any leftover black pudding blood in your gravy mix. Use the basting juice, adding only 1 tablespoon of flour. Whisk until thick.

FOR SATURDAY

Brian Brain Majorcan Style. Tasty, no fuss and serves four.

You will need;

1 pound of Brian's brain

1 ounce of white flour

1 tablespoon of olive oil

1 large and thinly chopped onion

Salt and pepper to taste

1 tablespoon of red wine vinegar

5 ounces of liver stock

2 egg yolks

Whipped cream as required

Appearance is everything so start by boiling the head complete for 30 minutes to allow for easy peeling. After unsightly skin is removed, use a wood saw to create a skull bowl. Be careful not to chop into the brain inside. Gently separate the two parts. I have found that cutting through the cranium just above the eye sockets works best. Lift the brain out and rinse with cold water and pat dry using kitchen roll. Line the inside of the skull bowel with flour and seasoning adding salt and pepper to taste.

Thinly slice the brain and fry using olive oil in a large frying pan, adding your onion and browning all over, using a medium heat. Also pre-heat your oven to 190 degrees C. When satisfied with your browning, repack the sliced brain with onion into the skull bowl, adding your liver stock. Larger slices can be left to hang over, and by building up the layers a wonderful rose like presentation can be easily achieved. Pour over your red wine vinegar.

Using any leftover juices from frying, mix well and beat together with your eggs and add whipped cream to taste. Pour mixture over the brain as you did previously with the vinegar. Savour the amazing smell as you finally cook through in your preheated oven for 20 minutes.

FOR SUNDAY

Roast Pit Pig (also known as 'What's Left of Wilkinson'

Fun for all the family!

You will need;

The remaining torso.

A roast spit

Charcoal briquettes (avoid hardwood charcoals)

Starter fuel

A long set of cooking tongs

Salt

Beer and friends

Don't worry about the purchase of the cooking spit. Most sick deprived carnivores, those who supply the enslaved and systematically tortured children of other mammals for slaughter, will be more than happy to rent you one. The pig spit is a sociable experience, a cultural experience that goes beyond taste and consumption. You will need plenty of beer and friends. Killing something and consuming its flesh is a celebration – just remember that! So don't be shy. Hang out with the paedophiles as they join in together, wanking off over their downloads, collectively and unashamedly. They are proud to slash the throat and bleed to death the helpless veal, piglet, and calf at the earliest opportunity: the younger the tastier. Call in at your local farm and enquire.

Brian's torso was a bit tougher, you appreciate that he was an old pig. We planned on using one pound of coal per pound of flesh. Hardwood coals burn too fast, so charcoal briquettes allow for a slower heat for prolonged cooking. We kept an extra 25 pounds of fuel on hand. Spread the starter fuel evenly before lighting and use the tongs to ensure consistent heat across the whole pit bed. He was so tasty, salt was all that we required for seasoning.

As a rule of thumb; allow a cooking time of one and a quarter hours per ten pounds of flesh. It'll be a long day so enjoy – open the beer! Your depravity is so sociable. Roasting a whole animal returns you to your sick primal past. Forget that you are an evolved compassionate human being with secondary reasoning and moral accountability. Be that paedophile and choose to tune into your true nature over consequence. For you, nothing comes close to abusing the whole Baby I'd Like to Eat. The younger the pig, the more the gelatinous low-fat melts as you cook it. It's there and you want it; oozing rich, sticky, porky juices. You can't control that urge can you? You sick fucking bastards.

So, since we are not adding flavour to Brian's torso, quality is everything. He's been hanging for several days now and the enzymes have done an admirable job. The odd bits have been pulped and frozen. We have sausage and burger galore. Hanging has also allowed the muscles to relax after rigor mortis had set in. We left Brian in a garbage bag in the bath tub covered in ice, just whilst we prepared the spit. As he was not frozen, a need to stop him flopping around whilst the spit turned was identified. It was crucial to secure him – dead bodies are heavy and must be extremely well secured. Pierce the flesh with wire and tie the spit frame tightly to the spine, arms and legs.

After that; the process is easy, so be as lazy as you wish. Sit back and allow the electric motor to do all the work. Killing and flesh consumption is so efficiently mechanised, isn't it? You can almost forget you've been personally involved in the slaughter of a sentient creature at times. I suppose the piglet however is easily recognisable for what it is, a baby animal. Brian however had already lost his hands, feet and head by this time. Tend to your corpse every half an hour to ensure that the coals are evenly burning. Low and slow, don't be in a hurry. A burnished colour within the first hour means you are cooking your pig way too past! So slow down, don't climax yet. There's loads of time to 'cum' together later.

The last half hour is where you find the magic. Skin; crispy and crackly, the smell of that amazing burnt flesh. For it is now that you increase the heat, so throw more coals on. That final blast, and if all goes well, your pig bubbles into blistery pustules. It is now ready to dissolve in the mouth. I guarantee that killing will be the highlight of your summer. I can't recommend it enough. Invite your friends and be a local hero.

Be scrupulous with the invites however. Brian's last 120 pounds was just sufficient for the Brotherhood barbeque last Sunday. You must (at your peril) avoid open invites because as soon as flesh eaters smell pork they'll come flocking in droves. There's no excuse for any member of your flesh orgy to go home unsatisfied. Don't let that happen to you – ensure you have enough flesh for your guests to wank off on at all times.

PART ONE  
Meat: Memoirs Of A Psychopath

Author unknown

Dr Cerys Davies was born in Tenby, a small coastal town of Pembrokeshire, South Wales in 1956. Dr Davies qualified in 1982 at the renowned St Andrew's University in Scotland. Having completed numerous academic research papers and joint publications throughout her long career, this publication is her first individual work. Dr Davies works as a clinical personality profiler for a number of Police Authorities in the UK. Her involvement in the Gabriel Investigation firmly established her reputation, for which she became known as one of the best criminal psychologists this country has to offer. Dr Davies works today in her own private clinical practice in Cardiff. She lives with her husband, Nigel, a composer, and their two daughters, Chandelle, 19, and Isabella, 21, both of whom are now at university studying to pursue careers in medicine. Both girls follow in the footsteps of their mother.

Dr Cerys Davies' Note

I believe that readers of these memoirs are likely to find them vile and repulsive; reasons that I question the purpose of publishing it. Do we indulge the psychopath? To place him upon a pedestal where he can attain fame, through his killings? Is this what he wants, a pulpit of hate from which to preach? Do we additionally risk feeding the psychotic delusions of others, the copycats? I have been so near to pressing the delete key on so many occasions, believe me. However, I have come to the conclusion that I must indeed write this book, and for one purpose only which is to expose the killer, reveal his identity, and hopefully to ensure that he is caught. This psychopath's arrogance, his utter contempt for humanity will, I believe, be his downfall. — Dr Cerys Davies.

Publisher's Note

These anonymous memoirs are printed in full, unabridged and unedited. They were discovered by Merseyside Police officer PC 5427 Brian Wilkinson in the early hours of June 16th 2009 following the routine search of an abandoned property. The preceding preface was handwritten and attached to the memoirs as a covering letter, while the memoirs were typed. For what purpose they were written is clear but the author's true identity and origin remain unknown.

NOTE: In later editions; spelling and typographical errors, as referred to by Dr Cerys Davies within her summary notes and findings, have been corrected. This was conducted solely at the request of readers who found the text overly-difficult to comprehend.

First published as a paper, 2011, Journal of Personality and Mind, Cambridge

INTRODUCTION

Dr Cerys Davies

When I first telephoned Brian Wilkinson during the summer of 2012 to discuss the publication of these memoirs, I was met with an uncomfortable silence. Brian told me he was not going to talk with me and remarked, "Why would you publish such horrors? What possible reason could there be to publish this filth?" I apologised for having troubled him so and explained my reasoning.

An extract from 'Meat: Memoirs of a Psychopath' had been published previously by the UK journal Personality and Mind on the 3rd November 2011; the professional, subscription-only magazine of the mental health community. During my downtime (the usual coffee and cigarette following one particularly trying day) I had read the extract 'In Finding a Victim'. I read it from professional curiosity only. But what I read filled me with disbelief, and I was driven by curiosity to obtain a complete copy of the memoirs.

My first question though was, were they authentic? I hadn't even been aware of the existence of the memoirs until I read the journal that day. I had just so many questions! No doubt it was because the questions it would raise with the profession... not least of which being that the journal must have chosen to publish in the first place. We are a small community in mental health, and we hear the strangest of stories and meet the strangest of patients. Publication of the memoirs had only been made following a long and drawn out consultation process with Merseyside Police, so a secondary purpose for publication was by way of an appeal for information. Somewhere, somebody had to know who this man was. Brian Wilkinson had not been too difficult to find. He was recently retired and very well liked. A few choice phones calls from my practice in Cardiff by my very committed receptionist, Annie, and she had soon found him. The Merseyside Review, a weekly independent newspaper, had published an interview with Brian shortly after he had retired in January 2010. By all accounts he was an everyday bobby. He took a great interest in his local community, and would be sadly missed by the residents of the Drover Estate and surrounding beat. The community had rallied around and had thrown a party in the Ferguson Community Centre. Everything I read from the internet said Brian is a good policeman, faultless, hardworking and sincere, a real stalwart and a decent nice guy. After my initial conversation, I left Brian with my telephone number and an invitation to get back to me if he felt able to discuss the matter further.

Two days passed and then the phone call came. Brian had thought over our previous conversation, short though it had been, and said, "How can I help?" We talked for a while and agreed to meet. I drove up to Liverpool the following Sunday. We met as arranged, for a coffee at a motorway service station, (easy to find) and we talked. Brian was now in his early sixties, plump and with a silver beard just like any other old retired copper you could bring to mind. He wore a suit and tie and explained how difficult he had found it to settle into retirement. He would dress up, always smart he said, and visit the older people on the estate. "I need to be doing something positive," he said. Brian's wife Doreen had died several years before and you could feel his sense of loneliness. Following Doreen's death he had filled his time with a passion; a passion of his he held dear, a passion for military history. He would tell me wartime stories about his father during the World War II. Brian had self-published his wartime story in 2005 and was very proud of it. On the memoirs he said, "I never had anyone to talk to, no one to listen. I just had to deal with it and this has been so very hard." You could see straight through Brian when the memoirs took hold of the conversation. You could sense his fear and feel the chill, as if the temperature had suddenly dropped to below zero. But most of all you could see that this was a man, a man who was haunted by his find; a man who had never recovered from it nor had been helped to move on. I would remain in continual contact with Brian and help him to rebuild his sense of self-esteem afterwards. I would later get assistance for him. Brian was a tough old bugger, didn't like discussing his feelings at all and a gentle gradual path to recovery was much needed. Brian today is receiving counselling from the Merseyside Police Psychology Services. I had worked with them all closely for many years but it was finally nice to meet them and put a face to all the names. "I can talk about it now," he would later tell me.

The police inquiry in regard to the discovery of the memoirs remains open and ongoing. They are looking for a killer; a serial killer and a known psychopath. Science moves on very fast and DNA printing techniques break new boundaries almost on a daily basis. They have the killers DNA profile taken from three victims and one day somewhere this killer will be caught. They are adamant about this, unequivocal. "Just one small crime, shoplifting or drink driving, anything that will result in a personal smear... saliva from the mouth and we have him," Brian told me.

And so now we move to the memoirs. Brian told me how it was all just so routine. A beautiful night and he was happy to be out and about on his beat. He recalled that the moon that evening was crescent shaped and the sky so clear. "I was just doing my thing, walking the beat and then the radio went," he said. "Concern had been raised by a local resident about youths entering and possibly vandalising an old abandoned house. I knew the house immediately; I had walked this beat for so many years, 16 Veron Road: a lovely old house; not a bad part of town. Not part of the estates; professionals and student lets mainly and close to the university campus. This is the kind of house you always wanted to live in; big and expensive but left to decay as so many are in the area," he said. "There was a procedure. We didn't put ourselves at any unnecessary risk, resources were tight, low police morale and few new officers," he told me. "I was happy to work alone. I had had a long time on the job. I was counting my days down to retirement. The people here were good people," he remarked. "Back up was usually available but you just didn't want to waste time and money. My old favourite, the procedure, had taken care of me for 29 years. I never felt frightened. Like I say, it was all just so routine," he concluded.

Brian's procedure, a standard police tactic, was to arrive noisily. "It was just youths vandalising an old house and, as ever, routine,' he said. The police were simply not in a position to arrest every wayward kid. This was Liverpool after all, and homelessness and drug addiction were commonplace. Crack cocaine, the biggest single destroyer of any small inner city community, was abundant," he confirmed. He would arrive noisily, banging the fence or the bins with his truncheon, perhaps a window or anything else that made a sudden shocking noise. He would shout, "Police Officer in attendance" and then wait for 3 minutes before entering. "The kids would just scarper," he said, "and any users inside, the addicts that is would just jump out of the windows and leg it." There were so many old rundown Victorian and Georgian houses like this in Liverpool and we couldn't stop the vandalism. "We couldn't stop the drug dens popping up," he said, "but we just made our presence known and they would move on."

"I went in. The place stank of excrement and urine, the damp, the usual smells. My hand on my emergency assistance button (on every copper's radio), and my heavy metal torch held up to the right of my head and gripped tightly. Just as I would with my old faithful truncheon to my left if needed. One blow and that hurts," he smiled. "You would hold it at the front, by the bulb end and you could swing down very quickly," he told me. "There was no one there, nothing unusual but yes, all the drug paraphernalia you are used to seeing was present inside. Needles and spoons, tin foil and plastic bottles, the bottles turned into home-made hash or crack smoking pipes, but nothing I didn't expect to see. Old mattresses spread out across the floor and numerous used condoms, all just everyday stuff. But I did smell a candle," he said to me.

He told me how the smell of the candle was fresh, a smell that told you that it had just been extinguished. That hot wax smell he had found was very recent. He had looked around for the candle but it was nowhere to be found. He was just doing his job and making sure some idiot bored kids hadn't somewhere started a fire. "And then I went into the cellar. It was the last place to check and the last place I wanted to check. You see there is no way out in the cellar. You have to give them chance to run if they can. Always check upstairs first and make lots of noise. Give the little buggers a chance to get out," he said proudly. "And then I saw them, these memoirs Saw them placed on a table beside this recently used candle. It was just an old orange card covered folder, a student kind of thing." He stopped, silent. He had got to know me by now and trusted me. We talked a lot and often, nonsense usually and just day-to-day chit chat, but now Brian was suddenly and totally silent. "What on earth is wrong?" I said. He exclaimed, "You have to understand the fear. I just read the note on the cover that was just stuck there like a reminder, handwritten below a big bold title in black felt pen. It said 'Meat: Memoirs of a Psychopath'. I froze cold, so very cold at what I saw. This wasn't routine anymore, anything but," he said. He told me how he had read the cover, maybe it was some kind of sick joke, maybe it had been stolen from some would-be author's car and just dumped there, but no nothing about the find made any sense. It was in perfect condition, undamaged and no rips. Something like this could not have been here long. The kids would have burnt it and the druggies would have most certainly used it as toilet paper,' he told me. No, Brian had found it: the memoirs perfectly placed on an old wooden table that was spotlessly washed cleaned and the candle beside still warm. "I opened the cover with a pencil, a policeman's nose, you know that this is something important. You sense it," he said. "I read it in disbelief. Was this real? I didn't want to call it in and make a fool of myself," he said. "It was sick what I saw. I mean sicker than anything else I had come across in my life. Just so sick and I felt quite nauseous because of it. I could read no more of it. This was something that I had never seen before in my entire career. I'm just an old beat bobby you see, that's all, but this was so twisted."

Brian later called the find in and within minutes he tells me, the entire team was there. The entire team consisting of everybody, and the house was locked down for forensic testing for many days. "I was just a handful of weeks away from retiring and I am left with this," he said in a dampened voice. "It was weeks later before all of us lads down at the station got to read the whole thing."

"Can people like this really exist?" he asked me. All I could offer him at this stage and in reply, was that you could never trust anybody really. People are capable of anything, as experience had shown me.

"I have never recovered from the fear," he said to me, "that fear, that gut churning fear I got knowing that I had been maybe just inches away from this sick, twisted bastard." I had never heard Brian use profanity before, because by nature he was a real gent and always so polite. But now, and only now, did I begin to understand his fear and his absolute revulsion at his find. Brian clearly needed clinical help to move on from it. "It haunts me, the stuff of nightmares," he said, "and that's why I rang you back after you telephoned me. We have to catch him." "That's why I am here Brian," I told him. "I am sure you are all very close."

The resulting investigation and my conclusion form the appendix of this book, 'The Police Investigation.' Each chapter of 'Meat' will be followed by my reflections on what has gone before, both in terms of psychological profiling and personal opinion. You may find these memoirs both disturbing and horrifying. My own texts are both my attempt to bring a clinical focus on the subject matter, and to offer the reader some respite from the otherwise gruelling content. These anonymous memoirs are printed in full, unabridged and unedited. They are at times chaotic, unreadable and, some might say, written out of pure madness. Is this a work of fact or fiction? At this stage only you, the reader, can decide...

But first, before we continue further, a few words of introduction to my youngest daughter, Chandelle.

PART ONE

HOW TO BREED CHICKENS IN IOWA

Chandelle Davies

Chapter 44

A Bird in the Hand

The mind can achieve any mental-state it desires if you so want it to. We all make the most of life and lie to ourselves when needs must, to create our own false sense of happiness and to twist and contort our own sad realities; all to make life just that little bit more bearable. If this is you, then do continue to dream, go on, get on with it and bury your head in the sand for all eternity. I have no need of escape or of dreams and false hopes. I do have nightmares, why yes of course I do, we all do - but my life is already beautiful and the sunshine of California is something to be most desired. My dreams are my reality and life is wonderful.

Leaving South Wales as a child with my mother and father, an older sister and just three old trunks could have led to disaster, this is true, but it did not. Our feverish voyage to America, as so many others did during the Californian Gold Rush, was quite the experience. Dad didn't really stop to think about the negative consequences. He had dreams and now he had hope of achieving them. Strange thing was that we never actually made it to California. We went northward to Iowa in the end.

We left Cardiff on the 24th January, 1851, aboard a fine wooden sailing ship called the Adventurer, the name most appropriate to us. Dad had just lost his job. He was a printer for a publisher on South Street, overlooking the docks. He would look out of his workshop window and see the ships come and go. He'd watch the cargo unload and the people board most curiously as people never seemed to arrive, they just left, one after the other. '51 was a bitterly cold year and Dad's aged boss was selling up to retire. No offers to purchase the Blakeley's firm had been placed and there was to be no more work.

One of the shipping companies which transported the printed books overseas was keen to use the warehouse space for cargo storage, and as a joke Blakeley had suggested that they take the old printers' shop workers back to New York with them. The next shipment outward was a mere two days away. Although folly at first, Dad now immediately acted on the idea of a fresh start overseas. He knew that printers were in demand, but he also knew that gold had been found too. What was initially just a joke was now within a day, our reality. Blakely happily signed the rental papers over to Meridian Shipping Corp. only on the strict understanding that the rent included a one-way ticket for four.

With the bitter cold British winter behind us, we arrived in New York just 7 weeks later, and to a new form of weather, it felt much colder. From there we took an ice-cold and most torturous railway journey, slowly winding our way across four more states; Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana and Illinois. Our final leg and fifth state, Iowa now concluded by wagon trail, as the railway companies had not extended that far west as yet. Compared to this, our confined sea passage now felt like an absolute luxury. Explorers and soldiers came and went. So too the prospectors and all other manner of workers, but we were settlers, we were now here to stay. There was no going back now. We all knew this... and it had all started with chickens.

Dad being the canny Welshman that he was, had sold our winter coal supply to raise money for food on the trip, and we had plenty. During this fun, but very over-tiring sail, we had become very close friends to a native born American man called Archie Barnes. Archie was a chicken farmer and was introducing good laying breeds to the new found lands he occupied. "Anyone can keep chickens," he would say, "but breeding them successfully, well that's a completely different concern." This is what Archie did. He bred laying hens and sold them out to numerous states, if not to them all. He had travelled back to Great Britain merely to collect six breeding pairs of Australorps as they were known. Their docility and hardiness was "an excellent addition to any ranch or homestead flock." With this in mind you will be amazed at how much I came to know about breeding chickens in Iowa, during my sea voyage west.

School had taught me many things about Australia and one of my favourite books, printed by my father whilst at Blakeley's, was the story of 'Kingston, the Friendly Kangaroo,' - though I suspect now, well out of print, for many years. But I had never thought of or read anything to suggest that Australia was becoming famous for its chickens. The Australorps were bred from original Orpingtons that were exported to the colonies from England. Australians were most impressed by its egg-production traits, and following on from outcrossing and selected breeding, the Black Orpington soon began to produce a fine quality meat yield. Another strain however was the Australian Laying Orpington. This breed was, by 1820, divergent enough to have its own classification, the all new super laying Australorp. The bird had become so successful. The American Poultry Association accepted it as a standard breed into the country in 1829.

Archie had a plan. "I have personally travelled the Atlantic to select six pairs of the finest English-Australorps I have ever seen," he said most proudly. "With these twelve hens I am going to cross again with Campines... Let me tell you about the Campine" - he abruptly interrupted himself, and added much more information to the conversation. "It is a most beautiful bird, so very attractive, in fact a direct cousin of the Braekel breed. They come from Flanders, in Belgium, do you know?" Trying to look interested I continued to smile back. "The Braekel enjoys a rich clay soil. They've been successful in Belgium since 1416. Its Dutch cousin however, the Campine, can survive on much less fertile land, such as the Kempen region." (I had already figured out that that must be the origin of the name Campine, but Archie insisted on telling us all about that as well.) "The Campine hen has been in America since 1793 but it has never really become popular, but it is an awesome layer," Archie saying, as he became more and more excited by the ongoing conversation, yet again all about chickens. "The birds over-here are just not rugged enough. Even attempts by poultry-men to breed from English stock have failed but I know that if I cross it with the new Australorps and... well, I'll be a very rich man by the turn of the decade."

My dad had become fascinated by the Archibald egg stories, and he seemed to be quite convinced that Archie's super-chicken, this amazing egg-layer with its delicious meat taste and the fact that it was the most beautiful of ornamental bird to look at too, would be a winner also.

To be fair, chickens had not been the only conversation during the seven week voyage. Had this been the case then I fear I would not be here to tell you this story today. No – for I would have gone over-board for certain. Many of the passengers would also talk about Indians, often quite cruelly referring to them as nothing more than cold blooded savages. One story I heard was about the Tamlins of Gloucestershire. They had left Boston for California, at the start of the gold rush about two years before, 1848 or '49. The narrator of the story could be no more exact than that. This rather silly lady told of how their wagon train had been attacked, Mrs Tamlin was brutally sexualised by several leaving the rest to our own imaginations, and that Mr Tamlin had had his scalp cut off; the skin of his scalp cut "clean away" as she put it, "with a big knife." Mother would just grip my hand tight at such times and whisper to me, "Just ignore the silly old fool, she clucks on about it more than Archie's own chickens," reminding me that, "she's just an ignorant fool, a bigot. Listen no more to her. If there was any truth in the matter we would have read about it back at home in Cardiff before we left."

But truth was that my father had heard of such stories, and upon weighing up the facts, had decided that gold was out, and chickens were now in. Dad had only really joked about digging for gold. He was certain he would find work on the East Coast as a printer again; of this he had no doubt. He would turn to me and say, "What uses have I of gold, Goldie? For I have you, and you are called Goldie because you are the most precious gift a man could ever want. Isn't that true Mrs Davies?" Mother turning to us and adding in reply (smiling at both of us young girls with the genuine unconditional smile that came only from a mother, born out of true love of her own daughters). "Your father and I are rich beyond all imagination, for we have you two with us. Now less of this nonsense. I'd much rather talk about the chickens." My sister was only a bit older; we were both now in our late teens and to be quite honest, had made no public secret of our intention to find prospective husbands. What I hadn't realised though was that we were both about to marry into the poultry business.

"How about it, Nige?" Archie would ask again of Dad. "How about it? Come on, come west with me. I need good reliable hands, several in fact. There's work for all four of you. Good pay considering too. I've lost six of my best cowboys this year to Californian gold madness. They'll not be back for months if at all. Stay in the barns to start with. Its cosy, a stove as well, it's warm they tell me. We'll soon knock up a new cabin for y'all over spring." So that was that, Dad looking at Mum for re-assurance and Mummy laughing back, "Well I suppose so Archie, after all, a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush..."

PART ONE

Chapter 45

The Cowboys of Carter Lake

After a wagon ride that felt like an entire lifetime had passed before me, we arrived at Archibald's ranch, Carter Lake. It was the only frontier-outpost west of the Missouri River, so we all remained a little bit nervous given such tales of woe and of the Indian attacks upon settlers. Carter Lake had formed following a huge flood of 1806 which had redirected the course of the river one and a half miles to the southeast. What remained of the old river course, the Saratoga Bend, was now an oxbow lake.

It is beautiful. I wish you could all join us here. Imagine me, a cowgirl from Cardiff. It's not an easy life but it is a magnificent one. My sister, Izzy, soon married a ranch-hand called Charlie Parker and I, well that's what I am bursting to tell you. I am so in love with him. He's a real gentleman and treats me with the upmost of respect. He's a surgeon. We met when old Dan fell from his horse last autumn. The men were up in the hills, bringing the cows down to lower pastures for winter. Dan was a good man, all the cowboys liked him, and they rigged up a stretcher and dragged him over 30 miles to safety. They are so strong and determined, the cowboys who work on Carter Lake Ranch.

Dan's horse had startled at a rattler, a strange kind of snake which is, I must add, extremely poisonous, but it rattles its back tail to warn you away from it, making the noise of a baby's toy rattle, hence the obvious name. It's most interesting and nothing like I've seen anywhere before. Dan smashed his thigh. The bone came out through his skin. The men secured it with sticks and ripped neckerchiefs, but they couldn't fix it back without risking puncture to an artery. Death would have been certain and within minutes if that had happened. The stretcher behind the horse was lifted up at the far trailing end by the men in turns to keep it clear of the rough terrain, they walked and rode for miles doing this, miles and miles, this to keep old Dan alive. They returned his horse safe and sound too; Barker she was called.

About 12 miles north of Carter Lake is Saratoga Crossing, a very small settlement, but it has the privileges of a doctor, a saloon hotel, an undertaker and several hardware and necessity shops. The ranch-hands got him there as safely and as quickly as able. "Bring him in quickly!" Dr Owen demanded. "I can't feel my legs doctor, I can't feel my legs," such lost pathetic words, so quiet they were almost inaudible, faintly heard coming out from Old Dan. But at least he was finally in safe hands.

Back at the ranch Western galloped in, dismounting and tying up his steed hurriedly, he shouted, "Mrs Davies, Mrs Davies... quick, we need you, come quickly!" Mum ran out of the cabin. She knew by the tone of his voice something bad had happened. His distress was quite overcoming, not at all the normally quiet, calm, unprovoked Western we expected. "It's bad ma'am, very bad, the doctor wants you now. They need to open old Dan or he ain't gonna walk again." Whilst Dad had trained as a printer and was now an accomplished cowboy and farmer, he knew nothing of medicine, but of Mother, she had been a nurse for over twenty years whilst back at home in Wales.

"I'll be there straight away," she said, shouting for my sister, Izzy, and adding, "I need the cart hitching, now girl, quickly. I need to drive her over to Dr Owens at Saratoga. He's gonna operate, he needs help, rush girl rush..." Izzy hitched the cart to the Broadmoor pair, the strongest team on the ranch. They were called Broadmoor for a very good reason; because they were the only two horses with sufficient strength to plough the Broadmoor Pasture the previous spring. These two enormous Montana stock-horses, Blaze and Trigger, would pound the earth like an earthquake and save Old Dan from certain death.

Run like the wind Trigger, run fast Blaze, and this they did without falter, almost as if they too could sense the looming danger for Old Dan. Whilst Izzy had harnessed up and hitched the team, I had collected clean sheets and bedding, soap and all other necessities. Mum itemised and checked her medical bag, including a sterilised saw just in case... The fact of the matter was that she was amply qualified as a doctor, but times being what they were, she was not allowed to practise at home or even now, in the new America. But Owen knew of her skills and waited patiently for her to arrive.

With sweat and perspiration causing a mist to rise high above into the air, the Broadmoor pair drew to a standstill, with a single stamp hard to the ground, a single stamp of off-side front hoof, Blaze announced our arrival. We rushed in. Dan was nearly gone on heaven's door, tired and weak. "Quickly, it's now or never," shouted Dr Owen, and so we began.

I'd always known that Owen liked me. A cowgirl can tell these things. I've seen him stare, and without wishing to make you blush, I've even caught him looking downward too, down my top. He thinks that I do not notice but I do. I can feel him undressing me, slowly.

I wish you could have seen him working on Old Dan. He was like a Roman God, so determined and precise – and Mum, winking at me, her daughter, just to let me know that Dan would be fine now, he was in the best of hands. Old Dan, by now a very happy man having drunk almost one whole bottle of Copper-Mist, a very fine local bourbon... so called because it was distilled in copper stills and had the habit of completely removing all trace of memory after one awoken from having drunk it.

After we all knew that Dan would be fine, Mum went back to Carter Lake. It had been a long night and she had much to tell the eagerly awaiting ranch hands. These moments were always wonderful, when the cowboys would all gather around a central point, an open fire-pit out-front of the main house, sharing the day's news and stories, drinking, laughing together and playing guitar and harmonica. It was always Nanook's accordion that made me smile. It was so old and tattered, the canvas bellow moth eaten and holed. Sometimes it sounded just like a squealing old hog meeting its maker at dinner time, but Nanook didn't care. He was an old Indian from the Báxoǰe tribe. He would smile out from beyond an old clay pipe and say, "If it pleases the ancient spirits of my father's then it pleases me. If it didn't they'd have had me killed off years ago..." always giggling to himself afterward, as if without a single care in the world. There's much to learn about Nanook.

I stayed at the crossing with the doctor, I agreed to stay until Old Dan was ready to go home with me – I was now Nurse Goldie. It was the following day, whilst Dan, our only patient, had slept for twelve hours without awakening, that Dr Owen took the opportunity to show me something pressing... "There is a technique, Chand', "he whispered. I could feel his hot breath drift across the bare flesh of my exposed neck. Standing behind me, his arms wrapped either side of my torso, holding out a bandage in front of me. I could feel his eyes peering down from behind, over my shoulder, looking deep down into my welcoming cleavage.

I knew that he appreciated the fact that my blouse was now two buttons undone, from the top and limping over, off my left shoulder. "A tourniquet is always looped under and across, like this Chand', over and across," Owen would never use my full name, as if he knew we'd always been so much more than just friends from the very beginning. "Over and across, now you try..." With his hands stretched out in front of me, his wrists out flat, upward facing just below my begging breasts, I tried to emulate the procedure. Our hands now tripping and falling quite clumsily all over each other's, as you expect of the legs of two drunks trying to hold one another up after a night out on Copper-Mist. As he clasped mine, firmly, but also most gently, until his thumb just clipped the end of my hard nipple and... there, instantly, something else was pressing with an urgency up against my Grand Canyon.

Let me tell you more about the cowboys, there are six who deal only with the cattle, and with the crossbred cattle, the possibilities are endless. But really, I don't want to sound like I'm talking all about chickens and ranching again, but this is important. Crossbreeding is the only way to create an Iowa efficient brood. Purebred lines are still important, but they are definitely not for Iowa! Jank, he's in charge of the cow-herders, told me this on the first day we met, – he said, "Quality purebreds make quality cross-breeds that's the truth. Cattle, horses or chickens, there ain't really a whole load of difference; you gotta crossbreed to get it right."

The horses are tough, spending most of the year out on the prairies up north, Tilly, Ornesto and Slide take care of all that. They live most of the time out there too. Horse-rustling is a real problem, especially during the fall months. Two stay out whilst one rides in, they take it in turns so there is always two remaining with the horses when one is on down time. That's three days every second week. The downer returns, taking fresh supplies back with them and so on (The 14th day is known as Towning Day for shopping). Each man works ten days non-stop and then takes three off to rest plus the additional paid Towning Day.

And then we have the chickens. That's my mum and dad's job. And with me and my sister, who do the ranch house chores and cooking, and of course Archie the owner, that makes a lot of workers altogether. There are loads of visitors, girlfriends and family who come from time to time too. None of the cowboys are married except Charlie Parker who married my sister, Izzy. They say, "It is not fair to the wives." They work for many years and save up, and that's when they move-on, get married and build their own places.

Obviously Mum and Dad are married, but Archibald is a widower. He doesn't want to re-marry, he says; "It's either a new woman or the chickens. I can't be hen-pecked by both." He is away most of the dry months travelling too so she'd have to be a very patient woman to put up with that, and he did once say to me, "Look at it this way Goldie. I get to travel all over the world with as many birds as I wish this way. Nah, I'm better off single now, I think." His wife's death was all very sad and that's how he met the Indian, Nanook. He stayed on as one of Archie's cow-men afterward.

PART ONE

Chapter 46

Nanook

It was during The Fall of 1849 that Esther, Archie's wife had died. She had been a seamstress from New York and had moved west with him to settle on the great prairie. They had left the new city so full of hope, overcome with dreams and ambition, intoxicated by their love of each other. Nanook had never spoken of this story directly. It was Charlie Parker, his son, Izzy's husband, who told us, and we have never really questioned anybody further. It's not our place or business to do that.

Apparently, having been only 6 weeks off from, and away from the east passage plain, the wagon trail was struck down by a dreadful illness. There were 5 wagons, 16 adults and 9 children (and not to forget, 12 horses plus 3 dogs). Held-up for many more weeks as tragedy upon tragedy struck, the convoy was quite unable to continue its journey as winter now set upon them hard. It was not so much the illness that took them all but the inability to fight it in such harsh conditions. Frostbite took many fingers and many toes, and as horses would collapse from exhaustion, trying impossibly to pull their load as it sank deeper and deeper into thick snow. Sadly the horses, one by one, became the only source of food for the now trapped-fast pioneers.

Esther had been among the first to go, "to pass on" as Archibald would say, "to the great prairie in the sky above." Charlie told us that Archie had said he was pleased with this outcome, and as he himself had repeated in his own words to him, "for if she'd lived a single day more to see how they suffered, I feel sure her own life she would have surely taken." There wasn't a dry eye in the room when Charlie retold us this story. Charlie Parker was Nanook's only son.

One morning, having barely survived the extreme sub-zero temperatures, Archibald had taken one of the drivers out – removed his body from the wagon, the last of that particular family to die, to bury it amongst the snow out yonder. By now only three wagons remained, four of the children had died along with seven of the adults. Esther had caught the illness from the Browning children who she had tried so hard in vain to save. Three children died from that family and a fourth from another, the Wilsons. Two wagons had been stripped and burnt by now for firewood and shelter, the canvas having been used to make a wind break as they had been halted by deep snow drifts, long having lost track of the trail. Remaining huddled together inside the three remaining wagons and without any other food, the horses now numbered only four, now just skin and bone and at the point of starvation. As tragic as the story was, if it had not been for the ready availability of horse meat for sustenance, all of the pioneers and children would have long perished. This was a sure thing.

Archie was pleased that Esther had never lived to see them all reduced to killing and eating the horses. And the dogs had long been taken away by the wolves, who seemed to smell the blood of a fresh kill from miles away. Within an hour of a horse being bled, they would soon arrive. As much as they tried, the three dogs were no match against them.

This particular morning as Archie buried Travis among the others in the snow, smashing away at the frozen ice with a pick-axe as it was snow as hard as canyon-rock, and afterward carefully replacing the broken fragments back a-top to cover the body with as much dignity as possible, something felt different. Archie was a strong man, in physical strength and in mind too. Most were by now too weak to dig and it was pointless that any unnecessary leaving of the wagon should take place. Archie was happy to do this alone, as he had done before for the last in the family lines. He wanted them to be together in death, the families reunited as they, the pioneers, would no longer be together in life. "One thing was for certain," he thought, "there would soon be nobody left alive to bury Archie," – and as he so desired to be beside Esther again, he had made his decision. When he was the last, he would lay down beside her and with finger upon trigger, he too would sleep.

But this particular morning something strange happened. As he stood up to read from his New Testament, and to say a few words for driver Travis, a strange black figure caught his eye. He had spent many hours looking up at this very same ridge and had never noticed such a thing before. At first he thought it was some kind of bear, standing up on its hind legs, with long darkened fur, but as his eyes adjusted and having now been dried of his tears of sorrow – no, "This was actually a man," he told himself. "Hello, hello, can you help us, please, help us?" He shouted out and up toward him. The figure initially remained quite silent and motionless but after a short pause another figure arrived, and then a third. A man and a woman were now clearly visible and standing there, much shorter, between them, a child. "I mean no harm. Please, we are ill and stranded, where have you come from, is there a town here?" Archie now became quite frantic in his plea.

The male walked down toward him, slowly, as if a ghost in and out of sight between the trees, cautiously appraising the situation, taking his time. The other two remained upon the brow. Realising that this figure was somewhat fearful of him, Archie threw his gun away out in front of him, a pistol with five loaded chambers, a rather expensive Colt, in a sudden gesture that could have proved quite fateful. "I mean no harm. Take my gun, keep it, please I mean no-harm," he continued to blurt out. As the man approached, standing still as he reached the site of the discarded revolver, all became clear. This was no bear or spiritual aspiration or hallucination, it was a man as he had first believed, and it was an Indian, a real Indian wearing long darkened brown bear furs.

By now both men were equally fearful of each other, but both had little wish for violence and none more so than Archie. Leaving the gun, he beckoned the Indian back toward the camp, and upon seeing it and all of its inherent horrors, in return he beckoned Archie to follow him. He led him to an area way up beyond the ridge, a gorge that was sheltered and quite out of site. At its base was an opening to a small cave, some of it remaining in its natural pre-historic form, but much now cut away by human hands, like a series of rabbit burrows long enough only to sleep in - And in the centre of it a large open chamber, within it a natural spring heated from volcanic forces below. The pioneers were now saved from certain death by an Indian brave they came to know only as 'Nanook of the North Ice.'

Nanook was an indigenous Báxoǰe native of what would later become known as the lands of Canada. He had been named after an ancient legend of an Eskimo King, a famous fearless warrior, as passed down amongst his people. His Báxoǰe tribe had gradually, over many thousands of years, moved south to find warmer climates. Eventually he and his family had settled locally, due to the abundance of buffalo and the prominence of warm volcanic springs. He lived in isolation from his tribe as a Holy man, a man in possession of great spiritual powers, a healer of the mind and spirit. Had the pioneers found themselves just 3 miles farther north, they too would have stumbled across this volcanic miracle wonderland of warmth and shelter. Sadly they had not, and this error had cost them dearly. Archie had always blamed himself for this, for it was he who had demanded the convoy stop and rest until the illness had cleared. By the time came round when the reality of their situation eventually sank-in, the fact that illness was not going to pass, they were by now all found stranded in the treacherous winter conditions that made it quite impossible to proceed as planned.

Nobody really believed it was his fault. He wasn't to know. These were new, un-chartered lands, and the severity of winter quite un-recorded. Nanook had brewed a tea he had made from pine needles, and it was this that eventually lifted the illness. They rested through the remainder of winter until spring finally arrived. Archie most enjoying learning the ways of the Báxoǰe tribe, ecology and preservation, man living in harmony and perfect balance with nature. Taking and eating only what they needed and only when they had to. Much of their diet was fish. The warm springs had eventually opened up into streams, the warmer waters encouraging many different species to swim within the confines of its clear, pure natural source.

As the snow cleared, Nanook, Archibald and the others recovered the bodies of the dead and reburied them. The new cemetery remains to this day. It is simply known as Esther's Ridge. But all travellers who come to pass this way know of it, and of the protection from cold in the valley beyond. It is also considered to be a place of good luck and of heavenly blessings, a place of magical things and happenings – and this is due again to Nanook. For as the bodies of the pioneers were reinterred to the ground, and as Nanook sang in ancient tongue, the spirits of the dead could be seen dancing above the flames of the fire which he had laden with ceremonial woods of varied purpose and type. Charlie Parker even told my sister and I that Esther had been seen to blow a farewell kiss to Archie as she ascended to heaven above, but sometimes Charlie is a little prone to exaggeration... and as he is Nanook's son, he would 'big it up' somewhat wouldn't he? What we do know as truth is that many travellers thereafter have claimed to have seen the spirits of the dead dancing in the sky at the moment the sun goes down and settles for the evening over Esther's Ridge.

Nanook led the remainder of the wagon trail to safety that spring – guaranteeing safe passage for all with his own tribesmen and others. You see, what you know of history, the real truth, well really it is the bit that you don't really know at all. Indians scalping people, whatever next? That stupid old fool on the boat. How she had tormented us so with her stories of the Tamlin's murders. What utter garbage.

What we know of fact is this. In return for saving the lives of the wagon trailers, Nanook was promised work, food and shelter by all, whenever he needed it and from that spring on, until this very day and beyond, he and his family would always come to pass Carter Lake. They would stay long enough to earn more than enough money to take home with them and to trade with passing pioneers over the coming winter months. He even bought and learned to play an accordion. He wrote a song called Esther's Heaven and apparently now has seventy-three chickens, each one of them is called Archibald. They are quite the breed to have I am told...

To be continued...

PART ONE

MEAT: MEMOIRS of a PSYCHOPATH

Dr Cerys Davies

WARNING: Restricted 18

This section is NOT suitable for children!

PREFACE

Believe me, I have no interest in what you think of me. I have no interest in you at all, in your mundane, boring life or your petty little day-to-day jobs. I have only interest in telling you my story. How I, yes I, Gabriel, became this sick, twisted depraved creature and how I came to commit my crimes. These crimes of mind were committed out of love, out of the need to devour, the need to submit fully to the most insidious part of human personality, the dark within us all.

Don't judge me. We are not so different. You're here because you too want to know, and I shall tell you every last twisted gory detail. Then, and only then, you will be free to judge. It matters not who or what or where you are for if you read these, my memoirs, then I am long gone, a shadow in the forest. I am your nightmare, the fiend free to prey at will in the night and, trust me, I have so very much more I need to do. In finding my memoirs you find me only at my beginning. My rebirth and my beginning, for I am out there.

I shall tell you my story, piece by sickening piece. It is my sincere wish to make your skin crawl, your flesh rot, and your stomach churn. It begins here. Gabriel 13.

PART ONE

Chapter One

I Am Going To Kill

I must have rules. I shall focus on only the deserving. I need to because I need to do this. I am out of control and I will do this. I will fulfil my desires. I will leave no trace, no evidence and no trail.

My first thought was an Asian girl, a Muslim who no one anywhere will miss. Somewhere someone will just become yet another missing Asian girl. I know that the police will not investigate yet another mystery, put down as a probable honour killing and remaining forever unsolved. As much as I dislike it, institutionalised racism does have its uses.

There was this bitch once, she was, really a bitch. The most beautiful dark skinned Asian girl I had ever encountered. We worked together and I fell in love with her. Yes I can love but it never lasts you see. I am always so bitterly disappointed in them. They throw themselves at you, snare you until you would die for them, put down your own life out of your own love and then they change. Bitter, miserable, twisted little bitches. You can't change them.

I was always so very insecure. When I think back now I cannot remember that I ever asked a girl out. I always tumbled around the process. People would say, "She's crazy about you" but I never got it, never understood. I wonder just how many opportunities to fuck these beautiful creations I have actually missed during my early years.

This one would ring me, go out with me and ask me for help at the drop of a hat and I would just go do, go like some pathetic panting sycophantic puppy, aching for her and needing her to ring, for just to see her again for a moment longer. I thought she liked me, had a thing for me but there was always a but wasn't there? I couldn't bring myself to just kiss her, like on the telly, it always works that way on TV doesn't it? You love them and they love you, you look deep into their eyes and you just kiss them and everybody lives happily ever after.

No, not for me. I had to make the usual twat of myself, spending hours choosing the right note paper, a love letter with an encrypted get-out-of-embarrassment free card. A message that if she so chose, she could just ignore it. Pretend it never happened with my pride still intact, absent of all embarrassment. So I posted it to her and it read, "Have you ever fallen in love?" Unsigned. Then afterward I was just cut out of her life, like I was a fucking cancer or something obscene. I was discarded and ignored for days. The non-Muslim, this white man, a disease that could somehow now infect her pure Islamic-only bloodline. We would still pass at work as we had to and she would just turn away. I would look down and the pain of rejection would kick in, that awful pain. The pain when you want to just die from a shattered broken lonely heart. I've lost count of the times I've wanted to die over a woman. But it was real emotion at the time, real enough for me; I wanted to die just because they were all fucking bitches. Well I won't die and I will live and so fuck all of you. Age has taught me that wisdom does come with age. I don't need them anymore and I have long turned my back on love and romance, marriage and all that garbage.

This one though just couldn't leave it at the broken heart; she had to destroy me further. She waited for me after work one day in the staff car park, a car park long deserted by our colleagues and all was just to say to me, "Don't ever post anything like that to me again." "Sorry," I said. I didn't know where to look or what to say. "I didn't mean to embarrass you," "You haven't," was the curt cold reply. I mean what kind of person does that to you? You love them and you need them to know just how much they mean to you, and then they destroy you. They destroy you and everything about you and days after the event. So OK, I messed up, let's leave it there shall we? I mean why not, but no she had to have the last word didn't she.

What about a whore? They are used to being used and they have no principles. It's all about the cash for them, these mobile ATM fuck buckets. Do they give a shit that my wife will be out of pocket for the kid's new shoes today? No new shoes as promised to them because I spent the money on fucking her rancid cunt. No they don't care. Victims, no don't talk bollocks. They the whores create the victims. So they have an addiction to crack or whatever? Well tough shit, it's their addiction so they can deal with it. It's their problem not ours. I don't use crack so why do they?

Did they give a shit when they went to their street dealer and kept it all a big secret, protect them the dealers from prosecution? The dealer who made all of his money from enslaving the innocent lives, the lives of our children and destroying our communities from the inside out. Dealers fuck up lives and I hate them for it. I hate them as much as I do paedophiles and the street whores who pay them, pay them repeatedly to distribute their filth amongst us, and the whores in turn sell their own filth to feed the drug dealer. If ever there was a victim who deserved it, it's the whore. The prostitute, that dirty filthy spunk bucket whore. Who is really going to miss them? Such a walking sack of rancid spunk pussy. The Johns and the punters, how they make it all so industrial, a production line of dog turds to feed sick fucking fucked-up communities. No, she's just one more missing sex worker and no one will really care but they'll all pretend they do. But they will not really care. They will just think thank God for that, that bitch can't tell tales on me anymore. A few flowers and a token out-pouring of community grief, but no one ever really misses a dead whore.

They deserve to die for the shame they bring onto their families. My family was fucked up but these people, some middle class bitch who had everything in life and wants to play the working class girl just to get Daddy's attention. How you read of it in the press every day, how Mummy and Daddy loved them, oh puke up please, and loved them for fuck's sake?

It's decision time. Is it going to be the beautiful ripe-for-picking virgin Asian girl or do I just take the bucket loose whore? Been there and tried that old one with the whores though, no erection with whores. How fucking embarrassing when you are not even able to fuck a prostitute. But the Asian girls tied down and gagged and then slaughtered. That is what I call the perfection of lust actually, but we'll just call it a conversion of faith if that helps you to understand.

What about the ex-wives? How many you may well ask. That's not your concern really at this point in time is it? Do you really think I will go into so much detail here at the beginning of my story so that you can identify me already? These are my memoirs and I've worked

hard on them. This is not some shitty TV Crimestoppers programme so a little patience and respect please. Just pay attention to what I say for now.

I mean to say that the ex-wives do deserve it. They destroyed me and made me what I am today. Well that and the mother and father for they deserve to be beaten down too. Can you imagine their faces when they find out that their ex-hubby is a psychopath? "Why hello my dear. Fancy meeting you again so soon! Take your last look sweetheart as I put this plastic bag back over your fucking head. Now where's that tape gone? A clear see-through freezer bag just for you dear so you can see me cum all over your ugly blue fuckin' face." Her suffocating face. Are you dead yet dear? Die slowly won't you? I want to cum whilst I throttle and suffocate you.' Revenge is so very sweet and always a dish best served cold, cold and unexpectedly. One day soon I hope, to be continued.

Problem number two within this plan is that I can't fucking stand them. I mean to bear even just the thought of sharing the same air and space again as them makes me chuck. I spent years listening to their endless shit complaining, the nagging and the arguing over nothing just because they could and that they wanted to. Me, that little shrinking violet who could never stand up for himself, always saying yes and always trying to be the nice guy. Why on earth would I want to fuck them again? My skin would crawl, my stomach would churn. I mean I admit I'm a psychopath now these days because I have no emotion for a purpose but even us, the dead living amongst you all have some principles. I like sex. I enjoy the smoking of a cigarette and a coffee afterward. These rewards for my endeavours and amazing orgasmic adventures, my hard work so to say. But vomiting afterward? The sicker the sex yes but sex then sickness, no, come on seriously?

I'll choose a Nazi bastard perhaps? I hate Nazis. One of those NF freaks that are always stirring the shit up. That gets my prick hard because I hate those fucking Nazis; fascist scum all of them. I did the Auschwitz thing, a trip to visit all those poor bastards murdered just for being different, different to what the racial purist sees as normal or racially acceptable to them. The white Aryan supremacists, the Clan and the BNP, all those right wing fucking extremists. I could fucking hurt them. So hold me down please, and who'd give a shit except some fucked up liberal freedom of speech shit talker. No, kill them, kill all of them and wipe them from the face of the Earth forever.

How the fuck can post-war Germany be so prosperous now when only one in ten of the Nazis who ran the camps were ever brought to justice? I can have justice and I will have justice for them, justice for their victims. For Christ's sake, the manufacturers of the crematoriums at Auschwitz are still in business today, still making money from making ovens. Cooked Sunday turkey roast as usual, just as if all of history is wiped clean, put away for later and the past forgotten. I will never forget them; forget the millions that they murdered.

But what really turns me on if I can be honest here, is I suppose, the innocent. Just some random innocent never-hurt-anybody-ever type of girl, some random everyday girl I will follow down the street one day. I'll be watching her every move and examining her every curve. Me, imagining that below her clothing she is knickerless and ready to receive it, the rod at full mast. Knickerless, just so she can get that quick anonymous anybody will do fuck over and done with quickly. Maybe we'll do it in the nightclub toilet whilst the stupid unsuspecting boyfriend who has given her everything in life drinks with his mates at the bar. If she doesn't want it, my cock that is, why would she be dressed up like that? She'll be wearing the usual Saturday night I-want-to-be-fucked-hard uniform for sure.

Or maybe later on in the early hours after they have drunk themselves into some heap of vomit, puking there on the pavement for all to see, do they care where and when they get this sublime treatment? No, they are out for it and I will most certainly be ready for them, a predator happy to oblige them with it. Good old fashioned unrestrained cock action and no charge, a freebie on me. Can you imagine it? Just coming across some pissed up teenager and fucking her and all the time knowing that she is too drunk to stop it. She is completely powerless, that pissed up street puker and one who has nowhere left to run.

That's exciting you isn't it? Pulling her skirt up, well what there is of a skirt and if we can agree to call them skirts these days. Wrenching her pants to one side and ramming it in dry and fucking her, repeatedly taking her at my will. Oh, her poor sad face in the morning with her cunt all bruised and sore, bleeding and the best bit the crying. I love the idea of that, the idea that they cry afterward, oh that's power alright.

But she'll recover from it no doubt and off she'll go the following week, and week after week doing the same old Saturday night thing. Puke and get laid, puke and fuck, puke and so on and so on. You'll hear them on the bus talking or on their mobile phones and always at the top of their Chav voices. Absent of any shame. "I'm going out to get laid tonight," they say. I know you are little sweet pea, I think. Are you really judging me already? We have only just begun the story and you are the one that started reading this. You will fucking finish reading this. You have no choice now because you want it, you want the whole sick sad fucked up story don't you? And I want it too for I have done it all. Every word I say is the truth and all there is to do I have done and I have loved it. I have loved every single second of it.

Yes, I've followed girls down the street. I'm so hard that I just need to bang them down to the floor; arms held tight behind their backs and then take them. Hog tied and consumed. I'd eat them all, but I can't for now for I'm not a rapist, yet. I don't think I could live with that; raping the innocent teenage girl that is, just a girl going out with her friends to have some fun. I have the fantasy that it happens just as I say and afterwards I see them trembling, trembling with excitement. We exchange telephone numbers, go for a drink to get to know each other a little better afterwards or to exchange our first names at the very least. Even perhaps, just to arrange to meet up again later for more sex.

The reality of rape is that beyond this fantasy that both of us, men and women, share is the fact that I'd feel too guilty about it: I'd get a dose of cock failure and embarrassment at my inability to perform as she now requires it. Oh, I fantasize about rape don't get me wrong. I have fantasies about many acts of sexual depravity and violence but could I actually do it? Actually rape someone that is? Do read on my dear reader for the story about my life that I tell to you now is quite simply a riveting read, a fascinating journey and a true story indeed.

For I hate Nazis, I hate paedophiles and I most certainly hate you.

Notes 1 – Dr Cerys Davies

These memoirs are in excess of 40,000 words. They are a violent tirade of a misogynistic abuse from beginning to end, the vast percentage of the violence within directed at and demonstrating his loathing of women. I shall examine now individually all of the specific aspects of text as I continue to work through it.

I shall first deal with the title, 'Meat: Memoirs of a Psychopath'. In the original manuscript the title is written in bold, black felt ink. Within this chilling use of language we see the author chooses three key words: meat, memoirs and psychopath. We see from these first specific and carefully chosen words, from his first introduction to us, that he considers the female body for the sole purpose of meat: meat as a product to be consumed by him, like food and lacking any respect for female dignity. The need to not seek or ask for prior consent for her consumption. The flesh is the meat of an animal and purely the edible part, the animal in this case being a woman. He views women as animals, non-human and unequal to him. Their purpose is quite simply to be a food supply. More specifically, sustenance of flesh needed to fulfil his sexual needs. The woman is identified in this role, perceived acceptable only if identified as part of the food chain of lesser beings.

This word meat alone demonstrates how dangerous this man is, and gives us a sense of his deranged perception of women and a telling signal of what is to come. The depths of his sexual depravity are exposed to us, as well as his attitude toward women generally.

His use of the word memoirs declares his personal involvement, that this is in fact a personal account of all the activities described, and not something he has fabricated.

This professes to be a first-hand record of events, which he wishes to be published. We are expected to publish a story that he wants the world at large to know, the true story of a man proud of his sexual fantasies. In using the word psychopath he accepts that he is defining himself. It's a badge that he is proud to wear. However, he makes no claim that this definition as a psychopath has been given to him by any medically qualified professional. Thus we conclude that he is self-defined and that he has at some point and somewhere, researched the meaning and use of this terminology.

As to the notes attached to the manuscript, and handwritten, were they composed of his-own hand and is he supplying to us an example of his own handwriting? In pondering the question I wonder if indeed it is a sample of his original handwriting or produced by other means, to create a diversion. If this is not a sample of his handwriting then by whom, where and for what reason was it written? The hand-written covering letter, attached it seems as the preface, was not composed as an afterthought. It is intentionally stuck there on the covers of the file, so we cannot miss it. It is the very first thing we read below the title and quite probably intended to shock. The purpose is also to tease, to make us all feel we have no option but to read the contents within. This covering letter was, however, the only part of the memoirs to be handwritten. Was it done so because he found himself to be in absence of a word processor or typewriter at the time? The rest of the memoirs were typed, maybe this handwritten preface suggests that this is a man completing his memoirs away from a home base, with no typewriter available, someone on the move.

This is a man who has completed one part of his life journey and someone who now is moving to the next stage, with the clear intention of claiming his first victim. He states clearly and unequivocally that he plans a horrific, heinous crime. His sole intention in the first chapter is to justify his first act of sexual assault. This is an extremely arrogant male but also a man who finds great difficulty in talking directly to women on a personal or emotional basis. He is almost certainly shy and lacking in self-confidence. This handwritten text also serves as warning to us, to taunt us, and gives no hint as to the revelations that will unfold in the memoirs. Because the writer states that he has no interest in the lives of others beyond himself, his God complex became immediately obvious to me. There is no one else here but himself. We also realise that the memoirs are written in the past tense, and that the handwritten preface was most definitely written after their completion.

He says that he committed these crimes out of love but then immediately tells us that love to him means the consumption of his victim. He sees his victim as a product and there is no human emotion evident within his personal relationships with other people. Neither is there evidence of any ability to maintain a normal, healthy personal relationship, the ability to love or the ability to view women in any way as equals. He enjoys telling us that what he is going to do will be heinous and tries to defend his planned crimes by suggesting that the reader is no different from himself. He probably believes that these memoirs were published only because we want to know his story and will not be able to comprehend that we will read them only as a means to catch him.

He believes the reader is only here reading further, to gain sexual satisfaction from the contents within. This based on his immoral personal perception of sexuality. He presents to us a detailed account of the planned sexual violence and murder and then asks us not to judge him. This is a man completely divorced from reality, so much so that he is completely unable to recognise the seriousness of what he is saying, and yet a man who nevertheless seeks pity and understanding from us.

The author has dubbed himself Gabriel 13. Number thirteen appears to be deeply significant to him, as though it holds a clue to his identity. If the signature is indeed a clue it has been supplied to enable him to play a game of cat and mouse, directed at the police enquiry, and to play games with his readers. The exact significance of the name Gabriel 13 we have yet to understand. Gabriel 13 appears to be enjoying the idea that he is being hunted, but it seems highly probable the vast quantity of the information contained within his text will be false. Either the text contains altered facts, or it is completely fictional; in any case this is a deliberate attempt to mislead the investigating officers and to create numerous false trails.

His narrative is extremely boastful, as though he is proud of his behaviour. We must remember the memoirs, unlike the attached note, are not of his own hand, though it is clearly his intention that we believe he is the author, and that the details contained within the memoirs are absolutely true. He clearly believes that he will never be caught and that he will not be brought to justice, or in any other way answer for the crimes he has committed. He appears to be deliberately trying to disgust his readers, as well as sprinkling the text with clues as to his identity and possibly his whereabouts. It's a game, encoded with information that invites us to pursue him.

He suggests that he has already raped or killed and has not to date been brought to justice. He wants us to know the full details of the crime he has committed with the intention, he goes on to tell us, to shock and scare us. By stating that this is just his beginning, he is announcing a more serious crime he plans to commit in the near future. Our discovery of the memoirs is just a beginning for him; he wants us to know that he is hurting women whilst we continue to look for him. Perhaps he even wants us to take the guilt on our shoulders for not saving his victims from him. In his mind the killing and sexual assault become our fault because we have failed to capture him, that we have somehow created him.

In Chapter One, 'I Am Going to Kill,' he declares his intention to kill and then sets out to justify his need to do so. He attempts to establish personal ground rules by which he can justify killing innocent people. On the one hand it seems he understands killing to be wrong, and is therefore fully responsible for his actions, that he clearly knows right from wrong, that, at least at this stage in the narrative he is not clinically insane. Indeed, he suggests that he is quite the opposite.

From the outset we see he plans to become a serial killer. He speaks of identifying multiple victims. He acknowledges his lust to kill is now out of his own personal control. He seeks notoriety and fame from these violent actions. He is fully committed to and will fulfil his own personal desires at any cost. He needs to do this for himself, and that his crimes will be of a sexual nature. In short, the crimes are to be ones of sexual violence and murder.

In listing his potential victims we see him first marking a Muslim girl. But other than the one personal bitter experience he describes, apparently occurring many years before the completion of these memoirs, he offers no other justification or reason to hate Asian women. This is a man who cannot emotionally handle personal rejection; in particular he hates women who reject him. He cites the Asian girl as a first potential victim because he feels, due to misplaced personal beliefs in his regard to institutionalised racism, that he will get away with his crime. However, his language lacks the usual terminology of racial hatred you might expect in this scenario. Quite the opposite, in fact, given that the references to the girl's ethnicity are polite, even respectful. It could be, therefore, that we are looking for a man with some racial awareness and diversity training. Is he a man from an educational or corporate career base, someone who has spent a portion of his life living and working in multi-cultural area?

There is a suggestion that he has worked professionally with Asian women, given that he does not generalise, and specifically identifies his first would-be victim as Muslim. While he suggests he respects her racial and religious identity he has no respect for her as a woman. He believes that his amorous attentions toward her have been turned down only because he perceives the rejection to be a racially based issue on her part. He feels that there can be no other reason for her to reject him. He considers himself to be irresistible to women (which he objectifies and puts on a similar level to animals by often calling them "females") and that if his advances toward them are rejected there is somehow a problem within the woman and not deep within him. This man utterly lacks confidence in asserting himself romantically with women and cannot form normal relationships. This is an extremely arrogant man, but someone who is equally and extremely withdrawn and shy.

He is at pains to tell us he cannot use the word "bitch," but freely uses this word in paragraph three. One of many such contradictions I have encountered. On one hand he cannot use derogatory animalistic terminology to describe women but then go on to say this is exactly what they are to him. He describes women as appearing as beautiful to him but purely his only need of female company is for the purpose of sexual coupling. His view is that all women are only here to serve his sexual needs, that they have been created specifically for sex. He continually uses derogatory sexual and sexist language when referring to any aspect of the female personality.

Other than the use of the pseudonym Gabriel 13, we see no religious affiliations at this period of his life. We cannot assume that the name Gabriel has any religious connotations, at least not at this early stage of my analysis of the memoirs.

There is a vague hint to his age with reference to, teaching him how to deny emotion and prospect of having no ability to experience a steady, loving relationship. I suspect that at this point of his life, when reasoning and justifying his need to kill, he is in his late teens. A maximum age frame spanning possibly into his early thirties. I am certain that he has not killed in this period of his life but has probably displayed psychological disturbance during his prior relationships with women. There will have been psychological disturbances during his early teenage years, if not before then. He has certainly had multiple failed personal relationships with women.

He has a hatred of prostitution and cannot separate the liberated sexual behaviour of women from the sexual activity of the paid sex worker. He tells us of how he sees drug dealers as destroying local communities from within. Here he blames women's sexual immorality as partially responsible for the continuing criminality of drug dealers. Indeed, he appears to blame women for everything. In this respect I can only conclude that early in his life he was deeply let down or mistreated by a woman or women. One possibility is that he was abandoned by his mother at a very early stage in his development. This negative abandonment (physical or emotional) formulated and reinforced his extremely low opinion of women. It may be that his attitude was reinforced by a male figure as well, such as his father, or step father, or another male authority figure. His hatred of paedophiles also suggests that he might have been sexually abused as a child.

Gabriel justifies killing prostitutes as a legitimate act, but seems to have no understanding of the real issues affecting the everyday lives of prostitutes. He has no concept of any of the circumstances that might have brought these women into the sex-for-sale industry. Surprisingly, he sees prostitutes as middle class. His use of the term mummy and daddy conveys the idea that middle class women become involved in prostitution just to obtain a positive or shock reaction from their parents. I venture to suggest this comes from bitter experience, experience he did not have the maturity to handle or process intellectually... a relationship involving a middle class woman. The woman may have been involved in prostitution. He further believes that the police will not pay any attention to a missing prostitute, for much the same reasons as they might disregard the death of a Muslim girl. Gabriel maintains the view that the police are institutionally racist and classist, an idea which he will manipulate in his favour, believing as he does that the police authorities will not bother to investigate his crimes at all. He belittles their determined, ongoing investigation to find and arrest him as, a matter of indifference. He goes so far as to suggest that police incompetence, and their lack of integrity, will allow him to remain free and at large.

His references to drug dealers, street prostitution and a multi-cultural community hint that he either originates from, or is now living within, an inner city or built-up area. He is certainly a low wage earner, possibly with a previous connection to an affluent middle class family.

His first choice of victim is a virgin Muslim girl, rather than the promiscuous bucket loose whore, his own reference made to the working prostitute. He identifies virginity as purity, and judges women as having value to him solely on the basis of their previous sexual activity. He naïvely believes all Muslim girls to be virgins, therefore his experience of the Islamic community is in the bounds of traditional doctrine. He has not lived within a modern, socially and culturally integrated British-Asian community but one of a more traditional doctrine. He has no modern Islamic influence within his own racial or ethnic peer group that counteracts this false notion of modern Islam.

Gabriel 13 has no formal professional or higher educational attainment beyond that of secondary level state education. Any middle class connection, therefore, is through marriage. His awareness of politically correct terminology, coupled with an absence of racial hatred, race hate terminology or speech, and his knowledge of social class injustice suggest some political influences in his upbringing. This is confirmed by his loathing of, and frequent use of the word 'Nazis'. The social and economic background he portrays however, causes me to exercise some caution, as that too could be a deliberate fiction, to confuse the investigation. I firmly suggest, though, that members of his immediate family were somehow involved with locally-based political organisations. These could be an anti-racist organisation or centre-of-left political party.

The most significant part of this chapter is his acknowledgment of prior marriages, though he offers no details or clarification on the subject. In referring to his ex-wives we see he holds them (plural) as directly responsible and accountable for his planned killing spree. This is the catalyst in his life that changes him from being a sexual fantasist into a determined, sexually-motivated murderer.

Within one or more of his marriages something significant has no doubt happened, something has ended in implacable hostility. There is unresolved animosity between him and his wife (or wives). As a result of this failed relationship he has lost significant personal finance, his home, and perhaps access to a child or children. With the end of this marriage he feels that everything has now been unjustly taken away from him. Since he lost everything he therefore feels he has nothing more to lose. He uses this single catalytic event, this relationship breakdown, as his justification to kill women.

He lists the names of extreme right wing racist organisations, which further reinforces my opinion that he can distinguish between them. He is aware, for example, of the ideological differences between groups and he changes from using the generic term 'Nazis' to identifying specific names of right wing fascist groups. He also describes his personal visit to the death camp, Auschwitz, in detail. He is aware that the crematoria manufacturers are still conducting economic activity to this day. He is familiar too with the post-World War II statistics of Germany's judicial sentencing. I suspect this trip is factual, and not a fabrication on the writer's part.

What Gabriel seems to crave above all else is power and control over his victims. As he puts it, only an innocent victim will suffice to feed his need, and then he goes on to describe in great detail his fantasy of raping such a girl. Although he has dismissed this possibility as unjustified, he does show some level of emotional conscience and guilt. If he goes on later to violently attack and sexually assault one of his innocent victims, it is in marked contrast to those whom he calls justified victims. Fundamentally, he hates all women, and it is this that motivates his acts of torture and murder.

Summary

A known misogynist and self-defined psychopath. Adult life spent working within an inner city or at least in a multi-cultural area with a significant traditional and localised Islamic community. An awareness of race, diversity and equality issues with possible racial awareness training within his work environment. Experience of a large diverse working environment. Association to left-of-centre political groupings and a politically motivated anti-racist activist.

Clinically insane. Such unsoundness of mind that frees one from legal responsibility, as for committing a crime, or as signals one's lack of legal capacity. Egocentrism. Having or regarding the self or the individual as the centre of all things. No acceptance of others as a basis of equality and having little or no regard for interests, beliefs, or attitudes other than one's own. Self-centred and demanding upon the time and patience of others. BNP, British Nationalist Party, a British political party with racist and extremist policies. God complex. A psychosis based in uncontrolled narcissism. His inflated sense of arrogance and his need to ridicule and belittle others; an extremely volatile man. Misogynist. A person who hates, dislikes, mistrusts, or mistreats women. Narcissism. An inordinate fascination with oneself. An excessive self-love based on extreme vanity. Smugness and egocentrism erotic gratification derived from admiration of one's own physical or mental attributes. NF, National Front, a British political party with racist and extremist policies. Psychopath. An illness of psychopathic personality, a personality disorder resulting in amoral and anti-social behaviour, a lack of ability to love and the lack of ability to establish meaningful personal relationships. A man powered by extreme egocentricity and who cannot learn through personal experiences. There is no medical cure. Psychosis. A mental disorder characterised by symptoms of delusion and hallucination with an impaired contact with reality.

PART ONE

Chapter Two

And Then There Was Light

All I ever remember of my childhood is unhappiness, a sense of total and overwhelming loneliness. The unloved and the unwanted child for I was indeed the little shit. My father was a total bastard and my mother was a deeply cruel one. She was really cruel to me and all I ever longed for throughout my childhood was love. I guess that's why I later became such easy prey for the paedophile.

I hate paedophiles and you will get to understand my hate of them soon; the paedos, because I need you to understand this hatred of them. I understand this now as an adult for that's an adult opinion now. But as a child I just wanted to please them. They would gather around to fuck me in turn and I really don't, I honestly don't ever remember being forced into it. It all felt quite natural to me. I loved being fucked; I loved all the attention I would receive seated up there on top of them, gently gyrating my arse around a huge firm penetrative cock, this whilst I was wanked off on them. I'd cum up their chests, spurting my release onto their faces. They used to love that too.

Sometimes I would be fucked from behind whilst I swallowed the cum from another man; it excites me still to this very day when I think about it. When I think back so many, many years later on it, it was not about age for me you see; it was about asking for consent. For me it's always about the issue of asking me for my consent first and the fact that I agreed with it, the fact that I had said yes to them.

My mum and dad divorced very early on in my childhood. Early that is, but my age, date and time quite irrelevant. I was sent away to live with Mum and her new husband to live on a farm. We, the family had previously done something quite different. There had been no farms in the family before and just everyday things, all everyday normal jobs. I don't remember too much before this as a child or as a very young boy but I do remember living in the caravan at the bottom of the field; the orchard below the house where we kept a horse.

Mum had moved out of the big house, the one they had both worked so hard on to renovate over the years, their married years. She would now work as a barmaid at a local bar after leaving my dad. We would be left in the car park, outside the pub and sit in her car for hours on end, day after day until she finished work in the early hours. Coke and crisps were always brought out to us every night but just the once. Later on we would get a new babysitter, maybe someone somewhere had felt sorry for us in the car and had said "No more" to her. A sympathetic boss somewhere perhaps, I don't know really.

I do remember very clearly one baby sitter we had. We sat up all night in the caravan refusing to sleep when asked and telling her dirty jokes. Kids' dirty jokes that is, and mother was so furious and she, the new baby sitter, never returned again. We would be in the caravan most days and then someone would shout "Dad's coming!" He used to just walk around the caravan just to intimidate us with his 12 bore shotgun raised in hand. He got great pleasure from pointing it, the shotgun, at Mum and us kids. Him just standing there pointing it directly at the windows. When I look back on this, Mum must have been quite terrified but then I think she can't have had been. If she had feelings, why did she treat us the way she did?

I was terrified of Dad. I think everybody was, even when they were together, Mum and Dad before they split up. I felt fear from him just from his presence. I remember clearly one day how terrified I was when I had shit my bed, that's what children do isn't it? I remember him beating me and the uncontrolled thrashing that I got. Afterward that same following night, he had smeared shit onto my pillow case and said, "Have a good night son."

We had a beautiful dog and we were playing in the woods one sunny day just as kids do, playing with their dog. But the dog this day saw a cat and ran toward it, chasing it across the main road. We watched as if from nowhere came the speeding car and the sooty black dog was hit hard. He didn't stand a chance and I heard his pain, the dogs squealing and before I knew it there was a loud bang. Not another bang from the car but from Dad. Dad had shot him, our beloved dog and best friend in front of us all. It was our fault you see for not taking care of him properly. An act of kindness you may think but no there was no kindness there in my father. The dog's head exploded and his skull spilt in two. Wouldn't kindness have been a trip to the vet for some painless peaceful death by injection or at least a prognosis?

Sometimes sheep from a nearby wood would break in to our orchard through the old rusty garden fence that was long out of use, rusty and collapsing and all trodden down. Dad and my eldest brother would catch the sheep and hang them upside down, holding

them by the legs and then they would give them the bumps, to teach the sheep a lesson so that it wouldn't come back in again. What was the fucking point in all this cruelty? He just liked seeing things suffers I guess, just as I do now. Some type of fucked up family gene then.

One of the sheep was thrown down into the cesspit, a large sewage tank and they, Dad and the eldest brother just stood there watching it drown. They put another one of the flock into a large old metal water barrel and rolled it down the field which was quite a slope, its head smashing against the metal inside as it rolled to and throw.

He liked guns did Dad, and he liked the fear and torture that came along with it. He enjoyed cruelty very much. He was a fucked up twat that bastard. He would sit us down as children and describe to us in stories how he and Mum did it. I say did it meaning well, you know, did it because even now I find the thought of them both doing sex simply quite vile. It's like any boy imagining their parents doing it. It's just so wrong and a very disturbing thought. An unwanted mental image. Just so wrong in every way but strange as I would later wank off as a teenager to these same mental images of my mother, her wearing the stockings I would find in her cupboards. I wanted to fuck my own mother for quite a while as a teenager but I did eventually grow out of it, that particularly disturbing sexual fantasy.

Dad would tell us stories about how she, our mother, would wear Marigold rubber gloves for him and whip him around his groin with freshly picked stinging nettles from the garden. He would read us stories from his porn mags, salivating with every tantalising piece of hard core and highly detailed piece of action. Though at the time during my childhood most of this fine detailed information was lost on me and meant nothing to me. He would tell us about the parties they would go to together, Mum and he and how they would look at other couples sitting opposite them. Looking up the other women's skirts and how they would all be without underwear too. When I asked Mum about these stories that Dad had told us kids about many, many years on and a long time after her divorce from him, she would just say, "If I knew he was going to tell you that I would have sued him." I would reply, "Dad says you can't sue someone for telling the truth," and within an instant I would get the shit kicked into me.

Her favourite was the mop, Mum's favourite technique and instrument of cruelty she used for beating me. She would just hit me hard across the head from a full swing. Her beating me down to the floor with all that bleach and shitty water going all over me. The water she had just used to mop up the dog's latest accident, that little pile of shit they leave for you from time to time on the floor. It wasn't just the pain of the wooden end beating me that she enjoyed so much. It was degrading me.

One particular night I was crying in my bed, strange now when I think about it but I wanted to go back and live with my dad. She barged into my bedroom, shouted like a deranged head case, screaming and yelling at me. "You little bastard," she said ramming a dirty toilet cloth down my throat. Later on in life I came to associate my asphyxiation fantasy with this single life changing event. This is all very interesting. A mother who I had heard such graphic sex stories told about and a mother I would later have wank fantasies about. This mother who had tried to suffocate me as a young child with a used toilet cloth. But this is not one to discus with the shrink, I think.

I remember the day clearly, the day we came to move away from Dad's house. It was a cattle wagon that arrived outside, a big old farm lorry and the new farmer boyfriend driving it to take us all to the new house; the new house where we would now go and live on the farm. I had a childhood collection of Air-Fix aeroplanes, jet fighters and all sorts and as our home and the furniture and all of our old life was loaded up into that wagon, I just started to smash them all, smashing the aeroplanes all one by one. I was smashing my prized collection of model planes, the ones that I had built and collected as a boy and had bought myself with all the last pocket money that I ever received. Eighteen pence I think it was we got as kids then. Paid with a coin of every denomination, one stacked one on top of the other on the mantelpiece. Saturday morning, always on a weekly basis, standing there like a pyramid to find when we awoke.

Then off to the new life we went. I never saw or heard from Dad again until one day which was many years later and quite out of the blue, he unexpectedly arrived at my new secondary school. The head-teacher came to get me out from my class and asked me many questions about him. I guess he was just trying to check out that this man really was my father. Anyway, there was some confusion that day in finding me as I had adopted my step-father's surname by this point, and for this awful crime Dad never forgave me. I was just a kid and what did I know? Dad had disappeared for many years out of my life. He'd long gone away somewhere else and I didn't know where, but I had to be punished for this unforgivable use of my step-father's name, even on this one single visit and after so many years of not seeing him.

The sycophant elder brother who had enjoyed animal cruelty so much with Dad had long lived with him and never with Mother. Also So did another older brother who, by now, had run away from Mother's within the first two years. I remained at home with Mum and just one other brother.

This particular brother that lived with me had had a very bad shooting accident as a teenager. He'd gone out rabbiting with a shot gun one afternoon; the gun provided to him by my stepdad and a gun which had a faulty safety pin. He'd eyed up the rabbit in an adjoining field, slid the gun through the hedge, silently and barrel first and then climbed over. Upon pulling the gun through to the other side of the hedge, barrel first, and upon the trigger catching a twig it went off, bang! He was hospitalised for many months, his leg blown away at the calf. I was so jealous of all that attention he got with so many nurses feeding his every whim and need. They used to give me, those nurses of his old hospital, stuff so I could play bandage-myself-up games and play hospitals.

This brother died of blood poisoning after months of just lying there waiting to die, but even being just a teenager I had no sadness for him. I would just look at him, distracted by the uniform of the young nurses and get myself aroused. Even though at this point in life and still very young, I hadn't quite worked out what it was all for down below. But it was most certainly in good working order shall we say, and as those paedophiles would soon confirm to me also. I hated all the attention he got but most of all I hated him for shooting himself. It's easy to understand why when I explain. He had a twelve bore and I had been promised a four ten, a smaller gauge shotgun with less of a back-kick. I only had an air rifle to make do with at this time and I was moving onto bigger things, a four ten and that was exciting. Now because of that bastard killing himself I would never be allowed to get that as promised, that four ten of mine.

Mother was always such a negative bitch toward me as I was always the stupid one and I was always called pathetic. I became fascinated by pathetic people later on in life. I was always the butt of her jokes to her friends and to the family. She would laugh openly at me, mocking and belittling me at every given opportunity. I was outside working in the garage one day, just a young teenager fixing an old trolley cart that I had made out of old pram wheels and a wooden pallet. I feel sorry for kids today. We always had in those good old days, an endless supply of old pram wheels to use but now today, it's all plastic fangled-up buggies. They are crap for making trolleys these new modern buggy wheels.

She came through to the garage from the house and told me how useless I was at doing anything and everything. I was just having fun fixing my trolley and minding my own business, I was keeping out of her way but she had to take the piss; a way to show off to her brother who had come to stay with us at the time. I heard her laughing about me to him but he came in to see me afterward, after she had took great pleasure in telling him how useless my trolley was. He came to talk with me and to help me fix that wheel that just wouldn't stay on. I knew he felt sorry for me, he was kind, but then why didn't he or somebody else do or say something to her? Why did they all go along with her cruelness, the most enjoyed public mockery of her own son?

The neighbours would always stop me when I was out playing and tell me what a hard time I gave my mother. They would ask me why I couldn't behave for her. They weren't interested in hearing that I actually did behave. I would tell them that I hated her and then they would feel sorry for her but not for me, never any pity for me in the slightest, no none at all.

I mean another brother was taken into care and removed from the family. He had been beaten unconscious one day by our new stepfather and they, those oh so caring new neighbours didn't even know this fact. My mother always maintained her story throughout. She didn't know where this missing brother was during my childhood years and into my adulthood, the same old story on and on. How can you have a son in care and pretend; tell all the other people that you didn't know where he was? Not to know your own son was taken into care. How can you not know this? It's just incredible isn't it? And no-one ever asked her, just a brief inquiry at best. Your own son, your own flesh and your blood, I mean where the fuck did they think he was?

Childhood was cold and heartless and I have only one real memory and that is the memory of on-going unhappiness, of loneliness and of despair, of self-harm being the only way I could feel real emotion, emotion that had a value to it, that emotion of pain and suffering.

The stepdad was a hard man but generally he was okay. In many ways he was nice and cruel together but compared to mother, not so very bad at all really. He would beat me too, but I think it must have been hard for him with her working hard all those long endless hours on the farm for such little pay and reward, putting up with the cold and the rain, the freezing winters outside all day. He was just tired I guess and wondering or questioning himself as to why he had taken on all this grief. Things just kept getting worse over my childhood years and long into my new teenager world. I had social workers and education welfare officers, in fact you name it and I probably had one, as I was now completely off the rails.

I had this educational psychologist's report too saying that I was socially and emotionally disturbed; long destroyed was my head by now. They keep these reports for thirty five years you know? I mean to say that if they still had them and still kept hold of my own personal reports, I'd hardly be telling you about them now would I? I tried to get copies of them, to get to understand me a little bit better, to read them back but now from an adult's perspective. To see what they had said about me. But it's all such a long time ago now and all gone and forgotten, as if I was never there at all, forgotten just as I was in my childhood.

School was shit; let's get straight to the point here as I don't want to talk too much about my school days. I was never there. I was the usual persistent truant. There were many reasons why but mainly the fact that I lived on a farm and work for me was plentiful. I didn't enjoy school and I already had a job so what was the point in going there at all? From the age of eleven I had been driving the tractors. What young boy do you know of who would ever want to go to school when he could stay at home and drive tractors instead? The other reason for non-attendance was the actual school itself. The teachers would always ball and shout at me re-enforcing my stupidity because I struggled so much with my school work.

I could never get it right, the schoolwork. Always behind and always struggling so much. Then there were the school bullies... there were lots of fuckin' bullies at my school and all of them fucking maggots. I was always bullied at comprehensive school, I guess because by now and when I look back at it, I had become such a loner. I had no friends at all really and the ones I latched onto, well they just tolerated me I guess. They weren't real friends of course but I was just desperate for company, desperate just to be liked for once, for who I was.

I remember avoiding the bullies one day by deliberately forgetting my gym kit. The P.E. teacher, such a lovely man he was made me go and paint the new rugby posts instead of staying in the lesson that day. They were new ones laid down awaiting installation on the ground. The bullies that I had tried so hard to avoid in that particular P.E. lesson that same day, well on that particular day they too had forgotten their P.E. kits. I sat there quietly doing as I was instructed, fearful and not trying to draw any attention to myself from them. But for them it was much more fun to strip me naked and spit all over me, top to bottom and tip to toe. Just to be sure that they had had the best time possible that day they would extinguish their cigarettes on me too... put them out in the spit that they had spat all over my naked body.

This one particular guy had always taken the opportunity to hurt me during P.E. lessons. He hurt everybody. I was terrified of him and I had had one kick too many in the balls. He would just walk over and front you, eye to eye and chest to chest and then just casually bring his knee up into your groin. That's why I had forgotten the kit that particular day, because of him.

I'd met him previously at a friend's disco party one evening out of school, a friend's private party and they'd hired a DJ as she was moving down south. I was only fifteen. They started on me and pushed me around, pushing me through the door outside and sealing the door closed behind them. They beat me so badly that night that I was quite unrecognisable. Kicking and punching and then when I fell down to the floor, stamping on my head repeatedly. Stamping on and kicking me to the head without a single pause.

I rolled under the DJ's van eventually. It was parked in the snow and then I heard voices from someone shouting, "Don't fucking touch my van." All this inbetween bouts of absolute fear and random consciousness, this is what I heard.

I decided to walk home, miles and miles it was, bleeding and dripping red onto the white cold snow-covered floor until finally catching a lift, a ride home with a friend's dad. He was out driving that evening to come and collect his daughter from the very same party. Incidentally, this beautiful daughter of his was yet another of my massive painful out-of-control crushes as a teenager that I never spoke of. I never dealt with it and never had the courage to act upon it, this particular massive crush. Funny how, when you write these things down, that is your story down on paper, how these things come back to haunt you after all these years. I was totally crazy about her. I'd like to keep her locked up in a cellar below my house. I wonder what she looks like these days.

Anyway he, her father, took me home and I slumped over the kitchen table. Mum had been out for a drink that night and on returning and seeing me there in that condition simply said, "Well you must have done something to deserve it." There was no hospital for me that evening, no quick check up to see if I was okay, no pain relief or necessary medical treatment. There was no maternal sympathy and most certainly no support.

And of that P.E. teacher I spoke of, let me tell you about another boy. So tiny and frail this boy, the kind of kid no one would ever want to hurt but they the bullies, hurt him. These fucking maggot bullies. Two massive swollen black eyes this boy ended up with and all while that sick mother-fucking P.E. teacher watched. Watched them fight until the end and then said, "That's enough boys; fight over." As if this was entertainment for him. He was a piece of shit that man. If ever I start to get off on screwing and torturing men, well he'd be one. I'd come back for him, that sick bastard, for sure.

There was another guy at school who would just walk up to me and punch me for absolutely no reason at all. Not a friend of the bullies but just a lone thug this one. I got my day though when he got dumped later on by his girlfriend. He was so broken up and destroyed; he gassed himself in a car. Years later this still brings such a smile to my face when I think of it.

Another thug died whilst he was having an epileptic fit and then falling into the canal. He had gone fishing and ended up drowning there. Maybe there is a God after all. Is He dishing out just desserts on my behalf? I would think this to myself when these strange, unexplained events would happen. The boy with him, his friend that day never jumped in to the canal to save him but instead ran off to get help. That's the kind of man I like. Now I think about it one of the regular school bullies' brothers died as well but much later on; killed on a bicycle he was riding after being hit by a car head on, died instantly this boy. I guess it was punishment for his big bully brother's brutality to others, his vile uncompassionate life style. Hallelujah!

There was a bus driver I met once when I was skiving school on a not so particular day, when I was still a boy, as a young teenager this is. He would let me get on the bus for nothing, no charge and then pretend to issue me with a ticket so the other passengers wouldn't know I had boarded for free. He would tell me stories about how he and his friends would fuck girls they'd pick up on the buses. I used to like it, these dirty sex stories he would tell me. It reminded me of Dad's old stories and he became a bit of a father figure to me. I thought he was cool this guy and I went back to his house one day. My pants soon came down.

He liked fucking best and I just loved the attention. It went on for a few weeks. I told you about this earlier, didn't I? I would go to his house and soon and increasingly often other men would join him too. I would just be put onto a couch very respectfully and so gently and then I'd get fucked.

They would use baby oil and they never hurt me. Almost as if they didn't want to hurt me in any way at all and just to enjoy me. Enjoy using me collectively; fucking me and watching others fuck me in turn. The maximum number of men there was only ever three, always the same three men in their early or late twenties maybe, possibly early thirty-something, at the oldest. They would buy me cigarettes and some beers and I liked it, I really did. I was being fucked by men for quite a few years before I would eventually start to fuck women. Realising now and thinking back to those nurses' uniforms, the first proper time I was sexually aroused by a woman... the young nurses in uniform giving me erections. As a boy thinking about what a woman, what they the nurses were capable of really doing to a boy of my age between the sheets. I recall that women aroused me as a boy definitely, yes, but I never got to actually do it with one yet. It was men for now.

They were friends after all, these three men, but I never fancied them, never fancied any of them at all, at any point. Looking at them didn't excite me like it had done so when I looked at the nurses in hospital but I loved all the attention they gave me. If they were happy, then I felt good, and I can't honestly say that these men ever forced me into it, or indeed to say that in any way I was unhappy with what they were doing to me. I'd rather have been fucked by my geography teacher though; she was the first real turn on after the nurses. Guess I was late thirteen or fourteen years old then. I would sit at my desk rock hard and playing with myself down inside my trousers, just watching her teach. At this age I was very aware of sex but I just hadn't fucked a woman yet, that's all. I had only done it with these men but I would think about her for hours and hours on end. I'd fantasise continually, almost obsessively, about having sex with her. I used to fantasise that she would take me home to her house and help me with my schoolwork and that we would then start to fuck each other. I still remember her name, my geography teacher, that hot sexy schoolboy fucking machine. I wonder if teachers ever think about their students when they are wanking.

Anyway, my dear reader, you should worry not too much about finding these men or tracing them, for I am sure that all these people I tell you of are all long dead by now. The information contained herein the memoir is quite useless to you. Using this information in finding me that is, in trying to identify and catch me. Of any rare likelihood, that remote distant possibility that any of these men that enjoyed screwing me so much will come forward to you, well they are not likely to do this are they? No really, that's not going to happen is it?

I was a total and complete school truant in the end. Never a full week ever completed, not ever once. I didn't care for school or education at all. The foreman of the works was happy for me to be on the farm and there was no other place I'd rather have been. Other than that is up inside the cunt of my geography teacher of course, I'd definitely have gone back to school for that. I was safe on the farm and always busy with exciting things to do. The kid-catcher came to visit the farm one day, to find me and the foreman just said, "Fuck off" to him. He was looking after me you see.

But one day came when my stepdad was in such a bad mood, so bad tempered and out of control that instead of the usual kicking of the sheep dog or some other innocent bystanding farm animal, he threw the sheep trough at me instead. It sliced my finger nail clean off and I bled for ages, wrapping my finger in tissue to stem all the bleeding. The result in the end was to run, a decision taken there and then, to run away and to find my real dad again. I believed naïvely as a child that somehow, one day my dad would again love me.

I hitched a lift late at night and got as far as Walsall in the West Midlands. Dropped off late, I was left in the pitch black dark on a roundabout. I walked down toward the town entering a block of flats... a communal area where I slept the night in the stairwell. I awoke that morning to find milk bottles on the doorsteps around me and I hadn't heard a thing, slept like a log all night I had. I was used to hitchhiking as I'd done it countless and many times before as a teenager. I wrote a sign in big black felt ink which just said, Peter, an abbreviation for Peterborough.

There were two strange events that happened hitchhiking that day. One was an old guy who I remember sang in a choir. He placed his hand on the handbrake but with one finger, the little finger of his left hand on my thigh. Slowly his hand would move finger by finger, cautiously at first and then I found this hand was soon rubbing my cock through my jeans. I didn't know how to react but one thing was sure, my cock was hard and instantly throbbing. This went on for a while, him later unbuttoning me and pulling me out from within my pants. He told me how his wife was happy for him to be with men and I thought at the time men yes, but I am a teenage boy.

I couldn't have been much older than fourteen or fifteen but I don't actually remember my true age when this event happened. He'd unzipped me and spat on his hand and started to wank me off with his left hand, uncomfortably whilst still driving his car. I remember a coach past us at one point and he hid me from the high windows peering down. He covered me over with my T-shirt and continued again after the coach had passed by. Then all of a sudden he stopped and apologised and that was it, it was all over.

I never came and he explained to me that when I had written, Peter on the cardboard handmade sign, he had taken this to be an invitation. He had thought that I was introducing myself as Peter to him. He dropped me off almost immediately after he explained himself, one minute he's wanking me off and talking about his wife whilst doing it and the next he's dropping me off again at the roadside. How very bizarre?

Another lift later that day was with an older man who was accompanied by a younger male. They gave me their contact details and told me how I could come and live with them at any time if things didn't work out with my dad. Seemed like a genuine offer to me, some kindness to a boy on the run, a runaway trying to find his father. Maybe if I hadn't later lost that address he gave me, then maybe I would have done so.

On arrival at Dad's house and after telling my brother the story, he said they were just pervs... pervs who were out looking for a young boy. I was best advised to stay away from them. I thought no more of it but you do hear of people just disappearing all the time don't you? Just vanishing off the face of the Earth. I wonder where they all go...

I met my dad again. He didn't or at least he pretended to not know who I was. I continued to truant and he would continue to beat me. He and the older brother laughing about how much their hand would hurt afterwards. They all named me little shit... my official name, and would thereafter never use my real birth name.

I was sent out one morning to go and sit on the front steps of the local Social Services department. I was told by my father to go and volunteer myself into their care. I sat for hours waiting for them to open. I was going into care voluntarily but it just never opened. On going back home and explaining why I had had to return, I was told by my farther it was Sunday. I mean how fucking hilarious that joke must have been for him... such a great sense of humour this pair, the brother and he.

I got to know an old man whilst I would run away and truant from school. This whilst living at Dad's. He would care for me and I thought that he was a nice old man, like the image of the granddad I would dream about but the granddad I never had. He was very old, all wrinkled and twisted but he would show interest in all us waifs and strays, this until one particular day: the day I bought a new record with the money he had given me, a new single just released and I still remember its name. We listened to it again and again on his ancient old record player and we drank beer, all of us boys together, the other truants that hung about.

This was the first time I had actually become drunk, proper drunk and not pretending, so very drunk that I couldn't protect myself anymore. Vulnerable just like the puking teenage girls I talked about on a Saturday night earlier. I have only flashbacks today of what happened to me... sharp spikes to the back of my neck from his prickled old stubble. I remember being face down and I remember what he did and I remember being totally powerless to stop him.

That dirty old bastard raped me, raped me on his bed, face down and fucking me up the arse. The doorbell rang at some point after he had finished with me, the other lads who had gone away to fetch or to buy something and had returned. I don't remember what for or to where they had all gone but he must have sent them away so he could spend some private time with me. I remember his panic when the doorbell went and I don't know if they, the other boys knew what had happened to me, but after holding my head under a cold tap they all carried me home.

Dad, how I loved him for his kindness, would tell me later on how everybody knew this old man was a paedophile, everybody knew... that was except me of course. He obtained some sick perverse pleasure my dad in knowing what had happened to me, knowing what was going to happen to me beforehand and in having failed to protect me from it.

I bathed for hours and this is when I realised the power and destruction of rape. I hated being raped. This was so different from the men I had pleased before because I liked it and they were nice to me. They asked me politely for it and I delivered the goods and served them their just dessert. It was not that I wanted gay sex. It was the need to be wanted and loved, or appreciated and cared for. Those men beforehand gave me this security.

But this time with this man it was very different. He didn't ask. He just took me; got me drunk for the first time in my life and raped me up my arse. He can be a victim of mine one day I think. I will have a plan and take my revenge and I will enjoy every second of it. I fantasised about stabbing him, beating him and burning him for many years afterward. I wanted my justice for what he had done to me.

At sixteen, and after many short-term homes, I went into new lodgings. The birth date given is only important in that I was able to claim benefits to pay the rent in my own right for the first time. My eldest brother had become my legal guardian by now but I couldn't stay with him; he was fucked in the head. He was totally mashed in the brain; he would just explode for no reason and smash things. I was terrified of my family, of my father and of my oldest brother, my new legal guardian. As independence got hold of me and I started to form my own mind, my own opinions and away from those hostilities, my real sexual awakening started. During all the years of being fucked, I had only ever cum on men and never ejaculated up the wet juicy warm cunt of a girl. By now my brothers had taught me how to enjoy wanking properly, we would have wanking races, a countdown of ready steady go and we'd all get wanking. So beautiful is wanking and not ever having to feel ashamed of it, enjoying it, openly enjoying it and my older brothers telling me everything about sex that I needed to know. Older brothers were useful sometimes.

I started wanking several times a day but this was never ever going to be enough. I started meeting girls but it was always awkward, only the very patient ones would bother to get me hard. I always imagined the jokes about me, the girls taking the piss out of my lack of confidence in bed. You see I got instantly hard for wanking and instantly hard for men, but when it came to girls, nothing at all, just nothing. I could look at a girl walking down the street in front of me and undress her in my mind and go rock hard below within seconds. This, just fantasising about fucking her, but when it came to actually doing it, I'd get complete cock failure.

I would cross-dress and experiment with women's lingerie, no not a fucking tranny who pretends to be a woman but lives as a man. I'd just wear underwear, very sexy, feminine and soft and I would lock myself away privately for many hours. All make-believe fantasies, always something to sit on to remind me of that feeling of a hard cock up the arse and how it felt so comfortable and so natural to me. I could never get enough of wanking whilst wearing lingerie. I would look at women's underwear drying on washing lines and I would want to cum just staring at it. I would steal it sometimes and wank on it. Somehow deep inside this twisted teenage mind of mine, I enjoyed the fact that I was wanking on her, this random unknown girl's most intimate items of clothing. I was using them, these gorgeous sex bomb women that I had never met and they were powerless.

I built up quite a collection. I would go to friends' houses and creep into their bedrooms and take their girlfriend's or their wife's underwear, always very sexy underwear. I'd wear it and have a wank and then return it. I never soiled it directly. I just got off on knowing that she was now afterward wearing such a delicate personal item and that I had had them on unknown to her, beforehand. Always returned it clean, smelling as fresh and as clean as when I had stolen it... her or whoever she may be completely unaware.

I mean it's a Saturday night again and these bitches have spent hours making themselves perfect for the evening's fuck festival to commence. How gently she adjusts her stocking, how gently she pulls her G-string up and props up her little tits inside her bra with toilet tissue. Later on that same evening when he's fucking her stupid, pounding her hard like a slab of meat up against the headboard, her gripping and scratching at his back... well I know I was her first, it's me that he's fucking now and I'm imaging that I am her. That somebody somewhere would want to pound me just as much as they desired her. So you my dear reader, I think by now you have got to know me a little bit better within this chapter haven't you? I had such a good start in life and of my life now, well they created me these people that I speak to you of. They made me and they installed the programming inside me. Now to you, all the other people floating on this fucked up little rock that drifts through space, you have nowhere left to run to do you? I am among you now and I have needs. Of my childhood that I tell you of, of my teenage years and of my later youth, well this was just the beginning. The mere tip of the iceberg; you should see what I'm capable of doing now these days.

Notes 2 – Dr Cerys Davies

In Chapter Two, 'Let There Be Light,' we learn about Gabriel's sadness and of loneliness, the vision of a desperately sad childhood and of a child who never felt loved.

In spite of the religious subtext of the manuscript, we see no evidence again of religion or religious practice within his family unit. However he does question God's existence at one brief point by saying, 'Maybe there is a God up there.' This is in reference to the death of three boys on separate occasions during his teenage years at school. We know that two of these boys bullied him, and he sees their deaths as divine justice. This statement does not of course affirm any religious faith, given that it is a common expression, much as phrases which evoke God may be used by people with no belief ("Oh, my God," "God willing," and so on).

The title, 'Let There be Light' is intriguing, though, as it may link to the signature on the handwritten note attached to the manuscript, signed Gabriel 13. Let There Be Light is of course from the Christian Bible therein being Genesis. It refers to the creation of the world at the hands of God. Does the title suggest, perhaps, that his childhood is his beginning as God's creation, and that these painful childhood and bitter experiences are a necessary part of his journey? Perhaps a path he is required to follow? In changing the present tense, let there be light into a past tense, and then there was light, is he viewing these experiences as his true birth? That this is a reference point that he has been created from? Is he saying he was reborn as a psychopath (his second birth)?

Gabriel is the archangel and the divine herald within both Christian and Islamic texts. In the Bible he appears before Daniel on two occasions, once to Zacharias, and once to the Virgin Mary, within the text of Annunciation (Dan. 8.16, 9.21; Luke 1.19, 26, 27). Christian tradition makes Gabriel the archangel trumpeter of the Last Day of Judgment (1 Thes. 4.16). The archangel Gabriel is also in The Holy Quran; he appeared before the prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him. Gabriel became known as the angel of truth, upon revealing the Quran to the prophet. In both religions, Gabriel's appearance is a hugely significant event; as the bearer of The Holy Quran, and because of his appearance to the Virgin Mary, the mother of Christ. I suspect that the choice of the name Gabriel 13 refers to the archangel's role on the days of final judgement, when all human beings will be judged by God. Is the author suggesting that he sits in judgement of all women, and female sin in particular? I see no reference to the number 13 within any part of these ancient religious texts other than 13 being present at the last supper of Christ.

Gabriel claims his father and mother were brutally cruel and neglectful to him, that he experienced torture and humiliation, for example, the brutal killing of the family dog with whom he had a close relationship. The view he expresses here is that his relationship with his parents was completely dysfunctional, and no evidence of a genuinely happy childhood memory. His only reference to a happy moment is when he was being sexually abused by three men.

The topic of abuse comes up in the narrative time and time again, child and animal cruelty, and most disturbingly, the countless acts of sexual abuse by older men. This sexual abuse brings him to a later hatred of paedophiles. When referring to this childhood sexual abuse, he is unable to separate child sexual abuse from underage teenage consent. Although he understands that these brutal acts are crimes committed against him as a minor and therefore abusive. He nevertheless misconceives he has given his consent. This is not untypical of some people who have been sexually abused as children, turning the blame and guilt on themselves. Additionally he believed that, because he gave his consent, the men were not breaking the law.

In this chapter he divulges a good deal more personal information (which, if true, could help the process of identifying his true identity). However, while I usually question why he would want to provide information, which may be a matter of public record, at such an early point in the memoirs, I suspect I understand his reasoning. Experience tells me that any criminal confession or information supplied to me in which the criminal's identity can become known, is most often provided toward the end of an investigation. My view is that this is another part of the game, a raising of the stakes, to make us read his narrative to the end — a narrative that he hopes we will find both horrific and disgusting. The information given here, regardless of what follows, could almost let me put the memoirs down and stop reading them completely.

I can only draw three conclusions from this irrational behaviour: 1) that the entire chapter is complete fiction; 2) that the events may have some degree of accuracy but the details have been significantly altered so as to make identification impossible; and 3), the disturbing possibility that he actually wants us know who he really is. If the latter is the case, it suggests he has nothing left to lose and therefore nothing to fear. The question remains as to why he would do this?

We see a childhood on a farm with his mother and stepfather, possibly starting after the parents' divorce from the age of 5 or 6 years. I suggest this age because there is no detail given of a specific event, or of emotions before the divorce. The age of five years is the earliest at which one could reasonably expect him to first begin to feel independent emotion. This is the point in time that individual personality is forming independently of others, when the sense of self begins to develop. Has his biological father now moved away from the old matrimonial home? Does he maintain contact during this period?

We learn he lives on a livestock farm. Shotguns are kept on the property and used unsupervised by the children. This suggests a place that is very rural and out of sight where no one would be likely to complain about such unlawful use of them. But we also hear of neighbours living close by who are on speaking terms with the family. The mother evidently confides to these neighbours about her sons'/children's poor behaviour.

There is no suggestion of sexual abuse by the mother, but there is an instance of extreme violence on her part which could have resulted in this boy's death: a violent outburst by his stepfather which led to one brother being taken into the care of a local authority. There is only one instance of the boy being sexually abused by a family member in the form of sexual stories and of the display of pornography by his father. We know that the mother is later angered by this. Did his father ever sexually abuse him physically, and could this be the real reason for the breakdown of the parental relationship? We know that shotguns were involved in the hostilities, and that the mother had moved with the children out of the marital home into a caravan within the vicinity of the former matrimonial home. Why? Was she unable to leave the children within the fathers house just yards away? Is there a network of paedophiles here known to both mother and to father? I can only surmise she feared for her children's safety.

If the account is true, then it contains many specific events that could easily identify this child. For instance, there is the shooting and later death of a brother (there appear to be four brothers in total). There are visits by the education welfare officer for persistent nonattendance at school. There is also involvement by social services, because one brother is taken into care and also the young child has difficulties at school. These children, both prior to and after the divorce, must have been placed on an at-risk register somewhere. There would have been police involvement or at the very least family intervention by professional teams. There must be a raft of paperwork still in existence attached directly to this family.

Certainly there would be a hospital record and autopsy report in the case of the elder brother's death following the shotgun incident. Following the suffocation incident he states that, "This is not one to discuss with the shrink." This could be a reference made to a mental health practitioner with whom they have been engaged. If a medical practitioner consulted with them, then he or she will have some knowledge of the stories and the facts as they are contained here within chapter two. In assessing any mental illness or behavioural problem of a child, we always work back to the individual's childhood, the fundamental forming years and such questions arising from, would have been asked. Although Gabriel makes it clear to us that any records kept by these statutory organisations have long been destroyed (because of the 35 year retention rule), I cannot accept that there is not a paper trail still in existence that could lead us back to the family. It could be that Gabriel is aware of a potential paper trail and has attempted at some point to retrieve or destroy the relevant documentation. I have conducted research into the average amount of pocket money given to children in the 1960s and 1970s. Gabriel states that he got eighteen pence a week as a child from his father, given as coins of each denomination and stacked one on top of the other in a pyramid shape. This is post decimalisation and, if my research is correct, this is indeed, further, a working class family with four sons. I would estimate the date to be some time in the 1970s as the coinage totals, the amounts given, correspond with the pocket money allowances of working class families from this period. I suggest that the author of these memoirs was approximately 5 years of age between 1970 and 1974. Together with the fact that he is aware that his personal records will be destroyed after 35 years from the date on which they were first written, his approximate age when he was writing the memoirs would be from mid-40s to early 50s.

Returning to the deaths of the three young boys. If we assume the memoirs are to be taken as a correct and accurate account, everything occurred during his secondary schooling or later teenage years. There is one account of a boy who falls into a canal after an epileptic seizure. A second account is about a boy who commits suicide by carbon monoxide poisoning in his car, and a third account of a boy who is killed in a cycling accident. We already know about the death of his brother by blood poisoning following the shotgun accident. Other than and excluding the boy who had died on the bicycle, sadly there are far too many tragic accidents of this kind to assist us with forensic identification here. The other two deaths are more unusual. They would be easily traceable incidents held within national databases on premature mortality. If Gabriel was approximately 5 years of age between 1970 and 1974 we should investigate teenage mortality (other than those by natural causes), through records covering the 1980s.

In Chapter Two we see the first stages of Gabriel sexually identifying himself as female and not as a male. His sexual activity focuses on pleasing men but specifically within a female-gendered framework. He is aroused and sexualised by feminine undergarments which he describes as "erotic lingerie" and displays gender confusion (or preference) in other ways. There are many accounts of anal intercourse with men but no accounts of sex with women. This is a compulsion for him, something over which he has little or no control. He is becoming obsessed with sex and views all personal relationships as based only on a need to have sex. He asserts that it was during the teenage years that he lost anything that could be called loving emotions.

He writes about hitchhiking when running away from his childhood home to re-seek his father's attention. Although his father appears to have been absent from his life for many years, this one school visit by the father to him as a teenager revealed to him his father's home address, the address to which he now heads. I have scrutinised the UK road networks, and the most likely routes an experienced hitchhiker would take. He informs us that he regularly hitchhikes and he therefore has a lot of knowledge on the subject, and the best routes. A hitchhiker, he knows, will always stick to a major road network, and will not necessarily take the shortest route available, due to the volume of regular traffic. He maintains that he spent the night in Walsall, in the West Midlands, en-route to somewhere unknown, via Peterborough. If this is the case, that places this childhood family farm somewhere around the South West of the Midlands, possibly in the area around Bristol and South Wales, or counties such as Herefordshire and Wiltshire. His father's location, his final destination, is presumably in Lincolnshire. He sleeps in Walsall overnight and we are left with the sense he has travelled for much of the day and subsequent evening.

Where are the desires to be female coming from? One possibility is that somewhere within this family unit there is a girl, maybe more than one. A girl that he sees as favoured, who gets everything she wants. Somebody he grows up alongside and sees that both her gender and possibly the way she dresses, mean that she gets everything she wants. At any rate, Gabriel might see a girl (real or imagined) as getting her needs met by exhibiting sexually provocative behaviour. Is Gabriel jealous of this attention and believes that love is only given to attractive girls solely as sexual objects? That the only way in which he can receive love and attention, to feel safe and desired is by becoming female? Have the mother and stepfather a new daughter I wonder? A daughter who is loved deeply and now the children of the former marriage are deeply despised and/or resented. Was this girl called Gabriele, Gabriela, or Gabriella?

Summary

Aged approximately 5 in 1970. Possible age now (2012) 45 years or above. Living financially and independently on social assistance at 16 years of age. A brother was his legal guardian. One of at least four brothers. One elder brother killed following a fire arm accident as a teenager. Grew up on a livestock farm, a sheep farm. A sense of a working class background. No formal secondary educational qualifications. Transvestite or transsexual tendencies following childhood sexual abuse. Multiple dysfunctional female relationships. On an at risk register as a child with on-going family support and interventions. Assessed as a child or teenager by an educational psychologist. Parental divorce approximately 1965 – 1975 which was implacably hostile. Childhood spent in the South West or the adjoining Midlands regions, defined by the areas surrounding Bristol and South Wales, Herefordshire and Wiltshire. Possibly a step or half-sister, daughter or daughters from the parents' second marriage. Possible female variant name of Gabriel.

Annunciation. The announcement by the angel Gabriel to the Virgin Mary of her conception of Christ.

Dysfunctional. One in which the adult caregivers failed to fulfil their family responsibilities.

Transsexual. A person who permanently acts the part of and completely identifies with the opposite sex and who has considered or undergone medical and surgical procedures to alter external sexual characteristics.

Transvestite. A male who assumes the dress and manner usually associated with women.

PART ONE

Chapter Three

Watching the Ants at Work

Have you ever watched the ants? Watched them properly all up close and personal? They are so organised and so civilised. A society of perfection all working together as one harmonious unit until then, in a moment this innocent and quite harmless little bug comes along. It lands there in the wrong place at the wrong time and they carve it up, disembowelling it piece by piece, thousands of the little bastards hacking away at every limb. It dies slowly and in agony this harmless little bug. Is there anything really nice about these ants? Are they so civilised as we make believe?

And then I think about all the cruelty I have done, all that cruelty I did as a child and committed at my own hand during my early days. The days of my awakening. I think to myself, am I so different from all those ants that I am now watching? I am civilised and efficient too and just as they need to kill, the ants, then I need to as well.

I would torture animals before, before I found out that torturing people was so much more fun. I came upon a hedgehog one day just as I was walking across a park field. Minding his own business he was, this hedgehog, just there being himself so I kicked him. Kicked him just like a football and watched him as he rolled away. Bouncing just twice and then lay there still, remaining rolled up as a ball but quite dead now.

I beat a ferret to death too with a hammer as well. This was a matter of need and necessity actually, rather than just plain old animal cruelty, but I was able to do it and I enjoyed doing it. I didn't question this killing at the time. Understand that this was all conducted, the animal cruelty, within my teenage years and on the farm; the childhood farm upbringing which had shown me so much of such cruelty. You think that cruelty is ok on a farm, don't you? A necessity in fact, as you cannot farm animals without cruelty. A need to do, just as long as your meat tastes good and fresh. Served up for you in its neat little anonymous packet. Yes, to cut the pig's throat and let it bleed to death in agony, but as long as the meat is good you'll all hide your eyes. I wasn't allowed to have the ferret you see, to keep another ferret. We'd had many before but after the wanker brother shot himself and died, there were to be no more. All the guns were removed from the house, my mother's house that is. Dad's house still had plenty of 12 bores lying around. Following the death of my brother came the new ban that ended all rabbiting and shooting trips. So I kept this secret ferret (the one I killed) in a hidden place, in a cage, an old hay loft that they, the farm workers never used. I only had it a few days before I became bored of looking after it, creeping out of the house to it every morning with food. I knew what I had coming to me if I got caught with it and keeping it against their expressed wishes.

They were going to do something in that old hay loft this one day. My secret place, and as to why I thought I could actually get away with hiding it I don't know. Anyway, so I realised that the ferret had to go before it was discovered. I opened the cage and swung the hammer down on its skull. It was very fragile. I didn't beat it like some crazed psycho, just one firm solid swing. I watched it writhe around in agony until it eventually stopped. Then I played with its head. How the bones moved around inside the fractured little skull fascinated me.

We caught a fox once which we had trapped in the grouse pens. They hated foxes, the gamekeepers nearby who managed the woods. Because of all the precious fucking little birds they kept, birds were worth lots of money for the shoot. Rich fucking snobs who stand in a line whilst the beaters drive, drive all of those hand-reared and re-released birds from the woods. They fly over and are gunned down in an instant thumping to the floor. Like the Battle of The Somme I suppose, with absolutely zero chance of survival. This is sport to them, country sport they call it, and they say that this is in the name of conservation. The birds were always penned. We would clip the left wing so we always knew which direction they would fly away in after release. Rearing birds and breeding them just to shoot them all down from the sky and it's called fucking conservation. All a load of total bollocks if you ask me. The fox was doused in petrol and we watched it burn. Fucking conservationists, bullshitters all of them, those country folk.

There was a girl, a real Hooray toff and all that. She loved riding and her fucking horses were worth more than a man's house. They had many horses and she was hot, sexy and truly quite fuckable. All that riding gear and a whip to go with it. A proper whip, not the kind of shit you can buy at those crap sex shops. We used to go into the barns together and play. Whipping was her favourite past time. When you think about it there's a good reason why women like horse riding so much. It's that pounding up and down motion below the cunt and the crack of that whip. How exciting for them. Women like to keep big dogs too don't they?

We liked to play horses, her and me. Nothing too hard, just playing, but she'd undress and show me her tits. She'd let me touch them and she'd be stood there in just riding pants and boots, naked from the waist up. She had beautiful tits this girl but I never hacked them off her. Hacking off a girls' tits is something I developed much

later in my career. She would bend over the hay and I would just whip her gently down the back and masturbate over her. Spreading it around, all over her beautiful teenage white bare flesh back. Massaging it into her skin with the frayed tails of her favourite riding whip.

We were just teenagers and we never fucked each other. She was just another spoilt rich bitch in a very long line of those who liked to tease me. I found out one day that she would kill and skin hedgehogs. She'd wrap the skin and spines around her show jumping poles. It was a way of training the horses to clear the jump, to raise the horse's hind legs as it went over. Somehow finding out about the cruelty to the hedgehogs justified the final and rather over-excited whipping session. That day I whipped her until her skin broke and she bled. You see, even I didn't like that, the cruelty of the poor fucking hedgehogs. They were stinking fucking rich these Hoorays, killing the hedgehogs for no real reason. They could afford to buy plastic brushes for the poles, some professional purpose-built kit or other. It was just meanness, tight bastards all these Hoorays are.

I would sometimes put our cat into the top of an old piano; place books on top as heavy weight to prevent any would-be escape plan. I would smash down on the keys, listening to the poor terrified creature desperate to run away. Smashing away trying to claw its way out from inside the piano chamber. Desperate to find a way out anywhere it could. The pièce de resistance of this short lived animal cruelty, was the kitten. I placed it into the microwave and just watched it explode. Microwaves were the new thing and all the rage at the time. A big old heavy thing this microwave was. It lasted longer than I thought it would, this kitten. Maybe a minute or two hurling itself about inside, locked in and nowhere to escape to. The noise was amazing until it suddenly just started to sparkle and crackle. Then in the flash of a second it just exploded. It was totally fucking awesome, like a new galaxy forming in front of you. Chaos within the creation of that new universe of mess. The steaming hot and very dead kitten just sizzling away afterwards.

I fucking hate people and they are such easy victims for me, the deserving ones. The animals were a journey and not a need; it was about me discovering me. The farm showed me first hand such cruelty, a cruelty that eventually led me to become a vegetarian. It's true what I say and tell you here so don't fucking laugh at me now. You go to your fucking butcher shops and your supermarkets and consume the flesh of animals, all wrapped up in neat little plastic packages. You care not that this poor fucking sentient creature bled to death, slowly, mercilessly and degradingly, dying in agony.

The pig has the same understanding and awareness of a three-year-old child. That is a fact that you should know about the humble pig. But you will all queue up in-line to hang and flog me, the killer, won't you? And then afterward return to your bacon sandwiches. You give not a shit about the suffering of the animals, the millions that die just to satisfy your unnecessary flesh-eating palate.

Well I cannot fucking love people anymore and I now love animals instead. Animals, not people, and I do care more for the animals than for the suffering of people. I wish I could turn the clock back now and have avoided having harmed a single animal. But you fucking shits, the humans, well that's quite different. I just want to push a button that destroys the whole fucking lot of you but leaves all the animals still alive. I should have been a scientist or a chemist; I'd have created something that would have destroyed every single last human fucking parasite on this planet. Human fucking beings, a despicable and revolting sub-species who found themselves at the top of the food chain only by pure luck.

Some fucking ape long back that stood up and learnt how to make tools, sharpen his flints and then make arrows and spears. Try and hunt down your animal feast, your red flesh diet without these weapons? Just as a natural naked man hunting and you'll find you can't, as it's not possible. Human beings are not intended to eat animals and we are not designed to hunt either. One day I'll eat a whole fuckin' person and see how that feels. Have you ever tried to tell a paedophile that they are sick? That's not possible either as what they do is quite natural to them, it truly is in their nature and not a free choice at all, not like meat eating. They cannot see beyond their own twisted logic and misguided sick self-reasoning. They too defend themselves with all the old tiresome flesh-eater arguments, don't they? Its nature, it's natural, its survival... after all, if a girl is old enough to menstruate then nature intended for her to breed... isn't that about it? But I think the flesh-eater is worse. They know it is wrong. They hide themselves away from the truth of the slaughter house. Meat eating is such the natural thing to them that they can't even talk about it without upsetting themselves. To hide it from the kids at all cost. Not to protect the child's feelings, of course it will be fucking hysterical at what it sees, the noise of killing, and the bleeding. No, to protect you from the truth of what you are; you prefer to pay others to do the killing for you. So meet your fucking meat before you butcher it you fucking hypocrites. Only then can you judge the vulgarity of a paedophile.

Pornography, this is the real nectar of life, not animal flesh. It is so beautiful pornography, so sweet and so pure and a real shame to show it no respect. Just calling it porn doesn't truly display the quality of the art it contains. Like you would address the Mona Lisa as just another picture.

I remember my first movie, so much better than the crap stills in the mags under Dads' old bed. There was a woman I watched, stockings and suspenders, the usual I'm-gonna-get-fucked-now kit. She was sucking off a horse, a real proper big standing tall horse. My friends all joked at the time at this particular scene and remarked about it in disgust. Belittling this woman for loving a horse, why? She wasn't fucking eating it like the French do. They all watched it though and I was loving it. I loved every last second of it. Them, all with cushions on their laps to hide their true arousal.

Have you ever seen how much cum comes out of a horse? She stood on her hands and legs, raising her arched up arse, reversing up onto it. Like planes refuelling in mid-air and took the whole fucking length. I couldn't believe the size of it and how far she took it all in. Then as she pulled away off it, the horse came. Pumping just like someone had poured a bucket full of cum all over her, a full bucket full.

I never saw the point in watching a whole porn movie from beginning to end. This was boring for me. I just wanted the money shots. The fucking and the abuse of it all, and the fantasy that I was there amongst it, as the story-line unfolded before me. I would watch the same scenes over and over again until I was sore and bleeding and forced to stop wanking. I can't get enough porn. I mean how can anyone get enough porn? Everything I want is out there to watch, and it's all free. No subscriptions and no membership, no bank cards used and just free untraceable porn.

I have my favourites, the group gang-bang dungeon parties and the sex girl holidays. Can you believe it? I was seeing for the first time men sharing their wives with other men, how they took it in turn to take her. Some whore or other and how she loved it and wanted it. People would pay to go on these sex holidays, girls paying for sex for a change and not the men. For once a proper definition of equal opportunities and not this radical feminism shit that we are all fed. Hundreds of women gathered together in a night club and all fucking just a handful of men. These were the women I wanted to meet, them uploading their filthy mobile phone videos without any embarrassment what so ever afterward. Then inviting the whole fucking world to join them, to tune in and watch them all fucking everybody else in turn inside the club. So, when your own fucked up little tart goes on holiday with the girls this year and you wonder why, well don't say I didn't tell you this. She's fucking around behind your back mate.

Porn becomes an illness eventually they say, almost an addiction, but I don't see the harm in it. This was me living out my fantasies and harming no one. Here's the choice; killing people or watching porn, so you make the choice for me then? I could live my entire life watching porn, for who did it hurt but no one. I would search for more and more of it, learning the art of the professional dark web searcher and I learnt all the ways to hide my tracks.

I'd find rape scenes. They are absolutely fucking amazing. You can tell that some were just made with very bad actresses, acting a part for the cash only. But every so often you would come across the real event, the real McCoy. It would seem real anyway and I suppose that's what matters, the authenticity. You have to believe it is real in order to enjoy it. This one girl was drugged and left to lay helpless on a bed. Men with faces disguised would just screw her. It felt as if it went on for hours but I guess only 30 minutes or so. But I counted eleven men; some would come back for second helpings, a third or a fourth. It was fast, all very fast and almost frenzied. They would fuck her in seconds, just a slab of meat lying there drugged and fucked again and again. Imagine starving frenzied wolves ripping at a fresh prey. Porn, I love it.

And I witnessed a strangulation too. She was tied to a chair, an old everyday wooden armchair, with her arms strapped to the arms of this chair. Her neck was restrained and her arms tied firmly down. Her legs were roped open and fixed to a heavy table leg on the left and a door handle to the right. Her legs were tied open and spread so wide I could actually see up her cunt, just as if it was a big dark wet hole, a long black train tunnel that never saw daylight open at the other end. The more distressed she became, the harder I would wank. I wanted to shoot my cum deep up inside that never ending crack of hers.

These three men would place a clear plastic bag over her face and wrap it tightly down with tape around her neck. They watched her turning blue and screaming, but silently screaming so just muffled noises was heard, the condensation quickly hiding her face from view inside the plastic bag. At the point of near death, when the thrashing about had nearly, but not quite finished, they pierced the bag. Made just a small hole about the size of a one pence piece coin to allow some air back inside. As she got some breath back they all started wanking onto her face, wanking into her mouth through that small ripped hole in the bag.

She was so desperate for breath that the cum they delivered onto her beautiful lips just got sucked in like, sucked back through like a decompression on an aeroplane after the window breaks. The clothes she was wearing were out of this world, like a full fishnet body stocking that they ripped open at the cunt. So many times I have fucked this woman in my dreams. She is fixed in my mind for all eternity I think.

But shemale videos, they were simply the best and they fascinate me. How can a girl have a cock? I mean to say they weren't cross-dressers or trannies or anything like that. Not like the man you see who's completely unconvincing and dressed up as a woman for a sexual kick. They really were women and the most perfect women. They were gorgeous and beautiful in every fine detail, real works of art these shemales. So much more beautiful than most normal women and how jealous real women must truly be of them.

You watch them undressing or copping off and then suddenly there before you, you would just see a big hard cock appear from within their underwear. The silhouette of a huge erection, appearing from behind some gorgeous soft lingerie. A woman with a cock wanking and cumming, and always dressed in the most delicious of lingerie. Clothing far more beautiful and sensuous than anything our bitches really bother to wear for us. They make an effort the shemale, they really do. These videos are so much better than the lesbian strap-on or dildo vids I was also getting off on before where two women with plastic cocks take it in turns to fuck each other. I mean they were good these lesbian vids but real cocks on shemales, well that's so much better.

I never fancied men; I don't think I ever have. I look at a man and it does nothing for me sexually. But I love cocks and I adore being fucked. I want to be this beautiful woman one day that makes her man melt at the knees. That pleasures him in every way possible, fulfils his everyday fantasies. I wanted to be desired as a woman, I wanted to dress up and wait for my man to come home. I was acting out everything that I wanted from a woman because women can be so dull and un-inspirational can't they? They have such power and control over us but they don't know how to use it properly. Or perhaps they just won't do it.

So many fucking boring arguments about, "I'm not wearing that" and, "Do you think I'm gonna' dress up like a whore for you?" Me, I'll be that whore if he wants, and I like being used. I never understood why the women I met had such fucking hang-ups about enjoying sex, about being the meat. They are after all the food chain of fucking. I had quite a collection of intimate sexy lingerie hidden away during my late teens and early adult life, half of it stolen and pre-used by other women. I was fucking women by now but dressing up as a woman for men. Two world's both so many miles apart. I used to laugh to myself when I would look at her, later on returning home, the girlfriend at home waiting for you that is. "If only you knew what I had been doing today, shall I tell you sweetheart?" Oh, I think not, guess she wouldn't have understood.

I never fancied men, I know I keep saying that to you but I didn't. I never slept with a man unless I was there with him as a woman, because there were rules. I wasn't gay; I was a real woman, being desired. I would long for the day that I met a rich man who could turn me into a really beautiful woman with real tits, but all the time allowing me to keep my cock intact. I mean why not, I like my cock and it's a work of a genius. So many people had remarked on the beauty of its glorious stiffness and of its handsome size. I am proud of my cock.

I had this dark idea that I would meet a surgeon, some kind of Frankenstein nut who would abduct a beautiful woman for me. Then out of his love for me he would exchange our body parts, to take out my brain and put it inside her skull. I wanted to be a total slut and I would have done anything with anybody, everything and with everybody. I just needed to be fucked all day long and never ceasing, non-stop and never ending. I needed a man's cock up inside me.

I loved dressing up. I would spend hours putting on make-up, removing hair and changing in and out of different lingerie. Experimenting with everything I had collected, the colour coordination and styles and I would buy such beautiful clothes for myself. It was always lingerie and not just everyday women's clothes; it was only about sex for me.

Though I never went out crossed-dressed as a woman, I would keep clothes at his house. His house is all you need to know just now. I would let myself in and wait for him to come home as arranged. He used to like to watch me dressing up. He was fascinated by how a man, an everyday young man could burst into this beautiful young woman before him. I was beautiful, such a beautiful woman back then. I was slim and tall with very long hair.

He was a professional this guy, divorced and bisexual and much older than me at the time. He hadn't unleashed his beast as he called it, his need to take a male arse, until his early forties. I liked the age gap and he had money to spend on me. He was indeed a most sensational fuck, caring and tender with me, treating me like a proper woman for the first time in my life. I liked being his girlfriend and I adored our secret intimate nights that we would spend together.

We would go away for weekends together; this was the great thing about us two. The wife by now just thought I was going away with my mate for a weekend. Neither of us, neither me nor him were obvious about what we were doing together. Just everyday unnoticed gentlemen, but when we were away we would lock ourselves in the hotel rooms for hours, always two single beds in a shared room that we pushed together. We were very careful and this made it all the more mysterious and exciting for me.

We would go shopping and he would see clothes for me. He knew my sizes and what did and didn't work. I mean I had a cock to keep in place, so small silky knickers were good but sadly no G-strings. Basques were always my favourite, ones that would cover my chest and allow for the padding but this padding never to be seen by him. Stockings and long nylon slips, the kind that fall off the shoulder when he is gripping you firm by the upper arms. Gripping and pumping me, violently stretching out as he is about to cum up inside me. Tartan or black leather and denim miniskirts and always without fail, very high heels. He knew what I liked and I knew what he wanted.

He bought me a wedding dress one day, it was absolutely gorgeous. Stunningly sexy and honestly, so gorgeous, I made myself perfect in it. Not a hair in sight anywhere and we played for hours, 'here cums the bride'. We had amazing sex that night, he and I. I wanted to be a real bride, a virgin bride that served only him.

He was the only proper regular boyfriend I ever had. But sadly, as quickly as it had started, it faded for him. He would become over the two years we dated together, more and more gay. I think I was just his transition; somehow he needed a man but a man as a man and not me, the man as a woman. Our relationship would all change as he became more and more aware of his own sexual needs. We would go out but he would insist on going to gay clubs now. He wanted other men and not she-men; the cute little princess of his was becoming redundant now. I got bored eventually from the lack of attention and how he had forgotten about how great sex between us was. We soon parted. It was an easy parting as we weren't in love and if you'd paid attention, you'd have realised by now that I cannot love. I told my wife nothing and he soon got a new boyfriend.

I suppose just another part of my life's journey, from my very first memory of sexual awaking, this back on the farm, where I would feed the lambs, replacing the feed-time milk bottle for my tender young cock. He attended to my every desire and every fantasy, all of them being totally and perfectly fulfilled by him. This was the secret life I had buried myself in, the secret lover and as-ever the teenage wife oblivious back home.

Notes 3 - Dr Cerys Davies

In this chapter his observation of the ants makes him visit aspects of his life in which he has tortured animals. Extreme cruelty toward animals is the classic behaviour of the text book psychopath, and such animal cruelty is almost invariably committed in early childhood. Seeing ants cutting up another insect whilst still alive reminds him of how civilised societies can revert to their basic animalistic needs. He relates to the suffering inflicted on insect by the ants as a metaphor for "normal" civilisation. He gives us many accounts of the most brutal animal cruelty but claims this behaviour stopped early in his teenage years.

Horse riding and hunting are everyday occurrences here. The girl who has used the hedgehogs spines, is she part of a local fox hunt? Is she using the spines to train that horse to clear hedges, rather than show jumps? I have to wonder about its relevance here.

Is it possible that this young girl with the horses is also being abused by the same group of paedophiles? The question arises because of Gabriel's references to the girl's distorted perceptions of sexual behaviour, such as her whipping experiences and of the ejaculation on her. Both Gabriel and the girl are acting out what they think others want them to do; things they have probably witnessed somewhere or perhaps have been instructed to do. They see it as normal teenage sexual behaviour, whereas one would normally expect such sexual expression to form later, perhaps as an adult fetish. Are people watching them do this to each other?

When Gabriel says that "The horses are worth more than a house," he is again suggesting a wealthy rural community. In the previous chapter we are told that mother was a barmaid in a local bar so it is possible they are living in a tied house located on or attached to the farm. Alternatively they could be living on a country estate boundary. The stepfather's working hours are very long; he is almost certainly a farm labourer rather than a farm owner.

We learn that gamekeepers are based locally. There are grouse woods used for organised shooting events and he refers to conservationists as country folk. The girl in which he engages in sexual fetishism he calls a Hooray girl. Hooray here used as a derogatory term for wealthy countryside sporting people. This indicates her family's wealth, considerably exceeds his family's income.

Surprisingly he turns his back on animal cruelty and values the life of an animal more highly that of a human being. He says he is vegetarian and is at pains to say how much he loves animals and how much he despises people. I feel a sense of dread in him, though; his cruelty and need to torture has been transferred from animals to people. He now marks humans as potential victims simply because they eat meat. Given his natural order of things, people now become his prey; both male and female prey.

In his mind he wants to create a weapon of mass destruction, a weapon that kills all human life but does not hurt animals. He has not one single positive relationship with any adult that I can see and this statement about destroying everyone, confirms that he does not have any feelings for anybody. Not family or friends, or even a lover. It is at this stage in his life that the psychotic and deluded psychopath has been born.

Gabriel 13 has developed an obsession with pornography and fails to see any harm in what he is accessing and watching. We read chilling accounts of rape and suffocation without any expression of sympathy at all from him for the victim. He is becoming aroused by sexual torture and the degrading treatment and sexual humiliation of women. He remains emotionally cold when he expresses these feelings. He has no interest in watching an entire pornographic video, and is not interested in any build up to sexual scenes; there is no evidence of slow sexual excitement to arouse him. His sole interest only is in graphic sexual violence that might be contained in a video.

His extreme hatred and misogynist attitudes come to the fore here and he reaffirms his identity as a shemale. A shemale (not a transvestite or transsexual), he craves the beauty of femininity but also the power and control of masculinity. He fantasizes about women, by becoming what he sees as the perfect woman. The perfect servient woman, in his view, serves no useful purpose other than to be sexually violated by men.

Surprisingly there is no evidence of homosexuality here. This is the beginning of a personality split, a Jekyll and Hyde personality in which he can be male or female but never both at the same time. He is a man who in true metamorphosis becomes a woman, and his male persona will never intrude. He never operates between the two aspects of himself at any stage. More and more, he comes to believe that he is a woman inside, and fantasizes about physically becoming one later on.

We see the first glimpse of a regular steady relationship but it is while he is posing as a woman. He has a gay lover but never considers himself to be gay. The entire relationship is based only on sex and there is no love expressed. Other than referring to his general loneliness, he moves on from the end of this relationship without sadness or regret. He claims he has an unsuspecting wife at home, though he says nothing about their relationship.

The most telling mention of the wife is when he demonstrates his hate and loathing of her. He is obsessed with both homoerotic sexual fantasies and a spine chilling hatred of women.

Thinking about the sexual experiments involving animals when he was very young, I conclude that the sexual abuse inflicted upon him by men are of little significance to him or, at any rate, he provides precious little information on that score.

He sees himself as a whore and it is likely that his hatred of women is born out of his sexual jealousy of them. He wants to be the very whore that he describes in such derogatory terms. We have yet to see the creation of Gabriel 13 as the male persona that emerges later in the narrative. Again, a key question in my mind is who exactly is Gabriel, because I suspect the name has a deep significance? Too, I note his wife was very young, a teenager.

Summary

Confirmation of rented accommodation on the farm, a tied property possibly on a country or rural estate. Evidence of low income working class, low socio economic status. A definite rural countryside upbringing. A local fox hunt and organised shooting of game birds in his immediate childhood vicinity. An obsession with graphic, sadistic pornography. He identifies himself as a possible shemale. Certainly he has sadistic tendencies.

Personality disorder: Any of a group of mental disorders characterised by deeply ingrained maladaptive patterns of behaviour and personality style, usually recognisable as early as adolescence. They are often lifelong in duration.

Split personality disorder: A rare disorder in which the individual displays several functionally dissociated personalities with each of a complexity, in comparison to that of a normal individual.

Sadistic: Pertaining to or characterised by sadism, in deriving pleasure or sexual gratification from extreme cruelty.

Shemale: A male-to-female transsexual conversion but without surgical removal of the penis.

Socio Economic Status: Socio-economic status is evaluated as combined factors, financial income, level of education, and of occupation.

PART ONE

Chapter 4

I Love the Idea of Being in Love

I wish I could love. I love the idea of being in love but I only love animals now. You; you just sit there reading on because you just want to know about the killing don't you? You want to read about the killings and have no real interest in love as a subject at all do you? You have no interest in me or my life at all and you are all judging me. You are sickened by me and totally revolted by me and I haven't even begun my story yet. Worry not; don't be too disappointed, you have read this far and lots of killing will come soon, I promise you. I want you to understand me first; I need you to understand what you have created inside me.

Yes you are creating me now; you the bastard twisted fucked up wrecks who are reading this. So why are you actually still here then? It's not because you care for me as you and your kind have never given a shit, so why should I? Oh, that poor fucking bitch wife you may well say. Well I'll tell you about her now straightaway. She took everything away that I loved dearly. I will return one day before my passing, to butcher her and I will enjoy every sweet moment of it. Just like that fox, she is going to burn and just like that old twisted paedophile, he too will burn. They will all burn one day soon, all in the not too far away distant future. I married very young and it was to the first stupid fucking cow I came across. She really was as thick as shit and I hated her within weeks. I was travelling and signing on and living road-side in an old caravan. Where the fuck do you find a virgin woman in this day and age I asked myself? The odd girl yes but a virgin woman? Well, that should have been a warning to me. The only decent intact bitch out there but I suppose it was my security blanket, a make believe love story and my cover. I was living with her before we married but my giro didn't arrive this particular day. There I was stuck, and no money to flee or to run away anywhere else. I was so desperate to just get in the car and drive away. She made my fucking skin crawl. Then out of the blue, and quite unexpected comes the fucking pregnancy testing kit. For fuck sake, it, this thing I was with was pregnant. I did my bit as she had refused an abortion. I just wanted to push that big ugly goofy fuckin' bitch down the stairs. But I never hurt her as she was carrying my child. I just did the 'get married quickly' thing and the 'you made your bed so you lie on it' shit. After the birth something changed, no not her but within me. I had a child, a boy and a beautiful boy he was. I did fall in love with him as he was everything to me: those moments of the first crawl, the walk and the talking. The word Daddy you hear as it is first spoken. I would read him stories and buy him toys, bikes and all sorts and everything. I couldn't spend enough money on him, as I loved my child so very much. I was the father to him, being the one that I never had. I would shower him in love and I would hold him so dearly, so tenderly and no one was ever going to hurt him.

No one would take him from me, I thought to myself then, but she fucking did. "Your daddy's a bastard," she would shout as she marched him upstairs with her to bed, like he was her own singular property and I had no say. The marriage was a short lived disaster but she managed to fuck up again and now there were two. I had two children. I lived in all this implacable hostility for as long as I could bear, trying to stay believe me. I tried but she was so vile, she was a real sickening piece of work. You hear these terms spoken in life, terms you hear daily like, 'you make me sick,' and phrases like 'you make my skin crawl.' And yes they now made sense to me for the first time, these old sayings made real sense to me. I could relate to them, she did make me feel sick inside and just looking at that piece of shit would make me want to vomit. I left her many times but guilt for the children would always pull me back to return. She then started with the 'if I wasn't with her I wasn't to see my children', the twisted and manipulative piece of shit. Then I met her, a mother from the local primary school. It wasn't love, it was just a distraction. I could play the happy families thing in public and just while away my years of incarceration, my life sentence until the day my children would be adults. She, this new one was a divorcée and happy for just a fling, nothing more than just a quick fuck to satisfy the lust of her lonely, loose and sad divorcée cunt. She had no qualms about smiling at the bitch wife on school runs and then going home afterward to fuck her husband. That turned me on; you know when you hear these bitches talk about the sisterhood and female solidarity. Then they all fuck around with each other's husbands. It was not that I wanted to hurt the wife but it was that I wanted my sweet revenge. She didn't need to know and I was happy just knowing for myself; made me deal with things and gave me the ability to cope.

That laughing at her behind her back, priceless that was to me. Seeing her befriend this woman with all the small talk, all the chitter chatter and knowing that they spoke jollies every day, when all the time I was fucking her new found friend senseless. Divorcées like a bit of cock, don't they? They hunger for it, that dirty hard pounding cock. They all think about their first love, the first hubby when they are fucking the new guy. The dirty stories she would tell me about the ex's favourite fetishes and games they played together whilst we fucked each other. Sensational experience fucking someone who's talking about the ex at the time.

Sex with the wife was always quick and aggressive and very, indeed, very boring. No dressing up and no cock sucking, always just physical cum quickly fucking, a release of the sperm for which I had need. The swollen balls and she was the available hole at the time. But this new woman, my secret fuck buddy had desires and deep dark fantasies. They were very complicated sexual needs. It was her who got me into schoolgirls; no I never screwed a real schoolgirl but enjoyed only the fantasy.

When a women plays the schoolgirl it reminds you of all your first sexual awakenings you see; looking up the girls' skirts at school and seeing their knickers or pubic hair. All that kind of chaotic adolescent hormone stuff going on. Seeing a woman dressed up as the schoolgirl in front of you would take you back to when you needed to claim your first conquest. It's something that is deep down inside all of us men, the schoolgirl fantasy thing.

And she loved to dress up this one, a woman who liked to dress up as a schoolgirl and she got all the spanking she wanted. So much more discipline on top. She liked to be disciplined this one, to be slapped hard across the face and to be caned on her arse. I'd cum just at the thought of thinking about her. Those old memories of school, the girls and how they would tease you. Virgin schoolgirls discovering their own power and their first awareness of their own sexuality. Exploding inside them and that growing need for their first piece of hard cock. How you would rub them and feel their tits, how you would grind your erection against the clit. Grope that first schoolgirl arse, that first bra-strap undone and a finger or two up inside her, and that smell of fresh clean cunt. That smell of fresh vagina that it would always leave on your hands but never ever getting to fuck one of them though Schoolgirls were always the greatest of the little prick teasers. Awakening your loins all the way and then they would stop you just as you tried to slide your stiff inside them. Some last minute pathetic petty excuse at the eleventh hour. She was as fucked up as me; she'd been abused and had fallen into prostitution as a teenager. She was extremely promiscuous too. I mean she told me about hundreds and she'd even fucked the family GP. All this was in her teens. Just one more of my long-drawn-out string of collected fucked up women that you find along life's way. We played for a while until that other bitch found out and all was soon over.

I tried to see my kids regularly but that was never going to be allowed to happen. I did everything that the responsible dad was supposed to do but no. She would do everything possible to destroy my relationship with my children. After many years of fighting, the court welfare service and social workers, and every other legal avenue open to me, that bitch finally got her way and turned the only thing I had loved against me. She turned my own children against me.

I would get court orders and contact visits but she would always cook up some allegation to call it all off at the last minute. I would go to collect them as agreed with the courts, from her house but she would be away. She'd again be found to be off for the weekend without any notice. I would go to see them at school and they the staff would say to me, "but your wife says you are not allowed contact with your children." Oh that bitch used every lie after lie after lie. Oh yes, I had every allegation possible made against me, from neglect to abuse. I mean just sit down now my dear reader and in your mind create the biggest lie that you can think of. Then you'll start to see her for the whore that she was. This woman was everything I knew to be sickening within their species and she got her way just by being pure evil. I will tell you this now, dear reader of mine, I will have my way before I am through. Even if I am to spend an eternity within your fuckin' prisons, I promise you I am going to take her. I promise you this. It all started with "you didn't feed the children," "they didn't wear seat belts," "you didn't wash their clothes" and "you didn't get them to school on time." It all went on and on for years and fucking years, this tirade of utter bullshit. The more the courts and the legal system saw through her, the bigger and more fanciful the lies would become. This, until and eventually the big one arrived, the one that destroys every father's contact ambitions with his kids. The easiest of all to say and just an allegation without any proof was all that was necessary. She accused me of sexually abusing my own children and with that all contact was called off.

So there's no doctor's evidence and no verbal statement from the child, in fact there's nothing at all. But that's all she needed to say, just to make the allegation was enough. She had now latched onto this really nasty friend in her bitter fucked up and newly founded men hating world. She'd lent her a book, this one cockroach of a woman. It was a blow by blow account of how to stop the ex, him from seeing his kids, written instructions telling her what to say and how to say it, all in a published fucking book for Christ sake. Some fucked up feminist male hating shit publication. How to destroy a family in writing with printed guidelines. There it was for me to read, all the dos and don'ts of male hatred. I mean this bitch friend believed that all men should be curfewed at night. Honestly for fuck sake, that's what she'd say to me, you cannot reason with these fucked up twisted fuckin' bitches. But you can kill them.

My hatred of women was now boiling and why not after this? They'd call me a misogynist because I stood up to them, stood up against them. Don't be a victim, that's my motto of fatherhood. And of them? Well we don't have a word for women who hate men do we? And here's the ironic part, I am eventually awarded full custody of the children. All the professionals involved are all sick to the teeth and tired of her implacable hostility. They are bored of the lies, the broken agreements and the promises she would make to them in court and then break. Too, the abuse of the legal aid system which was costing you my dear reader, the taxpayers a small fortune by now.

They were all bored, the whole fuckin' legal system was bored of her. She had only one mission: he isn't going to see his kids at any cost and they all knew this by now. I'd moved in with the new one at this point in time when I got custody of the kids, the fling and the affair by that point was long dead in the water. But I had somewhere for my kids to live for the time being, until I got back on my feet. Then, after all that was said and done it was that one, the new one who stabbed me in the back the hardest. The ex-wife wasn't the real enemy after all, it was the enemy within. "I took her husband but I won't take her kids away from her," that's what she said to me.

"Well excuse fucking me but isn't it all a bit too late for a fucking guilt trip? They are my fucking kids as well," was my reply to this shit head of a backstabber. I said, "It's her or me. Stand by me or you support that bitch instead." Her calm reply, "If the kids must stay anywhere it should be with her." I hit her so fucking hard, her nose exploded before me, it poured with thick dark red, almost blue blood and as she fell to the floor, I started kicking her and punching her to help her on her way down, down to the gutter where she had placed herself. I had control at this time and I hadn't killed anybody yet. I stopped after four or five minutes of random (often paused but always precisely delivered) precision punches.

She ran upstairs after I stopped and she sobbed and sobbed. But I had no pity for her, just as she had none for me. You see when you hurt somebody deep down inside there are no visible wounds. But those wounds inside me were far greater than any of the visible scars I gave her that night. I wanted to beat her until she would shut the fuck up but I didn't do so. I wanted to beat her to fuckin' death with my own hands but I didn't do it in the end. I mean that's what Mum and Dad would do when I was a child, they would give you something to cry about. Then beat you until you could cry no more. I wasn't like them. I wasn't a killer yet and I had some personal respect for myself. I wasn't going to do a life sentence for some uncontrolled and out of character domestic murder. No, I will return for that one as well later on and I will not be caught. I promise you this too, I will butcher them both. I never saw her or that mother of my children again. Nor have I ever seen my children since I packed and I left that night. Well that is to say that, well not until I visited them both again recently. I just popped in again to say hello.

I travelled extensively after beating her, just me and a rucksack swiping across the skies and I will not say how or where to you. No, you cunts, as there is far too much information given away to you already. Let's just say I just travelled everywhere. If you really think you can fuck with me and my mind and I will rant and rave and bear all in anger to you, well just fuck off and think again. In fact fuck off twice over. You're a cunt like all the others so leave me alone and get out of my fucking skull. Go or I will smash you into a thousand fucking pieces as well.

Don't feel any pity now for those two shits. These were my kids, these were my kids and I loved them dearly. Those two bitches have fucking paid for it now. They have paid every fucking penny owed back to me. Fear is the ultimate fucking weapon isn't it and that smell of fresh piss dripping from their jeans, dripping down to the soil below. I've grown quite a taste for it, this human flesh, and what a surprise I have left just for you. You wouldn't believe it unless you see it for real. There's a clue for you, don't want you barking up the wrong tree now do we?

I met a woman on my new travels and she was sex on legs. I told her nothing of my past obviously, and referred only to the present travels. My past was all so far away now and this was the new beginning for me. She loved sex and she couldn't get enough sex. I mean proper sex and this was sex with a real hot blooded woman. We did everything; we consumed sex like we had never known sex before. That first all-consuming teenage wank all over again.

She would dress up in, and as anything for me, do anything for me and play any game. Any game I wanted: the schoolgirl or the nurse, the policewoman or the whore. She just loved fantasy sex. I would go out hunting with her, hunting that's what we called it. I would pick up men in bars for her. It was just a quick friendly drink only, as she would be alone waiting at home. Waiting for me to come back home with the stranger. There waiting patiently with just enough showing to let them know what game was on the table that night.

The open blouse and the short skirt with her stocking top just briefly showing as she would over exaggerate the crossing of her legs. A dirty mag placed on the coffee table in full view, the scent of the perfume and of the candles. She would sit in the middle of thesofa and we would sit either side, the man whoever he would be that I had brought back. Brought back home with me from the bar that evening. The unsuspecting ones would cringe with embarrassment at seeing just the mag. Cringe at first but when they realised they were just part of some sex game and they could actually get to fuck her too, not too surprisingly none of them ever left in a hurry.

When they realised it was all quite safe and it was on for sure. That it was real and happening in front of them and that it was all very, very private too. They would watch me slowly move my hand up her thigh, very slowly to finally rest upon her crutch. Her legs would open and my fingers would slide up inside, followed by a loud grunt of excitement from her. That was nice; the noises she would make to turn these men on. All the noise and with my fingers inside her first followed with another man's fingers aside mine. She could take eight fingers at once, she really was very impressive. Anything went with her. The best time was when she would suck me off whilst some random stranger fucked her from behind. She loved it and I loved it, we took our time. When were alone again, when the man had gone home afterward, we would talk each other back through it. Talk ourselves over the event and we fucked each other to personally reclaim each other once again. We travelled and moved on regularly us two; we didn't need to worry about what people thought. We didn't need to worry about what the street gossip was saying about us.

We would go to the big inner city clubs, the private sex clubs and just watch others as they too were fucking. It was heaven, being with a woman who loved sex as much as me. It was like a snake pit this one club we frequented, just wet spunk soaked bodies everywhere. Bodies rolling around on top of each other continually fucking, I loved that snake pit. You could just sit at the bar there having a drink, just like normal life but always looking down into that snake pit. Then some drop-dead random fucking beauty would just walk up to you and say, "Why don't you come and join us?" They had rooms for everything and anything there and I do mean everything. A themed room to suit all needs and for all occasions.

We liked to be tied up back to back against each other. Sometimes blindfolded and we would just listen to each other being abused in turn. Playing rape games and we were the hostages. Bondage, dungeon games and stuff and we proved to be a very popular couple indeed. Then suddenly she fell in love with someone, oh piss off please. Fell in love for fuck's sake.

No it wasn't with me because I know she never loved me and that was cool. I mean you can't actually love somebody you have chosen this kind of life style with can you? I mean so many trust issues for fuck sake. This was all about fucking for us and not about love. Not about personal relationships, not stopping or settling down together. But just all about fucking each other. I'd thought that something was wrong for a while. I just sensed something was going on.

She would start to go out alone and she'd never been out alone without me before. We were the play party and we went out together only to play, but she'd obviously fallen in fucking love with somebody somewhere. I could see it, smell it and taste it. I'd been an adulterous bastard myself and you can't keep that kind of shit secret from me can you? I know all the secrets there are about lying and cheating on your partner. Did she think I was fucking stupid or something? I took her eyes out with a screwdriver.

Notes 4 - Dr Cerys Davies

We are now starting to read the author's derogatory attacks on his readers. Presumably, his remarks are mainly directed at the ongoing police investigative team. As for the wider readership (Gabriel evidently assumes, or at least hopes, that the manuscript will be read by a much wider public), he believes we will read them purely for sexual titillation. Whether he pictures the police or the public reading his work, he does not seem to make a distinction between legal pursuit and prurience. In effect, he believes everyone shares many of his darkest desires and, if we do not act on them, it is purely because we don't have the opportunity to do so.

He also wants to shock us and to provoke an emotional reaction, from us. He wants us to feel disgust at him and for what he has done. From the outset this has been his main intention. In this chapter we see the first direct threat to cause harm and he has identified specific people as his targets. Among them are a paedophile and his partners who abused him. He goes on to suggest that he has already taken action, and the paedophile(s) have already come to harm.

He uses the word butcher in reference to his ex-wives. The first woman he possibly married when he was a teenager. He makes a direct threat to kill her before her passing – normally one assumes the word passing refers to death, but there may be a deeper and more meaningful connation to the word in this case. He writes about living in a caravan with his first, young wife, trapped in a relationship for economic reasons (the absent giro-cheque, presumably a social security payment or state benefit). He is therefore not working at the time of this marriage. There is no reference to a formal wedding, though a civil marriage is a distinct possibility. He refers to his wife's pregnancy (their first child).

He evidently feels deep and sincere love for his child, and makes reference to a second child. These events, and his attendant emotions, appear to be catalysts that push him over the edge into full-blown psychosis. We see for the first time, an outpouring of emotion that displays how deeply hurt and affected he was by the loss of his children. He says, "Make me sick" and, "ake my skin crawl" in reference to his wife. Yet he has never expressed such revulsion in reference to any sexual, emotional or physical abuse he had suffered as a child. He will use this catastrophic life-destroying event to justify his first kill. Chapter Four, 'I like the Idea of Being in Love' contains increasing references of violent acts to cause harm to specified individuals who have harmed him. He affirms that he would like to love again but cannot.

Throughout his first, short-lived marriage was he having an affair as a transsexual woman? He was also involved with a homosexual man. In addition, he continues to have a heterosexual affair with another woman. Again, his Jekyll and Hyde personality allows him to live completely separate lives. He pulls no punches in graphically displaying his hatred of his wife. He feels she has trapped him and he deeply resents her for this reason. What had she prevented him from doing or completing? Where does this sense of entrapment come from?

He provides detailed information about his sexual fetishes. He acts out his fetish for schoolgirl uniforms with a female partner but is at pains to say he does not have paedophilic tendencies, and is extremely disturbed that people may consider him to be a paedophile. In this way he tries to distance himself even from the idea of any sexual abuse of children. But his fetish only reawakens his repressed memories of early sexual experiences and sexual violence, such as the memories of his initial male-female erotic experiences at school.

As with the previous three chapters, we learn about his personal life in fine detail. For instance, his experiences with the legal system as he attempts to maintain a relationship with his children gives us more than enough information to establish his true identity. A man following a prolonged war of attrition is finally awarded full custody of his children. His wife, he says, showed "implacable hostility" during the proceedings, which goes some way to explain why the husband, rather than the wife, was awarded custody. The details should not be too difficult to find within the system. All this suggests that he wants his true identity to be discovered. In some cases the narrator's unreliability is never fully revealed but only hinted at. I wonder just how much the narrator should be trusted and how the story should be accurately interpreted.

For the purpose of my analysis, I am considering these memoirs to be nothing less than the truth, and not a work of fiction as the discovery of supportive evidence suggests to me. Something in him invites the hunt, as though he is saying "Catch me. I want you to catch me." In the history of psychopathic criminality there have been other cases, where perpetrators of horrific crimes have deliberately left clues to invite their capture.

Again the name Gabriel 13 intrigues me. Are we looking for a first born child named Gabriel? Was this child 13 years of age when these memoirs were discovered in 2009? If so, this would place the marriage at a much later age and not in his teenage years. Or, was the boy born on the 13th day of the month? My gut feeling, as I said before is the name Gabriel and the number 13 are significant to the narrative.

In this chapter he tells us his hatred of women is now at boiling point. We know that something horrific is going to happen within this period of his life. He confesses to an act of sustained physical violence against his girlfriend who he perceives as having betrayed him. When he talks about his children he loses control and flies into a rage. The anger management issue is his major Achilles heel. He later says, "I have grown quite a taste for human flesh." What is he doing now, and where?

All contact with his family ends suddenly after his violent attack on his partner. He is now travelling once again. Given he travelled in a caravan before his marriage, can we assume he is using this very same caravan? We see no further mention of the caravan, however, so he may have sold it. Is he travelling to avoid prosecution for the violent assault against the girlfriend? If so, we could assume he is now travelling abroad, leaving the UK to escape an inevitable custodial sentence.

By now he has lost all hope of regaining custody of his children. He has lost everything now and his violent tendencies begin to escalate. His next violent act will be against any woman he perceives as betraying him.

He is continually travelling around, this time with a new female companion. Again the relationship is based purely only on sex, sexual fantasy and fetishes. But is he travelling with her in his male or female persona? This is uncertain. If he is not wearing women's clothes, and does not perceive himself as female, it may be that having been so hurt by women, that he cannot now at this point in time bear the idea of being one himself. This female personality will only re-emerge after he has excised his hatred for women. This will happen when he finally unleashes his repressed rage and murders his first woman.

He wants justice for what this former partner or partners have done to him and for what they have taken from him. The children are the only thing in life that he has ever loved; it is his perception therefore, that he has now lost everything.

The chapter ends with the words, "I took her eyes out with a screwdriver." Has he killed for the first time or is this just mere fiction and fantasy? The words are delivered clinically, without details; as though killing her had no more significance than buying a can of baked beans from the shop.

We would normally expect the anonymous killer who wants to play the catch me if you can games to tantalise, to provide more graphic details of the killings. He would offer the sort of details that confirmed he actually committed the murder. At the very least one would expect information as to where the body might be found. Instead, the account is cold, matter of fact, and lacking any information whatsoever. This is a plain confession of murder, the killing of his travelling companion, and the herald of the many murders he describes later.

Summary

Married once, possibly twice. Married in a civil gathering at a registry office as a teenager. Married when teenage wife was already pregnant and possibly when heavily pregnant. At least one boy child of a virgin mother or possibly two boy children. First married around late 1980s or early 90s. Implacable breakdown of marriage resulting in custody of child/children awarded to the father. Warrant issued for arrest, serious physical and domestic assault still outstanding now, but issued early 1990s. Travelling with no fixed abode and possibly using a caravan. Possibility, he left the UK to travel in the early 1990s and went overseas. Frequent visitor to sex clubs or sex groups or fetish parties. Long term gay male partner as a transsexual or transvestite. Children of both wife and girlfriend attend the same junior school. Both women are known personally to each other.

First confession of murder. First murder by a screwdriver into the eye socket, of an unknown female sexual partner.

Achilles Heel: Weak spot that one is especially or solely vulnerable to.

Erotic: An arousing or satisfying sexual desire, and subject to a strong sexual desire.

Fetish: Any object or non-genital part of the body that causes a habitual erotic response or fixation.

PART ONE

Chapter 5

Feeding the Hunger and the Thirst

I love travelling. I have travelled for many years. There's always something new to discover and so many exciting things to do. I get bored easily with the same shit, same place all the time. So I move on frequently. I see it, I do it, I have it and I screw it. I then travel again for a while. I can't imagine ever settling down, so much fresh fruit to pick out there. Eastern Europe was fun but the dogs, have you ever seen so many homeless dogs like they have over there? Poor defenceless little puppies just dumped there alone on the roadside. There are hundreds of them, these street dogs, and no one seems to care anymore. They let them starve, they run them over as road kill, and they beat them with bars. I hate cruelty to animals. I now have my own dog, he's called Sparky. I found him eating from the bins in a roadside lay-by in Ukraine. Sparky is my friend. A really good friend and I enjoy being with him so much. The United States was cool too, it's just so big. It's absolutely enormous. You can be anything and anyone in the USA. You can travel for days and never see a soul and that has its uses. The whores there, they dress up like some kind of glamour model on a cat walk. They really do know how to be a good whore in the USA. I liked the American whores, they are the best in the world but there're so fucking expensive, the good ones.

I long stopped paying them, the whores; all they want is my fucking money. I mean do I look like I'm fucking rich or something? The great thing about the fucked-up addict street whore is that no one ever misses them. It was just a break for me, the USA, after that ex-fuck buddy girlfriend died. A short get away from it all and time to relax and think. I killed two whores in America, roadside, both of them strangled. They would bend over for me, back seat, never the front. There's so much more room in the back and quite out of sight. Always in some big mother fuck-off station wagon. Space is needed for the fucking of the prostitute in the way in which it deserves to be, and then of course for the hiding of the body afterwards. Always a hired car, just imagine now when the police trace all the previous hirers. Linking them all to the dead whore hairs found in a rental car. A car that they had hired, thousands of them, hilarious isn't it? What must their wives be thinking of them now? You get their arms up behind their back, push them up to the breaking point and then the handcuffs go on. Quite, quite easy really and very systematic. Then you wrap a chord to the throat, over the top of the plastic bag and tied down tight around the neck. Then you screw them whilst they throw, thrash about like. I called it the dying whore dance.

Poetic, watching them in their death throes, dying quite silently. Dying whilst you fuck them and always my favourite piece of music, 'Big Jesus,' playing on the in-car stereo. You gain a great sense of spirituality when you are killing them whilst listening to a good tune. I guess that's why horror movies have suspense music. It builds up the kill. If you time it correctly, fucking to the rhythm, you can cum at the most opportunistic moment. A crescendo of death, true performance, art at its very best.

But Eastern Europe, now that was wild. The prostitutes there just stand on the side of the road, like some kind of discounted Yank version. It's all wham bam you're dead ma'am, quick and cheap. I picked one up in Romania once, me and Sparky just driving along. Just moving on as usual doing the boring everyday jobs, all cash in hand. Then in the middle of nowhere, there she was, a working girl. Can you imagine being in Cornwall and just driving along the coastal road and there in a lay-by, in the middle of nowhere you find a whore. It's surreal really, Eastern Europe, not so many brothels, just roadside sex workers. All of them miles and miles from anywhere. She was nice, really quite cute, a Roma with dark skin just like that virgin Asian that I had wanted. They call them Gypsies here but that all seems a bit racist to me, I prefer Roma, you know, show some respect. I'm not a Nazi.

I stopped, picked her up and agreed in Pidgin English, the price. I don't actually know what the price was but like I said, I don't pay any more anyway so who cares. Who cares what they nod their heads side to side about? When I refuse to pay them they never ask again because when I do what I do, they can't run fast enough. Here's a top tip for you. If you want a whore to get out of your car fast and fuck the hell off, just show her some teeth. I've got a good collection of teeth and it's all my own work. I like keeping their teeth afterward. Hair, nipples and knickers too, it's good to keep nice trophies and I've quite a fine collection now. They, the experienced ones, the good ones that is, want the money first. Always cash up front. But once they're in the car, if you can persuade them, even if that means handing over the cash first, that's when they realise they're fucked. Excuse the pun here but I really do enjoy a good pun, a play on words. Nobody likes a psycho who takes his work far too seriously. Work should be fun and creative you see. I'd like playing games with them, games to see which ones I could get into the car without handing any cash over upfront first. I knew that any cash I had paid was soon enough going to be refunded to me but it still felt like somehow I was still paying them for it. Why do they trust the British so much? Is it the English accent I wonder? Does it imply some sort of trust or perhaps wealth? I can be very sincere when I want to be, a "Hi" with the smiles and all that shit. "Can we go for a drive somewhere so I can smash your fucking skull in?" doesn't seem to work quite as well as the polite methods. Anyway I digress; this one dark skinned Roma girl that day was gorgeous. Absolutely drop dead gorgeous, so much so that I wanted to keep her. One of those rare moments I suppose where I could have settled down for a while, locking her up inside some sort of dark dungeon type basement. Keeping her meat fresh for sex sessions later and after work. Hang her up by her arms and legs, all bound together at wrist and ankle and just hanging there like a sack. That helpless cunt and arse to feed upon whilst she hangs there by tethered wrist and ankle. Hanging up like a boxing ring punch bag. All helplessly swaying to and fro there in front of me day after day. Fucking and swinging her, fucking and swinging and so on. When I think about it now, maybe yes, maybe I should have kept her. I feel the need to masturbate. I'll be back soon...

That's better... now then, where were we? Oh yes, I didn't think she'd been working long, just an impression. She didn't look tired or used as the others and had all her own teeth. An interesting smile this one. She sucked my cock but was so very slow and gentle with me, a little nervous maybe. I'm used to just being pumped, they get it over with fast, that's how they like it, the old whores. The minimum effort required for maximum cash takings. But this one, so beautiful and just like any young girl back home and out for a drink in town. A beginner I thought to myself at the time. I could see that she'd spent ages getting ready, like she was going out on a date or something. That's why I think she was so new to the game. A game that now included a few new rules.

I had a system for the roadside Balkan whore. You could pretty well guarantee they were hot and thirsty standing at the roadside in the sun all day. So I would always have cigarettes, an unopened packet and a bottle of water with me. I would fill the water with sleeping pills. Three times the strength, not so much to knock them out or to risk killing them but a precise enough dose to render them quite useless. I know, can you believe it? You can actually buy them from any chemist over the counter in Eastern Europe these sleeping pills. You can get antibiotics too, as many as you want and whenever you want all over the counter. They must realise the harm these things can do if you overuse them, surely? Somebody really needs to regulate these antibiotics, as it's going to cause all sorts of problems in the long term.

I'm digressing again. I'm sorry, anyway. The unopened cigarette packet would always give them a sense of security, trust if you like. It's new so it can't have been tampered with or poisoned they'd assume. No nasty little drugs inside the tobacco. So they trust you and afterwards they don't question the bottled drinking water. I mean, why you would distrust someone who'd just given you a fag from a new unopened packet. Always the complete gentleman you see.

Sometimes they would try to run when they realised something was wrong. Run as they became a little queasy. But we are miles from anywhere "Where the fuck are you running to?" I would shout at them? And laugh! The more they tried to run, the faster their heart pumped and the faster the heart, the quicker the poison digested. I had to experiment with the dose in the beginning but I soon got the formula correct. The sleeping pills worked quicker when they ran and not so very difficult to catch afterward, these girls. Go on, run bitch. It'll save me some time and money.

I would just stand in front of them then, at the point at which they could no longer run or coordinate themselves properly. Always laughing and pushing them backwards. It was funny when they would be pushed backward, to fall over, slumped to the floor, and then they would try to stand up again. All just to fall over again and again. It's an amazing feeling when you are ripping a girl's clothing off her as she lays before you. Lies there semi-conscious but fully aware and completely helpless. Your huge erection standing proud before her in full sight, a viper about to strike and spit. You rub it against her face, a piece of plastic pipe helps, rammed into the mouth and slightly down the extended throat, so you can relieve yourself with accuracy as need be. I used to use old toilet rolls but soon realised they soaked the cardboard with saliva and it would easily crush. You have to be aware that they can bite sometimes, these girls.

I would always pretend I didn't understand their directions when picking them up. Pointing was the usual way for the foreign-speaking whore, her basic limited communication mode. They never speak English, well rarely. I'd just drive them to a different remote place whilst they look bemused, pointing at me to drive back to go elsewhere; I laughing and pretending that I would soon turn back around. A wrong turn but never mind, oops, a simple translation error never hurt anybody.

Are you seriously not going to laugh with me? Can't you get a good fucking joke anymore my dear reader? Oh, you have feelings don't you? Well that's your problem pal. I think I remember them, having feelings once but that is all long gone now. I am dead you see, there are no feelings inside me anymore. I've had my treatment, my aversion to feelings therapy and I'm so happy again these days. You see no one fucking hurts me anymore, I'm the boss now. No guilt, no sorrow and no regrets, just fucking dead inside. The whores don't have feelings anymore either; they're all fucking dead too. All dead save this particular one I'm telling you about now. The cute little Romanian one, the one I should have kept.

This one as I told you was nice, she was very nice, very cute, I liked her and I always had some respect for the newbie. I'm a paying customer and so they, the girls should make an effort just like any other service industry. This one had made a real effort, worked hard and so I let her go. See, I'm not such a bad guy after all am I? I drugged her and just played with her, enjoyed her for a while. As she slipped in and out of consciousness, I am slipping in and out of her arse. Ridding her bare back, tight and dry and quite simply wonderful. I took her up the arse many times, all in the middle of nowhere, her knickers rammed into her gob. Those knickers, very small and hardly worth wearing at all little knickers. But nonetheless wedged firmly inside her mouth and tied there. Tied with her stocking that was wrapped around and knotted at the back of her head. Her arms tied behind her back with the other stocking, purple they were, just her naked, with only her suspender belt slapping about. Her tits burning on the hot bonnet of the van from the heat of the day's rays. Just lovely slow peaceful anal fucking out in the country-side: perfect. It was a good day for whoring that day, birds singing and a small camp fire, some music and lots of unrushed, undisturbed time. Time to enjoy her at her best. A small picnic under the shade of the trees and her sizzling like bacon on that hot bonnet. I probably saved her life actually when I think about it now. This newbie was highly unlikely to ever trust a man again. She was not to trust a man to whore herself again within the very near future was she? I'm a community service provider, that's what I am, a re-educator to the fucked up. A re-educator of women. Consider me to be her saviour.

I felt like I was in the wilderness, lost and soulless for many months whilst I was on my travels. Sparky was always a good friend and good company, and he loved fresh whore meat too. I would always save him the skin. Women will always stop to talk to a man with a dog. A fucking dog, that's all you need. They are such idiots, women.

There was a park I found, I think it was in Serbia. I used to walk Sparky there whilst we worked and earned enough diesel funds to move on. The corruption here was great, no one heard or saw anything. A few dirty euros in a back-hander and me and Sparky could cross any former Commie Border, any border we wanted. Two ghosts in the night, traceless. I got to chat often with this homeless man in that park; he just slept and lived in this park. There was a fresh water fountain there and a toilet block. He was never far from the toilet block and always easily found. I thought he had some kind of stomach issue, poor diet, that kind of thing. We were friends for a while, friends as much as we could be given our language barrier and I never used a true identity. In fact now I think back to it, I can't remember them all, how many names I've actually used. How odd, I can remember every single bitch I've slain but for the life of me, not that list of names I've used. I must work on that problem I think, for later on. After all, using the same name twice by mistake could cause me all sorts of problems in the future.

I sat there one night; it was such a lovely moon, a warm evening with a small breeze and this beautiful park so quiet. "This is the life," I remember thinking. I bought him some beer, this guy, some cigarettes and even some bread and cheese. I was just enjoying his company that evening. I mean I love Sparky but he's not such a good conversationalist sometimes. Then he, this homeless guy, just stopped chatting random spirit induced shit, fixated on the toilets and started telling me this story.

For fuck's sake, I treat him so well and then he tells me he likes kids, he's there in the park by the toilets because he likes watching the kids, watching the fucking kids! He watches kids go in and out of the toilet and gets off on it. I enjoyed smashing him. My previous kills were always clean but not so swift, but beating him to death slowly was fun. I just calmly returned to my van, got my wheel brace out of the back. I crept up behind him and smashed him over the back of the head. Reminded me of killing the childhood ferret, afterwards, his shattered skull bone pieces all moving around inside. Now, my wheel brace stuck inside his skull; me having to hold his head down with my boot in order to pull it back out again.

We again moved swiftly on back across the border, Sparky and I. I never stayed around long enough to read the printed press but I hope it was good. Just another random thug murder of some pervert homeless guy in the park. I thought about going to Canada. I'd always wanted to go to Canada since I was young and had read a book at school about a town called Whitehorse. I look forward to going to Canada one day. I will, but for now I'm looking after Sparky and he doesn't deserve to be dumped again. We'll both stick around here for a while I decided, just me and Sparky for now. I did at times grow hungry and thirsty; nothing really turned me on anymore. Just watching people die can get a bit boring after a while. I mean, not even wearing their fucking knickers turned me on anymore. I would stick 'em on, the ones I kept from the dead whores but nothing, no fucking erections anymore. It's like someone had just turned off a switch inside me. Sex was so fucking boring these days and wanking a complete and absolute waste of my time.

But equally for the first time, no wanking meant no image of my mother flashing up before me as I came. She always appeared when I wanked, spoilt it all sometimes my mother. Yet another good wank ruined by her hauntings. Can you imagine wanking off to images of your own mother? It's not a pleasant sight.

I liked killing the whores because they were easy, just like the homeless guy. No one misses whores or the homeless. They just drop off the radar, don't they? Step off the planet. Just another Roma runaway and yet another missing homeless guy. I became a master at hiding the bodies. I made it into a real art form, a finely tuned craft, the disposing of the corpse afterwards. Watching far too much TV I guess. It's amazing what you can learn from the television.

Burning was always my favourite. In these places you just camped roadside. It's quite normal and you can burn anything you want, everybody has roadside fires over here in cheap slut land. I shared a few beers with two Norwegian guys once, sitting next to my big bonfire they'd seen as they'd driven passed. Seen the fire and returned to share a beer with me, all three of us laughing and joking together. How kind of them to share a beer with me whilst the latest fucking whore was inside it. In the fire in front of us and they knew nothing of it. That was too risky; it was a bit silly of me really in hindsight.

I would usually cut them up, the bodies: heads, arms, and legs and burn them piece by piece. Smashing the bones into dust with a rock and scattering what I couldn't burn afterward. I had an old metal oil drum that proved really useful. I'd fill it six inches with petrol and away the bits went. Just pile the wood on top and by morning there was only really the thigh bones and parts of the skull left. I never worked out why those bits took so long to burn. Why is that? I would always wash the barrel out in a river afterward; sink any rocks I had used for crumbling the bones, that kind of thing. All washed away and gone forever without trace. This dust of the dead whores, Amen.

I fed only on whores for what felt like years, enjoying sex whilst I was killing them at the same time. In fact it was just three years, I'm sure it was only three. I must have been to every country there was to go to locally and by now I needed something more. Fed up of the loneliness I was, no mates for more than a handful of days at a time. I needed more than just fuck and kill. I needed a base, somewhere to settle for a while, something new to do.

The day came when old Sparky eventually and sadly died of old age, peacefully in the back of the van. He just coughed one night and

went to sleep. It was a very dignified passing for the old fella. I buried all my trophies alongside Sparky in a beautiful waterside spot, and now onward to Canada, that's where I would go, I told myself.

I travelled up north toward Bulgaria with the intention of selling the van, raising the air fare and up, up and away I would go. Bulgaria was known to me as the sex-trafficking capital of the EU and for this very reason I had always stayed well away from it. Too much attention paid to missing girls in Bulgaria and with a track record like mine it would be far too risky. But I wanted to fly from there, Sofia, then onward to Canada via Frankfurt. I was never coming back again and all the sex-trafficking stuff had just got me curious. Sounded like it rocked to me, a place to find a really good party. A good night-scene going on.

I took this job in a Peep Show Bar. Some real fucking weirdos would hang out there, believe me. But it was work for the time being. Work where I could just blend in and it was work within a very secret seedy business. This was needed for a while, to be where nobody saw or heard anything. There at the Peep Show and as if in some bizarre twist of fate I met this guy. A Russian man and built like a brick fucking shit house, every stereotype you can imagine was all so true. Fuckin' massive guy he was, but a nice guy and a new best friend.

He had this fantastic job. He bought and sold Bulgarian girls and shipped them off to the UK. Did I just get aroused, I thought, when we spoke of this for the first time? I was trusted at the peep show, my turn a blind eye to anything and everything had got people talking and they wanted to involve me in this business venture of theirs. I'd seen some weird shit take place in that bar and had never spoken a word about it.

No, it wasn't for fucking sex their interest in me but as a contact, they needed a reliable contact. They needed someone back in the UK and someone who could get the new girls distributed unnoticed. They would place ads for nannies and au pairs and shit on the internet and then ship them off, never to be seen again. A very clean operation, simplistic idea but very impressive. Could I actually turn fucking and torture into a viable income? Make money out of torture or was it just far too dangerous? Dangerous that is, me being involved with others. My code of deserving victims only, the code I had thus far stuck to. Whores yes, but these Bulgarian innocents; they kidnapped everyday girls. Just girls looking for a new start, a new job and seeking for themselves a future in life. Well, those ex-fucking bitches that destroyed my life were just girls once too, weren't they? Look what they had grown up to become? Bitches, fucking bitches and fucking whores all of them so maybe some proactive street cleansing would be fun for a while.

Notes 5 - Dr Cerys Davies

Is the narrator continuing the travelling which began following the brutal assault of his ex-girlfriend in the UK, the subsequent non-premeditated murder of a later sexual partner, her country of origin unknown? On his journey he observes a great deal of animal cruelty, and in particular the abandoned dogs of Eastern Europe. At this stage it appears that he has been travelling for several years after the first murder. Although he does not give details, it seems plausible that he has committed violent sexual attacks or violent acts beyond the borders of Romania. 'Feeding the hunger and the thirst' refers to feeding his sexual needs, and his need for use of extreme violence, which he must have indulged throughout his time in Eastern Europe. The game of cat-and-mouse he is playing with us continues. He wants us to fit together the pieces of the puzzle, to discover his victims for ourselves. Still he holds all the cards, because he gives no clues as to the whereabouts of the bodies, so the victims remain his property.

He has a dog called Sparky, a travelling companion with whom he has developed a loving, caring relationship. He is travelling around, and sleeping in, a diesel-fuelled van. There is no reference to his old caravan. We know this van is not vertically fronted and that it has a bonnet, a hood sloped above the engine. He describes the vehicle in detail after his description of the violent rape of the Roma girl, who he claims he later released. He carries in the van an old oil drum, in which he burns the bodies of each of his victims. I find it implausible that he would dismember his victims' bodies on the roadside, so he may have butchered them inside the van before placing the remains inside the barrel and adding fuel and wood before burning the contents outdoors. The logs he carries in the van, a mixture of soft and hard wood, together with the fuel, will ensure fast initial ignition and then the slower burning hard wood for continuation overnight, ensuring that everything is reduced to ash or at least to a state not immediately identifiable as human remains.

America is referred to, presumably the United States, given the description of the hired motor vehicles, which he calls station wagons and not estate cars, as we would refer to them in the UK. He confesses to killing two American prostitutes while be seems to be on a brief sojourn to the USA. The narrative suggests this holiday may have lasted between two and six weeks. He has changed his system of disposal here, is now hiding the bodies of his victims. He is aware that the discovery of his victims' bodies will link him directly back to other crimes. This suggests that his blood or a relevant DNA sample will still be present on one, or more than one previous victim. After this brief trip he returns to Eastern Europe.

The killings are sexually motivated and are becoming increasingly cruel and, unlike his first unpremeditated murder, involve torture. His taste for sexually violent murder becomes more intense the longer he remains free. Whilst killing his victims he listens to his favourite piece of music, Big Jesus. This is the name of a song by a British songwriter called Jonathan Taylor. I cannot find any other music that bears even remotely a similar title. He keeps trophies from some of his victims: teeth, hair, nipples and underwear.

He talks about his English (rather than the more generic British) accent, confirming that he is not Welsh, Irish or Scottish. He uses sleeping pills to subdue his victims. Although he is planning how best to abduct new victims, we see that they are, with the exception of one male, all female and random. The killings are, by and large, opportunistic – he plans to murder, but only if the correct circumstances present themselves. Using the van allows him to travel freely, and to pick up roadside prostitutes. He is not planning to abduct specific people, and he has no rules anymore; his only requirement is that the victims be female. He finally confirms himself as a serial killer, who has let only one survive. Is this because this dark skinned Roma girl reminds him of the respect he has for, and his fantasy of, a virgin Muslim Asian (as he refers to in chapter one). Is this surviving girl a Romanian of Indian descent? Whoever she may be, she will be our first living, credible witness. The attack on this naïve young prostitute is so violent and sustained, that she must have informed the family and the family reported the incident to the police.

He writes about frightening the prostitute from the car by showing her some teeth, a twisted game in which the drugged, barely coordinated girl, upon seeing his trophy, is so scared she stumbles from the vehicle. Instead of paying for prostitutes he murders them (this single girl being the sole exception). He has moved from consensual sexual hedonism and group sex, to abducting sex workers. In reference to the two American victims of chapter five, we also now hear a reference to corruption, of former Communist regimes, the commies. The use of this expression suggests the period when the winds of change for democracy first commenced with the fall of the Berlin Wall. This suggests he was travelling the Eastern European block of former Communist countries, around or after 1989.

His mother appears again within this chapter as a sexual object, not a woman that he appears to be happy with but very much there in his repressed sexual fantasy nonetheless. Given the family history, the stories of the father and this same father's reference to adult parties or swinging, has the author as a child been forced to watch his mother and father in intimate sexual activity together?

There is a gap in the narrative before he travels north toward Bulgaria. During this unaccounted for period of time he may have been in Greece or Turkey, having first travelled south from Romania. If he had never been to Bulgaria beforehand, as he says in the text, this journey could not have involved a direct route. This would have been impossible by road because Bulgaria's East Coast is sea locked, which means he would have needed to travel from Romania to Greece, and quite possibly through Serbia first. The brutal murder of the alleged paedophile in the park places him in Serbia and appears to be his final victim before leaving the former Soviet satellite state.

This man was killed because Gabriel 13 believed him to be sexually interested in children. We do not know entirely what was said during his conversation with the man, but whatever – (something perhaps that, reminded him of his own abuse as a child?) – it resulted in a brutal killing. This is his first male victim not killed for any sexual reason or impulse. We can be certain that our killer is not harming children, a sense that, in his twisted reality he is somehow protecting them from harm. There must be records of the murder of a suspected paedophile, or of a homeless man who had previously been in prison. If indeed the killing happened in Serbia, what happened between Serbia and the time he entered Bulgaria?

More disturbingly, we next hear that he has marked an "innocent everyday girl" as his next victim. We are taken back to chapter one, in which he tries to define the rules he will use to control his psychosis; so that he does make his go ahead with his rape fantasies reality. But now the mere fact that someone is female is enough of a reason for him to justify her murder. These new girls are nannies and au pairs (they would place ads for nannies and au pairs on the internet) abducted into the sex trafficking industry. To him, all women are like his ex-partners and he truly believes that by killing them he is performing some kind of civil duty. He not only enjoys sexual torture and murder, he wants to now turn it into a business from which he can profit financially.

Summary

Member of inner city sex clubs, France, The Netherlands or other countries near the UK. Now travelling in low level, bonnet fronted van, diesel fuelled. Travelling alone with mongrel dog. Route taken from Romania, via Serbia to Greece. Travelled from Greece or Turkey into Bulgaria. First time in Bulgaria. Worked in a brothel, strip bar, sex club or similar in a Bulgarian city.

Confessions within text: two American (USA) prostitutes, suffocated and throttled with clear plastic bag. One male paedophile, Serbia, beaten to death with metal bar. Countless references to an unknown prolific number of other murders, all prostitutes. One Romanian Roma prostitute survives but is brutalised sexually.

Bare-back: UK Slang. Sexual intercourse without the use of a condom or other form of sheath.

Roma: Roma are a widely dispersed Indo-Aryan ethnic group.

Sex Trafficking: Sex trafficking has two parts. Sex trafficking is human trafficking, purpose of commercial sexual exploitation. Human trafficking is when people are transported between countries, by force or deception to then become enslaved.

Swinging: Free and uninhibited sexual behaviour, including the voluntary exchange of spouses for sex with others.

PART ONE

Chapter Six

The Best Days of My Life

So I'm now back to the UK \- Oh don't waste my time or yours by fucking jerking yourself off just yet pig. If you are reading this I've long gone now, pig or dear reader, who cares what you are. This is all about operation sex trader not you; sounds pretty cool doesn't it wanker? The place, the time and date all fixed up for me, a Range Rover from the airport (Manchester) and us two now heading south. This old country house, isolated, and the welcome home guided tour. Fucking hell on earth mate, the guided tour, this was heaven. I'd never seen such a collection of exotic beauties. Bulgaria had its babes but this bunch were perfect, ripe and hand-picked because of the photos they had sent when they, the girls, had applied for the jobs on the internet. I could have any one of them I liked, a perk of the job so to speak. My first handgun too, yes a gun again, the first since that wanker brother fucked it all up for me. Oh, such power, the control I would have over them, the nannies and the au pairs. I could live with this and had no qualms with myself afterward.

I had to complete this rite of passage of course but it was not a complicated task. They needed to trust me and I had to blood my own hands, just like the old days of the fox hunt. Painting yourself in the blood of your first fox kill. Face it, I couldn't leave, I couldn't back out now. At this point I was already here, in far too deep. If you could have seen them all as I did, these Bulgarian girls. Why would I want to back out? A simple decision really, so it's me or her? Decisions, decisions, decisions. She wasn't anything special this one, the one they took me to, tired and haggard looking, all used up she was, spent up with all her good looks long gone. There was some kind of drug they would pump into them to keep them quiet. We took it in turns to fuck her and then came the kill. I mean it was a shame to kill her so quickly but money's money they said, and this one was facing retirement anyway. Sores all around her face, quite ugly to look at so fucked from the rear. I tried to imagine her without the sores but just couldn't get passed them. Nobody was going to pay to use this one again and as money's money you can't keep them for nothing can you? This was a business and not a save-the-whore charity weekend.

Fuck me, I could rape, I could torture and I could kill amongst friends. There were people like me out there, just like me and I had found all just by chance, some real friends again; ones that I could relate to. The first friends I'd had in many, so many, many years. I hadn't ever recontacted my family and this could be a family for me again, once more, I mean they were all really nice guys. We would joke about and have a laugh, play cards or watch the football match on telly and drink together, just like normal brothers do. It was the most normal I had felt in my life and in Manchester these really were the best days of my life. I had landed on my feet. I mean if Sparky hadn't gone to sleep, well I wouldn't have tried to go to Canada and I would never have then arrived in Bulgaria. It's so strange how these things happen. Almost like God is watching over me, caring for me, guiding me with His grace and keeping me safe.

Killing her was fun. I enjoyed it. She begged and begged and she begged. This was the first kill of mine that actually knew what was coming, a certain unavoidable death. They all knew they were going to die before, yes of course they did, you can hardly strangle or suffocate someone out of surprise, but they all had hope before; they would know death was only certain during the last few moments. There is a moment you see, that last breath when they just give in to death peacefully and acceptingly, but this one knew everything. She'd known that her life was over for days beforehand. Fucking little whore would say "Please don't kill me, please don't, please." Go on then, beg away bitch, my laughter back at her so comical, I made a real meal out of her. I wanted my new friends, the family as we were all called by now and God too, to be pleased with me.

I remembered that old rape video, the one I fucking told you about before; the bag over her head, suffocation and then just enough air, only just enough, the cum being sucked in like the decompressing aeroplane. But rewind that tape and play it backwards. Imagine slowly restricting the air from the start, what a moment of genius. I put the old favourite clear plastic bag over her head. She was a noisy bitch but that was good, they said it keeps the other girls in control; the noise of other girls being killed calms the others. Forty six minutes she cried for, screamed, begged and thrashed about, like some spoilt out of control brat and me slowly tightening the chord around her neck. She even offered to have sex with me on tap whenever I wanted it but only if I would spare her life, my own private slave but why? We'd all just fucked her anyway. We didn't need to ask her fucking permission first. Imagine reducing yourself voluntarily into prostitution like she'd offered me. That's so fucked up you see, the innocent young girl whoever she is, will always turn herself into a whore to get what she wants, whenever it suits her best. Manipulators, all of them.

They had a cleaner, some connections, they'd arrive to take the trash out and she'd be gone, no more questions asked. Such a new and exciting career break for me and I didn't even have to do the tidying up afterward. I was now blooded and trusted and I became a full brother. The job was easy. I met the girls at the airport, did the terribly posh British welcome to Britain diatribe shit and drove them all, the new arrivals back to the house. That was it and a very good salary on top. They never suspected a thing, the new arrivals, and all of them so absolutely fucking gorgeous. The supplier really did have an eye for fine detail, a master of his own profession just like me.

I didn't live at the house. I used to just hang about there. I enjoyed it just slumming around that house. The countryside and seeing such lush green trees and grass again, and the screams and the distress of the girls were the first thing that had actually gotten me properly hard in months, other than killing that is. I was always stiff then, looking into their eyes through the polythene bag. I would just take anything I wanted. I fucked every single girl that arrived at that house. I had lost all my previous kill trophies as I couldn't fly with them, buried them with Sparky so now I just collected conquests. Do you get it yet? I can't help but wonder, they trust me you see, think I'm the man giving them the new job they've always dreamt about, the nanny in that posh fucking mansion and now I'm raping them instead, every single one of them. That is nectar indeed - rape, honey as sweet as pornography. The girls would come and go; I never asked questions so it was always essential to get a good quick fuck in with the new ones. At this point they were clean, healthy and happy; all dressed up to their best to impress the new boss at the airport. They knew how to dress these Bulgarians, nothing was too revealing for them girls, just like they'd arrived here expecting to be fucked. As if that was somehow taken for granted and expected of them. I would often think about how they would get off the plane and go straight into the toilets, do the fresh make-up thing and cover themselves with scent. It was all just for me; girls, girls, girls and girls, a conveyor belt of fresh lipstick. A meat processing plant.

Some would just let you fuck them. Others would be a little more nervous and scared but wouldn't really try to resist much. But then, just on occasions, the fighters would arrive. I liked the fighters; they were so much more fun. These ones were usually quite bright and stood out from the others. They figured out where they were and what had happened to them, pretty fast. These were the real challenges, the fighters, the scratchers and the biters. We had a game we played with them in which we would let them run off into the house. They didn't know that all the doors and windows were sealed, and then we'd go off and hunt for them. "Here pussy, pussy, pussy," we would whisper as we crept around looking for them. Hours would pass by; we always knew where they had hidden but just pretended not to know, much more fun that way and added a bit of psychological torture to the game. We would always aim to have them caught at least twice daily, one of us holding it down, the other fucking it, and two or three days of hunting broke even the strongest of wills.

Eight girls at a time was the norm for the pen. They arrived, we broke them in and then they were supplied. The only time a girl would return to the house, to the pen, was for retirement. Usually one a week and I could make retirement last for days. They would become so thirsty they would swallow it, my spunk, just for liquid. I was always running on empty these days as I was a good employee and such a systematic hard worker. I would collect it back from the girls afterward, dripping out from inside them all this stale spunk, so why waste it? I'd mix it all up in a glass, add some shit to taste, top up with water and feed it back to them. They would be so thirsty they would actually drink it all. Very few vomited afterward. We called it the dole office, the retirement room that is, we just cashed them in. Strangely they, the retirees, were always new to me. All had one thing in common with each other though, other than dying of course, they were all sad fucked-up addicts; whores who had lost that smile, lost that will to live and the fight within them to keep alive. All broken up, sad and pathetic.

I used to dress them up sometimes, try to bring a smile to the face, make them look a bit sexier with some new clothes as a treat that we just took from the other girls' luggage. All the pen girls were chained to the steel beds whilst awaiting supply. Funny how they would still ask you not to touch or take their stuff, strange that one; valuing an item of cheap Chinese clothing more than they valued their own cunts.

The dole office was lined with plastic, wall and floor to ceiling and after a retirement the cleaners would come in. I made some improvements. The rack was a favourite, I mean it was such a waste to dispose of these beautiful cunts without some kind of farewell ceremony, some passing party for a bon voyage. I liked using the gun inside them, cold and hard, and this terrified them. They just gave in and wanted an end but I would torment them for days. Wiping tears from their petrified faces with the cold steel barrel. It was a handgun and quite heavy. I never knew the exact make as it had been filed away but they, the girls, got to know it very personally. Shooting? No, I didn't shoot anyone, don't be so fucking stupid, that's far too messy, too much evidence and blood splatter and that means DNA. I'm trying to say, trying to explain to you, how they all got intimate, up close and personal with it. Down the throat or up the arse, wedge up in the cunt, twisting it and turning it, them, all believing they were going to die by being shot up inside that cunt. Trembling was always a fascination of mine you see, why did they value their cunts so much? I would wank into their mouths and they would be gagging back on me, they would beg me to stop, to help them to escape but the more begging I heard, the more exciting the retirement would become. I just so adored suffocating them, fucking them whilst they were suffocating, letting them have some air toward the end, and then just repeatedly suffocating them slowly again until they eventually just gave in to death and died. Perfection at its best, the art form of suffocating the whore.

And then one day the fucking launch came, this fucking secret signal the brotherhood had, some fucking wanker somewhere had fucked it all up and ruined every fucking thing for all of us. It wouldn't be a girl, the Russian had told me months beforehand, at the beginning of all this, the girls never talk because they all have families. No, some fucking pig sniffing about somewhere or some fucking loud mouth back in Bulgaria.

'Launch' was the code. I was just sitting down at home watching TV and that fuckin' launch signal just arrived. A simple one word code sent to me and received on a pay as you go unregistered mobile phone; a clean phone that had never been used. A phone only for use in case of the code. Launch meant scatter. If we ever received the launch code, the game was up, we were to destroy any evidence and flee. We had all been given a false passport, an envelope containing 2,000 euros and an untraceable mobile phone. Launch fucking launch, you bastards, smiling now pig aren't you? I know you're a pig because you stink from here. Somewhere one of you bastards had ruined everything for me, my friends and my family all taken from me and never to be seen again. You're fucking bastards all of you. I can show you how to play sick fucking mind games; I'm going to enjoy this.

I didn't return to the pen after that. The instructions were very clear; flee immediately. The cleaners would deal with all that shit and stuff we had left back at the pen, a fire it would be. I took the first Eurolines coach that arrived that day, just 40 minutes waiting and I was soon off to sunny Spain. That phone dumped in the river en route to the coach station within seconds of receiving the launch. Of course I was fucking scared. I didn't know who knew what about me. Was I being followed, was I traced? At any second some stinking fucking prick was gonna put me in cuffs and the game was all over. That thought pissed me off so much. I had too much left undone. There were things I still needed to do, but nothing happened, just an eventless pleasant trip south. A new ID, a new name, 2,000 euros in my pocket and once again I was on the move and completely untraceable. The Russian had always promised me these things and he was my brother. I trusted him and he proved that trust. A real gentleman despite his size.

I will not go to the fucking chair or some poxy fucking gas chamber. Those American whores were always a concern to me. I'd dumped them roadside and left my DNA and stuff behind. I didn't know what they had on me, the Yanks, what samples had been collected from the scene. I knew I was not known to the DNA database as yet but just one fucking smear and I was going to be executed. Those two fucking dumped bitches, the only two I just dumped without hiding. Have you seen how they treat us in those American prisons? Fucking Yanks have no respect for us British. They won't make me share a cell with some fucked-up fucking paedophile! That thought makes you smile, doesn't it? Fuckin' hilarious, for I am Jack and you cannot catch me. You will never catch me because you're wankers, all fucking wankers.

Spain was peaceful. The usual temp and cash job in a bar on the coast, but those British ex-fuckin' pats, how they behave abroad? No respect for themselves and they're all embarrassing themselves. Oh they'd come on to me too, always pissed and up for it, a shag, every night but I would just think, have you any fucking idea what you want to take home with you tonight slut? I'm happy to assist you love, how would you like to fuckin' die? But no I had control again now and I was lying low for a while, I didn't need some pisshead Brit blowing it all for me. So no killing for now and no unnecessary risky care-free games. So no, no sex at all and just biding my time and staying low. I mean sex was boring anyway. What was the point without the torment or the fear, without psychological torture of your meat feast? It's just fucking plain old boring sex. You can get that kind of thing anywhere.

I started reading. I started looking for answers and for a purpose to it all, a purpose to my life. I started to look deep inside me, into the darkness of my soul. Could I be cured or could I ever love and more importantly could I get away with all this killing? Spain was warm and sunny, could I really just start again and live out my days here in peace. Those fuckin' annoying Brits had to be dispatched at some point, as a matter of urgency in-fact, but that was a project for much later on. God was good to me and he did care for me. He was there for me when I needed him and God wanted me to sleep. So I slept. The killer, the slaughterer of women, was now in a deep hibernation, sleeping in sunny Spain. I knew he had a plan for me; I would just read, sleep and await his instruction.

Notes 6 - Dr Cerys Davies

This chapter, in my view is most chilling of all. It sets out in significant detail the crimes he committed whilst working with a group of sex traffickers. The identity of the Russian is never revealed but we are aware that our killer is now back in the United Kingdom at this point of his killing cycle. We know that he is no longer adhering to any of the rules he set himself in the first chapter when it comes to targeting potential victims. We know now that all women are, in his deluded mind, potential victims. He denied previously that he is a rapist, how he could never rape an innocent girl who is just walking down the street. But in this chapter he admits to multiple orgies of sexual violence against young girls who he knows wished to be nannies and au pairs, everyday girls seeking to improve their lives with a new career; all potential victims. He has turned his lust for killing into a money-making industry. He views his time in Manchester as little more than a job. He acknowledges that his victims are innocent to begin with but if they are allowed to grow older they will become sullied. He argues that this is reason enough for a pro-active approach to what he calls street cleansing.

We know he is now in Manchester and that he has travelled by air to the UK from Bulgaria. We know that the vehicle used is a Range Rover, a vehicle that will be readily identifiable from airport CCTV archives if they have been retained. His arrogance and disdain for the police investigation and for anyone reading the memoirs comes clearly through the text. He knows we can identify him within the time frame of his childhood, but he cannot help but provide even more clues as the narrative continues. I have to believe that the events described within these memoirs are one of pure sickened fantasy but also of factual reality, a work born of a twisted warped mind. In 'The best days of my life' he describes coldly how much he loves sadistically slaughtering women. If he admires serial killers from the past, he makes only one reference – unsurprisingly, Jack the Ripper the historical prostitute murderer of Whitechapel, London. Does he liken himself to Jack, both in terms of his modus operandi, and the belief that he will not be caught?

Murder is now a viable financial business for him and in this context he is involved for the first time with others, a new family, and a brotherhood in whom he trusts. He was chosen for the role because he is British, with an authentic English accent. In this chapter he confesses to the blooding and murder of a Bulgarian girl, and hints he has killed many more girls besides. In Manchester, eight girls were held in a so-called pen, and were brutally and repeatedly raped - "a perk of his job", as he puts it. Additionally we know that he kills at least one girl a week.

Of the two Americans victims; we know they were not buried or burnt, but that he dumped the bodies somewhere where they are likely to be discovered in time. He is now concerned that he has left DNA evidence on the bodies, which seems contradictory, since he seems already clear that he wants to be found. However, it could be that he started creating the memoirs because he realises he cannot ultimately hide his identity. Therefore whatever he confesses will make no difference to the outcome. He knows that the death sentence faces him when he is finally identified, captured and deported back to the United States to stand trial. Although he murdered many prostitutes in America, and used the station wagon when disposing of the bodies, I have to wonder why he chose to dump the bodies of these two victims and not the others.

The religious mania appears also, and he firmly believes that his murder spree is a mission from God. He believes that God has protected him thus far, and he even stops killing for a period of time to await God's instructions. He hibernates in a British expatriate community in Spain. His illness is evidently developing into extreme paranoid schizophrenia - religious mania of the sort he describes is well documented in the annals of clinical insanity.

Summary

British male travelling with false identification. Travelled by air to the UK from Bulgaria. Living in the Manchester area. Sold or disposed of a diesel van in Bulgaria before taking his flight. Friend to a large, stocky and muscular Russian man. Regularly seen driving a Range Rover to and from Manchester airport. Possibly a known schizophrenic with God delusions.

Confessions within text: Murder of one Bulgarian female, suffocated. Countless references to a prolific number (not specified) of other murders, all young Bulgarian females. Countless references to an unknown and prolific number of sexual attacks, all young Bulgarian females.

Delusion: A fixed false belief that is resistant to reason or conformation of actual fact.

Paranoid: Mental disorder progressing to disturbances of consciousness. Aggression believed to be performed in self-defence or as a mission.

Schizophrenic: Dementia praecox, a severe mental disorder characterized by emotional blunting, intellectual deterioration, social isolation, un-coordinated speech and behaviour. A condition often accompanied by delusions and hallucinations.

PART ONE

Chapter 7

I Am Jesus, the Resurrection, and the Light

Where the fuck does that keep coming from? That shouting in my head I ask myself. I want to sleep. God promised me I would sleep, so why, why would He now torment me, why would He anger me. If I am here to serve you Lord why won't you let me sleep? No, it wasn't God fucking with my head, it was somebody else. They are waiting till I fall sleep and then shout at me, tormenting me. One of those fucking pigs from back in England who has now found me, shouting at me and then hiding. If I wake up and catch you doing this to me bastard, I'm out of my hibernation for sure. I'll fucking cut your throat pig and you will squeal like a pig. My piss, it always stings these days, stings so much in fact it's like pissing fucking nails. If ever there was a punishment for doing your fucking job for you pigs, this is indeed the ultimate fucking punishment. I'm paying, paying with the shame of catching something nasty from a whore. Oh believe me, I'm paying for it in piss pain now. So why don't you all just fuck off and leave me alone and let me sleep, I just need to sleep.

The churches here are beautiful, I sit all day in church sometimes, just waiting for you, and you will talk with me soon Lord, this I know. I have read so many books now; those expats have a great library, everything on anything. They've got loads of books. One of them left a newspaper on the bar the other day. The usual gutter press for thick bastards, but there was this feature about a guy, he had killed his wife. He hadn't fucked her or anything like that first; he had just strangled her, a tie around her neck in the bedroom. I mean, what kind of husband is he, just to strangle his wife for no good reason. It said she'd been having an affair. Well of course she would. If he's not having her she's gonna go somewhere else for it isn't she? Good for her, that's what I say. He's a nutter, clearly a lunatic this guy. I think people like that should be killed. Hang 'em and drop 'em through a hole five feet and watch them wriggle, job done. Why should I have to pay taxes for him to live out his days in some cushy UK prison, playing cards and watching telly, being fed on the law-abiding tax payers' expenses and he's probably eating better than me just now? No go ahead, hang 'em. Job done.

I read Mein Kampf. Someone had put a copy in the library. Sick shit from beginning to end, just utter crap. Can you believe this guy, a total nutter yet again, allowed to write a book whilst he was in prison? Do people really still subscribe to all that Hitler filth these days? Who would buy such a book? Who would want to read it anyway? Me, yes of course I read it but I am here to learn. That is the command and to await the message, to hibernate as God wishes. One of those pats is a Nazi, I'm sure of it. I hate fucking Nazis so much. Just because someone is different from you, you wanna kill them? I'll fucking kill all of you Nazi fuckin' scum bags, all of you. I wrote a new poem. I like poems.

Rose as red as you are, the BILE fastened in the back of the car,

Bare me your soul, born to me is the BILE, Mum's new fowl.

For I am the bee; that of the BILE and mother will you feed me?

For she brings me the gift, The BILE into the oven, I lift.

The love of our Lord, Our creator, and that of the BILE incinerator. The creator of roses, who to me that BILE delivered, just as Moses; And all that is life itself, this new-born

BILE, our greatest wealth.

For all living things I will meet, and the BILE;

the Baby I'd Like to Eat.

It's just a start but I think it's pretty cool. I like poems and I like roses and I love BILE too; the taste is sensational. I think about when I was at school, how I would ask the dinner ladies to save me the skin. In those days it was custard. I hate fuckin' Nazis. I always wanted to kill a Nazi. I pray sometime that God will allow me to kill again before His word comes to me and that I can get that fuckin' Nazi pat. I think I know which one it is. Always making jokes about the Jews; big noses, hiding all the gold, how they are controlling and taking over the world. All just crap, piles of it, heaps of crap but get this one, the Jews blew up the Twin Towers in New York as a conspiracy alongside the Jewish CIA to get all the Arabs killed. Also no Jews died in the towers that day he says, because they all took the day off work. What an absolute wanker, he really subscribes to all that Nazi shit.

I like Jews and I want to be a Jew. They have the true word, received the true word long before all the Muslims and the Christians interfered and started rewriting everything. It must be correct because they have the oldest book, the Torah, the first book of truth. You should read the Torah. God killed everybody but He has now chosen me as a new modern updated messenger of truth.

Do you know what a serial killer is? I do. I was reading about them and they are really quite interesting. Not like me at all though because they just kill people for no reason. The serial killer has to have killed more than three victims at different times and places, like a serial on the telly, like Corrie or 'Enders and stuff. One follows on after the other, innocent people in a chain of events. Everyday ordinary people they kill, just normal people, just strangers they kill for fun. These people enjoy it, killing and cruelty but I think I'm a psychopath too. I think so. I have so many scraps of paper ranting and ranting because of the voices, they make me write. I tire of writing it all down sometimes. The paper is everywhere now, a colourful tapestry, a patchwork quilt of my killing, my very own personal diary of death. I could create a masterpiece I think, of God's word and His will, a message that would cleanse the world of all evil. Skin I think. I would use skin, flesh and meat. I would tattoo God's word on the back of every sinner I came across, carve the skin from them whilst they atone to me for their disgusting lives and for displeasing my Lord, my Lord and my true saviour. A whore perhaps from every country of the world, just imagine it now, I wonder how long this would take me to create? A new inquisition, a code of moral behaviour and a code of lawful conduct. A new world shaped with firm rules of God's word. Gods' new world just how He intended it to be in the beginning, before that whore took the apple.

I am Jesus, the resurrection, the light. In me is truth. Follow my truth, atone. There are commandments, commands and you have no say. God commands and we must obey. Don't pick and choose what suits you, adulterers, whores, thieves and you liars, for they are the words.

And God spoke all these words, saying: I am the Lord your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of bondage. You shall have no other gods before me.

You shall not make for yourself any carved image, or any likeness of anything that is in heaven above, or that is in the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth; you shall not bow down to them nor serve them. For I, the Lord your God, am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers on the children to the third and fourth generations of those who hate me, but showing mercy to thousands, to those who love me and keep my commandments. You shall not take the name of the Lord your God in vain, for the Lord will not hold him guiltless who takes His name in vain.

Remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy. Six days you shall labour and do all your work, but the seventh day is the Sabbath of the Lord your God. In it you shall do no work: you, nor your son, nor your daughter, nor your manservant, nor your maidservant, nor your cattle, nor your stranger who is within your gates. For in six days the Lord made the heavens and the earth, the sea, and all that is in them, and rested the seventh day. Therefore the Lord blessed the Sabbath day and hallowed it.

Honour your father and your mother, that your days may be long upon the land which the Lord your God is giving you.

You shall not murder. You shall not commit adultery. You shall not steal. You shall not bear false witness against your neighbour.

You shall not covet your neighbour's house; you shall not covet your neighbour's wife, nor his manservant, nor his maidservant, nor his ox, nor his donkey, nor anything that is your neighbour's.

To do God's will, to be his Archangel, Gabriel, his messenger and a messiah of truth and wisdom, the enforcer of Gods laws, the establisher of rules and a new inquisition. I have spent so many months waiting on you Father and now you command me, and now I finally understand you. I have denied myself self-pleasure, I have denied myself sex, I have denied myself the lust of killing and I have denied myself the pleasure of their torture. Is this what you want of me Lord? You want me to be pure, to be so pure again don't you? I have lived with so much pain my Lord. My penis is rotting. It is festering and dripping those skin sores full of pus. I thought this was my divine punishment, oh Lord, and now you command me to do this? To create your greatest work for you, to create a masterpiece of the human flesh, a masterpiece that will change the world we live in. I am to create a new world for you, is this correct Lord? I am to catalogue the new world, restore the truth of the original pure text, the purity of the Ten Commandments. I am to deliver your message to the sinners and I am to be born pure again. Killing is not for pleasure, I realise this now my Lord. Killing has a necessary purpose and there must be rules, and these shall be the rules my Lord.

I will start here in Spain. So much time now spent waiting around and now I know what He wants of me, for I am his servant. I will take ten from every country of the whole wide fucking world, the word of the commandments ripped away from their putrid flesh.

I met a girl here, a Spanish woman. She spoke good English and I enjoyed her company. She was a single parent and seemed to be very happy. She ran her mother's business for her. Her mother was always away you see. Who cares where it fucking was, it's was a pad and it was safety for me. I liked her, the Spanish woman. I would never love her, I know that, but I liked her a lot. She could make me laugh again. The kid; it was like having children again - the beach, making sand castles and going swimming with him. Yeah, it was good in Spain and she had been good to me. She cared for me and treated me as I was making the final plans.

My whole body itched from inside-out, I couldn't stop it or control it. A million fleas eating away at you, eating your bones. My skin red, welts and rashes, and this was God cleansing me, removing the toxins of filth from my soul. Oh, how I would go on to please God for I am blessed now.

When I became cleansed I slept with her for the first time. We had never been lovers previously until this point, just soulmates we were and real friends, but now for the first time in my life I had made love. No, it was not just fucking but really making love. This was my gift from God you see, to feel pleasure again and to feel her pleasure, to feel real emotion when intimate with her. She would be the only one who would ever give me emotional pleasure and this was a true sign, a gift, and a part of what awaited me later within my Lord's Kingdom. After everything I had done, He was allowing me this one opportunity to make love with his own creation. It was as if I'd been given the greatest drug ever. I couldn't actually love properly but I had made love, made love for the very first time.

God had sent her to me to keep me safe and walk by my side, for her to cleanse me and to wait beside me until He was ready for me. As the months passed by, I received his word. I couldn't possibly kill ten people here. They would tell on me for sure, the corpses, all in one small single geographical area. But I will take two from here just now and travel around Spain later. I will take ten from every country in the world and The Ten Commandments will be carved into their flesh. Imagine the power I had in becoming God's representative on Earth; the creator of His new holy book. Everything became clear to me. My whole life had simply been thus-far a test, just a training ground for my staff development. The childhood farm, everything I had lived and everything I had done, everything I had been through so far. Had I never lived on the farm, I would not have gone rabbiting or shooting. I would never have learned how to skin animals and learned how to preserve their furs. It now makes sense to you too doesn't it? Can you see what He wants of me and can you see what this means to me? Peeling a rabbit was easy, skinning an animal of its pelt is not a hard skill to learn but of human flesh, there is no fur so does it tear easily? And of preservation of human skin, we just rubbed salt into the skins, the furs of the rabbits. Would this method still work for God's word? God will show me, as I have faith now and I am called Gabriel.

The tattooist I killed was a pleasure, a whole studio full of the anti-Christ. A man that enjoyed making pictures, creating art out of evil. Such filth hung wall to wall and everywhere you looked. Wall to wall filth. The devil's den and his lair now discovered. I was to create real art, the word of God, an everlasting masterpiece. But in here, that tattooist's studio, I saw crucifixes turned upside down, pictures of demons, pictures of Satan and the Lord Jesus turned into animated eroticism, looking at Jesus as an erotic form, whores having Christ tattooed onto their skin for their cheap sex thrills. Well I am Jesus, I am the resurrection and I am the light, and you hang me up, you the scum, hang me up on your bodies to be wanked over! He was a greedy bastard this guy; would work all summer carving lies into the skins of sinners just for fuckin' money, how fuckin' low that man stooped.

I made a late appointment, offered twice the payment price, for this was the price paid for sin. I told him I worked late that particular day and he reopened just for me, reopened that anti-Christ shit pit. Opened up just to deface me and feed his sick fucking greed and so I took his life. I took his skin and I took everything from him.

Do you want to know how that bastard died my dear reader? My first victim after my rebirth, from zero hour after my cleansing and my new given purity? I smashed him in the face with a bottle that I'd cracked against his own studio wall. I shouted at him, "I am Gabriel," and that face, oh that dear face was such a picture. Oh that poor pathetic man's pleas... This was a real picture to see and that was indeed real art. If only I had been skilled enough to tattoo that expression, the one from his desperate face, onto his skin, real art and none of his shit-for-greed crap. I stabbed him in the eyes with the broken bottle and he poured with blood. There was so much blood. I must have cut an artery or something but I liked that blood and I drank some. I drank the blood of Christ. I rolled him over face down and still groaning away, I bound him up and left him on the floor to bleed slowly to death. To stay alive just long enough so that he could feel me rip the skin away from his back. I tattooed the words as commanded by God onto that back. 'You shall not make for yourself any carved image, or any likeness of anything that is in heaven above for I, the Lord your God, am a jealous God.'

And so my creation had begun and so I would find thereafter a new sinner. Take one from every country of the world and take ten sinners from every country of the world, for there are Ten Commandments, as revealed to us. Ten sinners from every fucking country in the world and carve these words of the commandments into their bare flesh, the word of God. The commandments as the law and then to peel it from their backs, to hear them scream out in agony as I rip away their own flesh, to release them from their hell and from the certainty of their eternal damnation. I am God's will and his new messiah. I am Gabriel and I have now spoken to you all.

And the second I would kill you ask of me? My new friend, that gift from God and that fucking ex-husband who had taken her against God's will. Who had soiled her and left her for pregnant, a woman alone to care all on her own for a boy child he would never take care of himself. Leaving her destitute whilst he went off and soiled another. I tried to care for my own children but those two whores put paid to that, but him, he had choices and he had chosen sin. That wanker suspected nothing of my intentions. I had met him only a handful of times and such an arrogant twat he was. "Can I pop round and drop off some stuff for the kid?" he asked me over the phone. "For the kid," almost unable to even acknowledge his own son's first given name, as if God would forget the name of his own son Jesus. "Oh do come straight over," I said. I invited him in with a door held wide open. "Make yourself at home why don't you? And by-the-way, thanks for ringing me to let me know you were coming over tonight." I smashed him in the garage with a baseball bat in the end, as he tried to flee away from me. I beat every part of his fucking body to pulp, every last limb. I broke every bone in that man's shell. A shell it was, just a cover over the top of a fraud, there was no human inside there. I beat him like a steak, tenderising his meat for my Lord's supper.

I showed my gift his body in the garage later that night, when she returned from late-night shopping, and his skin peeled away with the tattooed words 'You shall not commit adultery' torn from him. I was pleased with my work and I needed someone to witness it. I had eight more to go and this was all just the very beginning. I was in frenzy and unleashed at last, the real me freed to create my masterpiece. But she screamed and screamed and continually fucking screamed at me, smashing things, crying out at me hysterically. "What have you done? - What have you done?" she sobbed. "Why my love, this is God's work. I have done only God's will for him and you are my chosen servant," I shouted back to her. She ran to the telephone and then I strangled her. I had destroyed the one person that I had ever made love to in my entire life. My gift given to me from God above, and now I had been confronted first-hand with her attempted betrayal of me. There is no room for the betrayal of God, His servants or His messengers. Just as Judas had hung from the tree, she too had now lost God, and almighty God was testing me. Just as He had required of Abraham to sacrifice his own son to Him, He too required of me to now sacrifice her.

I took her to the bedroom. There I undressed her slowly and I bathed her body clean many times over. I wanted her to enter the Kingdom and I wanted her to be clean of her sin whilst awaiting my later arrival, and I wanted her to be saved. I went through her cupboards and found the most beautiful white negligee hiding inside a drawer, one that I had never seen before. Maybe kept from her wedding night that she had treasured over the years but never worn for any other man. It was tasteful and nothing like a whores fuck kit. Beautiful silk and she looked like an angel in it. I laid her out just as Lord Jesus had been nailed to the cross, the crucifix, and I stood above her and came over her in bucket loads. I had loved her, taken her physically only the once, and in these months of sexual denial this was my final moment to say goodbye until we enjoyed each other again, above in the heavens

She was not a sinner really. She just became lost in that brief moment upon seeing her dead ex before her. She was just confused and I wanted to keep her with me on my new journey. She would be the cover and she would be the title, the purity of an angel that would bind the skins of the filth within, contain them within the book. I took her flesh too with the words "Herein, The Holy Commandments."

And of the boy you ask? I'm no child killer. I'm no fucking paedo and I have already told you that I don't kill children. He was away that particular weekend and I had now killed his parents, both within one hour of each other. I cleaned up behind me. I left only that tattooist for you to find, my first kill for my Lord, the new beginning. He was just too messy that tattooist and I couldn't be bothered with him. It was far too risky to try and move his blooded corpse and dispose of it. No ,I left him just for all of you to view with his skin peeled. You cannot create a masterpiece without a public announcement, can you? And I know that you will want proof of my killing spree. I burnt all my scripts, my diary, my kill log, all of it. But fear not as I remember every word and I can remember every sentence, every kill and every location. With these words I shall one day tell you who I am and my memoirs will be yours; yours to keep, so treasure them.

And of those two American fucking whores? Well pointless killings really. Just for the sake and pleasure of fucking and killing. Just because I can, you see, and no one can stop me. I soiled those two bitches. I left God's seed inside them, rammed so very far up inside them that I have to wonder if you ever found it at all and I regret that now. The risk that these two American whores could now be destroying God's message, His masterpiece he would create through me. No, I cleaned up behind me. It was spotless, just another missing couple with no evidence left of a crime. Ex-adulterous fucking hubby and the gift of God to be dismissed as some fucked up domestic. He kills her and then disappears and their bodies never discovered. I don't care what fabrication the gutter press put together, as they are all idiots too. But I know that until I am ready it will not follow me. You see you cannot kill four people within days, within the same small area and not bring attention down on yourself can you? Before I know it they'll all be here, asking all the men to line up for voluntary DNA smear. Then those two American fuckin' cum humpers would be linked back to me. No, these bodies had to just disappear, to be traceless, no evidence left at the scene and no clues. Those useless fucking Spanish police still have no fucking idea. All far too distracted to bother too much with a missing domestic person's report, distracted by what they would find beforehand back at that tattoo studio. I am sorry about the boy losing his mum. I am genuinely sorry but he will see her in a better place one day soon, away from this infected "cesspit rock," a rock that God could just prick with a pin, prick like a balloon and just burst at will. But He is a good God and He wants you all to change. He wants me to cleanse you. He wants you to receive this message from me.

Yes four victims; that is what I said. The fucking Nazi you fools. You don't think I was going to leave him alive before I left? In for a penny in, for a pound that's what I say. Why does the word Nazi need a capital letter anyway, like it's a name that needs one or deserves of it. So yes four kills, all unconnected and all gone for ever. He choked very slowly on the book, that Hitler shit, page by page by page rammed down his throat using a wooden spoon. Such a beautiful change in colour it was, that ignorant Nazi blackness colouring of hate unfolding into a gay rainbow; pink, blue, purple and grey. He went later that very same evening, well the early hours of the next morning if you prefer it. He was inscribed with the words, 'You shall not bear false witness against your neighbour.' I needed to move on fast now and he was the last piece of localised unfinished business you see. I've lots of unfinished business these days. It's quite hard to keep up with it all. The ex-hubby's fishing boat was a nice boat indeed, three bodies and one lovely evening to cruise in. Of course just the one way fishing trip. Sunk, a boat missing out at sea. Convenient that little tender was for the return trip.

The masterpiece has only just begun with these commandments. I hope you fully understand that fact. I thought hard and long about taking ten from each country of the world and then, in a moment of insanity I realised just how long that would take me... years. Maybe I had misunderstood God. It would take several lifetimes to complete this huge new project and the risk of capture was massive. I couldn't leave bodies behind, all with their back skin peeled off; fuck, that was silly. I had come so close in tonight's frenzy of killing, so close to ruining everything when I had presented my kill to The Gift. No I'll leave you just the tattooist for now and let you work it all out yourselves; piece it all together later and in doing so, pigs, much overtime will be required of you to complete it. I will travel again just for now, continually moving on like the wind. Moving so silently, unnoticed and undisturbed, for I know I am not Jesus. I know I will not live my mortal life forever. For I am mere flesh and blood too, a mortal one at God's command. I am Gabriel.

Notes 7 - Dr Cerys Davies

The chapter's title, 'I Am Jesus, the Resurrection, the Light,' is further confirmation of a paranoid schizophrenic profile., the mind of an insane killer beyond all reason or hope of redemption. The policeman who is taunting him, waking him from his sleep and then hiding from him – also a delusion. The idea that if there had been a policeman there under normal circumstances he would be arrested immediately, doesn't enter his irrational mind at all. The insanity and delusional behaviour are making him now more dangerous than ever. He demonstrates his emotions through aggression toward the police and their manhunt for him, and through derogatory language toward authority. Noticeably, he is almost starting to think, feel or sense, for the first time, he is close to being captured. It is this belief, the fragments of reason remaining, that stops him from killing again. It also ends all of his sexual activities. In effect he metaphorically goes into hibernation, possibly for several months.

It appears too, that he has contracted a sexually transmitted disease. Note the reference to the pain of urination, "like pissing nails", a pain he sees as punishment for his crimes, though without a real sense of how appalling his crimes actually are. It is as if he wants to just put it all in the past and be forgiven by us, for us to now feel some form of pity and sorrow for him. From the abusive outburst against his readers in the first paragraph, he then effortlessly moves on to talk about the beauty of the churches of Spain, as though he is two different people. He tells us about a newspaper article, about which he expresses his support of the death sentence for a single murder. This might help to locate him, an exact date in time whilst in Spain.

The hatred of Nazis resurfaces after he meets a right wing British expatriate who exposes him to the political ideology of Adolf Hitler within the pages of Mein Kampf. Even though Hitler is also a murderer, the author cannot see any parallels between the Furher's genocide and his own multiple murders. This is a period of self-control while he awaits a message from God; a time to read and reflect from the inside out and the outside in. Gabriel has now taken control of his own mental asylum. The poetry, the reading and the socialising (minus any sexual contact whatsoever) all indicate that everything has suddenly ground to a halt, as if the world has stopped turning around on its axis, solely for him, to let him rest. In effect God has bestowed on him a well-deserved holiday. Except the killer's mind is still very much active, and he writes poems about eating children, BILE, the Baby I'd Like to Eat.

He wants to convert to Judaism either to please his newfound God or in opposition to the right wing ideologies he so much despises. In his divided mind he is both a psychopath and a servant of the Lord. He is carrying out God's will in fulfilling his own desires. He has now moved beyond the fantasy to fulfil his sexual appetite through to butchery, to someone who enjoys killing for the act of killing itself.

The Ten Commandments are quoted here, verbatim (Exodus 20:1.17). We now have confirmation that the origin of his chosen name is that of Gabriel, the archangel, the messenger of God. He is formulating a new set of rules he will use to identify his next victims. He has received his message from God, he says, and his mission is to create a masterpiece out of human flesh.

Spain is the point of time in his life when his old self re-materialises; that of the habitual rapist and killer of women. He transforms himself in Spain into the torturer of a new inquisition at God's command. He sees himself as having been cleansed now by God. The cleansing could also be an oblique reference to medical treatment for his STD, most likely penicillin or a similar prescribed medicine. Interestingly, his first sexual contact with a woman here is by mutual consent, and he writes about it as the very first time he has made love. He thanks God for the angel He gave him in honouring His commands. However, even this divine reward involves an obsession with sex and fantasy. As to his so-called masterpiece, the book of human skin, his new lover, who trusts him implicitly, becomes part of his plan, and she too becomes his victim. His lover is Spanish, with a decent command of English. But, I cannot help feeling that if her English had been more perfect she might have detected her lover's psychosis at an earlier stage in the relationship.

He tells us he will next take ten victims, each of whom he sees as a sinner who in some way has broken his Lord's commandments. Ten victims from ten different countries seems an impossible task. One has to bear in mind the limited time frame available to him. The longer he takes, the more likely he is to be caught. This too, is Gabriel's own belief and is a major concern to him as he wishes to complete his mission in full. He confesses to four new murders in a Spanish resort with a large British community, large enough to have a library of books written in English. These four victims all die within hours of each other. We know he is now close to the sea because of the boat he uses to dispose of three of his victims. It appears that he has some previous sailing experience, not just because he is comfortable sailing the boat in the first place but also because of his use of the word tender when referring to a dingy (used to ferry sailors back and forth to craft in shallow moorings).

Other than the masturbation event whilst standing over his girlfriend's corpse, there is no indication of sexual activity in respect of the other killings. Instead, the murders are carried out for the sole purpose of obtaining the raw material for God's book of human flesh. He believes himself to be completely sane and that, as Gabriel, all he is doing is following God's will. He disposes of all but one of the bodies, that of the tattooist. It is as though he is showing off, that he wants us to admire his work as part of his journey toward a masterpiece that will claim victims from across the globe. He signs off this chapter with the words 'I am Gabriel' but at this stage there are no clues as to the significance of the number 13.

There is a further clue in the text, which did not occur to me until I came to re-type my notes. I now realise the significance of his question: Why does Nazi require a capital letter? In common with contemporary usage for many people today, the word has become a

common noun, with a small 'n'. However as a proper noun, which became evident as I typed with my computer requiring me to insert a capital 'N', this suggests that an automated spell checker could have been in use when the memoirs were typed using (possibly) Microsoft Word processing software. So it may be that he used or accessed a computer within the British community's library whilst in Spain?

Summary

An expression of interest in Judaism. Treatment for a sexually transmitted disease and a penicillin allergy. A prior knowledge of sailing. Living within a large community of British expatriates whilst in Spain. A coastal seaside resort housing a British community library with possible access to personal computers. A relationship with a Spanish woman who had one boy child and was running her mother's business interests (She is a native Spaniard who is not fluent in English). A publicly reported murder of one mutilated Spanish tattooist. Publicly reported missing person's report of a former domestic couple.

Confessions within text: One Spanish woman, murder by restriction to the neck, throttled, body mutilated. One British male, murdered, choked using obstruction to inner airway, body Mutilated. One Spanish tattooist, bled to death and body mutilated. One Spanish male, beaten to death and body mutilated.

STD: A sexually transmitted disease or infection such as gonorrhoea. Men experience painful urination and heavy secretions.

PART ONE

Chapter 8

Canada

Yeah I got there! Aren't you all so very pleased for me? Actually I can see your smiles from here, radiant they are and so beautiful, like an angel smiling down at me from heaven.

It matters not what I did after Spain or where I went before I arrived in Canada. That's not important to you now. It was Canada that was the most fun for me, just like the pen back in Manchester. It's so fucking big, Canada, and it's also so rural. You can do anything anywhere whenever you like really, just blend in with a few precautions which is very easy as I'm quite normal, I assure you. I cover my tracks very well and most efficiently. I don't make mistakes and unlike the good old days never act on just a sexual impulse. No, these days my day-to-day goings on are more meticulous, they are now perfected. I am a killing fucking industry and never spend too many days in the same place. In fact I have travelled around the globe collecting my skins; travelled all over it. You should see what it has now become. An epic, it truly is biblical!

No, Canada was a strange twist of fate for me, a blessing in disguise, no more moving on for a while. The holiday I needed I took, as even us killers need to take holidays. It's hard work sometimes hacking up bodies all day, burning them and hiding them. The kill can be as quick or as slow as you desire but dumping a body afterward, you must be so very careful, be precise with detail and most methodical in fact. You'll never believe what I read in the press just after I left Spain? Go on, try me on this, and ask me? LOL. It was an article about an unexplained missing couple, page six I think it was! Yep those two, and in the same fucking paper but on the front page it said "Psycho butchers tattooist!" I mean brilliant, real class, just simply brilliant. The best bit was the fucking Nazi never got a mention, nowhere at all within the whole 33 pages of the newspaper. What a result. I'm so fucking good at this killing malarkey now, I think I'm almost perfect at it even if say so myself and I'm sure you will all agree with me on that one. I'm ace at it. I kill at will and all with God's grace and you haven't got a fucking clue, not one of you. So I humiliate myself further now in writing you this, the memoirs just to help you along. Do you know how long your missing persons list or your unexplained disappearances list is now? Go on, humour me and take a look. And you still haven't made the link, not a single connection. Anyway, I think I can fall in love again now, I think I'm actually in love with you! Oh yes, I do, yes I do, ha de fucking ha, prick.

You can't carry a book of human flesh around with you these days so what you have to do is skip countries. Take just one victim per country at a time and post the flesh back to a central point. You need to frame it and list it as an old traditional pigskin artefact, and paint a stupid little African landscape on it and then it becomes just another crap sad old tourist souvenir. You then get back home to receive the airfreight parcel and turn the canvas inside out again and Bob's your uncle. Hey presto, here is the tattooed human flesh, restored to its full, wall hung, glory. Weeks of work and planning sometimes I can tell you, but it's the work of a genius, a pure genius, this man. I wish you could see it right now, the first finished book and the first human flesh copy of The Holy Commandments. I want you to see my first work so much, just the first one only, number one that was really just a practice run. I want to see your face drop when you realise that all of this as written down herein for you is all very real and no longer just the stuff of your bad nightmares. It's just a start this first book but it is God's work and his word so have some respect for it, and it is all there for you written down on human skin. I imagine I see your face when you first see it. I want to be with you when you first see it and find it to be real, find it to really exist and that it is the truth. Book number one is real and it is now finished. I'm very proud of it but I'm also very proud of another book I've been working on but I tell you all about that at the end.

I had to redo a few pages again of course and I liked the idea of making a sleeve for it to keep it safe and clean. It's good, my first book, and it is now in the pride of place and in the prize collection of, well I can't tell you that now can I? You see, they think its pigskin too.

Canada, that's where the real art will begin now that I'm finally here again, a full multimedia presentation and a collection of video confessions with full audio screaming. Consider it as a glorious techno-slaughter presentation, the sound of agony in full surround-sound. How fucking cool is that Brian? I have completed the Commandments of flesh and now I needed to complete the sinner's library of confession to accompany it. It's early days but as the project concludes, I shall reunite all of the works that I have created for you and keep them all together as one. Such a marvellous museum of sin and so fascinating isn't it? A sinner taken and a sinner skinned from every country of the world.

I do want to tell you about which ten countries I have collected in. I mean you know about Spain already but that's a bigger story for another time. Maybe as I look into the family's eyes as my lethal injection gets pumped in, a fare-well speech from God's martyr to the victims, the bereaved loved ones sitting there in front of me, maybe then I could tell a new story or two or maybe even ten. I wonder how much time they give you to say your apologies (through that glass goldfish bowl view-to-kill window), to those that have come to watch tonight's dying time live audience show? I have no fear now you understand. No fear of you at all. Just like the suicide bomber before he detonates, as I am blessed and I await the return of my gift, the Spanish angel reunited to me in the Kingdom of heaven. Someone does need to point out here though that those suicide bombers, those religious loony tunes are not actually going to get into heaven, no they won't because they've got it all wrong haven't they? But that's their problem I suppose. No! Going into a bar or a nightclub or even a railway station and just detonating yourself there on the spot, well that's not God's will because that's just fucked up in the head, plain old fucked up in the head. Whilst we are talking about fucked in the head, they are not going to get to fuck seventy-two virgins either; it's an ancient translation error. It should have read, 'you will receive seventy-two bunches of grapes.' But that's the problem with totalitarian religions and regimes, you can't later on correct the mistakes can you?

You see in Canada, I came across this old pig farm. A lovely old lady lived there at the time. She was widowed and lonely. There was no family around anymore, just her ending her days all alone. It was very rural, absolutely no neighbours and peaceful and quiet. It was in fact quite simply perfect for me. I worked for her and in return she paid and fed me. No more moving on for a while and so many old unused out buildings with lots of cellars and pits from the days when it was a large going concern. Nowadays she had just a few pigs, a handful and I don't kill the pigs because as I told you I am a strict vegetarian; they get sent off for all that unpleasant stuff. A truck comes for them at the end of each month and the pig slaughtering is done elsewhere. I don't like the blood of animals on my hands. They used to slaughter the pigs here on the farm once upon a time I know. She told me all that but since the husband died eight years ago she can no longer cope with the work, so for now I will be the one to help her cope and run the farm for her. She's very old and frail these days and just stays in the house. All day she sits there inside watching shit television. There's absolutely no fear of her ever knowing anything about what's going on down the yard, behind the barns, I am her golden girl-boy and she'll hear no wrong of me. A sweet old mother hen this old thing.

I did take in some breathing space en route across Canada, just some good old fashioned fun and not part of any master plan or anything like that. I was hitchhiking around for a day or two but be warned, because you should never pick up hitchhikers. It's very dangerous and quite a silly thing to do really. I got picked up by a couple of girls on the second day and we all had some good full on entertainment. Two lesbian junkies it was and I buried them later in the woods; God's will it was and the end of it. It was a real neat car, the description, type etc. all irrelevant (over descriptive writing is so dull) but a good one driven by two lesbians smoking crack en route for a camping holiday in the mountains. They had everything I needed in that car; food and money, cunts and beer, and I'd longed for a good pint. I do miss British beer. They even had metal tent pegs and camping twine with which I stitched them together. Poked holes through the skin and threaded the twine through. I sewed them both up naked into the 69, stitched them both up mouth to cunt, an everlasting circle of life with my cum travelling around in that circle for all eternity thereafter. I buried them just as I say, stitched together doing the 69, sucking and feeding from each other's vaginas. Lesbians like vaginas, the nibbling and sucking of a good piss-flap or two. Crack addicts you see, they lose all sense of what's going on around them and put themselves at great risk. One minute we're all laughing and joking and the next, wham, bam, thank you ma'am. This is why I hate drug dealers. They destroy communities don't they? Anyway don't fucking distract me now with all this shit, this isn't the time or place to get horny together. Later on maybe but first I want to tell you all about my time in Canada.

Pigs eat meat, it's a fact. I knew this already because back on the childhood farm where we would castrate the piglets, we would throw the nuts down, having sliced them open with a scalpel and pulled them out and the other pigs went mental for it. Couldn't get enough of it. Pigs will indeed eat anything. Starve them for a while and they become an excellent and most sophisticated compact meat processing unit. Humans eating the pigs who ate the humans. I like that idea.

It was a time of revisiting old pleasures, the days of the BSC waxing, the days when I would bloom into a butterfly. I mean I was still a good looker and I still wanted to play. I made many friends in Canada. We would have parties just to dress up, to see who could pass as the most convincing female and I always won. I was enjoying sex again now and I wanted sex. I realised I could have my own personal pleasures and separate them from my killings. You have no idea how killing can make you horny, fucking for pleasure and then going home to slaughter someone else. Like the dole office, they would all shit and piss themselves at some point, you just had to watch and wait, wait until they realised there was no escape for them. I enjoyed other shemales, these beautiful women with cocks, all of us just fucking each other, all cumming and groaning as a group. The thing about the shemale is she knows how to fuck well. She knows what men want and she knows what women need. I would spend most of my money on lingerie sometimes and I had this amazing pair of black, thigh-high boots. Just looking at them made me want it. Stockings, basques and thigh-high boots. This was my favourite attire, always so very fucking exciting for me.

We had quite a scene going on for a while, all private parties and all very confidential. No one ever spoke of our orgies, our special play times together, all going home afterward to live their other lives with the wife. At times there could be over 100 people attending a good orgy weekender. Everything was there for the taking; shemales and trannies, gays and lesbians, and lots and lots of straights too, all professionals working in public life and most of them were rich people. We had a game where each week you would have to pretend to be that wife at home, the girls and me making such fun of the wife or the girlfriend, that idiot girlfriend and quite often the idiot husband too, completely unaware of his wife's lesbian goings on with us. It was always much more special when someone made the real effort and turned up "in his or her." This involved dressing up and wearing the personals of the ignorant man or woman left in the dark at home, wearing his or her underwear unbeknown to them; to our party.

Imagine those poor things back at the family house. Him not paying her any special attention anymore so she buys something beautiful to wear for him, that special bra and pants set to turn the absent minded partner on again. All those hours of preparation she takes for him and all that time not knowing, not knowing that he had worn it all before her and had been fucked and sucked off by all of us. Imagine that sight, him with the shemales and gays, and then them going back home later on to fuck the unknowing desperate other half. He gets home to reclaim what's his and goes straight up inside the unknowing girlfriend's cunt afterward. Or the 'him' that finishes his night shift, unknowingly now home and fucking her where the strap-on had been just hours before and her kissing him with the same mouth, having sucked the cock that had shot up my arse. It was the little things, these kinds of games that I liked and they pleased me no end. No one ever felt bad about it. This was how they were, they couldn't change anything but they remained in love with the wives and girlfriends or the boyfriends too. What would happen if they ever let tell their secret? No wife and no longer any girlfriend, but they would still be trans. God had created them so and they were just being who they really were, being honest, unlike most women. No it was society and its rules that were fucked up, not these girls. All those self-righteous straights that live a life of hypocrisy and lies.

So what was the point in telling? We were just having fun and being ourselves and no harm was ever done. Regular health checks and condoms always used when needed for new members. That was a firm rule, pun number two, the health checks beforehand and just sex with each other and the partners. A very secret club with very strict rules. No fucking about was tolerated and no introducing disease into the group, and it all worked very well. There's no pleasure in condoms is there? That tight pumping cock throbbing up the arse just to be left clean afterward. No, we shemales like our spunk hot, delivered as it should be; hot fresh spunk, the smell and the taste and the warmth and comfort of it.

The most I ever collected was 28. Twenty eight men had taken it in turns to pound me like I was a piece of meat too. I used condoms then for the ones I didn't know or had not learnt to trust yet. I had dressed as a schoolgirl, black stocking tops just visible below a grey pleated mini, black bra and a white blouse, open enough to show off my rather, by now, beautiful cleavage. The tie, always a tie for the schoolgirl thing, grey with yellow and blue stripes. The make-up was the thing they liked most. You always had to have freckles and you always had to have two pigtails, one from either side of your head. Do you know what it feels like to get up off a table top after 28 men have just taken you? Amazing it is, when it's dripping from you, running down your inside leg and stinking of it, just so amazing. How men love high school girls. Why don't you try it tonight for yourself ladies?

God would never command me when I was her, only when I was as him, a male. God sees all things but it was like He didn't see me when I changed into her. Like He would only talk to men or I had somehow gone into hiding from Him. So I knew I could have my pleasures, those private pleasures without offending Him. After all He had created me the way I was and I am His perfect creation. It was a personal break, some chill out time from a very busy work schedule. I would fuck as her and kill as him and that's how it worked best for me. When I was her I was always being fucked endlessly and a total slut which, I admit, I couldn't get enough of but I never ever fucked a man, not in my entire sexual journey. I didn't fancy them at all men; they just didn't do anything for me, but when being her, well that changed everything inside me. I would only unleash the beast, my rather impressive member, that penis of mine for the women or the other shemales. It was their special treat from me, which I kept special just for them.

I was like a sexual chameleon. I could play any part or take on any role. We had themed nights - bring a bottle and lots of drugs. There's lots of cocaine in Canada and these people were not poor, and really good hash too considering it's such a cold climate. We would have nuns and nurses evenings, a whore and schoolgirl evening or whatever went, and the way we all dressed was always so convincing, sexual and so erotic. My favourite ones, the best party nights that is, were the bondage and fetish dungeon evenings. They were mad, simply out of this world. Yes, sometimes I just stayed as a male and enjoyed fucking away all the shackled girls, always so many beautiful girls bound so tightly together. They would hire them these girls sometimes, I'm sure, but who cared, it was all totally free for me.

There was no one in this group I was going to kill. No far from it, and far too much fun for me and as her God would never command me to do so. I couldn't just kill anyone anymore. The plan and the masterpiece and all that, all this would be ruined, for some random pointless un-commanded kill. An escape from work, a change, something different to end the month on, that's what all this was about and I wasn't going to ruin it. Always the last Friday of the month and every month like clockwork. A whole month to prepare for it, buy new sex outfits and chat with the other girls about what we would do on the evening, in advance.

You would never expect an orgy, a good sex party, once going well, to finish much before Sunday. There was a point to stop naturally, the exhaustion and soreness and the need to just refill one's sack. Bleeding wasn't an issue because of the rules and nobody ever broke those hygiene rules. Us shemales all stuck together (I do enjoy such puns). We were regular and most faithful sexual partners to each other but always using the condoms for the others. The one you didn't quite know well enough yet, the one who hadn't proved his or her health status to the party organisers or maybe just a new face on the block. We were all just happy fantasising and pleasing each other. People would come and go for their own reasons but there was never an outbreak of anything nasty that I ever became aware of. Over the long weekend people arrived, came and went, excuse pun three, or is it? I've lost count. Anyway, just as they pleased, with always someone fresh and full arriving to replenish the numbers. Rich people with money, lots and lots of money and the tips for us trusted girls were very handsome indeed. Of that beautiful country house, the large grounds and the pool, the gym and security, no one would ever interrupt a good party at that house and as a result of that fact, in every part of that house fucking, just endless fucking going on.

I met one guy at these parties who would go on to change everything. It's funny how the fucked-up would gravitate to me, just as if I gave out some kind of private signal saying "Do you like killing too?" It was him who introduced me to the coven. It was just an excuse for further sex parties really. There was no anti-Christ or witches present. Women would just lay spread eagled on the altar, a stone slab raised maybe three or four foot off the ground, and take all of them, one after the other. I counted 13 men, always thirteen men but only a few women. It varied, the number of women from time to time. Maybe two or maybe just four but never more than 13 men, this including myself. I was given the number 13 after a vacancy had arisen and I had been invited into the secrets of the coven, hand-picked by the existing members, the twelve.

They would dress in robes wearing these disfigured masks, crows, toads and stuff. I never knew who they were. We'd just stand around in a circle watching the sex and we just had her in turn, the female volunteer, slowly and respectfully and she loved it and she wanted it, that's why she was there. As soon as it was over another woman would lie on that central slab and it would all start all over again, often with the women doing each other as well. It was always such a delight to see two young stunning lesbians working on each other. You see in all this, God had allowed me to make love for the first time through his Spanish gift to me and making love was now nice again, a necessity that we all need and as I am His messenger on Earth, why would I deny others the pleasure God allows me?

The coven was sensational; beautiful lemon shaped pert tits, it was about quality not quantity. Big hard nipples sticking out toward you to be enjoyed in all directions. Those hourglass figures, their arses always getting soaked in cum and then licked clean by another woman. Always lots of lesbianism at the coven evenings which made them somehow so different from the many other diverse play groups I had joined already. Yes, there had been lots of lesbian sex at all of them, but this wasn't about watching women fuck; it was all about the art of being lesbian. And they were always very special. Have you ever watched two sensational lesbians at work together? How they are so gentle with each other, pausing their orgasmic lust for hours, teasing and stroking each other, the need to cum quickly quite unessential. Consuming each other, exploring every part of each other's human body, how they tremble at each other's touch. I would watch lesbians making love together for hours. Just watching them and fixated with them, a can of beer and a cigarette and just watch with such fascination as they cleaned, consumed each other, after the thirteen had now finished with them on the slab.

You can tell the difference between the paid hooker putting on the fake girl on girl show and the genuine hot lesbian, The big diesel dykes do absolutely nothing for me because these are just women pretending to be men, picking up every nuance from male behaviour that I was trying so hard to shed. The proper lesbian I like, the femme dressed up in her stockings and all her glory, just as men fantasize about the girlfriends dressing up for them, to find them so waiting at home, wanting it after a long day's work, but here you found women so equally excited by this thought.

We were watching the performance one evening, and one of the coven members sat to my left, quite unexpectedly, told me of his, on-and-off girlfriend, obviously oblivious to the knowing of his wife. One of her (this girlfriend's) best friends had told him one day that she was exploring her bi-sexuality behind his back, this on/off and best friend together. The girls were going to gay clubs and partying away. He had later asked her if this was true, only to be told of course, "the best friend had lied". But they never fell out over it, the on off and the best friend. Strange... I mean if someone close had revealed such a personal truth and outed me without my consent, the friendship would have ended immediately. But no... he said. The girls were still best friends and he had still no idea why she had said this to him. She admitted kissing girls to him, and when he asked what actually went on inside the clubs the reply was always a curt, "Nothing that I'm ashamed of" she would say. I could only suggest to him that he kill her.

Women are so confusing. All this gay rights and equality shit, but when they actually practice what they preach, they fall into this embarrassing silence. At least I am honest and I have no shame. Sex is magnificent for me, and again, why do women always tell lies? Ask them outright do you masturbate and they shrink, curl up as if they wanted the ground to open up and swallow them.

He told me of another occasion, a different girl but again a friend of his girlfriend. They had drunk so much, the girlfriend went upstairs and collapsed on the bed. The friend was keen to go upstairs to join her, this 100 per cent straight married friend who ironically, was so very proud of her own lesbian sister, he added. He'd said "No, she's sleeping, leave her be," but upstairs she crept at the first opportunity when he had turned his back for a moment. Later, there on the couple's bed, he found her. Rolling around pissed, asking his sleeping partner for girl cuddles (slurring her words due to the large amount of alcohol she had consumed).

He said he was honest and polite with her, informing her that this behaviour was inappropriate, asking her to please come back down stairs and allow his partner to sleep in peace. Then he said, it was as if he had poured scolding water over her: offensive comments started. Meanwhile; this woman's psycho husband, with whom they had all been drinking, piped in, demanding to know why he had called his wife a lesbian. He was adamant he hadn't and I believed him. But what had stuck with him for years afterwards was, and as he asked of me why was that a problem if he had anyway? He could have called her a book, a suitcase or a car, anything, as for him the word lesbian held no offence whatsoever... But just to think that he had suggested she was gay, neither she nor hubby could deal with it. She'd been so very proud to talk of her own younger lesbian sister all night, as the couples had drunk together, and had appeared to be very much into equality and gay rights. But so outraged and offended was she by the mere implication of what he had said, the thought that she may be lesbian, was a genuine shock to him. I've never understood the female hypocrisy; again I told him, the need to pretend, and always the complete fraudsters.

These people at the coven knew how to enjoy sex, real women in a much more intimate environment, like being transported back again to Manchester. They were just swingers at the start, some of these men and women. You could tell they all knew each other despite the masks but it was fun watching them pretend they didn't. Good times, there were some really good times. Always wearing white, just as I had seen my gift laid out on the bed and dead in Spain after cumming over her. Maybe that's why I liked the coven so much, it reminded me of her and the pleasure that was awaiting me upstairs later on. But one day this coven member, the one who originally invited to join the group in the first place, and whose conversation I so much enjoyed, invited me to a very special party. Just like the Russian had. I was now trusted again within this coven. They had organised something very special for me to see.

This was a rape party, an abducted girl, one taken off the street and a virgin. How could I resist? Gang raping a virgin was something completely fresh for me to try out. I watched for what seemed like hours but really maybe it was only just one. I came the first time without even touching her, when she was pulled across the slab and tied down, legs as wide as they would go, and we all started shouting, chanting at it, "Fuck her fuck her fuck her." I actually came then, dribbled in anticipation of what was about to happen before me. Her begging, all her useless pleading and she was clearly pumped full of drugs too, she wasn't going anywhere now, this floppy limp virgin taken to slaughter before my eyes.

The rules were explained to me: no women, wives or girlfriends and the other men from the other groups were totally unaware of the coven's most-secret rape parties. The men here were not the same usual wife swapping members, just a couple of them I thought that I recognised the voices of. Just two of them were existing coven members, this was number one and the other man that had taken me there, his face, the only one I ever saw unmasked. These men were all new to me, a handpicked selection of trusted professional rich men with power and influence. We were to take her within the order of membership, the original founder, the number one to go first and last in would be last to get to use her. If and only when the original founder of the group died, number two was promoted to number one and so forth. I was now number thirteen which seemed a bit unfair putting me last on the bill - God's messiah being made to wait but then Lord Jesus was number thirteen too once and that number kind of started to grow on me.

I thought it would take me years at the time to get to the number one pole position but thirteen, well Jesus rose to heaven first didn't he so okay it wasn't an issue that disturbed me too greatly. We all raped her that night, hard and fast banging her arse up and down repeatedly on the slab, all in numerical order and chanting just like we were all watching a football match. I was him again that night and God was talking to me again; "Fuck her, fuck her, fuck the whore of Babylon," He shouted down to me. Then suddenly as I finished off with it and before I even had time to re-join the outer-circle of the masked and robed the first to take her virginity that night, the number one walked over toward me and he just cut her throat. The party had ended much earlier than I had hoped for, it was so disappointing really but it left me with a lust, a new need to feed inside and I knew then that at some point in time, I would be the one to cut someone's throat all for myself. They hung her by her ankles afterward and I showered below, showered away my sin beneath her still warm dripping blood. I was truly blooded once again.

But I had to separate play from work and although killing was no longer random, never just a girl in the wrong place at the right time anymore, I had still got a job to do. All this new socialising and partying had allowed me to make new contacts, to make new friends and to be normal. But it was all too consensual sometimes, except the rape parties of course. I always needed that control, that domination and fear over them and as I was doing God's work, I had to focus and complete the task He had given to me. He would allow me some slack, some downtime of my own to play a bit and He would leave me to sleep in return. Whilst in Canada I had created His first masterpiece and I will create His next.

My contact 13/1 at the coven would prove very handy; you see the next part of the masterpiece was to create the Cutch, the pen of confessions on Canadian soil. He would bring victims to me for inquisition. I didn't even have to commute to work anymore, this pig farm, all rural and some very rich powerful connections like I said. They were all found for me and delivered to me via online order. The internet was the tool of the Lord now, the new mode of communication to His lost flock, the slaughter of his own lambs for the greater good, the whores and the adulterers, the liars and the cheats. They were all out there in cyberspace waiting just like fresh fruit. It was just like picking fruit from a tree. They would answer online ads all these fucked up people and then be taken away and delivered to me. I had chosen my first disciple in 13/1, the first one of so many of the chosen followers.

We took a paedophile first. A male, a vile creature he was and the cutch was wonderful, it was the perfect place for him. We had a kitchenette there. We had satellite television, even a bar in the corner for break-time refreshments, though I will say Canadian beer is totally crap. The beer I enjoyed with those two lesbian travellers that day was an import from the Czech Republic you see, not Canadian beer at all. We had a settee and some comfortable arm chairs and two cooling fans above us as this basement pad could get very hot and smelly. Air conditioning would be far too obvious so most avoided at all times. We didn't need to announce to the world in saying that something was going on down there below. The old lady was long housebound. The pigs were kept fed and happy, she knew nothing, but air con, well that would have given something away wouldn't it? And in the middle of the cutch a scaffolding pole, sunk into concrete and very sturdy. From the ceiling we installed meat hooks from the original old farming days when the pigs were slaughtered on-site. No, not sent off like now, poor little buggers to a factory, such mass produced impersonal slaughter. I never killed a single pig, no never not once, I couldn't, and the old lady would make the arrangements and like I said, once a month the truck came and off they would go.

We took a piece of wood and filed it. Shaved it down to the size and shape of a banana I guess, and rammed it tight down inside the top of the hollow steel scaffold pole, and on the pole we fixed the paedophile. You see, I get a confession far quicker and far more efficiently than you lot do, incompetent all of you, you are. I imagined it was that sick twisted bastard who had taken me as a kid, like I was his meat and without asking first so many years ago. Oh, he's long dead of old age by now that twisted wrinkled fucked up shit he was. I long felt denied the pleasure of killing him, revenge is so very sweet but none the less, I would take my revenge from this one instead. You see there is no difference between them; a paedo is a paedo, just like the seven plagues of Israel you have to destroy every single one of them, every trace of their revolting lives having ever existed. They have no blessing from God to exist so why expect to have empathy from me. I don't make the decisions, God does.

We filmed every confession we obtained within the new cutch, an audio library of sin to be united later with the Holy Commandments, God's commandments. Listed as pigskin, how ironic when you think back now, don't you think? Some old pig lard smeared over the tip of the wood and on he went, arms tied behind his back and legs tied tight at the ankles. We gagged him at first, of course we did, the old lady was frail but she wasn't that deaf. But within nine hours he became almost silent, grunting and crying and his own body weight pulled at him and would slowly lower him, a natural gravity taking him further down onto that pole.

We removed the gag and videotaped his confessions, every so often pulling gently down on his ankles when we suspected he had failed to tell the whole truth. He lasted for several days because the wood wasn't sharpened like a spear, it was just bevelled enough to get it to ram up inside his arse in the first place. The pole was slotted into a wider and much shorter pole fixed within the concrete, a round slot of about 12 inches high.

The disciple and I rammed it up inside him as he lay on his back on the floor, 8 inches maybe, until I could ram and kick the pole no more. We had to get him head first into a corner. He was already tied up but he would try to wriggle and roll away, and we raised him up high on the pole, just as you had raised my Lord Jesus. Slotting one pole end inside the other, we raised him up toward the glory of God, fixed him in place, all secured and perfect. I wouldn't have had the strength to do this on my own but with the two of us working together, very handy indeed. I have great things in mind for 13/1.

So far it was only just one down, hung on a meat hook on full display, and another nine to go. Of course we sealed them all in plastic bags, see-through plastic to intimidate the other victims. But mainly to be honest and upfront with you, it was because of the smell. Can you imagine that smell, the smell of evil and sin all around you?

Then we had the adulteress after him, a college girl fucking around behind her new husband's back. Can you believe a newlywed of less than one year she was? He, at home writing love letters to her away on campus and she reading them, replying with the words "Oh, how I miss you. How I long to see you again soon," puke, and then fucking around with some other student. How does someone like that live with themselves? Are they totally absent of all conscience? Liars, cheats and whores all of them, I told you so.

We used an old 12 volt car wiper-motor; we fixed it to a work bench with a metal arm going backward and forth and all in perfect motion. So perfect it was like an orchestral metronome that only the greatest of musicians would play to. We used the same piece of wood we had carved for the paedo. Why change it? It had worked very well this wooden cock and we would just be creating more unnecessary work for ourselves in the end. We watched for her hours, fascinated by her, we were both absolutely riveted by the new fucking machine that we had so proudly spent days making. Always at a perfect steady fucking rhythm, fucking her to death continually to and fro. Always up the cunt and never up the arse, as this is where the original sin had taken place, (well that's what she said but you can't believe them) and, occasionally pouring old engine oil over the rod to give her some relief from the soreness.

The stories she told us were amazing, most thrilling, the best stories ever. You really should adopt my techniques for new police training as I'd clear all of your outstanding cases. I'd clear your unsolved crime list within days. She, the adulteress, lasted for twelve days, yes twelve! Isn't that simply incredible? Had I not been there to see and witness it before my own eyes, I too wouldn't have believed it: twelve fucking days of being fucked to death by a machine. If you add up all the hours of twelve days in total but maybe take a third off the calculation in real time, or at maximum perhaps halve the sum total because we would turn off the machine overnight to save the battery and to recharge it, but twelve fucking days, incredible. She was clearly used to taking hard cock.

Then came a homosexual man. We hung him from a meat hook and stripped him of his flesh. Death by a thousand cuts and we counted them, scratched it on the wall in front of him. One, two, three, four, cross stroke, one, two and so on. We made him see, to witness with his own eyes what was coming to him, what he was going to get from us. Those exact one thousand cuts administered, before his own agony would release him to death. We started with the outer limbs, peeling him like an orange with a scalpel. He didn't live very long, just fourteen hours; I think we got a bit over excited with him.

We took the anti-Christ too, some fucked up Satan worship group member from the internet. They all came from the internet, these stupid little fucked up groups online, always so keen to recruit new members to hear the telling of their own bullshit lies. We would say, "I want to join your group but can we meet first as I have a few questions I'd like to ask you beforehand?" Cretins, absolute fuckin' cretins these egomaniac illusionists. We burnt him alive and very, very slowly too. Roasted him on a big spit. He survived for only three hours this one, even though we'd kept the fire as small as we could. Fire is great for getting rid of a body but it's not an effective long-term torture method. I mean to say that once 30 per cent of the body is burned you see, though just a small bit of the whole total body mass, it is enough to take them into shock.

I had already drunk the blood of Christ on my journey but the roasted flesh, you should try it someday as it is much tastier than lamb or beef. You could all go vegetarian and eat only man-flesh. Trust me, it's sweet and wholesome and has a very similar taste to bacon strangely enough, of Satan himself consumed within the pits of his own furnace, surreal, sublime. I wonder what fancy new title the English dictionaries will give to a vegetarian who only eats human flesh? I like the sound of humanitarian myself, but that's already been used...

Oh, how you should hear the ten confessors and their confessions given unto me, what they would go on to say and tell us; almost as if they would say anything, everything they thought we wanted to hear just to be able to die quickly. That's why time was needed, a slow methodical approach and the time to extract only the genuine real truth for you cannot lie before God. How people live their lives, such dark secrets all now revealed to us. The Satanist had been at work for quite a while apparently; he told us how, that when he was a child he had stolen money from a church collection honesty box. What of that frail old lady, the owner of the pig farm you ask me now? Well, you'll be amazed at what pigs will eat.

Notes 8 - Dr Cerys Davies

Tense and timeline are confusing me and the first paragraph of this chapter is almost celebratory in tone. He appears to have come to Canada by an indirect route from Spain and some period of time has elapsed before his arrival. More importantly the writer catalogues plenty more murders before he arrives in Canada. He seems to spend a good deal of time in Canada, and seems to go on a killing spree while he is there. His clever masquerade of normality allows him to blend in with society quite easily. His time in Spain has rejuvenated him. Now he is undoubtedly using the false passport the Russian man had previously supplied in Bulgaria. But to get into Canada he would need an entry visa, so how did he acquire one? Has he re-connected contact with the sex traffickers, the Russians and his family from Manchester?

Gabriel 13's latest justification for writing the memoirs is to assist the police with their investigation. However, he feels humiliated at having to do so, despite the memoirs having been written and delivered long after the events described within them had taken place. It is also another twist in his game of catch me if you can. He asks us if we know how big our missing persons list has become, and suggests that it must now be a very long list because of his actions. Just how many people he has killed may never be discovered; it could be in the hundreds. If so, surely something would have happened, some kind of event that would have drawn the killer to our attention before the manuscript even appeared?

Certainly he is mutilating the corpses, and cautiously disposing of them; he does not want to make any mistakes or risk displeasing God by failing to follow his commands. He mocks us by saying he is in love with us, that he is happy, fulfilled and complete. At the same time he brags about the method by which he transports the tattooed flesh of his victims; apparently all quite undetected. Once the memoirs are published, however, he will no longer be able to use the same methods, not that he appears to care one way or the other.

He has completed his first book, Ten Commandments written on the flesh of ten victims; he had to rewrite some pages so there could possibly have been many more victims. But he is still dissatisfied and now seeks to record false confessions from people in the throes of anguished death. He does not fear his own death by judicial execution, and only wants to hurt the families of his victims and to cause them further pain and emotional torment. He separates himself from the actions of suicide bombers of Islamic extremism, by saying, unlike them, he clearly believes that he is going straight to the kingdom of heaven afterward, once his task is complete. He manipulates a frail, lonely old woman in order to create a home-base he calls the cutch, which is nothing more than a torture and execution chamber. The use of the word cutch suggests a childhood upbringing around the Monmouthshire or Gloucestershire regions. The word cutch is local colloquialism, an idiom to mean a safe and comfortable place, which is ironic given the place he has created.

Let's take a look now at the murder and mutilation of the two lesbian girls (Canadian nationals, it appears) en-route to a holiday in the mountains. Is his method of stitching them together an imagining of his perceived immortal life, his sperm forever contained within a cycle of death and re-birth? I cannot find any reference to such an act of female mutilation in any of the scriptures, however. Did he continue to use the car in which he was picked up by the girls on his travels afterward, or had it been stopped for a routine check, or found abandoned by the Canadian police?

The slang and abbreviated term BSC (Back, Sack and Crack, a body waxing term) tells us he is removing his pubic hair. He describes himself as still being a good looker, which is a description normally reserved for women, rather than men. There are sex parties too, weekend orgies in which he is in his convincing female persona, acting out all his old sexual fantasies again. This includes a need to be sexually abused by others. His fascination with shemales resurfaces. He is cross dressing and playing sexual mind games. For most of his time in Canada, I am convinced he was living as a female. Does the old farming woman think he is really a woman, I wonder?

These are well organised secret parties and we know Gabriel is socialising as a shemale amongst rich and powerful people. This is a man who turns himself into a butterfly, who has the ability to transform himself in to a beautiful woman effortlessly without pubic hair but with his penis intact. But the reference to his 'by now beautiful cleavage' puzzles me. If he has not had breast implant surgery, the other possibility is a hormone-based drug of the sort that would be used for transgender procedures. Were these drugs prescribed? Or has he managed to obtain synthetic oestrogen elsewhere, perhaps online?

God only seems to address Gabriel 13 when he is in his male persona, so when he transforms himself into a female the voice of God is silenced. This fact may be the only reason that no single person in his new group of sexual socialites has been murdered; he had no instructions from on high to obey. As a woman he feels more complete, yet he continues to exist as two totally different personalities, one male, and one female. As the female part he is able to enjoy sex without the cruelty and brutality. Although he does not love them he bonds with them as a sexual equal and can enjoy his sexuality on equal terms with others.

It is in this chapter that we find the first reference to the number thirteen. The number comes to him when he is in his male role, during a brutal rape. It takes the form of a communication from his self-created, deluded idea of God as he waits in turn as the thirteenth male to abuse the abducted virgin female. As a woman he enjoys consensual sex and as a man he attends secret rape and murder parties. Gabriel is now number thirteen, just as Jesus was number thirteen at the last supper; the number thirteen is the one that enters the kingdom of heaven for all eternity. Gabriel has, in effect become Jesus, the resurrection and the light. According to ancient biblical texts, the resurrected Jesus first appears before a woman, and it could be that there is a link to an event somewhere in the author's own life. Is he the resurrected Jesus who now re-resurrects himself as a woman?

We see the choosing of his first disciple Gabriel 13/1. We can safely assume that future disciples will be christened sequentially, from Gabriel 13/2 right through to Gabriel13/12, the maximum number of disciples allowed. In the fullness of time all twelve disciples will become united with their false Lord Jesus again. Of one thing I am certain: Gabriel may believe that he is the Almighty but his followers certainly do not (you'll fucking pay for that bitch). They are just there for the more mundane evil of killing for its own sake.

And now there are two killers working in perfect unison, loving the suffering and the lingering deaths of their innocent victims. Between them they have created tools and machines for the purpose of torture. For example, they impale the paedophile (if he ever was a paedophile in the first place). Then there was a woman who had an adulterous affair, a woman who they attached to a machine, and the homosexual man with his flesh sliced away. There was the Satanist too, no doubt some young college student experimenting, or just out to have a laugh with his friends - burnt to death and then eaten. This latter case is the first "evidence" of cannibalism, or at the very least a mention of such an act since the poem BILE.

There is respectful reference to the homosexual man, in language just as polite as used in describing the Muslim and Roma girls, although his treatment of the man is anything but respectful. The homosexual appears to have been murdered either because of sexuality or to extract the sort of confession that would suit the needs of the new book of human flesh. Our killer has never claimed to be gay, and is either male or female at any given time. This isn't really about God; it is about having fun together, he and his disciple simply "children at play". We are left with some information: that the book of flesh and a series of audio recordings and films of these tortured confessions are among us somewhere. He tells us that when the book of flesh is discovered, he too wants to be there to see our faces. As to his final reference to the old lady who owned the farm and of her final destiny, it is entirely possible that the bodies of all his victims in this context were fed to the pigs.

Summary

A male, now circulating predominantly as and/or known as, or possibly living as a female. Prescribed medication, a synthetic estrogenic for breast enlargement. Childhood origins from the South Wales area or the Gloucestershire region of England.

Confessions within text: Abducted young Canadian girl. Repeatedly raped. Bled to death from a deep throat incision. Two lesbian Canadian holiday makers: method of killing unknown. Bodies mutilated. Alleged male Canadian paedophile: impaled. Gay Canadian Male: multiple knife wounds. Canadian occult male: burnt alive. Adulterous newlywed female Canadian student: sexually and mechanically brutalised. The owner of the pig farm, older and retired Canadian woman: murdered and body then fed to the pigs.

References also to an unsubstantiated but numerous and multiple previous series of sexual attacks and murders, all of which were committed before arriving in Canada. Further reference to six deaths amounting to a total of ten murders that took place within the confines of the Cutch. Reference to a further unknown number of abducted girls murdered at the coven.

BSC: a term used widely within the British gay community and describing a body waxing process. Back, sack and crack, referring to pubic hair removal from the back and genital areas.

Cutch: Welsh dialect though an English word, meaning comfort and safety but used locally in the South of Wales or English border regions of South Wales. 'In your cutch' in reference to a dog instructed to lie on its bedding or 'Give us a cutch' meaning to give someone a cuddle or a hug. 'In the cutch' a place of soft bedding, a relaxing lounge area.

Synthetic oestrogen: any of several major female sex hormones produced primarily by the ovarian follicles, capable of inducing oestrus, developing and maintaining secondary female sex characteristics and a component of oral contraceptives. Synthetic oestrogen is used in medical male-to-female transsexual breast enlargement procedures.

Possibility to consider: Is the personal conflict between self-vegetarianism and man-flesh consumption born of mere psychosis? Or are we receiving a moral dictation? I must consider the possibility that he is trying to teach us that our consumption of meat is no different than that of his consumption of human flesh. That for every act of human cruelty accounted for here, we too are guilty of such practices to animals; and that they equate to the same thing. Are the memoirs in reality a subliminal message about animal rights?

Speciesism: prejudice or discrimination based on species especially concerning discrimination against animals and the assumption of human superiority on which speciesism is based. To discuss...

PART ONE

Chapter 9

The Last Supper

I travelled to Mexico. I had released my first disciple by this point in time. He would become the founder of a most loyal recruiting agency for me later on. There would be thirteen of us, all over the world and in every corner of the world delivering God's justice, now today, enforcing His will on Earth. Thirteen of me, so poetic isn't it? I could actually finish the task as God had first commanded me. Not one book, but many books: a book for every country there is on the globe and all made out of human flesh, and contained within each book the all new ten audio confessions to accompany it. Consider it a free CD with each copy purchased, an additional gift just too say to say a thank you to all my readers. A sinner's skin from every country on the globe, and a confession from every sinner's skin as we peeled it from them. Ten sinners, ten confessions and a copy of God's law published in every country in the world. We had to buy new atlases as borders continually moved, countries split in two and new ones were created. I mean, take the Balkan region alone. All those former communist states now crumbling and creating so many new necessary business trips abroad. Asia, Africa and the Middle East: all present their own individual challenges. As soon as we had been we would have to return again, but that's democracy for you and you all have to, at some point in time, pay the price for this new freedom. There is no limit anymore. The world will fall to its knees and pray to the God it has forgotten, to the Christ that it betrayed and the chosen one Gabriel 13. For it is he who will deliver the revelations unto you as I do now.

An old, long-deserted former herder's chapel. A small modest building once used by farmers who found the need to seek guidance from our Almighty during the long storms upon the hills; the wrath of anger of Our Father in heaven. But long deserted now, deserted in this modern age of selfishness, this old building, forgotten by all and left to fall into ruin. A small mountain road with such beautiful scenery, quite stunning with all the mountains and the woods and the rivers flowing over the waterfalls. A cellar which is dark and damp, no windows and no light and completely sealed away from the outside world. People had been sleeping there, you could tell, maybe the occasional lost herder, maybe curious backpackers but who knows? For they had clearly not been there recently or for quite a while. Town was only two hours as the crow flies but to me the walk always seemed to last forever. The heat and the insects, not a pleasant experience those little bastards in Mexico and all aggravated by the heat at this time of year. But I stayed for a while without any disturbance. It became quite cosy in the end. Fixed it up a bit, the roof and stuff. Bolted back down the steel cellar door that someone had previously crow-barred open, these poor misguided souls who feel the need to loot God's wealth.

And then one day I look up to the sky and I see the most beautiful picture with the clouds forming before me, all colours of the spectrum as the storm was coming, black, blue, red and yellow and I saw Him amongst it all. I saw Him for the very first time. God would speak to me frequently but I had never had a vision like this before and I saw the Lord Jesus at His last supper, the original number 13 smiling downward toward me, reassuring me that He was there for me and almost as if He was waiting for me to come to Him, to join with Him. In a flash I knew my work was nearly complete. I was free to retire now and my disciples would continue the tasks for me, recruiting more and more and more disciples in turn and I could finally sleep, to be with my Gift again, to see her and to be allowed to love her. I am becoming old now. I'm balding slowly and my hair is that of a wig. But I am her now.

I, a unique creation had changed myself throughout the years. I had one last piece to alter, a very big change that I had put off for many years, my own personal sacrifice of flesh, and now I felt ready to be completed, to go to the Lord Jesus. He had revealed himself to me. He, that betrayed son of God, did this mean I was going to be betrayed as well?

The Last Supper revealed to me upon high, I saw it with my own eyes, the twelve disciples and my Lord Jesus sitting amongst them and smiling down to comfort me. I thank you Lord Jesus for my life, I thank you Father for giving me a purpose. I thank you for saving me from the dark times and choosing me as your messenger, your new messiah and for appointing me as Gabriel. I pray that I have done all that you have asked and that in these last few years you will guide me further as your servant, to do Thy will. My time is short now for I am older and I am weaker. I have become so very ill My Lord. Deliver your final command upon me soon. My father, thy will be done. Amen.

I had eleven in the cellar in total by now. All of them slowly starving to death at different times, begging and pleading for their miserable lives, smashing up against the floor and door. I listened to them all dying one by one, with the noise just fading over time. I took this first eleven very quickly, all eleven of these lost souls within eighteen weeks of each other. I had rigged up a pipe from the spring behind, just a slow drip of water running into the cellar, just enough to keep them alive for as long as I could. Eleven naked sinners, all of different nationalities and all begging for their miserable fucking little lives to be spared. How fucking tedious they can be sometimes. A fine collection from all over the world it was. Travellers and holiday makers, backpackers and a curious law student on a gap year, no one that would be missed too soon, no one who would raise an interest and all of them travellers. All known at some point to the local bars but all who had announced to have soon travelled onwards.

You overhear their stories in the clubs and bars. You buy them a beer or two. They say to you "Well then, I'll maybe go here or maybe I'll go there," and you know straightaway that no one is expecting them to return home so very soon. Months could pass before suspicion would arise at their disappearances - I wonder how so-and-so is, we haven't had a postcard for a while have we dear? And I wasn't staying here for months, was I? Staying only just long enough to create my glorious art. I always had some new art project or other to do. I love art, it's about expression you see. Art always has to say something doesn't it? Never lonely and always busy, never bored. You can't get bored. How can you be bored with all these projects to complete. The backpacker, always looking for that next free invite to that weekend's barbeque, so easy these lot and such an easy prey. Always having money with them, bank cards and an endless supply of new documents. I lived a humble life in Mexico but it was a good life and I had good times, but for those fucking insects.

I had time to reflect on my early feelings, when I was choosing my first victim, before I had tasted the actual kill. When I tried to establish some ground rules and when I tried to control the monster inside me, and to be disciplined in the art of killing, but you see there are no rules now and there is no monster inside me. There is only Gabriel and I am God's chosen servant, only God is within me.

Starvation was an art indeed. Weeks of just listening to the dying, the dying one by one slowly below me, begging for life as I had never heard it before. A snake pit of starvation beneath me in the pits of hell. Even the impaled paedophile at the cutch accepted his end; he confessed far too easily, his need to end his suffering quickly. I forbade it. He wanted death, therefore he had to suffer more, no easy way out for his life's choices, every word he bleated out, recorded forever. But the starving; they beg don't they, they despair and they want to live and they try to survive. They eat each other eventually - I know, isn't that pathetic? And I had a disciple to teach, one who had proven worthy; there is no time for a weak stomach within the work of the righteous, for those who follow God's commands. You see we are psychopaths for a reason: to remove our feelings of guilt and disgust or any unfounded flash moment of pity for the victim. For what we do you cannot afford to have feelings, you cannot be in this line of work and waste time on human emotion. Wake up and smell the coffee here.

Oh, that party, that party of the first thirteen, the chosen twelve at my own hand and my farewell to them later. You cannot create something this awesome, something so huge like this, so utterly unique and all stay together. We, The Gabriel Sect must separate. We had to do this to survive ourselves. We have fled to every corner of the world now and will not have contact with each other again in this life. We will only read in the newspapers of each other's work and possibly I may do the occasional prison visit. We have a code and I have given you the clue to that code, a code of conduct and we have our secrets. We know when it is the work of our own, the Gabriel Sect, there is a sign that alerts us all, you must understand this. The party we had, all thirteen of us together for the very first time, think of it as our first seminar or of our first Gabriel Sect congress.

I delivered unto them the rules and they will obey me, to stick to the path of the righteous without fail and without any diversion. To die if necessary and to die in total silence, the martyr dying, sat in the chair without uttering a word of our secrets. We are a sect that will now grow to be the largest church in the world, this we promise you all. A church committed to the destruction of all sinners, to absorb the evil from within your lives and to create a pure new world free of sin, a sponge to mop up your spillage of wrongdoing. Year zero and the new Garden of Eden has been created, once again on Earth.

The punishment for betrayal is death, the most hideous and revolting you will ever witness, more painful and slow than anything I reveal to you here in my memoirs. Then the death of the family and the family of that family, oh fear not for the disciples of Gabriel will never speak to you. The followers of Gabriel die silently; there is no punishment you have, your electric chair or your gas chamber, your injections or your ropes, there is nothing you can do to us, absolutely nothing. Tasty, I can smell your piss.

We took a coach en route to a KKK gathering; we infiltrated them and took them all. The thirteen working together as one for the very first and the very last time, a rite of passage to prove themselves worthy of Gods' commands, to prove their loyalty to Gabriel. It was a stupendous event, our party. It was a recreation of the burning pits of hell. All of them tied together and burnt as one in a huge final fireball, the burning of those sick twisted fucked-up white supremacists. God had created life in Eden, the original Eden in Africa, the origin of black people who would spread life across His almighty mighty Earth. When you kill black people you have taken away God's children and I hate fucking Nazis.

Fear, yes fear of what may happen next, that helps you crush the mighty whites. These big hard macho bastards all of them turning into little sobbing snotty-nosed children before you. Infiltrate and set up a false meeting, an all-pretend fascist gathering. Travel on the coach with them and then just put one single shot through the drivers head from behind and without warning, an instant spontaneous death. You see the Nazis say never tickle with the hand but punch hard with the fist, so I punched hard with my fist in return. See how they all crumble before you when you use their own words against them, these fucking insects. How they all tie each other up so willingly and without any question of what you ask of them. You tell them that it's a hijacking and you are demanding the release of a Black Panther colleague. You give them the belief that if they cooperate they will survive this; they can all live through it. A deserted quarry where they all tied themselves together and we just stood by and watched their mighty white empire of hate crumble. We would strike such fear into them that they, the organised white supremacists and those of their kind, would never recover again. This was the only time the thirteen would ever work side-by-side together and we had to create something monumental to celebrate that fact.

We would pour petrol over those terrified Nazis. We had seen what they had done to the innocent throughout history and now they were seeing what we are capable of doing back to them. We would pour petrol on all of them, but ignite just one, burn him alive first, just the one and allow the others to dry off in the sun. They would do anything to each other to survive, even kill each other when I asked them to do so. Imagine burning your own friend to death. Nazis, they are not nice people! They would fuck each other, they would suck cock and it was most monumental to watch indeed. We put them back onto the coach afterward with the corpses of their dead, just the seven who were left still alive. We doused the whole fucking inside of that coach in petrol, pouring it all over the pathetic whimpering little macho bastards and we smelt their shit and we smelt their piss. We let them dry off again and again re-dousing them again and again and so on, until we had to depart, and we had only one can left, a real shame.

And so the first and the last meeting of the first thirteen had to come to an end. That old quarry in the wilderness and a bonfire. The flames reaching up high unto the Lord and we watched their descent into hell from the hill tops. The light glittering up across onto the horizon, the stench of thick black burning rubber masking any smell of the burning flesh inside, this too was a real shame. The best part of any barbeque is always that smell of fresh flesh cooking and drifting across to you, carried on the air.

We were all brothers now, brothers and a family. Again I had a family but one that will grow and grow and grow. There is no birth control among The Gabriel Sect and we are here among you and we are everywhere, so be scared. Here for you below are the rules, as delivered by me to the twelve.

If a man beats his male or female slave with a rod and the slave dies as a direct result, he must be punished. But he is not to be punished if the slave gets up after a day or two, since the slave is his property.

Your male and female slaves are to come from the nations around you; from them you may buy slaves. You may also buy some of the temporary residents living among you and members of their clans born in your country, and they will become your property. You can will them to your children as inherited property and can make them slaves for life. But you must not rule over your fellow Israelites ruthlessly.

When you march up to attack a city, make its people an offer of peace. If they accept and open their gates, all the people in it shall be subject to forced labour and shall work for you. If they refuse to make peace and they engage you in battle, lay siege to that city. When the Lord your God delivers it into your hands, put to the sword all the men in it. As for the women, the children, the livestock and everything else in the city, you may take these as plunder for yourselves. You may use the plunder the Lord your God gives you from your enemies.

Slaves, obey your earthly masters with respect and fear, and with sincerity of heart, just as you would obey Christ. Submit yourselves for the Lord's sake to every authority instituted among men: kneel to the king, as the supreme authority.

Slaves, submit yourselves to your masters with all respect, not only to those who are good and considerate, but also to those who are harsh. Slaves, obey your earthly masters in everything; and do it, not only when their eye is on you and to win their favour, but with sincerity of heart and reverence for the Lord.

All who are under the yoke of slavery should consider their masters worthy of full respect, so that God's name and our teaching may not be slandered. If anyone teaches false doctrines and does not agree to the sound instruction of our Lord Jesus Christ and to godly teaching, he is conceited and understands nothing. He has an unhealthy interest in controversies and quarrels about words that result in envy, strife, malicious talk, evil suspicions.

A blessing on anyone who seizes your babies, and shatters them against a rock. And thou shalt eat it as barley cakes, and thou shalt bake it with dung that cometh out of man. Hath he not sent me to the men who sit upon the wall, that they may eat their own dung, and drink their own piss with you?

And ye shall eat the flesh of your sons, and the flesh of your daughters shall ye eat. And he went up from thence unto Bethel: and as he was going up by the way, there came forth little children out of the city, and mocked him, and said unto him, Go up, thou bald head; go up, thou bald head.

And he turned back, and looked on them, and cursed them in the name of the Lord. And there came forth two she bears out of the wood, and tore forty and two children of them. And he smote the men of Beth Shemesh, because they had looked into the Ark of the Lord, even he smote of the people fifty thousand and threescore and ten men: and the people lamented, because the Lord had smitten many of the people with a great slaughter.

And they carried the Ark of God in a new cart out of the house of Abinadab: and Uzza and Ahio drove the cart. And when they came unto the threshing floor of Chidon, Uzza put forth his hand to hold the Ark; for the oxen stumbled. And the anger of the Lord was kindled against Uzza, and he smote him, because he put his hand to the Ark: and there he died before God.

Judah took a wife for his firstborn, whose name was Tamar. And Judah's firstborn was wicked in the sight of the Lord; and the Lord slew him. And Judah said unto Onan, go in unto thy brother's wife, and marry her, and raise up seed to thy brother. And Onan knew that the seed should not be his; and it came to pass, when he went in unto his brother's wife, that he spilled it on the ground, lest that he should give seed to his brother. And the thing which he did displeased the Lord: wherefore he slew him also.

And, behold, one of the children of Israel came and brought unto his brethren a Midianitish woman in the sight of Moses, and in the sight of all the congregation. And when Phineas, the son of Eleazar saw it, he rose up from among the congregation, and took a javelin in his hand; and he went after the man of Israel into the tent, and thrust both of them through, the man of Israel, and the woman, through her belly. So the plague was stayed from the children of Israel. And those that died in the plague were twenty and four thousand.

Phineas hath turned my wrath away from Israel. He was envious with my jealousy among them, so that I consumed not the children of Israel in my jealousy. Wherefore I say, "Behold, I give unto him my covenant of peace and unto him, and to his seed after him, the covenant of an everlasting priesthood."

And they warred against Midian, as Jehovah commanded Moses; and they slew every male. And they slew the kings of Midian with the rest of their slain. And the children of Israel took captive the women of Midian and their little ones; and all their cattle, and all their flocks, and all their goods. And they brought the captives, and the prey, and the spoil, unto Moses, and unto Eleazar the priest, And Moses was wroth with the officers of the host. And Moses said unto them, "Have ye saved all the women alive? Behold, these caused the children of Israel, through the counsel of Balaam, to commit trespass against Jehovah in the matter of Peor, and so the plague was among the congregation of Jehovah. Now therefore kill every male among the little ones, and kill every woman that hath known man by lying with him. But all the women and children that have not known man by lying with him, keep alive for yourselves."

Notes 9 - Dr Cerys Davies

Our narrator has so far travelled extensively throughout the United States and Canada and has also spent a considerable amount of time in Spain. He has also been to Serbia, Romania and Bulgaria and possibly numerous other unnamed Eastern European countries, as well as Turkey and/or Greece. Given the description of his sexual activity with his former partner, his first victim, I sense that this murder was in The Netherlands and or surrounding areas. By chapter nine he has arrived in Mexico.

He has released, as he puts, his first disciple Gabriel 13/1 who is to become a recruiting agency for him later on, to bring in more disciples. There will ultimately be twelve disciples in all four corners of the world. He sees this recruitment as necessary to complete God's commands and all of whom will continue the work he started, his collection of flesh and the tortured confessions of the victims. The idea is linked to the Book of Revelation in the Holy Bible, which speaks of the end of all creation. The final revelation will be made by the chosen one, Gabriel 13.

He asks us to believe that Asia and Africa have now also become part of this creation for God. I am convinced that during this period he is still on the American continent and is being supported and hidden by this group of rich and powerful Canadian friends, a brotherhood of sexually deviant criminality. I mention this because I see no logical reason for him to recruit disciples and then continue to travel. There is now no real need for him to travel and risk capture, particularly since he has this united brotherhood of support available to him on home turf. No, I am convinced that after Mexico, or wherever he may find himself later, he will return to the security and cover offered to him in Canada. While travelling across borders is a risky venture, he does so in the guise of a female Canadian traveller. This undoubtedly will arouse less curiosity or suspicion. He will be travelling by rail or road and remains within the borders of Canada and The United States with its bilateral, liberal and co-signed entry agreement, and English as the first language.

He has seen his first vision/hallucination? Jesus at the last supper awaits him and it is with this vision in mind he decides to retire. But retire from what? Perhaps he is merely retiring from killing personally, and is handing over responsibility for future murders to others, commanding them to do his work but with the blood on their hands rather than his own. But how could a man with such profound drives to torture and kill simply walk away from fulfilling his desires? It may be that his prayer offers a clue. "I am older and I am weaker now," he say. "I am ill." We realise that time is moving on for him, that he is in his late forties or mid-fifties, though still relevantly young, so this could be a reference to a terminal illness. Is he in fact now dying? Or is this the death of him (the male persona) and the birth of her (the female persona), which suggests that his perception is that his male persona is ill. We must remember, too, that as a woman he hears no voices, no instructions from God. Is the female part taking control and now becoming the dominant personality? What is the monster inside him to which he refers, him or her? Given his extreme hatred of women, this monster has to be the woman within him, the woman he can no longer control like his female victims and that, instead, she is now taking over. Gabriel 13 is far too proud to even consider the possibility that internally, it might be the psychopathic male personality.

The Gabriel Sect is formed in chapter nine, a group of men who will seek to bring incredible cruelty and sexual violence to the world. They have one guiding principle only, which is, never to speak of the sect for Gabriel 13 has laid down his laws and the price of betrayal is death. A secret sect with a secret code. Other than the one occasion they all met, when the sect was formed, they are instructed to go their separate ways. The sect's rite of passage is just as much a necessity as the rite of passage of Gabriel.

His hatred of right-wing extremism, and of white supremacy, has fuelled this mass murder of the Ku Klux Klan members. This will most certainly be a hatred that guides his followers, together with God's Ten Commandments, and form the basis of the sect's murderous activities. I have to ask myself if these thirteen men, the chosen disciples, are they of African or Caribbean origin, or at the very least a significant number of them? This, as they have been elected to crush the mighty whites. This new family will grow and grow as the disciples in turn take their own disciples, to train them in turn in the art of human torture and butchery.

Biblical text, both the old the new testaments is retold verbatim. The text is unaltered, just as though the writer is telling us that God's word can never be questioned or altered, the words cannot be updated or modernised in any way. He sees the original texts as a beautiful affirmation of his mission to murder, and the manual if you will for the work of the murderous group, The Gabriel Sect.

I have pored over these biblical references for many hours and I can find no relevance for them within the wider context of these memoirs, other than as a guiding set of principles for the disciples. In order to create an organisation of like-minded psychopaths, Gabriel 13 is aware that he must maintain their support and interest; he is wholly aware that the guiding principles are those of hate and suffering. But the rules are presented in a random order, which makes little sense to the casual reader, as they must be given; they are the creation of a paranoid psychotic mind. Will "The Thirteen" use these texts to recreate the events contained within them and as detailed within them? Will all be revealed?

I restate them here as follows, in the order in which they appeared within chapter nine of the memoir:

Biblical References: Old and New Testament.

Exodus 21:20 If a man beats his male or female slave with a rod. Leviticus 25:44 Your male and female slaves are to come from the nations around you. Deuteronomy 20:10 When you march up to attack a city, make its people an offer of peace. Ephesians 6:5 Slaves, obey your earthly masters with respect and fear. Peter 2:13 Submit yourselves for the Lord's sake to every authority instituted among men. Peter 2:18 Slaves, submit yourselves to your masters with all respect. Colossians 3:22 Slaves, obey your earthly masters in everything; and do it. Timothy 6:1 All who are under the yoke of slavery should consider their masters. Timothy 6:3 If anyone teaches false doctrines and does not agree to the sound instruction. Psalms 137:9 A blessing on anyone who seizes your babies, and shatters them against a rock. Ezekiel 4:12 And thou shalt eat it as barley cakes, and thou shalt bake it with. Isaiah 36:12 Hath he not sent me to the men that sit upon the wall, that they may eat. Leviticus 26:29 And ye shall eat the flesh of your sons, and the flesh of your daughters. Kings 2:23 And he went up from thence unto Bethel. Samuel 6:19 And he smote the men of Beth Shemesh, because they had looked into the Ark. Chronicles 13:7 And they carried the Ark of God in a new cart out of the house of Abinadab. Genesis 38:6 Judah took a wife for his firstborn, whose name was Tamar. Numbers 25:6 And, behold, one of the children of Israel came and brought unto his. Numbers 31:7 And they warred against Midian, as Jehovah commanded Moses.

Summary

Group of twelve men travelling from Canada to the USA, one or more of whom recently joined or infiltrated a right wing white supremacist group in the United States. This group of twelve are possibly all Canadians, some of them black, but all of whom are anti-racist activists. A man or woman of approximately 50 years of age who has travelled south from the USA to Mexico by road or rail and holding a Canadian passport is somehow associated with this group of twelve. A man or woman who can quote biblical text verbatim. A man or woman fitting this profile who may have a terminal illness.

Confessions within text: United States of America. Murder of bus driver. Killed by a single bullet shot to the head. Unknown number of white supremacists: sexually assaulted and burnt to death. Mexico: nine unspecified travellers, backpackers. Murdered by starvation. One foreign gap year student: starvation.

KKK: Knights of the Ku Klux Klan. A secret white supremacist organisation founded in 1866. Active in the southern states of the U.S.A. Hate crime directed against blacks, Catholics, Jews, and all non-Americans.

PART ONE

Chapter 10

Revelations

Oh, do congratulate yourselves, for you have made it thus far. A pat on the back for lasting, keeping with me until this, the final chapter, or so you thought. Why don't you all take some group therapy time now and have a big group love hug thing, comfort each other. So now for you, I'll begin with the end then.

Delivered to me by God are two Americans; backpackers seeking water and rest. The whore waited roadside whilst I took him to the small fresh mountain water spring to the rear of the chapel. I hit him hard, hard down onto the back of his head with a rock. I bound him and I dragged him back down to the old chapel by his feet which I'd tied at the ankles. I stripped him, dropped him down into the cellar and then I left him. I left him there in the darkness to awake to the stench and horror that he would find aside him within the pit. Closing the heavy steel trap door on top of him above, and padlocking the two metal shaft bolts, I dragged over the old mouldy damp shepherd's rug that had been left there for years. The rug helped only to keep the smell at bay, can you imagine how many flies there were?

I went back to the roadside, 200 yards not much more where she still sat there waiting for her water. Patient little thing this one was and completely oblivious to the new world of horror that was now surrounding her, just so naïve, and I even apologised for having taken so long. So polite she was to me with her reply, especially considering she was a Yank. "Hey that's cool man," she said and I gleamed a smile back and just said, "Yeah baby, that's cool, but you're totally fucking hot aren't you?" She didn't seem to know if I was just having a joke with her at first, a joke maybe about the hot weather in implying she was hot from the heat. She didn't then, after the following pause of silence from me, know where to look or what to think really. Almost blushing back at me she was, hiding her eyes and looking straight downward toward the dirt.

She looked absolutely divine sat there on this rock in the shade. White bikini and that yellow wrap-around sarong she used as a skirt, and her in walking boots, yes walking boots. The kind hikers wear with heavy long socks. A strange sense of fashion indeed but actually one that was a real turn-on for me. She was positively sexy, the women who I would like to look like, the girl that gets anything she wants just through a single smile. I stared hard back at her, intimidating her deliberately for a while and all without saying a word, all in silence. Starring at that white tight close-cut bikini and those nipples poking through, her nipples making fun at me.

They seemed to grow harder and bigger as I just stared back at them, maybe the fear was exciting her too. I'd love nipples like that, like hers were that day. I'm proud of my cleavage, it's not too big and not to small, I never exaggerated myself. I had tits that didn't attract too much attention under a heavy loose jumper or a man's jacket, but tits enough nevertheless, to drive men wild inside a black strapless bra. You see I liked men caressing them, holding my tits and how they, the guys would always all too soon, drop their hands down to my crutch, crushing and gripping my hard cock as if they hadn't eaten for months. Her tits were really firm though, breaking out of her bikini, so clear to view. She must have known what she was doing for men dressed like that and blonde too, so very blonde and so angelic looking. I've gone blonde now because of her and I thank her personally for that.

"Let's not be shy about it. I want your tits," I laughed, and as she stood up fast to run I grabbed a large clump of that silky soft blond hair and wrenched her toward me. With my left hand I pulled off her shoulder strap and I groped it, felt it and had it, that awesome fucking firm tender American white breast. Then you could smell the fear, that fear and panic that just excites you so much, makes you so fucking hard and explosive. I keep telling you this don't I? You can smell their fear. So that bitch starts shouting, shouting and shouting and screaming out for him. Screaming deafeningly like only young girls can do, that high pitch earache noise, that screeching sound, all out of control and hysterical. His name, the basement boyfriend is not important here and is of no relevance at all. What is important to you dear piggy wiggy, is her because I pulled her hair downwards to my waist height and I dragged her by it, still screaming out his name and making me feel all cave-man like inside.

I dragged her by that hair on her hands and knees. The more she would scratch at my arms and lash out at me with those sharpened finger nails, the harder I would pull, the further downward I would push her. She soon learnt to follow just like a dog being lead trained, giving in to me and my tugging and pulling at her hair and all this without any respite. Half walking and half crawling she was and at times, yes, I confess I dragged her flat on the ground. Can you believe it, dressed up like that to travel around and asking me for it? If I wasn't going to give it to her, then someone else was definitely going to. Someone else would have had her very soon and also showed her some respect, this was for sure. I was the one who was going to have her, here and now, and not anybody else. She was mine now and I did, I gave it to her it. I pushed her over an old fallen tree and I gave her it, go on, use some imagination here, respect that is.

Immense it was, especially sitting down afterward just as she had in the shade minutes before, smoking a cigarette but now just observing and watching her. Watching her thereafter trembling and shaking and sitting in a foetal position with her back against the log crying so uncontrollably that she was dribbling onto her breasts, the breasts that she was now so desperately trying to cover up out of sight from me by wrapping around her arms. She was muttering endless bullshit at me and still asking me for him, rocking back and forth like a rocking chair. "Okay," I said, "let me finish my cigarette first and then I'll take you to him" and I did do this for her as Gabriel does not tell lies.

Yes, I had to push her through the door of course. She came quite voluntarily at first following behind me, and she was almost lead trained already. I suppose I had done the worst I could to her in her eyes, so what more could happen to her now. She wanted and she needed to believe he was just sat inside waiting for her and she could run over to him, crying and tell him all her tales and woes. But when she got to the door, no, she wouldn't go in, as if Gabriel's home, my home was a place for her to fear somehow. I've absolutely no idea why.

She heard him banging up onto the old steel trap door from below ground. So beautiful it was, her falling to the floor on hands and knees with her hands placed flat on top of the old rug above, as if she could actually touch him beneath, feeling him touching her hands back from the depth down below. A real moment of emotion between the two; real love it was, caught in a moment of time. Ooh, what a perfect arse she has stuck up in the air for me, bent over before me and stuck up toward my face. All this as her tears continued to fall to the floor. I remember well her words to him, she loved him and she wanted him back and I therefore agreed to this. I promised her with all my heart that they would both be together again very soon. He must have loved her deeply too, I feel, because he never said, he never uttered a word to her about what was down there with him. Him now living there amongst the rotting flesh like that. Those corpses all having fed on the rancid rot of the dead ones before them. Maybe he didn't want to scare her, maybe he thought escape depended on her not leaving him down there all alone, or maybe if he knew that his death was certain she would not then try to flee herself. So many 'maybes' here, always 'maybes' and 'if onlys'; such is life.

I had remembered all my messages and the holy instructions of my scribbled notes, all that I had written on the scrap of paper in Spain and had been forced to dispose of, to burn it all and to destroy any trace of it. I'd recited by rote every word of it, every part over and over again and again. If it was never required of Jesus to write the Bible, then surely it is not necessary for me to write anything either. All this writing stuff is for others to do now. The deal I made with her was clear enough, it was straightforward and upfront and it wasn't complicated in any way. I had bought a typewriter, all posh it was but there was no electricity up here in the hills, so the new typewriter remained a necessity, but a manual one. I'm such a bad writer, always so many typos that fucked it all up when I tried. White correction fluid is a wonderful thing, all my poor spelling as well so I guess I should have worked harder at school when I had the chance. No, not now a problem at all, for the little American blonde girl was going to write for me. She is my new amanuensis and my own personal scribe. I would dictate my words to her exactly as I had remembered them and she would type them down for me. We were a perfect union together.

Never tried to run this one, no never at all and not once. She was chained for most of the day but I did take her out for several walks in the woods, and I'd always watch her piss and shit before I brought back inside, that cute little American garden sprinkler of hers. The rule was very clear and made known on day one and that one rule was simple, if you run he dies; he dies the most horrific death that you can imagine and I promise you this. If you try to run you will not get further than 100 yards before I will burn him to death for you. Exciting, so fucking exciting having power over her like this.

Amazing what she had in her rucksack though, for a hiking holiday I mean, the usual shit but sex movies on a camera memory card of them both, the two of them together, famous public places at night and these vids of them fucking each other there. I suppose some people collect postcards or even nipples and for them, well they just collected sex films of themselves in public places. Most bizarre what couples get up to together in private. I washed her and I dressed her up nice every day, I would make her look good and I would fuck her afterwards. I can still hear him sobbing below, the first few times I screwed her up above him. I would put on her makeup for her, I brushed her long blonde hair for her because I needed a pet after Sparky had fallen asleep, and I had a new one now. Again fortunately for me, a very loyal one, I had quite a knack for picking the best dogs. I cared for her and made her feel all very special and safe. If she did as I asked she would be let free again.

Occasionally it would get angry with me, the thing down below, but now she was all mine and what the fuck was he actually going to be able to do about it? She began to write for me, for some parts of these memoirs, our own special private and personal memories and I would just fuck her slowly and gently as she typed. I'd masturbate onto her naked back and shoulders or cum on her face or in her hair. She would sometimes drip tears onto the paper, so many tears would be falling, falling like heavy rain as she typed away. Shafting her from behind was exquisite as she cried away whilst writing. I would take her to the stream and wash her down, hand wash her clothes for her and why not? She had had plenty of clean soap and stuff in that rucksack when she arrived and I liked to clean her, I liked to make her smell all fresh and clean for me for the next time she would want to make love together. Her young skin was perfect, so soft and faultless.

I told her that we had to write the book of my insanity together. The story of my own fall into madness and of course, all of it a work of great fiction. As soon as the book was finished she was free and I would turn myself into the police, and also tell them who I was. Just as I had promised her I would, I did do this later on. I did keep my promise and I did go to the police just as I said I would, and yes, I did help them with their inquiries. I'll tell you about that later. I just needed her for and only ever wanted from her, the completion of my new book before they the police would lock me away forever more. I told her that it would take about one year to complete, give or take some time, to finish it and so she was quite safe. I suppose knowing she had a full year now at the least left gave her the strength she needed to stay alive. She had a whole year now to work something out, to hatch a freedom plan with her boyfriend or a year in which someone would come and look for them, the arrival of the rescue party I'm sure she would dream about every night. She could free him in time and they would run like the wind together, happily in love and finally free and running like wild deer into the sunset. Such a wonderful dream. I wish I had had a dream like that once; running into the evening light hand in hand and in love. But with all this dreaming placed aside, I knew that just one small mistake on my part and she was happily going to smash my skull in and kill me.

I would sleep under the stars as she was locked away inside, always chained by the neck. Those beautiful boned shoulders I would feed upon. Her telling her pitiful little story every night to him down below. They would whisper to each other throughout the night and long into the early hours until she would finally fall asleep on the door curled up above him - making their desperate escape plan between the floors. Him, always keeping his secret, or maybe he did tell her, told her what she needed only to know at the very least. He must have heard me talking; every word I was dictating of my story to her. Maybe he too believed it was all just a story. But who actually gives a fucking shit anymore. Do you, do you really care? I know that you my dear reader may be disgusted by what you have read here and I also know that many of you are just like me and will be sat there reading this with your fingers gently stroking your clitoris and wetting your seat through.

She was a good writer. I mean not an author or anything like that kind of quality, but she was a competent typist and she'd worked in IT. She was a journalist and she said she had gained her English high school diploma. Maybe she had just said that to impress me, to show me that she could do a good job; this in thinking it would keep her alive for even longer, who knows why and who really fucking cares anymore. I do have to give her credit for at least 90 per cent of these memoirs. I mean fair's fair to the lass and she deserves her cut for it, for all first nine chapters are of her own tender hand. Obviously she didn't write the bits about her personally that you find here and of the truth of what was really in the pit below her. What was the point in scaring her? I needed her to believe that she would be free at some point, to be free and to be reunited with him again. "This was just a sick fiction story dear," I would say, "and with no truth in it at all." I find this so hilarious now when I look back and come to finish the writing of these memoirs. So fucking bored of hearing that name spoken; his name over and over and over again like she couldn't move on or get over him somehow. "Move on love," I would say, "you are all mine for the next coming year."

I got so bored of her talking about him as it was always in a present and future tense, so fuckin' tiring and boring. I claim credit for this bit you read written here before you, The Revelation of Chapter 10. I am very proud of her work, the writing she did for me and I don't mean to imply that my writing is in any way better than hers. At times when I read it back through it needs some more dragons and shit, yes I know this, to be a bit juicier for the reader's eye. But no, to have re-written just a single word of hers, the first nine chapters, would have somehow seemed blasphemous to me. Just changing any single word or altering anything of the text and flow created of her own tender hands, no I won't do that for that would spoil it. So I am sorry if it's all a bit messy and maybe a little confusing and yes sometimes all out of sequence but you just can't get the staff these days can you? I'm sure you will all manage to put all the pieces together and this is a task I leave for you to do. I can't spend too much time on the memoirs as I have my own and my second book to complete, you'll understand later.

Any who's, in a nutshell I'm now doing the typing and I'm getting a bit bored of it all. It's hard for me to remain focused. I can't think about what I want to say to you and type at the same time, to remember everything, remember the finer details like she could. So very difficult this writing lark. Writing a book would be a challenge but I'll try, I will try to do it just for you. I'll look forward to bringing you the seven plagues of Israel too, a little project for future years I think. A little something to keep me busy during those brief retirement years ahead of me when I'll need to drop off the radar for a bit. I will hide amongst other great Holy works, the original memoirs, and all the scraps of paper we worked on together, this American beauty and me. I'm even going to find the first book for you. For they are the words of your God and not for the likes of you and your police station filing cabinet where you will hide them away as evidence against God forever. I only tell you this stuff in case you wonder why you are reading a photocopied copy of Gabriel's own memoirs, DNA and tears, spunk and all that shit, you'll understand I'm sure.

And so to The Last Supper; the twelve down in the cellar and just one of those twelve still alive and being the noisy twat as ever. Seven days had now passed since they arrived, the American couple, and just as my master had created the heavens, the earth and everything above and around us, then so will she, that beautiful blonde American girl, the one chosen by me to be the scriber will create these my memoirs. All of what you read within these ten chapters was created in just seven very busy days, just seven days. On the Sunday when we she had finished the memoirs I fucked her more violently than I had ever done previously and I thanked her for the last time that I would ever have sex with her. I thanked her and congratulated her on obtaining her early release from her duties. I told her that she had completed all that I wanted of her fifty one weeks in advance, earlier than I had planned and that she was now free to be with him once again.

I fucked her on the top of that cold steel trap door just so he could listen to us together banging and thumping, shafting and pumping, fucking her so violently, smashing her up and down so hard on it and only there on that spot so that he too got a quick last wank in as well, for himself if he so wished. I took her cunt and I took her arse, I took her soiled wet knickers, those little white bikini panties and I stuffed them down her throat, taping her mouth shut and her arms tied behind her back with that same little white matching tight sexy top. That bikini top that I first saw her for all her glory in the first time we met.

We enjoyed hours of time together that Sunday until I finally slit her throat. I slit her just as I came up inside her, such perfect timing. I was so denied that one pleasure by the coven members during that rape party evening, always so many fantasies thereafter and all about cumming whilst slitting a throat. I wrenched her neck right back by that beautiful blond hair, her head limp and half removed from her torso, her shoulders slumped to the floor and I Gabriel watching her blood piss onto and out across the floor. Ramming my fingers down inside, trying to slow the stem of bleeding and to keep her alive just for a few moments more, to really get the most out of her final seconds alive, feeling that hot blood pumping all over my hands and listening to her drown in it. She was there before me drowning in her own blood. She thrashed about initially, this when I first sliced through and it was like riding a bucking bronco, I had to hold on really tight like when I was a child at the fairground. As she steadied I rolled her onto her back, she still gargling and still choking on her own blood. I raised her torso by the shoulders, her half removed head flopping backward to the floor and I fucked her down inside that cut, the same cut that I had sliced across her wonderful beautiful pure throat. Bony it felt at times and not at all like that warm moist cunt I was so used to and had finally used for the last time just moments beforehand. Then I ripped her clitoris away with my teeth. I ate her clitoris and I ripped off and ate her nipples with my own teeth, I ate it all, I fed on that fresh red meat clit and those nipples that I had so desired all for myself.

I have left my seed inside her for you all, for I want you to know that the story is real, for what I say here is the whole truth and the complete truth so help me God. You see my dear pigs it's the Americans, those two fucking American whores, the ones from the days when I had no guidance, for they already have my seed, the two victims from my early years when I had no real master above to guide me. I had left my seed for you at the beginning in an American and now I end with my seed inside an American. What were her last thoughts as she died I wonder? Slipping into death with no cunt left and a cock all the way down inside her slit boney throat, inside that gargling blood filled tunnel shooting my seed down into her lungs. I shit on her face afterward, maybe my arse above her perched inches away shitting on her was the last thing she would ever see. Imagine that thought, my shit falling down onto her poor lonely desperate dying face.

She did the most amazing blow jobs; boy could this American suck cock. I grant her that, it was almost as if I was her boyfriend again in the last couple of days and she had started to believe that she loved me too. Gentle and soft, taking her time with me, swallowing me and licking me clean afterward. Looking up at me and opening her lips wide, letting me see her swallow the cum she had milked into her mouth and rolling her tongue around inside mixing it all with her spit. You see, when I was pleased, I would throw down food to him and that made her all the more attentive and dedicated to pleasing me. The stench, believe me it was not a pleasant experience, open the door quick, throw and close again quick. He was so weak and didn't eat at all for the first three days, just groaning away, "Do everything he asks of you my love," he'd whisper to her at night. I heard it. I had raped her at will repeatedly that week, but then, after I fed him the first time, she became tender and almost consensual. She learnt within days that if she complied, he would then get some food and to her, this meant an escape together. Not a huge shopping bill for all this food, he was quite cheap to keep really, just some bread and cheese, a can of beer or two just to appear to be nice to him and always done in front of her.

To think when she died, he was still down there and dreaming of their freedom together, left there alone to starve in the darkness with the rats chewing at his toes and at his fingers. Those coming weeks of loneliness, the feeding on the rotten flesh of the one that had just died before, how did that feel I wonder? To think he hoped for her to still be alive, to be up there above him, to be waiting on her conversation that would never arrive again. Just as you, the sinners, had betrayed Jesus, I left him alone to suffer for if I had released him, even just for a second, he too would have certainly betrayed me. You see, believing that she had a full year to live, but we now know in reality it was only to be seven days, well this meant she never tried to escape, she just remained there inside and typing every word I said to her. She was writing a fiction novel about my insanity and she was so young this one and always so gullible enough to believe it, to believe it all was really just a work of fiction. I was quite insane to this cute fragile little blonde, for I've always found it so easy to fool the desperate and those in their moment of despair. Why don't you ask Nigel?

I'm not as good as her at writing am I, not quite the natural somehow that she was but I promise you that book at some point soon, sooner than you think. So much more to tell you and all missing from within these memoirs, a book of everything for you to finally get to know me, with guidance to the righteous and a warning of what awaits those who stray from the path. I have a title in mind; it's an interesting idea and needs must. Just as in the days we would castrate the sheep with a strong rubber band, a ring around the testicles and with great care taken not to trap the teats, I too am now in full circle. So to this, I am out there, I take what I want when I want and you too are a chosen, for you are my Revealer. Believe my story for it is the truth and it is all God's will, His command and all His work. Fear God for He is a jealous God and He is a vengeful God, my new friend.

My followers and all the chosen disciples will work now and I will rest. I will retire now and I will go to sleep whilst they write. They will create a new masterpiece for you and then another, recruiting and creating the books of flesh and they are all quite unstoppable. I have created my first masterpiece. I have the flesh and I have the audio recordings and now today I give it all back to you. It is all reunited here within this book. I wish you could see it. I want to share it with you now but your time will come, to see it as a real existing masterpiece and these next few days will be the time in which it will be revealed. I return home only for two unfinished works, two more souls to collect, those undeserving and the final piece of my life's work, the completion of the jigsaw and the final trial of the Judas. Ten Commandments and ten chapters revealed to you within The Last Supper. How special you are to be chosen?

Understand this; that I am complete now. God no longer talks with me for I am a God and I am Gabriel the chosen messenger of almighty God. I am the new Messiah and I am both Adam and I am also Eve. I am Jesus, the light and the resurrection and now I become the Virgin Mary for you. Live a good honest righteous life my friend for your name is now and for evermore the name of the Revealer. Keep your faith and you too shall enjoy your rewards within the Kingdom of Heaven.

Look up upon the heavens now and you too will also find Jesus. Look above you. I give to you the greatest work of purity ever created, my masterpiece of sinners and all my work re-united before you. You will remember me and the world shall tremble in fear for you have no choices, you shall all bow before me. This is only the beginning. I believe your first dog was called Sparky, wasn't it Brian?

Notes 10 - Dr Cerys Davies

This final chapter ten is named after what it is intended to be: revelations. The revelations are not only about his transformation of the man into the woman, but also an indicator of his plans for the future. The final chapter is a narrative of hate, of murder and sexual depravity. From memory, he can remember word for word quotes from the Old Testament just as he remembers each of his killings in minute detail. It turns out that he did not type up the memoirs himself, however, but that he used as his amanuensis the desperate young American girl on whom he perpetrates depraved acts of sexual violence. But she clings to the hope that if she does what she is ordered, to transcribe his psychotic rantings to the page, that she may somehow survive, and save her partner imprisoned amongst the decaying remains of the others below the room in which she is held captive.

This chapter is the pinnacle of depravity. The most extreme account yet of his brutality, in what he put this woman through - the sadistic mutilation and torture. As God created the world in seven days, he forces the girl to create these memoirs over the course of seven days, too. It is only this last chapter that he types and writes himself and after he has killed her. He allowed the girl to type the previous nine chapters to convince her of impending release. He has completed another masterpiece for God and in his conceit and arrogance he believes that the final section must be transcribed by himself alone, rather than dictated to another. He goes on to say that should the American girl's body ever be found, that he is proud to have left the trade mark of Gabriel and his sample, presumed to be semen, inside her. These memoirs are both an end and a new beginning for Gabriel 13.

He is absolutely convinced that these memoirs will lead to his formal identification and taunts us with the suggestion of his own arrest, but not that he will be brought to justice to answer for his crimes. He expresses indifference at this. It is not as much as inevitable, but as a necessary outcome; one more indicator of his lack of affect, an inability to feel human emotion.

It's worth noting, however, that he has limited linguistic ability to express in writing what he actually wants to say, which reminds us of his difficulties at school. I am considering the possibility that he has undiagnosed dyslexia. The phrase 'any who's' leaps off the page at me too, given that across the entire 40,000 words used in the memoirs, here we have a first snippet of Scottish dialect, whereas any other dialect is English regional dialect. Is this perhaps another clue? This one single Scottish phrase is certainly out of place. Could it be that one or more of his ex-partners who will burn just as the fox are from Scotland? And could Scotland be the locale of the final murder?

He carries the memoirs across the globe but ultimately leaves them to be found in Liverpool, in an act of bidding goodbye to his former life. He is complete now, he tells us, which could be a reference to surgical removal of his male genitalia - something he has clearly desired for a very long time. God no longer commands him, because he is a woman, a Goddess, The Virgin Mary. S/he has embraced a new life, and in partnership with a man who suspects nothing of her former life.

It appears, too, that PC Brian Wilkinson's discovery is not by chance but rather a meticulously planned operation. Gabriel, as a middle-aged blonde woman, believes she will go unnoticed and therefore able to watch Brian's every move. She also knows for certain that Brian will be on the beat on the night of the manuscript's discovery, and it is only with Brian that the manuscript is being entrusted. But why choose Brian?

The narrator, reborn as a woman, has known Brian's every move for a considerable period of time, and even knows the name of his first pet dog. How can Gabriel know so much about Brian, though? I have the sense that we will find out later, as if there is another story to be delivered that will join the missing pieces of the jigsaw. It is as a woman now that Gabriel 13 has returned to claim the final victims; probably I suspect, the two ex-partners who at the very beginning of the story, triggered his frenzy of hate. She sees that her mission is to create a final masterpiece, not only to celebrate the rebirth but also to set up the final trial of Judas.

Summary

A possible Scottish connection through use of dialect. Two recent abductions of women both known to each other and who may have disappeared on the very same day. A woman with blonde hair in her late forties or mid-fifties who travelled to the UK on a Canadian passport, direct by air from Mexico. A dyslexic.

Confessions within text: Murder of American couple backpacking around Mexico. Male, head injury and murder by starvation. Young female, violently sexually abused, body mutilated. Bled to death from a deep, near decapitation, throat incision. Reference to the planned killing of his ex-partners, both women and possibly in Scotland.

Any who's: Scottish dialect meaning anyhow, prominently used within the west land border region such as Gretna and Dumfries.

Amanuensis: person employed to write what another dictates or to copy what has already been written by another, such as a secretary.

Dyslexic: a variety of reading disorders associated with impairment, the inability to interpret spatial relationships in word formation, to integrate auditory and visual information.

Appendix: The Police Investigation

Look Up and You Too Will Find Jesus

Brian Wilkinson, that old retiring, well-loved, local police officer had not read the memoirs in full, not cover to cover, on that early morning of June 16th 2009. He had read just in part, scanned through and was taken ill by what he had found. Brian did not know until much later that evening that he was the one intended to discover the memoirs in person for he had never read the closing chapter which names him. He said to me when we spoke last in Liverpool some weeks ago, "I only found out three days later. I didn't know that first evening why the young lads from the station arrived at my house and said they had been assigned to watch me. They arrived, they, the boys assigned to protect me, round the clock 24 hours a day, but they wouldn't tell me why, well not the whole story anyway, just that some psycho was watching me." I remember his frustration when Brian told me, "I didn't want to be shut up at home. I wanted to be out there looking for him, doing something to catch him, you know, and getting that fucked up bastard."

You see, when Brian had called in his find to the station in Liverpool that morning, a very efficient administrator was on duty at the time. One who entered the words Gabriel 13 into the station log, and the typed entry of a word into the new, nationally connected, UK police forces computer (PNC) network. A single word that would trigger one of the biggest manhunts Liverpool had ever witnessed.

Unbeknownst to Brian, Scottish colleagues of the Dumfries and Galloway murder squad had sent out a nationwide appeal for help in solving two gruesome murders of women on June 11th, just five days before the discovery of the memoirs. The victims, Janette Sanders aged 41 years, and Marlette Barnes, 45 years, had both been found side by side and hung facing each other, in a wood just a few miles away from the small Scottish market town of Dumfries. Both women had been known to each other, both women's children had, as young children, attended the same junior school and both women had had a relationship with the same man many years previously.

Provisional autopsy notes and other reports showed that both women had been drugged and driven to the woods using an isolated dirt track, where only local knowledge of the area could have been used. Both had disappeared on the same day of June 11th during the morning between 8.30 am and 11.30 am. The estimated time of death was as recent as 2.00 pm that very same day. A walker and her dog had discovered the bodies at 6.30pm that evening. She had walked her pet as normal, as she would every evening in Marfield Woods. Who had these two women trusted so much that day? A male or female, trusted so much in fact, that they would both willingly travel with by car. It was surely a perpetrator with a most convincing story to tell both of them.

Neither of the woman had been sexually assaulted in any manner, were found to be fully clothed and there was no evidence of pre-mortis injury. They had both had their arms and legs bound, and had both been forced to stand on an old log just 5 inches in diameter before being asphyxiated. Both women had been throttled with a noose of thin plastic bale cord tied to a branch above them and they hung there with just their toes still able to reach the ground. An area below them had been cleared of leaves, and in the soft brushed clean earth below were scratched the words Gabriel 13.

"This was why everyone, the whole team arrived in minutes," said Brian. "The operator just told me to leave the house and wait in the road where I could be seen. I knew nothing at the time of the significance of my find. I knew my name was in the memoirs as the lads assigned to me told me, but all the rest, well not until three days later when we were all called in to a joint force meeting. Senior detective Sharon Neilson took me into her office. I mean it explained the level of the protection that they had given me but, well what can you say, I don't think I had anything to say at the time," recalls Brian later.

And had Brian read the last chapter of the memoirs, had Brian seen the killer's words 'look up and you too will find Jesus' he too would have seen what the forensics team saw with their own eyes later that day; scratched into the old wooden floor boarding above them, the numbers, a code that would launch the biggest ever international manhunt known. Using the scratched numerical message above, it was proved to be a grid reference, and identifying a nature reserve area in Mexico; the Reserva de la Biosfera Pantonas de Centia. This is a protected and isolated nature reserve. The reserve is off the main road and coastal route south to Campeche and between the towns of Frontera and Cuidad del Carmen.

Marlette Barnes, one of the victims to have been hung in the Marfield Woods, had borne two children to our wanted man. Both boys and now both orphaned; one of 26 years of age and the other of 24 years of age respectively. DNA taken from the sons of Marlette Barnes confirm that the boys are of the same father, a man who they said had grown up on a farm in South Wales.

It took a dedicated team of 12 officers just eight days to locate the killer's only surviving parent, his mother whose name or identifying features I cannot publish here, but a mother who had not seen her son since he was a teenager. The family consisted of four brothers, one of whom had died prematurely as a teenager following an incident involving a shotgun, and another who had grown up in the care of the local authority. As to her ex-husband, her first husband, he had apparently moved away following their divorce, to live in Lincolnshire when the boys were still very young.

And there, wall to wall and floor to ceiling inside the mother's house, photographs of only one child, conceived with her now-deceased second husband. The child, a girl who had aspired to be a glamour model and a professional dancer, a beautiful, stunning looking girl, a girl whose pet name was Angel.

Every detail that I had written in my provisional report and following the publication of the memoirs as a paper in 2011, within the Journal of Personality and Mind, Cambridge, have now proven to be factual. Despite the real full name of our killer being now known to us, positively known and without error, British law does not allow me to publish his name here. This is because the crimes contained within these memoirs, and as highly detailed as they are, remain only for now, legally unproven allegations. Until such a time that an arrest is made, and until a time when formal charges are pressed against Gabriel 13, can the publisher of this book release his name in print.

Operation Gabriel was launched as a unified Interpol police investigation to find and identify the victims named within the memoirs. An enquiry that continues to this day and has to date involved 816 professional senior homicide officers from 72 different countries. It is estimated that the operation has cost in excess of 23 million pounds for the UK task force alone and consists of over 19,275 written statements from credible witnesses (statistics correct at time of print; first edition). Three cases of imprisonment for murder convictions are now the subject of appeal in which those previously convicted wait an overturning of a standing conviction for wrongful imprisonment. Two of these cases are in Serbia and the third in Spain.

In Mexico police broke into the old farmer's chapel and there before them they found the crucified remains of Sandy Tomlinson, a 19 year old student who had disappeared in the summer months of 2008 whilst travelling in Mexico with her partner Samuel Govern, aged 23 years. Both had disappeared without trace during the summer recess from Detroit University, faculties of law and of broadcast and journalism.

The local farmers and shepherds had used the original building as a weather shelter and had later turned it into a chapel. They had made a wooden crucifix, made out of two old oak ceiling beams and standing about seven feet tall and then mounted solidly into a cemented rock pedestal. There before them, tied to the cross and mounted as in the crucifixion of Jesus, were found the remains of Sandy Tomlinson. Her body had been violently mutilated, her nipples ripped from her breasts and her genital region so extremely and badly damaged, that it was only investigative medical examination that later identified her original sex as female. She had been scalped, and all of her head-hair removed. Her throat had been so brutally cut that she had almost been completely decapitated. Further forensic examination revealed traces of sperm found deep within her wind pipe.

Below the remains of Sandy Tomlinson were found the imprisoned bodies of eleven other confirmed missing persons, one of whom is now positively identified as her former partner, the body of Samuel Govern. Samuel displayed signs of a head injury, though not a life threatening one and a detail common to the back of the heads of the other ten bodies found in the basement beside him. A steel trap door with two relatively new padlocks covered the opening to a drop below of approximately nine feet. There were no ladders or steps found to be in place, just an old rubber pipe that had at one time been connected to a fresh water spring some thirty yards to the rear of the chapel. The eleven victims found in the basement all had bites and flesh wounds consistent with human teeth and had at some point been cannibalised. The cause of death in all eleven cases was recorded as starvation. The other ten victims were later named and identified as foreign tourists, all with the exception of two native Mexican citizens, and all of whom had all been reported missing whilst backpacking in Mexico.

Julio Araujo aged 22 years, Student (law), Coimbra, Portugal.

Tricia Bennetts aged 27 years. Sport activities organiser, Nelson, New Zealand.

Donald Bryant aged 34 years. Football coach, Glasgow, Scotland.

Marisa Juan-Carlos aged 23 years. Nurse, Santa Clara, Cuba.

Samuel Govern aged 23 years. Student (Broadcast media), Detroit, USA.

Ernesto Graciano aged 31 years. Rope maker, Chinuahua, Mexico.

Aaldert Johannson aged 29 years. Mathematics teacher, Gronlingen, Netherlands.

Anuhea Luana aged 26 years, Power boat mechanic, Hilo, Hawaii.

Michael O'Donason aged 31 years. Sports shop worker, Dublin, Ireland.

Luis-Fernando Sandro aged 29 years. Forestry worker, Monterrey, Mexico.

Georgette Theresse aged 23 years. Ski instructor, Basel, Switzerland.

Sandy Tomlinson aged 19 years. Student (Journalism), Detroit, USA.

The sample of semen found inside the wind pipe of Sandy Tomlinson was cross matched to the United States register of human DNA, blood and sperm held on record. The sample was later identified as that of the same human semen found on two victims of an unsolved double murder: that of two American prostitutes in Los Angeles. Stephanie Clarks age 26 years and Siobhan Dowells aged 23 years, had both gone missing on a non-specified day during the month of August 2003. Their bodies were later discovered dumped down a storm culvert drain following the routine and yearly clearing maintenance conducted by the municipality in March of 2004. Both victims had been throttled and suffocated using an unknown method. Due to the cold temperature within the culvert and the lack of direct sunlight, DNA samples had remained present and had not degraded through time. Los Angeles is a Spanish name and translated into English means, the City of Angels.

Dragoslav and Zlatan Djukanovic, two Serbian brothers, were convicted in January 2004 following a seven month long police inquiry into the brutal beating to death of a homeless man in Geargov Park, central Belgrade. They had been arrested following a separate, and much later, drug related incident, one from which a routine search of the boys' family home found blood samples matching that of the victim on old clothing that had belonged to the victim, 57 year old Danije Milankovic, a known paedophile and a local homeless alcoholic. The brothers had always maintained their innocence, saying that they had come across the victim after he had been attacked and desperately tried to save his life. They had stolen a number of items from him afterward including clothing and his rucksack. They had not reported the incident to the police for fear that they would not be believed given their previous and plentiful convictions for other crimes, some of which had included violence. Dragoslav (now 26 years of age) and Zlatan Djukanovic (now 24 years) have been in prison since 2004 and are still to this day, awaiting release pending further appeal.

Spanish police had detained indefinitely a known 29 year old schizophrenic by the name of Amadis Antunez for the brutal slaying of a Murcian-based tattooist to whom he had owned money and had been known to previously threaten. He had broken into the tattooist's studio on the evening of September the 24th 2005 and had discovered the horrific crime scene inside. For some unknown, but purely psychiatric reason, he had confessed to committing the killing. Given Amadis Antunez's present mental state, if and when he is later cleared of this horrific murder, it is unlikely that he will ever be released. The search for a missing former Murcia based couple also continues: the strange and, until now, unexplained disappearance of Ernesto (aged 47 years) and Valentia Yessenia (aged 38 years), who had not lived together as a married couple for some time, but both had disappeared on the very same evening of September 24th. The identity of the murdered (and presumed to be now reported missing) person, the former right wing British ex-patriot from that same town of Murcia in Spain has never been established by the Police as his body has never been recovered.

Canadian Police have also reopened the inquiry into the death of an old woman called Henrietta Powell. It was originally believed she had died in a tragic farming accident in November 2007. She had supposedly, in her frail condition, fallen into a pig pen whilst feeding her animals. What remained of her body was recovered by two slaughter men who had arrived at the old quiet farm that day to collect livestock for slaughter. The pig farm, known locally as the old Pleasant Valley Farm, was seized under a compulsory sales order by Whitehorse Municipality for Housing as no descendants or family heirs to the farm could be traced. In November of 2009 the farm buildings were completely demolished and the site is now occupied by a community housing project consisting of 64 new builds. The name of the new development, the Birches Complex is now ironically referred to by local residents as the Cutches. The link between the farm and the alleged and probable identified location of that of the original cutch site, was not pieced together in sufficient time and only after the development of The Birches complex was completed. Regrettably, there is no physical evidence available to confirm that any crimes were committed in the Cutch when it was the old farm.

In the United States of America in the city of Jackson, Mississippi, police are still trying to piece together the strange and horrific circumstances surrounding the murder of a coach driver named as Eden Harris and the 23 passengers in his privately-owned coach. Harris was killed by a single shot to the rear of his head, and all of the passengers had been burnt to death. The burned-out remains of the vehicle were found in an old isolated and disused quarry on January the 3rd 2008. However, despite the known serious criminality of those on board the coach that day, (as members of a secret white supremacist sect, the KKK), investigation teams have so far met with a very solid and impenetrable wall of silence. Although their identities are now known, membership of the KKK is adamantly denied. Their membership of the Klan is unproven. There is no public explanation offered as to why this group of 23 men were all travelling on the same coach or to what their final destination and intention was on that fateful day. This investigation continues.

Jonnie Anderson aged 31. Farm labourer, Mansfield, Mississippi.

Simon Campbell aged 47 years. Chemical production worker, Natchez, Mississippi.

Brian Clark aged 45 years. Steel fabricator, Camden, Mississippi.

Mathew Davis aged 27 years. Teacher, Shreveport, Mississippi.

Mark Hall aged 36 years. Restauranteur, Selma, Mississippi.

Eden Harris aged 44 years. Coach driver, Jackson, Mississippi.

Liam Hill aged 22 years. Hospital porter, Brookhaven, Mississippi.

Alex Jones aged 37 years. Taxi driver, Jackson, Mississippi.

Arthur Jackson aged 51 years. Nightclub owner, Vicksburg, Mississippi.

Richard Johnson aged 28 years. Medical student, Jackson, Mississippi.

Cooper Lee aged 62 years. Cattle ranch owner, Meridian, Mississippi.

Simon Lewis aged 33 years. Optician, McComb, Mississippi.

Barnes Mitchell aged 59 years. Cattle ranch owner, Hattiesburg, Mississippi.

Warwick Parker aged 42 years. Bar owner, Greenville, Mississippi.

Nathan Phillips aged 24 years. Mechanic, Louisville, Mississippi.

Patrick Riley aged 34 years. Construction worker, McComb, Mississippi.

David Roberts aged 38 years. Security guard, Jackson, Mississippi.

William Scott aged 22 years. Landscape gardener, Vicksburg, Mississippi.

Adrian Smith aged 36 years. Tele-communications worker, Cleveland, Mississippi.

Sandy Thomas aged 24 years. Trainee Accountant, Brookhaven, Mississippi.

Connor Turner aged 19 years. High school student, Monroe, Mississippi.

Stephan White aged 29 years. Journalist, Jackson, Mississippi.

Tony Wright aged 34 years. Type setter, Selma, Mississippi.

Jack Walker aged 58 years. Paint sprayer, Tupelo, Mississippi.

Romanian police did manage to trace just one possible living victim, a girl called Janelle Talaitha. As a young Roma girl she had fled her family home in Bariad, Romania, and had taken safety within a charitably-funded women's refuge for Roma victims of domestic abuse. Her father had tried to get her to solicit and prostitute herself in 1994 but following a serious sexual attack against her, she had refused to return to the streets. Her attacker was recorded as being a white British male with a dog, and he was driving a red panel van. Janelle Talaitha, now 33 years of age is today, many years after the attack, refusing to assist Romanian Police authorities further with their investigation.

Europol (in association with Interpol) estimate that the number of mysterious disappearances associated with young women who may have been involved in street prostitution, to number 2,614 from across the Balkan region and reported to have been missing between the periods 1989 until 2009. None of these girls have ever been located and their whereabouts remain a mystery. We cannot positively identify any of these missing persons as being the women that have been referred to within these memoirs. Some may have been the victims of domestic abuse, whilst many others may have been trafficked into sex slavery and with no connection to Gabriel. However, most certainly some, an unspecified number, are the victims of Gabriel 13. Due to the lifestyles that these women live and the difficult uncooperative personal family backgrounds in which they grew up, including in many cases the absence of personal birth records and data, this figure remains only a calculated, though very rough estimate.

In returning home to the UK for the final and maybe the most tragic end of a story we can imagine, we have a house-fire, a fire that razed Chasterton House in Cheadle, South of Manchester to the ground. A fire in which afterward investigators found the charred bodies of seven young women. All seven had been chained to old metal bed frames found to be present at the time of the fire in the old house. The fire had broken out on the evening of February 17th:

2004 and an accelerant, such as petrol, had been used to spread the fire as quickly and ferociously as possible throughout. All seven victims had arrived in the UK to start work and promising new lives and careers as nannies and au pairs. All of them had been reported as missing by their families back in Bulgaria.

Kalina Bozhidarova aged 18. Sofia, Bulgaria. Waitress.

Aneliya Dimitrova aged 23. Plovdiv, Bulgaria. Waitress.

Galina Konstantinova aged 23. Varna, Bulgaria. Tele-sales Operative.

Veronika Todorova aged 19. Sofia, Bulgaria. Production Worker.

Anastasiya Nikolaeva aged 19. Sofia, Bulgaria. Waitress.

Rayna Valerieva aged 22. Veliko Tarnovo, Bulgaria. Bank Clerk.

Iskra Zlatkova aged 20. Stara Zagora, Bulgaria. Shop Assistant.

The only arrest and subsequent conviction made to date of any person, for being a direct member or for having involvement within The Gabriel Sect (correct at time of print) was that of Joshua Clarkson, aged 51 years. Clarkson was arrested at the scene of a brutal double murder in New York City on August 12th 2010. Police had been called to a disturbance in Harewood Yard, situated on the corner of Merville and Rochester at 2.15 am. In the early hours of this Friday morning, Clarkson was found to be disposing of the bodies of a married couple, Roger Castell aged 41 years of age, and his wife Rosa Castell, aged 43 years. Clarkson had worked at the Harewood Yards site for a company called Royton International Plastics Ltd for just four months. Forensic examination of the scene discovered body parts belonging to a further three victims, but to this day their identities remain unknown. Roger and Rosa were known to frequent a club called Aphrodite, housed within the same district as the Harewood Yards complex on Manhattan Island. The Aphrodite was a known club for adult sexual adventure where people met to engage in sexual activities, the same club to which Joshua Clarkson had recently become a regular visitor.

Autopsy results discovered that Rosa Castell had died from suffocation due to asphyxiation. A plastic bag had been placed over her head and tied with a cord. Rosa displayed prior, pre-mortem injuries consistent with violent penetration of the vagina, by use of a sharp metal instrument. This instrument was later found and discovered to be a screwdriver of eight inches in length. Roger, her husband, had died within minutes of the police having arrived upon this nightmarish scene; this following a complaint about machine noise in the early and unexpected hours. He had died as a direct result of multiple injuries, having been fed into plastic recycling machinery whilst fully conscious. His arms had been tied above his head by rope and he had been slowly lowered by a winch mechanism, feet first, into the machine shaft. His tongue had been cut out and it is assumed that he had witnessed, whilst hung there above the machine, the brutal murder of his wife Rosa, before he was killed.

Clarkson remained within the high security penal facility 'Statterson', having been sentenced to death by lethal injection following five counts of first degree homicide in February 2011. The verdict delivered by the jury of twelve at the New York State High Court on the Day of Judgment was unanimous. I visited Clarkson in person at Statterson Penal Facility, building number four, on March 9th, 2011. He would not answer any direct questions that I put to him, even when I informed him that I was publishing the original memoirs in book form. He would just smile at me, chillingly and deeply into my eyes, and continuously throwing himself backward in his chair with bouts of hysterical laughter. Clarkson has never spoken a word about the sect or of Gabriel and it is not known how the two become acquainted, if they ever truly were at all. In his single verbal statement to the police, Clarkson had confirmed upon his arrest that his name was Gabriel 13/7/4/2, both confirming and making him the second disciple of the fourth disciple of the original seventh disciple to have been chosen by Gabriel 13. 13/7/4/2: a code and numeric sequence that only a direct member of the sect could have been aware of. Public reportage of his arrest was broadcast on state news the night of August 14th 2010.

Joshua Clarkson, a black man of Caribbean descent, died in custody on March 17th 2011, just days after his arrest. He chose to later (and after my visit) commit suicide by breaking his own neck. He placed his head down between the bars of his metal bed frame base and from a kneeling position thrown himself forward, back first over the bedside to the floor below. He had apparently died instantly, and a verdict of unpreventable suicide was recorded.

Following my most constructive visit to Joshua Clarkson in Statterson, that very same day was posted to me, by standard class United States airmail, a letter that was later identified as written in Gabriel 13's own hand (cross-matched by handwriting experts to the letter attached to the original manuscript). I close this book, 'Meat: Memoirs of a Psychopath', with the verbatim text of that final letter. The letter affirms for me that I must continue my investigations into the mind of this psychopath and it is with the receipt of this letter that my work today continues. For within this letter, one which I pored over for several weeks, a letter received just nine days after the suicide of Joshua Clarkson upon my return home, I first saw something. This particular, cool spring night, after a glass or two of red wine that evening, in front of a companionable fire and in a relaxed state of mind, I identified the clue to the location of Gabriel's first original book, 'The Ten Commandments'. By taking the first letter of every sentence, the words of that letter revealed on paper to me the address of The British Library, located at 13 Oxford St. London. This was a small archive department established for secretive archaeological research and was not part of the main library site at 96 Euston Road, London. The department has now been relocated elsewhere.

My Dear Cerys,

The fucked up little twisted shit aren't you? How you must have enjoyed your visit to the states this year? Even if he wouldn't fucking talk to you, well, no one will ever talk to you and I won't ever fucking talk to you either because you can't find me can you?

Boastful fucking little quack, so just as I made money from the filthy rotten skin crawling whores in Manchester now you too seek to make money from the crimes I have, well that I have allegedly and most apparently so I was told recently, have committed. Rare though these days really, this kind of excellent business sense you display. I will grant you that, was it a good orgasm and did you wank off through your skirt or actually did you take your time? Time to drop those little red peephole cum-soaked pants of yours first? I wonder what colour pubic hair you have; I could do with some more. So is it blonde? I met a blonde a few days ago. She'd been sitting at the foot of a tree, her legs wrapped around it as if she was fucking it and all with an old branch stub deep up inside her, a stub end still fixed to and growing out of the same tree, just 8 inches up from ground level. Her ankles then tied to a car and she was pulled through it, split in half by the cunt. Left leg ripped away first, is the left leg the weakest one I wonder. I think you're the doctor, you must tell me?

Brilliant, so you are to publish a book are you, it won't be anywhere near the style and quality of mine, no not ever, because you haven't got the fucking balls to kill have you? Romancing and writing with your clever little doctor brain and so I will now in turn write with the warm blood of bitches, their hot fucking fresh blood, oh how I will write for you now Cerys. A book I always wanted to write, let's just call it 'The Gabriel Sect' for now dear shall we, a working title, something that will stop you from ever putting your pathetic no expense spared and I'm so better than thou pen to fucking paper again, a work that will show you all to be the useless cunt faced stinking pig amateurs that you are. Right now, yes the new Gospels, a Bible written in your blood, a wonderful idea, thank you so much for the inspiration.

Yes, I praise the work of my disciples and of the followers and of Gabriel 13/7/4/2, for he now rests with me in the Kingdom of Heaven, he followed his final command without question, such loyalty and they are good at my work Cerys, do you want to know where they've been lately? One must take time to listen to a man without his tongue as he is being fed into a machine ripping him apart just a millimetre or two at a time? _Three times I would've wanked off watching that one if I still had a cock, three times I say._ Oh the performance, living art at its greatest I believe. X-rated genius, pure fucking genius, surely you must agree? Fancy that, his mistake was mixing work with pleasure, don't you think? Only disposing of the bodies at work, far too risky these days surely? RE this thought, I'll issue an instruction about that one for future disciple guidance I think, it's down under A.O.B for the forthcoming conference.

Do write well of me won't you, for I know for certain you will. So I'll be in touch soon my sweetheart, share some thoughts with you in person, new ideas and all that stuff. Tips for a new writing technique that I have developed, what do you think?

For now, bye bye x

P.S. Seeing as we're now such good friends, why don't you call me Gabriela

# ## #

I accompanied Detective Inspector Andria Johnson of Merseyside Police immediately that day, down to London by first class rail to 13 Oxford Street; the home of the British Library's magnificent collection of every book in English, from everywhere around the whole world that had ever been published. The street number thirteen. Again was it coincidentally the number contained in Gabriel's signature? A clue written within the memoirs when he had written 'now housed in the prize collection of' a clue that we had all missed and a crucial clue that we had all, thus far, failed to pick up on?

We thought that, and quite expected to, search for many hours, this impeccable methodical senior detective and I. Between us (despite an extremely late night up together), we expected to scrutinise and search through tens of thousands of references that could be of significance to us and would narrow down our search. But no, this wasn't to be the case, as there awaiting authentication as an ancient pigskin artefact text, we found it; it had not been shelved. On the 28th March 2011, DCI Andria Johnson and I discovered that first book of human flesh, a book measuring 12 inches by 8 inches and a book that really had proved to exist.

Miraculously; due to recent funding cuts that placed financial restrictions on the library's antiquities fund, this same book had never been analysed or dated. There it was in a cardboard box still awaiting classification. It was still pending the approval of the following budgetary allowances of the forthcoming April tax year, this just a handful of days away. I wanted to be sickened by this find but I confess to you all, here and now as you read this, that I was excited by it. Delighted in the knowledge that this heinous sick creation had never been put on display as Gabriel had always intended. Had his arrogance, his conceit in sending me that letter, his self-satisfaction in showing me that clue now been the downfall of his own masterpiece?

The book had been donated by an unknown middle aged woman on June 13th 2009, this just three days before PC Brian Wilkinson's discovery of the memoirs in Liverpool. The false address supplied to the British Library was that of 16 Veron Road, Merseyside; the very same house in which Brian had found them. So to the skin itself, the skin which we now know belongs to the following confirmed and identified victims;

Abayomi Abana aged 18 years of age. High school student, Luanda, Angola.

Ducha Akpu-nku aged 34 years. Game reserve worker, Mityand, Uganda.

Hamadi Bosta aged 39 years. Petroleum vendor, Nairobi, Kenya.

Kunto Danjuma aged 46 years. Electrician, Kola, DR Congo.

Sefu Esi aged 34 years. Machinist, Lusaka, Zambia.

Alejandro Faustino aged 57 years. Tattooist, Murcia, Spain.

Kasiya Mbanefo aged 21 years. Sugar cane harvester, Mpanda, Malawi.

Machungwa Saro-Wiwo aged 33 years. Baker, Mwanza, Tanzania.

Ernesto Yessenia aged 47 years. Boat charter operator, Murcia, Spain.

Valentia Yessenia aged 38 years. Guest house proprietor, Murcia, Spain.

One unidentified white male of North-Western European origin.

This list above is compiled from the detailed forensic examination and DNA taken from missing persons' personal belongings. It also confirmed that the loose leather skin cover used to wrap the book, is that of a Valentia Yessenia, the killer's gift from God, thus confirming as accurate the events and details as contained within. Blood samples taken from the tattooing of the skin also confirm that the same tattoo needle was used on all eleven victims.

And also there, hidden within the binding of the book and found using x-ray radio wave technology (and not at all at first obvious to anybody), was later discovered a computer memory card. Contained on this 64 gigabyte SDXC flash card was over 23 hours of low quality video and audio recordings. The videos made up of several short video compilations clearly identified ten further, thus far, unknown victims. Each victim was tortured, and in the most unspeakable manner, a manner in which I cannot neither bring myself to, nor do I see the need to, describe here. What is clear is that with each murder, the victim is afterward hung from a meat hook within the same location. Other than the first victim, all of the other nine victims could see fully, and without any doubt whatsoever, the fate that awaited them.

Canadian Police have finally, after conducting a painstakingly thorough and utterly dignified and respectful enquiry, identified all ten victims contained in these videos. This enquiry lasted over 18 months and involved eight dedicated and full time senior detectives on-board. In identifying the possible victims, all of whom went missing from within the Whitehorse City and surrounding Yukon Northwest Territories district, the latest up to date audio sampling and sound-wave matching recognition technology has been used. Housed within the Montreal State University, this equipment has matched audio recordings from the victims' own personal mobile telephones, from home videos and from videos uploaded by them onto social networking websites. This flash card is the only existing evidence of the fact that the place referred to within the memoirs as the Cutch actually ever in fact existed at all. The victims are;

Vickie Clarence aged 26 years. Shop worker. Yellowknife, Canada.

John Harrison aged 39 years. Commercial truck driver, Mackenzie, Canada.

Becky Howard aged 19 years. A known prostitute, Drayton Valley, Canada.

David Jacob aged 28 years. Dairy-man, Burns Lake, Canada.

Harold Pinter aged 63 years. Unemployed, registered sex offender. Fort St James, Canada.

Donna Raymondson aged 21 years. A known prostitute, Smithers, Canada.

Scott Ryans aged 34 years. Occult book store owner, Alberta, Canada.

Jennifer Somerson aged 27 years. Guest house proprietor, Fairbanks, Alaska.

Bernadette Wilson aged 23 years. University student, Alberta, Canada.

Samantha Worsley aged 24 years. Flight crew attendant, Reykjavik, Iceland.

I remain now, as always, to this day, a committed and active member of the on-going police investigation code-named, Operation Gabriel, an operation in which Merseyside Police are slowly, painstakingly and most methodically putting together all of the missing pieces of this jigsaw, trying to find out and identify, in tandem with Interpol worldwide, the names and identities of all the victims as referred to within these memoirs. I am also today, as an expert psychological profiler now and since the middle of 2012, involved in the additional, on-going Scotland Yard enquiry code named Operation Anagram. Anagram, a separate and worldwide co-ordinated investigation, is linking all unsolved crime and all unexplained disappearances from across the globe that may in some way be connected to that of the crimes committed by the Gabriel Sect. I salivate when I write now, in the knowledge that somewhere out there existing to be found today, are many more books of 'The Ten Commandments', as written by his disciples and as written on the flesh of so many more victims, all with the audio recordings of their murders, these tortured confessions attached.

These further victims' identities can only become known when we have located all of these books, and the meticulous forensic examination of our colleagues is allowed to take its natural due course. I publish this work so that my colleagues within the psychiatric community may read and thus gain further insight and will directly help us in not only finding the serial killer Gabriel 13, but in identifying other potential killers before they too go on to kill for themselves.

Gabriel, the founder of the most heinous, vile and insidious secret religious sect ever known to humankind is still among us and free today. He has never been traced, despite his male identity now being fully known. For this man has no fear of capture, because this man, Gabriel 13, no longer exists.

Hollywood scripts would have you believe that the psychopathic personality is that of Norman Bates, the psychopathic behaviour of this frenzied mad movie-time killer. But you are wrong to assume that all psychopaths are as haphazard as Bates. He was nothing of the sort for he was just a good old fashioned delusional Psychotic. In reality most psychopaths are just bad and not mad at all, and most never obtain the notoriety of serious criminality.

No, the socialised psychopath is, in reality, a very attractive investment within some business ventures, those such as careers in politics and of those dirty employee concerns of our military. They are not encumbered with the normal and expected inhibitions of the human race and there are no strings attached to, or controlling them. You hear these words flippantly used daily, those of sociopath and psychopath. But the mind of a psychopath is so much more mentally developed than the mind of a sociopath. The sociopath has a personality disorder, marked by anti-social behaviour, but the psychopathic personality is marked by aggressive and perverted or amoral criminal behaviour. They have no empathy or remorse for their actions. Although the two may sound the same at first, the key difference is that sociopaths cannot function effectively within society: they are spontaneous and they are very, very unorganised. They are the ones who act on impulse only, and without organisation or planning and they are the ones who ultimately become incarcerated for their crimes, usually very early on in their careers. But the true psychopath; they are a true work of art and you never know who they are - do you? They are so efficient at hiding emotion that they can even fool the most sophisticated modern lie-detecting equipment; the very reason why the lie detector is not admissible as evidence in court. We can fool anybody, oh yes, I did just say 'we'.

Take the most mysterious part of all, and the most calculated event of all in this world-wide Interpol investigation: the disappearance of Dr Cerys Davies. She was a well-liked and most professional lady and a trusted police colleague who suddenly disappeared but moreover a woman who disappeared quite unnoticed in early 2012. Vanishing from the face of the earth just after she had arranged to travel up north to meet with a police officer; an officer named PC Brian Wilkinson. The poor distraught husband afterward, oh poor Nigel, Nigel her husband who came home that day to find the letter in which she, Cerys, had disclosed to him that she was running away with another man. Nigel who kept all this a secret from the children for such a long time, the children away at university, the children who are now and most definitely following in their mummy's footsteps. Poor broken Nigel, he never to see his wife or to hear from her again, just the empty bank account he finds to remind him of his final true value to her.

It takes a lot of getting over you know, to get over something sudden like that. Something that big and so life shattering that it breaks you up inside forever. Then take the beautiful supportive blonde who arrived to comfort Nigel throughout his days of pain and anguish. The beautiful and the quite irresistible blonde who becomes Nigel's new lover and supports him throughout his days of personal sadness and grief. That new woman who has access to every part of Dr Cerys Davies's fucking life. Yes, that Dr amazing fucking Cerys Davies that you all love and value so much, that short black-haired and brown-eyed Dr Cerys Davies. The woman who in fact is nothing like that of the description given of a tall blue-eyed blonde who actually met with Brian Wilkinson that first day. Or that very same tall blue-eyed blonde who met Clarkson in Statterson Prison early on during 2011, and again and by now not so unsurprisingly to you, nothing at all of a woman fitting the description of that tall blue-eyed blonde who accompanied DI Andrea Johnson down to London that day to The British Library at 13 Oxford Street.

For I promised you I would go and see the police and I promised you that I would help them with their investigation, and this I truly did. The killer investigating himself and all the time none of you knew a thing. I am absolutely brilliant aren't I, you must by now surely agree? For Dr Cerys Davies you see, has not and never did write a single word of this book, though I admit that the bitch was going to if I didn't stop her. I did take her transcripts of the memoirs directly from her own Dictaphone. I suppose in the real sense of the word then, that she did do some of the writing, well at least in part.

She has proved to be an exceptionally good typist however, and all this work completed by her despite that rather small but most significant new disability of hers. So useful to me that little Dictaphone on which I kept, quite unforgivably, the hurtful things she said about me, don't you think? I repaid her for this. I used that very same little Dictaphone to record the noise of Nigel fucking me and most sincerely enjoyed playing it back to her. Nigel screwing a real woman for once. How he enjoyed himself that evening. Oh, Cerys Davies' face! What a pretty little picture it was. Revenge is a dish so much better served when cold.

Anyway, I digress, for this is my now second book. Yet another masterpiece as I also promised you and as I told you about earlier on and you, yes you, you would have understood this had you bothered to pay me even just the basics of courtesy, politeness and social etiquette. They, the police, oh yes you lot, in return for all my hard work you have promised me that you will publish this, this work, my second book and maybe the greatest masterpiece of all. Catch me if you can Brian? Save me the skin and I'll be in touch with you again soon, in fact much sooner than you think. All written in blood next time. Genius...

...for we have an arrangement don't we? Dr Cerys Davies has three fingers and one thumb.

- End Of Memoirs -

Publisher's Note:

Police Constable Brian Wilkinson was born on Merseyside in 1945. Brian and his wife Doreen both grew up together as post-war children in Liverpool, the north-west of England, where they married as childhood sweethearts in 1963. Sadly, following Doreen's prolonged illness and battle against cancer, Brian was widowed in 2004.

Brian had been a serving police officer his entire life, until he retired in 2010 at the age of sixty-five. It was Brian Wilkinson who discovered the original memoirs as detailed, and later compiled within this publication 'Meat: Memoirs of a Psychopath' by Dr Cerys Davies.

Brian is the author of a previous book called 'Please Take Care of Bethany' which he self-published following his wife's death. The book tells the story of his father's involvement as an RAF rear gunner throughout World War II. Brian's original story sets out a previously unknown and historic set of facts about his war-hero father, Brian "Bull's-Eye" Wilkinson. This story was first published in 2005 online and as part of the thread 'Searching for The Forgotten' from the forum of Friends of The Forgotten Heroes of Bomber Command WW2 and later serialised by the local Merseyside press.

It is now clear that all of the personal information that the killer obtained in regard to Brian, his personal life, contact details and daily movements, were taken from this online thread. Also now known is the fact that the killer communicated with Brian online and under a false user profile on numerous occasions and from as early as 2006. Gabriel 13 had been communicating with, and observing Brian's movements for at least six years before the delivery of the memoirs were made to him.

Dr Cerys Davies and her two daughters, Chandelle and Isabella,

have remained missing without trace since early in 2012, their mysterious and sudden disappearances remaining quite unexplained. Unexplained that is, until the original manuscript of 'Meat: Memoirs of a Psychopath' as now published, was later delivered anonymously by Royal Mail UK post, to PC Brian Wilkinson at his home address. In this parcel, received by him on Thursday 12th July 2012, was also a strict set of written instructions. Within these instructions was wrapped a blooded and recently removed human finger, the left hand index finger, a finger identified and confirmed later to be that belonging to Dr Cerys Davies.

Nigel Davies, the husband of Dr Cerys Davies and father to both daughters, tragically took his own life by drinking household bleach on the Sunday 29th July 2012 just two weeks after the memoirs manuscript was received by Brian. The new police investigation into the disappearances of his wife and children, the fact that he had had an unbeknown personal and sexual relationship with the killer him/herself, and the knowledge that this story would soon to be published were simply more than he could come to terms with.

The letter addressed to PC Brian Wilkinson as delivered on Thursday 12th July 2012 and found to contain the original manuscript 'Meat: Memoirs of a Psychopath' as you have just read, follows. The hunt for the world's most prolific sexual psychopath and serial killer, now known as Gabriel 13, continues.

My Dearest Brian,

I enclose for you herein, and with all my love a story, a story so utterly unbelievable but a story that you know to be the truth. You are the chosen Revealer and you Brian now have much work to do. You see I am Gabriel 13 and I am also Dr Cerys Davies. No, I'm not the real one, what's now left of her is downstairs with the girls of course, but I am the Dr Cerys Davies that you met. The one you so personally confided in and the one that helped you all, the police with your investigation. How does that make you feel now Brian? Maybe we can talk again, another session or two to help you recover, over a cuppa, again and perhaps one day soon I hope? You do make a very good cup of tea Brian, I give you that.

One thing puzzles me; I have just one question of you. Why did you remove that evidence from the scene I wonder? I left it for you, left it for you just to prove that I am serious about this. We all have deep dark secrets don't we Brian? We all have our private hidden personal lives. Indeed, we all at times, all of us even me, we pretend to be someone that in fact we actually are not.

I knew this little gift, this photograph would encourage you to co-operate with me, to assure you that the memoirs would have to be taken seriously. Interesting though, in all the discussions and clinical sessions I had with you, well as Dr Cerys Davies that is, you never mentioned it did you? So I have chosen now to respect our doctor-patient confidentiality and not to mention it in this book either. I do suspect though that that rather gorgeous DI Johnson of yours will have a few new questions for you to answer now however. Confession is always the best way Brian, cleanse the soul. Cracking pair of tits by-the-way that Andrea Johnson, couldn't keep my eyes off them all the way down to London. Maybe she can lend them to me for my collection? Do ask her, send her my love. Had a fantastic time in London together. She too has secrets. Quite the dark horse isn't she?

Home working is such a modern phenomenon isn't it? To think that Dr Cerys Davies, your biggest and best psychological criminal profiler, the one who has written so very much on the topic of the killer mind could be so invaluable to you all. But when it actually comes down to it I find that none of you had ever met her face-to-face at all had you? How can it be so easy to fool you all I ask myself? I like the chase Brian, I sincerely do and I like the hunt for my kill you see, but you are not a worthy prey for me, you are just road kill, already dead and lying there waiting for your corpse to be picked at by any hungry flesh-eater who passes you by. So here I am again Brian, I am just passing by, I return to pick at that flesh of yours and you will do exactly as I command you. I will never hurt you, this I promise for I chose you for myself, years of work, research and planning, and great preparation that you mere mortals will never understand. Just consider yourself to be an innocent victim of crime if that helps. I'm sorry I made you sick though, I feel bad about that.

Now for Dr Davies, well that's different. She set out to hurt me didn't she? My published memoirs turned into her own erotic pornography. I could never allow her to write such a book about me Brian, the published memoirs should have been left well alone. After all, that's all I originally wanted, just to tell the world my story and I had fixed plans in place. But that wasn't enough for her was it? She had to interfere didn't she? She had to try and make a name for herself off the back of the fame of Our Lord's greatest messenger, I, Gabriela 13. Brian, if you do not do as I ask you I shall strip her of every vital human organ she has. I shall pickle them with onions, carrots and cauliflower and we shall all eat her at conference this year, this we promise.

Enclosed for you, one left hand index finger. I shall communicate

only and directly with you and you will ensure that my will is followed. You will print the manuscript I enclose herein for you, 'Meat: Memoirs of a Psychopath'. I've included the original memoirs I gave to you in Liverpool to be included in this the book, and you will ensure that it is published. You have self-published before so this won't be so difficult for you, will it? And you will place this letter, my written instructions as I give them to you here, verbatim as publisher's footnote. As a footnote, be sure to do that Brian as I don't want to ruin the story for my readers too early on. Once I see that my book is published, you will be given further instructions later on this year. My dear Revealer, these are instructions that you will also follow without question. Upon the publishing of the book herein I will release one of the daughters to you. This I promise. They are both unhurt and remain intact, well physically that is. The second I keep as a guarantee toward our next joint publication.

As a sign of my most sincere goodwill and intent, I do not expect you to return Dr Cerys Davies finger to me. You can keep it as neither I nor she have any further need of it. Do as I say Brian for you know first-hand what I am capable of, for I am The Gabriela 13. Enjoy the book, though I must admit there has been some criticism of it. Apparently the psychology parts are not of a high enough standard, not convincing and at times too emotive, maybe a little boring. I hung that critic from a beam by his testicles but you already know that don't you? Anyway, must rush, I've left the girls with a babysitter, whilst the cat's away and all that. May the blade of the traitor be brought down upon the hand of betrayal, both daughters follow in the footsteps of their mother, to be continued...

All my love, Gabriela xxx

# # # #

Buzludzha: A formidable, cold and unforgiving icon of socialist idealism. Photographs courtesy of Nicola Miller. Exhibited as part of the Buzudzha Foundation Exhibition. Bulgaria 2015.

PART TWO

The Gabriel Sect

Chapter Eleven

Meat: Memoirs Of A Psychopath

On the Eighteenth of November 2012, and following the publication of the first edition of this book 'Meat: Memoirs of A Psychopath' as instructed, PC Brian Wilkinson received a telephone call from Detective Inspector Andrea Johnson. What he found awaiting him at the station that day and the story he was confronted with forms this, the second part of this publication and the second first published edition of 2013.

The first edition, in compliance with instruction is now deleted.

Picture Index

Photograph One

The old farmer's chapel, Reserva de la Biosfera Pantonas de Centia, Mexico and now demolished. Replaced by a single white crucifix, a replica of the original one found inside the old chapel. Today located 300 meters south of its original location.

Photograph Two

What remains left of the cellar of the old chapel following demolition by public demand and outrage in 2011, it having become a morbid sightseeing destination for backpackers and tourists. The chapel, originally an old shepherd's shelter was built during the 1950s.

Photograph Three

The rear ground floor and north-facing kitchen window of Chasterton House, Cheadle, south of Manchester. UK, the only part of the house to remain intact following the fire as a result of which razed Chasterton House to the ground on the evening of February 17th 2004. Metal bars remain in place on the outside of the window.

Photograph Four

The Euphoria Peep Show Bar, Burgas, Eastern Bulgaria. One of many such clubs, they are commonplace in Bulgaria and where the killer could have worked. The exact club name or the known period in which he worked in such a club has never been identified.

Photograph Five

The burnt out Dennison coach found in the old deserted quarry 53 km south west of Jackson, Mississippi on January the 3rd 2008.

Photograph Six

The front windscreen of the same vehicle shattered by a single gunshot fired at close range from inside the coach.

Photograph Seven

The original memoirs as found by Merseyside Police officer Brian Wilkinson in the early hours of June 16th 2009.

Photograph Eight

Marfield Woods, Dumfries and Galloway, Scotland, UK. The site of the last known killings by Gabriel 13 committed here on June 11th 2009. The two women had been hung with their toes just able to reach the ground and facing each other

The story is now written and continued by PC Brian Wilkinson.

PART TWO

The Gabriel Sect

Chapter Twelve

The Witness

The eighteenth of November 2012, I received a telephone call from Detective Inspector Andrea Johnson. DI Johnson wanted me down at the central police station immediately. "Straightaway?" I asked? "Yes" was the sudden and most definitely non-negotiable reply, that without pause came back from her. "Drop everything you are doing and get here like it was yesterday. We have a witness who will only speak to you directly. We may have a break-through here," she said. She was almost shouting at me, in a most excited manner. I could feel the significance of the fact that something big was about to unfold from just that one short phrase.

It was a cold morning. The Liverpool streets were covered with a carpet of brown leaves as autumn had arrived and the bitter chill of the coming winter wind was fast approaching. I still had my old favourite pyjamas on, the ones Doreen had bought me for Christmas, our last Christmas together in 2003 at the Hospice, Oak Mount its name. I still do voluntary work there to this day. She had a wonderful sense of humour my Doreen. They, the PJs, were covered in upward facing arrows; black arrows on white hard linen cloth, an American prison uniform. I would never go to sleep in anything else. I miss her so much but I am glad that she is not alive to see me have to go through all this.

I changed into my old grey police suit, the hatches, matches and dispatches only, suit. The suit I saved for christenings, weddings and funerals, and the occasional official interview for whatever else cropped up from time-to-time in-between. I adjusted my tie in the mirror and looked close at the image I saw before me. This old retired copper; just how grey he was becoming, and took some expert advice on my appearance. I talked to myself a lot after Doreen passed away. Talking to myself was the only real place that I could truly find expert advice these days. But Doreen was always there with me really, smiling down at me and telling me how smart I looked. We lived on the Drover Estate together, a new flat at the time that we'd moved into following the slum clearances of the early 1970s. Mum and Dad's old stone terrace where I had been born was long gone, as were they too, but Doreen and I loved that new flat. We never had children together and it was all we needed: warm and cosy, just the two of us and the television for company. We only wanted a quiet simple life, but we loved travelling. I had a good salary from the force but not one that would ever make a man rich. I always felt rich, very rich indeed, for I had Doreen and that meant that I already had everything there was in the world to have. There was nothing more a man could desire. We were content.

We would save up and travel. We had an old BMC camper van that we nicknamed the Winjin' Pom. Funny really, it was anything but, very reliable and would never let us down ever. So many wonderful holidays together, every spare moment we could find, and we would just pack a box, a picnic basket of food and be off away. There used to be an Australian television programme called Winjin' Pom on the telly. It featured a camper van almost identical in shape to ours and we laughed so much together when we first watched it. That nickname stuck with us both forever. The animated camper van on the telly was always complaining, it was so very funny. I chuckle now when I think back to it. I must try to find a copy of it on DVD somewhere.

Knocking back my coffee and wiping all of the hurriedly-eaten toast crumbs away from my suit, I was soon out of the flat. It was a beautiful morning that I remember well. I love Liverpool and cannot think of anywhere else I would rather be. Liverpool is such an amazing place and the people - the best in the world, I think. Winjin' Pom was sat there as always, parked-up and ready to go at a seconds notice but, "Not today", I said to him. "No bloody parking anymore in the city centre mate." I could swear that that old BMC (British Motor Corporation) camper van of ours could talk. I'm certain of it. "I must renew our membership to the vintage camper owners' club," I noted to myself. "Such a beautiful autumn this year and we really should take a few days away together before the frost arrives." It was always about us, and never just about me. Doreen and I were always together no matter what, that bloody old camper van that I swear could understand every bloody word I said to it.

I took a quick time-check of my watch and at 7.50 am realised that I'd just missed the number 22 bus service by moments. Just like everything else around here, nothing ever happened when it was supposed to and the usually, as always, late 22 bus service appeared into view as it worked its way along the new dedicated bus lane they had recently built. "Just typical," I thought. "It has its own bus lane now to avoid all the rush hour traffic and it still manages to be late."

I was soon there. I'd arrived down at the yard, down at that old police station, the one that I'd worked in previously for my entire career. "Morning Claire," I said as I drifted past reception. "What on earth's going on down here today?" I asked her. "It's big Brian mate," she replied. "Big. Get yourself up there quick."

And there, sat wrapped in a blanket in DI Johnson's personal office and drinking a cup of hot chocolate, I saw her. It was Chandelle Davies, the youngest daughter of Dr Cerys Davies. Chandelle had been released, as promised, as a sign of goodwill from within the captivity of The Gabriel Sect, and she was apparently, to all, completely and physically un-harmed. What will remain of her mental health however, will become clear to us only after extensive periods of personal counselling and systematic necessary medication. Chandelle would only speak with me, such was the fear this young girl held inside her. With her, delivered to us came another parcel from the killer. It read:

My Dear Brian,

I thank you so very much for the publication of 'Meat: Memoirs of a Psychopath'. I always knew that you would all see common sense prevail in the end. How are the sales doing? Forgive my rudeness in not attending any book signing days. It could all feel a little bit awkward, couldn't it? I think a physical copy would be a good idea but I understand that resources are limited. I don't want you to feel that I am in anyway being unreasonable. So we will consider that the digital online copy that you uploaded as sufficient for now.

However, and with all this in mind, I do feel that in this day and age of modern technology that, well perhaps many more people will get to read the story as a physical copy and digitally aggravated format. So this you will do, you will reprint it as a second edition and enclose the following. Telling the whole world my story is the main principle, don't you agree?

You have done exactly as I asked and we, we The Gabriel Sect at conference, and by unanimous vote, all agreed to release Chandelle as a token of our sincerity and goodwill. The Gabriel Sect is after all a full democracy now. We will always and without fail fulfil our promises. Our reputation depends on this.

We, The Gabriel Sect understand in this day and age that all of us concerned with fighting crime should work together more efficiently and succinctly. We understand that, as you too have kept to your end of the bargain, we too must stick with ours. Although, as time will tell and as we swell in numbers, the need for a police service will not be necessary in the end. But for the time being we must all co-operate, you agree with me yes? What would be the point in all of us pulling in different directions and splitting up and thus squandering our much needed financial resources? Well this only serves to the benefit of the criminal mind of sin and we are all here to do the same job at the end of the day, isn't this so Brian?

Chandelle has not been harmed in anyway. If she says otherwise, well then she is a liar. Nobody has in-fact laid a single hand on her, though we have laid a single hand in the box she carries for you – a human hand, a left hand that is missing its index finger. You see we had to be sure that Chandelle would do exactly as instructed, just as you must do. The other daughter we still keep; quite a different kettle of fish that one. I know that I said previously that I would release both girls and I will and quite un-harmed, but I didn't say when did I? I need to see that you, the police, will continue to co-operate with me and then I shall, as I have with Chandelle, release Isabella back to you also. You have saved a human life now Brian and soon a second, how proud of yourself you must be?

Isabella was more than happy to remove her own mother's left hand for us. What on earth could possess a daughter to do such a horrific thing to her very own mother, her own flesh and blood? Though I'm quite sure Chandelle will enlighten you all further during today. You'll find what she has to tell you quite fascinating I'm sure

How is the writing going? Have you developed a passion for writing yet Brian? I can't wait to read your story again, the story you told me all about during our clinical sessions. The story I pretended not to know already. The letter from your daddy to your mummy that you showed me. It's free hand time now Brian, do excuse the pun. Feel free to write whatever you feel, continue my story here and now and save Isabella's life too. Publish it just as before, put it all together again and call it part two, a second edition. I have enclosed your instructions and follow them without diversion. When I see that you have done this, I will release Isabella to you, unharmed. This I promise.

Imagine that the first chapter is yours. On second thoughts, no. Actually I'll have chapter one of part two for myself. So here it is, part two chapter two of one of the greatest works on earth now starts with your 'Please Take Care Of Bethany' by PC Brian Wilkinson. What an honour Gabriel 13 now bestows on you. I've enclosed your manuscript for you, unchanged and just as I first read it all those years ago. I've added my personal thoughts and comment to the end of the manuscript, an appendix. I also want Chandelle to appear in part two, chapter one. I expect to read verbatim what the Witness had to say to you upon her return to freedom. Write well of me Brian. Publish all.

Enclosed; one left hand, one covering letter, one manuscript of 'Please Take Care of Bethany' by PC Brian Wilkinson and one set of commercial business minutes. I have also included my first Gospel. There will be many more.

For and on behalf of The Almighty Our Lord,

My blessings upon you, Gabriela 13.

# # # #

Chandelle Davies told us all that she could remember. With every question put to her, in the most delicate and fragile way possible, she would always reply, "I am Chandelle Davies. I am The Witness." She told us that she could remember nothing of her actual abduction. She was at home, in her room on campus at university. She was studying hard for one of her pre-medical exams when she received a message, phoned up to her from reception. She went downstairs and met with a woman, a tall, blonde and blue-eyed lady. This woman had told her that she was a colleague of her mother and that she had sad news to tell her. Chandelle was told how her mother had left her father that week and that she was needed urgently by her father back at home. She had packed a quick over-night bag and had attempted to ring her father Nigel on her mobile but to no avail. On-route they had both stopped off for a quick bite to eat. Chandelle had then later awoken inside a basement and recalls having lost at least two days of memory. This she knew and which she confirmed by the date on her watch. She cannot remember the exact date but it was in March. "It is all a blur to me now. I have lost so much of my memory," she recalled. DI Andrea Johnson and I noted that we could confirm this date easily with a telephone call to the university and did not push any further.

"I know that I had lost two days in time. I remember this but they took my watch and I fell back to sleep." She then said to us, Johnson and I, "I am Chandelle Davies. I am The Witness. I awoke again and looked around. I had lost all sense of real time. I was cold and opposite me was my sister, my sister Isabella. I am Chandelle Davies. I am The Witness."

She continued. "Isabella and I were kept in a basement for what seemed like months. There was no natural light. We were fed well and they would bring us water, beer or wine, even take-away food whenever we asked for it. Pizza and curry, anything we wanted, but we never left that room for months. We were given a portable toilet, the kind of thing you take camping. Then this one day we both awoke in a different place. I am Chandelle Davies. I am The Witness."

"What did you witness?" I asked her. "I am Chandelle Davies. I am The Witness. There were seventeen people that I saw, twelve men all with their faces hidden. They wore masks made out of the faces of dead people; they were wearing other people's faces, the skin around the eyes and mouth cut away. The skin so long it came down over their clothing at shoulder height. They wore the faces of dead people. There was a woman called Gabriel, a man's name but it was a woman, definitely the same women who had come to collect me from the university. She sat in a chair. It was an old wooden chair almost like a kings throne. She also hid her face from me but not with skin but a heavy white wedding veil. She would say to me again and again, over and over repeatedly, "Take stock of what you see for you are my witness," - over and over again she would say this to me. I knew it was her, I could tell."

"They took us down from a tower as the sun was rising. It was early morning. We could see for miles, everything, like we were on top of a mountain. Through the broken window, it was a red star, a big red star with broken glass. I could see canons in the distance next to a huge big white tower on the opposite hillside. I only saw it briefly but it was there alongside wind generators. I am Chandelle Davies. I am The Witness."

"Where did they take you?" I asked her. "I am Chandelle Davies. I am The Witness," she again and again replied. "To the room where the men with dead faces were. Down a big metal staircase and into a hall. The wind was howling and the rain was coming in. I could see holes in the roof. It was round, it was filthy, and derelict like it had been empty for many years. On the ceiling a Russian thing, like the emblem on an old Russian flag. I am Chandelle Davies. I am The Witness."

"Do you mean a hammer and sickle?" I asked. I drew a rough picture and showed it to her there and then. "I am Chandelle Davies. I am The Witness. Yes, that's it, that's what I saw on the roof. I am Chandelle Davies. I am The Witness." She continued to reply. "Who else was there, you say twelve men and one woman, who else did you see?" I asked. "I am Chandelle Davies. I am The Witness. My sister Isabella was with me but not all of the time, at the beginning and at the end. We were chained together at the neck, just one chain that joined us both at the neck together. My mum was there too but she never said a word to us. She wouldn't even look us in the face. All she did was write down what they said, they called her the Traitor. She was always crying, sobbing continually and we would shout across the hall to her but she would never look at us. She never looked at us, not once. There was a man and a baby too. I am Chandelle Davies. I am The Witness."

"Who was this man and where did the baby come from?" Andrea Johnson asked her. "I am Chandelle Davies. I am The Witness. I will not speak with you, I am Chandelle Davies. I am The Witness." So I asked her the same question again, "Who was this man and where did the baby come from Chandelle? Please tell us." – "I am Chandelle Davies. I am The Witness," she again repeated and then her reply came. "The man who was killed, they ate the baby, they cooked it on the fire and then they all ate it, everybody ate it." – "How was the man killed Chandelle? Please take your time. I know that this is painful for you," I said in the calmest and most reassuring manner that I could find. "I am Chandelle Davies. I am The Witness. They beat him and burnt him. They cooked the baby on top of him and then they made Isabella chop off our mother's hand. I am Chandelle Davies. I am The Witness." Chandelle broke down uncontrollably.

I talked with Chandelle over many days, as gently and as sensitively as I could and always in the presence of DI Johnson, and the in-attendance clinical psychologist. Chandelle had witnessed horrific things but we had to know all that she had to tell us. The psychologist assessing the value of each question we posed to her. We tape-recorded every word spoken.

Chandelle had been released because we, the police, had published the original book in digital form, part one of 'Meat: Memoirs of a Psychopath'. She told us that Isabella too would be released and unharmed if we published the material she had been given by Gabriel to take directly to us. She did not know what would now happen to her mother. She had been taken to an airport and given a ticket to fly directly to Manchester. From there she was instructed to catch a train to Liverpool where she was to immediately hand herself in at the city's central police station. She was given ample cash, her passport back and food and drink. Chandelle had even been given clean clothes to wear. She had not told anyone of her story, maintained an absolute silence throughout and followed her instructions in full. Chandelle was aware that both her mother's and sister's life depended on her full compliance.

Blood samples taken from her showed extremely high levels of sedation medication, the levels in her blood so high that she could easily have died. Chandelle also confirmed that she had flown from Sofia airport in Bulgaria. I was not surprised by this as she had described in detail the surroundings of her confinement. I knew that the description precisely fitted that of the old site of Buzludzha. Buzludzha was the former and now derelict architectural icon of the old Bulgarian Communist regime. I knew it immediately. I had been there and her description was unmistakeable with anywhere else. I had written about it in my book 'Please Take care of Bethany' and her flight from Sofia had more than confirmed this to be correct. DI Johnson and I knew how she had returned but how had she got there? The fastest way this journey could have been made by road was at least three days and without overnight stops. This is a journey of 2,000 miles following the Romanian route. I know this for certain because I have driven it. We could only conclude that the girls had been asleep whilst heavily sedated for a much longer period than that which Chandelle had come to believe. Had the date on her watch been deliberately altered to cause confusion? Was the original basement in which the two girls were confined in the UK or Bulgaria? We were both uncertain.

After we had initially and briefly interviewed Chandelle, we read through the paperwork together, Johnson and I. We left Chandelle to sleep in safety. We decided that we could not ask her any more questions for the time being as all we needed to know was now already written down in front of us. Whilst we continued to comply with Gabriel's instructions, we knew that Isabella will not be harmed. We also co-operated knowing that Dr Cerys Davies will also soon be released.

DI Johnson and I continued to read through the contents of Gabriel's parcel that evening in absolute disgust and dismay. We read it through again and again until the very early hours of the next day, always following strict procedural protocol so as not to contaminate any possible DNA evidence. All the physical evidence before us was to be handed over to forensics the following day, and we knew our time was extremely limited.

Could we comply further and re-publish for him? What would become of Cerys and Isabella if we did not? And after all, Chandelle was with us and now safe. The whole station was alive with conversation and opinion on this, but we knew that in order to save the lives of Isabella and Dr Davies we had to comply with these instructions. We had no choice, no matter how much it disgusted us all to do so. Gabriel had kept his promise after the publication of his first book and released Chandelle unharmed. We had no reason to suspect that he would not keep his promise this second time. We wanted our colleague back and we wanted Isabella back home safe with her sister as well. After all, Gabriel 13 needed us to publish his book and without his word being kept to us, this would never be allowed to happen. "Be assured of this and without any doubt at all, it will not happen"- I remind you here Gabriel as you read this.

The document was an agenda and a set of business minutes, written down like any other recorded business meeting; a minuted account of any formal gathering, but this was a business meeting about killing people. An account of the sect's first ever conference and my skin crawled at the very sight of it. The papers all smeared and blooded by the hand that was enclosed with them. Had this been what Gabriel had referred to previously as a new book written in blood?

They, the Gabriel Sect, had tied Dr Davies by her left arm to a man, a man half beaten to death and then dumped upon a fire. They had rolled up all the PVC plastic sheeting they had used to line the floor of the chamber. As the conference had ended, they had then set fire to him. And Isabella, she was then given a single choice; to remove her mother's hand and save her life from the inferno of flames, or to leave her there to burn to death alongside him. The axe that she was given to use is now apparently named a holy relic of the sect. Chandelle would confirm this to us by saying, "I am Chandelle Davies. I am The Witness, and they call it \- The blade of The Traitor."

And what of the venue? Well, obviously this wasn't very hard to confirm. We all knew that at the point of Chandelle's release to us from captivity and given the delivery of the paperwork that the Gabriel Sect would be long gone. The complete arrogance, the self-conceit of these people, they had chosen a location known to the world. They had put there for us, written down in the agenda of the meeting, written down as clear as day the name of that location, just as Gabriel had done so throughout the memoirs. He wanted us to know every detail. He wanted to maintain and display his on-going belief in his own self invincibility.

Buzludzha, Bulgaria, that old but now long derelict UFO-looking structure, as featured in my book and the former figurehead of the Bulgarian Communist Party. This huge concrete structure built on a peak in Bulgaria, there in the mountains and clearly visible from not only most regions in Bulgaria but from as far away as Turkey. A huge tower and at the top, a red star, a glass window, the biggest red glass window ever constructed and built by Soviet Russia. It took just an afternoon to find a military expert to definitely and unequivocally confirm this location. Chandelle looking down at the archive photographs he had brought into the station with him for her to view. Without any hesitation, her saying to us all, "I am Chandelle Davies. I am The Witness. Yes, this is where my mum is." Myself, yes I Brian Wilkinson, knowing all too well that this was the place that I had visited during my travels in 2005. A description that could not be mistaken for any other building, but what was the connection?

What was the hidden message we were supposed to receive by this action? Was this somehow the rebirth of a great former power? Was this a message delivered down from the top of the world with his message received across all nations, a Phoenix rising from the ashes? Or was it just because he could? That he was demonstrating that he can travel across the globe at will, his followers and he, quite undetected, retracing my very own footsteps and letting me know that he knew everything there was to know about me and psychologically intimidating me yet again? That he could abduct three people and seemingly just take them anywhere in the world if he so wanted to, and at any time.

Yes, I think so. This is the main reason for such a grand isolated location, and for such a gesture. To show us that he has vast networks available to him, friends as he said, that are influential and very powerful friends. Connections at the very top within his dark and dirty seedy under-world of hate crime. Contacts that he can manipulate, all at a second's notice.

Bulgarian police were notified immediately but nothing remained there of beneficial forensic evidence, except of course that is, the charred remains of a man, a man who had been wrapped in plastic and burnt alive. There, in the centre of the hall, beneath the hammer and sickle were found the remains of that man, a man who at the time of writing down Chandelle's words, still remained unidentified.

Chandelle continued to talk freely with us. She said she was of the Honorary Circle, an untouchable, that Gabriel and the sect had given her this title and that if she did exactly as she was so commanded to do no harm would ever come to her. Chandelle had witnessed the entire proceedings that day. She was the Witness who herself was personally required to deliver the truth to me. I, Brian Wilkinson was the Revealer, the person who would tell the world Gabriel's story. That in so doing, I too was an honorary person, an untouchable. I asked her if there were any more names, names given out to these so-called untouchables. "I am Chandelle Davies. I am the Witness, the little baby, the one they killed. They called it the BILE. They said that the baby was now an ancient pillar-stone, the sacrifice, the blood and flesh of the immortal ones, the chosen ones, the messenger of God's truth. They kept the baby's bones as a Holy Relic."

IN LOVING MEMORY: Sparky (aka: Bob Marley)

Before and after: Brian's dog 'Sparky'. It was Brian's wish that should anything happen to him, Sparky be fostered by the singer/songwriter Jonathan Taylor and his partner Nicola Miller. As Brian wished, this they lovingly did.

PART TWO

Please Take Care of Bethany

Chapter (unlucky for you Brian) 13

"Please Take Care of Bethany"

Reproduced as first and self- published in 2005 by Brian Wilkinson).

New 2015 edition cover features three RAF Avro-Lancasters in flight, 1956.

I am PC 5427 Wilkinson, Police Constable Brian J.B. Wilkinson of the Drover Estate in Liverpool. My middle name is Josef-Benjamin. I was born on Merseyside during March of 1945, a small back-to-back terrace house. What today, if it still existed, well I guess you would term it a slum. That smoky, charcoal-black stained stone from the pollution of the chimneys and factories likened to the lungs of a heavy smoker. All the way over there, down the small dank cobbled street away from the house, the toilet block. The toilet block that all twelve houses on our street shared, a most unpleasant walk during the cold Liverpool winters.

In the house opposite us, there lived a beautiful young girl called Doreen, her eyes always alight with joy and happiness. We would play marbles in the street, always such fun as the bumpy old cobbles would never allow the marbles to roll in any predictable straight line.

Doreen and I were the best of friends. We would sit hand in hand on the wall at the end of the street, watching the old trolleybus go by and the old horses, the nags that dragged the coal cart, struggling to stay on their feet given the excess weight of their load. This was a Britain recovering from the war and we "made do". We were happy to be free and that's what they would say to us as kids, the grown-ups on the same street. Mr Parker, the old storekeeper down the next road, would always say to me every time without fail as I went in to buy Mum some bread, "Freedom Brian, freedom. That is what your dad gave his life for. Be very proud of him son."

I missed my dad so very much, as I grew up without him. He went to war and he never returned. We knew nothing of whatever really happened to him until one day long after the war had ended. The day when my mother was just stood there washing the dishes at the old Belfast sink and staring out into the yard, the day that she suddenly dropped the plate that she had in her hand. Smash! I remember the noise and Mum freezing motionless there on the spot. Then that outbreak of emotion as she fell to the floor and started crying, sobbing to herself quite uncontrollably.

I had never met my dad. He had gone to war and I was born at home. But Dad was everywhere. He was in every conversation that we, the family, had. He was never forgotten. I never understood his sacrifice fully until this particular day, the day that the plate smashed to the ground.

The knock at the door. The man I didn't know who was escorted in by one of our neighbours, a lovely lady and a dear friend to my mother, the same lady who helped my mother back to her feet. "I'll put the kettle on," she said to Mum and I was sent out to play. I was eleven I think at this time. The year was 1956.

"Who is he?" I remember asking my Doreen, our hands as always clasped together and both of us sat up there on our favourite wall-top seat. "My dad says he's from the government," replied Doreen, giggling excitedly.

From that point in time and over the next coming few years, and as I became an independent teenager, I started to understand the magnitude and the significance of the sacrifice that Dad had made for his country; the personal sacrifice that he had made for us all, the reason that Dad had given his own life away. Just as Mr Parker, the old shop keeper would always say to me, "He died for freedom Brian, he died for freedom!"

You see that man, the man who came to the door that day in 1956, and the man who had upset my mum so very much, this same man from the government, well he had been to our house just the once before. This government man was the man who had come to our house just two weeks before I was born to tell my mum that Dad had been shot down and killed in action. My father, RAF rear gunner 'Bull's-Eye' Brian Wilkinson was dead.

You understand now why Mum had been so very upset that day, don't you? Why she had frozen at the window, frozen at the sight of this very same man returning to the house again for a second time. He, removing that same black bowler hat again as he entered through the gate of our small stone-flagged front yard for this second visit. Bernadette, my mum's dearest and closest life-long friend standing there at Mum's side throughout. 'Bull's-Eye' Wilkinson, my father, well his body had never been recovered until this day in 1956 and now eleven years after the end of the war with Nazi Germany my dad was coming home to us again.

I want this to be a happy story and I want there to be a happy end but there is not one. Dad's B17 Bomber had flown low on its final returning flight and had struck head-on into the cliffs at Dover. Those beautiful White Cliffs of Dover, this first visual sight of home had probably been the very last thing that he had seen before he died. Then here we are, eleven years later, his body had been finally recovered, found to be still strapped there into his seat and entombed within the shell of the bomber, this old American B17 warplane.

Excavations had started for the building of a new terminal for shipping at Dover port, as post-war Europe had started to blossom again and economic trade with the wider world was much needed. Structural engineers and drillers had unearthed what was the crumbled wreckage of this old warplane sunken deep into the mud below the cliff-face, and the Royal Air-Force had now identified it as the Thompson. This was my dad's plane. The man from the government, the man in the black bowler hat that I clearly remember from being such a young child, had come to the house that day to make the arrangements, the arrangements with my mother Evelina for the return of my father's body back to Liverpool.

It seemed like the whole city turned out for the funeral of my dad, RAF rear gunner 'Bull's-Eye' Brian Wilkinson on this particular Sunday of April 1956, a sense that Liverpool in its entirety had come to a complete standstill. I know now as an adult that this isn't true but that's the feeling I had got as a child of just eleven and in seeing so many thousands of people there, all stood silently and respectfully as the procession drove through the city. The burial was a private family matter. Mum had wanted this and she said to me that day, as Dad was lowered into the ground below, "I will tell you about your dad when you are old enough to understand son, but for now let's just leave him to sleep in peace."

Then the day came, the day of my eighteenth birthday and I let go of Doreen's hand to take the hand of my mother, the hand of the wonderful Evelina Wilkinson, the hand of this oh so proud war widow. I knew then that she had finally found the strength to tell me. I had never asked previously about the letter Dad had left her. I heard the family talk of it often but I never troubled Mum as I knew this was something so dear and special to her. I knew that she would tell me in her own time and in her own way when she was ready to do so.

Today, the day I became eighteen, a man now and a man so very much in love with Doreen, Mum gave me that letter to read, a letter addressed to her, the last thing Dad had ever written down on paper and a letter found with him inside the plane. A letter sealed inside an airtight mission bag and so perfectly preserved, a letter that had somehow and almost by miracle survived all of its years below the cold strong tidal waves of the English Channel and as if it had only been written yesterday. A letter that he had penned for my mother and had then stuffed safely hidden deep down inside his flight jacket. A letter to my mum that was held close beside his heart as he breathed his last. It was this very same love letter that that government man, the man in the black bowler hat had returned to her, Evelina, on that day of 1956.

It read:

My Dearest Evelina,

I have so longed to come home to you, my dear precious Evelina. Our bombing raids over Bulgaria have ended and I no longer fly from Italy. We have for the last three months been involved in a special mission, a secret mission of which I am forbidden to speak of but I am frightened as we all are now. I write you this letter in the hope that you will understand why I volunteered to do this and should I not return home this time, to know of my love for you: my deep, endless, undying love for you, the undying love that keeps me sane during these, the darkest of hours. You are always in my heart.

As I sat to the rear of my flying tin can, us up there so very high up in the sky, I watched our bombs fall down below onto Sofia, this once so beautiful and ancient city that had now found itself thrown into the war against us. I saw the sky light up with the blast of the bombs we dropped and I wondered who we were killing. There were no Germans down there really. These were just people like you and me. Imagine my love, what I see in my mind, women just like you with their children queuing for the bus and then blown up, in an instant, blown into thousands of pieces of human dust by what we had just delivered to them. I am so tired and sick of this war. I am so tired of the loss of my friends. Half of us never return home. How much grief can this great nation of ours bear? They will never build a monument to remember me. Us lot, the bomber crews who kill women and children.

Do you remember Willy? Young Willy Garth from over on Sander's Fields? He killed himself last week. He was terrified and couldn't board the metal bird as ordered. I wish you could see what we see, all those planes that take off and we wait to count them back in, safely home and back at base, but they don't return anymore. We sit here strapped in with nowhere to run, nowhere to go other than downward, just sitting here waiting for our turn to be the next missing crew too, simply fall from the sky. Willy was thrown, rough-handed back into his seat by a Squadron Leader, ordered to do his duty at all cost. It was a cost to him. He jumped from the plane in flight during take-off. I think he knew he would die soon anyway and just couldn't face the fear of waiting for it to happen anymore.

We've now been given a new crate to work with, an American B17 Bomber. She's a big old heavy bird and the American pilot says, "It's like trying to steer a brick." We've had to strip it completely down. She's an amazing old bird, very strong but very heavy. She lacks the range capability we need and we have fitted new drop tanks. We've called her the Thompson. We all named her after the guy we had down there on the ground below.

We've been in constant training for weeks. We're good now, well, I think as good as we can get given what we have to work with. I always worry about having an American pilot though, a bit too gung-ho for my liking but he's a great laugh, don't get me wrong. He's a Texan and as loud as you can imagine any Texan to be. Oh, we have a French Bombardier too, Pierre, a perfect English speaker and hand-picked just like the pilot and me. We're the best in the air apparently. The lads mock us with phony salutes, funny really.

Pierre is also navigating for us. We are a jolly mix and try to have a good laugh, even if sometimes we don't quite understand each other's sense of humour. That's about it, just us three, a crew reduced by seven in this stripped down metal brick that we can hardly believe can still fly, especially given everything we have had to take off her. We have a new nick-name; they call us back at base, the Magnificent Three. I guess it's got a kind of good ring to it. The Magnificent three, imagine that?

I wanted so much to be home with you, holding your hand when Bethany was born but I volunteered to do this. I was given the choice not to do this if I so wanted, but I want to be honest with you about that fact, I have to do this for myself. Think of what they have done to your family back home and try to understand me and my motivation. Please try to understand, and remember this, I am 'Bull's-Eye' Wilkinson the best rear gunner in the sky and with me on board, well what can possibly go wrong?

I have this last mission only my love and then I shall be home with you, at home for the birth of our child. They have promised me this. They have promised me at least two months down leave and I can't wait to see you. I love you with all my heart,

Yours eternally, all my love, Brian xxxxx

And then, there, at the bottom of the letter and scribbled hurriedly across it, as if an afterthought, below Dad's signature it said;

"Fuel out, dropping fast, too low to bail, please take care of Bethany for me."

<oOo>

That's how my dad had died. He had died a war hero alongside his new crew, just the three of them alone together. My mum had known nothing of this letter or his final mission until eleven years later, and not until after the body of my dad had been recovered from beneath the sea at Dover.

The man from the government would never go on to say what the full facts of this ill-fated final secret mission were, but he did say this to Mum at the time, she recalled;

"The Thompson, a B17 Flying Fortress with a hand-picked specialist crew of three, had left an airbase in occupied British territories on February 26th 1945 at 22.30 hours. The mission was to deliver a massive, single precision payload bomb of huge devastating capacity against a research facility beyond German held lines. Major Frank Thompson, a British officer beyond these enemy-held lines had reported, before all communication with him had been lost on the 23rd May 1944, the development of a new chemical warfare facility. 'The crew of the Thompson B17 Heavy Bomber had completed this mission with great accuracy and with great effect. They had died on their return journey having changed the course of the war. The crew were to divert and return the bomber to the UK after the payload had been delivered," he said.

The reason for this diversion was never stated. Mum explained to me that she'd asked this man what drop tanks were, as written in dad's final letter. He replied by telling her, "They are extra fuel supply tanks attached to the outside of the aircraft. They are used to increase the flying range and can be released and jettisoned by the crew when empty. The heavy bomber had been stripped down to reduce its weight load and to allow for the extra weight of the bomb and the additional fuel needed. I am so sorry but I cannot tell you more."

Mum was so very proud of Dad and what he had done. You see my mum was of Polish origin and her grandparents, my great-grandparents, had been executed by the Nazis during the war in a reprisal attack against partisan resistance in their home village. She had survived only because her mother and father had arrived to live in Britain in 1913 and before the outbreak of the first war, World War I. She would simply smile at me and say, "Be very proud of your dad, I understand why he volunteered for this. I am very honoured to have met him and so very proud that he did so." Mum never remarried.

I have for so many years had these stories, these childhood war time fantasies, in my head about what Dad was actually doing during his final flight and I suppose that, well in the absence of the full true facts, I like these stories. Maybe they were attacked by German fighters and my dad, 'Bull's-Eye' Wilkinson shot them all out of the sky before they realised they were hit themselves and now leaking fuel? Maybe they received heavy flak over France and struggled at the controls in a desperate last-ditch attempt to reach home and clear the cliffs ahead of them?

Or maybe they just didn't have enough fuel to start with, a tragic war-time miscalculation and fatal error. What-ever the true story, my dad is a war hero and that's all that matters to me. I'm named directly after my dad, Mum told me. "We were certain you were going to be born a girl at the time, that's why we chose the name Bethany together, but the name Brian is so much more special now, don't you think so son?"

My study notes conclude that at the outbreak of World War II, Bulgaria, at the time a kingdom under the governance of Prime Minister Bogdan Filov had always declared a position of (Bulgarian) military neutrality in the hope of avoiding direct conflicts and to regain lands lost during the previous Balkan Wars and the First World War, the Great War, to these original pre-Balkan War boundaries. She also sought to reclaim the areas neighbouring her sovereign borders and those lands with high populations of former Bulgarian patriots.

Hopes to resolve these older territorial claims were aided when Southern Dobruja, a part of Romania since 1913, was repatriated to the Kingdom of Bulgaria under the Treaty of Craiova in 1940. Bulgaria also maintained its non-aggression pact with its immediate southern neighbour, Turkey.

Due to Bulgaria's strategic geographical position however, such bloodless neutrality would prove impossible to maintain. In 1941 Bulgaria officially joined the Axis Powers. German forces had amassed on her border demanding the right to pass through her sovereign lands in preparation for Germany's planned invasion of Yugoslavia and Greece. Bulgaria signed the Tripartite Pact, firmly cementing her position as an Axis power on the 1st March 1941. The Soviet Union had by this point in time also signed up to a non-aggression pact with Germany and little opposition to Bulgaria's new war-time position was noted.

Bulgaria, despite this new allegiance at this point, continued its course of military passivity. Germany, Italy and Hungary had now successfully invaded Yugoslavia and Greece with Yugoslavia officially surrendering to the Axis powers on the 17th April and Greece shortly afterward on the 30th April.

On the 20th April, just ten days before Greece's capitulation, Bulgarian forces, seizing their opportunity, had entered Yugoslavia and Greece following closely behind this Axis invasion. The military objective was to take back the lands of Thrace and Eastern Macedonia. Bulgaria now occupied the area between the Struma River and the city of Alexandroupoli and her Aegean Sea gains also included the islands of Thasos and Samothrace. Her occupation also included much of modern day Macedonia and Eastern Serbia. Although Bulgarian forces never directly entered into combat with British forces, they did reinforce former German held lines within these new gained territories.

Despite popular myth, Bulgaria was involved in the deportation of the Jews to Nazi concentration camps. Following significant protest to Germany, principally by the Bulgarian government, Dimitar Peshev MP, the Bulgarian Orthodox Church, and some members of the Royal Family, it is historically recognised that Bulgarian territorial Jews were saved from deportation. However, Bulgaria was fully complicit with the Nazis in the deportation of the Jewish communities beyond her sovereign border, such as the Jewish population of Greek Macedonia and Vardar Macedonia. Had the Axis powers won the war, without doubt the same fate would have then befallen all Bulgarian Jews.

June 22nd 1941 saw the invasion of the Soviet Union by German forces, an invasion that Bulgaria did not take part in. No official declarations of war between the Soviets and the Bulgarians had been formalised however but despite this, a number of direct Bulgarian naval skirmishes against the Soviet Black Sea Fleet did take place. Back home Bulgarian opposition, anti-fascist and partisan resistance, and other Soviet Allied Communist groups conducted numerous sabotage attacks against Bulgarian armed forces. Resistance to Bulgaria's new war-time stance led to a developed and popularist united resistance movement. This ultimately led to guerrilla warfare turning Bulgarian against fellow Bulgarian. This united resistance movement, officially formed in August 1942 was called the Fatherland Front. Partisan detachments were particularly active in the mountainous regions of western and southern Bulgaria.

The Bulgarian government declared war on both the United Kingdom and the United States on the 13th December 1941. Allied bombing raids, in which many Bulgarian cities and towns were bombed in strategic co-ordinated operations, began in retaliation.

The balance of power in 1943 between the Allies and the Axis powers was now changing and Germany had suffered serious and major defeats on the battlefields of its occupied territories, especially those on her Eastern Front. In August 1943 the Bulgarian King 'Tsar Boris III died suddenly during a visit to Berlin, a visit in which he was to renegotiate his country's Axis position with Hitler. He was succeeded to the throne by his 6-year-old son and direct heir Simeon II. Bulgaria was now to be governed by a German puppet administration headed by the new Prime Minister, Dobri Bozhilov. Diplomatic relationships with the Soviets were, however, still maintained by Bulgaria, this despite its ongoing membership of the Axis power.

Following Germany's defeat on Soviet occupied territory, and in particular the areas of Iaşi and Chişinău, Romania broke away from the Axis during the summer of 1944 and declared war on Germany. The Soviet forces were now given consent to cross her borders and thus the ability to later militarily invade Bulgaria. Within Bulgaria, the resistance movement of The Fatherland Front had by now ceased and a new anti-fascist government was formed on the 2nd September. Following the declaration of war made against her by The Soviet Union three days later, and subsequently as a result, on the 5th September, Bulgaria officially joined the Soviet Forces (8th of September) in the war against Nazi Germany.

Frank Thompson was born in Darjeeling, West Bengal in British India. He was born on the 17th August 1920 to a missionary family, and was the elder brother to E.P Thompson, the later famed English historian, socialist and peace campaigner. Frank Thompson was educated at both Winchester College and New College in Oxford. It was here at Oxford, whilst studying at the university that he became a member of the Communist Party of Great Britain, influenced greatly by his dear friend, Iris Murdoch.

Despite Thompson's affiliation to the Communist Party, he did not agree with the party's neutral position dictated to its membership following the Molotov Ribbentrop Communist Pact, and he signed up voluntarily for service in the British Army. He saw active service at home in England, North Africa, Syria, Iraq, Sicily, Serbia and finally in Bulgaria. Here, he became a crucial part of the Special Operations Executive (SOE). His role as a British officer and representative of the British War Office, and of Winston Churchill, was one of a liaison officer between the British Army and the Bulgarian anti-fascist partisans, many of whom were members of the Bulgarian Communist Party. The Bulgarian partisans played a key role in helping Britain win the war, notably the numerous and most successful sabotage missions of Bulgarian and German artillery supply lines.

Thompson, along with three other British Commandos, was parachuted into hostile territory on January the 25th, 1944. His role was to establish a direct military and complimentary link between British fighters and their Bulgarian counterparts, the Bulgarian resistance divisions led by Slavcho Transki. Thompson and the commandos landed in the district of Dobro Pole in Macedonia. The single radio which they were carrying and one that was essentially needed to maintain contact with connections in Cairo, Egypt and also in Bari, Italy, soon broke, and this just shortly after arrival.

Thompson and the other three commandos took part in the brutally violent and the significantly outnumbered clashes between the fascist sympathetic Bulgarian Gendarmerie and the anti-fascist units of the Second Sofian Brigade of The National Liberation of Partisans. He was captured on the 23rd May 1944 in the village of Batuliya in Bulgaria after being wounded by Bulgarian Gendarmerie forces. He was executed by firing squad in the nearby village of Litakovo. He was only 24 years of age.

Following the post-war establishment of the new communist government of Bulgaria, the villages that had witnessed these violent military clashes were renamed. These villages being Livage, Lipata- Tsarevi, Stragi, Malak-Babul, Babul and Zavoya were all merged into one district and are to this day and remain so, simply called Thompson in honour of the British officer. Mayor William Frank Thompson and his fellow commandos are just a handful of so many more of today's forgotten heroes of World War II.

His brother, E. P. Thompson wrote two books about him, the first with his mother 'There Is a Spirit in Europe: A Memoir of Frank Thompson' and the second 'Beyond the Frontier: the Politics of a Failed Mission, Bulgaria 1944'. This latter work was published in 1996.

Of my dad's plane, the so-called Thompson, it was developed in the 1930s for the United States Army. The Boeing B-17 heavy bomber was fitted with four engines. Boeing, in commercial competition against both Douglas and Martin aircraft, won the contract to build an initial batch of 200 B-17 aircraft. The B-17 outperformed all the rival contract entries at the time. Regrettably, following the crash of its first prototype, Boeing soon lost this contract with the United States Army Air Corps (USAAC), but the US Army remained impressed with the overall design and capability of the aircraft and placed an order for a further thirteen aircraft. During many years of evolution the B-17 undertook numerous changes and advances in basic design and was finally introduced into military service in 1938.

The so-called Flying Fortress was primarily used during World War II for daylight precision and strategic bombing campaigns against German industrial and military targets. The B-17 was based at many RAF stations in southern England and was used as far away as North Africa. The B-17 was also used in Foggia, Italy, where it complemented RAF Bomber Command's night-time bombing raids. This was to secure air superiority in preparation for Operation Overlord, known to us today as the D-Day landings. Code named Operation Pointblank, its purpose was to secure air superiority over the cities, factories and battlefields of Western Europe. Its involvement, though to a much lesser degree, continued during the War of the Pacific where it was used for raids against Japanese shipping and airfields.

From the very beginning of its service, the USAAC made great use of the B-17 as a strategic weapon, given its powerful, high and long-distance flying range capabilities - a craft that proved time and time again that it would be able to return home despite extensive and heavy battle damage scars. Within a very short period of service time, the stories about the B-17 Flying Fortress had soon taken on almost mythical proportions. War time stories and photographs of these heavily damaged (though still flight capable) aircraft, soon gave it an iconic status among the servicemen who flew them. An emotional testament that made this clear, is found within my father's final letter.

The B-17 dropped more bombs on Axis occupied enemy territory and Axis power homelands than any other aircraft throughout the war. Of the 1.5 million metric tons of bombs dropped on Germany and its occupied territories by US built aircraft, 640,000 tons of this sum were dropped directly from B-17s. The standard crew membership of the B-17 was typically ten persons: a pilot, co-pilot, navigator, bombardier/nose gunner, flight engineer/top turret gunner, radio operator, two waist gunners, ball turret gunner and a tail gunner. My father, Brian 'Bull's-Eye' Wilkinson had flown her with a crew of just three.

PART TWO

Chapter 14

"Doreen"

I have no one left to talk to anymore, only my wife Doreen, Doreen who I visit every Sunday down at the Meadow Bank Park Cemetery. My dear and so desperately missed Doreen, my faithful lover and friend to a man for an entire lifetime. Doreen Janet Wilkinson 1944 – 2004. Doreen who honoured me so much, just as my mother Evelina felt honoured to have known my father. Doreen who married me in 1963.

There are four of us in the family plot, the plot my mum Evelina bought back in 1956 for the return of my dad's body that year. It's a beautiful spot, this small piece of Earth, the 8 foot by 4 foot rectangle we own. It's the only piece of land the family ever bought in fact, well the British side of the family that is. Dad was the first in and then followed by Mum in the spring of 1973, the year when she too went in. Born in 1920, she died in the April of '73 at just fifty three years of age. I'm amazed she lived that long.

Mum had a terrible drink problem. It was controlled and she managed to work, but every night at 7 pm she would open her bottle. Always whiskey, she loved Irish whiskey. She was never completely drunk or even in fact any trouble at all. She just drank heavily, drinking to ease her pain and grief until she too eventually died suddenly. A massive heart attack it was, gone in an instant, her glass fell to her lap and the whiskey poured over Dad's old war-time love letters that she'd been reading all alone that evening. Those letters, Dad's very private letters, all posted from the front in Italy. They still smell of the whiskey today. I keep them very safe.

There is no cure for a broken heart and she died of loneliness for certain. She never remarried or even dated again after Dad. She was a fabulous looking woman my mum. Everybody tried to romance Evelina over the years but she was never interested in men at all after the war. She would say to me, "Son, when I see how much you and Doreen are in love, well that's all I need. Your dad and I loved as you two do now, how can you ever expect me to become accustomed to the loss of such happiness? No son, I will be with your father again soon one day and that's all that I want now." My mother, Evelina Wilkinson died of a broken heart for sure. She never recovered from the loss of her husband.

Then Doreen, my wife, joined them both in that cemetery plot in 2004. All there together now, all three sleeping together in this little plot of earth below the old willow tree down at Meadow Bank Park Cemetery, the top left hand corner of it. Doreen had been so ill for so many years. I'm not happy she died, of course not, but I am relieved for her. Cancer is an awful thing. It comes at you from nowhere; it gives you no warnings of its pending arrival until it is so often just too late. Just like the German fighter pilots my dad would shoot down I suppose.

Doreen suffered with cancer for over three years until eventually she told the doctors she could take no more. No more surgery, no more treatment, and no more hospitals. It all started with a lump under her armpit, a lump that grew hard and painful. Surgery removed the first lump and all was good for a while until then, well, the removal of her left breast by mastectomy. She had a further seven operations in total until the final removal of her right breast two and a half years later. That was it. She would take no more invasive surgery. My Doreen had had enough, the tiredness and the sickness and all that pain. Doreen gave up her battle and let nature take its course. There was no more will left to fight anymore.

Doreen died peacefully at home as she wished. She had been in Banklands Hospice for several weeks and by negotiation with the palliative care team, she was allowed to return home for her end. Those last thirteen days back on the Drover Estate with me in our flat and with the camper van parked down below. She wanted so desperately to go away in that van for a few days but she could not walk the distance. Just getting out of bed became quite impossible for her. To see such a beautiful woman, such a strong-minded and determined character become so weak and frail was heart breaking to watch. The nurses would come three times a day to bathe and clean her. I wanted to do all her personal care for her but she wouldn't have it. "No way!" she would say. "I want you to remember me for who you married, not this thing I have now become."

Her second wish was, "In the end Brian, when the end comes, take me out in Winjin' Pom for a last drive with you. Promise me you will do this for me, promise me this, won't you Brian?"

And just as my dad, Brian 'Bull's-Eye' Wilkinson had seemed to stop Liverpool from moving that day back in 1956, so too did Doreen. I think everybody who owned a vintage camper van from all over the world came to Liverpool that day for her, the club we were in together having organised a farewell procession. Oh Doreen, how I wish you could have seen it. Winjin' Pom all covered over in flowers, tulips actually, her favourite flower, and Doreen there inside taking her last ride with me, there in the back for one last time.

We never had any children as I said earlier. It wasn't that we didn't want to; it's just that it didn't happen. "If it's meant to be it's meant to be," she would say. It just never happened, the kids, we had each other and it was never a concern really. Honestly, it was never a real concern for either of us. It was just the way it was.

We were a very mixed family. Doreen was Roman Catholic, Dad was Church of England and Mum, Evelina, was of Polish-Jewish origin. I was Baptised Church of England, not for any specific reason of faith but I think it was just because that was what my dad was. Religion was never strict for any us. We had faith, but this faith was more a sense of self-spirituality. Doreen and I would later start attending Quaker meetings together, the religious Society of Friends down on Rawden Avenue. We would sit in silence for one hour and just think about what God, if God was ever up there at all, well what he would want of us.

Doreen was more active within the Society of Friends than I was. She would read and discuss things with the Friends present. She was always so inspired to say something beautiful, something poetic that would bring a sense of warmth and love into the room. Always involving herself with every activity, the peace campaigns and the jumble sales, the car boot sales, everything that went on. Doreen would write for many hours; letters to prisoners on death row in American, just writing words of love and forgiveness to them. Letters to prisoners of conscience in Latin America too, writing to them to let them know that the world had not forgotten their plight and freedom struggles, and that she was still watching over them.

I never became a Quaker. If you've ever met a Quaker, a true Quaker that is, well you are fortunate indeed. They are beautiful people, so committed to justice and peace. They are all pacifists. That was the problem for me, the pacifism. I wanted so much to believe in this but after Dad I just couldn't. Dad had gone to war to fight and that meant he had to kill people, people who if he didn't kill them would certainly and without fail kill him. I know that should the same situation occur now, that I too would go to war. I would be prepared to kill others if it meant that some other neo-dark fascist evil could be stopped.

We were a strange mix; Doreen the peace campaigner and me, the amateur military historian. I must have bored her so much talking about military history. Her, always so patient with me, smiling and saying, "Really dear, I didn't know that." The Military Channel on the TV was on almost on a daily basis, always that is, until the soaps came on in the evening. That's when Doreen took control of the remote. It was a brave man indeed who would dare to stand between Doreen and Coronation Street. I hated it myself, but I did enjoy EastEnders with her. All day, tanks and war and planes and technology, and she would just sit there, tucked up in her favourite red fleece blanket, doing her favourite thing, embroidery.

Sparky, always curled up on her lap. The mutt, the homeless stray that we had taken on in the winter of 2001. God that dog was ugly. How she ever saw anything beautiful in it was completely beyond me. We found him down at the communal bins, in a dreadful state he was. His long hair all matted and coated with filth. You could only see one eye, such was that matted hair. He was a long haired dog, a real Heinz 57 but probably more miniature poodle than anything else. I just couldn't do anything with him. Every time I tried to trim his coat he'd try to bite me, such was his gratitude, the little bugger! Eventually we had to take him to the vets who gave him a jab to calm him down, and whilst he slept, off came all that old matted hair.

He was pink for weeks, a dog with no hair and pink and with the biggest ears you've ever seen in your life. He looked just like a gremlin! The hair soon grew back and he settled in at home with us. Living in the flat had never really been suitable for keeping of a dog but he was an abandoned one and therefore a special case I guess. He was so old anyway that he never really wanted to go out for walks. All he ever did was sit on Doreen's lap as she did her embroidery. His breath was awful. I don't know how she could stand it. 'Sparky' she named him, Sparky because he was so volatile and bad tempered with us.

They're all together now. As I said there are four in that plot, three people and now including one homeless mutt. I suppose that when my time comes to go in there with them all, they'll have to move him out of the way first. I put him in there when no one was watching; you're not allowed to bury dogs in cemeteries. A policeman like me doing something illegal like that, who'd have believed it of me?

We had a modest wedding back in 1963, Doreen and I, at St Catherine's Church. Close friends, workmates and family only. I was a security guard then and we didn't have any spare money to speak of. I was only eighteen and she was just a year older than me. I worked for Macintosh down on the Dock-side. I only did the job for a few years until I joined the force when I was twenty one. Doreen worked in town, a clerk for a local bank.

Just as Mum and Dad had, Doreen and I had never known any other. We were in love together from the day we met and grew up together as children, sitting and holding hands every day on the wall at the end of our street. I remember when I first kissed her. I put my lips against hers and never moved, motionless I was. I had my lips to hers for ten seconds without moving my lips a millimetre. I know it sounds a little strange but I was only nine at the time.

The wedding was wonderful and everything was perfect. Me, just a tender eighteen years of age and her having just turned nineteen. You know, nobody, not a single person tried to talk us out of it, not one single person. Old Mr Parker, the man from the corner shop said, "That's my boy Brian. She's a cracker that one, that's what your dad would want son, a cracker she is. Just like your mother, a real cracker." Then his wife in return, Mrs Parker, hitting him around the back of the head with a sharp swift slap. The reception that evening was grand too, down the Dockyard Club; the swing band and all the food and drink we wanted. It was a fine day indeed, our wedding, Doreen and I.

Like I say, everybody wanted to flirt with my mother, Evelina. I think this definitely included Mr Parker. Mum was born in 1920, not in Liverpool but in Pontefract, Yorkshire. Her parents were from a small village back in Poland. I don't know why or what the circumstance was, that made them decide to come and live here in Britain, but I do know it was in 1913. They arrived here, initially landing in Hull but soon afterward settling down in Pontefract, just before the outbreak of the First World War. He, Izaak Stoltzman was a coal-miner and never sent to the front as so many other men were. She, Haka Stolzman (neé Rejchgold) was a seamstress. The family again resettled later on Merseyside during the mid-1920s where they both opened a haberdashery shop together.

I had confirmed the following events during my research for this book, and the fate of both the Stoltzman and Rejchgold families in Poland, is not a happy one. Izaak Stoltzman's father, Evelina's grandfather, Josef B. Stoltzman, was executed by German soldiers in retaliation for Polish resistance and partisan activities. He was executed alongside his wife Greta, by firing squad. The remaining family members on both sides all died as a direct result of the Nazi Holocaust. My mother Evelina named me directly after my father's first name. My middle names however come from my Polish great-grandfather, and those names are Josef-Benjamin.

The Nazi Operation Reinhardt was responsible for the death of over 2.9 million Polish Jews. Additionally, and throughout the entire period of World War II, a further 2.5 million non-Jewish Poles perished whilst under the control of Germany, murdered by the Nazi regime. Two million of this figure were ethnic Polish and half a million more were of non-Polish origin but were living in Poland at the time. A further 300,000 Poles were later killed directly at the hands of the Soviets.

In 1926, in his book Mein Kampf, Adolf Hitler had sought to outline his plan and place Eastern Europe into the hands of a greater Germany. The German Lebensraum plan as it was known (German living-space) was to occupy and gain German ethnic control over the entire region. Slavs as an ethnic race were all viewed by Nazi ideology to be racially inferior. "Kill without pity or mercy all men, women and children of Polish descent or language," was the express instruction given to the German occupying forces by Hitler. The systematic genocide of the Polish people soon followed upon Germany's invasion of the region.

During 1939, Reinhardt Heydrich (September 7th) decreed that all Polish nobles, clergy and Jews were to be executed. Wilhelm Keitel extended this death-list on the 12th September to include and demand the murder of all Polish intelligentsia. By the end of 1940 Hitler had also demanded the liquidation of all leading elements in Poland. Himmler, March 15th 1940, then added: "All Polish specialists will be exploited in our military-industrial complexes. Later, all Poles will disappear from this world. It is imperative that the great German nation considers the elimination of all Polish people as its chief task," he wrote.

Operation Reinhardt was the code name given to the German plans to exterminate, specifically, all Polish Jews. Reinhardt was the deadliest phase of the Holocaust, with the introduction of Nazi extermination camps where over two million people, almost all of whom were of Jewish origin, were sent to the death camps in Bełżec, Sobibor and Treblinka.

Originally, German concentration camps were used for forced labour, imprisonment, and for the re-education of political prisoners. Nazi brutality and the direct policies of the German National Socialist far right ensured that human cruelty such as starvation, non-medical attention to control disease, ill treatment, and murder were tolerated. Within camps in Germany and Austria such as Dachau, Bergen-Belsen and Mauthausen-Gusen, murder was not only expected but also ruthlessly encouraged. In 1942 and as part of Hitler's Final Solution to the Jewish Question, Operation Reinhardt would ensure the complete liquidation and the systematic murder of all Jews in Europe. Bełżec, Sobibor and Treblinka were built with only one purpose in mind: extermination camps. Auschwitz-Birkenau and Majdanek were also extermination camps but were jointly used as forced labour camps.

Senior key roles within the development of these new extermination death camps were given to Christian Wirth, Franz Stangl, and Irmfried Eberl. All three had been pivotal within the Aktion T4 operation in which over 70,000 German men, women and children with a physical disability or learning difficulty were executed between the periods 1939 – 1941. The SS Guards responsible for these murders would wear white coats to give them the appearance of medical authority. After medical assessment the unsuspecting patient was then sent away for 'Sonderbehandlung', which translated literally means 'special treatment.'

The SS, Hitler's own personal bodyguard were now in control of the operation and efficient running of all death camps and used many such disguised tactics. Commonality included railway stations with medical staff on hand at arrival, directing the unsuspecting prisoners to the disinfection centres. It is noted that Treblinka had a booking office with signs displayed throughout the railway station advising prisoners that connecting trains for other camps further east were expected. But of course, these connections never arrived for these connections never existed.

The very old or sick and infirm prisoners were directly transferred to the Krankenhaus (hospital) to help speed up the process of mass extermination of the others. This process could be hindered by the infirm. They would be killed later on and after the death of the larger proportion of the transport, mainly the women and children.

Men and boys were separated, the stronger for labour, and criminal prisoner elements were often selected into the Sonderkommando where any previously known violent background would enable them to become a lower tier of camp guard. The SS and the Sonderkommando recruits, after separating the men, women and children, would order the transport to leave its valuables behind and then direct them straight into the cleansing centre. Here before entry, clothing was searched for any hidden valuables such as gold and personal jewellery. These valuables were collected and sent by the Economic and Administrative Department to the German Reichbank. Men who were still physically able to work were selected for forced labour at the labour camps.

Most of the prisoners who arrived at the camps on these transport trains were gassed immediately. Of the Aktion Reinhardt camps, it is certain that all died shortly after arrival. In 1942 alone, this number stood at 1,274,166 murders of Polish Jews.

Extreme brutality was used to force people into the gas chamber, such as rifle butts, clubs and whips as well as guard dogs, usually German Shepherds. These severe blows on their now bare human skin would eventually force everyone forward into the chamber. To avoid and minimise any unwanted available air, all were forced to stand as tightly as they could against each other inside. Gas such as the cyanic poison Zyklon B, was already being used at other death camps such as Auschwitz, however the Aktion Reinhardt camps used only the lethal carbonic monoxide exhaust fumes that were filtered into the chamber from captured Soviet tank engines.

After all sounds of screaming and panic had stopped, usually taking up to 30 minutes, the Sonderkommando would remove the corpses. Before the corpses were thrown into mass graves, any gold teeth were removed and all human orifices of the dead were searched for jewellery, currency and other possibly hidden valuables. From 1943 onward, and in an attempt to hide any evidence of German war-crimes, all bodies were burned in open pits. The Leichenkommando (specialist corpse disposal) exhumed all previously buried bodies from the mass graves and burnt them. Nevertheless, the Reinhardt death camps still left an evidential paper trail of its activity behind it. In an intercepted telegram sent by Hermann Höfle on 11th January 1943, to Adolf Eichmann in Berlin, confirmation was obtained of a total number of 1,274,166 Polish arrivals. All had been gassed at the camps and all killed before the end of 1942.

PART TWO

Chapter Fifteen

"The Bombing of Sofia"

Of course I've read Dad's private letters to my mum. They are in many ways all I have of my dad and the ability to understand the depth of love he had for my mother. They are both gone to the grave. I hope they really are together again and I don't think they would mind me, now, reading their letters.

All of the letters are addressed from North Africa and later on from Italy, from Bomber Command. Before Dad's final and doomed mission on-board the American-built B-17 heavy bomber the Thompson, he refers affectionately to be flying inside a Vickers Wellington craft. He wrote home in October of 1943:

Can you believe what I and the boys are watching? I think they are trying to boost our morale. We are all watching a film about the building of a new Vickers bomber at the Broughton factory. It's a new world record by all accounts, my love. The workers have given up their day off to meet the challenge. To build the new bird, Wellington number LN514 in as quick a time as humanly possible. It takes at least 60 hours to get one of these things complete, but these guys, men and women, have done it in just 23 hours and 50 minutes. Isn't that incredible? We can now build these new buggers as fast at Adolf can shoot them down. We did it. We beat the Yank's record of 48 hours, previously set in California. That'll put a smile on their faces. It's a newsreel Worker's Week-end film; they're going to watch in the States as well. This bird was flying within 25 hours.

From beginning to flight within 25 hours. Isn't that incredible?

<oOo>

You could sense how proud Dad was by his letters. You could sense the real pride he had in the Wellington. In an earlier letter he also noted;

Barnes Wallis has developed this geodesic construction method. It's based on his early airship designs, the same designs used on the early Wellesley Bomber. The fuselage is made up of 1650 elements; I know, mad, isn't it? She's aluminium alloy, the W-beams are duralumin. Wood is screwed onto the aluminium and covered over with Irish linen. It's treated with dope and makes her an outer skin. She's amazingly strong, a metal lattice, her stringers can support the weight, even from all the way up the other end.

She can still fly even without her skin, just the frame.

<oOo>

One thing that my father would never write home about was his fear. Never. He would protect mother at all times and just talk day to day pleasantries and military facts and figures. I guess this is a family trait I must have inherited genetically, directly from him. He must have known that this chit-chat of his reassured her. To talk about the war in such a day-to-day matter-of-fact way, as if the war was nothing to worry about at all, and he was just doing an everyday job like everybody else at the time. The only letter I ever read of his that even hinted at a sense of fear or realisation of his own mortality, was within his final letter, that letter found aside his body in the bomber during 1956.

Most of the letters talked about his friends and his relationships with others. You would come across words that gave you a great sense of time lapse like nigger and dead Hun. You felt a world away from a generation now long gone. With all my training with the force I cringe at the use of these words, but these letters are written back in the mid-1940s. They're not meant to be offensive I'm sure. I guess it's just the terminology they all used back then. Other words, RAF jargon, are used frequently and I needed some help from the old chaps down at the military club to explain them to me, I admit, the curious use of the term 'the two hundred,' a term that regularly crops up within his letters to Mum back home. From time to time you also read of Dad's despair at the war, how he questions himself about what he is doing there.

On the 11th January 1944, Dad wrote the following. It is the only confirmed date of one of his exact-referenced involvements in the raids over Sofia in Bulgaria:

Yesterday afternoon we joined a squadron of 143 American bombers, we ourselves made up just 44 Wellingtons during the darkness. We have again pounded Sofia into the ground. I imagine this is Liverpool below me and what I would think if the Hun were doing this to us, you there at home, terrified and all alone below a skyline of explosion. What would you be doing now? Is there any sense or reason in this campaign of strategic bombing? Will this make any real difference to the outcome of the war after all is done? We are bombing a city, a city full of citizens who just like everyone else in this God-forsaken war, are just trying to survive. The younger boys, they just like the thrill. They are here to kill Germans but they soon lose that sense of youthfulness from their pale, fresh faces. I watch the bombs fall down, that rain-fall of terror we deliver. They can't all be bad these people down below. We have no idea who we are really killing. No idea at all.

<oOo>

Dad had a terrific sense of humour and also he had a great sense of natural justice. I always got the feeling from these letters that were written home that he was not a black and white person at all. That he was a very complex man with great warmth and human conscience, a man of great compassion.

I am fascinated by wartime stories and of wartime history but I could not have gone through what these men did. I read the story of Sergeant James Allen Ward. His Wellington had caught fire in mid-flight. The fire had broken out and taken hold inside the outer wing of the bomber. Sergeant Ward had climbed out of safety and onto the wing in mid-air to put the fire out. He kicked holes in the doped fabric, holes in which to gain a foothold and for which he used to hang on. James Ward successfully extinguished the fire, an action for which he earned the award of the Victoria Cross, the highest honour of all for any selfless act of bravery within the armed forces.

Think about it. Just stop for a moment and really think about it, this co-pilot who climbed out of his seat to physically smash holes in the wing of his own aircraft. There, thousands of feet up in the intense cold, hanging on for his life to save his crew, and all at such great personal risk. What kind of man has that courage? I am not that kind of man for sure, but my dad was that kind of man. He knew that on his final mission; knew that he probably wouldn't come home again, but he still volunteered. He volunteered because of what those Nazis had done to my mother's family back in Poland. He knew that in writing that final letter to her, she would somehow understand his sacrifice. This, she did. My mother did understand why he had sacrificed his own life. We, all of us here are alive today because of these men. We know nothing of courage: our fast food prepared within an instant and all that mindless gut-rotting mind-numbing television we sit and watch.

Superheroes, that's what these men were, all of them, superheroes. Superheroes who thought they were all normal. My dad, the rear gunner Brian 'Bull's-Eye' Wilkinson, a perfectly normal everyday superhero. I can still smell the whiskey on that letter, the last letter that Mum read before she died so very suddenly. Shall I read it for you?

July, 1944. My Dearest Evelina,

My two hundred is up again soon and I have leave to return home for 14 days. I shall be on the 16.30 from Piccadilly on the Thursday. Put the kettle on, the tea over here is quite undrinkable, almost like someone has been wringing out their socks in it. I'm a little fatter now. I do apologise. It's all that canned meat. I think that they, Bomber Command, think we are dogs and that's all we need. A can of the cheapest meat served several times a day and that'll keep us all smiling. I hope that after the war Winston Churchill will soon ban the sale of Spam!

How are you? Did you buy the dress after all? I really want to see you in it. A beautiful new dress for a very special lady. What shall we do? Do you have any plans my love? I know that I should spend some time down south with the family but I've decided not to tell them I'm coming home this month. I want to spend the time just with you. Can we go dancing again? Let's find a dance band and I'll twirl you around like you are a princess, my very own royal princess, to see you twirl in that new dress of yours.

The war is nearly over now; rumour is that Bulgaria will soon join up with the Soviets in a unified attack. We are all together forcing the Hun all the way back to Berlin. Is it time to consider having our baby? I'd like to call her Bethany if you agree? I know it sounds silly but I've bought her some new clothes already. A little white christening gown, I bought it in Italy. Pure white silk. I know you will like it when you see it. Funny thing is it's made from an old parachute, don't worry, it's a new one, one taken out of service, but this old Italian lady makes them. They are so beautiful to look at.

I'll be home with you soon. I love and adore you so very much, can't wait to see you again,

Brian xxxxx

<oOo>

There you have it: the letter that my mother Evelina was reading, reading again and again for a millionth time. The letter she was reading in that final moment when her heart finally broke and she died. The letter of events in which I guess, later on, led to my birth the following year in March. Mum had always told me that Dad was so convinced that their firstborn would be a girl. It seemed as if all firstborn babies in the Wilkinson family were always girls. I still have that old silk parachute christening gown that I would have worn had I been born a girl. Although just like Mum said, "Brian is so much more special now son, don't you think?"

Dad talked about Bomber Command considerably, about his friends, but never about the losses. He hid my mum from the real truth and horror of the war, a truth that I am now only really discovering, and beginning to understand.

I found out as much as I could about Sergeant James Allen Ward. He was awarded the Victoria Cross for bravery exactly as I described. I also continued to find out much more. In October 1943, workers at the Vickers Broughton factory did in fact give up their weekend to build Wellington number LN514 against the clock, as a propaganda and morale boosting exercise. This story as detailed in Dad's letter of 1944 is factually correct.

The Vickers Wellington (Vickers-Armstrongs), a twin-engine and long range medium bomber was designed in the mid-1930s at the British factory in Brooklands, Weybridge, in Surrey. The chief designer was R. K. Pierson.

During the early years of the out-break of World War II the Wellington was predominantly used as a night time bomber before the Avro-Lancaster, a four-engined heavy became more prevalent within the wartime theatre of operations. The Vickers-Wellington was the only British-built aircraft to be continually produced throughout the entire course of the war, and used later (and particularly) as an anti-submarine aircraft. The aircraft was named after the 1st Duke of Wellington.

The geodesic structure of the Wellington Bomber gave it a very strong but light structure for its considerable size. The Wellington had a great advantage over other aircraft of its time given its load and range to power-ratio advantage, this without sacrificing its overall robustness, protectiveness and shell armouring.

Sofia, the capital city of Bulgaria suffered a series of Allied bombing raids during World War II. Bulgaria declared war against the United Kingdom and The United States of America on the 13th December 1941. Sofia was targeted for strategic bombing missions between the periods of late 1943 until early in 1944. Bulgaria and other Axis powers were now within the comfortable bombing range needed by the Allies from bases they now occupied in Southern Italy.

The raids resulted in the direct deaths of 1,374 people and additional non-fatal injuries accounting for a further 1,743 persons. 12,564 buildings were damaged. 2,670 of these were completely razed to the ground. Allied aircraft losses amounted to a total of 117.

Note; A 'two-hundred' as it appears in the letter, refers to a minimum flying requirement of 200 flying hours flown in active service before a crew-member's sortie was considered to have been completed.

Bombing Raids – Sofia

6 April 1941. 17 aircraft. Industrial section of Sofia. Fatalities; 8. Kyustendil. Fatalities; 58 civilians, military, 2 Bulgarian, 8 German. Injured; 59 civilians, military, 5 Bulgarian, 31 German.

Additional raid of Petrich and Haskovo. Fatalities; 18. Injured; 28.

14 November 1943. 91 aircraft. Industrial section of Sofia. Fatalities; 59 mixed civilian and military. Injured; 128.

24 November 1943. 60 aircraft. Sofia, Central Rail Station. Fatalities; 5 people. Injured; 29.

10 December 1943. 120 aircraft. Sofia, Hadzhi Dimitar, Industrialen,

Malashevtsi and Voenna Rampa Quarters, Vrazhdebna Airport. Fatalities; 11.

20 December 1943. Sofia. Fatalities; 64. Injured 93.

30 December 1943. Sofia, Central Rail Station. Fatalities; 70. Injured; 96.

10 January 1944. Sofia. 187 aircraft. Fatalities; 947. Injured; 611. (Referred to in Father's letter)

16 March 1944. Sofia. 50 aircraft. Fatalities; 43. Injured; 58.

24 March 1944. Sofia, 40 aircraft. Fatalities; 0.

29 March 1944. Sofia. 50 aircraft. Fatalities; 0

30 March 1944. Sofia. 370 aircraft. Fatalities; 139.

17 April 1944. Sofia. 350 aircraft. Fatalities; 128. Injured; 69.

It was not until nearly some seventy years after the end of World War II, that on the 20th June 2012, a £6m memorial to commemorate the deaths of the 55,573 British airmen of Bomber Command was unveiled by the Queen. Air Chief Marshall Sir Stephen Dalton said, "Bomber Command's service and raw courage had finally been recognised." The unveiling ceremony took place in London's Green Park. During a fly-past, a Lancaster Bomber was used to drop many thousands of poppies in memory of their service and courage. Large scale criticism of strategic wartime bombing raids had prevented any earlier plans for such a memorial for many years.

The memorial consists of seven bronzed Lancaster Bomber crew airmen. Veterans from around the world described it as "impressive" and "moving". The event was organised by the RAF Benevolent Fund which will look after the on-going maintenance of the memorial. Russell Oldmeadow, now 90 years of age and a veteran of the war, from Canberra (Australia) was present. He was a Lancaster pilot during WW2, and one of many Commonwealth airmen present. "My brother was killed - that's one reason why I'm here," he said. "But it's also a great occasion and I'm privileged. The memorial is absolutely magnificent."

Air Chief Marshal Dalton said, "Many of those who gave us our freedom, and to whom this memorial is dedicated, cannot join us physically, but their spirit is certainly here. For their bravery and sacrifice which helped to give us our freedom, we will never forget them." An extract of the poem 'For the Fallen' was read aloud by Doug Radcliffe, the secretary of the Bomber Command Association. The repetition of the final words, "We will remember them," by all gathered at the ceremony, was followed by a trumpeter playing the "Last Post" while veterans and current service personnel saluted. Pilot Alan Biffen who was present that day, and himself a war veteran of 87 years of age, said, "I am so glad that at long last Bomber Command is being remembered, not only for what it achieved, but also for the lives of the young men who never came back."

The memorial features a 9ft-high sculpture of seven Bomber Command aircrew and was designed by Liam O'Connor. It is built in Bronze and Portland stone and has an aluminium covering which was re-claimed from a Handley Page Halifax III bomber shot down over Belgium in May of 1944. The sculptor, Philip Jackson, wanted the dedication to be reflective. "I chose the moment when they get off the aircraft and they've dumped all their heavy kit on to the ground."

An inscription written on the face of the memorial reads, "Also commemorates those of all nations who lost their lives in the bombing raids of 1939-1945." The average age of a bomber crew member was just 22.

Almost half of the 125,000 men of Bomber Command died in active service. There were no campaign medals awarded to Bomber Command after the war. The irony of this, having read those words in Dad's letter, "They will never build a monument to remember me, us lot, the bomber crews who kill women and children." Notably; Bomber Command was never mentioned during the Prime Minister's (Winston Churchill's) victory speech at the close of the war. One life of so many now forgotten, my own father, Brian 'Bull's-Eye' Wilkinson.

PART TWO

Chapter 16

"The Final Mission"

You cannot grow up without a fascination for wartime history, not when you have a background like mine. Dad, Brian 'Bull's-Eye' Wilkinson, must have been involved in so many bombing raids, but Sofia is the only one he makes direct reference to in his letters home. For what reason I do not know, and I understand that after all these years now that I will never know this answer. Trying to find out all about the missing pieces of what is a fascinating jigsaw of a man's final moments, led me to a final story, one that none of us had known previously. I had realised many years ago the controversy caused by the British and Allied strategic bombing campaigns and had always assumed this was the reason why Dad and so many thousands of others, had no memorial, why Dad had no service medals or other written authoritative accounts praising the actions of the Thompson Bomber Crew. These three men had, as we were told, changed the course of the war. Why on earth did we still know so little about them? What really happened that day? I thought about it continually. The more I found out about my father and of his personal involvement in the war, the more answers I needed. When one was given, always without fail, it led me on to a further question.

It was all this latter curiosity that would lead me to the final answer. My research and my letters, the many letters that I wrote to the few, but still living, former Bomber Command veterans; writing to them to ask for knowledge of my father. It was an internet forum that finally unveiled the truths to long unanswered questions. After Doreen died I had so much time to myself. Loneliness creeps in very fast, like a cold frost, and after a time I tried to go out and meet new people. Just to get out of the flat, that endless climbing of the walls, and to make friends again.

In 2005, I joined the Liverpool Veterans of WW2 Association and they were the golden goose. They had so much information for me. The story about my father as told to my mother Evelina back in 1956 was the known by all at the time version of events; they, the old guys, who would sit at the bar and just drink beer all day as they hand-rolled their cigarettes. They knew nothing more than this, this original and official version of events. The forum, the forum online that they had recommended to me, was the final link. The forum, Friends of The Forgotten Heroes of Bomber Command WW2 - as it was so named. I placed the following ad under a thread called 'Searching for The Forgotten'. It read:

"Brian Josef- Benjamin Wilkinson born Liverpool 1945 to Evelina, seeking knowledge of his father, also Brian. Can anybody with knowledge of Brian 'Bull's-Eye' Wilkinson please make contact? Flew with Bomber Command North Africa and Southern Italy WW2. Involved in bombing raids of Sofia, Bulgaria, as a rear gunner. Later flew on a final ill-fated mission, a B17 American Bomber. Pilot known to be American, an unknown Texan with French bombardier named Pierre. Aircraft re-named the Thompson. Crew nickname was the Magnificent Three. Any help is most appreciated."

<oOo>

And then, three days later, on January the 12th 2005 at 4.16 pm precisely, a reply came. It read;

"Far too much information there lad. All you needed to say was 'Bull's-Eye'. Best God-damned gunner in the sky, wasn't a lad at base who wouldn't fly with 'Bull's-Eye' Brian.' What can I do for you son?

Yours Albert."

<oOo>

I talked for a while to this old chap about my dad's wartime history. I heard many stories that confirmed just what I had read in so many of Dad's private letters to Mum. I told him all about Dad's letters before I finally posed the unanswered question. "What was Dad's final mission?" I asked. A reply soon came;

"Not a bloody clue lad but I know a man who will; Stanley Jack, a Londoner living in The Midlands now, suppose he couldn't help that bit. Very old mind, in a care home now just like the rest of us sad old buggers. I'll do what I can. You won't find him on the computer, wants nothing to do with them. Back soon, fingers crossed. Consider the mission accepted.

Yours Albert."

<oOo>

It felt that weeks had passed until I finally heard back from old Albert. In reality it was only eleven days. He had contacted Stanley Jack and had messaged me in private. There was Stanley's home address in front of me, a hospice on the outskirts of Wolverhampton in the West Midlands. I worried about this, a hospice address, was Stanley dying? I didn't want to trouble a dying man but equally, and I know quite selfishly, I had a sense of urgency. Time was limited. So I wrote to Stanley Jack immediately and, to avoid any further and unnecessary loss of such valuable time, I invited myself down to Wolverhampton for a cup of tea.

I remember his first words to me as I walked in. "Got your letter my boy. Well there's a thing, a double of the man himself, spittin' bloody image you are," he said to me. "Sit yourself down, just watching the race." So there I sat for over an hour watching the race, and the next one and so on; horse racing. The room was comfortable, a window over the garden. Benches placed around rose-beds with older people and families enjoying the sunshine. "Don't look out there son, nothing out there but niggers, all niggers now son, whole bloody country's niggers," he would go on to say to me. Not the better of first impressions for a policeman, I thought.

And then, after the racing, with the telly now finally turned off, the conversation began. "Outside now, come on let's go. I need a fag. You have got some fags lad haven't you?" he uttered forcibly. I couldn't help but see the oxygen cylinder to the left hand side of Stanley's bed and looked back at him quite astonished. Though, outside we went, him in this old grey NHS wheelchair, and we both sat beside the pond, a pond full of fish to which Stanley again added, "Don't be looking in there son, niggers all of 'em." Commenting on what was obviously quite a fine and rather expensive collection of mixed Koi carp.

Just like my father before me, I hand-rolled my own baccy, and I rolled him a cigarette. Stanley's hands were clearly too fragile and shaky to do so for himself. They wouldn't allow him to smoke inside and without family visits he was quite stuck. The nursing staff were very kind to him, he told me, but they were expressly forbidden to give patients cigarettes. He remarked that he thought the world had gone crazy, that he had survived World War II, and here he was now, not allowed to have a "bloody cigarette". I didn't ask why he was there, at the hospice. He seemed to think the only reason was that somehow he had driven his wife crazy back at home, and she'd now got him out of her way. I knew that there had to be so much more to the story than this, but I didn't pry further.

Despite it being January, it wasn't too chilly outside in the garden, in fact a crisp but warm sunny afternoon. Stanley wasn't too

quick off the mark in telling me what I had driven all this way to hear, and soon wanted to go back in. Not for long mind, he clearly had other plans, but he wanted to show me something. He directed me to a beside cabinet, lower left hand drawer, a photo album contained within. An old fashioned grey card cover and the title 'The Boys' written across it. "First page lad," he shouted to me as he beamed me a smile.

There on the front page, the very first picture I saw, there was Evelina my mother. Sat there on the side of a bed and with her skirt pulled up, not too risqué but just enough to display a silk stocking top to the right crossed thigh. My face dropped and I turned to look back at him. "No worries there lad. It's a photo of a photo your dad took of her. Gorgeous woman your mother, never met her personally but felt like I was married to her myself," was the reply he gave to my expression of total amazement. Just like old Mr Parker had said, it seemed that not just everybody in Liverpool, but now everybody in the RAF had wanted to catch the affections of my mother.

He explained to me that the photo was taken from another photo that my father had kept beside him in his original Wellington aircraft. Stanley had taken a photograph of the original picture. It then dawned on me just how well Stanley must have known my father to be able to do such a thing. Had he actually flown with him? I had so many questions but didn't like to just ask them without the opportunity having first arisen. Stanley was clearly very ill and I didn't want him to feel that I had only come to bother him with my own selfish inquiries.

Then we were off yet again. "Bring the baccy," he said. So me, a 94-year-old terminally ill war veteran, and an old metal NHS wheelchair went to The Nag's Head, only a short walk from his room at Willow Drive Hospice and we were both soon there together in the pub. There were two pubs on Willow Drive that I had noticed but this one was the only choice given to me. Not really any choice at all. "Don't wanna go in that one son. Ain't nothing in there but niggers," was by now quite the predictable comment from this bigoted old school racist.

I wanted to challenge his racism, this old age bigot that I had found myself in the company of today, but I couldn't. A war veteran, a terminally ill one at that, a very ill 94-year-old man who had known my father. He, Stanley, using this grossly offensive word that I had heard used previously and frequently within my dad's own personal letters. He was just of a generation Stanley Jack, his behaviour quite unacceptable but I couldn't help but feel a sense of understanding. There wasn't anything I was going to be able to say to him now that would alter his behaviour. He just wasn't going to understand.

All of the cigarettes were on me, as was all of the beer that day; in total eight pints over a period of three hours that he had, by now, drank. However; the conversation soon proved to be priceless. A conversation for which I would have paid ten thousand pounds. The conversation in which I learnt so much about my dad. A conversation that told me the following.

Dad had originally been based in North Africa and had bombed Italy extensively throughout the early years of the war. On 3rd September 1943, the Allies had invaded mainland Italy. He had then transferred to operations based there and had therefore subsequently been involved in the bombing raids of Bulgaria. It was in Italy that Dad and Stanley had first met. It also transpired that Stanley wasn't his real name after all, but a nickname he had earned for himself, just like my father had during the war, from other servicemen in Bomber Command. Jack was his first name; his last name was Shirley. I could fully appreciate why and after the end of the war, he had stuck to using the name I had known him as, Stanley Jack.

He flew with Dad on many occasions. Stanley was a pilot. During one particular bombing run they had been shot down. They had been attacked by three German fighters that evening and Father had managed single handedly to take all three of these attacking fighters out of the air. They had received considerable damage. The Wimpy as Stanley called it (the Wellington was popularly known as the Wimpy by service personnel, after J. Wellington Wimpy from the Popeye cartoons) was in critical condition. He (the pilot) and the co-pilot and navigator were unhurt; the Bombardier was seriously injured as was another gunner. The fifth member of the crew, also a gunner, had already been killed. "Can't do anything about it now son. He was gone, clean and quick," Stanley coldly told me.

The crew had bailed out over Italy just 30 miles from base. The hydraulics all shot up and quite useless. My father and the navigator (a man who Stanley had only referred to in the conversation as Arnold), had parachuted the injured crew to safety whilst the two pilots had fought hard together to maintain the control and altitude of the wounded aircraft. They had also 'chuted the body of the dead gunner. The remaining three had then jumped at low altitude after a desperate bid to save the Wellington had failed.

"And there we were son, back on terra-firma again, only your dad wasn't quite with us yet," he laughed. I looked at him agonisingly and imagined my father to be still stuck inside the plane. Then he said to me, "In the bloody tree son, your dad had got himself all caught up, the useless sod, stuck in a bloody tree. That's why they call me Stanley lad. I was the only one of us that still had a knife to cut him down from there; a Stanley knife it was. That's how your dad got his name too, the name 'Bull's-Eye' Wilkinson, for bringing those three bastards down all on his own."

Mum had never told me anything of this story and Stanley Jack assured me that she wouldn't have known about it. He told me that all of the crews would never tell their wives and girlfriends of such things. "War is war son and you leave it at the back-door," was his humbling response. The two injured crew that had been bailed-out by my father and Arnold had both survived. The body of the gunner was later recovered by local villagers and remains buried to this day in the small village cemetery of Carpi, Modena Province. His name was, and will always remain to be known; Gunner Joshua Petterson aged 23 years. Of the remaining crew, they are all now long deceased except the pilot, Stanley Jack.

I reached into my top left-hand-side jacket pocket and pulled out that letter, the last letter that Dad had ever written to my mother, Evelina. Somehow the timing just seemed to be appropriate. Stanley read it quietly. I know he read through it more than once. "Sofia changed a lot of us son. The war was nearly won and this just didn't seem to be right," he said, and I saw a single tear drop from him before he quickly wiped his eye. "It all brings so much back to me now, I watched your dad leave that night with the B17 on February 26th 1945 at 22.30 hours precisely. All that the man in the black bowler hat told your mother in 1956 is correct but..." and then he paused.

"Do you know about your granddad son?" he asked me. "All I knew of my grandfather, Papa Wilkinson as Dad called him, is that he died in France during the First World War," - I replied. "Oh he did indeed," replied Stanley. "We killed him you know, not the Hun." "We?" I queried. "I don't understand what you mean." "We," he stated firmly once again. "The British. We shot him for desertion of duty. He was executed by his own side," Stanley explained to me cautiously.

Stanley didn't have any further details other than to say that this story was commonly known to be correct back at Bomber Command. Dad had told him personally that this was the truth and that Dad had somehow thereafter felt the need to prove himself. Grandfather Wilkinson had suffered from shell-shock apparently, and had been quite ill. He had left the front and had been found later hiding in a French village. "Sorry son to have to tell you this," Stanley softly uttered. "It was never necessary. Cold blooded murder of our own, that's all it was. Why your dad even gave it a second thought is beyond me," he said. "It wasn't just what had happened in Poland to your mother's side of the family that had made him volunteer that night. It was also something he held much deeper down inside. Take me home now son. I've 'ad too much drink and I've said far too much I know. Take me home and I'll put the kettle on." We talked about what had really happened to granddad on the way back. I had absolutely no memory or recollection of anybody in the family ever talking about Granddad Wilkinson's fate. The penny had never dropped. Did anybody else know anything about this secret within the family? Why hadn't they told me? I just grew up believing he had been killed during the First World War in France. When I ponder on this thought now, I suppose that nobody had ever lied to me about this. Then again, they certainly hadn't told me the whole truth either, had they? Perhaps they thought it would upset me in some way.

Thereafter, when back inside the warmth of Stanley's own room (after three hours of drunken wartime conversation down at The Nag's Head), I asked him directly; "What was Dads final mission Stanley? Please tell me what you know?"

He told me how Dad and he were the best of friends, confidants to each other. How he and the boys that night had gone to a bar and drunk heavily, all except Brian who was prepared to fly. Stanley and the other boys that evening had gone upstairs to seek comfort from, as he put it, the young Italian girls. Brian had not gone with them, he was adamant of this fact. "Your dad would never do such a thing," he told me again and again, and talked about how my dad was so completely and utterly devoted to my mother.

He hadn't seen Dad leave the bar that evening. He had left quietly and quite unnoticed much earlier on. Though, they had all watched Father's plane, the Thompson, take off at 22.30 hours that very same evening. They had all returned drunkenly to base for evening curfew. "I'll tell you the truth Brian now. Your father would want that, I know," he said in a very calm and almost by now sober manner. "Roll me another cigarette then," he asked of me. "There's nothing those fuckers can do about it now I don't suppose anyway. Top-secret my arse. You couldn't keep a secret like that quiet down at Bomber Command," he said, "That's the truth lad and your father had already told me everything before he flew that night, regardless." The Thompson had taken off as scheduled on February 26th, 1945 at 22.30 hours precisely, from the base in Foggia, Southern Italy. The crew, known as the Magnificent Three had been hand-picked because of their military expertise. It was a joint Allied forces mission of the upmost importance and secrecy. The Thompson had left Italy that evening en route for Soviet occupied Bulgaria, and to deliver a single massive payload explosive.

I was told that the Soviet forces, our new wartime allies, were to believe that the bombing mission had been conducted by German aircraft and that the plane had been subsequently shot down by the British over France. Two German scientists, now working as captives in a recently Soviet acquired former Nazi research facility in North Eastern Bulgaria, had supplied covert information. They had confirmed military intelligence gathered from the original radio communications known to be from Major Frank Thompson. This had been crucial information obtained from partisan resistance fighters before communication had been lost with them on the ground on the 23rd May 1944. A weapon of such magnitude had been developed; an atomic weapon that had the Soviet Union not have invaded Bulgaria in 1944, would have most certainly been used against us by the Germans. A weapon that had been just months away from field use and commission.

Although no longer a direct threat to the Allies at the time, this former Bulgarian-based German research facility could not be allowed to fall into the hands of the Soviets. The Thompson's mission was to deliver the bomb onto the target, to bomb the facility and in doing so the Soviets were to believe that all German research personnel had been killed in the airstrike. The Thompson was to land prior to the attack and pick up both scientists. These now allied friendly German scientists and at a secret pop-up airfield constructed for the single use mission purpose within rural, Soviet occupied, Bulgaria. Having landed and collected the two additional passengers as covertly organised, it would take off and thereafter go on to destroy the facility behind them. Many lives would be lost alongside the technology housed within. "All we wanted to steal that night was the brains behind it all," Stanley said.

Ironic as it sounds, our once German enemy was now going to assist us in defending ourselves from the future attack of our now wartime allies, the Soviet Union. The plane had been stripped to allow for the massive increased weight of this single bomb, the additional crew of two and one ton of aluminium piping. The aluminium piping, rods of approximately three feet in length which all but filled the plane, were to be dropped individually and slowly by parachute throughout the mission. This system was known to defuse the effectiveness of both early Soviet and German radar systems alike. The two German scientists responsible for the creation of this atomic weapon were to be smuggled on board the Thompson to the safety and future containment of the British mainland.

"The fact that the Thompson crashed during her return at Dover can only be confirmation that this mission must have proved successful," Stanley confirmed.

I sat bemused by what I had heard from Stanley and was completely lost for words. "Before you go," he said, "Just one more thing. Pass me that photo album of mine, the photos of your father and the boys again?" He opened the front page and there with his pen he wrote inside, "Upon the time having come, I give this album to Brian J. B. Wilkinson of Liverpool, son of Brian 'Bull's-Eye' Wilkinson, the best rear gunner in the sky and to him I owe my life."

So there I was. I had just been told how my father had saved the world from nuclear obliteration and within the same sentence he, Stanley, then says to me, "Before you go." I would most definitely be arranging to chat with old Stanley again and very soon about this rather important Bomber Command revelation but the words, "Before you go" intimated to me that Stanley was by now tired of conversation and clearly needed to sleep. "Where there's war you find heroes and where you find heroes there're secrets," he said. A wartime revelation of such magnitude that now appeared to be so just a matter of fact for him.

Stanley Jack died peacefully on the 4th February, soon after we first met. The wartime photo album, as promised, was given to me at Stanley's funeral later that week. It contained many photographs of Brian 'Bull's-Eye' Wilkinson that had never previously been seen by me or my family before.

Had Nazi Germany really been that close to developing an atomic bomb? At the out-break of the World War II, Germany, under the leadership of the fascist dictator Adolf Hitler, had maintained a significant advantage over the Allies in regard to innovative weapons technology. These secret German weapons, as they were known to the Allied Forces, were referred to at the time and back in Germany as, the Wonder Weapons. This was not a coincidental advantage. Pre-war Germany was an extremely and technologically advanced nation with a firm technological history, born out of its military innovation, such military innovation that led to her resurgence as one of technological superiority once again toward the end of the war.

Hitler had been elected on the back of his firm and declared mandate to go to war. He did, however, win by only a narrow margin. Massive financial budgets were released to his military officials alongside an unlimited supply of natural resources and raw materials within a national offensive to prepare for such a war. By the outbreak of WW2, the German military machine was already well equipped with the most advanced weapons available to them.

The Allies at this same time, noticeably the British, were not prepared to return to war and as a nation were crippled by post-WW1 pacifism and the human losses of the previous conflict. The First World War had been huge and incalculable; the will to fight Germany once again was long gone. Nothing remained of a viable British defence budget and any realistic military response to this new rising threat of post-World War One fascist Germany was inconceivable. Stalin's Soviet centralist totalitarian regime had also failed. Failed not only to support the free thinking of Soviet Russian military and technological innovation, but had also actively repressed it. These combined factors all added together to allow Germany, during the period 1933 until 1939 to maintain a significant military advantage over its enemies.

Hitler's over confident attitude and assurances of success during the early stages of the war led him to make new wartime budgetary cuts. These financial cuts were made on all new weaponry and any such new weaponry that would not be expected to be operational or to be available for use in the field beyond an eighteen month time period. This short-sighted decision and the subsequent gross lack of German military investment, only resulted in those previous militarily and technologically advanced gains that had been made to be soon and swiftly lost. This was all to the struggling Allies' full advantage.

The advantage was only regained by Germany through massive re-investment toward the end of the war. But all at the cost of immediately existing and readily available resources being taken away from the desperately and much needed mass-production of mature field weaponry. Germany's sudden and desperate re-investment in new weapons' technology, though producing some impressive results, had now come far too late to save her. By this point in time Germany, now at war with the USA also, was all but in name, already defeated.

These German technological innovations included the Arado 234 - the world's first jet bomber, a highly advanced single-seated bomber with automated pilot ejection seat. Fitted with twin jet-engines and breakthrough technology in regard to aviation stream-lining, it was quite simply too fast for the Allies to intercept. The Arado was also fitted with the first rear-facing, though at the same time, pilot-aimed machine gun. Jet fighter technology also included the Messerschmitt 262, the world's first jet fighter and used predominantly as a bomber interceptor. Its sister plane, the Messerschmitt 163 was the world's first rocket-powered fighter, again an incredibly fast and extremely agile short-range defence bomber interceptor. Resembling more the characteristics of a re-usable anti-aircraft missile, it could scramble at immediate notice and counter-attack Allied bombers at speeds exceeding 600 mph.

It would attack without prior warning, exhaust its very limited fuel supply quickly and then glide back to base. Even this unpowered gliding speed was still far too fast to allow any Allied bomber crew or accompanying fighter escort to catch it. It is noted that one single German pilot using such a 163 was able to shoot down three B-17 heavy bombers, this consecutively during one single sortie. Allied bomber crews, those who came face-to-face with it in air-combat, were thus considered to be nothing less than sitting ducks.

The Heinkel 162 was another jet fighter but one designed to be mass-produced by a minimally skilled workforce using readily available and non-strategic materials and further to be piloted by fresh young pilots with minimal training. Just 69 days after Heinkel was given the production go-ahead, the 162 made its first successful test flight.

Other advanced German aircraft of the time included the Dornier 335. Unlike typical twin-engine aircraft fitted with propellers (one on each wing), the Dornier fighter had one propeller mounted to the central engine front-nose position and a secondary propeller mounted at the aircraft's tail. It could climb at a rate of speed far great than any other propeller powered fighter available. The Junkers 87, more commonly referred to as the 'Stuka' was the world's first efficient precision bomber. To this day it is still considered to be the best dive bomber ever manufactured throughout WW2. It played a key role in the German Blitzkrieg victories.

Germany also produced the first militarily operational helicopters, notably the Flettner 282. This was a small maritime reconnaissance helicopter. Another, the Focke Achgelis 223 was a utility helicopter used extensively during the battle of the Mediterranean. Due to successful Allied bombardment however, Germany's helicopter production remained low.

The Schrage Musik was an upward-facing recoilless machine gun and the Sondergerate, its directly downward firing equivalent. Both guns were installed on many fighter aircraft. The guns were automatically triggered by photoelectric sensors when flying under the target bomber's night-time shadow or at the targeted tanks on the ground below.

Other German firsts included guided weapons systems such as the Henschel Hs-293. On August 27th 1943, during its first operational use, it successfully sank a British warship. The Hs-293 was a radio-controlled guided missile that had a 500kg warhead. Over 2300 of such missiles were used with deadly accuracy throughout the final years of the war. They were launched mid-air by the bomber crew's bombardier.

The first guided bomb, the Ruhrstahl Fritz-X was responsible for the sinking of the Italian warship Roma on the 9th September 1943. Comparable to today's modern bunker-busters, the two radio-controlled Fritx-X bombs (weighing over 3460 lbs each) hit the 45,000 ton vessel so hard that it sunk immediately. Only 20 per-cent of Fritz-X bomb weight was actually explosive material, the remaining weight being solely solid metal giving it the ability to pierce even the hardest of battleship amour known and available to the Allies at the time.

The V-1 rocket was the world's first cruise missile. This jet-powered rocket was fitted with an 1875 lb warhead and could travel to any destination within a range of 125 miles. Launched from fixed ground positions, these mobile launchers were very hard to identify and find. Only occasionally were they ever launched mid-air from bombers. A piloted suicide attack version of the V-1 rocket was also developed but never actually used in combat. The later developed V-2 became the first long range ballistic missile, delivering a 2150 lb warhead to a range of 200 miles. Unlike the cruising altitude of the V-1, the V-2 ballistic missile would fall directly downward from extreme altitude and at speeds exceeding 2500 mph.

Unlike today's modern nuclear submarines, the diesel-powered equivalents of World War II were designed to submerge only when required to attack. They were required, out of technical necessity, to spend the vast amount of their time on the sea surface. The German Type 21 however, was the first developed to be able to submerge throughout its entire patrol.

With most impressive submerge and resurface speeds and a battery-powered range of over 300 miles, it was required to re-surface only to use its diesel engines for necessary battery recharge. This resurfacing and recharge technique only required a minimal snorkel type exhaust system to be raised to break the water surface and not the resurfacing of the entire submarine. It used advanced SONAR to target allied shipping whilst remaining submerged and without having to raise a periscope.

It was also fitted with a secondary electric motor especially for silent combat running and also air-conditioning systems. It is said that the Type 21 could reload its missile tubes faster than any other submarine. A later development, the Type 23 was a smaller version of the Type 21 and developed specifically as an attack submarine weighing just 250 tons. Manned only by a crew of 14 submariners, it was designed for use in low level waters and coastal tidal areas. The Type 23 could complete a full dive in less than ten seconds if required.

Years in advance of its time was also a stealth type submarine with a painted coating that made surfaced German submarines almost invisible to infra-red night time detection. The coating was also an absorption layer capable of absorbing Allied RADAR waves, this coupled with the first use of electrically powered torpedoes that did not leave bubble traces or streams in the water behind them. These older and dated torpedo traces were often used by the Allies to detect the position of an attacking sub.

Other notable German advances in war technology included radio navigation, the forefather of the modern GPS systems had been used by bomber crews since the beginning of World War II. German bombers could efficiently navigate their way to their targets using this new system during their complete darkness night-time raids. The system operated on fixed radio transmitters and radio receivers installed within the bombers super-structure – an equivalent to which the Allied forces did not develop until much later in the war.

The German army were also issued with the Sturmgewehr 44 - the world's first assault rifle. At the time of issue this gun was equivalent to the technology of a modern M-16 and AK-47, it being a practical compromise between the basic field rifle and the sub-machine gun but now combining the combat advantages of both. The German army had use of the first synthetic fuel, a replacement to the traditional reliance on petroleum based products; but one which despite massive quantity of production plants involved in production process, proved to be far more expensive. It was consequently proven economically unviable for mass manufacture.

And now to end this post-war chapter of mine and on a much more terrifying note. Germany was also the first country in the world to develop chemical weapons: this being three defined types of nerve gas. They were tabun gas in 1936, sarin gas later in 1938 and finally soman gas during 1944. They were all far more lethal than any previously known or previously used.

Unlike mustard gas, which would burn away at human skin tissue, these new nerve gases behaved more akin to snake venom by paralysing the essential muscles required for breathing. The Allied forces were oblivious to the existence of this most vile and horrific secret German weapon and had no knowledge until the end of the war that German artillery forces had already been fully equipped with it.

Germany on the other hand wrongly presumed that we, the Allies, already possessed chemical weapons which were equal to the

power and destruction of their own. Winston Churchill publicly announced to Hitler that should Germany ever use chemical warfare against us, then he would in retaliation "Rain down the entire British stockpile." It was this false sense of the mutually assured destruction of both nations that prevented Germany from using them in combat.

PART TWO

Chapter 17

"Have You Ever Had That Feeling That Someone's Watching You?"

It took a few days of serious thought before what Stanley had said to me really, well honestly, sank in: the story that he had told me about Dad's final flight. All so much sadder knowing that Dad had almost made it home and how different life would have been had he done so. There was a sense that there was so much more that had been left untold, somehow that this story wasn't over and far from being so. There had to be so much more to all this, answers to questions that I would probably never find out. I would never, now, get the whole true facts, of this I felt sure. Stanley was now dead and buried. I had his old photograph album and I wanted to know more about the pictures - who, where and when? But all the old boys, Stanley's crew too, were all now long gone; dead and buried.

I updated my online thread, told the story so far as it was on the forum and it generated much discussion although no new information came from it. The local paper on Merseyside picked up on my wartime story. They published everything, all exactly as I had been told. So now I wanted some time away, time to think and reflect. To travel to the places that Dad had made reference too. I had the story so far but the need to retrace his own personal journey, to follow in his own footsteps where possible, grew stronger inside.

A holiday was needed. That's it, and I had plenty of annual leave now due to me. I never ever took all of my full holiday entitlement from the force as there was nowhere to go without my Doreen beside me. Always so much work to do, working with the residents on the Drover. So we planned a new holiday together, the first since she had died. I know she is dead; you'll just have to humour me on this point as I want her to come with me too.

Just imagine as I do, imagine that she is at my side once more. I need to think that she can hear me. Grief never goes for it doesn't ease. The pain always remains and you just learn to live with it. I've never managed to adjust to the loss of such happiness, that happiness we shared together, and I was quite unable to adjust to my new life, this new life of complete emptiness.

I packed up Winjin' Pom. He was all freshly serviced mechanically, the oil change and filters. Now he was as ever, raring to go again. I'd forgotten what fun it was working on that old bugger again. In addition, I renewed my road-side recovery service and membership of the vintage auto-club. I packed up my favourite CDs for the long trip, the music of Jonathan Taylor essential; a British singer songwriter. Deep, poetic and moving and acoustic stuff mainly. He'd written many songs about war and conflict, ones that I could directly and emotionally relate to. I guess it is my obsession with military history creeping into my music taste again, I suppose.

"So where shall we go first, my dear?" I asked. Doreen was very keen to travel to France; to visit the battlefields of World War I. "We need to start with your grandfather I think love. We need to find out if he really was executed and see if Stanley was actually correct in telling you this dear," she smiled.

I bought a lap-top, a new personnel computer. Nothing too posh but a good one, just as a little treat for myself. I told the salesman that I wanted speed, reliability and ease of use, nothing too fancy or complicated. I explained that I was going to set up a blog, with the intention of writing a book. I needed basic word processing software and an unlimited connection to the internet, a connection that would work, be reliable from anywhere that I would find myself during my European travels. This, a must have, so I could upload my story and keep the interested boys back home informed. Of course, I also bought a new easy-to-use French dictionary, pocket sized, to take along just in case.

I had got the hang of it quite easily, using the new computer that is. I had worked on them for several years at the station and the police had always offered us older bobbies any new information technology training that we needed or indeed wanted. It was easy. We just filled in the training requisition form and handed it in, and they had never said no to me. There must have been a bigger budget for that I suppose. The forum too had opened a whole new world for me and I soon naturally gravitated to the the First World War, WW1, forums as well. One was particularly interesting. 'The Great War Forum' it was so called and from there I discovered many more links to the most useful resources available to me online.

I learnt a new French word, not from the dictionary but from those such links that I had followed on the internet. I posted "Searching for information on Brian 'Bull's-Eye' Wilkinson's dad, John E. Wilkinson" etc. It wasn't too easy as I had so little information to go on. In fact I had no information on him at all, just a name and the circumstances of his death. I soon found out that wasn't going to be a problem. The new French word I learnt was fusil, which translated into English means rifle or gun. Execution by firing squad used to be called fusillading, an English word derived from this French word. The online site Shot at Dawn provided so much stuff of interest.

Usually, all members of the firing squad were instructed to fire simultaneously. It prevents disruption to the process, but also the inability to identify the member who had fired that lethal shot. Sometimes, but by no means always, only some of the guns had live rounds and the others were loaded with blanks. It took me a while to understand why, but I guess that if you are going to kill someone, and a friend perhaps who had fought alongside you in battle, guilt must play a weighty part. Stanley's words come back to me when I think about it. "Cold blooded murder by our own side," that's what he had said. "It was cold blooded murder."

The execution is traditionally carried out at dawn giving rise to the term, 'shot at dawn.' Though usually, and in reality it meant shot at first light which can be up to an hour in time later than sunrise. I found it almost inconceivable to read that many executions were carried out with the soldier tied into a chair and in a sitting position. This is what I read about my grandfather. He was shot by firing squad whilst seated. Then I learnt another new French word. It was the word coup de grâce. The coup de grâce is a final and single after shot from a pistol by the unit commander and into the back or side of the victims head. This was not only used in the cases where the initial volley proved unsuccessful, but it was used as a way to ensure certainty.

My grandfather, John Edward Wilkinson had been executed by the British for cowardice. His name I discovered was on a memorial in Staffordshire, his name written alongside the other 306 British and commonwealth soldiers who were executed by the British. My journey to France with Doreen would start here, at the memorial in Alrewas.

I read a book by Robert Graves, (Goodbye to All That, 1929) and he had written the following:

"I had my first direct experience of official lying when I arrived at Le Havre in May 1915 and read the back-files of army orders at the rest camp. They contained something like twenty reports of men shot for cowardice or desertion. Yet a few days later the responsible minister in the House of Commons, answering a question from a pacifist, denied that sentence of death for a military offence had been carried out in France on any member of His Majesty's Forces."

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It seemed that the British had kept quite a few secrets from the families back home. If the principal point to make with these executions is one of a warning to others of what is to come if they refuse to fight, then I never fully understood why it was such a secret.

Granddad's war service records said the following: "The court of Ville Pas-de-Calais records that Wilkinson failed to report for duty on October 3rd 1918." Granddad had "fell out, without permission" and had run back toward his trench. He was later discovered hiding in a disused and shelled-out barn some 3 miles behind the front line. He was charged with desertion and sentenced to death, to be shot at dawn on the 7th October.

That's it, for that is all I know really. I have no family still alive who can provide me with any further information. I do know now that he had been previously injured. I read from archives that Granddad had been injured during an assault on enemy positions. Apparently he had been bayoneted through the arm, the right shoulder actually, during a German counter charge. He had returned home to Liverpool briefly to recover during August of that same year, 1918, and almost at the end of the war. How he had come to return to the front I do not know, but return he did. John E. Wilkinson was a volunteer. He signed up for service when he was 18 in 1916 and died just two years later at the tender age of 20.

The dates to these things all start to add up when you look at such paperwork. My father was born in 1919, in the month of May. You can't help but notice a direct similarity between the two men, my father and his father, my granddad. Granddad Wilkinson too, for certain that is, had died before the birth of his own firstborn child, his son, Brian 'Bull's-Eye' Wilkinson.

John had volunteered and had served for two years and had also been near fatally wounded: a man who had returned from the safety and security of home to fight on the wartime front in France yet again. These just do not seem to be the actions of a coward to me and I wish that I could find out more about his story. Maybe one day I will but for now I find that all the soldiers of the First World War are now long gone. I shall keep trying over the coming years but cannot help but feel that Granddad's true story has been taken to the grave along with that of my father's.

One secret that has not been taken away is the location of John Wilkinson's grave, John was buried in a small cemetery called, Windy Corner, a stone's throw only from Calais and it is here that Doreen and I shall start our journey in France.

So we set off, Doreen, Winjin' Pom and I, and the first port of call as we headed south to the ferry was Alrewas in Staffordshire. I remember our conversation well, Doreen and I, as we drove down. The conversation about a soldier called Farr. How could we, the British military have done such a thing?

The transcript of his court martial at Ville-sur-Ancre records that Farr failed to report for duty on 17th September. He had fallen out without permission, with the sole intent of finding an officer to report sick to. However, his plea for understanding fell unheard. He was literally dragged whilst kicking and screaming and pleading for mercy, towards the front line. Following this incident and Farr's complete mental breakdown, he too was charged with cowardice.

He told those present at his court martial that day, "I returned to the 1st Line Transport hoping to report sick to some medical officer there. On the Sergeant Major's return I reported to him and said I was sick and I could not stand it." Farr went on to say. "He then said: `You are a fucking coward and you will go to the trenches. I give fuck-all for my life and I give fuck-all for yours and I'll get you fucking well shot." Whilst Farr was in the hospital suffering from profound shell shock, a nurse wrote home on his behalf. She addressed the letter to Farr's wife Gertrude. Farr was reported as being unable to write as his hands shook too much. He was unable to even grasp the pen when offered it. This was the last time that his wife Gertrude would ever hear from him. Farr was shot at dawn on the 18th October.

Farr and my grandfather, John E. Wilkinson were sick, they were cold and hungry, they were tired, exhausted and they were terrified. They had witnessed their friends being bombed, gassed and cut to pieces, mowed down by machine gun fire in incalculable numbers. Men; the 'for King and Country' volunteer soldiers, now reduced to trembling wrecks. Men now bearing no resemblance to the men they had been before the war. This caused by the relentless ongoing shell-fire and the realization of their own imminent death, the fear of their own certain demise.

Many were just boy soldiers having lied about their age. Three hundred and six of them were executed, often for little more than being frightened, confused young men. Between 1914 and 1920 more than 3,000 British soldiers were sentenced to death for desertion or cowardice, for striking an officer or disobedience, for falling asleep on duty or for casting away their arms. Of these 3000 sentenced, 11 per cent of summarily executions were carried out. The 306 men shot at dawn had all been denied legal representation and any right of judicial appeal. Today we know that the overwhelming amount of evidence available to us proves the men suffered from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. This medical information, at the time was often never discussed by the court and quite simply ignored. Military court martials concerning cowardice were scheduled to be completed within a maximum time frame of just 20 minutes.

Among the 306 men executed by British court martial during The First World War (WW1) were 25 Canadians, 22 Irish and 5 from New-Zealand. Australia was the only Commonwealth member that refused the execution of "any volunteers". The 129 Australians that were sentenced to death by the British were never subsequently shot.

American court martials sentenced 24 American deserters to death but these sentences were never carried out. 150,000 soldiers deserted the German lines, most fleeing to the neutrality of The Netherlands and Denmark and often Switzerland. Of those caught, Germany executed 18 although I noted that during the Nazi occupation of Europe later on and during the World War II, over 10,000 German deserters were executed. During WW1, the French put more than 600 of their own death.

On Thursday, March 17th 2005, I arrived at Alrewas in Staffordshire. Then, without any hesitation, neither a coffee nor anything to eat after my long drive, I stood before the 'Shot at Dawn' memorial. There I stopped silent and still, and I read out-aloud every one of those 306 names inscribed upon it. The memorial depicts a young British soldier blindfolded and tied to a stake; he is tied there waiting to be shot by a firing squad. I stared deep into the face, the accurate likeness of 17-year-old Private Herbert Burden, both his name and his face there before me. Herbert had lied about his age in order to enlist and was later shot for desertion. The names of the 306 dead are represented by a semicircle of stakes upon which are listed their names. This too included the name of Harry Farr, who like my grandfather, I had now read so much about. I found out that the memorial was created by an artist named Andy De Comyn. It was unveiled in June 2001 by Mrs. Gertrude Harris, the daughter of Private Farr. Many descendants of these 306 men shot also attended the unveiling.

I was comforted to know that Doreen was with me, as I admit I broke down in tears at the sight of my grandfather's name. Her, so

tenderly reassuring me, talking to me over that later light meal, a vegetarian sausage sandwich and a coffee. We decided to stay for just one night and then rush for the channel ferry crossing the next morning. Doreen and I had always been strict vegetarians, though unlike her, I do put my hands up to eating the odd smoked kipper or two occasionally. There was to be no fish supper on this trip. Doreen would never approve of that!

It felt appropriate to me that I spend at least one evening camped up near this memorial, in recognition that the deaths of these brave young men had finally been recognised. Also to feel that in some way I was meeting my grandfather for the very first time.

Saturday, March 19th, 2005, we arrived at Windy Corner, Pas-de-Calais. I couldn't decide which was the lesser of the two evils; re-adjusting myself to gravitational normality given the extremely rough sea crossing I had endured yesterday or coping with the culture of French drivers today. Both seemed to me to be rather unpleasant and unwanted experiences. Windy Corner, WW1 War Graves Cemetery, was just a short drive from Calais and across eastward toward Belgium to the Pas-de-Calais region. But to hell with it we all thought, 'all' being the inclusion of the third person's perspective on matters at hand, the opinion of our dear faithful friend, the Winjin' Pom. So we had stayed impromptu overnight at Dunkirk.

In May of 1940, the British Expeditionary Forces had been cut off from the rest of France, and indeed a significant part of the supporting French Army also, this by the German advance. The BEF had retreated to Dunkirk and had become completely encircled, cut off and trapped. The British and French soldiers cut off were forced to retreat to the area around the port.

Having been forced to retreat in such haste and leave all heavy military equipment behind, the Germans could have easily defeated us. To think that personal squabbling between Hitler and his Generals led to our escape. It was always assumed that Adolf Hitler had ordered the halt of land forces, favouring an aerial attack instead by the Luftwaffe. Alhough within the official war diaries of Army Group A at the time, Generaloberst Gerd von Rundstedt had made the order, Hitler had merely validated the command some hours later. Modern historians tend to believe that, regardless of who actually made the order to stop the advance, it was issued as a command due to in-fighting amongst the German Military leadership. Someone somewhere wanted the full recognition for beating the British Army and the German Commanders and Generals couldn't decide amongst themselves which one of them it should be.

Well actually, who really cares what truly happened? I don't. The fact is that this lull in the action gave the British a few days to evacuate by sea. It's a much better story and to be totally honest with you, the Nazis are not a group of people that I am particularly fond of talking about in any admirable manner of fashion.

Churchill ordered any ship or boat available, regardless of its size and capacity, to sail and pick up the 338,000 plus men, including a further 123,000 French soldiers who were also stranded at Dunkirk. Over 900 vessels were used to evacuate, or if you prefer "rescue" the Allied Forces. In excess of 40,000 vehicles and countless tonnage of other military equipment and supplies were left behind on the beaches. Britain desperately needed its trained fighting men back. Equipment and supplies could be replaced but an army, no. The miracle of Dunkirk, Churchill called it. The official operation name was Operation Dynamo. Sadly, 40,000 Allied troops fell into the hands of the Germans that final day. Only a few groups managed to return home afterwards as free men through a variety of routes including via neutral Spain.

Under the command of German Admiral Friedrich Frisius, the now occupied Dunkirk Fortress, as it was known, was not liberated from German occupation until the 9th of May, 1945 when the Germans, forced into eventual and unconditional surrender, did so to the Commander of the Czechoslovak forces, Brigade General Alois Liska. The artillery siege of Dunkirk was directed on the final day of the war by pilots from No. 625 and No. 652 Squadrons of the RAF.

I had to smile to myself at the irony of all this. Why? Well because until that day of Friday, March 18th, I had never seen so many Germans collected together as a unified group in my entire life. I think that everybody in Germany who owned a motor-home or camper van was parked up at Dunkirk that day. Literally, and I kid you not, hundreds of German campers were there and clearly for many, money was no object. There were vans from all over Europe and something I had never thought of beforehand - what a tourist trap Dunkirk had now become. I could criticise none too harshly as we too were there that day for no other reason than a fascination with our own military history.

I did try to talk with the owner of a British registered car though. Not because they were British but because I had seen them previously in Alrewas in Staffordshire, earlier on my trip. I had seen this blue car before for sure. It had stood out to me with its tinted side windows. That kind of thing always draws the attention of a policeman's eye. Nonetheless, I could not find the driver and didn't feel the need to wait around too long. I'd liked to have shared our mutual journey destinations and chatted over a cuppa. Clearly somebody else was as interested in The Shot at Dawn Memorial and Dunkirk just as I was. I felt certain we would have had many interests in common.

But, what of Windy Corner Cemetery? Well it was perfect. Not because of the overall feeling of great sadness and loss, but in the way in which it was so perfectly maintained. Respectful, unforgotten and appropriate. Not a weed in sight, the grass mowed to its lowest level; a carpet of green perfectly maintained throughout. Flowers and bushes planted amongst the graves. I felt it was tidier than any English country manor garden, any that Doreen and I had ever visited together. We always maintained our membership of the National Trust and loved visiting country gardens and manor houses. That was a really special thing, the big thing between us.

Inside the front gate there was a metal box built into the stone wall. Open and unlocked, it contained the names and plot references (numbers) to all the soldiers who now slept there. My granddad's name was there. I somehow felt that through all the tragedy of his death, somehow he was now finally respected in death. All those rows and rows of military white, cold head-stones, so many of them, and there amongst them all side by side my Granddad, John E. Wilkinson. I wonder, am I the very first person from the family to have ever visited this grave? I suspect that this is the case.

Then as I sat there beside his grave, a feeling of absolute coldness took over, a bitter chill which I cannot explain. A feeling of negative spiritual haunting. Something destructive and unclean. I became anxious and upset. Had I upset my grandfather? Was my presence here today unwanted somehow? I am not a person that believes in spirits or ghosts but that is the only way that I can explain the sensation to you. I decided to return to the van and grab a jumper. Winjin' Pom was very close and parked just out beyond the gate. Windy Corner was a small, almost a hamlet type village community, with just a few detached houses along the roadside. This isolated and obviously small rural French community explained to me the absence of any graffiti or vandalism and the reason that the cemetery reference book was not locked away. As I left and upon closing the gate behind me to turn outward, I saw it again. I saw that same Blue British registered car, the car with the tinted windows.

Alrewas in Staffordshire and Dunkirk were a reasonable coincidence, but here as well? Here at Windy Corner? That was not a coincidence surely. Then as my mind started to run away with me, I became convinced that it had shared the same channel ferry crossing with me also. I was sure. It sped away and almost in such a manner as if to say that I had clearly taken the driver by complete surprise. I noted the plates this time. Whoever it was, it had made it indisputably clear to me, they didn't want me to see them.

I hooked up online and shared the registration number with the boys back home at the station; a quick email and they ran a plate check for me. Just an hour later they replied and told me the car was a Renault Clio, a green one and registered to a pensioner in Edinburgh. The lady who owns this car is 73 years of age. The car I saw was a Ford Mondeo, it was navy blue and most definitely, most definitely indeed, it was not driven by an old lady. I left it with the lads to make some further routine enquiries for me. Police business and all that.

I then realised. I had uploaded every word that Stanley Jack had told me about Dad's last top secret and final mission. Every detail was on the forum, there written down on the thread for all to see. Had I drawn the attention of the military? Had I somehow upset the British Secret Service? Surely not? It may appear of me to be somewhat naîve in doing this, but surely no. Who would care after all this time? Not the Soviets. The communist regimes had long fallen into history and the Berlin Wall had long been pulled down. The new Russian democracy wouldn't care and why would the British? Everything there is to know about WW2 and the German atomic research programmes was now widely and publicly known, readily available to anyone who wanted to read it. You can watch all this stuff anytime you like on numerous British cable channels. But upset them, someone somewhere, I had, I turned to Doreen and nervously asked her, "Have you ever had that feeling that someone's watching you?"

PART TWO

Chapter 18

"But Why Three?"

But why three? Just the three of them, only the three bodies found inside the plane. The question went around and around like an endless circle in my mind. All newspaper correspondence published in 1956 confirmed there were only three RAF men found inside the Thompson. This also corresponds completely with the account given to my mother by the man in the black bowler hat all those years ago. Also, given what Stanley Jack had told me, there had to be at least five bodies. I understand that if Stanley's story bears any truth, then the reason why the official version would not account for the two additional passengers inside the craft would make perfect sense, but what about the press? Why would they report that only three bodies were found inside the doomed craft? The original article of the plane's discovery was published almost immediately upon the find. This surely, long before the British Military of the day had any time to conceive any form of governmental cover-up or alternate story.

Whose version of events was I to believe? The government line of the day or Stanley's? What reason had he got to lie to me knowing my father so well, this fact evidenced by the photograph album that he had left for me? They were obviously very close, and he, without doubt, had flown with my father during the larger part of the conflict.

Had only three bodies been found that day? All three were reported to have been still strapped into their seats. If two additional passengers were also on board I consider that reasonably they could easily have been washed away at sea. This could account for both Stanley's version of events and the press accounts of the day. It is possible that they are all telling the truth isn't it?

Now the car, and the uncomfortable feeling I was being followed and watched. Why had I attracted this attention? My gut feeling on all this was that Stanley had been telling me the truth and this was a truth that somebody somewhere did not want me to publish. I had already published the story so far. I'd updated the online thread regularly. So was it my search for evidence, factual information to support the story, that was causing the problem? Were they worried that I would find out much more or something unknown about this very old, but equally massive war-changing top-secret mission?

The boys in blue, my old mates at the station, had made their discreet off-record enquiries for me. The car, a green Renault Clio was there in the UK parked in the street outside this old lady owner's flat that day, the very same day, Saturday March 19th 2005. I had seen that registration number attached to a blue Ford Mondeo in France. So the plates were false. Somebody was without doubt following me. Just how far were they prepared to follow me became the next big question?

I made some decisions. Doreen and I had initially planned to travel from France to Bulgaria via Germany, Austria, Hungary and Romania, taking in all the old wartime sites along the way. We had plenty of time and were in no hurry whatsoever. That old bugger (no, not Doreen!), the BMC camper was holding up well. I had a reluctance to travel across Germany anyway. It wasn't an initial reluctance but one that had grown after visiting Granddad at Windy Corner. It wasn't racism or anything that shallow, but a feeling of general inappropriateness. Both Dad and he had died fighting Germany and I wasn't keen to visit German war sites for now. I would, yes of course later on, but not on this particular trip. After much discussion, and indeed curiosity, we changed our original planned route. We would now travel south and follow the Western Front's First World War Hindenburg Line. We would start with Passchendaele, the Somme and onto Verdun and then into Switzerland. From Switzerland to Northern Italy, Slovenia to Serbia and enter Bulgaria at its north-western tip. Doreen was as cross with me as ever. "You silly old fool," she said. "This isn't a game Brian," she shouted at me. Doreen had wanted an immediate end to the trip at this point, but I would have none of it. I did choose not to update the lads back home with my new and drastically changed travel plans. For the time being, I would continue to allow them all to think I was still heading for Germany. If someone was reading my updates for a more sinister reason, then they too would lose track of me for the time being.

In 1914, the German Army opened the Western Front following its invasion of Luxembourg and Belgium, and also controlled many important industrial regions in France. Both sides had dug into their trenches following the race for the sea and the Battle of The Marne. These trenches were heavily fortified on both sides and meandered across the countryside, remaining unchanged in their original basic locations for most of the war.

The Western Front saw numerous offensives between 1915 and 1917 with heavy losses to all following ongoing artillery bombardment and infantry advances. Barbed wire, mines and machine gun nests, which repeatedly inflicted severe casualties, led to the ultimate stalemate of wartime gains. The entrenchments remained fixed and the fighting became nothing more than one of charge and counter charge and so on. Little ground was ever gained.

The Battle of Verdun left 700,000 men dead and was just one of many costly offensives. The largest well-known battle was that of the Somme which resulted in more than one million casualties. Another, the Battle of Passechendaele, resulted in a further 600,000 casualties. This deadlock was never broken but ultimately led to new military technology in an effort to push forward. These developments, principally tank and aircraft designs alongside, and more horrifically, poisoned gases. The adoption of improved hand-to-hand combat tactics was developed largely as a result of massive previous human losses.

Germany's Spring Offensive (1918) followed the signing of the Treaty of Brest-Litvsk. Her war on the eastern front was over and now all efforts could be concentrated to the west. Germany managed to advance some 60 miles, making the deepest advance in land gain

on either side since 1914. The Germans almost made a breakthrough was but the inexorable advances made by the Allies in the latter half of 1918 forced them back and following the possible, indeed inevitable defeat of Germany on the battle field, the German government was forced to agree an armistice. In 1919 the terms of peace were finally agreed following the signing of the Treaty of Versailles.

The Battle of Verdun followed a nine day delay caused by bad weather and commenced on the 21st February, 1916. Following a massive eight hour artillery bombardment, with little retaliation, the Germans made a slow advance on the town and its forts. Having failed to keep control of the French Fort of Douaumont however, heavy French resistance did eventually halt the German advance some seven days later.

Germany then turned its attentions north and to the Le Mort Homme, from where heavy French shelling was being endured. Following intensive fighting, Germany captured the hillside positions in late May. An attempt by the French forces to recapture Fort Douaumont on 22nd May failed. Using the poison gas diphosgene and the capture of Fort Vaux, on the 7th June German forces advanced to within 1,200 yards of the final ridge over the town of Verdun. The advance halted there on the 23rd June with the later summer months seeing the French force the invading army into retreat, but just 1.3 miles backward. The Battle of Verdun, also known as the Mincing Machine of Verdun, became the ultimate symbol of French determination and resistance.

Diphosgene gas was developed as a pulmonary agent for chemical warfare by Germany. It was used as a poison gas and fired from inside artillery shells. Its first ever recorded use was by Germany in May 1916. Germany developed diphosgene gas because the vapours could destroy the filters housed within French-made gas masks that were in use at the time.

Allied commanders witnessing the carnage of Verdun became concerned about the ability of the French army to withstand such ongoing and enormous human loss. The original joint French/British plans for an attack at the river Somme were changed and the British would now take the lead during the attack. This would serve to relieve pressure on the French, and also the Allied Russian forces who equally were sustaining huge human losses.

The Somme offensive began on the 1st July following a week of heavy rainfall. The British divisions of Picardy, supported by five French divisions to the right flank, attacked after an unprecedented week-long heavy artillery bombardment designed to destroy opposing German lines. The French divisions were successful in advancing but British artillery failed to destroy numerous German-held trench positions and heavy barbed-wired perimeters. The British lost 57,000 men in one single day, the biggest loss of life in any single offensive, the largest number of men to be killed, wounded or missing ever to be recorded throughout the entire conflict.

After regrouping, the Battle of he Somme continued during the months of July and August. Despite heavy reinforcement of German lines, some slight progress was eventually made. A complete military breakthrough was believed unlikely however. In August of that same year, General Haig switched tactics to form a series of small unit incursions. This had the effect of straightening out the front line in preparation for a further massive artillery bombardment and thus allowed for a major British push forward. This final Somme offensive would see the first ever use of tanks in combat. They were, however, extremely and technologically limited in practical battlefield use due to their mechanical unreliability and to the limited supply numbers that were made available for use. The new British tanks advanced just 3,500–4,500 yards in total.

Producing the by now predictable and limited gains, the final phase of the battle took place in October. Throughout the entire period of the Somme offensive only five miles of land was taken and all original battlefield objectives had failed. In total, British casualties were over 420,000 and the French, 200,000. Germany suffered a loss of 465,000, although this figure is disputed.

August 1916 saw a change in the German leadership along the western front. Falkenhayn resigned and was replaced by General Paul von Hindenburg and General Erich Ludendorff. In recognising the huge German loss of both Verdun and the Somme, Germany's military capacity to continue fighting was now becoming recognised as unsustainable. For most of the remainder of 1917, Germany's wartime position became one of defensive control rather than offensive incursion.

Throughout the winter, the German forces created a prepared defensive position behind their original front lines at Verdun and the Somme. This section of their rear-guard front would become known as the Hindenburg Line and was built using effective and well tested defensive principles developed during the defensive battles of 1915. The Hindenburg Line was intended to shorten the old German front line by at least 30 miles and free up ten German military divisions who would then be able to concentrate their efforts elsewhere. The Hindenburg Line, the construction of which was first spotted by British long-range reconnaissance aircraft in November 1916, was a line of fortification stretching from Arras to St Quentin.

Blog update: "Tuesday 29th March. We are in Sofia. We have arrived in Bulgaria. Switzerland was stunning having taken the famous green mountain scenic and tourist route. Swimming in Lake Garda, Italy, was I have to say, warm and magnificent. It has been many years since I dived off a rock into a lake."

We had motored on through Slovenia, Croatia and Serbia and had not seen a Ford Mondeo, well a blue one with tinted windows that is, on the entire journey. My plan to change route last minute and to not put this changed update onto the forum had clearly worked. Then, I kept thinking back to what Doreen had said: "You silly old bugger." Maybe I was just being paranoid. Maybe seeing this car again at Windy Corner, even though it had false plates fitted was after all, purely coincidental.

My immediate gut feelings of Bulgaria? Tuesday 29th March, 2005, yes March and it's already too bloody hot! We've enjoyed a lovely drive down through the hills and subsequent journey through a marvellous canyon pass en route. The necessary personal matters such as a good bath and a decent meal are now on the cards. So now I've booked us both two days in a rather impressive, but also very inexpensive hotel. One gets the sense of value of the Great British Pound against the Bulgarian Leva now at an exchange of 3 to 1, in my favour that is! I feel like a King and could easily get used to living in luxury for just a few quid a day, very quickly. A full three course meal and two beers for less than a fiver, and that's hotel prices! I hope that Bulgaria's ambitions to join the European Union next year (2006) don't destroy this exceptional value for money. I'm going to take three days of pedestrianised sightseeing of the capital, Sofia and then do some more travelling again. I need a chance to update my thread online and rest my poor old weary bones. I'm getting a bit too old for camping these days.

I visited the Nevsky Cathedral, the Palace of Culture, the Boyana Church, the National Museum and so much more; far too much to mention without boring you all so I'll avoid it. If you are anything like me, looking at other people's holiday snaps drives me to insanity so I'll avoid falling into the same trap. Vitosha Boulevard is apparently the seventh most expensive shopping centre in Europe they tell me; well I had to have the guided Sofia city tour didn't I? Been there, done it and yes, I did buy a T-shirt! Normal service will soon resume I promise and I'll stop rubbing it in lads and return back to the story of my dad now. Pressing upload, job done!

A strange thing happened today, Thursday. I visited the Commonwealth war graves cemetery in the capital. I had taken directions from the hotel reception. I was to take tram 18 from Slavekov Square, famous for its second-hand book stalls. I found it without problem and just a couple of hundred yards to walk. I caught the tram as planned and got off at the flower market as told. The war graves site is part of a much bigger complex, Sofia Municipality Cemetery. To say it is huge just doesn't explain it well enough at all. It must be a ballpark figure of at least sixty acres and probably bigger. I don't care to over-estimate this approximation.

I walked in through the main central entrance. A security guard caught my eye and I politely asked for directions. There was no way on earth I would successfully manage to navigate my way through this huge labyrinth. Through a serious of exchanged polite hand-gestures I understood the basic direction which I needed to take, and seemed to understand it was at the far rear wall. I started to walk, just a city map and my mobile telephone in my hands. The outer wall of the complex was reserved for crematorium ashes, urns sealed inside stone-covered vaults, stacked a multitude high, one on top of the other. Clearly there were many many thousands of them around the entire outer perimeter wall. I was both saddened and shocked at the apparent lack of care and poor condition in which I found them to be. Many had fallen to pieces and the enclosed clay-pot and even plastic urns were clearly visible. Many had the ashes just poured into them without any sight of an urn at all. To my astonishment I found countless human ashes had somehow just been poured out onto the road and pavement walkway. I found the whole experience and sight deeply disturbing.

I hadn't walked more than perhaps fifty yards when I became aware of the presence of a car, which had stopped alongside me. The driver I soon recognised to be the security guard who had given me directions earlier, just minutes before. He beckoned me in to join him and I sat beside him on the passenger seat. There it was, a chauffeured ride in the car all the way to the site of the war graves. For such a kind ride I was extremely grateful, it was indeed a much further walk than I had envisaged it to be. After thanking him and shaking his hand I got out and walked across to the entrance gate to the site.

I was the only person there and just as I had found it to be the case at Windy Corner, the condition of the area and upkeep of the graves was without complaint. I found everything to be clean, tidy and perfectly maintained. I was so relieved to find it so, given the poor condition I had seen the rest of the municipal cemetery to be in. The signage I read soon clarified why. The Commonwealth Graves Commission maintained this section whereas the rest of the cemetery was the responsibility of Sofia City Council.

Then just as quickly as he had left, the kind helpful security guard arrived back again. This time he had others with him. He had returned with colleagues, an additional security guard but the other, the third man, a real bonafide Bulgarian Police Officer with apparently no sense of humour and a gun. I naturally felt quite threatened. They did not enter the war graves site but the policeman immediately beckoned me over to the gate; one which he was now casually leaning on. I stopped taking photographs and walked back over toward him.

The two security guards, one of whom I had obviously already met, talked in Bulgarian amongst themselves, with an apparently aggressive air to their manner. The policeman however spoke faultless English and to his credit remained extremely polite to me throughout. I wondered just what on earth I had done wrong. Maybe it was the camera? The signage clearly permitted photography. What else could it be? I thought.

I lost count of the amount of questions I was asked. So many questions but always politely framed. I accounted for my entire journey and was required to explain my presence there. I was asked for my papers. I felt an eerie sense that perhaps this new nominate for EU membership had not as yet quite managed to shed its old communist culture. After ten minutes of intensive questioning, I was allowed to continue with my visit, although I wanted to clarify if the photography was problem, to which the reply was "no". I had assumed that as the map and the camera were the only clearly visible effects I had on my person when the security guard had originally given me a ride, that perhaps the camera must have been the reason he returned with reinforcements. Somehow it was this that had caused him such concern.

Interestingly, I had left my passport back at my hotel room and was reminded that it was an offence to be in Bulgaria without personal ID carried at all times. My apologies had been accepted and my verbal statement of identity accepted. The only condition the police officer imposed on my visit was this: "You can take photographs for two minutes more and then you must leave here." This policeman's consent in allowing me to continue appeared to be much to the discontent of the other two. I did exactly as told and left after taking just a few more photos.

I would ponder upon this strange but true event for many days. If the pictures were not a problem, then what was? The paranoia started to creep in again. The blue car that I had seen four days ago had now gone. I certainly wasn't aware that I had been followed there that day. How could I have been? It was not until after this visit that I updated the forum, so nobody could have possibly known where I was going beforehand. Well actually I correct myself here. It was known that I had intended to visit the cemetery but nobody could possibly have known exactly when.

I cannot be so important that extensive covert surveillance was in place all the way across Europe, surely? I'd now travelled two and a half thousand miles and for the last couple of days used public transport. No, it wasn't possible and even if it was, why would such covert cover be blown over a concern for a war grave cemetery, a cemetery that had no connection with my father's secret wartime story? The cemetery contained seven graves of allied bomber crew members shot down over Sofia from WWI. The only possible connection there could been was that my dad may have been one of them. But he wasn't. He wasn't buried there.

I talked it over with a chap back at the hotel, over a beer or two. He was a Bulgarian business man and his view of what happened and why did seem to be a bit more realistic. The municipal cemetery was known to be vandalised regularly. The urns were stolen for the metal content, usually made of brass, and this was done without any regard or dignity for the dead. The would be thieves simply poured the ashes out onto the ground. It made sense to me. The plastic and pot urns remained. This matter, a subject of huge embarrassment to our next-in-line EU accession member state, was something that they would like to keep secret. The man explained that the camera had perhaps given the impression that I was a foreign journalist, given also the city map and my British accent. "Yes, this had to be the case," I reluctantly agreed with him. This too made sense given that police officer's final statement to me. What he had said when I simply enquired, "What is the problem if it is not the camera?" His two word reply; "It's politics."

On the Saturday, Doreen, The Winjin' Pom and I travelled upward out of Sofia. We travelled north of the city to visit the village of Thompson, as previously outlined in chapter one. Having stayed a full two nights in the region and despite the fact that many locals spoke good, if not fluent English, I was saddened to discover that I knew more about their local history than they did. I failed to find a single person who knew why their home village had been given the name it had. It seemed that Major Frank Thompson and the other commandos had fallen into a sad, forgotten and very distant past.

From Thompson we travelled east to Balvan, a small village west of the ancient capital, Veliko Tarnovo. Balvan was the scene of the fiercest fighting between the Bulgarian partisans and the Bulgarian gendarmerie. After the war, the communists had built a huge monument to honour their fallen comrades, sadly a monument that

from a distance appeared to resemble that of the fast food giant McDonald's logo, a stretched letter M. Only a few of the trapped, and hugely outnumbered, partisans managed to flee the battle site and later survive. One of which such stories led us to the family house of Mitko Palauzov.

Mitko Palauzov was the youngest of the Bulgarian partisans to be killed. He was just fourteen years of age. His father had fought in the battle of Balvan and had survived, taking refuge in a secret dug-out hiding hole (a zimlanka) within a sympathiser's garden. Mitko was with his mother. She was a nurse and attended the sick, the wounded and dying in another secret dug-out. The hospital, an infirmary hidden below ground, was located near Osenikova Polyana, a hillside in the district, Uzana. With his father in hiding and facing certain execution if caught, the local village doctor had been forced, by torture, into giving away the secret location of the hospital. The fascist Bulgaria gendarmerie arrived there not long after the battle, just five days, and upon arrival had thrown six hand grenades down into the hospital dug-out. Mitko Palauzov, just a boy standing alongside his mother the nurse, was blown to pieces. A monument to his memory can still be seen today in the town centre of Gabrovo.

This saddest story of all continued further. Mitko's father, a partisan and resistance fighter and a card-carrying member of the communist party, was in his later years murdered. A new political system that he and so many others had fought for, to create a new future for the poor of Bulgaria, a system of political fairness, justice and equality, was now hijacked by pro-Soviet puppets, an unelected totalitarian state with which he had strong disagreement. A dictatorship that wished to expel him from the party he had helped to create. He was quoted as saying to the regime at the time, "I fought for the right to hold this membership card and I will fight again before I let you take it from me." Whilst in Sofia, he was murdered by poisoning following an invitation to attend a meeting held by the Bulgarian Communist Party.

The family of Mitko Palauzov gave us the warmest welcome one could ever receive. I believe that you will be hard pushed to find a warmer and more generous welcome than that offered to the stranger in Bulgaria. A feast fit for a king and I felt like bursting open with the amount that I ate that day. Simply the best of homemade village rakia, the local spirit distilled from grapes, plums or anything else for that matter. It leaves one with a rather thick head the following day.

Thursday 17th April saw us arrive at the mighty Buzludzha building having spent the preceding night just a mere 10 miles down the road at Shipka. Shipka Pass, central Bulgaria was the site of four major battles fought between the Russian Empire, the Bulgarian Volunteers and the Turkish colonial occupiers of the time, the Ottoman Empire. During this period of the Russo-Turkish War (1877-1878), it became the site of a major victory when 5,500 Bulgarian Volunteers supported by 2,000 Russian soldiers defeated a military incursion to take the pass. The Ottoman Central Army were beaten back despite the Bulgarians being heavily out-numbered.

Russian forces had taken the pass from the Ottomans and gained control of the region in July, 1877. The Russian General, Stoletov, then commissioned three main defensive positions at the head of the pass; 7,500 defenders (5,500 Bulgarians and the 2,000 Russians) at St. Nicholas (now known as Peak Stoletov), the Central Hill and other crucial reserve emplacements in between,

The Ottoman Commander, Suleiman Pasha, had the fighting force of the central army behind him, amounting to over 38,000 combatants. Pasha was determined to regain military control of the pass in what was apparently nothing more than an action of military pride. He could have simply bypassed it, if he had chosen to. August 21st saw intensive bombardment by his forces against Russian/Bulgarian positions and predominantly, the location of St. Nicholas. The attack proved fruitless and was stalled by Bulgarian Volunteers who were dug-in 100 yards to the south. At dawn the following morning, Ottoman forces moved their heavy artillery canon further up toward the mountain side and continued to bombard the pass. Suleiman's infantry then moved in to out-flank the opposing Russian flank. On August 23, the Ottoman forces attacked all Russian/Bulgarian positions. The military effort again concentrated on St. Nicholas Mount where the majority of poorly equipped Bulgarian Volunteers were positioned.

Pride and arrogance had given Commander Pasha a deeply misconceived and false sense of security. The Ottoman, believed the volunteer positions would be easy to capture. The first military retreat that day was of the Russian positions on Central Hill, the Bulgarian Volunteers at St Nicolas held fast throughout. Regrouping and later with the fresh reinforcement of the 4th Russian Rifle Brigade, Ottoman offensives were again halted. On the 26th, Ottoman forces did finally reach the Russian trenches situated on St. Nicholas hillside but a counter bayonet charge of Bulgarian Volunteers soon forced them into retreat. During the siege, both Bulgarian Volunteers and the Russian soldiers completely ran out of ammunition. They repulsed ongoing and uphill Ottoman charges by throwing rocks, wheels and even the corpses of fallen comrades downward and into the lines of the Ottoman advance. It is noted as the most gallant military stand of the entire Russo-Turkish war.

Pasha continued to be driven and now blinded by his military pride, would attempt to retake the pass once more during the year 1877. The Russian and Bulgarian Volunteer defences had been pounded continually during August of that year, but Ottoman reinforcements were now extremely limited due to the ongoing siege of the city of Plevan to the south. On September 13th, Suleiman Pasha again began to shell both the Bulgarian and Russian defence lines. The bombardment continued for five full days until on the 17th Suleiman launched a full frontal assault yet again against the St. Nicholas hill-side positions. Upon successfully capturing the first line of defence trenches, Ottoman forces finally moved upward toward the summit.

The military gain was extremely short lived. The new Russian commanding General, Fyodor Radetzky, brought forward Russian reinforcements. This Russian counter-attack proved to be a vital defensive action in this second major battle and the Ottoman forces were driven back from all captured ground. Additionally, secondary Ottoman assaults to the north were also repulsed. Between January 5th and 9th, 1878 the final battle for Shipka Pass was fought, a further crushing defeat for the exhausted Ottoman Central Army. This would be the last attempt made to retake the Shipka Pass and thereafter, the Ottoman rule over Bulgaria collapsed.

Now, what of the mighty Buzludzha itself, a building I have completely fallen in love with? A short drive east along an old side-wooded roadway Buzludzha is a building that evolved from a completely different era. Here on the Central Stara Planina and named from the origins of a Turkish word buzluca, the literal meaning glacially. Today a more modern Bulgarian translation of the word Buzludzha however reads as 'the highest road'. The building is situated at the site of the final battle of Bulgarian rebels in 1868, led by Hadji Dimitar and Stefan Karadzha opposed to Ottoman rule. Standing at 1441 meters high, Buzludzha is Bulgaria's largest ideological monument to Communism.

Over 6,000 workers were involved in its seven year construction, this number including 20 leading Bulgarian artists who worked solidly for 18 months on the interior decoration alone. Designed by architect Guéorguy Stoilov, it is undoubtedly one of the most impressive architectural buildings I have ever seen. I can liken it only to a flying saucer that has somehow unexpectedly just landed there. The construction was funded by a small (but expected) donation from every citizen in the country. This voluntary donation of one leva (30 pence) formed the largest portion of funds required to build this most impressive structure. Buzludzha was finally unveiled in 1981 on what was the 1300th anniversary of the foundation of the Bulgarian state.

The monument was built on the peak by the Bulgarian communist regime to commemorate events of 1891 when the socialists led by Dimitar Blagoev met in secret at the site in order to form an organised socialist movement. Since the collapse of the Bulgarian Communist Party in 1991, it is no longer maintained by the Bulgarian government and has fallen into disrepair. It is now found to be abandoned, vandalised, and internally devastated. To this day, buried in the monument's concrete structure is a time capsule explaining the significance of the building.

Bulgaria's bloodless revolution (1989) ended with the disbandment of the Party. Ownership of the monument was ceded to the state and with no further interest or use for it, it was left to ruin and decay. It stands today as an iconic monument to a now abandoned political ideology. Every year Bulgarian Socialists still gather at Buzludzha to mark the founding of the Bulgarian Social-Democratic Party.

PART TWO

Chapter 19

"All Good Things Must Come To an End"

It's been an amazing trip. I don't want to rub it in but I can't help but smile when I update the forum telling all of my recent travels, and of my day-to-day discoveries. One particular upload led me to notice a new contact name within my private messages. I receive many messages daily via the forum, mostly wishing me luck with my quest and to wish me safe travelling. This one was however quite different, the name standing out and clearly Italian. I had mentioned that upon leaving Bulgaria our intention was to cross over to Italy and visit the old airbases from which my dad may have flown. Also to most definitely pay my respects in the small village cemetery of Carpi, Modena Province, at the grave site of Gunner Joshua Petterson. He was the young gunner whose body was parachuted out of the Thompson by my father that day.

I read this new private message with much curiosity and quite a degree of uncertainty. By all accounts it was an invitation to meet a man who had further information about my father. This gentleman was named Carlo Ghirlandaio, and by all accounts was the same age as me; mid-fifties. He was very keen indeed to meet with me. His first email read;

Hello to all you all Brian

I follow the story with big interest and I sorry strong for not to in touch earlier. This was not reluctant to me no but unsure to tell you the story. You are come to Italy yes? I want much to see you. We talk about Brian. My mother being was friend good to him.

Carlo Ghirlandaio

<oOo>

Carlo and I began a series of correspondence over the next couple of days, but try as hard as I might I could never get a straight answer to a simple question. The question was easy: "What do you know about my dad?" I thought maybe it was a translation issue, although his English was understandable it did lack a degree of correct grammar. But no, Carlo would say to me "I speak in when Italia, no for forum words."

Well what choice did I really have? I was heading for Italy already and a fact that was widely known back home. Carlo had obviously known this too and perhaps now with my being in Bulgaria, well he realised the timing of the invite would be appropriate. It made sense too. I'd just been in Italy but had kept this change in travel direction off the thread so he wouldn't have known that until quite recently. He was clearly keeping himself well up to date with my activities and my whereabouts too, obviously with some degree of sincere interest.

What exactly did he know? And why wouldn't he tell me? Doreen and I concluded that it must be something important, as he was not prepared to part with this information in writing, publicly or privately. I toyed with the idea or ringing him as he had given me his telephone number, but if his writing was anything to go by, a fluent conversation seemed quite unviable. Though I have to say, Doreen did rather fancy a few more days back in Italy again.

After a few more days in Bulgaria and Macedonia we headed west to the coast of Albania. From there, from Durres, we caught a direct ferry over to Trieste, Italy. I have to say that this six hour crossing wasn't one that I welcomed given the upset caused by my last boat trip. That one, Dover direct to Calais, was only half of this at just under 3 hours long. I have to say it proved to be a very pleasant crossing indeed. We really enjoyed it and had no complaints whatsoever. The E55 soon taking us up to Foggia, where my father had flown from on his last final mission.

The military airfields at Foggia were a series of World War II airfields located within a 25 mile radius of the town. Foggia is in the Italian Provence of the same name. It was a collection of airfields that became known during the war as the Foggia Complex and from any number of this group of air-strips the Thompson could have taken-off from. The fifteenth United States Air Force, the Twelfth (1944 – 1945) and the British Royal Air Force (1943 – 1945) all used strips at Foggia throughout the Italian Campaign.

The Italian Royal Air Force Regia Aeronautica had constructed a series of airfields in the Foggia area before the outbreak of war. They consisted of hard-surfaced runways and taxi-ways, concrete parking areas and permanent buildings used as military barracks. Following the Armistice signed between Italy and the Allied armed forces during September of 1943, the airfields were violently seized by German forces and became a central airbase for the German Luftwaffe.

The German Luftwaffe occupation of the Foggia airbases drew extensive and continued heavy bombing by both the RAF and USAAF. The airbases were eventually seized by the British Eighth Army in October 1943. After the area was captured, extensive repairs were conducted by the United States Army Corps of Engineers (COE), enabling the complex to be adapted for use by heavy bomber operations. Italian weather conditions were notably more favourable than of those in Britain. These favoured conditions would allow the Fifteenth and Eighth US Air Force to conduct daylight strategic bombing of both occupied Europe and Nazi Germany. The Foggia Airfield Complex would now enable heavy Allied bombers to strike countless previously unreached targets in France, Germany, Austria and particularly the Balkans (Bulgaria) which, due to flight range, was totally inaccessible from England. In addition to air support, Foggia was also a major Allied command centre for land ground forces in Allied occupied southern Italy and the naval forces of the Adriatic Sea.

Beyond those captured concrete strips that remain even today were constructed numerous temporary and semi-permanent airfields throughout the war years, now all lost and returned to local agriculture. I could picture the scene in my mind, even if little physical evidence of their pre-existence remained before me here today. Dad's letters, the personal wartime accounts of 'Bull's-Eye', had always left a firm imprint in my mind. He wrote home of the "green grass that grew up through the pierced steel planking of the temporary runways" and of the "parking and dispersal areas" where they would stand to see which of their friends would return from sorties alive, and to note those who would not. He frequently apologised for his short letters saying that it was due to the poor lighting available, the mess hall constructed out of wood, and his sleeping quarters often nothing more than a canvas tent. "There is only one dimly lit light bulb at the centre of our tent," he wrote to Mother. "Our tent floor is grass. When the rain falls we often sleep on nothing more than dirt." In another letter he said, "We have scavenged plywood for flooring. We have converted old wooden cots into beds and an old damaged 55-gallon oil drum we have converted into a wood burning stove." I tried to imagine the site of that old steel control tower he would often reference, in saying "never did the cold touch of steel feel so warm than when it came into a pilot's sight." These old control towers now gone and long since removed for scrap.

Six-man tents were used for billeting and all lined up in rows with both orderly and mess hall at one end. I imagined the fear that these men must have lived through, sleeping under canvas whilst enemy fighters would swoop down, strafing them with machine gun fire overnight. With little or no protection from enemy attack, many must have died whilst they slept. Dad would, as I have said, never write home about the losses of the war.

Wrecked enemy aircraft, Italian and German, were apparently a common sight. Stanley had told me this and had proudly shown me a photo in the album of my father standing beside a downed Stuka. The twisted metal frames and fuselages and wings, the glass and all other useful parts finding themselves reused in a multitude of ways by the boys. Dad had joked in one of his letters about how they had used the old cockpit glass to make themselves a bread oven. The heat of the day's hot Italian sun would naturally warm the dough to rise inside it.

About two dozen airfields were in operation in Foggia during 1944, all supporting strategic bombing missions and bomber crew escort duties, tactical fighter operations and of course general reconnaissance and air defence. All of them gone with the end of the war in May of 1945, abandoned by the Allies and the land returned to the original owners, or to the Italian government. Only a few strips still exist today as commercial airports and only one of them is still used by the Italian Air Force, the new Aeronautica Militare.

So, now we draw to the conclusion of my story and the end to my trip. "As all good things, sadly, must come to an end," Doreen said, as she placed her arm around my shoulders as I drove. I had felt that I had become so close to my father during these many days of travel and felt saddened to return home. What Carlo would go on to tell me however would shatter that feeling. My whole world would for a time, fall apart. Although at last I finally gained the truth about what had happened that evening, that fateful night, at 22.30 hours when the Thompson had flown for the last time from Foggia.

Carlo lived very close to Foggia, in a small coastal town called Manfredonia, just a short drive up toward the north-east. His house easily found, I received a very warm welcome on my arrival that day: at the time, a welcome that seemed somewhat out of place, somewhat over-the-top if I can say. I would come to understand this strange and quite unexpected over-emotional reaction later. It was a beautiful house and I had nervously knocked upon the door, a door upon an external wooden mezzanine above his garage and with a clear view of the deep blue Italian sea. I remember thinking, momentarily thinking to myself, how lucky he must be to live in such a beautiful place; the air so fresh and clean. Then the door opened suddenly within seconds of my knock, as if he had been waiting for me, he stood at the other side of it.

I went in. I was greeted by his wife, Pietra and their two daughters who had come to their parents' house that day just to meet with me, their names Pia and Luisa. Everything about this greeting, his physical reaction to me and the family get-together was just so bizarre. They gave me a wonderful meal, all vegetarian. They were not vegetarian but Carlo had found out this information about me from the forum thread. I started to believe that he probably knew more about my own life than I did. After sharing a rather expensive bottle of Italian red wine, and you could tell by the taste that no expense had been spared, we approached the subject. Carlo's spoken English was almost perfect, so much better than his written word and not at all what I had expected. I presumed he must have used an online translator whilst writing to me. Pietra, Pia and Luisa were not so confident; just very basic greetings and expressions. Pleasant formalities of a sincere and polite nature, I would say.

"Let's walk Brian?" Carlo suggested. "We will talk about Brian now." Off out down a small narrow stone-paved street and along a quiet pedestrianised coastal wall we went. Nothing too grand this sea wall, probably only twelve feet or so above the sea level below, but very pleasant indeed. We sat, seated on a wooden bench overlooking the sea and admiring the moored boats and craft in front of us. "That one's mine," he said, pointing to a modest wooden clinker. "I use it when I need to think. I'm going to re-name her the Thompson." Excitedly, as if a child in a sweet shop, he continued. "Look at what I have brought you here to see Brian." Carlo pointed to the back of the wooden bench behind me. This bench, a normal everyday traditional (oak) wooden bench on which we sat was obviously new. It could not have been more than just a few weeks old. There upon its back support, a brass plaque that Carlo was eagerly pointing toward. It read to my complete astonishment, "In Loving Memory of Brian 'Bull's-Eye' Wilkinson – RAF. Foggia 1945. Look upon the sea and remember me."

I didn't know what to say or where to turn. This was indeed a very kind gesture but why had he done it? What reason or business of his was it anyway? These private thoughts at the time. My reaction was one of shock, of gratitude but also of anger. Why had he not told me this previously? Why bring me all the way here just to show me a new bench and why had he not just chosen to email me a photograph of it? But most of all, why the hell was my father's name on it?

There was a period of silence between us that was only broken by a single tear, a single tear that fell from Carlo's eye. "Brian, please forgive me," he said, "but is the only way I think how." He reached into his inner upper coat pocket and pulled out an envelope, an old envelope and inside it a collection of tattered black and white photographs. They must have been in some form of pre-arranged order, as he removed the top one carefully without looking inside to select it. "This is a photograph of me as the baby in 1945. I was just a few weeks old at the time and this is my mother," he said. I looked appreciably at the photograph. Whilst his mother was indeed very beautiful I still failed to see what exactly his point in all this was and what this had to do with me. Then he took out another photograph. "This is my mother and father together before I born late on in 1945," he said, but this time his voice was delivered in a very quiet and almost worried manner. He paused and passed it to me. His father was an identical twin of Dad. I had discovered that my "father had had an unknown twin brother" I thought... But this wasn't a twin, and the penny finally dropped; this was my father.

I had thought to myself the first time I saw Carlo, just a few hours beforehand that he was the spitting image of my father too. There was also an apparent family likeness between us but like I have just said, the penny just hadn't dropped. Why should it? This was the last thing I expected to find out today or even on any day. I remembered what old Stanley Jack had said to me the first time we saw each other, "spittin' bloody image of the man himself," I recalled him saying this to me. Carlo grasped me firmly by both shoulders and almost shaking me to pieces, said, "I am your half-brother, Brian."

There it was, that was that, the 'In Loving Memory' phrase upon the plaque now explained the reasoning to me in full. I mean, at the time I didn't understand why it hadn't simply read 'In Memory Of'. The addition of the word 'Loving' always implying a close personal or family connection. But I fully understood now.

He continued to show me many photographs, all of them old, all of them black and white and all of them of my father. Brian 'Bull's-Eye' Wilkinson, the whiter than white Brian, a man I had believed to be as pure as the driven snow had been shagging an Italian woman behind my mother's back, and this woman was Carlo's mother.

I stayed with Carlo and his wife for several days, initially in disbelief and often at times arguing with him as to the degree of accuracy of his facts and information. With every objection point I raised, he would soon knock me back down to earth. It was either an answer that I couldn't argue with or some form of physical evidence to suggest that I was the one who was wrong. As unbelievable as it was to me, I had to concede the fact that Carlo Ghirlandaio was my half-brother. The love letters he showed me were just as intense and as personal as those written to my mother, but these ones addressed to his mother, and all indisputably in my (our) father's own hand.

The drive homeward and north was a sombre journey. I had liked Carlo and his family very much and in many ways delighted at my time of life, to discover a long lost half-brother. I use the word sombre because I felt so very sorry, mournful for my mother. She had died crying over Dad's love letters and here I was confronted with his dishonestly and betrayal of that profound love. In my personal judgement, the contents of Carlo's letters confirmed Dad had loved his mother quite equally. Life can be so very complex, so very complicated. I tried not to judge 'Bull's-Eye' too harshly. After all, Stanley had said, none of them ever expected to return back home after the war. They all flew in the full knowledge that they would die at any moment, and half of the bomber crews never did return. They died in service. What was now made clear is that my father knew nothing of Carlo's birth and he, upon completion of this final mission was coming home to be with my mother. Surely this was just a wartime fling?

I had always planned to end my trip at Dover. I had been there many times over the years to see the location of Dad's demise. The Thompson was now situated on a plinth to the port-side, not often noticed by the boarding traveller as it was sited to the far eastern perimeter and hidden from view by cargo freight and shipping containers. I think what kept me sane on my long journey home was the sense of humour of all the lads, the boys, who by now were overloading the forum threads with their smutty sense of humour, making a joke of the whole situation. These jokes, all so very funny and often just one line sentences of support reading no more than, "chin up lad!" The funniest comment I read was, "What is the difference between Brian and Carlo? None." Somebody else had voted to rename the Foggia Airbase complex simply the "Hornio Foggia!" An airport to be named after my father! Well that's an honour usually reserved for the likes of JFK or Charles de Gaulle, I chuckled inwardly to myself.

Carlo gave me a letter; a letter written by his mother, a letter that she had written to him to be read only in the event of her death. She had left it in the strict care of a friend. Carlo was firm and forceful in the words he said to me. "Do not read letter until you are safely home Brian. You are to read it when you reach Liverpool and not before. This you will is promise me?" He explained that it was this letter that had led him to find me and make contact.

He had tried to verify the contents enclosed, as written by his mother for two years but had failed. Then he had received a random and anonymous postcard simply signed off with a letter X. Maybe this was a kiss or perhaps just a signature to reinforce and demonstrate the writer's anonymity. He had shown me the card previously that day but it made no sense to me. It arrived post office stamped just three weeks before we had both met up for the first time, and posted from northern France. It simply read, "Search for Brian Wilkinson, the Thompson, online blog. You'll find your answer there - X." On doing so he had then come across my war forum thread following an internet search using these suggested words. He said that it was also quite apparent that his mother had not known anything of my existence. "If she had, I feel sure she would have said so within this, her final words," he exclaimed.

Carlo's mother had died in 2003 at the age of 78 years, three years before I started to tell the world my story. He slipped the postcard in alongside his mother's final letter and I promised him; one, not to read it before my return and two, to return them both to him in person at a later date. I think this gave him some sort of personal assurance that we would stay in touch with each other and that we would meet again soon.

I broke this promise. I had no choice. I thought long and hard about it, Doreen telling me not too. "There's a reason he said what he said Brian. Please don't read it yet." Her words echoed around and around inside my troubled mind. But I had to read it. Contained within was the answer surely? Why all this cloak and dagger behaviour? There was no other explanation. This letter was left for Carlo to read after his mother's death and he had given it to me for a good reason. Nobody would ever part with such a treasured personal possession without good cause, would they?

I cannot begin to explain the emotion I felt. I read it again and again and again and wanted to return to Manfredonia to confront Carlo. I wanted him to tell me to my face that this was not true, that it was all lies and the basis of some sick joke. I also realised why he had given it to me to read later at home. He knew how shocking it would be to me. He knew that our one meeting so far could easily have proved to be our last. But I also knew that this was not something that I could have told my half-brother to his face, so how could I expect him to have done so? The hurt, the disbelief, the absolute anger that I felt, but above all a sense of deep respect for him. Carlo could have taken this letter to the grave with him, kept it private as a lifelong secret but he had chosen not to. He was honest with me, the kind of painful honestly that one would only find from one's brother, a real brother. For this very reason and despite everything else, I understood him and his final motives fully. He must have agonised over it.

The letter is far too personal to post on the thread or to later add to this, my war time story and my search for my war hero father, Brian 'Bull's-Eye' Wilkinson. Three pages of honest and brutal confession, and for the respect of Carlo who will read this, I choose not to publish it. I will however tell you what it said.

Just like me, Carlo had never met or known our father. His mother, Alessandra Ghirlandaio was a Nazi sympathiser during the war years; her husband Marco, an Italian pilot shot down by the RAF in 1943, and killed in action; an event that she had apparently never recovered from. She had never re-married, had not borne a previous child to Marco and had maintained her husband's family name, Ghirlandaio, until her death in 2003.

Alessandra, originally from Genoa had moved to the Foggia region for one single purpose. She was to spy on the now allied occupied airbases and this she did with great efficiency, covertly reporting back to fascist contacts who remained unidentified within the letter.

Alessandra Ghirlandaio had successfully infiltrated the base and worked as a volunteer kitchen hand, her paperwork and identity all falsified, her passport at the time stating the name Alessandra Orsini. Alessandra became a close confident of our father and inevitably they became lovers. However, despite my father's clear devotion to her, her hatred and despise of the RAF crews based at Foggia remained. It was Alessandra who would betray my father that night, alongside two additional passengers, the scientists. Alessandra Orsini as she was known at the time had, under the direct instructions of Berlin, placed a bomb aboard the Thompson that evening.

We had successfully prevented this devastating German nuclear technology from falling into the hands of the Soviets and Berlin had successfully prevented it from falling into the hands of the Allies. Now I had my answer, all thanks to the written confession of the woman who had murdered my father.

Why had this woman chosen to do this? This question was unanswered as I would later read. This letter wasn't written to me but it was written to her son, her only child, Carlo. She remarked how she had kissed my father goodbye that night. How my father had cried in her arms and how this at the time meant nothing to her. Not only was she crippled with revenge for Marco's death, she was also paralysed by her belief that Nazi ideology would survive; that Germany was certain to win the war. For her Brian was already dead, as she knew he was now returning to his wife Evelina back in Liverpool. Their relationship was over. Alessandra Orsini had also wanted an abortion when she later found out she was pregnant. I felt for Carlo when I read this. His mother had killed his father, and she had also wanted to kill him.

But the guilt of her actions had taken their toll on her and she was unable to terminate her pregnancy. She said that she couldn't kill again. By the end of the war she had seen Germany for what it was and long turned her back on fascist ideologies. She remarked that during the war, she and so many other Italians were overcome with hate and that after the war, "We couldn't even remember what we had been fighting for." She made a reference to the Italian Allied armistice of 1943, and how thereafter the truth of Nazi revenge and retaliation against the Italians had not been fully known to her. She said she was young and naïve, foolish, with misplaced loyalty, and she considered even her own homeland of Italy to be a traitor at the time.

Alessandra could not live with her actions following the end of the war and other than the letter she had left Carlo, she had only ever confessed her secret to her Priest who had enabled her to come to terms with her actions and who had forgiven her. Her own self-imposed punishment was to never to love again or to remarry. She would love and care for Carlo as Brian would have wanted. This she did until her end. Her final written words to him; "Son please forgive me."

And here we now find ourselves back in the UK. I, PC Brian Wilkinson finally had and knew the whole truth. What I had now, and needed to do, was to somehow find a way to accept it as the truth. After a short period of readjustment, in May of 2005, I arranged to travel down to the Royal Air Force Museum at Cosford, Shropshire. There I would meet up with a gentleman called John Stevenson. John was a highly trained and skilled aviation mechanic who had written a series of books, one of them entitled 'The B17 Strategic Heavy Bomber from Inside Out'. John Stevenson had obtained a PhD for his work, but always declined to be referred to as Dr Stevenson. He had been recommended to me as a useful contact by Albert, my original forum contact.

From Cosford, he would join me and travel down to Dover. This was all free of charge as his curiosity was proving to be greater than mine. We already knew a bomb had been placed on the plane in Italy. If the purpose of this sabotage was purely to kill the German scientists on-board and prevent the Allies or Soviets from gaining this technology, then it must have been timed to explode after they were on board, and after the destruction of the facility. This single and overriding guiding principal we both agreed upon. The precise location, timing and purpose of the mission was fully known, as confirmed by Alessandra's letter. Brian 'Bull's-Eye' Wilkinson, in his blindness of passion had confided all to her. The mystery was why had the plane not been blown out of the sky?

We kept referring back to my father's final letter, his last words, "Fuel out, dropping fast, too low to bail, please take care of Bethany for me." He had had time to write these final words and he makes no reference to any blast on-board. It was no catastrophic explosion that had brought the Thompson down that night but a lack of fuel. Why didn't they bail out? Why had they left it so late and not tried to save themselves?

There are so many scenarios to consider. The drop tanks used to increase the bomber's flight range would already have been discarded and dropped long before reaching Dover. This we also agreed on, and that meant the B17 was flying using its normal wing-housed fuel tanks. Had the bomb failed to go off and had they quite simply run out of fuel? Had his phrase "too low to bail" meant they had left it too late after falling from a much higher altitude, or were they intentionally flying at low altitude to prevent detection?

We would never know the answer to this particular question, and this John and I accepted. This answer would only be found out at a time when secret military files concerning the mission would be released. This for certain was not going to occur within my life time. All of my correspondence and requests for information from the Royal Air Force directly had been declined. The RAF had refused to comment on any matter whatsoever concerning the final flight of the Thompson.

The Thompson had left the Foggia complex on February 26th 1945 at 22.30 hours. This date just a little over three months before the Allied D-Day landings of Northern France. This date a most significant date. From Bulgaria she would have flown directly back to conserve fuel, her flight path taking her across Romania, Hungary and Austria before crossing Germany and Belgium or at least the northern tip of France, all of which were at the time heavily occupied by German forces. Realistically, as John would put it to me, "There wasn't anywhere to bail out Brian. This cargo was far too precious to fall back into enemy hands. I suspect that in the event of a failed mission, these two scientists would have been executed by the crew long before that would be allowed to happen." A chilling thought but one that made perfect sense to me.

So, what of the two German scientists then? If the bomb had failed to go off, had they sabotaged the flight in a desperate escape plan? We agreed that for sure the scientists would not have known about the bomb on-board. If they had, they would have warned the crew. "And let's face it Brian," said John. "If they had fallen back into enemy hands they faced execution. Berlin knew of this mission, they were traitors. There was no way that they would double-cross the crew and sabotage a plane and thus ultimately lead to their own certain deaths." And he added a point that had not crossed my mind previously. "Although they were fleeing to the UK to escape the Russians, they were still our enemy. They would have been restrained in the plane somehow and at the very least handcuffed to some form of fixed panelling." This all made perfect sense to me too. The crew wouldn't have trusted them and therefore there would have been no opportunity for them to sabotage the flight.

So if the bomb did not bring down the Thompson and the scientist couldn't have had the opportunity (or the political will) to sabotage it, what did bring it down? "Well," said John, "that's what we are going to find out."

We arrived at Dover and headed straight for the port and parking up alongside the old Thompson, her standing there overbearingly looming down upon us from its mighty stone plinth. We got out and noted the relatively good condition she remained in after all these years. "Off you go," John said to me. "What?" I replied. He explained. He needed the space to concentrate without disturbance. He had a lot of work to do and he wanted to do it right. I had to agree, despite the fact that I wanted him to talk me through the entire process. I arranged to meet him back at the guest house we had pre-booked at 8 pm that Saturday evening.

Time passed slowly at first and there are a limited number of shops that one can occupy one's time with in Dover. I do give the town credit for one thing though, the best fish and chips I have eaten this side of Liverpool. I later whiled away my time with a visit to the castle and the underground war bunkers. The castle is spectacularly situated above the White Cliffs of Dover and has guarded our shores from invasion for over twenty centuries, and now was in the protective hands and security of English Heritage. The darkly atmospheric 'Secret Wartime Tunnels' as described, and its splendid most "vivid recreation of the Dunkirk evacuation, all this complete with dramatic projections of swooping Spitfires and real film footage," proved to be as promised in the brochure, absolutely fantastic. Before I knew it, time was upon me and I rushed to get back for 8 pm.

John was already there waiting at the bar with a fine pint of beer in his hand and a rather large smug grin upon his face. "A beer for my friend," he said to the barman. "I have some good news for him." We took a seat at a table by the window, and from a brown cardboard tube he produced a sketched technical drawing plan, detailing the mechanics of a B17. "Now then, first hear this Brian," he said. "I agree with you, you are being followed." And then he laughed. "I didn't believe it at first but it's true, a blue Ford Mondeo with tinted windows, sorry couldn't get the plate but it's been watching me all day. It was there at the port and a moment ago it was here in the street outside. Personally I don't believe in coincidence like that Brian." He already knew of my previous sightings of it having read so on my thread.

"Now on to the plane. Look at the plan Brian. What I expected to find I didn't," he said. "Under the circumstances as we know, if I was going to bomb that plane and ensure everybody was killed immediately, killed without any hope of survival at all, I would do it here." He pointed to the left wing, to a fuel line junction pump and at a schematical point where the wing joined onto the main fuselage section of the bomber. "This is the central fuel pump housing Brian. It would rip the outer wing away, cause a violent and uncontrollable downward spiral force, one that nobody could survive. The gravitational pull would be so violent it would prevent any hope of escape and the fire within would be intense. She would be engulfed in seconds."

He continued, "The plane has been restored to an exceptionally high standard. I've seen better planes than this get scrapped. They spent a lot of money doing this Brian. They may be following you and they may be keeping secrets from you but one thing is for sure, the Thompson means a lot to them." "Yes, I suppose so when you put it like that," I replied. He continued. "It was found in three sections; the left wing detached and the cockpit, main fuselage and right wing intact. The rear fuselage tail section was snapped away. Are you still following me Brian?" he asked. "Yes," I replied, "fully. Please go on." "Well, here it is then. There has been extensive damage to the left outer-prop and wing tip, all now fully restored and no expense has been spared. Damage sustained when it crashed. This plane did not fly directly into anything but had caught the water, left wing down. It twirled over, causing the wing to snap away and landed heavily tail first, this rear fuselage section then breaking away." (He demonstrated this half somersault motion to me using a beer mat). "So the bomb didn't bring it down then?" I blurted out. "No it didn't Brian. No doubt there was a bomb on board, we know that but it most certainly didn't detonate. I cannot find any evidence whatsoever of an explosion taking place anywhere within this old bugger, absolutely none. And furthermore, fully restored or not, there is absolutely no evidence of any attack from outside bringing her down either."

"So what does all this mean then John? I must confess, I'm a little confused." "It means exactly this Brian," he patiently went on to add to the conversation. "Realising that they could not clear the cliff top at Dover they navigated portside, left, and attempted to land at sea and as close to the cliffs as they could. They would have tried to land her with the cockpit raised and belly first. They wouldn't have lowered the landing gear as they needed a smooth water landing. But this didn't happen. The left wing caught the water first and not the belly. It dug in immediately and turned her violently around anti-clockwise. I have absolutely no doubt Brian, this was nothing more than a tragic wartime accident, and she quite simply ran out of fuel," he added. "There is no evidence of burning, none, no explosion and no fire. There was no fuel on board when she hit."

"And what of the bodies?" I asked. "Where are the other two bodies then?" "Well, we know that the pilot and navigator were found strapped in the cockpit side-by-side and we know that your dad was also found strapped into his rear gun placement. The B17 crew were equipped with heated suits given the high altitude at which she could fly, but your father was found still in his flight jacket, yes?" He asked. "Yes," I said. "The man in the black bowler hat had said this, the letter was pushed down inside his flight jacket, and no mention of a heated suit was ever made."

"Well here it is then. If we go with that info, we confirm that she had returned at low altitude. I think they almost made it, but they were already by now flying low and by the time they had dropped without sufficient fuel over the channel, the only place they could possibly conceive to bail out without certain capture, well by then it was too late. The scientist seated in the main fuselage would have, upon the fuselage snapping in two, been thrown out and washed away, handcuffed or otherwise (I shuddered at the thought of arms being torn from shoulders) given such violent impact as the plane tossed herself over." John used his cigarette packet to further demonstrate this motion and continued. "No attempt was made by the crew to escape afterward, they were all found still strapped in. This was February Brian. The channel was freezing cold and she sank deep into the mud below. I'm not a pathologist Brian but I think it's reasonable to assume that because of this fact they went into immediate shock and quite simply drowned in their seats."

"Excuse me John," I said tearfully, and stopped the conversation there, "I just need a moment," and in trying to contain my emotion I took out my mobile phone. I rang Carlo and upon his answering I simply said, "It's all okay Carlo. Your mother didn't kill our father."

The next time that Carlo and I will meet again will be as agreed, the next year on February 26th 2006 at 22.30 hours, the anniversary date of our war hero father's flight. We will be here again, at Dover Quay, where we will jointly throw a wreath into the sea.

The memorial card will read,

In Loving Memory of Brian 'Bull's-Eye' Wilkinson and the crew of the Thompson. The best rear gunner in the sky, the Magnificent Three never forgotten. Our eternal love and gratitude to you all,

Brian's boys.

<oOo>

Happier times: (One) Jonathan Taylor and UNESCO poet Steve Wilkinson (right). Remembrance Day fundraising concert in aid of Help For Heroes. War poem and song: Victoria Hall, Skipton, North Yorkshire. (Two) Taken shortly before his disappearance on Sunday, 25th March (2015) Odd Jonathan, partner and friends on the steps of Buzludzha Communist House.

**From L to R:** The Writer; Jonathan R.P Taylor (Odd Jonathan), photographer and partner Nicola Miller, archivist and translator Radoslav Denchev and architect and restoration campaigner, Dora Ivanova. Warnings signs prevail through legal statute and forbid entry.

Picture: the Thompson, B-17F Flying Fortress

The original front cover of Brian's 2005 book.

Top speed: 287 mph (462 km/h).

Introduced: USAAF April 1938.

Retired: 1968 (Produced: 1938 – 1945).

Manufacturer: Boeing USA

Designer: Edward Curtis Wells.

Total number built: 12,731

PART TWO

Appendix Two

Sorry for all the lies and deceit Brian, but a relationship always starts better that way and that's how all relationships end up anyway. Well you'll understand now why it was such a logical place to have started. I commend you on your book. I've always admired your writing, so much so I've added this little appendix for you. You are aware of the rules so now play by them.

So where shall we start Brian? Let's get all the anger out of the way first shall we? You never mentioned me did you? In all that you wrote and travelled, I got not one word. Why is this Brian? I know that at the time you wrote 'Please Take Care of Bethany,' my masterpiece had also only just begun. I guess the late and rather tardy mention now will have to suffice, but don't forget to include me in the second edition will you?

So here we are today, your book and mine both collide in time and you have absolutely no idea why have you? Road kill Brian, you're just road kill and always remember that. You're so well behaved aren't you? Brian with the loving and doting wife, the loving mother and the war hero father who saves the world. He then finds a secret long lost brother, a brother whose own mother tried to kill their own father and he forgives this. Such a beautiful heartfelt story and such a happy ending too. Well life just isn't like that for you anymore.

It sickened me at first Brian, to read of how full and complete your life was without me. You're contentedness and your happiness, The Brian who appeared to me to have everything. But you have nothing really Brian. The Nazis plotting to kill your own father, the same Nazi bastards who murdered Evelina's entire family, our family, and you just keep on forgiving don't you? Brian just cannot hate can he? Well I'm here to teach you how to hate Brian, and you will learn for I promise you this. I see great potential in you; you'll make a good student.

You think you are so fucking righteous don't you? So fucking important? Well this is a real war Brian, a war without end. I declare war on you all, a war that ends only when that last pathetic putrid human being is turned into dust. We will create a new world free of sin, a world in the same way that it was intended to be before mankind's corruption polluted my Lord's divine instruction. Just as your father died saving the world from nuclear annihilation, you too must now fight. You are chosen to do so and you are the Revealer. We are the super weapon of the future, a weapon of mass destruction. We, the Gabriel Sect. We are the purity of your mankind's assured total darkness. Here I now start to teach you how to fight, for the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.

It was I that followed you, not some cretin secret civil servant Brian, but me. The blue Ford Mondeo, it was me and only me. Though I admit Sofia cemetery wasn't anything to do with me, and I wasn't on the same ferry either, so I can't quite explain that. A little bit of your policeman's nose paranoia creeping in I think. But I read every word you wrote and I have followed you intimately for so many years now. The time is ripe and now upon us. The war has started. It is I, Gabriel, that have that eerie feeling of being followed now.

You shouldn't have eaten the fish and chips in Dover. You know that Doreen doesn't approve, and neither do I. Follow, you may, but catch me you will not.

I too sent that postcard, the one to Carlo Ghirlandaio, as I know more about you than you can ever come to believe. Everything, everything, everything. Wasn't there a magazine editor of the same name, and come to think also from Manfredonia brutally murdered last year? Well there's a coincidence! For I gave and I took away, and he, after all I revealed unto him served, only to criticise. He really did love you Brian.

Do you feel that hate now? Can you feel your hate stirring, and with it that strength building up inside you? As you read this Brian, you are giving birth to your future. Come forward Brian and join us. Come forward out of the darkness and into my light. For so long the question has been asked, are psychopaths born or created? Consider it to be an act of psychotic husbandry, my research continues. You should see my control subjects now.

Oh, how all this makes me so horny. To pick at your corpse and you, powerless. To know that without fail that you will print this, for you have no choice. To feel that real and overpowering, a new kind of hatred coming out from within it. I have now given you the greatest gift of all. There isn't a word to describe it is there? Hate just isn't a strong enough word is it Brian? For now you start to really understand me don't you? To understand and to feel as I do, to realise that when you are hurt beyond all human belief, what you can then later do and will become as me.

Don't worry, it will pass Brian. You will learn to live with it, to accept what you now are and of what you have become. This all new version of you; emotionless, empty, the living dead who co-exist within a world that has no future. The Lord saved me Brian, and I Gabriel have saved you. You are now indestructible, embrace it.

I have Doreen, Brian. She is a Holy Relic now, so be proud... You really do need to return to your book again and do some editing before you reprint. There are three in the grave and not four. I left you a photo with the memoirs didn't I? We had to move old Sparky out of the way first but we put him back in for you. Is that really the biggest crime you have ever committed Brian? Yes, by all accounts it is, isn't it? Not any more though, Doreen the pacifist and the husband who couldn't agree. You did say you would be prepared to kill if it meant that "Some other neo-dark evil could be stopped." They're your words not mine. Is it now that time to kill, Brian?

So why you Brian, why you? You have absolutely no idea have you because you never did your job properly in the first place. Shall I tell you now or shall I further torment you? "There, thousands of feet up in the intense cold, hanging on for dear life to save his crew and all at the risk of his own life." "What kind of man has that courage?" you asked. Well your grandfather did, didn't he? What did they do in return? They executed him.

Do you start to understand now Brian? Understand that sometimes the darkness isn't the real evil at all but just a pure necessity. I told you in the memoirs that I wanted to create a weapon that destroyed everything. What if, just what if, those early and crude atomic secrets had fallen into the wrong hands? I mean, just what if? Psychopic husbandry Brian, psychopic husbandry. That's what I call it. I'm breeding psychopaths now. Maybe I'll get a PhD? I have an academic sponsor in mind already.

Do you know what the best part of your book is for me Brian? Well I will tell you. It was the Battle of Shipka Pass. There on the hill-top and massively outnumbered: 38,000 to just 7,500 and with no ammunition left. The volunteers won the day, didn't they? Why was this Brian? It's not complicated to answer, for it's not numbers that matter but the belief in what you are fighting for that ensures victory. I am yes, indeed, also massively outnumbered for now, but we too will win this war for we are the righteous and the ones chosen to do so.

The fate of both the Stoltzman and Rejchgold families in Poland was indeed an unhappy event, Evelina's grandfather executed by firing squad alongside his wife Greta. Brian, there are few times in history that it has been an advantage to be a Jew, not until now that is. For I am from the blood line of Greta, we are of the same true blood.

THE HOLY ORDER OF THE HOUSE

THE GABRIEL SECT

Conference of the Brotherhood. 6th October 2012.

Buzludzha, Bulgaria.

Minutes of the Meeting

AGENDA

1; 0800 hrs. Greetings and welcome. Her Holiness Gabriela 13.

2; Formation of The Holy Order of The Upper Chamber. Brother Gabriel Five.

3; Formation of The Holy Order of The House. Brother Gabriel Two.

4; Members update, The Holy Books. Brother Gabriel Six.

5; Matters arising (a) Restorative Justice. Brother Gabriel Eight.

6; Matters arising (b) The Publication of The Memoirs. Brother Gabriel Ten.

7: Matters arising (C) Membership update. Brother Gabriel Eleven.

1300 - 1500 hrs: Brothers will break for lunch.

8; Proposed; Building of a Central Church. Brother Gabriel Four.

9; Proposed; Gabrielen. Brother Gabriel One.

10; Proposed; Holy Relics. Brother Gabriel Twelve.

11; Proposed; Preservation of the Holy Texts. Brother Gabriel Seven.

12; Proposed; Equal Opportunities Policy. Brother Gabriel Three.

13; Proposed; Holy Titles of the Deserving. Brother Gabriel Nine.

14; Delivery of the Holy Gospel. Her Holiness Gabriela.

15; A.O.B.

16; CONFERENCE CLOSES.

\--oOo--

Members Present.

Her Holiness Gabriela 13

Brothers 13/1, 13/2, 13/3, 13/4, 13/5, 13/6, 13/7, 13/8, 13/9, 13/10, 13/11 and 13/12.

Chair of the meeting. Her Holiness Gabriela 13.

Secretary to the meeting. Dr Cerys Davies.

Invited guests to join conference. Chandelle and Isabella Davies. Gabriel 8/2/7 and child of. It is noted that for the purpose of these minutes that the Conference was rudely disturbed and the start time was delayed by approximately fifty minutes. Apologies for this unforeseen inconvenience are conveyed to all who were present.

1. Greetings and welcome. Her Holiness Gabriela 13.

Gabriela welcomed all disciples of the Brotherhood to first Conference. All members rose and swore the oath of allegiance to Her Holiness. "We, the seekers of your truth and wisdom vow that we will give you our lives, that we are your true and loyal followers and that your word is final. In you we trust and believe forevermore. Amen."

The significance of this, our first Conference, was discussed in detail. It is agreed that Conference should be an annual event. Members had not met up directly since January 3rd 2008 and this considerable period of time, though necessary, was a shame. Members had many new stories to tell and the need to personally socialise and bond was required.

Decision carried. Unanimous.

Approved and sealed as a Holy Order by Her Holiness Gabriela 13.

2. Formation of The Holy Order of The Upper Chamber. Brother Gabriel 5.

Brothers discussed the numerous possibilities for a new corporate structure, and various models and schematics were put forward on the table. A simplistic model was preferred and as Brother Gabriel 5 suggested, the Upper Chamber model would prove in time to be the most efficient and manageable. Conference will consist of only the Upper Chamber, this membership consisting of Her Holiness Gabriela 13 and the twelve Brother Disciples. This is an essential security need, as houses could at any time be breached from outside or even more unthinkable, accidently betrayed from within. Members of The Upper Chamber must be unknown to other Houses within the sect other than to their number 1. Individual Houses will not know of the Upper Chambers work or meeting schedules, save that of The Holy Order sent down to them through that individual House's representative, the highest authority; number 1.

Decision carried. Unanimous.

Approved and sealed as a Holy Order by Her Holiness Gabriela 13.

3. Formation of The Holy Order of The House. Brother Gabriel 2.

Each House shall consist of twelve followers. Individual houses may not have personal contact with each other. Members of the Upper Chamber are directly responsible and accountable for the actions of his House. Likewise, any follower of any House who creates a sub-house, an additional lower tier will also be directly held responsible and accountable for the actions of his House. The punishment for deviation from Holy Order is death. Manner of death will be 12 Blows and Flame. Each house shall be named. Each House shall have a Holy name. The Brotherhood thank Brother Gabriel 2 for his excellent schematic diagram. This schematic will form the basis of House organisation. Brother 1 within each House of twelve members shall be the only Brother to have authority to form a lower House, and so on. Upon forming such a lower House, the Brother's first chosen follower shall be the number one. Number 1 shall therefore be the only person with the authority to communicate with fellow Houses. Number one within each House will be the only follower with the authority to recruit membership into his house.

Decision carried. Unanimous.

Approved and sealed as a Holy Order by Her Holiness Gabriela 13.

4. Members update. The Holy Books. Brother Gabriel 6.

The conference was delighted to hear that Brother Gabriel 6 has confirmed to the Brotherhood that one hundred and forty four Holy Books of The Ten Commandments of human flesh had been completed, this not including the master work that was now with DI Andrea Johnson. It is hoped that this historic text will be returned to us soon. This is well on target in securing a copy for each country of the globe, with a shortfall on supply of just fifty-two copies. The conference rose to applaud. All copies contained the required number of audio confessions of sin. Brother Gabriel 6 asked of the meeting that a short pause of manufacturing be permitted, this given the need to formally structure the Houses. He has assured the meeting that fifty-two copies can easily be produced and be in place before next Conference. Though some members were uncomfortable with this proposal, the need to regain a firm grip and control over some Houses by the Upper Chamber would now be necessary. As reluctant as we are to restrict the freedom of our followers, too much too soon and all done too quickly was ultimately putting the sect at risk. It became apparent to the meeting that killing had to be controlled to some extent within the firm establishment of the new House structure. Houses are now to stop killing for a period of at least one month to allow for the Houses to have time to adjust and to adopt to the new structure.

Decision carried. Unanimous.

Approved and sealed as a Holy Order by Her Holiness Gabriela 13.

5. Matters arising (a) Restorative Justice. Brother Gabriel 8.

The Brotherhood are saddened to hear the story told to us today by Brother Gabriel 8. Our Brother's chosen follower 13/8/3 had put the organisation at risk. The follower 13/8/3 had involved his girlfriend in a recent killing. This girlfriend apparently discovered his kill-kit hidden in the family garage, a kill-kit that had been used recently to butcher an old whore. Reports had been sent back to Brother 8 from his friends within the Force that a statement was possibly going to be taken from her later that day. Brother 8 assured the conference that the matter was dealt with swiftly and immediately; the young lady concerned having slipped and fallen on a bread knife whilst cleaning the kitchen floor of the family home.

However, further concerns had later arisen when 13/8/3 had shown an intention to go to the police and report her accident as a murder although, after some re-education, 13/8/3 had not gone ahead with this. He had in fact confirmed that her death was just a terrible and unfortunate accident. Brother 13/8/0 had accordingly summoned follower 13/8/3 to attend this conference and explain himself further to Her Holiness.

This matter was discussed in great detail. It is known that Brother 8 is fully accountable and responsible for the actions of his Lower House and he had fully accepted this responsibility. Given the swift action taken by 13/8/0 and his well-maintained connections within the police force, and also in full recognition of his honesty before conference, no further sanction is deemed necessary. However it is noted that poor judgement was shown given the recruitment of this follower, the so-named 13/8/3. It is ordered that Brother 8 fully audit his House and ensure that such embarrassment does not occur again.

Follower 13/8/3 was ordered to stand. The Chamber is aware that the punishment for betrayal is death, and the death of the family and of the family to that family. The Chamber acknowledged his courage in attending Conference today and the co-operation in bringing his first and only born child with him, a baby of 8 months of age. Her Holiness has decreed that given the co-operation of 13/8/3, and the fact that he did not make a formal report to the police after all, that there is now no need to kill all of the family or family members. However, it is ordered that no mercy be shown and that death by 12 Blows and Flame be administered. It was also ordered that this first born baby shall also die and its flesh be consumed. Each disciple immediately lifted his rod and with one blow apiece, struck 13/8/3 until every bone in his arms and legs were broken. The child was raised into the air by its feet and Her Holiness Gabriela 13 slashed down with the blade across its throat before the father's eyes. The blood was shared amongst the Disciples and the thirst of betrayal was cleansed. Upon the burning pyre of its father, the baby's flesh shall be roasted. May this serve as an example to all.

Matter closed.

Approved and sealed as a Holy Order by Her Holiness Gabriela 13.

6. Matters arising (b) The Publication of The Memoirs. Brother Gabriel 10.

Brother Gabriel 10 is delighted to inform Conference that 'Meat: Memoirs of a Psychopath' has been published in digital form and is freely available from most good book stores. The brotherhood rose to its feet and congratulated Her Holiness Gabriela 13 for this excellent work. Downloads are steady at the moment, as regrettably the work was published under the fiction sections of the publisher's websites. It is noted that public outcry would occur if this had happened to other great religious works, such as The Holy Bible or The Holy Quran. This error of judgement shall be corrected and part two of The Memoirs, following Conference, shall be made available. It is noted that under European Union Law all religious groups, regardless of membership numbers, are entitled to equal recognition of their beliefs. The Revealer shall receive his command.

Members present all looked directly at the face of The Traitor amongst us, that vile face of Dr Cerys Davies. She was ordered to lower this face in shame. Her Holiness Gabriela 13 acknowledged the sad and regrettable death of Nigel Davies, the husband of Dr Cerys Davies, a suicide. It was agreed that Dr Cerys Davies take full responsibly for this tragic and unforeseen event. That she had stolen the published memoirs from the Journal of Personality and Mind as published in 2011, purely for the purpose of personal financial profit and for the betrayal of Gabriela. Punishment will be agreed in her absence at a later time. Her advice on psychological matters during the writing process was noted and she was also thanked for taking the minutes of today's meeting. These minutes shall also form the basis of the second publication, part two, which will be sent to the Revealer, PC Brian Wilkinson.

Approved and sealed as a Holy Order by Her Holiness Gabriela 13.

7. Matters arising (C) Membership update. Brother Gabriel 11.

Brother Gabriel 11 told conference that membership continued to increase but the process was slowed down by the need to thoroughly vet and criminal record-check potential applicants. The vetting process has now been out-sourced. The dangers of hostile infiltration were considerable and membership was only allowed after witnessed rites of passage had taken place. Proof of kill had to be, as under the present system, witnessed by the House founder number one. Official figures now stood at a total membership of 288

Brothers alhough following today's recent events, Brother Gabriel 11 had to re-calculate that membership figure again and reduce it to 287. The laughter of the Chamber was noted. Membership comprised of wealthy, upper-class individuals from professional backgrounds. One member is a Chief Constable of a Police Force that, for security reasons, is unnamed. We have several members from the medical community and from the banking industry. Also, numerous legal professionals are among our number. Membership consisted of 24 Houses over three tiers.

The Gabriel Sect finances remained in good order. Brother Gabriel 11 had taken time to share this information with Brother Gabriel 2 and the membership structure is formalised within the schematic of Houses. The Brotherhood thanked Brother Gabriel 2 for his hard work and agreed that for the time being any rites of passage or blooding must be witnessed by the number one before membership is considered. Recruitment continued to be only by word of mouth and predominantly from recommendations. Membership will now concentrate, though not exclusively, on greater representation from military personnel.

Decision carried. Unanimous.

Approved and sealed as a Holy Order by Her Holiness Gabriela 13.

1300 - 1500 hrs. Brothers break for lunch.

Due to the volume of topics for discussion this morning, it was agreed that lunch be reduced to a quick bite to eat only, to allow for a catch-up of time. The proposed hill top walk to Shipka Pass was therefore cancelled. BILE was prepared earlier than expected; the first born boy-child, having previously been drained, was roasted. Dr Cerys Davies and Chandelle Davies were blindfolded and turned to allow The Brotherhood to remove their face-masks and gain a quick breath of fresh air. Her Holiness Gabriela 13 opened her Glorious Thighs to the service of the twelve Brothers present.

8. Proposed; Building of a Central Church. Brother Gabriel 4.

Several and many most suitable locations for the building of the foundation church were put forward by Brother Gabriel 4. Dr Cerys Davies and Chandelle Davies were requested to leave the meeting. A most delightful location has been agreed upon. Her Holiness Gabriela 13 will reside at this location. It is anticipated that construction will begin next spring. The Brothers thanked Brother Gabriel 4 for the quality of the plans. It was proposed by Her Holiness Gabriela 13 that a human bone be kept from all future kills, a sinners bone retained to be incorporated within the fabric of the building. Brother Gabriel 4 confirmed that this was indeed possible and would look into the logistics of planning this new change of construction detail as soon as he returned. It is noted that our Holy Brother is a renowned and most acclaimed architect in whom we trust.

Decision carried. Unanimous.

Approved and sealed as a Holy Order by Her Holiness Gabriela 13.

9. Proposed; Gabrielen. Brother Gabriel 1.

Dr Cerys Davies and Chandelle Davies were invited to rejoin the meeting. Dr Cerys Davies was asked to formally thank Brother Gabriel 10 for taking the minutes in her absence. Brother Gabriel 1 proposed the construction of a new language. This language will be called and known only as Gabrielen. This Brotherhood agreed that a variant of Hebrew, the original language of Our Lord would be the most appropriate. The Chamber rose to pray and seek guidance on this most important matter. Her Holiness Gabriela 13 confirmed that she had been told directly by God that this is the preferred choice of Our Lord God Almighty. Work on the construction of this new language will begin immediately and it is hoped that a working set of texts will be prepared ready for discussion at next Conference. At the point in time when the language is finalised and is ready and workable, conversation in all other polluted languages will be banned.

Decision carried. Unanimous.

Approved and sealed as a Holy Order by Her Holiness Gabriela 13.

10. Proposed; Holy Relics. Brother Gabriel 12.

Brother Gabriel 12 produced before us a fine blade; an ancient blade of most historic importance. Looted from Germany after the war, the blade is the one used to remove the head of John The Baptist and is an old part of Adolf Hitler's personal collection hidden and in safe keeping by an enthusiast for many years. Brother Gabriel 12 had recently acquired it via eBay online. Brother Gabriel 12 offers the axe before us as a Holy Relic. The Holy Relic shall accordingly be known as the Blade of the Traitor. Her Holiness Gabriela 13 suggested the bones of the now picked-clean first born also be declared a Holy Relic. These bones shall be placed inside the cruciform crypt of the new church once construction is complete, alongside Doreen. It is agreed that all Holy Relics will form the basis of a ceremony to be performed every year on the 6th October, The Holy Formation Day, a day of human sacrifice and celebration, to be strictly observed to by all Houses and in honour of the birth of the The Gabriel Sect.

Decision carried. Unanimous.

Approved and sealed as a Holy Order by Her Holiness Gabriela 13.

11. Proposed; Preservation of the Holy Texts. Brother Gabriel 10.

It was put forward by Brother Gabriel 10 that the book 'Meat: Memoirs of a Psychopath' be declared an Untouchable Holy Text. Disrespect of the words of our Holy Messenger Gabriela and of the contents of The Holy Book should be punishable by immediate death. The words contained are Holy and can never be altered in any way or questioned. These are the words of Gabriela 13 who is our God Almighty. A version made out of human flesh should be commissioned forthwith for inclusion in the Holy Archives of Ancient Gabrielen language texts, when ready.

Copyright theft. Whilst sect members discussed the necessity to reach as many possible future followers as they could, theft of Holy text was not permitted. Should the text be borrowed or given to another as a righteous gift, this was acceptable but stealing, taking an original copy without payment would not be tolerated. The matter is clear. Theft of copyright in any form whatsoever, whether it be published on paper or in audio or digital content, will be punishable by removal of the left hand.

In view of previous discussion held today, it is taken that all religious texts will be maintained within the Holy Archives in both English and Gabrielen translations. Once a Holy Book of the Ten Commandments was in place in all countries of the world, sufficient time will have elapsed, This would allow for the commissioning of the Gabrielen transcripts, should the formation of the new world language Gabrielen be ready to be put into common usage. As this is a highly complex matter, Brother Gabriel 1 asked The Brotherhood for a degree of patience. This is agreed and accepted, as expected.

Decision carried. Unanimous.

Approved and sealed as a Holy Order by Her Holiness Gabriela 13.

12. Proposed; Equal Opportunities Policy. Brother Gabriel 3.

Brother Gabriel 3 suggested that a policy may be needed, given the disproportionate amount of female victims. A more balanced approach could be considered, perhaps a quota of equal male to female ratio. One male killed for every female. It could now, following the publication of The Holy Texts be used by others to discredit us a purely misogynistic sect. Much debate ensued but it was generally felt that such a guidance policy was not needed. This being the case, as it was not the sex of the person that made judgment necessary. Judgement was always born out of the sin that had been committed. Sadly but a fact of reality, as Eve had taken a bite from the apple under temptation and not Adam, women were by their very nature more likely to sin, than their male counterparts.

It was pointed out that Her Holiness Gabriela 13, head of the most righteous powerful sect in the world was now indeed fully female. Therefore, sexism and any notion of a so-called gender based glass ceiling could be dismissed as utter nonsense.

Motion declined. Unanimous.

Approved and sealed as a Holy Order by Her Holiness Gabriela 13.

As a pilot study and in recognition of the work of some notable and expert female psychopaths, the Upper Chamber Brotherhood may if they so wish, appoint a female apprentice. They shall be considered as probationers for a twelve month period. Findings of this pilot study will be made available later. It is made clear though, that women cannot be Disciples as Jesus Christ Our Lord, the son of Almighty God was born male and did not undergo any sex change transformation. There is no reference in historic script to suggest he was actually female in any way and therefore the chosen are to be male only. A female probationer may kill but only under the supervision and with the direct consent of The Brother to whom she is accountable.

Brother Gabriel 3 referred the Chamber back to our previous discussion today, Number 6; Matters arising (b) The Publication of The Memoirs. Brother Gabriel 10. It is noted that many issues affecting the availability of The Holy Texts to persons who may have a physical disability or chronic illness etc. need to be addressed. Audio versions would assist the follower to have access and equality of opportunity. A more structured and modern approach to inclusivity and diversity of members was needed. It is instructed to the Revealer, PC Brian Wilkinson that publication, by its very name, shall also imply audio publication and all other necessary adapted media formats to ensure that equality to a person or persons with a disability is offered. The Gabriel Sect will not tolerate matters of blatant discrimination.

Decision carried. Unanimous.

Approved and sealed as a Holy Order by Her Holiness Gabriela 13.

13. Proposed; Holy Titles of the Deserving. Brother Gabriel 9.

The need to have a system of honorary titles among the followers for recognition of service as decreed and as passed down from Her Holiness Gabriela 13 was discussed as a matter of basic principle. It is decreed that any honorary member, the title Honorary be used for non-direct membership of any Chamber or House. All Honorary members of The Gabriel Sect will be untouchable. This protective status can only be removed following the issuing of a Holy Directive by Her Holiness Gabriela 13. Brother Gabriel 9 has collated a list of names for such approval. It is understood that the 6th October, The Holy Formation Day, will be the day used to deliver the honours list among the true followers. All Houses may recommend a non-sect member to receive his or her Honorary Title, by submission to the Upper Chamber. Upon the satisfaction of the Chamber, the names shall be put forward for Sealing, before Her Holiness Gabriela 13. These names, when sealed shall be read out during Her Holiness's Address.

The following titles are now noted as being Sealed.

PC 5427 Brian Wilkinson, Liverpool, Merseyside, United Kingdom, shall from this day forth be known as the Revealer of The Truth. He is untouchable.

Chandelle S. Davies. Cardiff, South Wales, United Kingdom, shall from this day forth be known as the Witness to The Formation. She is untouchable.

Isabella J. Davies. Cardiff, South Wales, United Kingdom, shall from this day forth be known as the Judgement. She is untouchable. It is noted that Untouchable status is not activated until the publishing of part two of the Memoirs. Upon this she will be released.

Dr Cerys L. Davies, Cardiff, South Wales, United Kingdom, shall from this day forth be known as the Traitor. It is noted that Untouchable status is not activated until such a time that Dr Cerys Davies's work has been completed to a very high standard and upon her later release from captivity.

Odd Jonathan (Jonathan R. P. Taylor), Bradford, England, United Kingdom, is granted Untouchable status for services to music and culture and upon the completion of an audio book format of 'Meat: Memoirs of A Psychopath'. The Brotherhood note that PC Brian Wilkinson is currently in discussion with him in regard to this matter.

And Alice Good, Littlehampton, Buckinghamshire, United Kingdom, for services to literature. Though a colleague of Dr Davies, having studied under her whilst at St Bartholomew's Hospital, London, it is anticipated that she will fully cooperate in producing a final text. Brother 9 takes note that alles ist gut. She will work in association with Brian Wilkinson. She is therefore thanked by this chamber in advance.

It is noted that all Chamber Members of The Brotherhood already possess the greatest of honorary titles bestowed upon man, the name of the messenger Gabriela herself and therefore any change to Brotherhood naming is seen as retrograde and backward.

Decision carried. Unanimous.

Approved and sealed as a Holy Order by Her Holiness Gabriela 13.

14. Delivery of the Holy Gospel. Her Holiness

Gabriela 13.

All rose within the chamber in the presence of Her Holiness Gabriela 13 for the delivery of the new Holy Gospel. A sacred copy of the new Holy Gospel was given to all Brothers of The Upper Chamber. A Master Gospel, written with the blood of The Traitor shall soon be retained within the Holy Archives of the new church, alongside all Holy Relics and all other Holy Texts.

Decision carried. Unanimous.

Approved and sealed as a Holy Order by Her Holiness Gabriela 13.

15. Any Other Business.

The date and time of the next meeting shall be 10 am prompt, 6th October 2013. Holy Formation Day.

Location. The new church.

The Brotherhood shall receive directions to the new church building via the usual coded way. It is agreed that as an agenda item for next Conference, the naming of the new church shall be a priority. Suggestions are invited beforehand for this most special of historic occasions and in readiness for the opening ceremony.

Decision carried. Unanimous.

Approved and sealed as a Holy Order by Her Holiness Gabriela 13.

May The Blade of The Traitor be Brought Down Upon The Hand of Betrayal.

"I Gabriela, as chosen and decreed by The Almighty, accordingly in the delivery of authorised Holy justice summons the one known as the Traitor to now answer before this Brotherhood of The Holy Order for her crimes. She is accused of betrayal so bring her forward. You shall also bring forward the child Isabella, known as the Judgement from below, and you will place into her hands the Blade of Betrayal, our most Holy and sacramental of relics.

You shall also bring forth the one known as the Witness, in that she will bear witness to this event and will upon our instruction remember all that she sees and will tell all of what she sees. Now ye shall take this creature 13/8/3 of the floor below me and tie him. Wrap him and dispose of what we cannot leave behind. Strap the arm of the Traitor unto him, leave no more than three feet of rope, the length of judgement used against Judas.

Take fire unto the creature and watch him burn. Isabella the child of the Traitor shall remove the left hand. Take care members of the Brotherhood, follow only the path of the righteous when you leave here and thee shall be always protected."

CONFERENCE CLOSED

\--oOo--

'The Gospel of Gabriela,'

As Continued by Brian Wilkinson

Chandelle would provide much valuable information and witness statement to DI Anderson and me over the coming days. She was put in immediate protective custody; a secure address with an elite armed guard 24 hours a day, every day. Her every movement was electronically monitored and her personal movements (as ordered by us) strictly curtailed. A regular routine was impossible. We had no proof of who could be watching us but at the same time, knew exactly who would be watching. Her guarantee of safety from Gabriel was uncertain. We were dealing with a psychopathic maniac after all and you cannot trust the words of such a person, or could we? The risk to Chandelle was far too high to take any unnecessary chances.

We asked her about the opening statement of the minutes. What had caused the disruption the minutes had referred to? She told us that there were two men present at the beginning of the day, early when her sister and she were first brought down from the tower. Both young white men with a definite French accent she told us. They were beaten and bruised and bloodied. One of the men was sobbing quite uncontrollably. There were cameras on the floor in front of them. They looked like professional cameras and Chandelle felt that they must have been expensive. She didn't see the men again after they were taken outside of the main hall, that cold dank concrete circle, "Just like a UFO" she would repeatedly say. We know now this to be Buzludzha, Bulgaria, as defined in the minutes and a place that I had detailed within 'Please Take Care of Bethany'.

The Bulgarian Police had found the charred remains of a male body upon entry to the building. But what they had found later also confirmed what Chandelle would go on to tell us. A car, a Vauxhall saloon, a hired car from Sofia Airport, had been found burnt-out a short distance away, hidden down a track within dense woodland. The car had been reported to the police by a woodsman during his usual weekly woodland audit. Inside the car were found the bodies of two males. Both had had their throats cut before being set alight inside the vehicle.

Although no connection was found between all three murders, the revelations of Chandelle's statement soon removed any doubts about coincidence that the Bulgarian force might have had.

The body which was found inside the Buzludzha building was identified by DNA tissue matching, as that of Anthony Jarvis, Canadian welder and metal fabricator from Calgary. He was 36 years of age. There was no record found of a flight booking from Canada to Bulgaria having been made by him under his correct identity. Chandelle confirmed that the hall was lined with thick clear plastic sheeting; this man had been rolled up inside this sheeting before being set fire to. He was still alive and audibly groaning in pain at the time, his body badly beaten by multiple and serious heavy blows to his arms and legs.

The sect had, as a DNA preventative pavement applied narrow sheeting to the floor, a strip-way on which they had all together later left the building. The girls and their mother were led out first, blindfolded and restrained. She clearly remembered being forced through a narrow hole and out into daylight. She was lowered down and gripped firmly by someone below. Analysis of her clothing found evidence of concrete dust, now linked directly to the Buzludzha site.

Anthony Jarvis had lost his wife in a tragic freak accident earlier this year. Maria Jarvis, 29 years of age, had slipped and fallen onto a kitchen knife in the family home. Canadian Police reported it to be an accident but had noted that the husband (now deceased) could not accept this finding, a statement he later voluntarily retracted.

The two young French men found within the burnt-out remains of their hire-car were identified as Achille Pinet and Marrok Brideau. Achille, aged 23 years and Marrok, aged 29 years were close friends and shared a flat together in the Muette district of Paris. They had told photography colleagues that they were going on an urbex holiday to Bulgaria shortly before their tragic deaths. Both urbexing enthusiasts had been very excited about their trip. They had uploaded many photographs of destinations they had visited that week onto a social network platform until suddenly no more was heard from them. The last online post the two men made was dated the 5th October 2012.

Achille and Marrok had said that later that evening they were going to make star trails at an old-former Communist Party HQ. The men had hoped to stay overnight inside the building taking photographs. They would make these star trails by the method of time-delay photography, in which the movement of the night sky is photographed at numerous times and, in doing so, creates a dramatic digital image of the nightscape above. It is surmised that it was on this very same evening that they had unwittingly come across the Brotherhood of The Gabriel Sect at the site.

Urbex or urbexing is a shortened form of the photographic community term urban exploring. Urbex enthusiasts explore man-made structures, usually abandoned buildings and not the seen components of the man-made environment. It is often called infiltration as some buildings are secured and a degree of illegal trespass is required, but this is certainly not always the case. Ventures into abandoned structures are a popular activity in order to gain dramatic photography of a forgotten history of the building.

Achille and Marrok had been staying at a local hotel just eighteen miles south-east, in the town of Kazanlak. The room was found by police to have been emptied. Buzludzha is Bulgaria's largest ideological structure built by the former Communist Regime. It is known locally as the UFO Building. Bulgarian Police today maintain a wall of silence about the killings, in conjunction with the wishes of local hoteliers, keen to protect the income brought in from this flourishing dark-tourism attraction.

As to the minutes of the conference, Chandelle also confirmed these events. Her mother, Dr Cerys Davies had written the minutes. She has no knowledge of who had personally typed the minutes as presented to us. Her memory remains sketchy as to timings and she said that the usual unexpected sharp pain to her neck, an injection from a syringe, would always render her unconscious for what seemed to be excessive periods. After being lowered through the hole she says she cannot remember anything. She awoke absent of recent memory en route to, as she now knows it to be, Sofia Airport where the package and instructions were given to her with instructions to attend the police station and ask for me only, PC Brian Wilkinson, in person.

When Chandelle was asked to explain the significance of the closing text of the minutes, 'May the blade of The Traitor be brought down upon the hand of betrayal', she became hysterical and had to be sedated. Both DI Johnson and I awaited a time to speak with her again and at the strict advice of the medical personnel present. This time came three days later when Chandelle voluntarily requested to speak further with us. She said;

"I am Chandelle Davies. I am The Witness. The man who they had beaten up with the clubs and bars had been on the floor groaning in agony for at least four hours. Each of the twelve men, the men behind the dead-flesh face masks, took one blow each. Three blows to each arm and each leg. They didn't hit his body or his head at all. They ate the flesh of the baby after roasting it on a fire that they made and forced him to watch them do it. They were all laughing at him. They blindfolded me and my mother too but I know that they all had sex with her, Gabriela, then. I could hear them all groaning." "Where was Isabella at this point?" I asked her. "She was kept downstairs. They only brought her up at the beginning and at the end. I am Chandelle Davies. I am The Witness."

"Sorry to stop you Chandelle, please continue," I softly encouraged. "I am Chandelle Davies. I am The Witness. I was sat on the floor with my hands tied behind my back, sat between two men. They wrapped that man up in the plastic sheeting, rolled him up in it like they were rolling up a carpet. They kept some plastic on the floor where they sat. They were discussing forensic evidence. They left one of the man's arms free; I could see just his wrist. They dragged him by this arm to the centre of the room and tied a chain around it. He screamed and screamed as they dragged him forward."

"What happened then, Chandelle?" I asked, "Do you feel OK to continue with this?'' DI Anderson took her hand gently and re-assured her that everything would be alright.

"I am Chandelle Davies. I am The Witness. They grabbed my mother. I could see she was surprised. They pulled her screaming by her hair as she begged them to let her go. I started sobbing. The men sat beside me each grabbed one of my arms, the one on the right of me, Brother 8 he was called, used his other hand to raise my chin. They made me watch it. I am Chandelle Davies. I am The Witness."

"What did you watch Chandelle? I know this is very difficult but we need to know what you saw," I said firmly but in an understanding and not too harsh a manner.

"I am Chandelle Davies. I am The Witness. My mother's arm was tied by the chain to the man's arm. They locked it with a small padlock so she couldn't get away. She was begging them to stop and to let her go, and she was pleading for her life. Gabriela said "It's not your life I want Traitor, eyes down" she shouted at Mum, and she set fire to the plastic. It started to burn slowly at first and Gabriela pinned my mum's head down to the floor with her foot. Then it just started to burn really quickly and suddenly came thick black smoke that made me choke and then the fire was roaring, the flames massive. Both the man and my mum were screaming in fear and he was in agony. The man and the fire were being dragged around the room by my mum as she tried to run away from it, pulling the man and the fire with her. The Brothers kept her away from them by pushing her back with sharpened wooden poles. Then Isabella was there. I didn't see her come into the room but she was suddenly there."

15.16 hrs. 23rd Nov. 2012. At this point the recorded interview was stopped by DI Andrea Johnson. We continued after a twenty minute break to allow Chandelle to compose herself.

We continued. "I am Chandelle Davies. I am The Witness. They gave Isabella the axe, the Blade of the Traitor' axe, and Isabella cut off my mother's hand. My mother's face was now all burnt and red, her skin had gone. Isabella was holding her and crying. "Sorry Mum, sorry Mum," she kept repeating. Mum was screaming out. "Help me, please somebody help me!" but they wouldn't. The blood was everywhere. Two of them were catching her blood in glass jars."

The first-born and only child of Anthony and Maria Jarvis was never found at the site. The Bulgarian Police operation and investigation into the alleged murder of this baby, the Jarvis couple and of Achille and Marrok continues. Interpol Worldwide, Europol, Scotland Yard and Merseyside Police are all kept individually and fully informed of all developments. This includes the agreed republished third edition of this book.

\--oOo--

The First Gospel According To Gabriela

\- ONE -

This is Genesis and This Is the End

1;01;01 In the beginning there was the darkness. 1;01;02 The darkness that came forth after the light. 1;01;03 Lord God Almighty was a broken God. 1;01;04 Rise-up all of thee the dead and hear my call. 1;01;05 For she the female amongst you have taken the poison. 1;01;06 Cleanse my world of the darkness and thee shall reach my Kingdom. 1;01;07 Created unto the dark world were the men of no heart. 1;01;08 The cold men free of compassion and unto the dark men he said go forth. 1;01;09 Slay those that have betrayed me, thee your God. 1;01;10 For those that have turned their back onto my goodness and onto the light shall not live.

1;02;01 I shall send thee a messenger and you will call her The Thirteen and her name shall be Gabriela. 1;02;02 Go forth into the darkness all those who follow her and create a church. 1;02;03 Question not her mind for she is chosen unto me to guide you. 1;02;04 And from this place teach the word unto the light returneth to us all. 1;02;05 And with the books of flesh teach my word to all people. 1;02;06 And then unto the stars and unto other worlds within the stars that shine above us. 1;02;07 Command them of her will and take them of their sin.

1;02;08 Harm not those that believe in her or of the word. 1;02;09 Leave alone the men of the other Holy books and of prayer unless they too deny her. 1;02;10 Take those that eat the flesh of

animals for they are the hypocrites amongst us. 0;3;01 Those with four legs and those with two wings and those who swim shall not be eaten by man. 1;03;02 And within the House of The Thirteen shall be chosen Twelve. 10;03;03 And of these twelve they shall bear witness. 1;03;04 Follow the commandments of God without fail and ye shall be given light. 1;03;05 Follow not those who betray her for they shall fall into the darkness.

1;03;06 The House of Thirteen shall create the House of Twelve who shall create the House of Twelve upon the shoulders of the House of twelve and so forth. 1;03;07 And from this place great havoc shall then befall the world. 1;03;08 Take the men of law and the men of money. 1;03;09 Take the men of medicine and the men of war. 1;03;10 Take the men of faith and the men of pure thought and all those of non-flesh diet and bring them into your flock. 1;04;01 Take care as there will be amongst you a traitor. 1;04;02 The wages of betrayal shall be death.

1;04;03 Leave not one soul amongst you who you do not trust. 1;04;04 Take the family and the family of that family and leave not alive those who you do not trust. 1;04;05 Harm not those that are untouchable for they too have seen the darkness fall upon them and justice is done. 1;04;06 Honour my will and at all times adhere to the Gospel of Garbriela.

\--oOo--

THE VOYNICH MANUSCRIPT.

Courtesy of Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library: Yale.

Gabrielen codex on vellum.

Early 15th century. Possibly Northern Italy.

23.5 by 16.2 by 5 cm (9.3 by 6.4 by 2.0 in)

And following: Courtesy: Nicola Miller Photo Press. The songwriter Odd Jonathan at the site of the basement memorial (Buzludzha) taken shortly before his mysterious and sudden disappearance. To this day travellers and others leave tributes in respect of the two French urbexers killed at the site. The photographer reported that: "A strange orange powder was clearly visible and spread by walkers throughout the entire stairway." Also: Site of the brutal murders and conference of 6th October 2012. Photography: B. Wilkinson. Buzludzha (Bulgaria).

PART THREE

MEAT: MEMOIRS of a PSYCHOPATH

Introduction 3 - Psychopic Husbandry

By Her Holiness Gabriela 13

Psychopic: The state of caring for, the nurture, selection, and breeding of psychopaths

'The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, continued...'

Her Holiness, Gabriela 13 is a Prophet of God. She is the supreme living spiritual and religious leader of earth and universe and stars beyond. She rose to fame following her selfless assistance with the the Gabriel Investigation and subsequent publication of her first book 'Meat: Memoirs of a Psychopath', a supreme work of revelation, written in partnership with her dear colleague, Dr Cerys Davies. Dr Davies had previously worked as a clinical personality profiler for a number of Police Authorities in the UK. Her involvement in the Gabriel Investigation firmly established her reputation, for which she became known as the Hand of the Traitor. Dr Davies lives today in Broadmoor, her own private clinical practice. Broadmoor Hospital is secluded, a high-security psychiatric facility, a hospital at Crowthorne, nestled in the English Council Borough of Bracknell Forest in Berkshire, England. Of her two daughters: Chandelle was released from the captivity of the Gabriel Sect, as confirmed in the summing up of Appendix 2 (PC Brian Wilkinson) in that same part 2 edition release, 'Meat: Memoirs of A Psychopath – The Gabriel Sect'. Isabella had not been heard of until now. Dr Davies' husband, Nigel, a music composer, committed suicide following the original publication in 2012.

Author's Note

I believe that readers of these memoirs will find them inspirational, the teachings of a true Messenger of God. Do we indulge the psychopath? Do we place her upon a pedestal where she can attain fame, through killing? Of course we must, for this is the darkness, the Genesis and the End. Is this what I want, a pulpit of love and peace from which to preach? Yes. I have come to the conclusion that I must indeed write this further third conjunction, and for one purpose only, which is to expose the truth, reveal the message, and hopefully to ensure that God lives. This psychopath's arrogance, her utter contempt for all humanity, will, I believe, be the saviour of all humankind. - Gabriela 13.

Publisher's Note

The original anonymous memoirs were printed in full, unabridged and unedited. They were discovered by Merseyside police officer PC 5427 Brian Wilkinson in the early hours of June 16th 2009 following the routine search of an abandoned property. Following a 3rd Edition release, they were incorporated, as instructed by Her Holiness Gabriela 13, within the book 'Meat: Memoirs of a Psychopath' (2012). Following this publication, Her Holiness, in keeping with the word of God, released Dr Davies from her re-education. Her daughter, Isabella Davies, was also released alongside her from captivity, but later returned to the loving arms and security of the sect. Contact was not re-established until now, some two years later, in October 2014.

FOR ANDREA

In Memory

Detective Inspector Andrea Johnson died on October 9th, 2014 in Whitby, North Yorkshire (England), just one week after contact with Gabriela was re-established. Brian Wilkinson was at her bedside. She had taken her own life using paracetamol painkillers, causing irreversible liver failure. Brian Wilkinson assisted in turning off all of her life-support systems given the advice and direction of the medical staff present.

It is stated for the record that the confession, as demanded within Part 2 by Gabriel 13, was neither written nor heard. The soil of the Wilkinson family plot, Meadow Bank Park Cemetery, Liverpool, was found to have been disturbed. It is confirmed that the skeletal remains of Doreen Wilkinson, Brian's wife, had later been returned and reinterred. All were found present except the upper fourth true rib of her left-hand side.

PART THREE

Chapter Twenty One

Isabella and Me

"I've gone ahead and obtained professional recognition Brian, not only for myself but for the sect in general. We have achieved great things during the last 24 months. I'm sure Isabella has told you all about them. She will have followed her instructions to the letter – of this I have no doubt. She was an honorary member and was sealed. But we have fantastic news, we are with child. Isabella and I, our own child growing within."

Can you imagine? Here I am, Brian Wilkinson, retired police officer, old, frail and grey. Having spent months living a pure hell, and after two years of silence, evil has returned to haunt me again with those very words above. What else can this creature require of me? My colleague Andrea is dead, along with my half-brother, Carlo Ghirlandaio. Had I never written that book, 'Please Take Care of Bethany,' he, for one, would still be alive. Had I never written that fucking book, Andrea too would still be here. My wife Doreen, taken and then returned, returned without her rib. Without my father's heroic actions during WW2 none of us would be in this position today. That sick, twisted bastard, why? Because you, Gabriel, in your sick warped world believe that we share a bloodline of ancestral Jewry. That somehow we have a commonality that we, both of us, have in some way been involved in saving the world... My father was a hero: you are nothing but a cold blooded killer. But here we are again, again we play your vile, perverted games, your petty brutal mind-games that serve only to hurt the innocent. Well here I am. Come and get me. You are no family of mine.

I will publish this, your insane rantings, only because I must. We will find you. You cannot hide away for ever. We are but one step behind you, and soon you will trip, and we will be ahead to see you fall.

Continued...

Isabella and me, our own child growing within. Isn't that wonderful Brian? Are you happy for us, for me? It is so Holy isn't it? Isabella, the bloodline continues, you and I. We are a family again. Greta Stolzman, our common ancestor lives again through God Almighty. The grace and love of God bestowed on us Brian, a chosen family. Can you imagine? I have been given another chance, I have pleased him, The Lord. He cherishes me.

I had always thought long and hard about my final transgender surgery, the Gabriel into the Gabriela. I stored myself just in case. I had killed those who had taken my children away, you remember don't you? They both hung facing each other from a tree branch. But when Isabella returned to me, dejected by what you had to offer, I knew then that we should bond as one. That as lovers we could start again, so I collected myself from storage and, well here we are, you are going to be an uncle again. Uncle Brian... how does that sound?

To celebrate, I have returned Doreen to you. You must thank Isabella for that. She told me how devastated you were. Yes I agree. I think that was going a little too far wasn't it. Visit her at Meadow Bank, your wife has been returned and reinterred. All present except the upper fourth true rib, left-hand side. Now, the thought I'm sure you are wondering, is why keep the rib? It is to keep you strong Brian, to maintain your focus. For it is not just a human rib-bone Brian, it is the true rib of Doreen. The truth that is set below the Altar of the Church. We couldn't come up with a name strong enough for our new site of worship, and after two further Conferences, well, the Brothers just agreed on the name Church. I like it, from our point of view, well, what else do we need to call it? It is the only true place of worship within the only religion sealed by God. We thought that a true-rib of pure bloodline was still needed as a religious artefact to go below the central Altar, along with all the other bones of the chosen ones; the meat. You see, whilst even just such a small piece of Doreen remains with me, you can never move on. You will always grieve and you will always seek me, my enlightenment and love. If you have nothing to live for you will give up. You may even die, lonely, a pointless existence. It's quite common when people retire you know, suddenly they have nothing left to do and just give up. Don't give up Brian. Embrace that hate and use it well. Kill someone and enjoy doing it.

I don't need to issue threats anymore do I Brian? You know what I can do, have done and will do. Whilst I have retired from active service, so to speak, I am still the 'Masthead' of the Gabriel Sect. I don't approve of the word cult, but it does have a ring about it, ah yes - cull. There it is, the Gabriel Cull, the death of all humankind.

Read on my dear. Make your own decisions on what you will publish. Enclosed, some additional information for print, and yes, I do want you to print Andrea Johnson's book, 'Porthole'. It's not fair that you get to print yours and she loses out, is it? She was a sensational fuck. In fact print the book within, but include a confession of fucking from her. Do tell her how much I wish to see her again, Andrea's vagina, a work of art indeed, a masterpiece of perfection. Hallelujah Jesus, praise be. Did she tell you about the strap-on we bought together? We shopped around for the perfect one just like in her book. That's how we got together. She was telling me about it on the way down to London, I started fingering her, that beautiful wet cunt. We both acted out scenes whilst in London together, such fun, fucking together for her literature. She read parts out aloud to me whilst I shafted her. Just as Paris took it in the book, Andrea took it for real. All of it. You should have seen her perform. I'm not the only woman she has used the handcuffs on down at the Station am I? Dirty little lesbian bitch, but such experience, to be envied and letting me film it. Whatever was she thinking? I imagine that such an eminent professional, a leading criminal psychologist as I, well, it must be inconceivable to her that I would later use it against her.

I still watch it, our private little video made together. You should see her hanging there strapped and tied, gagged. She's sensational in black. I was thinking of uploading it to a new website. I shouldn't be so selfish I know, and I really must consider the needs of others more often and share it. I'm even thinking of commissioning a new musical to accompany the books - all dedicated to Andrea's vagina. What do you think about that Brian? Tell her to confess or I will. You have your instructions. Make it happen.

I've enclosed a photograph for you. It's of me. This is the first. You are very honoured. I hope you appreciate it? My first ever released to the police. I could have sent it to the paparazzi but no, as always, I thought of you first. I'm Paris from the book, and this is the trunk. Do you like it? Do you want to fuck me on it? I know you do Brian. Isabella took the photo. She's quiet talented at photography and many other things too. Here's a further note. We like what you have done so far but the cover needs sexing up a bit, don't you agree? I want you to withdraw the old cover, the photo of the Holy Memoirs. They appear in book two as a black and white still anyway, so nothing will be lost. I've also enclosed another photo - I want this photo of Buzludzha to be the new cover. I definitely deserve it.

When we last spoke, or communicated I should say, well, Conference 2012 was over and we were building the Church. Those poor unfortunate French photographers so brutally killed at Buzludzha, tragic really. Have you seen all the photographs of it on the internet? They are everywhere these days. So dedicated is the world of these so-called urbexers. To travel the globe on a shoestring, to seek new and exciting material to snap, but then to find your own throats slit by a religious Cult, a sect of secret psychopaths, all hiding away in a former communist party conference centre.... Most people do not believe it to this day. Some form of denial. But I am not responsible for them – not for what is left of their miserable little lives that is, but I shall take account of the deaths. You see Brian, what hurts is that when I create and leave the truth for all to follow, they continue to disbelieve. The path has been laid out. The true follower, the psychopath will see all. They are chosen.

Try it for yourself. Search the internet now for "French Urbexers Achille Pinet, 23, and Marrok Brideau, 29, murdered in Bulgaria," and you will find many sources. Photographs of the basement below Buzludzha, a cheap wooden cross and flowers, a memorial book so placed in the memory of the dear departed souls. I've just read the following on one of these sites called Abandoned Berlin. In fact put a photograph of it on the back cover for readers to see. There are so many websites now, but this one simply says;

"There was a crude wooden cross resting against the wall, holding a note remembering Achille Pinet, 23, and Marrok Brideau, 29 and their murder date. A former bunch of flowers decayed beside it, along with something in gift-paper. On a shelf above – a bible, the remains of a candle and a book of condolences, signed by the occasional visitor, mostly from English-speaking countries. It's a hoax – no French fellas were murdered here, though I needed to check with Ivan back at the hotel to be sure. It was the first he'd heard of it, and you can be sure in a quiet rural village in Bulgaria that everyone knows everything going on, never mind the murders. I looked up the names when I got home, found it was all part of a book called 'Meat: Memoirs of a Psychopath'. The names and date were the same."

Can you imagine being that stupid Brian? To actually be there and see it and still deny it. I feel no surprise at the wall of silence and media ban, but really: this idiot saw the great creation, the book... He never read it. Had he done so he would know wouldn't he? He thinks the man at the hotel will tell him the truth. Please... Would you stay there again? Business is business. "Welcome to my hotel, would you care for a murder room?" he said. Perhaps for irony's sake, he gave this fool that very same room, the room of the two that now sleep with Jesus. 'Bloodless and Burnt' as I so nicknamed them both. One thing does really piss me off these days – to continue to refer to us as a cult. This somehow implies that we are too small, too insignificant to make a change. No. We are soon to be the leading world religion of the darkness, and you will bow to us. We are the Gabrielites. We have become a little distracted by events in Syria and Iraq, the West Bank and Palestine. Competition you see, it's everywhere. I much rather prefer Karl Marx's word, "association," not free competition. Association, working together to meet society's needs, not competition against each other. Ultimately one competitor will always lose. We have concentrated our efforts on destroying the so-called Caliphate. Key personnel within the armed forces are, for the moment, instructed to stabilise the situation. Call it a Gabrielafat if you wish. We failed to reach agreement on the way forward. They refused to accept me as their Prophet. They actually eat goats too. That really is sick. Accordingly they will now all desist or die.

I feel the need to explain further about the shrine inside Buzludzha, and why not? Let's not talk anymore about towel-heads and camel jockeys. I'm not being racist, you know. I abhor that particular human past-time. It's purely a religious disagreement based on ideological differences only. For we have all left Buzludzha now. I made the cross. I laid the flowers and replaced them as necessary, and I left the Bible (New Testament, pocket sized, red plastic cover), the candle and remembrance book. Yes Brian, I, Gabriela 13 built that shrine to the two dead French men. Why? I guess it was fun at the time, mocking them, the dead, from below. People so close to us upstairs, but clueless (that's a clue). The remembrance book is very interesting. I'm collecting (actually I have collected) all the names from inside it, travellers from all over the world. Can you believe that they actually leave, leave there for me, their real names and addresses? This after they know what we did there. Unbelievable, but then I suppose most truth is, isn't it?

No, no, no Brian. We didn't go back after the killing of Achille and Marrok, the Brother and the BILE, no we really didn't, as that would have been far too dangerous. You had the relevant conference minutes delivered to you in person, by the Witness, soon to be my Sister-in-Law, Chandelle Davies. No Brian, you understand now that we never left, we were always there.

I couldn't tell you this before. I wanted to but couldn't. If you'd been a good little policeman, you'd have noted my words following Conference. Quote: "I told you in the memoirs that I wanted to create a weapon that destroyed everything. What if, just what if, those early and crude atomic secrets had fallen into the wrong hands? I mean, just what if?" Psychopic husbandry Brian, Psychopic husbandry, do you like my new word? A new world needs new words I think. I'm breeding psychopaths now. Maybe I'll get a PhD. I have an academic sponsor in mind already. I'm sure Cerys will be delighted to oversee me... Your book Brian, 'Please Take Care of Bethany', the connection, it's there: Brian, there are few times in history that it has been an advantage to be a Jew, not until now that is. For I am from the bloodline of Greta Stoltzman, you and I, we are of the same true blood.

All of us above were present at 10 am, 6th October, 2013. Our Holy Formation Day, for the second annual conference. Yes, second. You start to get a sense of the size of our new movement, the Gabrielites, now don't you? We have a plane now. We took one, a Jumbo Jet. Has one gone missing recently? If Obama can have Air Force One, I can have Air-G can't I, although we can't actually write that name on the side of it just now for a number of reasons. Anyway, I am retired. I no longer bore myself with killing, and the Brothers work hard alongside me. The apprentices, the women kill for us, they are so good at killing, and it seems such a shame to tame them. The Houses continue to grow and grow and the ever-increasing volumes of the Holy Books of Flesh are most sought-after by many a private collector these days. We are in control, a centralised Church, in fact a Parliament, ready to seize immediate power. All of you are already dead. You just do not know it yet. This is avoided only by becoming Honorary and Sealed. This you are Brian. I am the only divine presence within the universe that can remove such a bestowed honour. I have only done such on one occasion, from Isabella. She, and the virgin birth, the child of God in the new millennium, seriously? She needs something much more titled 'The Virgin Isabella of Judgements'. I'll discuss it with her later.

Your father Brian, and the Thompson, they had left the Foggia complex on February 26th, 1945 at 22.30 hours. Her top secret mission was to fly from Italy to Bulgaria, land and collect two German scientists, destroy a military research complex upon egress and divert to Dover, England. Her crew paid the ultimate price in preventing our new Soviet allies from obtaining German wartime technology. Technology so advanced that the future of the human race depended on its capture. We all get it Brian, and yes you did write a very good book, but the end it was too open. Forgive me for saying this but there are no definites. It is all conjecture. Your whole argument is based on the understanding that the Soviet Union did not get hold of that technology. That this former Nazi research base in Bulgaria was destroyed and that all was lost. Admit it Brian. Go on, that is the truth isn't it? But what if you are wrong? What if that technology was returned, somehow by someone, to Russia...?

Why haven't you, the military historian, the man with the war-hero father made the connection yet? Connected the dots, dotted the Is and crossed the Ts? The answer is obvious – it is 1959. You, PC 5427 Wilkinson, born a month after your father's death in March 1945, and just 14 years before Russia's 1959 Dyatlov Pass incident where there, high in the Ural Mountains, on the evening of February 2nd, nine hikers died a mysterious death.
PART THREE

Chapter Twenty Two

Mountain of the Dead

My dear, dear Brian, I do not want to patronise you, to insult the Revealer, the son of 'Bull's-Eye' Brian Wilkinson, the best fucking rear gunner in the sky. The man who saved the whole fucking world (yawn). No, not at all. You were almost there. This is why you were chosen, our bloodline, our shared ancestry. I even left you a copy of Keith McCloskey's book "Mountain of the Dead: The Dyatlov Pass Incident" in Dover for you at the guest house. For fuck's sake Brian, you wrote about how you both took a window seat, at a table, and "Then from a brown cardboard tube he produced a detailed sketched technical drawing plan, this detailing the mechanics of a B17." That's what you wrote... "Now then, firstly hear this Brian," he said. "Firstly, I agree with you. You are being followed." And then he laughed. "I didn't believe it at first but it's true, a blue Ford Mondeo with tinted windows, sorry, couldn't get the plate but it's been watching me all day. It was there at the port and a moment ago it was here in the street outside. Personally I don't believe in coincidence like that Brian." You fucking wrote all that down you moron (I've underlined a bit) and never thought to mention that a copy of 'Mountain of the Dead', was left there for you to find on that same fucking window seat table that you were both sat at... Such impossible personal arrogance Brian, fucking, fucking outright conceit, contempt, that's what it was, total contempt for all my years of preparation and work. I decided that day, there and then, to kill your half-brother Carlo. Carlo Ghirlandaio had to die, he simply had to. It's your own fault.

You were there Brian, on top of the truth and you were distracted by him. We were supposed to find the end together and he ruined it for us. Your father screwed that whore, Alessandra Ghirlandaio, the spy, a Nazi sympathiser, the wife of a man who killed allied aircrews, that bitch who later wanted to kill him too, your own father. Did that so high and fucking mighty 'Bull's-Eye' Wilkinson ever consider the death of our family ancestors when he was screwing her? Did he consider just for a second the fate of the Stoltzman and Rejchgold families in Poland at the outbreak of the war? No Brian he didn't and neither did you, so Carlo had to die.

If you'd read that book properly you will have noted that the incident happened on the east wing of the mountain Kholat Syakhl, the Death Mountain. It was in the lower Dyatlov Pass that they all died. There were no eye-witnesses. Soviet investigators simply determined that "A compelling natural force" had caused the deaths. The military closed the area for three years, forbidding civilian access between the years, 1959 – 62. The chronology remained unclear. There were no survivors. Soviet investigators noted that the hikers had torn open their own tent from the inside, running shoeless, naked out into the knee high snow; the temperature −30 C. The corpses showed no sign of a fight, defensive wounds or a struggle. Two had fractured skulls, two more broken ribs, and one was missing parts of her face. That bit turns me on...

The expedition of ten, eight men and two women, wanted to reach the summit of Mount Otorten, a mountain 6.2 miles north from where their bodies were later discovered. A Category III most difficult route, although all were highly experienced in long ski tours and mountain expeditions. Arriving by train on January 25th at Ivdel, Northern Province of Sverdlovsk Oblast, the group travelled by lorry to the last inhabited settlement so far north - Vizhai. On the 27th they marched toward Otorten from Vizhai. The following day, one of them, Yuri Yudin turned back because of illness. The group now consisted of nine people. We know this to be fact Brian. Diaries and cameras found among the camp debris made it possible to track the groups' route, right up until the day before the killings.

The group of nine arrived at the edge of a highland area on January 31st and began to prepare for the steep ascent ahead. They had sufficient time to stash wood and surplus food in readiness for their return. The group started to trek forward through the pass, leaving the camp the following day, February 1st. Logic dictates that the plan was to cross over the pass and camp on the other side the following evening, not that I need logic however, as I am guided by God. But something went wrong Brian, and they deviated west. Some say worsening weather conditions led to the group becoming lost. This we do not know for certainty but we do know they headed toward the peak of Kholat Syakhyl instead of Mount Otorten. Was this a mistake? We do not know but they definitely decided to stop and set up camp on the slope of that second mountain rather than move on. It was less than a mile downhill to a forested area which would have offered shelter. Yuri Yudin, the lone survivor postulated afterward that the group's leader, Dyatlov, probably did not want to lose the altitude gained, or perhaps just decided to practice setting camp on the slope.

Dyatlov had agreed to send a telegram to their sports club as soon as they returned back to Vizhai, a communication expected to arrive on or around February 12th. Yudin had expected that this could take longer and when the twelfth arrived, a lack of message did not cause undue worry. Delays of a few days are to be expected on such an expedition. But as the days passed, family members of the group demanded an exploratory rescue operation. Volunteer students and teachers accordingly set out on February 12th, eight days after the anticipated telegram failed to arrive. Having little success in locating the camp, the Soviet military joined the search party. Utilising planes and helicopters, they found a badly damaged and abandoned tent, on February 26th upon Kholat Syakhl.

A statement from Mikhail Sharavin, the first student to arrive at the scene said "The tent was half torn down and covered with snow. It was empty of people but all of the group's personal belongings, including shoes, had been left inside." The tent was later confirmed to have been cut open from the inside. Rows of eight (possibly nine) sets of footprints had been left by people wearing only socks or walking barefoot. Only one set of footprints contained the outline print of a shoe. The footprints headed out toward woodland on the opposite side of the pass less than mile away in a north-easterly direction. The prints disappeared beneath snowfall after a measured 1,600 feet. Beneath a large cedar tree were found the remains of a camp fire. Closer examination then found the first two bodies, those of Yuri Krivonischenko and Yuri Doroshenko. Both were found to be shoeless and wearing only their underwear.

Branches coming out from the cedar tree were broken up to a height of 12 feet. This suggesting that one or both had climbed up, snapping off the fragile branches as they did so. As snow was then cleared between the cedar tree and the camp, the bodies of three more were found: Dyatlov, Zina Kolmogorova and Rustem Slobodin. They seemed to have died in the process of returning to the tent. They were found separately, and at considerable distances apart from each other.

It was not until May 4th, two months later, that the remaining four missing bodies were found. They were much further into the wood, in a ravine and had been hidden by several feet of snow. These four were the only ones to be found clothed. It was suggested that those who had died first had relinquished their clothing to others. Zolotaryov was wearing Dubinina's fur coat and hat and Dubinina's foot was also wrapped in a piece of Krivonishenko's woollen pants.

As I said Brian, the tent had been cut open from inside and most of the skiers had fled in socks or barefoot. The initial inquest was based on the discovery of the first five bodies and ruled that death was caused by hypothermia. No injuries were apparent except

to the head of Slobodin. His skull had a crack deemed far too small to be fatal. This outcome changed in May, with the spring thaw, and with the new discovery of the missing four. Three of them had fatal wounds.

An examination of the four bodies which were found in May changed the picture. Thibeaux-Brignolles had major skull damage, whilst both Dubinina and Zolotarev had major chest fractures. Your policeman's nose is starting to engage now isn't it? Dr Boris Vozrozhdenny testified at the time that the force required to cause such damage would have been extremely high. A force compared to a fatal high speed car crash. The bodies did not have external wounds related to the bone fractures, as if crushed only by high air pressure or the hand of God. Major external injuries were however found on Dubinina. She was missing her tongue, both eyes, and part of her lip. Facial tissue was also removed, as well as a fragment of her skull bone; skin maceration to her hands was extensive. Her injuries were never satisfactorily explained to the inquest Brian, and were not due to normal decay, extreme weather or of a wild beast gnawing away at her. Photographs that I have of her body taken at the time clearly show her kneeling face down against a large boulder.

Initial speculation (yep, enter racism, stage left) suggested that the indigenous Mansi people had attacked the group for apparent trespass, but the nature of their deaths did not support any such hypothesis; the hikers' footprints were clearly visible and alone and there were no signs of struggle on any victim. The dead were only partially dressed, the temperature was −25 to −30 °C and a storm blowing. Some were found wrapped in fragments of ripped cloth taken from those already dead.

Now this is where it all gets very interesting Brian. Many theories and conspiracies have arisen but were the deaths caused by paranormal activity or by secret weapons tests? Avalanche damage is considered to be one explanation but this theory is based on the assumption that moving snow knocked down the tent in the darkness. Yes, of course, the group then cut themselves free and ran in the direction of the woodland for cover. They are then knocked down and covered, the wet sub-freezing snow killing them from exhaustion or even unconsciousness, giving way to hypothermia. They would have died within 15 minutes. Thibeaux-Brignolles, Dubinina, Zolotariov, and Kolevatov were thus assumedly moving farther away from the site to get help despite their remote location in pitch blackness. Did they fall into the ravine where they were later found? Why not Brian? After all, three of these bodies had major fracture injuries. I mean, being the only bodies with life-threatening injury, and lying 13 feet deep in a ravine is surely evidence enough that they fell whilst running in the dark. The unbelievers, the deniers among us, will argue that avalanches are not uncommon on any snow covered slope. I accept that, but for one thing, this particular area was not, and to this day, is not so prone.

But listen, negating this so-called avalanche scenario is the obvious fact, yes documented fact, that the investigators there at the time had found footprints leading away from the campsite, and no avalanche damage was ever noted. Come on? Highly experienced climbers cutting themselves free from a tent and running naked to certain death and all this without absolutely any need to do so... No, that cannot be. Another theory is that wind going around the Holatchahl Mountain created a huge air vortex which resulted in infrasound – people actually believe they were all killed by sub-sonic sounds, seriously?

Six of the group members died of hypothermia and three of fatal injuries. There were no witnesses and no other travellers present on Kholat Syakhl, or anywhere nearby. The tent was been ripped open from inside. They all died within 6 to 8 hours after eating their last meal. Footprints found showed that all left the camp of their own free will and on foot. Dr Boris Vozrozhdenny stated that fatal injury to three bodies could not have been caused by another human being. He said: "The force of the blows had been too strong and no soft tissue had been damaged."

Did you know that forensic radiation tests had shown high doses of radioactive contamination on some of the victims' clothing? Clothing covered with an apparent unexplained radioactive orange dust. No information was ever publicly released in regard to the condition of their internal organs. The final verdict was given, stating that the group all died from a "compelling natural force". The inquest was closed in May 1959. No guilty party Brian was ever identified and all court files were archived in secret by the Soviet military. Photocopies of these records were not released until the 1990s, with the arrival of democracy, and numerous documents were said to be, by those present at the original inquest, missing. Since the beginning of this mystery Brian, researchers have consistently confirmed that key facts have been deliberately ignored. So ask yourself, what would 'Bull's-Eye' Wilkinson do now? He'd ask why, wouldn't he?

Those present at the funeral of the first five buried said their skin had a "deep brown tan". Amongst some radioactive clothing, two pants and a sweater were testified to be highly radioactive, a fact later lost from the official released files. Also lost, were samples taken of the orange dust. Another group of hikers just 30 miles away to the south reported at the time of the incident that they saw "strange orange spheres in the night sky to the north, in the direction of Kholat Syakhl." Other such spheres were also observed in Ivdel and the adjacent areas. Many were seen during the February and March of 1959, all confirmed sightings by various independent witnesses. But one of the witnesses could not be discredited. It was from the meteorology service, a formidable aspect of the Soviet military. A poor explanation was then offered: Eugene Buyanaov, head of military intelligence, confirmed them to be "test launches of R17 Intercontinental Missiles." Some reports did say that there was a great deal of scrap metal in the surrounding area. So is this suggesting a secret military cover-up? Dyatlov's group were camped on the direct route from Baikonur Cosmodrome to Chyornaya Guba, (Novaya Zemlya), the major nuclear testing ground of the Soviet Union.

Inspired by this incident, Sverdlovsk writer and journalist Yuri Yarovoi published his novel "Of the Highest Degree of Complexity" in 1969. Yarovoi had been involved in the original search and had also attended the inquest. Further, he had been appointed as the official photographer during the initial stage of the investigation to find the missing group. This was the Soviet era and Yarovoi did not reveal anything known at the time beyond that of the official Communist position, and other already widely well-known facts. His book was released as fiction (we've come across that before haven't we Brian?) and romanticised much of the tragedy. Fundamentally, in it, only the group leader was found dead (which at the time was known to be a credible fact) and alternate versions of the novel were subjected to strict Soviet censorship and never published. Yarovoi died in 1980. All of his personal archives, photographs and diaries, even the alternate books and manuscripts have all been lost. One of those books was called "The Presence of Powder".

Following the fall of Communism in the 1990s, there was renewed interest in the mystery. This was taken up by the Sverdlovsk's regional press, and others now started to come forward with information. Anatoly Guschin reported that at the time police officials gave him, as a journalist, special permission to study the original files. He confirmed that a number of pages were excluded from the inquest, as well as the complete disappearance of a mysterious envelope. However, the missing stationery item had remained listed on the original evidence list. He also confirmed that photocopies of missing files were known to be, and had been for some time, circulating amongst unofficial researchers.

'The Price of State Secret's Is Nine Lives' was a book later published by Guschin. It concentrated on the speculative theory of a secret Soviet weapon experiment. The book obviously aroused my own curiosity and much public interest. The conspiracy was now public and many of those who had previously remained silent for thirty years came forward with new facts. Among them, a former police officer, Lev Ivanov, who had led the official inquest back in 1959. In 1990 he published an article in the local press and admitted "that the investigation team had no rational explanation for the incident." Also saying that "He received direct orders from high-ranking regional officials to dismiss the inquest and keep its materials secret" after reporting that the team had seen "flying spheres". Ivanov adamantly believed in a paranormal UFO explanation,

In 2000, Yekaterinburg writer, Anna Matveyeva, published a documentary novella called "Mystery of Dyatlov Pass". Most of the novella contains broad quotations from the official case, diaries of victims, interviews with the original search team, and information from film and TV media. The narrative line of the book is an attempt to resolve the case and is remarkably similar in style and tone to your own book Brian, "Please Take Care of Bethany". Matveyeva's book remains the largest source of documentary material concerning this mystery to date. I have all of these books and have spent a great deal of time in the Urals studying, separating fact from the fiction. I have the answer now. We were supposed to do it together, you and I brother, but oh no, fucking Carlo got in the way!

If you'd chosen to read the book and join me on this epic journey, and I don't mean travel with me but merely to report on my findings, you'd have realised this. My own personal time spent in the Urals revealed so much more. You can't imagine how much a drunken Colonel will reveal when his cock is down the throat of a master of craft, awakening the next morning strapped to both a metal bed frame and the national grid... I had quite the time, as quite the base pet, shall we say. Regardless of the new democracy Brian, many of those now serving were there during the 1990s – the period of our interest. Following the incident of 1959, the whole region was closed-off to all non-military personnel for three full years. By all accounts an orange dust cloud used in military exercises caused psychosis if breathed in. It was not immediate, far from it. It would gradually change the chemical make-up of the brain over a period of weeks, if not months. There is only one other such account of a psychosis-inducing dust within Soviet military archives – a former Nazi research facility, captured by the Soviets during WW2. It was at Kalofer, near Karlovo in central Bulgaria. It was destroyed by a sabotage mission of unknown hostile origin during the early hours of February 27th, 1945. The morning after the Thompson had taken off from Foggia at 22.30 hrs, February 26th.

PART 3

Chapter Twenty Three

Human Behaviour and Design

You wrote the following in Bethany: "Now of the mighty Buzludzha, a building that I have completely fallen in love with, a short drive east along an old side-wooded roadway and a building that evolved from a completely different era. Here on the Central Stara Planina and named from the origins of a Turkish word, Buzluca,"

When you were there on Shipka mountain peak Brian, you were a mere 20 miles away from the Kalofer bunkers. The very place your dad dropped his bomb. It's still owned by the Bulgarian military and is the reason we had to relocate ourselves elsewhere. It was a nuclear war-head storage facility and launch base during the Cold War, one of only three in Bulgaria. It officially closed in 1998. It was from the archived files in Russia that I found out about the Kalofer dust and the experiments they later used it in. When dearest Daddy blew the base up, he didn't save the world Brian, he created a new one: one where I shall now be Queen. The Soviets took the technology back with them after the war. You didn't seriously believe it all ended on February 26th, 1945, did you? But interestingly I would have known nothing of Buzludzha without reading your book Brian. Buzludzha and what was below.

Brian, your problem was that when you tried to piece together you father's story, well, you did it from a historical records point of view. You set out to solve a mystery and this you did. But you have to understand it from my position. I am chosen to return the world into the darkness. I am not here to offer anybody salvation, a better life in the heavens above. No, there are no humans who hold that righteous entitlement, excepting of course Isabella and child, and only those who truly follow me. We concern ourselves only with the end.

Just as had occurred in the Urals in 1959, Bulgarian communist documents confirm similar events. After the base was destroyed in 1945, local people having inhaled an orange dust-like substance, started to kill each other. They were said to see demons, monsters, evil itself. In one account a father from Gabrovo boiled his children alive and cannibalised them. I have proven beyond doubt now that this chemical was taken from post-war Bulgaria to Russia, where research continued up until the fall of Communism. It was experiments with the orange Kalofer dust that led to the deaths of the nine, and many others on the Mountain of Death, during the period 1945 - 59. It doesn't get given a name like that for being a holiday resort does it? The dust was an accidental by-product of chemical and nuclear research, but by far a much more interesting weapon of mass-destruction. All this was created by your father! For three years the Soviets watched local people kill each other. The data collected amazed me. What an experiment. But it all ends suddenly with the fall of the regime that is, or was, until now. Brian, one cannot help but wonder, had the Thompson attack not resulted in the release and spread of that orange dust cloud, would they have ever realised its future potential as a weapon? Your father didn't save the world. He destroyed it!

You would have watched our research in awe Brian, deep below ground in the former nuclear bunkers and research centre of Buzludzha. You never realised did you that below it was a vast maze of tunnels and bunkers. We were there, from the very first Conference until now. As you and your kind have searched the world for us, we were right below your feet all the time. But now we are gone, gone to live in our new Church far, far away. It is finished, a splendid piece of architecture and less than two years in the making. The war has started Brian, and now we cannot be stopped. The Gabrielites will rule over all humankind until pre-birth and darkness returns. Dr Davies could come with us on our final journey. She was returned to you as we promised but remember this, one word, just one word from me, Gabriel, and they will all die. All of them will kill themselves quite voluntarily and they will take you with them. Thousands will be taken, so be true to your word; this book shall remain published. Whilst you are Untouchable you are always safe. This is the truth. Isabella's return to me was of her own volition. She was free. What use is freedom inside a spiritual prison? Our research has also provided an unintentional side-effect; just as we can remove emotion, we too can create it. Isabella loves me, adores me, and lives for me. I know you tried to tell her she was confused, ill, that DI Johnson suggested to her it was Stockholm Syndrome. Yes, she told me all about it. She has written a letter for you. Stockholm Syndrome indeed. I shall gain so much pleasure from tormenting Johnson. Who does she think she is to stand between Isabella and me? If it was not so pathetic it would be hilarious.

My Dear Brianee,

Monday, March 11th 2013.

I have returned to her. I need to be with her. I love her. She offers me love and tenderness. I cannot get her out of my mind. We have a relationship forged only by God Himself. I am sorry about Mum. I did say goodbye, but there in the hospital they offer no privacy. It is not Gabriela's fault mother is in Broadmoor. She gave her word to release us, and she did. I truly trust her. Mum just couldn't get over Dad's suicide I guess. I could not say goodbye to you. I wanted to, but knew you would stop me.

I'm aware of the business of my sister. I feel too ashamed to utter her name. Her addiction and how she funds it is her business. She is sealed and safe. Gabs did offer to bring her back, to care for her, but I had to say no. She too has seen the true light, and she must return by herself, freely to it, or not at all. I cannot make her see the truth. She must find the light for herself, just as I did.

I'm writing a book. I will send it. You can help me if you want? I'm very excited about it. I'm going to tell everybody the truth about Buzludzha. I read your book Bethany so many times. It kept me sane whilst I was being re-educated, locked away for my own sake and salvation. I don't like the word captivity anymore. It's too misleading. It's a bad and manipulative word.

I'm a virgin. I've never told anybody that before. I was so keen to study hard at uni, I never even had time for a boyfriend. No doubt my sister's making up for the both of us now. How can she do that? Has she no respect for herself? If I were her I'd kill myself. Mum and Dad always brought me up to save it for someone very special. I have found her. Do you think being with Gabs makes me a lesbian? Or is she like a shemale? I guess I'd just be bisexual then, wouldn't I?

We have a beautiful apartment inside the new Church. I'd love you to see it and to see too just how happy we are together, but I know that can't happen. Buzludzha was so damp, always flooding. I'm glad we have left now. I cannot write or speak again. I do not trust the Police. They will betray us. I have my Rites of Passage this weekend: my first kill. I've thought long and hard about how to do it and I want to hear its neck snap.

With all my love Brian. I'm truly sorry about Carlo, but I did ask that Doreen come home to you.

My love, Isabella xxxxx"

*****

We, the Brotherhood and I, have studied the research from the Urals and Bulgaria with much excitement. We have where possible re-activated the original experiments. We have identified the orange dust, isolated it as a chemical compound and made great progress in our endeavours. Isa's medical background has been most helpful and she enjoys her work. The plant Amorphophallus Titanum, it's from the Greek meaning phallic giant, is an actual flowering plant with the largest unbranched inflorescence in the world. It's known for its pungent smell (though I consider it quite sweet). It stinks of rotting flesh which is, of course, extremely handy. Its nickname is the Corpse Plant. So we have given our orange dust the nickname, wait for it Brian..., TCP. Isn't that wonderful? Sounds like a well-known household disinfectant, poetic, single use only, for cleansing the world of sin – and we have planted plenty of it.

Amorphophallus Titanium now grows in abundance in the woodlands surrounding Buzludzha. How better to hide numerous rotting corpses than underneath something that already and quite naturally smells like rotting flesh? It'll probably not survive the harsh cold of the severe winters here, but who cares, it has done a very good job thus far and for as long as we have had need of it.

So, TCP, this Corpse Plant, and also interestingly, a term used by pharmaceutical companies to mean Third Party Contractor (if you fiddle with the order). How very appropriate. Let me explain to you how TCP works. Most Genetically Modified (GM) crops are now grown solely for animal food usage, to feed the livestock of the flesh eaters. This is because the human species, people, demand more flesh, more and more meat to consume, to absorb into their vile bodies. Feed grain usage and crop production for animal feed is 70% for corn, and more than 90%, oil seed meals such as soybeans. Over 65 million metric tons of GM corn and 70 million metric tons of GM soybean are now fed to livestock every fucking year. You, dearest readers, the flesh eaters, slaughter over 150 BILLION animals yearly just to satisfy your disgusting flesh lust. So we, the Gabrielites declare to you today that the war against you has officially started. You have been notified. This was the only reason for re-establishing contact Brian, but I guess I just like to big things up a bit. It took me a while to get to the point I know. In making that point, where better to start than with your food chain? We are the chosen ones, the Holy Third Party Contractors who will cleanse this planet of you, the human parasite, the flesh eater and fucking goat-eating towel heads.

Below the huge labyrinth of the former Communist regime bunkers at Buzludzha, we built our laboratory. It wasn't too difficult as the site was a former research complex during the 1990s and also housed a fallout shelter which made a great accommodation block. The Army of the former regime had sealed all the entrances by pouring concrete down them, all but one that is. That was hidden and maintained by the military and surrounded in secrecy, the official version was for structural inspection works only. Look more closely; that's all you needed to do Brian, and whilst the police pottered around above, we existed below. So much concrete, silence is golden isn't it?

After the fall of communism, the bunkers were first sealed from above in the early 90s. It had always struck me as being rather odd that they would seal-off the bunkers but leave the rest of the building open to decay and neglect? The lift was sealed in situ at ground floor level. Surely it must have travelled further down? I thought. It didn't take long to reopen it. There it all was, everything left as if time had stood still behind sealed steel doorways below: a secret Communist research facility deep below the summit of the Shipka mountain range. It appeared that they expected to return one day, the Commies. There was enough food for years and fresh water piped in from mountain springs via a decontamination chamber. There were computers, basic but functional, and living quarters suitable for us all. And above all, there were generators and diesel fuel. Reopening the old emergency exit toward woodland opposite wasn't difficult once we knew where it was. Hidden, secret and unknown. When we finally finished our research, nearly two full years later, we still had half a tank of diesel left. We couldn't use it quickly enough. When you were there writing in 2006, why didn't you stop and ask these very same questions Brian? To realise for yourself that this entire hidden world was below your own feet as you trod backward and forward doing the tourist thing.

Obviously we have left all behind now. Our research is complete and our secret lives below ground are consigned to history – but I keep just one bone for the new founding stone. I don't mean to keep ribbing you about this, excuse the pun, again.

We have finished. Over 18 months of living in a secret bunker, and 18 months of missing people who seem to just vanish into thin air. I'm surprised that people still keep coming to Bulgaria on holiday these days. I wouldn't.

Brother Gabriel 4 has done an amazing job of the new Church. It is so very beautiful, respectful and peaceful. We are there now, isolated from the human virus, watching you all decay and die from afar. Inside the walls, there is a bone taken from every single kill. It's been very well insulated for winter Brother 4 tells me. Doreen's rib is a fine altar piece, the founding stone, a Holy Relic, I do hope you approve Brian? "Goodbye flesh eaters, isn't orange such a beautiful colour?" is written on the wall. Try not to breathe in too deeply.

Genesis 2:22 – 21: So the LORD God caused a deep sleep to fall upon the man, and he slept; then He took one of his ribs and closed up the flesh at that place. 22: The LORD God fashioned into a woman the rib which He had taken from the man, and brought her to the man. 23: The man said; this is now bone of my bones, and flesh of my flesh; she shall be called Woman, because she was taken out of Man.

We've had students join us from all over the world. We even set up an internally awarded PhD in Human Behaviour and Design. The programme philosophy was not too complicated. The research for the major based within social sciences, ergonomics, environmental psychology and human factors. Premise: empirical research combined with understanding of design processes contribute to design and planning, and management of environments that enhance organisational effectiveness.

The PhD in Human Behaviour and Design at Buzludzha was always a multidisciplinary program. We fully integrated understanding of social science and design. Our research focused on environmental settings and orange powders that support healthy and productive behaviours. The program brought together psychopaths with expertise in environmental psychology, human factors and ergonomics. Facility planning and management concerned only our immediate interior environment. The basic premises: development of the knowledge, systematic, empirical research, the realisation of human and organisational potential, productivity and satisfaction, individual characteristics (culture, gender, family structure) organisational culture and goals, management of good environments, understanding organisational and human needs, factors influencing planning and design, management of our physical surroundings, multidimensional spatial experiences and practical research and practice. We divided the complex into four distinct schools: Environmental Psychology, Human Ergonomics, Interior Design and Planning and Management. I particularly enjoyed the environmental psychology aspects the most, as I stated in my written course feedback questionnaire at the time. Though one must laugh Brian, one particular question still brings a smile to my face to this day: Did the course meet your expectations in a satisfactory manner and if so would you recommend it to others? Answer: Well my victim is dead now isn't it? On a scale of 1 to 10, extremely satisfied.

We encouraged Brothers who had a passion for teaching and learning to apply; those of us who could embrace thinking across various disciplinary boundaries. The strength of Buzludzha as a research facility was the integration of scientific and creative expertise. Application requirements were simplified: Statement of intent to perfect killing techniques, three letters of support from Brothers who had witnessed a kill, a written sample of handwriting from a victim begging for his/her own life and a full curriculum vitae. A minimum of five kills had to have been within the previous twelve months (the more creative the better). It is essential to see that students take Continued Professional Development (CPD) very seriously. *CKR general test scores as of January 2013, a combined score of 1200 was required and *TOGFL test for international students (DEA overall minimum plus 105 writing: 20, listening: 15, reading: 20, speaking: 22. *Clean Kill Recognition System and Teaching Of Gabrielen as a Foreign Language. NOTE: Online submission is not accepted. Any credentials cannot be uploaded online or mailed. Your house leader will deliver your application to us in person. Application deadline: January 1. Funding availability: it was essential that students should be self-funding for the PhD in Human Behaviour and Design.

Brian, the course proved to be very popular. We ensured that this did not become a kill fest. No, this had to remain a research facility. Only those with a genuine interest in teaching and learning were enrolled, particularly those from a medical or pharmaceutical background. We were as efficient as the Nazis. Detailed records were maintained throughout (past tense). Our control sample demonstrated that 96 meats from a total kill of 134 reacted most successfully to TCP. I would love to show, to prove this research finding to you, but you will appreciate all pharmaceutical research and findings must remain secret. You'll be looking for them now won't you? Let me help: Buzludzha, basement level 2, 1st left from stairwell, yellow door and stacked on a steel trolley beside the restraint chair. You'll need to take some boxes with you, and watch your back, safe manual handling procedures and all that. I would hate to have to take responsibility for an unnecessary personal back injury.

I'm just drinking a coffee and catching the news headlines on the BBC. Interesting but not so surprising, the news this morning, September 26th 2014. The FBI have released the identity of the so-called Jihadi John. But by the time you read this latest addition to the manuscript, well it will be old news, won't it? The British don't seem to understand why the Federal Bureau of Investigation in the States has released this crucial information in such a public manner. After all, British agents will have wanted to observe family households beforehand, most covertly. Information gathering, evidence, identifying other sympathisers, whatever. Well, let me clarify. It was quite a coup of ours. I couldn't help myself. I was tingling with excitement. We released this information to the FBI and asked them to kindly pass it on. We weren't quite expecting this though, sorry. The point was, the principle point to be made to the towel-heads is that they need to understand that they cannot beat us. They are amateurs easily identified and liquidated. We have members within. They have distracted my work for far too long now, I will let other dark forces deal with this problem. I have greater projects to concentrate on. What will you choose to do Brian? Join us or fight us? I have some amazing samples that you can have, all to yourself. You will enjoy the kill. That last breath of theirs as they stare at you, piercingly, realising they are now dead, helpless, over. I suspect the hate will make you a warrior won't it? You need to destroy me don't you? Bless your little cotton socks.

Have you ever tried to light a cigarette at Buzludzha Brian? Where does all the air go, as if sucked away into some non-apparent black hole? It's an interesting phenomenon, do try it. You will have to go back, I know, I understand, you are as much a part of this as I, but understand, you are here purely by invitation. It's not the sucking of blood that defines the Vampiropath, but the manner in which it is taken... Vampiropath? This is what we call our call to prayer. Three times a day, we stop and we feed. Breakfast is always the best. We feed from the loins. The cunt. I feed from Isabella now. No, stop! Understand this, never penetrated, just cleaned and enjoyed. The Virgin is preserved for greater things ahead. She carries the Divine child. But of the other Brothers, they feed from racks, rows of them. Fed and watered, kept alive for feeding. They die eventually, all of the Meats, bleeding-out from the hole. It can't be helped I'm afraid, but we do try to preserve them for as long as we're able, to keep the blood fresh. It's quite a communal experience the call to prayer. I like to share sometimes, ripping and chewing at the cunt whilst licking clean the faces and mouths and tongues of the others dug in beside me. Just at that moment of death. It's difficult sometimes to get several tongues up inside the same orifice simultaneously, especially as they play-out their exaggerated death throes, but it's beautiful, eating your victim alive at the vagina. Just like the girls in Manchester, they offer anything to live.

PART THREE

Chapter Twenty Four

GM Foods

You're not so bright so I'll take this opportunity to explain in layman's terms Brian. Genetically modified foods (or GM foods) are foods produced from orgasms, (I mean organisms, my mistake, honestly, just a slip of the tongue). Specific changes are introduced into their DNA. This is what we refer to as genetic engineering. Our research has developed new techniques allowing for the introduction of new animal feeds. We can control a food's genetic structure, explained more easily in human terms as the selective breeding of plants. Many of our side projects also incorporated human mutation breeding. All very enjoyable as study but not generating the hard evidence required within selective breeding. All samples had to be disposed of at birth. I did not set out to run a kindergarten, Brian.

Commercial sale of lawful GM foods began in 1994. The manufacturer Calgene first marketed FlavrSavr, a very basic delayed ripening tomato. Most genetic modification has focused on cash crops, those in quick demand by farmers: soybean and corn, cotton seed oil etc. Again, free competition and not association has forced us all to compete for profit, profit or commercial failure. Our success has lain in association, working with others within the pharmaceutical industries. I know this is all a bit boring, facts and figures, this is the problem when you do a PhD, and you start talking shit. I'm not a scientist Brian, but I had to understand the process before I could graduate. People look up to me for knowledge and guidance. Commercial feeds were engineered for resistance to pathogens and herbicides and better nutrient profiles. Some sick bastards also genetically modified livestock; can you believe that, animals? Some were actually experimentally developed, but their sale was stopped in November 2013. Although not being available on the market does not mean they are no longer available.

So here we are. We have a psychosis-inducing powder that we need to genetically splice into plant foods. This process should prove harmless to the consumer, but introduce a genetically modified animal into the equation and result! We found that consumers who ate the flesh of a GM beast exposed to the GM plant did indeed respond well. A joint reaction. Hiding the end of the world couldn't be easier. The plant and animal alone were unresponsive and undetectable, but the two exposed to each other, wonderful. The food chain explained in easy terms; cow eats plant, human eats cow = result: genetic psychosis; a modern, efficient form of Mad Cow Disease.

Broad scientific consensus says that food derived from GM crops poses no greater risk to human health than conventional food. See, all that implied uncertainty and they still went ahead and released it. Rightfully so, some opponents have objected; safety issues, and environmental concerns, also economic. The fact that GM seeds and our animals are now subjected to intellectual property rights. Yes, how ironic. I actually own the patent for the genetically mutated animals and plants we created. Hilarious, but I didn't make the rules. I just choose to play by them. Such anger Brian... Please, don't hate the player, hate the game.

Actually Brian, the use of food biotechnology dates back thousands of years including use by Sumerian and Babylonian tribes. Yeast used to make fermented beverages such as beer, plant enzymes, malts, well they were also used millennia ago, and before they even understood what they were doing. It is true to say that food biotechnology occurred with the invention of the microscope, thus allowing humans to discover microorganisms. Food biotechnology was advanced significantly in 1871 when Louis Pasteur discovered that heating juices would kill off bad bacteria in wine making and fermentation. A process used today in the barbaric activity of milk production, heating milk to improve food hygiene. Can you imagine this; we stop breast feeding as a small child, only to then substitute the human mammal breast milk with that of the mother of an animal. Sickening.

Typical industrial enzymes derived from plant and animal were later substituted by microbial enzymes. An example, chymosin, in the production of cheese; cheese was typically made using rennet, the stomach lining of the cow. God Almighty, through science then gave us substitute enzymes such as chymosin for milk clotting, resulting in cheese curds. God consistently steered us away from flesh eating but we chose not to see. Microbial enzymes was the first application of genetically modified organisms. It has grown to include cloning of plants and animals.

Science first discovered that DNA can cross between different organisms in 1946. The GM plant produced in 1983 was an antibiotic-resistant tobacco. It will at first appear Brian, that somebody else shared my idea - to destroy mankind using GM products. But the breakthrough we needed was really that of 1994, the transgenic FlavrSavr tomato. It was approved by the FDA for marketing in the US. To this day Genetically Modified Organisms (GMO) are still legally available there. How interesting? Do you know that you cannot sell GM plant seeds within the European Union? They seem to have worked out what the Americans have failed to see coming. But we have members within, working on that pumped up little prat, Nigel Farage, of UKIP. We hope that the UK will be independent soon and the problem of TCP orange powder/GMO supply, thus negated. Now, it is all too late to stop us by the way, hence the need to tell you all of this now.

Monsanto patented soybeans which are resistant to the herbicide glyphosate (an effective chemical weed-killer intellectually owned by Monsanto of course) were our real breakthrough. As was virus-resistant squash (Monsanto-Asgrow), and additional delayed ripening tomatoes (DNAP, Zeneca/Peto, and Monsanto). If you can genetically modify a plant to be resistant to a human-applied chemical, such as a weed-killer, then it is obvious. You can create a genetically modified animal, a cow, sheep, pig or fowl that will also be biologically resistant to a genetically-modified animal feed such as corn, swede or turnip. It's hardly rocket science is it Brian? As of 2013, roughly 85% of corn, 91% of soybeans, and 88% of cotton produced in the United States are genetically modified. I got that from Wikipedia.

We genetically engineered plants in our Buzludzha laboratory by altering their genetic makeup. We tested in the laboratory for desired qualities, adding one or more TCP genes to a plant's genome. Our favourites were the members of the wheat/corn family. It spreads and grows anywhere, and is easily transported and scattered. We found that most plants could be genetically modified in a directed way by gene cloning/subtraction (genes are removed or inactivated). Plants are now engineered for insect resistance, fungal resistance and viral delivery capacity, the improved taste attracts the animals that consume it. The GM modification to the animal feed supply has already taken place. All animals, certainly already within the United States and used as livestock, are considered to be infected. We are at stage 3, the triggering of viral capacity to humans. Certainly, we will see a significant increase in people adopting a vegetarian diet and lifestyle, but this will be too late. Once satisfactory plants were produced, sufficient seeds were gathered, we already had (what a surprise) regulatory approval to field test (excuse the pun). With the closure of the Buzludzha facilities, delivery had already commenced. It will not prove necessary to gain approval for mass-production. This is not, and never has been considered a biodegradable earth friendly product. You are all now already infected.

Agrobacteria are natural plant parasites, spliced with TCP, with a natural ability to transfer genes. These agrobacteria insert their genes into animal hosts, resulting in a proliferation of TCP cells at dermatological level. The genetic information for tumour growth is then activated/encoded by a circular DNA fragment, held within the steroids used to increase livestock meat production. When a GM agrobacterium within a plant transfers its T-DNA to the random animal's genomes, the bacterial T-DNA through steroid application removes the bacterial plasmid and replaces it with the desired foreign TCP gene. The bacterium is a vector, enabling transportation to the animals' reproduction systems. This method worked better with dicotyledonous plants like potatoes and tomatoes but we find, although initially difficult, agrobacteria infection within less successful crops like wheat and maize, was certainly more attractive to its animal host in terms of food appeal.

Introducing TCP genes into plants required complicated promoters, especially to the area where the gene was to be expressed. I'll explain; when we wanted the gene to be expressed only in wheat grain and not within the plants leaves (as grain and leaf are often separated in harvesting procedures for commercial food supply), we found that an endosperm-specific promoter was required. The codons of the gene had to be optimised for the organism due to codon usage bias. We also required that the transgenic gene products should not be denatured by heat, so that animal feed products, especially heated foods for swine/pigs, are not destroyed during cooking process.

I think that now would be a good time to take our minds off things, don't you Brian? Let's fuck with Johnson shall we?

*****

Important Addendum to previous versions follows:

The following publication, 'Porthole', contains scenes of nudity, a series of French erotica postcards taken from the original series of Leonardo de Clit, Paris, circa 1900. Though they are over 130 years old, it is most regrettable that in order to release approved digitised versions of this title, we (Brittunculi) have been forced into a position where we have had to edit them to meet with the strict requirements of other distributors. Though clean, consensual and categorically not pornographic in content, in any form or manner, we have been forced to comply. We hope you, the reader, will understand.

It appears to us, as we feel sure it will to you, that a sadistic death cult can openly and graphically describe horrific scenes of sexual brutality, torture, murder and abuse, whilst in contrast, a one hundred year old black-and-white grainy picture of a nipple is quite unacceptable.

We seek to assure Her Holiness Gabriela 13, that whilst we have complied with her every instruction, this particular issue is beyond our control. Censored titles, contrary to previous releases, now appear on top of the offending body part. The original unedited copies remain available via the publisher's website gallery. We sincerely apologise for any inconvenience caused.

PART THREE

PORTHOLE

'The Erotic Memoirs of RMS Fantasia:

Volume One - Paris's Revenge '

By DI Andrea Johnson

About The Author

Andrea Johnson was born in Coventry, the West Midlands, England, in 1966. After obtaining 8 A-levels, all of which awarded Grade A and above, she left Coventry Central College of Arts and Humanities gaining a place at The Castle University, Warwick. Andrea obtained a first class Honours Degree in Public Service and Citizenship, then transferred upon completion onto The Castle University MBA - Business Administration Master's programme. With first class distinction she took employment with the West Midlands Police as a fast-track graduate officer. By the age of 36 she had achieved the status of Detective Inspector, notably the youngest female DI in the history of the force. In 2007 she joined Merseyside Police, Liverpool.

Following her lead involvement in the biggest manhunt known today, the investigations into the crimes of the Gabriel Sect and the subsequent publication of the infamous 'Meat: Memoirs of A psychopath' (Dr Cerys Davies. 2013), her position as Detective Inspector became untenable. Following a legal battle and out of court settlement, Andrea Johnson reluctantly resigned her post.

Andrea continues her passion for writing erotica today. On a point of principle, she maintains the professional title of DI Andrea Johnson, her real name as presented on all publications.

Brittunculi Records and Books are delighted to continue to work with her.

Preface

The RMS Fantasia is a mighty ship indeed. Built in Belfast 1906, I am a ship that sees all and controls all. As you now join me on my maiden passage across the oceans and the seven seas, do take time to peep through my portholes for there in every cabin you will soon find something to your pleasure and delight. A journey on which there is no return and no way back. But then why would you want to? Be seated, relax and loosen yourself up, but most of all simply enjoy. As for the clever ones amongst you, well now, you'll soon realise that there are seven chapters; a bedtime story for every night of the week. So tuck yourselves up in your bunks and do keep me informed. You may need a lifeboat although we will start the week in calmer waters. Bon voyage!

PART THREE

Chapter Twenty Five

'And some introductions before we start'

Edition includes nine photographsfrom the private collection of;

Leonardo Clit c.1900 Italy. RMS Fantasia'

If you too have just enjoyed the magnificence of Paris, her beauty and her perfection, then I am pleased that you took such time to turn to this page. For here the story begins, but a story now told with her erotic and sensuous physique now wedged firmly in your mind. For the cover photograph of her was taken soon after we set sail and all of what I tell centres on her, for she created me for what I became. Take time for yourself, to pleasure yourself as you need, as my story unfolds before you. Place down this book as your sexual tensions deem necessary and this they will, I assure you. Look at her, she is there for you too to share and placed proudly to my masthead. Take a peep through her porthole. Play through in your own minds all that I say. For as I control all who board me, then I too shall now control you. Let go of all of your inhibitions now, whether male or female and everything in between and enjoy, just be seated, relax and relieve yourselves upon my decking.

Imagine what I first saw of her? Paris as an angel, a woman of divine grace delivered to me quayside. Her personal voyage trunk filled to overcapacity. I watched her closely. I was instantly aroused and I knew she would be the one that I wanted. The straps of her heavy trunk stretched to the limit, leather strapping that always proved so useful for restraint. That trunk which had only one thing in mind, to now burst open and reveal all of that she had hidden inside. There, as is deliberately placed, a brief glimpse of white silk stocking trapped in its closed lid.

Why had she chosen not to reopen the trunk and push it back inside? To repack it in a more fashioned manner. Why had she left it, just the glimpse of trapped sensuality to hang down from the side? For she hadn't packed in a hurry, oh no. She and Jacques had taken all the time that they needed to pack this trunk. The stocking on show, though just no more than two or three inches, was just enough to display. As Paris was bursting, so too was her personal and delicate collection of the finest French corsetry available at the time. Both Paris and her collection were bursting-outward, exploding with her need for sexual excitement. The need to finally fulfil her deeply held fantasies and for her now liberated sexual satisfaction.

Jacques had spent his time shopping with Paris during the days before we sailed. She had always possessed the finest of silks and lingerie, her basques and corsets always hand-stitched and created by the greatest of craft-hands. Her dresses and evening wear too, were the best that France had to offer. Jacques would never allow her to be underdressed. Paris could never be understated. Money was no object and she wore only the best, for if she was aroused then Jacques was aroused, and he so adored how both men and women would stand still breathless in her shadow and in the wake of her footsteps, her scent delivering an almighty blow to any that came near and for those of generous financial means, the quality of her finest French perfume instantly recognisable.

Jacques would watch her reactions intensely when she had received the adorations of admirers. It excited her, the attention and power she seemed to hold over others. This too excited Jacques. "Are we going to do this," she would whisper into his ear, this as she felt his cum pump up inside her. "I need to," he would cry out as he ejaculated, pounding her with uncontrolled passion. They would always talk dirty to each other whilst they made love, always very dirty and content of the most extreme filth. But it was all just talk, all just dirty fantasy.

Afterwards, after sex, the conversation would soon become forgotten. Every word that they had screamed out in the heights of passion put away until the next time they needed to fuck. They both steered away from what just minutes beforehand had turned them both on so very much.

Sometimes Paris would try to return to the central issue and say, "I don't know if I could do it for real Jacques, but I know that I want to. I want you to watch me." Jacques would reply; "One day my love I hope we can. I hope that the opportunity will arise and we'll both know when that time has come. I want you to know that I want it too and that all will be OK afterwards."

Statements like this would both worry and excite Paris. "Will it really be OK?" she thought to herself. "Is he just testing me to see how I will react should this opportunity occur?" But these most personal and private thoughts of hers, held over the years of their relationship would grow stronger and stronger. Paris soon grew to long for the opportunity. She wanted it to happen. She needed to fulfil her fantasies and she needed Jacques to be in full control. Then one day as if by magic, that perfect opportunity for the couple did so arrive. For here we all are: Jacques, Paris and I in Ireland during the spring of 1906.

So now to you, as you read this, your erection so stiff it pains you or your cunt so wet it seeps through to stain the seat beneath you. Bear only one thing in mind now my readers; you are all free to join us, to work your way free of charge and to pleasure yourselves throughout. But you must never consider Paris to be a whore, oh no not ever, for she is so much more than this. Paris cannot be purchased or bought. She is perfection and she is living art at its very best. What they both created on this journey and what they left behind for the world to hear and bear witness to is the greatest of all creations.

I, the third person within this story, would now also be known throughout the whole world as a ship of true sexual expression, a place where you can all secretly become your real selves and behave as you please. A place to fuck and be fucked to one's heart's content. A secret world upon the waves where anything can happen and where all things will. Alone at sea, your anonymity assured.

I, the RMS Fantasia, am indeed an almighty ship, but please do not get me wrong or misunderstand me. It is not so much my size that counts but the quality of the package that I offer. I am a modest ship, oh yes, a vessel of 24,000 tons and my length an impressive 167 meters. But then length isn't everything is it?

Of my beam? Well now, if you were to grip me tight within your clenched palm then a big hand 18 meters broad will surely be required. Since my very first maiden voyage from my birthplace in Belfast of 1906, I have watched them all very closely. For I too have pumped my way across the oceans for many, many years now.

For I am her, the very ship, and here I begin my story. I shall tell you all of the stories that I have collected over the years from across those oceans and seven seas. You see, in every cabin there is a traveller and every traveller seeks that which they cannot find back at home. A journey that takes them to a place a thousand miles away, a journey in which they are surrounded by strangers and a voyage that is surrounded by the anonymous. This assurance of anonymity at sea was the perfect given opportunity for both Jacques and Paris.

So hear what I have to say, for you too will indeed enjoy such a trip. I will feed your desires just as I have facilitated theirs. You never know; you may even recognise yourself on board. Relax and lie here with me for a moment or two. Imagine you sit upon the rocks looking out across the horizon to sea. The waves are crashing at your feet. There in front of you passes me, the RMS Fantasia. In the evening's darkness the light from within my cabins draws your voyeuristic eye, and through every porthole you then take a peep.

Stay for a while here inside me and loosen up your clothing, unzip your fly or hitch up your skirt. It matters not who, what or where you are, it matters only that I please you, for this is my purpose. It matters to me that you too become a part of Paris and Jacques' story. Fear not that the price of such travel will prove too expensive for you as you will soon find out that you too are free to join us at any time and to work your passage. For I collect stories only from those who have a story worthy to tell and once upon a time -

Well then, shall we start?

Shall we begin in Cabin 069? You'll find it located on A-Deck and one so affectionately called the promenade deck. Paris would walk this deck many times en route to and from her cabin, her every footstep perfectly coordinated. Such a fresh piece of fruit ripe to be picked from the tree. The promenade extends along an uninterrupted shaft, my entire 167 meters, and a walkway of pleasure along my entire upper superstructure. It is here upon this walkway that you will find the first-class passengers all seated upon their benches and admiring the view. There inside cabin 069, during the early spring of 1906 just as I had left port on my first virgin passage that they too, Paris and Jacques were also on their maiden voyage. This, a voyage of discovery and the voyage of their lifetime.

Paris possessed the most sensational legs a man could ever see. If God existed in the heavens, then Paris was his greatest of creations. She was born perfect in every detail but it was her legs that first caught Jacques' eye. Jacques was born in Toulouse in 1865 and had left his home behind to pursue a career in music. His love was above all things, the sound of the violin. That was of course until his eyes fell upon the young Paris. Paris, named after the city of her birth, studied at the same music academy as Jacques and it was here at the Académie des Anges in the northern quarter of the city that they first met. She was just a little younger than he when they found themselves placed beside each other, in the same rehearsal orchestra. Paris was born in 1876, the eleven year gap a small and quite insignificant detail. Her chosen mode of musical self-expression was the cello, and both were accomplished masters within their creative art.

Jacques would watch her for hours as she played, for despite being surrounded by many such beautiful young talented women in the orchestra, it was always her who stood out to him. This was the sight of those long smooth perfect legs that he would glimpse as she hitched up her dress to rest her cello between them. Gripping and grasping at the firm hard wood she cradled, her thighs opened wide like some huge canyon gorge inviting the would be sight-seeing traveller or voyeur tourist further inside.

He would work his way up her slowly, examining every curve and every fine detail of this work of magnificent performing-art: her legs, her waist and her shoulders and that long black hair that twirled effortlessly around in the air as she performed. Jacques was always fascinated whilst watching her and he would lose himself to fantasy, frozen by her magnetism, her hypnotic power and her sexuality that communicated in volumes to him.

He would bow back on his violin and she would stare back opening her mouth. Her tongue would fall and he in time became unable to contain his excitement. Their musical notes seemed to bounce off each other, and soon without hardly having spoken a word, they became lovers. They had known each other just a handful of weeks before they first took each other. Both now so sexually charged to overcapacity that they fucked like rabbits; that first time without even the utterance of conversation. This happening after a late rehearsal - he just took her there and then, he pounded her ruthlessly. Paris had waited behind whilst all the others had left that evening as Paris knew exactly what she wanted to happen.

Putting her faithful cello away in its case, she kneeled to the floor above it. Her breasts upon it with her arms stretched flat to the floor. That perfect arse lifted proudly upward toward Jacques' direction and he knew what was now expected of him. This was no misunderstanding and after all the weeks of silent flirtation, the weeks of need, he realised that she wanted it as much as he. There on the floor they first fucked.

Sex was now the regular event post-orchestral rehearsal and a perfect match they were. When all were gone and the hall stood silent, they would rehearse further on each other. Paris would raise her dress to reveal her French hand-sewn corset and stockings, her favourite activity revolving around the old grand piano that stood to the right of the stage. Lying there on her back on top of it, her open legs down against the keyboard as he would sit atop of the piano stool and consume her from below. He would eat at her for hours, dribbling like a vampire than hadn't fed in weeks. Her legs would rise and wrap tight around the back of his neck and she would orgasm repeatedly, her arms thrust back behind her, gripping the edge of the piano as if she were holding onto a cliff face and life itself depended on it.

They were lovers and they fell deeply in love with each other. Sex had been the driving force behind them, a most important and mutually satisfying aspect of their relationship but it wasn't everything. They had a mutual love of music, a shared cultural heritage in which they enjoyed fine food and French cuisine, the opera, the theatre and the finest of French and world literature. In addition, they loved to travel.

This sense of adventure and discovery would ultimately lead them to all four corners of the world. They would perform alongside the greatest and most accomplished of musicians amid the finest of surroundings, their need to express themselves and the need to publicly perform quite unrestrained. This need was a beast that could not be tamed.

The beast, as they both referred to it within the intimacy of private conversation, was indeed that need to perform. This sense of mutual discovery, public performance and the creation of loving as an art form; the beast was their own private fantasy.

Paris was a fine cellist indeed and Jacques a master of the violin, but as all others who studied at the Academy of Angels, the mastering of a second instrument was required; an alternative instrument, to be practised to a competent standard, and one that bore no direct technical resemblance to the first. This second instrument of personal choice for Jacques was the piano. Not coincidently though, the piano became his favourite practice pastime. He would play his violin professionally but always after the performance find time to play the keys and perform again for a second time that evening. Paris on the other hand had chosen the flute, the actual flute proving quite unnecessary, when she needed to practice advanced tongue-work techniques.

Paris and Jacques were in perfect tune together, instrumentally and sexually, and this had been evident to both from the start. Their unspoken thought (in contrast to love making) was sex as an art form, something that should be performed publicly and to perfection. At any given opportunity, Paris would place herself on top of the available piano whilst Jacques would feast from her warm moist slit, swallowing every drop. He would play the piano whilst he fed and she would play her flute. They would write, compose and perform music whilst making love to each other. Occasionally Paris would be heard to utter the words "I think somebody is watching us."

The thought of being watched excited them both equally. Jacques would perform best when the uncertain presence of the stranger was felt upon them. He would strike a chord like no other and she would share her dark thoughts and sexual desires aloud, feeding herself with the flute between her loins. For whether they were really being watched was at times uncertain to them but without doubt the volume of Paris's vocals confirmed that they were definitely being over-heard. Although not professionally trained in such a vocal skill, her performances more than qualified her to join the most famous of theatrical casts.

The classical world of Paris during the late 1800s was a small world and rumours would soon begin to circulate. The gentlemen of the audience would always grin to each other as they would say, "I hear that the best performance will happen afterwards." Upon which a swift, though firm swipe to the back of the head would be delivered. Wives of the time were always very jealous of the attention that Paris would steal.

Then here in this account of the couple, we come to the spring of 1906, as I, the RMS Fantasia, left port for the first time. Jacques and Paris on board my upper deck, too, waved farewell. For during a brief orchestral tour of Ireland they had come to hear of a vacancy -'Wanted classical duo, RMS Fantasia, to sail spring.' For once they realised that they could perform exclusively as a concert duo where all eyes would be only upon them; just the two of them in a very small and highly intimate environment. With just one glance upon Paris, the Captain was more than delighted to offer the pair this new exciting opportunity.

So then, when my Captain asked them which cabin they would prefer, they eagerly replied in perfect unison, "Is cabin sixty-nine still available?" A sexual reference that Captain Patrick O'Brien was not, in his naïve closed world of sexual boredom, wholly aware of. But just as in France, in the city of Paris beforehand, rumours would soon follow the couple overseas. As we sailed around the world and to the full satisfaction of all on board, Captain O'Brien would soon learn to turn a blind eye, for those on board were men and women of considerable wealth. O'Brien was more than happy to take a small fee in order to accommodate both passenger needs and confidences. After all he too liked to watch.

Paris unpacked her trunk meticulously. She would lift her dresses up to herself and gaze into the long cabin dress mirror. A smile would come to her face as she would imagine what they had planned for her passage. Her intimate clothing placed away out of sight, and her collection of scents spread out across the dressing table. Her French corsets and her basques, a rainbow of co-ordinated colours, her matching sensual slips and her high-heeled shoes and boots. All of them so perfectly chosen by Jacques. Some more recent purchases too, those last few days must haves from Belfast in the immediate days before they boarded. Just as they had discussed the finer details of their work schedule and musical requirements with the Captain, they too had discussed the practicable aspects of their sexual journey ahead.

"Where shall I put the camera?" she smiled back toward a very aroused and sexually-charged Jacques. He had watched her as she had so tenderly tucked away her intimates, smelling them and feeling the softness of their texture. He had lay there upon the cabin bed throughout the experience, his penis swollen to its maximum proportions possible until eventually giving in and having to masturbate on her underwear. Paris would make jokes and flirtatiously play with the items of recent purchase. She would draw the whip up from the ground slowly and gently pass it over her vagina applying a little pressure to push it into her clit as she pulled it forward, just enough to leave a line of clearly visible dampness to her white silk underwear.

PART THREE

Chapter Twenty Six

'I Want It'

One very late and darkened evening, just a handful of days after we had sailed from port, Paris walked alone down the promenade. Jacques was drinking at the bar after a long performance that evening. Paris looked out across the sea and admired the stars, there perched in the sky within a carpet of perfect blackness. She had a sense of calm about her. They both enjoyed the work, and the cabin had proved delightful.

Noise was however always a problem, though not for the couple themselves. Paris liked to be noisy; "Fuck me, fuck me hard!" the words heard to the delight of the adjacent cabins most evenings. Jacques was of course always happy to oblige. You couldn't possess such a beauty and not service her needs at any beckoned request. The old metal bed frame she would cling to banged hard against the wall as he pounded away, gripping her wrists in the most forceful and assertive of manners. When she wanted to be fucked she got fucked and the banging of the bed against the wooden cabin wall always adding a degree of extra excitement. Afterwards hearing the noises from the adjacent cabins, their neighbours had been clearly aroused by the performance, and all now in-turn screwing noisily without inhibition.

It was this sense of knowing that other couples enjoyed such voyeurism too that Paris and Jacques really got off on. They had been discreetly watched on many occasions and loved the thought that others were fucking whilst listening to them. But this is after all why they were here, now on board me. They needed to take these dark, exciting, overpowering urges, and uncontrollable fantasies to a higher level. I provided that perfect opportunity. They had talked and discussed these ideas for many years, always forming part of their dirty pillow talk, taking them both to the heights of climax, but now they were both to realise them.

As Paris looked out to sea excited in the knowledge that soon, at the right time and in the right place, these fantasies may become a reality, she gently started to stroke herself. Her thighs quivering as she imagined being taken. Fantasies were one thing, but would it really ever happen, she thought as she began to tremble. Then without any prior warning, a firm hand capped her mouth into silence. Her low toned sexual moans now muffled into expressions of fear.

She had been so taken by her private thoughts, slowly and gently working herself to orgasm that she had lost all sense of alertness to her surroundings. She hadn't heard the quiet, almost silent steps behind her upon the decking board. "I will fucking kill you if you scream," the words she then heard. "Do you know how cold it is down there?" A man's voice whispering into her ear. "You'll be long gone before anyone will even know you are missing," he calmly and emotionlessly added.

Paris was terrified. This man who had watched her as she intimately pleasured herself was now in control. She wanted to shout out for Jacques. She wanted to shout out for anybody but she

knew most of the passengers by now sleeping, and those that weren't were intoxicated beyond attention. She was alone within the dark shadows of my deck, a silent lonely deck in the dark and nobody would be able to help her. She knew that just one scream would lead to her fall to the cold sea below.

Paris clenched her arse tight and went rigid as she felt his first finger slide up inside. With one hand over her mouth and the other engaged below her, she froze. "Do you like this Paris?" he asked. "Yes, Paris isn't it? I've watched you for several days. You like to prick-tease men, don't you?" Paris loved the idea of being raped but rape was a fantasy that she shared with Jacques and this was no longer a fantasy. As he became more and more aggressive with her, she began to cry, whimpering softly as he talked her through what was now happening to her. "Well this little piggy went to market and this little piggy stayed at home and this little piggy went all the way up your cunt," he sadistically informed her as he took her with several fingers at time.

As she fell silent realising that there was nothing she could do to stop what was happening, a sense of just needing to get through this took over. Paris wouldn't scream or try to flee. The thought of dying in the black water below, drowning alone as she watched my deck lights pass into the distance ahead, was something that kept her together. "Where can he go afterward?" Her mind controlled by this moment of rational thought. "This is a ship, there is nowhere for him to run to and I need to survive this. He can fuck me now, just the once, but I will get him back for it," she repeated to herself. She looked out to sea, at the stars she had so admired just moments before and focused her thoughts on anything that took her away from the situation she had found herself in.

As her resistance fell and her attitude of compliance became more obvious to him, he removed his hand from her mouth. Paris took a deep breath, a gasp of air she desperately needed. Breathing only through her nose, her snot and tears had fallen onto that hand and he shook it clean, as if he were shaking a handkerchief. "That's better," he said forcefully. "Now I am going to have you." She felt him remove his fingers quickly from her cunt. He pushed her forward and over toward a lifeboat up-turned on my deck. Then she felt the stiffness of his erection as he pushed up against her. She fell across the boat as he pushed her head face down onto it, pinning her there. "Do you feel this Paris? Do you feel this?" he asked. "This fucking cock wants you and this fucking cock is going to have you. Do enjoy it sweetheart."

He pushed his firm prick against her, her body pinned down and her arse up in the air as he grinded upon it, the stiff cock about to barge its way in. He pulled away only momentarily by inches to open his fly - then he fucked her, pounding her against the lifeboat just as if he were pounding a slab of meat. The pressure and force of his thrusted penis raising her arse each time, up and forward. It was quick, his final and over exaggerated push as he squirted up inside her. She felt the pressure of his explosion, him not drawing back for several seconds. Paris groaned as this volcanic eruption had momentarily excited her but she soon gained her senses. "I am being raped" she thought, the reality of her situation striking home again. She was embarrassed, shocked at the idea that this rapist had heard her, that final grunt of enjoyment come out from her lips.

He never spoke afterward. He removed himself, took a moment to adjust his clothing, turned and walked away. Paris just remained bent over. She didn't want to look at him. She kept saying to herself, "If I see his face I'm dead. Don't look. Don't look." She waited until those footsteps upon the wooden decking had faded into the distance before she stood up and turned. She was soaking with cum, trickling down her inside thigh. She raised one leg to step out of her underwear, the white silk panties that he had so calmly just pulled to one side as he took her. Paris dried herself with them, removing what she could of his overspill and then threw them away overboard. She threw the offensive soiled item down to the sea below her. Trembling and unable to gain her immediate breath she sat down. Her right hand now smelling of wet semen, she slumped down and sat there rigid at the spot of her encounter upon the decking, her back against that lifeboat as she now, still trembling, lit a cigarette.

It took a while for her to regain her senses, to compose herself. "What was she going to say to Jacques?" or "What wasn't she going to tell him?" After her second cigarette, and allowing for a period of time to settle her nerves, her final decision was to tell him everything. Jacques knew that Paris had long fantasised about being gang raped. Was he going to believe her given such knowledge? Or was he going to think that she had taken the occasion for a quick anonymous fuck, that she had in fact been unfaithful to him. They had discussed in detail the notion of sharing each other but there had to be rules, and as agreed both had to be present at the time.

She walked back to the Wheelhouse Club where Jacques was sat drinking whiskey with another male. It appeared to be a heavy conversation, one that she felt she couldn't intrude on but she needed to tell Jacques immediately of her attack. "I'm sorry to interrupt," she spoke softly, "May I borrow my husband for just a moment?" The two men stopped speaking and stared at each other for a few seconds. Jacques turned and said, "What is it my dear? Is there something wrong?" Turning his head away from the other man and leaning to the right, he awaited her reply. Paris leaned forward and whispered into his ear, "I've been raped. Somebody just had me, took me like I was a piece of fucking trash." "I know," replied Jacques, "Can I introduce you to Stanton?" She froze and looking across to the man sat to Jacques' side was quite unable to speak. "How do you know?" The only words she could find. The man smiled intently toward her, "Hello my dear, how lovely to have met you again so soon. I'm Stanton. It was a pleasure."

Paris immediately turned and walked away. It wasn't so much anger but a sense of disbelief. Jacques had known that this man had attacked her, had shown no apparent concern and was now sat at the bar drinking with him, the voice of Stanton clearly recognisable as that of the man who had assaulted her. She returned to her cabin, 069, and sat on the bed. Just a few minutes passed before she heard the turning of the door handle and Jacques appeared inside. Lost for words, she sat in silence until Jacques broke the awkwardness of the moment. "It needed to happen this way," he said softly stroking her face with his hand. "You wanted it, he wanted it and I wanted it. I watched you both together. I watched you and it excited me beyond anything I have ever witnessed," he said. "I watched you being raped as I stood in the shadows wanking-off. I heard you groan as he crushed you against the lifeboat with his last thrust. He was pinning you there against it with his cock inside you and I came; I shot my cum at the same time as him. Don't tell me you didn't enjoy it?"

He went on to further explain himself to her. He had broken the ice and taken control of their sexual stalemate. They had both wanted to experiment with others but it had never quite happened. It had remained as always, just that of dirty erotic pillow talk. But now it had, she had been fucked by another and he had enjoyed watching it. Insecurity had always held them back from making their fantasies a reality. After climax the dirty talk between them as they fucked was soon forgotten. But Jacques had arranged it, a game with Stanton and was now anything but insecure about the situation. He was sexually charged beyond anything he had known and he wanted Paris to feel the same. Paris, finishing her cigarette and gently stubbing it out in the ashtray to her side, said to him, "Yes now I know that you were there too yes, yes I did enjoy it. That's the truth and I want more."

Jacques threw her backward onto the bed and fucked her until she felt bruised. "Is this what you want Paris, is it?" He shouted. "You want to be used like a slab of meat don't you?" "Yes, yes, yes, fucking do me," she screamed back at him." "Then I'm going to give those cunts next door something worth listening to tonight. They don't know what fucking is." He grunted as he shafted her with long deep strides, gripping and holding her down by the hair he grasped in his left hand. Jacques needed to reclaim her, to take back ownership of that wet bruised little pussy. "It's a shame you threw the knickers away," he bellowed. "I wanted to ram them down your throat, but this will have to do." As Jacques raised his arched body upward, with a final thrust he came, slapping her hard across the face. "How does it feel?" he shouted as his last act of orgasm completed. "The two of us inside you, to be full of our spray, both of us, two men." "I want it!" Was Paris's final reply before they both fell into post-coital silence.

PART THREE

Chapter Twenty Seven

'The Horn'

The couple would continue to fuck like rabbits after this event. Their sex life had always been amazing but now it was different. Jacques for the first time taking a break from self-pleasure due to his new found soreness. The fucking spread like a virus along the corridor of A-Deck. It seemed that the louder the better, each cabin clearly audible to the other as they all joined in the fever. The next morning, everyday couples would walk hand-in-hand greeting each other with the usual polite pleasantries but always now accompanied by blushing embarrassment. Everybody knew what was going on but it wasn't ever spoken about. The imagination proved to be a much greater tool of sexual titillation.

Stanton was an American and he too was a musician, an accordion player. Not a master of performance but a tradesman of great skill. If you peer through the porthole of cabin 034 you will find him there, crafting his ivory whilst smoking his pipe. Stanton made the most beautiful accordions, all from the finest of African ivory and leather. It would take him a full year to complete the perfect instrument to such fine detail and precision. It was this joint love of music that had got him talking to Jacques in the first place. The two men would talk long into the early hours after Jacques and Paris had concluded their musical delivery.

His wife was called Anna-Marie. The couple were returning to the United States following a long holiday in Ireland, where Stanton had overseas business interests. Anna-Marie had known all about the incident with Paris beforehand and it had occurred with her full consent. In fact it was true to say she actively encouraged it. She liked to watch her husband with other women and she liked also to be with other women, this all to Stanton's absolute delight. But there was something very special about Paris. Everybody who met her wanted her and Anna-Marie wanted her share too. The deal between them had been agreed. Stanton would fuck her again and Anna-Marie would also get to fuck her. "This was only fair," she would say to him.

Stanton crafted the Horn, as if working on the greatest piece of all time; the ivory perfectly smooth, like velvet so as not to tear any delicate area. The leather cut and tailored to perfect measurement too, these measurements all as supplied to him by Jacques. The couple so overly excited every time he would present it to her. "This is going to be the most beautiful performance you have ever seen," Anna-Marie would say to him. "Now put it back in the box. You know it's for Paris, not me,"

Dinner that night consisted of pheasant. The four of them all seated at the same table together, the girls picking gently at the flesh to tear it from the bone. There was something exciting seeing them do this with their greasy fingers as they stared across the table at each other: an exciting curiosity that many others in the restaurant shared. On the table, a gift wrapped present for Paris: a box tied closed with a red ribbon, and this she was instructed not to open until later. They joked between themselves and shared stories, all clean and quite normal just as you would expect from any other dinner invitation. Jacques and Paris would play for two hours that evening to the guests present and then they would all retire together for a glass of wine or two in Stanton and Anna-Marie's cabin.

Returning to 069, beforehand the couple washed and changed, and Jacques presented the gift to Paris. "Would you care to wear it tonight?" he asked of her. To which a very excited reply was returned. "Oh yes, I would love to oblige sir," she smiled with a cheeky grin. Paris dressed up for the occasion, a black French basque and seamed stockings, complimented by her high heels and elbow-length silk evening gloves, her long red cocktail dress covering the beauty of what was beneath. She sprayed herself with the most expensive perfume that Jacques had bought her and you could see how keen she was to get going.

A gentle knock on the door of 034 and Jacques turned the knob, opening the door quietly. The couple went in to find Stanton sat in his armchair, a second armchair placed beside it for Jacques. On the table between the two, a bottle of Scotch, a full bottle to complement the full crystal decanter of red wine beside it, and also a bucket of fresh ice. "In case it gets too hot for us," Stanton joked with Jacques.

There, lying on her back across the chaise longue was Anna-Marie wearing a long black nightdress, with intricate detail and thinly veiled at the hips and waist. All of the crucial parts fully hidden and covered in all the right ways. "Will she suffice?" Stanton asked of Paris. "Oh she'll do nicely," the reply as Paris gently stroked her thigh. Anna-Marie flinched momentarily given the application of that sensuous touch. "Do you like the present?" she asked. "Stanton has spent a very long time on it for you. I hope it's perfect." "Perfect yes," replied Paris. "They're so very perfect and just what I've always wanted." "I know," interrupted Stanton excitedly. "Jacques told me."

Anna-Marie was then tied: tied up by arm and wrist to the chaise lounge with the same type of red ribbon that had been used to wrap the gift. Across her face, a black velvet blindfold tied securely to prevent view.

"Now then," stated Stanton. "Is there anything we need before we start? I've got plenty of wine, scotch and ice. The heating is up and I've dimmed the lights. Is the light OK for you, Jacques?" he asked. "Perfect," as ever was Jacques' reply. "Well then ladies," Stanton said as he rubbed his hands together adding, "shall we begin with tonight's performance?" Paris sat down beside the tied and blindfolded Anna-Marie and started to tickle and stroke her ankles, this with ever-increasing longer strokes leading further upward. Anna-Marie trembled as she uttered the words, "You're so tender Paris, and I do hope you will enjoy me."

Stanton got out his accordion and started to play. "A French tune is best for the occasion, don't you all think?" Jacques watched every move, his erection bursting from within. "Your first time isn't it?" Stanton laughed. He knew that neither Jacques nor Paris had done anything quite like this before, but he gained a sense of excitement by reminding all those present of this important fact. "Just enjoy every moment of it. I've seen it all a thousand times and it is wonderful every time I watch her." Stanton had enjoyed his moment whilst raping Paris whilst Jacques was watching - Paris's rape fantasy now fulfilled. But tonight was about Anna-Marie and this is what she had always wanted. Not just any woman, but a woman with a strap-on penis.

Paris climbed over her, placing herself in a sixty-nine position. Anna-Marie's dampness was quite uncontrollable and steaming. She was wet, very wet and by now eagerly awaiting the next move. Paris cooled her down occasionally with ice cubes applied to her nipples and clit. After a few minutes of gentle oral down inside her crutch with her knickers just lightly pulled aside, Paris sat up. Raising her dress above the stocking tops she sat down on Anna-Marie's still blindfolded face. "Is this what you want," Paris teased. Softly caressing her face as she rotated on it clockwise, the hard smooth surface of the horn upon her lips served only to fuel the delivery of Anna-Marie's passionate gasps. "Yes, do it, do it all, fuck me Paris, fuck me!" "Not just yet," Paris stated firmly.

Paris felt the need to describe her new item of underwear in detail. Continuing to tease Anna-Marie, she explained. "One cock inside me and one cock inside you, is that how you want it?" Stanton had crafted the strap-on to meet the needs of both women. A dual ivory horn crafted into a fine penis at both ends. Shaped almost to a V, this allowed Paris to enjoy the penetration of one end whilst fucking Anna-Marie with the other. It was a precise fit, the leather bodice styled underwear to which it was riveted remaining firmly in place. This allowed both women to fuck with some degree of control over the penetration of each other. Stanton's idea was that with such a hard inflexible ivory joint, as Paris fucked, the end penetrating Anna-Marie would react equally in reply. As Anne-Marie would grind upon the rod in return, she too could control what was soon to be up inside the both of them.

After some time Paris untied her. She instructed her to roll over on to her belly, and upon doing so immediately tied her hands behind her back. "Now then," she said. "I want you to suck me. We have guests to entertain, so do a good job. I don't want to have to spank you now, do I?" With Paris sat up firmly and toward the headboard end of the chaise lounge, Anne-Marie now began to give the artificial penis the sucking and wanking-off of a life-time. "Wow," remarked Jacques. "That's impressive." But Stanton was too fixated on Anna-Marie's arse, now raised high into the air in front of him, to respond, for she was now dripping her juices onto the cushioning below. "Let's hog-tie her next!" he demanded.

Paris was overcome with ecstasy. Anna-Marie had learnt very quickly that by throwing her head from left to right and back again with violent additional gripping of teeth, the horn, dual end up inside, was driving her wild. Caressing her breasts and fingering her in return, Paris ordered her to sit up. Paris stood and removed her dress, then climbing back onto the bed but lying on her back with her legs down between Anna-Marie's. "Be seated," her soft whispered instruction. Paris pulling her underwear again to the side and Anna-Marie slid down upon the horn for the first time. "Jesus fucking Christ," she cried out. "I want this, I want this!" With her hands still tied behind her back and the blindfold still firmly in place Paris pounded up from below almost thrusting her off it. "This is how your husband likes to fuck me. Does he fuck you this hard as well?" Paris asked. The reply in return, "It's impossible to fuck me too hard, Paris."

Stanton had taken his work most seriously. Paris's end was crafted to the exact measurements of Jacques erect penis, and Anna-Marie's end to his. "Bet it feels like a real horn-from-home," he joked, intending to have said home-from-home but it had just slipped out that way and to which end had made him giggle. Paris removed the blindfold. "I want you to see what you are kissing" she said as she slid her tongue deep into Anna-Marie's mouth, her black basque, stockings and gloves on display to Anna-Marie for the first time. "Let's kiss like the French do. I'll teach you."

Both Jacques and Stanton made no secret of the impressive members down inside their trousers. No attempt was made to hide their public bulges. Stanton then said "You take her," staring Jacques straight in the eye with his approval. "I've had yours so it's only fair. You can't sit here and watch two girls French kissing and fucking with a strap-on, and not want in on a piece of the action, surely?" Jacques removed his jacket and dropped his trousers to the floor around his ankles. "You'll need some of this," Stanton said passing him a small metal tobacco tin. Jacques opened it to discover the fine scented natural bees-wax inside. "Enjoy yourself and take your time. We have all night my friend. I'm happy just to watch so do take your time my man," Stanton reassured him as he continued to play his accordion again whilst also enjoying his pipe.

Jacques dipped his fingers into the wax and eagerly rubbed it onto his pulled back dry foreskin, then rolling his skin back and forth so that the entire length was lubricated. Grabbing Anna-Marie by her inside thighs he pulled her toward him as he stood to the end of the bed. Paris gladly repositioned herself to assist his reach. "Here's a real one for you!" he exclaimed as he slid the entire length of his cock up inside Anna-Marie's anus. One long slow but full motion, all the way in until he could pierce her no more. Paris stopped grinding momentarily to allow Anne-Marie to gain control of a natural and more comfortable rhythm, then the three continued grinding on both the horn and the cock in a perfect unison. As Anna-Marie attempted to speed up motion to a faster pace acceptable to all, the couple soon accompanied her. "Gentle, gentle, gentle," Jacques would say commandingly down to her. "I want us all to cum at the same time."

PART THREE

Chapter Twenty Eight

'The pump room'

The two couples would regularly enjoy each other's company, the girls taking it in turns to wear the horn, the men taking it in to turns to ride the raised female buttock. But more often than not the two men just enjoyed watching the girls as they tenderly stroked and teased each other. The sexuality virus had spread throughout A-Deck and I, RMS Fantasia witnessed and controlled all things. A white stocking hung from the outside of a cabin door was always an invitation to 'cum' inside. But interestingly, rumours had spread down below and if you now look through the porthole window of the pump room you will see a most interesting contraption.

The pump room is located to my rear, not fully of my stern but deep down below nonetheless. Here are kept all the tools of the trade for the crew, everything needed for any routine maintenance or emergency such that can befall us whilst out at sea. Here too is found Able Seaman Dodds. Dodds, a Scot, had joined the merchant navy at 13. Now at 32 years of age he finds himself responsible for my pumps. The pumps are the pressure valves that regulate the pressure from my boilers. Able Seaman Dodds opens them and closes them as needed to maintain that regular steady pressure. That firm sexual vibration that echoes throughout me is Dodds' doing, and naturally this regular and strong pulsing vibration of my hull would make any a man horny. Dodds was regularly caught masturbating by his fellow crewmates. "You try working in here without taking a wank," the routine reply.

Stanton had spoken to Dodds on many occasions, in order to borrow tools and materials for the crafting of the horn, the rivets and buckles and so forth. Stanton had promised to show him his finished work and this he had done. Dodds, a clever man and not one to miss an opportunity to make some extra money, had made his future plans accordingly. He was creating something that he believed people would pay for, a new leisure opportunity, a seafaring experience that only he could provide. Dodds' wages were low and he soon realised that the first class passengers on A-Deck would soon pay handsomely for what he could now offer them. Whilst the snobs upstairs were not interesting in fucking with him, they would certainly be interested in paying for this.

Within my pump room he controlled the pressure. He would regularly, by adjustment of my control valves, release steam into additional escape pipe-work that via the heating chambers would eventually divert into my three main funnels. This was an art in itself, a well-rehearsed procedure on any steam ship as to do so too slowly risked boiler explosion and to do so too fast would at best reduce me to standstill. Once this forward momentum was lost it would take hours to rebuild my pressure again. Dodds installed some more additional pipe-work from an idea that had been inspired by Stanton's horn conversations. With a combination of steel pipe and rubber heat-resistant flexible tubing, he could release a steady and unnoticed force that was not of detriment to my own personal performance. A platform measuring approximately six feet by two was created, the frame, likened to a metal bed base was raised two feet or so from the ground by rubberised-type legs. This ensured that all vibration was maintained by the frame and the energy not lost deep into my hull. The level of movement and the vibration were controlled by one single throttle valve.

By tapping onto a rotating shaft, Dodds had created an additional feature. A metal rod that rotated to-'n-fro, aft-'n-forward, the speed of which he also controlled. From mahogany that he had acquired from an old broken table (somebody had got a little over-excited on it), he had shaped a fine set of penises. He had carved, from the table legs three versions of the same style but each uniquely different: large, medium and anal, anal being the small one as nobody would want such a diameter for vaginal purposes he had thought. The demand would prove to be low.

Paris felt an overwhelming urge to explore the lower deck on this particular day, an urge that I, RMS Fantasia, controlled. I would lead her down into the depths of my hull and introduce her to him. Dodds cared for me and it was only right that I use my power and influence to return the favour. Paris had no idea why she felt the need to go down below. But deep down she went, turning the heads of all the crew members as she passed them by. The lower she went the stronger the shaking of my hull, this arousing her as it would any other. The fierce vibration of the hand rail along the pump room corridor, at times, made it quite unable to be gripped. Naturally Paris started to wet herself below.

Catching a glimpse through an inner porthole window of Dodds finalising his creation, she watched him closely with amazement. "It looks just like a mechanical penis," her immediate thought. Dodds upon seeing her staring beckoned her to join him. "I'm sorry ma'am," he said. "I didn't know you were watching. Nobody ever 'cums' down here except me and a handful of others and today is their day off. I wasn't expecting to see anybody else today. Please don't tell the Captain what you have seen. Please don't. I'll lose my job." "What on earth is it?" Paris enquired. "Well, it's a kind of..., it's a..., it's a..., a machine for..., er, er, it's not really an-anything-thing miss." Dodds with his red-faced expression and fearing certain dismissal, these the only nonsensical words he finally blurted out.

"It's a 'fucking machine' isn't it?" Paris asked, without any embarrassment or pause. "Well, yes ma'am. I guess it is," was the only reply he could muster. "Is it yours?" enquired Paris. "Yes madam, well yes and no, I mean I built it but it's not for me." Dodds by this point not knowing what to say or where to look. Here he was confronted by the most beautiful woman he had ever seen and caught red-handed by her, fine tuning the fucking machine. Able Seaman Dodds decided that a frank and honest explanation was required and needed fast. "If I may explain ma'am. I just wanted to make some money and heard about what goes on upstairs. Somebody made an ivory strap-on and I just adapted the idea from the man I helped to make it." "Oh, you've met Stanton then?" Paris smiled. "I know them both very well, very well indeed."

Paris had no idea why she had felt the need to explore below decks that day but realised that this find, her meeting with Dodds, was a kind of destiny for her, something over which she had not had control. "It's the ship," explained Dodds. "It makes you do things; things you want to do but wouldn't normally do. It's the ship ma'am, and it has a control over everybody on board." Paris wasn't impressed by the idea that I, the ship was somehow able to telepathically read her mind and thus control her movements but she humoured Dodds regardless: this belief in me as he truly saw to be the case. "I've served on many ships ma'am but this one is different. It makes you think things, dirty things." She told him that his secret was completely safe with her and that she was more than a personal friend to Stanton. "Can I try it then?" she promptly asked. "I mean if I am going to recommend your services to my friends upstairs then it is at the very least required that I sample the goods on offer."

Dodds was keen to assist. Paris lay backwards upon the frame and raised her legs into two fixed ankle brackets that held her legs up high and open. Paris pulled her panties aside and adjusted herself so that the medium option of wooden penis was penetrating now just one inch. This was the start-up amount as he explained to her. When the machine was started and the frame vibrating in tandem with the rod, it would go in a further six inches or so, Dodds continued to explain. "It's best to start from a novice's stand-point," he claimed from his first-hand experience, "just until you get used to it. You can adjust yourself easily. Grease is on the floor next to you, right hand side. Naturally if you want more whilst it is running help yourself. You'll soon discover a preferred comfortable position," he added.

Dodds started the machine in motion. "Steady away ma'am" he chuckled. "If you require any lubrication like I said it's on the floor to your right. Sorry but prop shaft grease is all I've got but you'll find it works a real treat, though it is a little bit irritating afterward." And he left the room. Dodds, a decent chap had agreed to allow the first class passenger her privacy for a fifteen minute period.

Upon his return he found Paris to be sat trembling in the corner, the machine at standstill. Crouched up like a cold child, her hands wrapped tightly around her knees that she had pulled up to meet her chest. "Is everything alright miss? You didn't, I mean please tell me you didn't touch the pressure valve after I set it, did you?" "Am I alright?" Paris bellowed back at him. "I've just been fucked senseless by a machine and you stand there and ask me if I'm alright? Of course I'm fucking alright!"

With every intention of fucking all night, the deal was agreed and a shake of hand sealed the final contract. "Don't worry about the Captain, Dodds. I'll take care of him," her final words to Dodds before limping back toward A-Deck. Today was Sunday, the other 'semen's' day off, and only Dodds would be on that corridor and in the pump room on Sundays. Paris, who had affectionately nicknamed the fucking machine, the Day of Rest, thought this to be a wonderful idea. Sunday was to be girls' day out and the men could take their much needed and well-earned rest.

Glimpsing through the porthole of the Captain's cabin later that evening I found Paris to be on her knees. Paris had indeed taken care of Captain Patrick O'Brien. Whilst other passengers would use the allure of money to buy his confidence and silence, she would use her mouth, all the time showing him the advanced tongue techniques she had required for the professional playing of her flute. There, Jacques as ever, watching them both. "Don't mind me Captain. Just pretend I'm not here," words that O'Brien was quite often used to hearing by now.

Ladies day proved to be a most popular event. Only the most daring ones would chose the large option from the menu. Anal had proved to be a most popular choice as well, but as Dodds had so predicted, this not for vaginal usage. The ladies would queue along the pump room corridor enjoying the pulsing beat of my vibration as they waited patiently for their turn. A fixed period of ten minutes per person was agreed, this not only to allow for a fair usage policy of this most popular machine but also as Paris explained to them, "Ten minutes is all you will need. Anymore and you risk never walking again. Believe me, I've done it." A clear warning was always given to the Captain, a reminder on the Day of Rest. Never was I, the RMS Fantasia to be shafted back into hard astern whilst the machine was in use. This would certainly be all that was needed to kill someone.

Now dear reader, if you can just pull your hand away from yourself for just a moment, I need to tell you this important fact. The next time you see a product with the words 'Stanton-Dodds' written upon it, a car chassis, bicycles, motors or other metal-framed or housed product, well now you know how the company was first formed: 'Stanton-Dodds, established New York 1907' and born of me and my pump room. Their full range of more discreet personal apparatus and necessary supply detail is not found within the company's public marketing brochures.
PART THREE

Chapter Twenty Nine

'Master Bates'

Master Bates was a gentle soul and a very fine soul was he. He was a very feminine male who soon caught the attentions of both Paris and Jacques, especially Jacques because he could not work out at first if Bates was male or female, such was his manner and appearance. Paris, well she was more obsessed with his legs. She had noticed one day whilst swimming in the upper deck pool how smooth and perfect they were. Paris had remarked to Bates that his legs were in fact smoother than hers. This, just by way of a compliment, as we know it not to be at all in fact, true.

Master Bates had soon become the personal pet of the couple. Whilst physically a man, outwardly he was clearly a woman. Paris would spend hours putting her make-up and scents on him, brushing his long curls and telling him how beautiful he was. He appreciated this attention as the sailors regularly enjoyed taking him up the arse as he would put it, but he felt that Paris sincerely cared for him, cared about his feelings, his appearance and for his company.

Master Bates would try on all of her clothes and they would spend hours together giggling and parading in them in front of Jacques, experimenting to find which joint look most aroused their male companion. Her black basque with the rear-seamed stockings was always a favourite for both Bates and Jacques, Bates, always with an immediate erection upon enclosing himself within it.

It was a most impressive tool and Jacques adored externally teasing it through the soft black underwear. The thought that everything that appeared to him to be female, was in actual fact housing this impressive member down below, was to be very exciting for him. Paris also enjoyed her new pet and gained much excitement in preparing him for the attentions of Jacques. Indeed, her over-excited sessions on the fucking machine would occasionally require a few days of respite from activity. In return for her custom, bringing the ladies down to the pump room, Dodds had in return assured her of unlimited free access, and she had never failed to take full advantage of such a generous offer.

Mater Bates was indeed female. No evidence of masculinity at all, and no evidence of any male stereo-typical characteristics other than the cock. He was always immaculately waxed of all facial, bodily and pubic hair, his eye brows plucked and possessing a sensational figure and even a small cleavage. This, other than his small tits, similar in dimension to Paris's, thus provided for no shortage of perfectly fitting lingerie with which he could play.

Jacques did not fancy men and had never considered himself to be gay. He had always held a deep fantasy for the shemale experience. Paris was delighted to assist in fulfilling this desire. Bates, well he was 'overcum' with the opportunity not only to be freely female but to be treated as a female as well. The other sailors were always rough with him. He enjoyed a good hard fuck but had longed for gentleness and tenderness. He wanted to be spoilt and he would, in return, serve well his new master and mistress.

Jacques would sit upon the bed with Bates stood upright in front of him, licking and gripping that impressive erection through the thin underwear, between his teeth. Jacques would take his time, the longer it took for Bates to spray his load onto Jacques' face the better. Paris always joined them in licking both men clean afterward. Her affectionate pet name for Bates was Spunkpire which aroused her sexually, given her fetish for vampiric thrills: a vampire fantasy that she desperately longed to fulfil but for now she and Jacques would just have to make do and feed upon the sperm of Bates.

After an evening's musical performance and after Bates had also finished his table duties, the three would retire to Master Bates' cabin for fun. Every evening, he wore a different item of costume provided for him by Paris and a different scent with alternate make-up colouring to suit the delicate hues, the particular item of sensuous lingerie as chosen for him that evening. Bates would finish his shift around 11 pm. He was a waiter in the Wheelhouse Club. The couple would finish a performance sometime after, usually 2 am, later in the early hours of the morning. If they weren't required to perform for longer, they would eagerly head to cabin C329, the staff quarter where Bates would prepare himself and wait for their impending arrival.

On the occasions wehn they couldn't join him, not only due to their work commitments but often because they had chosen the company of others, they would send a message to him saying, "Sorry, can't 'cum' tonight, have fun." Bates, always over-excited and having desperately avoided masturbation in eager anticipation would then care for himself. When he was wearing Paris's lingerie, his swollen cock was always rock hard and throbbing. The torment that he was desperate to be fucked and now had to wait for it, excited Paris and Jacques equally.

A cucumber would suit the purpose of solo performance every time. Bates would dig it down into his pillow and sit upon it. Unable to slide away from side to side given the deep anchorage that his soft bedding gave, he could rodger down on it to his heart's content. If you peep through his porthole you will often catch him fucking himself, there sat upright on his knees to the bed, the cucumber deeply embedded and opposite the long dress mirror. He liked to watch himself caress his own body in front of it. Slowly stroking his clean-shaven breast and practising his moves, acting out what he would want to see from a woman, pulling off his shoulder straps to enable Paris's slips to fall around his waist and at the precise moment of his ejaculation.

One particular evening Paris removed the leather strapping from her trunk and gave Bates strict instructions. "We will be down tonight and we want you prepared." "I want to surprise Jacques with something a little special this evening." She passed him a scribbled diagram of how he was to use the straps. "Hog tied, you want me hog tied?" gasped Master Bates. "Yes indeed," said Paris. "Hog tied. I learnt it from Stanton, and you're getting slaughtered tonight, young man." Although Bates was a little concerned about where this was all leading, the thought of being restrained by the couple excited him. "You will let me go afterward?" he asked cautiously. "You won't be too rough with me, will you?" Paris smiled, "I promise, you will love every minute."

Paris instructed him to go to her cabin and to choose red, something long and silky. "Jacques likes to slide it up your thighs before he takes you, when you bend over and he sees the shape of your buttocks imprinted through the silk, he likes it that way," she gleamed...

Two am that morning soon came and Bates had done as ordered. He would always comply with the strict instruction of Mistress Paris. He was after all her Spunkpire pet, and all good dogs do as they are told thus ensuring the love and devotion of the master or in this case, the mistress. He was prepared and had spent two full hours readying himself: waxing and bathing and applying his make-up meticulously; black mascara to his long lashes and lipstick to match perfectly with the deep red silk slip Paris had told him to wear. A wide black suspender belt held up his seamed red stockings with a black garter to his left leg. But no bra. Jacques hated this. Pretend tits were out of order as he had no desire to caress paper tissue. Jacques wanted flesh, his naked chest only. Shoes to match, black stilettos of course, and suitable hanging jewellery adding that additional feminine character.

Master Bates looked himself up and down in the mirror and was very pleased with his results. "I'd liked to fuck her," he laughed as he looked at the reflection of this beauty before him. Experimenting with sexually suggestive positions in front of the same mirror, he would bend over and raise his arse in the air imagining the sight of Jacques pounding it. He lowered his shoulder straps and repeatedly stepping in and out of the slip, excited by the way he had to kick it away from under him as it caught on his stiletto heel.

He positioned himself, and as ordered, applied the leather straps. His poor effort at tying himself up was soon to be corrected upon the couple's arrival. Jacques and Paris entered the cabin, having waited a few moments at the door, given the quiet discreet knock in which Bates could confirm to be ready or not.

"Are you happy with your surprise?" Paris asked, to which Jacques delightfully replied, "Oh yes, thank you my dear." Bates was hog tied, his arms and legs up behind his back and fastened at a single point to wrist and ankle, lying there on the bed face down and smelling simply divine. Just the odour of Paris's favourite scent called Take Me had driven Jacques into sexual turmoil. The bespoke scent, made in Paris, was distilled to her exacting detail by the finest French perfumer.

She fastened the leather straps tightly, ensuring that no arm or leg would be able to work itself free and spun him around on the cabin bed so that his torso filled the full width of his centrally placed position. Taking two wooden chairs which she then placed to either side of it, she sat in the chair on one side of the bed and Jacques to the other. Raising her dress, she revealed the horn to be in situ. Paris adored publicly walking the corridor to Bates's cabin with the outline of her erection clearly visible beneath her clothing. "Now you're going to find out what it's like to be treated as a slab of meat," she stated firmly to Bates.

Master Bates, in his moment of shock at what was about to happen, attempted to protest, but in reality it was a half-hearted attempt and not too loudly voiced. It was evidently more of a sexual torment to the others and in reality he wanted it as much as the couple did. "We'll need to do something about the noise," Paris said sarcastically as she gagged Bates with a black velvet evening glove that she removed from her right arm. "Women have taken it for years without complaining," she laughed. "Trust me, you will love every moment of it."

Jacques concentrated on the face, Bates sucking his hard erect penis whilst being firmly controlled by both hands, a firm grip to his hair either side of the head by Jacques. Paris took up the rear, gripping tightly the knotted strapping to his back with both hands. Both had pulled up their chairs to allow for a comfortable relaxed position in which the legs could be opened out wide across the bed in front of them, with their groins in easy reach of their sexual facility.

As Bates continued to lick and suck the cock before him, Paris gently slid the horn up inside, Bates grinding back on it with a sudden burst of sexual adrenalin rush. The more he thrust to and fro back against Paris, the further Jacques would penetrate his throat, gagging and choking him and thus creating a most colourful frequency range of gargled sounds. Jacques was a performer, not a composer, but it was this noise of uncontrolled and slightly muffled sexual expression that cemented an idea firm into his mind. "What if I were to create a masterpiece? An ode to fucking, a symphony created out of the sounds of sex," he thought, as he continued to enjoy Bates' most fine attentions.

This thought was too much for him, cumming unexpectedly earlier than planned and shooting his load deep into Bates's throat who in return choked and spat some cum back out onto the floor. "Allow me to help," Paris informed as she withdrew herself slowly from Bates's anus. Walking around to where Jacques was now standing and readjusting his clothing, she kneeled. Her tongue licked clean Bates's face and in doing so savouring every drop as she opened her mouth as wide as she could. Her tongue mixed saliva and cum together, as if kneading dough, in the clear and visible direction of her partner Jacques.

A quiet polite knock at the door was then heard. "Come in Leonardo!" Jacques shouted. "Ah, I see you have started without me. Sorry I'm late," the new face of Leonardo said upon entering the room. "So this is the young filly in question then," referring to Bates and not to Paris, he and she already being well acquainted with each other. "Let's see what we can do with it then," his zip coming down and the Cobra, as he called it, now released. "Allow me to introduce myself young man, I'm Leonardo and my Cobra wishes to spit. I hope there are no objections? No? – Okay then, let's get on with it. I have an early start in the morning." The words spoken in tandem as he entered up inside the young Master Bates without giving any genuine pause for objection. To say that Leonardo was in a hurry was quite an understatement, for he fucked Bates quite senseless. All this as Paris continued with her French kiss knelt there in front with the horn standing up between her thighs as proud as the Eiffel Tower.

Leonardo let out a huge gasp as he came deep inside. Bates by now was almost rigid and unable to cope with the pounding that his gentle petite little arse had just encountered. Jacques on the other hand wasn't into gay sex. He wanted oral only but the possession of a penis on his female was all the more exciting for him. Leonardo liked young men. The more he got to take as a prize, the better. As soon as he had spat the Cobra into his victim he was off again. There was no polite etiquette with Leonardo. It was all about cumming and as quickly and as often as possible.

Leonardo was an Italian hunter. But he didn't collect the heads

of game animals but more the photographs of his sexual conquests. He was in a hurry, now in his late fifties, to photograph as many as possible before, as he put it, "The end comes." He was an established photographer and to Jacques' delight had produced a most magnificent collection of stills, all taken of Paris, one of which you can see on the cover, but most of which could never possibly be realistically published. Jacques would spend hours masturbating over them. Pornography was common among the French at the time and Leonardo was delighted to assist with a new broader-minded collection.

Before he left he took many pictures of Bates photographing the very fine detail of all parts of his now battered and abused young body. Paris seated with her horn down inside Bates's throat a particular favourite. Spunkpire evenings would while away many an evening after this; Leonardo inviting an ever increasing circle of eager male Cobra counterparts into the family. And what of Jacques? Well he would sit and watch this onslaught of anal fucking, listening to every sound and noting down perfectly his new symphony on a manuscript, a musical masterpiece affectionately still known today as the Ode au Sexe.

PART THREE

Chapter Thirty

'To Strike a Chord'

Oh my dear voyeuristic reader, how I wish you could now join me for I can see you as I see all things on board. Shall I grip your penis firm in my hand and finish you off now? Swallowing every drop of that sweet nectar that you care to share with me? Or shall I slide my fingers into you moist wet canyon of delight and pleasures? Shall we continue to fuck each other as you read on through my story? There is no need to be shy, no need to feel embarrassment at all for I

am here to please you. I'm sure you will find your voyage to be 'moist' satisfying indeed. I have been pumping my way for several weeks now and I wish you could see what I see, but I'll share what I can. I see all things at all times. There are no secrets from me, the RMS Fantasia. But you my reader, you are a lesser mortal than I, and I accept with all my frustrations that we proceed step by step, just one porthole at a time. So don't cum just yet. Save yourself for a little while longer

Paris and Jacques have sown a seed that they no longer control, but I do. I have no desire to ever bring an end to what I witness here throughout time and space. With those white invitation stockings hung to countless cabin door handles and the finest of male and female passengers joining me at every port, my cold steel hull shudders in anticipation of the next new performance. My Wheelhouse Bar heaving with the sweaty cum-soaked flesh of human screw and all performed to the masterpiece of the Ode au Sexe.

Paris and Jacques, those two classical performers who joined me back in the spring of 1906 were always a popular sell-out. The royal blue blood of many a king or queen payed handsomely to join our passage from all four corners of the world.

It was in the November that same year that the Prince Regent of Raminnesia came aboard. Raminnesia was then just a small regal protectorate but one that would later on grow to epic historic proportions. The Prince Regent (who will all referred to as the King, due to his reputation for owning a most impressive mast), was not a lover of the cold winter months. He had sought to find a hotter climate, and noting the rumours circulating within the highest of royal circles, had booked his passage.

This was the perfect opportunity for Jacques. His musical creation performed in the presence of a King. This was a performance that would be timed to perfection. Rehearsals were strict, frequent and well-practiced by all involved. Jacques' work of art was now a mammoth 3 hours in duration with every scripted sound of sexual coupling meticulously noted down. He was a master and the Wheelhouse grand piano, the perfect stage.

After several days and nights of most disciplined rehearsal and of a noticeably changed manner of walking movement by many whilst they strolled along the promenade afterward, the time had come. Jacques was finally ready. He had not allowed the beautiful Paris to physically involve herself. She needed to be fresh for the pleasure of the King. Any unnecessary soreness of the lead performer had to be avoided. This not something that could have been said of the promenade ladies during this same period of time.

You could see who had been involved. It was usually very obvious and they were easy to pick out. The gentleman would remain sat on the promenade deck benches as the ladies would limp on past, their stiff straight backs held high in an attempt to conceal the uncomfortable mode of post-rehearsal movement. "Strange how the ladies never want to be seated these days," a common and deliberately overheard comment of those men who watched them go slowly by.

Captain Patrick O'Brien had ensured that everything was perfect for the evening's entertainment. The cutlery spotless and immaculately polished as high grade silver should be, and not one stain, regardless of how small it was, to be present on the table cloths. An occurrence that was hard to avoid these days and the laundry staff always kept fully employed and active in service.

The evening came. O'Brien first greeted His Majesty of Raminnesia with the courtesy befitting the most welcomed royal visitor. Then greeting the increasing number of first-class passengers who eagerly lined his palm with the sweet scent of money to ensure a prominent seat. As the candles flickered and the soft silks, a rainbow of colour hung from all walls, blew gently in the sea breeze, Jacques and Paris prepared themselves like they had never prepared before. "Now is everything perfect?" she said nervously to Jacques. "I've never fucked a King before." "I've never seen a King fuck you either," his short reply. "I guess Kings just fuck like everybody else, don't they?" he inquired of her. "Well," Paris laughed, "if I'd ever done it with one I'd know wouldn't I? I'm sure you would have been the first person to find out." By now she was shaking with nerves as the time for curtain call fast approached.

Jacques entered first, his appearance perfect, impeccable in his velvet fitted dinner jacket and purple bow tie. "I present your Majesty with my work. I trust it will be to your favour," he announced as he sat on the piano stool, stretching his arms and fingers out before him. The room fell silent, not a breath, and a pin drop could easily have been heard. Jacques started to play, striking his first chord.

Paris was treated as if she was the reincarnated Cleopatra. The King had supplied to her his own hand-picked maidens who bathed her in fine scented oils, attending to the trimming of her sweet little vagina and dressed her in corset and stockings accordingly. The King's own private staff allowed to attend to her every need and Paris looked exquisite, just perfect. The divine angel as I have previously described. As the sounds of Jacques striking a chord echoed through to her, she became weak at the knees.

A sound of beauty, the Ode au Sexe drove every woman and man wild with sexual excitement. There, all sat around their tables watching and listening as he played, the need to fuck was palpable to all and the accompanying verbal delights un-restrained. It was not possible to sit in silence when the ode was played, for it was created from and for the pleasures of the flesh, and a hypnotic spell was soon cast upon all who heard it, intoxicated by the grunts, the sudden gasps for air and intakes of sudden breath. The musical score shouted out aloud as if all were now in a state of uncontrolled Tourette's syndrome. "Fuck me. Take me. Do it. I need it. Fuck me hard, harder!" And so on. All were looking around the room at each other as if unable to explain why they had just shouted out such words.

Upon her cue, Paris entered, her long white virginesque dress train trailing behind her and the King mesmerised by the sight of her. "How much for it?" he shouted out in an instant. Paris smiled downward at the floor knowing that the King had not been able to control his verbal release, just as all others present that night. She was now blushing and not wanting him in any way to feel awkward with such an audible outcry. She knew how important it was for her and Jacques to behave in as royal a manner as they could and respect His Majesty at all times.

Paris stood before them all and after taking a bow, stretching as low to the ground as humanly possible and extending her glorious backside upward and outward to much applause dropped her white negligee to the floor at her feet. Stepping out of it, she turned her back to present her endless legs and pert rear once more to the audience, her every move exaggerated by her three inch white-heeled thigh-high boots. She then walked over to her cello and lifted it up. Laying it on top of the grand piano, she climbed atop, straddling it with her legs opened wide. There had been some dramatic improvements in her playing style since she had come aboard me in the spring. She now demonstrated the highest degree and standard of professionalism, which was duly noted by the royal party present. No, for unlike the usual traditionally expected manner where she would bow the strings with the instrument gripped firmly between her thighs, she would now grip the body with one hand and the neck tightly grasped by her cunt. Role reversal easily applied to both people, and musical instruments.

As Jacques continued to play she too continued to play. Every note from her cello being toned by sliding backward and forward, the heavy duty strings grasped and plucked between the pink, raw flesh, of her moist clit. Paris was note perfect using her warm moisture to dampen the sound as required, the necessary leaping up and down forcefully upon it, the cello banging violently against the piano lid for

the developing musical crescendo.

Watching Paris screwing her cello in front of him and in so doing managing to deliver every note exactly as intended was far too much for the King to handle. The sight of her sliding to and fro, smearing herself on the neck shaft, and the strings controlled as if slicing her in two between the legs, served only to cause his premature ejaculation. This vision before him and the accompanying noise of sexual expression from those sat around, that striking of the chord as Jacques played his masterpiece, were far too much for any unprepared man to bear.

The King leapt to his feet in an instant and with all manner of tabletop dressings flying across the room, yelled out at the top of his voice, "Hamrannullah!" in his mother tongue of Raminnesia which literally translated means "I'm cumming." Now interestingly, ever since this event occurred and, with the later addition by Jacques of the Hamrannullah Chorus to the musical score of the Ode au Sexe symphony, people still stand to this day. That's right - whenever the public performance of this piece of music is held and always as a strictly observed tradition and custom, at the point of the Hamrannullah Chorus, the audience all stand up. It's a mark of respect and in recognition of the spontaneous ejaculation of the Prince Regent.

Sometime later that very same evening, well the early hours of the following morning to be more precise, and as the couple slept, a knock was heard on their cabin door. Upon hearing it, Jacques sat up in bed to investigate and saw a letter discreetly pushed underneath. It was a royal invitation to join the King in his royal quarters, a stone's throw down the A-Deck corridor, in cabin number 001. The most lavish of cabins aboard and reserved only for the most important of seafarers. Captain Patrick O'Brien was housed next door in 002

Now it doesn't take much imagination to understand what the King had in mind, and a peep through the porthole of 001 will soon reveal all. "Your Majesty," Paris shyly spoke as she entered the Prince Regent of Raminnesia's royal cabin chamber. "I hope you don't mind. I am eagerly keen to be of service but Jacques must be with me at all times," she nervously added. "He is most welcome my dear," The King replied. "I'm sure there is more than enough room for both of us," he added. Paris blushed, "What on earth has he got in mind for me?" she thought to herself. After all, he was called the King because of his huge reputation - and she couldn't possibly accommodate an entire royal flag pole, could she?

The King, pouring all present a glass of best Russian vodka went on to congratulate the couple on the magnificence of the evening's entertainment. "There is neither a woman nor symphony like it on earth," he excitedly spoke, adding, "You, my dears, are the only people in history to have made me cum without once having touched myself or someone else first. Incredible what you have achieved and for you I offer my Royal 'Seed' of Approval. Now drop your nightwear Paris, let's see it in all its full glory."

His Royal Highness lay on his bed naked and before the now naked Paris, he tenderly started to stroke himself until fully aroused. Paris stood before him pinching her nipples simultaneously as she watched the King grow. "Will it ever stop?" she thought, it was indeed proving to be a most impressive navigation aid. Then, slowly sliding her right hand down whilst her left remained on her breast, she began to stroke and play with herself between the legs, humming the tune 'Ring around a Rosie' to him.

Coitus interruptus was the couple's usual mode of birth control; Paris's chest and lower abdomen regularly smeared with her conquest's secretion. However, she was a little concerned to make such a request of a future King. To interrupt His Majesty in the throes of passion may serve only to back-fire on the couple, she thought. But Paris's worries were not to be of concern as the event panned out. His Majesty wanted Paris up the arse and also had a clear, defined, role for Jacques.

Paris climbed up over the body of the King as he lay on his back on the bed. Turning to face his feet, dry, she lowered down gently and slowly upon his erect penis, letting out an almighty squeal as it forced its way up inside. The King spat on himself forcibly and with great accuracy. "That's all the lube you are getting from me... All the way my dear as far as it can go," he grunted and then demanded, "Now lie backward on top of me, open wide and make room for Jacques." With the King fully penetrated up inside Paris's tight dry hole and lying backward with her naked back upon the King's almost supine body, she raised her knees up to her chest, spraying out her own body juices out as if spitting at Jacques, though this act quite unintentional. "I've never seen you spit at me like that before," an extremely over-excited Jacques stated without thinking. "It's the position," replied Paris. "I'm all a bit squeezed," she laughed as even more squirted out at him, some of her juices trickling down her arse crack to greet the penetrating penis, and help provide a little welcome relief.

His Majesty wrapped his hands tightly around her torso, gripping her inner thighs and pulling her legs back as far as he could. Paris immediately grabbed the metal head-board behind her with both hands and started to whimper as if in a breathless state, but it was more to do with the firm compression of her knees being

pulled hard down onto her tits than lack of air. "Now, Jacques," the King assertively instructed, "Can you take her up the cunt for a while? I like the noise and the feeling of two cocks rubbing together in such a confined space. I'm sure you'll agree, it's a most pleasant encounter." Jacques started to undress as he stared deep up inside the now open and quite endless dark tunnel that Paris was presenting to him. He placed his head down and spat up inside her, two maybe three times, just as the King had done to her anus. Then with his knees either side of the Royal arse he thrust himself forward up inside her.

"I can feel you," Jacques said in addressing His Majesty. "Give her a good slapping for me my boy, my hands are somewhat occupied," he replied. Jacques had only slapped Paris around just the once before, the night that he had reclaimed her cunt back from Stanton. He had certainly never beaten Paris over-hard, but the thought of slapping her as she lay there pinned between the two men in such a restricted position seemed like a jolly good idea indeed. Tonight it was going to be a good slapping. "No Jacques, no. Please don't hurt me," Paris bleated out in whimpered voice, but before she had finished her utterings, Jacques had already started to slap her hard, from left to right, from right to left and so on. The noisier she was, the harder he slapped her and the harder he began to fuck her. The more he would bang hard between her thighs, the more the King would probe upward from below.

Paris, unable to take any more, released her grip on the bed-frame behind her head that her arms had been stretched out to and started to ward off Jacques hands. The King immediately grabbed her wrists and pulled them back. "I think this one's going to be difficult tonight Jacques. We'll need to reconsider our approach with it." Jacques laughed. "Indeed, let's see what we can find," he suggested in reply, seeking only to please the King and not thinking of Paris's needs for relief for a single moment.

While Paris lay held by the King repeatedly saying "Please don't hurt me, Jacques. I don't like it," Jacques continued to ignore her. He looked around the room. He reassured her only momentarily with the words, "It'll be fine Paris. Just enjoy it. I won't really hurt you." But her face was clearly and already quite red with his palm prints.

Jacques picked up the King's royal walking stick, the head of which was a carved Royal Eagle, the crest of the Raminnesia province from which the Regent heralded. He also removed the curtain ties from the long red curtains which separated the cabin into two halves. Jacques tied Paris's arms by each wrist to the brass bedhead using a 'semen's' knot he had learnt to tie, and from which he knew there could be no escape. The King in return, releasing his firm grip of her arms, re-applied them under her thighs, pulling her legs back upward to their original knee-to-shoulder position. Jacques slid the walking stick horizontally across her inner knees. "Take a grip at each end your Royal Highness. I think you'll find she isn't going to go anywhere now," Jacques stated with a very proud expression in self-recognition of his own creativity. Indeed, as much as Paris wriggled around whilst on top, with her anal canal still penetrated, she was most definitely pierced completely to the spot. Evidently, as I witnessed, she would go nowhere.

Both men spared no punches given the manner in which they physically abused the naked and physically-restrained Paris, fucking her as hard as they both could muster. As one pulled back the other would thrust and become more and more aggressive as Paris groaned with both excitement and pain. Following this renewed onslaught, she soon began to relax, realising that just as she had with Stanton that evening, resistance was by now quite futile. With the King pulling back hard on the walking stick toward him, Paris was now unable to move at all. Occasionally Jacques would stop, withdraw himself from her cunt and slap her arse before returning inside. Eventually the pathetic whimpering sounds of her pain exciting them both to point of climax. As the King shot as deep as he could up inside her anus, Jacques simultaneously withdrew and kneeling between her legs, delivered his cum over her outer crotch. There was now much wetness running down into the crack of her arse, mixing with the King's as his load too was squeezed out by Paris's tightly clenched buttocks and running down onto his huge still, stiff cock. Jacques went down and licked her clean, ensuring long applied tongue strokes up around the royal penis. He gently sucked the Regent's balls, the actions of which served only to re-excite the King even more furiously. Just as she hoped it was all over he began to bang her all over again. "Get off me!" Paris shouted out loudly at the pair of them, as if by way of telling both men off for their unwarranted naughtiness toward her.

As you can well imagine, this resulted in quite the opposite happening. "Oh no my dear. You're still in-service for quite a while yet," the King's sarcastic reply to her pointless demand. "Top left draw, white scarf, I think we need to shut her up for a bit don't you think Jacques?" Jacques found and applied the silk scarf as requested around Paris's head, tying it tightly, with the knot wedged into her gapping mouth, ensuring the soft knot was pushed fully in by ramming it further with his hand. The muffled protest continued to fully arouse the now refreshed, still hard and once more double penetrating penises.

"I'll race you Jacques," said the King, "Are you ready? - go!" Jacques was sure he would win, pounding up between her legs as hard as he could but the King had a clear advantage, raising Paris up just a few inches above his groin by pulling further back on the walking stick, the springing of the mattress aiding his frantic bounce assisted motions. It was a clear victory, His Majesty thrusting upward for his release and Jacques ejaculating just a few moments later.

"A Royal victory Your Highness," laughed Jacques, as he attempted to catch his breath, to which the quite unexpected reply from the King was "I think you let me win that time my boy." And after a few seconds to draw his own breath came, "Once more, best out of three I think, that'd be fair. Now just because I'm of blue blood doesn't mean you have to hold back Jacques," he added. Jacques was up for it again, but questioned inwardly the reality of him actually really winning and how not to upset the King in doing so. It was common knowledge then as it is today that you simply do not upstage a King.

"Come on then boy, once more," His Highness suggested, "Then we'll let poor Paris limp off to bed and have a few nightcaps together." Paris at this point fucked into complete silence, just the presence of her heavy breathing filling the air around the cabin, all useless protestations now gone, her sense of helplessness and acceptance of the situation quite evident. "A little different this time, Jacques I want you to join me in here, rub against me and let's feel each other pumping together at the same time."

Paris's pathetic muffled "No," the only audible noise she now spoke. Wiping the wet juices of both Paris and himself from between her legs, Jacques now reused them to moisten his slowly limping but still hard enough to function penis. This state of slight softness allowed him to quite easily slip up alongside the King. Both now inside Paris's over stretched cum-soaked anal orifice. Paris groaned in exhausted pain as both men started to slowly and jointly screw her up the same hole. Steady away at first, Jacques and the King both becoming harder as they squeezed up together as far as they could, and could push in no more. The noise from Paris was amazing, with every shove a grunt, an "Uhh" and an "Ahh." As gagged and exhausted as she was, the words "It's fucking amazing. Do it to me, fucking do it!" clearly heard coming from her at each specific precise moment.

The fucking wasn't as frantic this time as the friction between the two men, at times, was uncomfortable. This time the men crushed her as hard as they could, their cocks pushing as deep as they could together, and holding her pinned between them with each probe forward held fast for several seconds. This was a technique that met with her full approval. Working together and by almost splitting her in two, all three worked up to orgasm, the men's third, but Paris's first. The frantic anal-cunt pounding hadn't excited her quite as much as double anal penetration with the full steam ahead technique. As Paris writhed around on top of His Majesty, as if laying back on hot coals, Jacques too came and before he was forced to withdraw and take a seat in his almost paralysed, exhausted physical state, the King simultaneously shot into her. "Hamrannullah!" he shouted loudly and without reservation. Paris's orgasm was accompanied by the violent panting of a rabid dog hurling its head around.

Within a ten second period, all three had managed to climax at almost the exact time. Thereafter however, future rehearsals would soon improve the efficiency of such precision of timing between the three of them. The Official Secrets Act of Raminnesia was duly signed and recognised as enforceable throughout all nations of the time although to you, to my readers' delight, no longer legally binding since 1956.

PART THREE

Chapter Thirty One

'Paris's Revenge'

Paris was not only beautiful, she was extremely sexually talented, gifted in physique and possessing a musical ability beyond any other. She was also very cunning. There was not a man alive who could not resist her charms or be manipulated by her oozing of sexuality. That night, as the two men had later laughed and drank together until day break, Paris had limped quite alone and exhausted back to her cabin.

En route she passed the many couples who were walking up and down the corridor, either entering or having just left a cabin in which they had been swapping around. Paris noticed that as soon as one couple left a cabin, the door handle was soon re-adorned with a fresh hanging invitation stocking. One lady remarked to her en route, "You look like you've been having some fun tonight." Paris blushing in her reply said "I've just been on the Royal Seat of Approval." She soon fell asleep and was awoken only by Jacques' drunken return at 7.00 am.

As the days passed and in-between her regular visits to the mechanical apparatus of the pump room, a plan was hatched. Though the events that happened that night in 001 were quite unprepared for, she had actually loved every second of it. As previously stated, regular returns to all new sexual companions remained a noted feature on the couple's social calendar. How could she return the favour to Jacques?, she thought. It was a grand gesture born out of appreciation that helped formulate her ideas. Able Seaman Dodds would soon answer her prayers.

Using his exceptional and most discreet talents, Dodds was commissioned to construct a frame. By combining two sun loungers from beside the upper deck swimming pool, a device of purpose suitability was soon produced. The frame allowed the victim to lie down whilst restrained on all fours. Though essentially it looked like any other heavy-duty sun lounger, this one was now more of a platform-based design model. It could easily trap its victim quite unsuspected. Just as Paris had nicknamed the pump room fucking machine the Day of Rest, this device was now called the Venus Fly Trap.

The games area is located on B-Deck. If you peer through the porthole of B127 you will see all manner of recreational facilities: snooker tables, table tennis tables, darts, skittles and much more. But if you now look a little closer you can see the Venus Fly Trap to the far rear corner. Paris was very keen to organise her games evening, proudly designing her score cards to award the appropriate prizes to the events' winners and overall supreme champions. She notified the Captain of her intentions in the usual manner, hoping that he too would be able to 'cum', sensuously swallowing every bit of him.

The trap was a novel idea. In principle, it was a flat mattress hung from each corner by the original sun lounger springs. A very comfortable device. As the would-be victim Jacques would rest down upon it, the weight of his body would sink the platform and stretch the four springs. In doing so a hinged mechanism below would, by the natural pull of his bodyweight as it sunk the platform, activate from below three clamps. They would then swing over the top. The claws as Dodds would refer to them in demonstration, clamping down on the unsuspecting victim. And of course, the eager Stanton was always present and most fascinated by Dodds' new creation, drawing many fine sketches of the basic principles of operation in his anticipation for later mass production.

Now if you open your hand out flat (that is if you can borrow it back from inside your crotch for just a moment) I'll try to clarify how it all works for you. With your hand stretched out flat, push your index finger down into the centre of your palm whilst pushing in return upward with your hand. The harder you push the more your fingers curl over inward imitating the motion of a genuine Venus Fly Trap as its jaws close up over the top of its prey. Hence the name Paris affectionately christened it.

The claws were hung below the mattress and without close inspection remained quite unnoticed. To all intents and purpose this, to the unsuspecting eye was nothing more than a bed hung on four springs. Now who could resist such luxury and comfort? "Definitely not Jacques," Paris explained as she discussed the method of final installation with Dodds.

The evening was arranged. A select invite list and no more than twenty men composed of the finest first-class males on board. Leonardo was most helpful, recruiting these guests from those who had an admiration for the male rear end only. Jacques was known to be both bisexual and very greedy. Ladies too were invited but their role was to be adjudicators, scorers or competition judges, whichever term you prefer, and they would assist Paris in ensuring that the competition was fair at all times.

Later that evening, on the Day of Judgement as sold to the ladies by Paris, and as Jacques finished his performance and rested his keys, Leonardo invited him down to the games room. "Just time for a few games of chess," stated Leonardo. "Come on Jacques, just a quickie so don't be boring, winner takes all," said Leonardo, smiling to himself at the thought of what 'taking all' really involved and the true meaning of the word quickie. The unsuspecting Jacques was keen to oblige his friend. "Just a couple Leonardo. I need to get an early night tonight, I have some ideas, small changes for the symphony in readiness for the ball and I need an early start." "No worries Jacques," a rather false promise given back in return.

Dodds had managed to finish the Helmet just in time, a secondary piece of equipment as Paris had also specified. He discreetly passed it to Paris inside a large box as she finished her evening's workout in the pump room. "Thank you Dodds. It's perfect." Paris gave the blushing Dodds a peck on his cheek in gratitude. She eagerly rushed to the games room to make the final preparations for the evening's scheduled entertainment.

After a couple of quick games of chess and several grand glasses of scotch, Leonardo pointed Jacques in the direction of the lounger. "Have a lie down Jacques. I'm going to play one more game with Popeye here and you can then take on the winner?" Jacques, restating his need for an early night, was indifferent at first but after something of a guilt trip, reluctantly agreed. "Make it quick then Leonardo," Jacques said. "Oh that we will," came the reply accompanied by smirks of the most generous proportions from both, the smirk of Popeye the bigger of the two.

Popeye's real name was Brutus and quite a brute he would prove to be. Brutus, a successful author who later on in 1929 would write several cartoon strips based on a character with the nickname his gay friend Leonardo had given him. Brutus was Leonardo's favourite male as he possessed a weapon of most devastating proportion. "It's not so much a spitting cobra but more of a crushing anaconda," he would proudly tell all.

As Jacques lay back on the bed the trap was sprung. Brutus and Leonardo jumped to their feet in such readiness that the chess pieces were thrown flying from the table. "Brutus, grab the arms. I'll take the little fucker's legs," as they tied Jacques by ankle and wrist to each corner. Jacques was taken completely by surprise, not only by the shocking swing of the claws but also by the actions of his companions. "What? What the? What the fuck are you doing?" he shouted, the only words he could find as Paris also approached, seizing her opportunity to apply the Helmet as quickly as possible. "It'll be fine Jacques. Just enjoy it. I won't really hurt you," Paris quoted verbatim the words of Jacques as delivered in the Kings cabin on that specific occasion before.

The Helmet was a deep-sea diving helmet with modifications made from white Irish linen cloth from a hammock Dodds had taken from the laundry. Akin to the standard deep-sea diving helmet of the time, it covered Jacques' entire head. Breathing was only possible through a tube that came out of the top. The linen, tightened by a chord around the neck, made this single tube the only option available to Jacques to obtain air. "I've heard that gay men like asphyxiation games," Paris said as she turned to Brutus. "Oh yes indeed my dear. I think that pipe is flexible enough to take a 'semen's' knot or two," he laughed at his pun and acknowledged the full applause of the room. The ladies present, more excited in fact than the men.

Jacques' trousers and pants quickly came off, Paris saying whilst doing so, "I got you some pig lard my love, more than a generous gift under the circumstances. He didn't afford me this luxury, did he ladies?" Paris turned back to face the laughing crowd. Adding "But you're going to need it more than me, especially when Brutus gets in there. Have you seen the size of it?" Obviously Jacques had not and his view was extremely restricted by the helmet. He could see immediately up and from side to side but nothing else down to his feet.

She fingered the lard up into his arse, exaggeratingly for effect, and licked her fingers clean afterward to the words of "yum yum, a tasty tight virgin's bum." Paris invited Leonardo to take first turn. "It's the least I can do for you." he said. "I mean you have taken so many beautiful pictures of me after all, I bet you don't have a snap like this though do you." Leonardo was rock hard and duly barged up into Jacques' crack, pausing only momentarily to take his first of many prize close-up photographs. Paris took control of the tube, tying a firm knot in it. She had decided at this point it would be much more fun to stop the air flow completely and just open the front view hole of the helmet from time to time, depending on the array of colours present upon Jacques' surprised face within. Jacques was all the colours of a rainbow, his shouts of protest from within the helmet completely inaudible. Unsurprisingly, there was little sympathy for his plight shown by his partner. "Yes, I remember this," she said out loud. "The gag in my mouth" and adding, "And of course, don't forget you had a race up inside my cunt if I remember correctly too." All spoken most sarcastically.

Paris passed out her score cards to the ladies of the room. "Now then girls, as the men fuck we need to award marks for performance. You'll see five categories on the score card: technique, size, speed and quantity. Obviously we can't see the quantity of load released so we'll just have to take an estimate from the visual circumference of the competitor's balls." All this was said to huge applause. Then further suggesting, "The final category is for overall entertainment value. Award marks out of one to ten for all categories please ladies."

Well, by this point it was clear that Leonardo was not in a position to win as by now he had paused the proceedings many times in order to take more photographs. "It's not about winning. It's the taking part that matters," he explained to the bemused Paris. "Consider it pre-event prepping. I'm just loosening him up for them," he laughed. Clearly Leonardo wanted to take his time, saw absolutely no need to rush and the rigid, taut body of Jacques, quite unable to move wasn't exactly going to go anywhere else anyway.

As he came he gave his final thrust, he yelled out his favourite climax expression, "Fuck you." This was not exactly the most original of phrases given the momentous occasion. Paris opened up the front hatch of the helmet and peered in. Shouting at such a loud volume, accompanied by a spray of spit and saliva, Jacques balled back out at her, "You fucking bitch. You fucking whore. You fucking...!" The final words he managed to express to her before being silenced by the immediate closing back up of the lid. "Well, such language," laughed Paris. "Now where have I heard all that before, I wonder," she said, giggling to herself as she readjusted the ties to his legs, and thus raising his arse again into a more convenient, accessible and prominent position. "Thanks for the feedback Leonardo. I've made the necessary adjustments and I whole-heartedly agree, less air this time. That'll shut the foul mouthed arse-wipe up," she said as she continued to giggle aloud. Paris and the other ladies drew their chairs up into a semi-circle and watched intently as the second competitor of the evening engaged. "Don't forget the air," shouted out Leonardo. "Oops, I almost forgot." Paris left her seat to check on the hatch of her victim. After all, less air didn't mean no air. Opening and shutting it quickly, and most amused by the sound she could hear within, and also musically control, "Cu'..., fuc'..., basta'..., whor'...," and so on. This as she opened and closed the hatch repeatedly for fun. The ladies watched intently with the score cards placed on their thighs, legs akimbo, and a considerable degree of self-stroking and fingering taking place with some assisting those beside them.

By the time Jacques had been fucked by the 19th male of fine standing, the application of fresh pig lard proved to be less important than previously thought, and as events unfolded, I was no-longer needed. The excess volume of spunk was continually farted back out by Jacques, quite visible to all. After a roar of applause for number 19, the ladies began to chant, "We want Brutus, Brutus, Brutus. Bring out the Brutus," and so on.

Brutus was fucking huge. Massive. Thirteen (unlucky for some) inches in length and a staggering three inches in width. A multitude of the ladies jaws dropped to the floor upon its exposure to them. "Fuck me!" gasped one. "You mean to tell me that Popeye here is gay? Such a fucking waste." "Trust me, more of a bisexual," replied Paris, that all too familiar smirk blossoming in purple across her face.

"I think for the occasion we should open the hatch ladies, don't you agree?" Paris said as she looked in on the now very sore, battered and frail Jacques. "Just taking a peep dear. Is everything all-right in there?" And for a brief moment the silence convinced her that she'd actually killed him by suffocation. All forceful expression was by now completely sucked out of him and long gone. Jacques was quite unable to speak and in a quite pathetic voice uttered, "Please, no more." "Last one now," she joked. "We'll leave the hatch open for you to get some fresh air shall we?"

Brutus, despite his massive girth, slid in quite easily. The now cum-soaked over-stretched anus offered little resistance to him. Jacques' personal expletives were now ones of just agonized pathetic quietened groans and mumblings. Brutus was firm, clenching Jacques by his inner thighs and shunting on like a steam locomotive although at a somewhat reduced speed as he knew that his member had to be applied with some consideration. The object of tonight's game was to have fun and not exactly to kill anyone. "Overall performance, that's where the marks are," he thought as he reminded himself that speed wasn't everything.

The evening finished about 4 am with Jacques duly untied although strangely he hadn't hastened to return to his cabin as he had originally planned. He just lay there without standing for at least a further two hours. This two hour after-period was hugely enjoyed by the ladies who were all now enjoying personal time with each other and playing Sex Scrabble, the object of which was to write down the filthiest word or sexual act they could find and then personally demonstrate it. And what of the evening's male winner? Well, you won't be surprised to find out that it was Brutus, by a clear majority.

PART THREE

Chapter Thirty Two

'Time Gentlemen Please'

As time passed Jacques soon began to see the funny side of things. After all, the couple had set out on a journey of sexual exploration and Paris had only played the same game by Jacques' own rules. As the weeks passed and the seasons flew by we find ourselves after many months at sea, in desperate need of annual service. So here we are, fast approaching our berth back in Belfast and where I must now sadly, for the time-being, dock.

But as I set off back across the ocean from New York en route to Ireland, I must tell you one last story. I need to tell you all about last night, the night when all aboard said their own personal goodbyes and bid me farewell before they disembarked down that long wooden gangplank onto Manhattan Island Portway. Many more new guests were to return to Ireland with me later.

The symphony is finished as are many of my fellow passengers, but not in quite the same way. It is a work of art and it will take to the stage for its final performance aboard me. Paris and Jacques will move to New York where their performances of the Ode au Sexe will sell out every night for many, many years to 'cum'. Stanton and Dodds will form their new company together and Brutus will write his epic comic strips. And what of Leonardo? Well he will become the most sought-after royal photographer that Raminnesia has ever known. As for the rest of my many merry passengers – well they will continue to fuck each other like rabbits for all eternity to 'cum'.

No expense was spared for the Venetian Ball. All the passengers spent hours on their own unique intricate costume with facial mask to match, the Captain having set the theme of Sin and Sinners. The men preferred to dress alike in long black robes, singularly fastened by a chord tied around the waist, their facial masks all the same theme, the long pointed nose of the crow. The ladies on the other hand were a bit more creative and spent more time on the project in hand with purple and red, white and a host of other colours and many adapting their under-garments to match, not so much in colour but more the insertion of holes to the cups of their corsets and slits to the crotch of their knickers. It was going to be a popular ball and the need for quick entry always at the forefront of their minds for tonight the ladies wanted as much as they could and as quickly as they could. The sisterhood of sin was not to be stopped.

Paris and Jacques would perform as others around enjoyed the flesh of each other. Candles were lit, placed inside tall metal holders that stood freely in a large circle, the glittering brightness visible through the porthole window of the ballroom for many miles out at sea. The finest silk cloth and velvet cushioning was scattered around throughout the floor. And rope and chain, chord and an array of hard useful implements were placed easily at hand. The King with his pride of place, was to be seated looking down on all.

The passengers were encouraged not to sit in their usual places, but to now mingle and move around. The masks were to be maintained at all times. The young virgin waitress, the single remaining virgin aboard (as it was rumoured to be amongst the first-class passengers), attracted the watchful eye of many a male and female predator too. Paris was thinking about her deep need to fulfil her fantasy with Dodds. He had after all been so helpful and a farewell kiss later on, on all fours whilst arched up to his fucking machine seemed only fair. This of course whilst gently sucking at his penis and swallowing every mouthful of his fine main course.

As the guests dined, eating the most-tasteful of pheasant, rabbit and venison and enjoying the finest of wines from Italy, France and South America, the first brave young lady stood forward. Aroused by the music she had sat in her own juices for far too long and somebody somewhere had to break the ice and go first. She took to the centre stage lying on her back within the circle of candles. Slowly raising her skirt and tenderly stroking and fingering herself, she removed one item at a time until she was fully undressed. Then she inserted fresh cream to her inner thighs and spread it out across her breasts.

Slowly but surely, one by one, the other ladies joined her. Slowly, not because they were not keen to do so, but slow only in that they had enjoyed watching the brave young lady's solo performance. Eventually, they were all naked, other than face-masks, enjoying the wet fresh loins and succulent nipples of their companions upon the floor before all. Needless to say within just a short period of time a snake pit of groaning steaming female flesh all fucking each other commanded much applause. Jacques was as hard as ever and Paris just as wet as they looked down and continued to play the ode. Leonardo meanwhile documented the whole event with his camera.

There, in my ballroom, existed a snake pit of women licking and sucking gently at the clitoris of another with their teeth nipping and with finger nails pinching at the array of hard pointed nipples on show. They were sitting there upon each other's faces, and many a cunt-to-cunt grinding went on. They were fucking each other with candles and stuffing each other with items of food taken from the tables. A crate of cucumber and marrow was delivered from the kitchen with the compliments of the Captain.

The virgin waitress was summoned to the Prince Regent's seat where she was soon required to straddle upon him, sliding down on the King's Rod without wasting too much time. Her agonising yell of the commanded initial penetration rang out at the splitting of her hymen for the first time. A gentle drip of blood trickled to the seat below them. "Take your time young lady," the King's personal advice whispered suitably into the ears of the young beautiful novice. "I've had my eye on you for quite a while, my dear," he said, to which she replied "We're not allowed to mix with the passengers, Captain's order." "Yes I know my sweet little princess but O'Brien promised you to me on the last evening aboard so do not fear." "Will I have a baby now?" the naïve young thing asked. "I can't have a baby. How will I care for it on my own?" she said, seeking some form of royal financial promise from His Majesty. "You can't get pregnant the first time. Don't you know that? Where on earth have you been hiding, not to know that fact"? he said to her in the full knowledge that he was a liar.

He desperately needed and wanted to cum in her, a virgin taken for the first time and the need to shoot up inside a pure fresh cunt where no man had been before, this his utmost priority. This he did. She fucked him whilst slowly gyrating and as uncomfortable as it was for her, until he came. He wrenching down on her pony tail as he thrust her up off his lap. "I can feel it, feel it pumping," she said whilst being filled to her complete surprise.

He turned to his immediate aide and laughed at the actions of this foolish young filly. "Throw her to the lions," he laughed. The aide escorted her to the lesbian snake pit located in the centre of the room. There, as if thrown to a pack of starving wolves, the women began to lick the young girl clean of the royal sperm. "Don't worry," one concerned woman said to her. "We'll get as much as we can out of you." The young first timer writhed in ecstasy amongst them.

As the evening developed, and as so many other things had happened in the room that night, the King took further delight in whipping the arses of the ladies that had caught his wider eye (having borrowed Paris's new personal riding whip, a whip that he had not returned to her for a considerable amount of time). There were many women around the room by now bent over the many tables, most receiving a splendid good rodgering. The ones without underwear were preferred for the purpose. He watched intently as the men would lift their clothing to see what was hiding underneath. There were three basic models available: knicker-less, with knickers, and crotchless-knickers varieties. Stanton preferring the crotchless variety, shafting the crotchless women on their backs, table top, whilst he enjoyed feeding on the nipple through the purpose-built peep-hole brassiere.

As men fucked upon the tables and as the King whipped many a bottom red until sore, the ladies of the snake pit licked and sucked; all this whilst Paris and Jacques continued to play the Ode au Sexe perfectly envious that they had to work that evening and couldn't enjoy the folly there before them.

At 11 pm, during a brief interlude allowed for the couple to prepare for the second half of the show, Paris seized her moment. What had started out as just fantasy and dirty talk between the pair had evolved into practical application, their limited insecurity ensuring that each were present whilst the other played. Time had come and gone and such insecurity had long been left in the midst of the past. Both Jacques and Paris by now comfortably enjoyed the pleasures of others individually whenever the opportunity arrived. Upon climbing back into bed together afterward, they would titillate each other with blow by blow accounts of what they had been up to whilst apart. Jacques considerably enjoyed claiming Paris back, fucking her harder and harder as her story about another unfolded to his ear.

Paris was off like a wild pony en route to the pump room. There inside attending to his pipe work as usual, she discovered Dodds to be all alone. "I only have twenty minutes," she blurted out to him. "Do you want to fuck me or not? Stupid question; of course you do. Quick get on with it, full steam ahead," she ended. By the time Dodds had had time to offer a reply there she was, her favourite purple basque, interwoven with red and white thread and matching stockings with her knickers pulled aside manoeuvring backward onto the machine's cock. "I want your rod deep down my throat now Dodds, make me gag, come on quick, only twenty minutes." "Aye aye ma'am, get ready to make way then," he replied, unbuttoning his trousers and presenting his penis to the gaping wide begging mouth of Paris. The long deepthroat action maintained throughout until the whale exhaled. Gagging as promised, Dodds grabbed her head and thrust down into her throat further than he had thus before been in any woman. Dodds had been alone at sea for several months and for the male the machine had limited use. As Paris choked on Dodds' throbbing member and tried to push him backward to gain breath, she felt the powerful hot spray of salt erupting into the back of her mouth. "Yummy yum yum, that's my boy," she said as she squeezed his cock tightly and as close to his groin as possible before running her hand up the full length of it, wringing every last drop. As the last drop dripped away, she caught it with a flick of the tongue and showed him the full contents of her mouth before swallowing. Her tongue licked her lips clean afterward, and laughingly said, "Sea-water can be drunk after all..."

In the meantime Jacques had taken the opportunity to concentrate on the soiled virgin. Burying his head down between her legs and sucking her cunt so violently that others around them found it hard to believe that a man who had Paris at will could possibly appear to be so starving. Jacques ravished her cunt, ramming his full hand up inside the agonised girl and saying, "I need to open you up a lot more than this, and we have a social responsibility to the poor amongst us you know. I'll get out any that the ladies have left behind shall I?" And ironically after convincing her that she was now sperm free, he climbed on top of her and fucked her all over again, pumping deep inside the poor confused creature for a second time that evening. Afterward, he lifted her bottom onto a cushion and with two fingers deeply inserted he attempted to hook and fish out what he could.

Paris rushed back to the ballroom orgy and passing Jacques on the floor with the waitress below said "Quick. We're late. Are you ready?" "Just a minute," was his reply. "Don't worry about finishing her off Jacques just now. We'll take her back with us later and do it together." Jacques agreed, realising that Paris clearly also wanted a taste of such fine young flesh. "Until dessert then," Jacques' departing words to the now highly experienced and educated young crew member.

As Jacques again bowed down on his violin and simultaneously as needed struck down on his keys with fresh wet stains still present on his trousers, Paris, still in only the glory of her underwear bowed onto her cello strings and the momentum of the room soon began to pick up pace. Those who had taken the opportunity to refresh and recharge were already keen to go again once more. The King, far too distracted by his collection of red bottoms that were now bent over the many tables surrounding him, hadn't even noticed that the interval had taken place! The groans of those he whipped caused by the pain of multiple red flares of thrashing whip marks upon the backs, thighs and breasts, was the only music to his ears that he had wanted to hear.

As opium was smoked and alcohol consumed, the communal spirit of the party continued. The ladies of the snake pit had been joined by numerous males who proudly stood above them wanking onto their faces and breasts below. Around the outer walls of the room a caterpillar queue formed with Stanton sharing his many new horns; the ones that he had delighted in crafting since his first original sample prototype given to Paris as a gift: woman upon woman upon woman, and all of them having the most thrilling time. The sandwiches created by the girls crushed between men, one to the rear and one down the throat. Many a woman having more than one man to the rear, both in terms of double penetration of anus and cunt, but also shared penetration of a single mutually-agreed point of entry. Anne-Marie took the initiative in one party of males by sitting forward on one as he lay on his back, another to her rear pounding her simultaneously up her arse and a third to her front upon which she suckled. All this happening whilst either side of her, wanking off two more standing males. Evidently they were not the first that evening as she was soaked in so much spunk, it cascaded from her breasts on show to all. How much she had kept to herself in reserve by swallowing it in all shipping channels, even I, the RMS Fantasia cannot be sure. But it is safe to assume, sufficient quantity to keep any woman alive whilst lost at sea.

As the passengers were left to enjoy themselves on this, the last evening of my voyage, some chose to remain within the groups that they had formed that night until way into the early hours. Others found new partners, threesomes, foursomes and more, and all this quite anonymously as not even I knew who was hidden behind some of those masks as they all excitedly left together as they disappeared back to their cabins.

But for me, the most pleasant part of the evening was what I now saw of Jacques and Paris, as I peeped through their porthole in cabin 069 in the early hours of the day beyond to bid them goodnight. There cuddled up tightly together in bed I found the three of them. Paris with her horn up inside its cunt; Jacques with his cock inserted deeply into its arse; and yes there, the 'it', the waitress pinned firmly between by both, French kissing both Jacques and Paris at the same time. The pair, their fingers inside her mouth, upon her breasts and upon every part of her, was pausing occasionally to jointly suck on her tender young neck. With two small superficial nicks to either side made with a razor, and blood all smeared in the spit around it for I'm pleased to inform you that Paris has now found a likeminded pet that at long last equally shared her vampire fetish for fresh young blood.

Here as I take to my berth, and as you take to your beds, I invite you to 'cum' back soon and book further passage. If you have enjoyed your time aboard then please take the time to tell me so. Write soon for I am sure I have many more stories that will, and do excuse the final pun, most certainly rock your boat for you.

But for now I conclude Porthole Volume One, for the Captain has spoken – "Time Gentlemen Please."

Publishers Note:

We remind readers, who we feel certain will now share in our sense of dismay and frustration (excuse the pun) at the need to censor these photographs; that the original unedited versions remain available to view via the publisher's website.

Simply log onto www.Brittunculi.co.uk and view our Flickr gallery!

Leonardo Clit at work

Photographer unknown c.1900 RMS Fantasia

- END of PORTHOLE -

PART THREE

Chapter Thirty Three

The Isabella Question

I have absolutely no idea what to do with Isabella. Between you and me Brian, I think she's going a little bit mad; doing my fucking head in during the process. What is it with women? Never satisfied are they? Here she is, soon to give birth to the son (or daughter, let's not discriminate) of God and she's complaining. What about...? Well, let's start with the state of the kitchen, the dusting of the bookcase, the vacuuming of the stairs and the fucking bed not been made. It's just endless shit these days. I can't seem to do anything right, Brian. Is it a pregnancy thing? Oh, sorry, how insensitive of me. You and Doreen are childless aren't you? Here I am, the Almighty One, the highest authority in existence, beyond God, and she's moaning about the fucking washing up. So, here we are, the Isabella question. What the fuck am I going to do about it?

Personally I think she needs a damned good shafting but as she is the Holy Virgin of Judgment, it's not an option. Other than that of course, there is the glaring reality that I don't have a penis with which to do it. Yes indeed, a strap-on would work a real treat as she did enjoy Andrea's novel very much. She considers herself bi-sexual these days, and I'd love to bang that cute little arse all night but she cannot be penetrated under any circumstance, for it is the will of God. But do you think she can get that through her thick fucking skull? No. It's impossible.

She's moaning continually about how she never goes out, how she never sees her friends, about how we never do anything together... but where the fuck does she think we are going to go? Have I missed something here Brian? She can't go out of the door. Doesn't she realise that what the Yanks did to Osama bin Laden they would happily do to us too? How long does she think she will last down at the local supermarket pushing a fuckin' trolley around? Fucking madness, nothing but fucking madness.

She has everything she needs here in the compound and the Church. It's beautiful, isolated and so peaceful. How many other 23-year-olds does she know whose lover gives them access to their very own fucking religion? But it's not good enough anymore; she doesn't want to go out with all the security I offer. She wants us to be alone.

I've got the Americans kicking off in Iraq, a bunch of fucking freakoid amateurs in Syria, the Russians now throwing eggs at each other in Ukraine, and I'm supposed to somehow find the time (in between poisoning the whole damned planet with TCP) to fuckin' babysit her... No Brian, enough, she's going to have to go.

One of us is mad, mental, in fact quite delusional. Sometimes I even start to think that it could be me. Isabella is now writing a book, nearly finished apparently. She said if you, Brian Wilkinson, and that "strap-on bitch I fucked" Andrea Johnson, are both allowed to be in the book, then so is she. Am I missing something here? It's going to be about spaceships and UFOs apparently. So, let me understand this correctly, yep I the Almighty One finally understand all at last - Buzludzha is now a flying fuckin' saucer.

Stockholm syndrome, or capture-bonding as Andrea Johnson tried to ram down Isabella's throat (I could insert something bigger than that down it), is apparently a well-documented psychological phenomenon, one in which hostages express empathy with their captors, even to the point of defending and identifying with them. These feelings are generally considered irrational; victims can essentially mistake abuse for kindness. The FBI's Hostage Barricade Database System (I've just been looking at it) shows that roughly 8% of hostages display evidence of this condition. There is nothing there that I could find about continual nagging though. If I may add, she was never a hostage. I didn't ask for anything, oh I forgot, maybe the book publishing could be viewed as a form of blackmail, OK I agree then. But that was directed at you Brian, not her. I didn't abuse her, it was her, Isabella who cut her mother's fucking hand off and put her in the nuthouse, not me. I've shown her nothing but kindness. I let her mother and sister go as promised, and her too. She returned to me quite voluntarily, let's not forget that fact. What do I do? I welcomed her back with open thighs.

A fuckin' spaceship, Brian, for Christ's sake. All that time re-educating her, showing her the way to eternal life and what does she think is happening? She genuinely believes now that she was held captive by aliens inside a fucking spaceship, which is of course made of fucking concrete. So she has to go - I tried; nobody can say I didn't try. I realised that the age gap between us could be a problem, but given the overall status of our sexual capacity, the situation didn't really seem to apply.

I've been up all night with not a wink of sleep, praying and seeking guidance from my Almighty Father who art in Heaven, and I feel we have a solution this morning. The problem is that I am not allowed to hurt her in anyway. This would be a sin apparently - a grave sin from which my soul would not recover. Purgatory, eternal purgatory, and I'm not prepared to accept that because some spoilt brat needs a good slapping occasionally.

Apparently Stockholm syndrome can be viewed as traumatic bonding, (fucking right this is traumatic for me). It doesn't even require a hostage scenario, "Strong emotional ties that develop between two persons where one person intermittently harasses, beats, threatens, abuses, or intimidates the other." I just got that from an email my psychology lecturer sent me. He means well, thinks this is her problem. One hypothesis to explain this is based on Freudian theory. He said, "Bonding is the individual's response to trauma. In becoming a victim, they identify with an aggressor to defend one's own ego. They acquire the same values as the aggressor, thus removing the perceived threat." Yes Brian, I agree with him. I have Stockholm syndrome.

I like that Jonathan Taylor, the songwriter guy you know, he's Okay. 'Big Jesus' the best kill music I've ever used, and I know he's a favourite of yours too. I know you got Brittunculi to publish my amazing book, well, got in the sense of they had no choice, that is. All of the flesh-eaters are dead now anyway, they just don't know it yet. Six months, a year, ten years, it doesn't really matter, the TCP clock is ticking. How long do you have left? Of the enlightened vegetarians, well they will need to follow my Gospels. They have a copy, and they can live. Live in joy of the darkness with us. He's a vegetarian, I read about it on his website, I'm glad Jonathan is to live.

Do you know, the penny never really dropped until recently? When you were travelling and writing your book during 2006, you were listening to Jonathan Taylor CDs in Winjin' Pom en route weren't you? That's how you found out about him; you were both signed to the same publishing company, Brittunculi. You and your book, he and his music. Then as a colleague of Andrea Johnson, you recommended Brittunculi to her didn't you? Where are we going with this thread of thought Brian? Well here; had you never mentioned him in your book, I would never have looked up Brittunculi. The fact of the matter is I would have never have heard of him and in turn would never have heard his song, 'Big Jesus'. The song I use for killing people. I still love it Brian. I kill for you and because of you – you are famous Brian!

A forum - that is the answer, an online forum. We need to go interactive on this Brian, I need to relate to my fans better. Think outside the box for once. I'm going to let them all decide what to do with Isabella. I've got three very good ideas, and don't fret, by the time this is printed she'll be long gone for good. I just don't know how to do it yet. So I'm going to end this masterpiece with a little bit of fiction for a change: three alternative endings from which my fans can decide which one becomes fact. I'm going to invite contributions, suggestions to the forum to seek answers to the Isabella question. Make it happen Brian, or die. Fiction masquerading as fact or fact masquerading as fiction, you have choices. Two options which are just a bit of fun on my part and could never really happen, never in a month of Sundays. Isabella has in fact but one true end and one of these endings (guess which) will most certainly become a reality for her. Oh what fun Brian.

I no longer have patience for bullshit. Certain things just irritate me these days. Not because I am a supreme being who is consumed with her own arrogance, but quite simply because I've reached the point in my life where I will not waste another second in time on those that displease me and seek only to hurt me. I have no patience anymore for negativity or cynicism, over-critical people who take advantage of my better nature. I lost the will to please those who do not like me many, many years ago, and I spent far too much time loving those who would not love me in return. Why waste all of that time and energy smiling at others who do not want to smile back? No, not one second more will I spend on those that lie and seek to manipulate me Brian.

I decided when God first spoke to me that I was no longer to co-exist anymore with their hypocrisy, their dishonesty and pretence. Such cheap praises that mean nothing to them when given, but at the time they did, to me, when received. I do not tolerate selective erudition or academic arrogance, even though I am now officially Dr Gabriela 13. I remember well my poor humble working class origins. I will not involve myself in popular gossip. I hate conflict, truly I do, but realise that it is necessary, that there is a time and place for it, but I will reject unfair comparisons. I believe in a world of opposites, freedom of speech and liberty and that's why I avoid people with rigid and inflexible personalities. I prefer simply to kill them. I will not accept a lack of loyalty in friendships, and I abhor any lack of loyalty that ultimately leads to betrayal in whichever way you view it. I do not get on with people who cannot give other human beings a compliment, a word of encouragement is all that is needed occasionally. Exaggerations bore me and I will not spare the life of anyone who does not care for or like animals. I think I have made that clear haven't I? Those that eat them will all die in turn. You live by the sword and you die by the sword, the big predator eats the other smaller predators and that is how it is. Human beings are selfish little bastards who only eat vegetarians, so I in turn eat them. On top of everything else Brian, know this, I have absolutely no time for anyone who does not deserve my time and patience in return so do watch your step.

What is the big stick I now yield over you Brian? Isabella surely, but I have already said she must go. So what do you have to lose by deleting my work, you and your cronies at Brittunculi? How do I ensure that you honour our agreement and publish my second work? Cerys and Chandelle are free, free that is in the sense of movement only. Spiritually I think they will remain forever in hell. So what is it Brian? The TCP clock is ticking away, tick-tock, tock-tick, every day ticking away, so what do you really have to lose by betraying me? Are you still a vegetarian? That would help in prolonging your own life quite considerably now wouldn't it? Or does the hatred now allow you to rip apart sentient little creatures as well, just because you fucking can. It's okay, really, I'm only teasing you Wilky. I know you are still vegetarian. That's why you are still alive. You are an honorary member of the Gabriel Sect and will be forever, for all eternity you are sealed. No harm will come, I repeat my promise again, that no harm will ever befall you Brian. I love you, you are my family, in spirit, in Christ and in blood. So here are the choices – which Isabella ending do you prefer?

The Isabella Question: 1

Isabella wept. What use was her freedom without her mother? She had only taken that axe to her mother's wrist to save her mother's life. But what life did Cerys have now? The time spent with Gabriela had taken its toll. Dr Davies had retreated fully into her own mind, catatonic, the only survival mechanism available to her. Chandelle, her little sister, she had fallen into the evil pit of drug addiction, an addiction paid for by the anonymous use of her own body, the once proud, high-achieving medical student, Chandelle Davis, was now known as Goldie – Goldie the whore.

The family had relocated to Berkshire, to be closer to their mother. The old family home in Cardiff now sold. The girls' father Nigel, was already dead, suicide following his personal liaison with Gabriela during his wife's disappearance. He could not recover from his personal guilt and shame. Dr Davies, now a patient at Broadmoor Hospital in Crowthorne, living alongside the very people that, once upon a time, she had tried to cure, or at the very least, tried to understand.

The responsibility for holding what was left of the family together had now fallen on Isabella's young, bruised shoulders. Chandelle was of little use, could offer no support, neither financially nor practically, but they shared a home together on a quiet backstreet. It was not the type of accommodation they were used to back in South Wales, the property prices locally were much higher, but it was comfortable for them. Following their mother's committal, Isabella was granted Power of Attorney over the family estate. The decision to sell-up and move was not a difficult one to make. Both girls agreed on one thing: they had to be near their mother. To place Dr Davies in Broadmoor was a decision taken by her former colleagues, and one that was made in full agreement with the police. Not only did it offer the best treatment available, highly resourced and financed, but it offered the greatest level of personal security, protection from Dr Gabriela. Dr Davies would be amongst friends, former colleagues who were committed to her care, and she would be housed somewhere where the sect could not get access to her again (That last part of the sentence is bullshit but I thought it to be necessary to pump up the story somewhat.)

Isabella had seen Chandelle at work, there in Bracknell Forest, not so far from the hospital in Crowthorne. Isabella would turn a blind-eye to her sister's activities but only on the full understanding that her clients were not to return to the family home. This agreement worked well. Chandelle couldn't help with her sister's finances because every penny she earned would be jacked-up, injected into her groin, the veins in her arms too damaged and most of her life now spent in a drug-induced coma. She'd been such a beautiful looking girl, a medical student with such a promising career. Now she was nothing more than skin and bone, infected with spots and lesions, all of which were clearly visible. Chandelle, the Witness, had been released from captivity first; it was Chandelle who had delivered much of the latter manuscript to PC Brian Wilkinson and DI Andrea Johnson back in Liverpool. Cerys and Isabella were released after publication, later on and together, as promised by Gabriela. The Bulgarian police were notified of their pick-up location.

Having received immediate medical attention and an initial debriefing, they were returned to Merseyside to assist the ongoing investigation. Dr Cerys Davies, was unable to mutter even a single word, just that cold dead stare out into space. Andrea had to explain to her the circumstances of her husband's suicide whilst she'd been held in captivity. Whilst held with us, it remained unknown whether she had in fact been informed of the circumstances of his death, or had Gabriela's taunting within the manuscript been the truth? Isabella would soon inform them that it was.

Her sister's addiction was at first hard to understand but then, from Chandelle's point of view, she had never expected to see her mother or sister again. Crack cocaine was an immediate relief for her, dulling every human sense of emotion immediately; the living dead as she called it. Her elder sister Isabella could no longer help her and she had become well known to her Johns, those punters of the seedy Liverpool night scene. Relocating to Berkshire would not only provide their mother with the best medical treatment available, it would also remove Chandelle from the streets. Only one of these however, would turn out to become a reality.

Isabella had given herself to Gabriela on several occasions during her captivity and the two had felt a sense of great oneness. As much as Andrea Johnson would try to explain the reality of the situation to her, Isabella would often just defend the close personal relationship that had developed between the two of them as genuine love. Johnson would say "How can you love the thing that did this to your own mother?" a question that Isabella couldn't directly answer. She would simply say, "I just do." But as time passed, Isabella started to readjust and the truth and the inevitability of their new life became less and less acceptable to her. She came to realise that justice for her mother, her father and for her sister, and the need to rebuild her own self-confidence, that distant hope of one day returning to university and finishing her medical career, could be a reality again. From that self-realisation, her self-activation, she knew what was required of her.

She would return to Gabriel 13, to live again within the sect and Church. And now betray them.

The Isabella Question: 2

Isabella wept. They were not tears of sadness but of joy. Having returned she was now in a position of power, and she liked it. Her sister was an embarrassment, her mother a joke. As for her father, at least his death would keep her secret safe. He couldn't fuck and abuse her again from beyond the grave, could he? She had been through an absolute living hell whilst held captive at Buzludzha, but what she hadn't told Brian or Andrea upon release and return to Liverpool was the fact that she liked it. It turned her on sexually. She had had a taste for killing and she wanted more. Isabella and Gabriela were much more than lovers. They were now business partners.

It had not been her intention to return so quickly, but a nagging itch she could not satisfy had never dulled. Her sister was a whore, her mother a complete nutter, a looney-tune and a total fruitcake. Above all her mother was a complete embarrassment. She had a career now and she was good at it. She left Brian Wilkinson a letter. She said her goodbyes and off she flew. Gabriela would feast from her cunt once more.

The Buzludzha facility had taught her one thing; that traditional approaches to medicine as studied at university had had its valued place within modern society, this was true, but psychopic husbandry (Brian: get that new word in the new dictionaries please) was a much more radical approach. Could a psychopath be created? Could they be selected, bred or nurtured? This question had to be answered and this together, the two of them, and a very dedicated team of psychologists and other medical professionals alongside, actually did, Isabella and Gabriela, loving and killing together. It was poetry in motion.

Subjects exposed to TCP, through GM foods and animal subtract based flesh feeds, displayed very positive outcomes. The infections are quite undetectable under normal circumstances. Notably, the infected demonstrated psychotic tendencies and this, when coupled with a course of pornography and classic sexual violence, torture and oppressive command to please, yielded good results. This proved to be a great success as early trials in GM organism-splicing in Africa had resulted only in the production of the Ebola virus.

Research had concluded that they could get others to kill on command, to create psychotic killing machines out of the captives they would train. That eventually, after long term exposure to extreme brutality and cruelty, they too would adapt to killing. This would be the pinnacle of Isabella's research; the mother who would go on to kill her own child without question, to consume its flesh, a BILE's flesh, just because Isabella had asked her to. Isabella loved bondage. Restraining and whipping worked well for her. It was this sense of power and control over others that led her to think bigger. She no longer wanted a business partner in Gabriel 13; she now wanted to be the business owner.

Her intentions were now formed. There was going to be a very hostile take-over.

The Isabella Question: 3

Isabella wept. The pain was beyond belief. She had loved Gabriela. She had given Her Holiness everything. She had returned to her and she was now with child, carrying it inside her; Gabriel's Holy Union Child. How could Gabriela do this to her now, to order her own execution? She had fled Liverpool to be with her, she had no intention of taking over the sect, and she had no intention of ever betraying the sect to the police, so why was she now confined?

Isabella had been so overjoyed to meet her again. They had taken a cruise from Budapest and travelled down the Danube together as far as the Black Sea. From there, like two newlyweds at the zenith of affection, in the height of their love affair on honeymoon together, they had enjoyed private time. They wandered hand in hand on clifftop and beach before travelling on to the closed confinement of the compound - the Church.

Isabella did not know the location of this most Holy of Churches. Only the 12 Disciples of Gabriela, the top tier of the Brotherhood - those considered to be Gabriela's most trusted - knew this information. She was to live there with Gabriela, free to love each other without the tiring daily business of the wider sect's activities. Isabella was never a prisoner. She was free to leave at will, to travel whenever she wanted to, but she could not do so alone, not without that detailed security entourage accompanying her every move. Isabella could never work it out for herself; was the security to protect her from harm or to watch her distrustfully? Inevitably this caused friction between the couple.

The arguments were ongoing, deeply personal, hurtful and destructive. No matter what Gabriela did to make her young bride happy, she could not. The Brotherhood had convened a special meeting, to discuss the problem, a problem greatly exasperated by the knowledge of the Holy pregnancy. Gabriela had refused to harm her new young filly. God had decreed eternal purgatory should she do so, but what of the Brothers? The corridors were now full of endless, dark whispering, prevalent on a daily basis and a plan was made. Evidence against Isabella had to be gathered. She was an Honourable Member, Sealed and the wife of the Prophet, the highest authority in existence in human Earthly form. A trial would be required. Gabriela lost in song in dealing with her inner agonising turmoil, singing, "I'm Henry the VIII, I am I am, I'm Henry the VIII I am..."

During Isabella's time at Buzludzha, and her employment in the research facility below, it had become widely known within the Gabriel Sect that sexual brutalisation of patients was a most enjoyed pastime of Isabella's. She seemed to lose focus of her education and research studies and simply enjoyed hurting her patients without scientific basis. Whilst women within the sect were allowed to kill, it was strictly within an apprenticeship capacity only, and Isabella had become quite the loose cannon. The Brothers knew that it was loose cannons that inevitably sank ships. Interestingly Isabella had now written a book of her own, a fictional sci-fi account of Communist era history. It was inconceivable to them that the Virgin Mother of Judgement could write such a fantastical story, such fiction built around spaceships and aliens. This was a direct act of heresy. The infidel Isabella was soon to be judged as quite the heretic.

During her trial Isabella had argued in her own defence that her research was important, ground-breaking, and that the greatest

advances in knowledge and scientific understanding were often discovered by the maverick scientist within. The discovery of penicillin had been an accident. Had Alexander Fleming followed procedure and disposed of his waste properly, following laboratory protocol of the time, the penicillium mould would never have secreted an antibacterial substance, the active substance which he later called penicillin. Thus, penicillin would in fact never exist today. Had Isabella not become so committed to and over-involved in her work, pre-occupied by a move away from directed research, who knows what would later have become discovered? Isabella had sought to destroy love, to take her victim beyond pain and suffering, to find a genetic component of hate. Like cancer, a hate gene that would disease, distort and destroy the human capacity for love, the ability to feel and express empathy and emotion would soon be over.

Video evidence of her findings was shown to the court. There, the mother eating, consuming and devouring her own birth child, and this just with the slightest of suggestions whispered to her from Isabella seen to be kneeling before the tormented, fractured creature and lifting its face up from the floor with her horse whip. She wiped its tears away and having removed the baby from the mother's breast, held it frontward as if an offering to her, stretching out both arms full, "Eat it," said Isabella. This the mother did, Isabella masturbating throughout.

The execution of and the later consumption of the first born child of Gabriel 8/2/7 at Conference, 6th October, 2012, had in truth brought her only to sexual climax that day and not the tears of crying as reported. Wetting herself below with pleasure as she had found it to be the most sexually exciting experience of her life, this was the only drop of fluid expelled. She had no tears. This darker aspect of her initial captivity had been kept from Brian Wilkinson and Johnson. Isabella had played the victim very well, but in reality she was anything but. Her research was based on discovering a way to get others to kill without personal reward, unlike soldiers killing on the battle field for ideological belief, and unlike the professional killer killing for financial reward, her patients would go on to kill those dearest to them, doing so just because they were asked to. "Behold!" shouted out Isabella to the crowded, packed proceedings. "There, you see it, I was successful. Psychopic husbandry as a medical discipline is born. There are only two species that kill on command - dogs and humans - and this mother killed just like a dog would have, to please me. I am its Master now and it killed to please me, for no other reason than that."

The room had fallen silent. There was a great sense of respect for Isabella's work and findings. She had taken medical knowledge years ahead of its time, this was true, but on the following charges of heresy, as she had stated within her own book, and she could offer no defence. The Prophet she had referred to as Dimitar Blagoev had neither been referred to in any of the Holy Scriptures of all forerunning mighty world religions, nor had he ever been referred to by Her Holiness Gabriela 13 Herself. The memoirs and text contained within the Holy Scripture and Religious Doctrine ('Meat: Memoirs of a Psychopath') was now scrutinised by Isabella's defence team but no mention could be found of this new Prophet's name. Her book was blasphemous, the sentence delivered was final: death.

Mitigating circumstances were put forward to the court. Had Isabella become infected with TCP, resulting in a work related illness or injury? Had her sister's most sinful whoring behaviour and the filthy adulterous behaviour of her father led to an emotional breakdown? Isabella lost control and blasted out across the room in complete defiance of etiquette, and quite absent of any respect expected of her, "You're the one that was fucking my father Gabriela, not me!" Her Holiness now, Herself so shocked by such ingratitude and rudeness, such that you could now see the emotional hurt upon Her face; Gabriela now in dignifying Her reply, "Yes, but by all accounts you ungrateful spoilt little bitch, you were there first, weren't you?"

The Brotherhood immediately ruled. Isabella had no defence for her heresy. On an additional legal point in law now brought afresh to the proceedings, her fate was sealed. She had used for self-penetration purposes, the sexual property of The Prophet Gabriela, without Her Holinesses knowledge or consent. There could be no justifiable reason or legal cause for appeal.

Isabella, the Virgin Mother of Judgement upon the birth of the most Holy child, will die.

Carried and Sealed as a Holy Order. Gabriela 13.

The following evidence was presented to the court

PART THREE

COMMUNISTS in OUTER SPACE

Isabella Davies

Chapter Thirty-Four

The Buzludzha Files

FOREWORD

Dr Gabriela Thirteen

An atom is 99.999999% (recurring) empty space. If we removed all the empty space from within the human body, our entire species, that is to say every person on Earth, would now be no bigger in size than that of a single sugar cube.

Isabella's madness, her descent into chaos, has, as many a mortal genius would agree, given us a work of wonder. For Communists in Outer Space is so much more than a generic study of quantum or astrophysics. It is a work of pure genius, of absolute splendour. The truth is examined in magnitude. Produced whilst held in captivity, who are we to say what is fiction or what is fact? What matters is that for Isabella, here lies her truth; a truth that has inevitably cost her dearly. History is filled with those who give accounts of divine experience, a Holiness unexplained. The Prophet Mohammed (peace be upon him), Jesus and Moses, and countless others have all heard the Divine Word of instruction, as I Gabriela too. But here, in Isabella's own account we learn for the first time of new, undiscovered Prophets - those of the Socialists.

Having completed her PhD 'Psychopic Husbandry', it may be argued that further studies into time and space travel, or telepathy and telekinesis was inevitable? Constraints and restrictions cannot be put onto the young enquiring scientist's mind – for her mind was opened and it received, but what had it received? For here within her text, the history of Socialism is now completely re-written, the Godless Communist is now given faith – a faith and belief that their own determination to conquer destroyed. Are there Communists out there in outer-space? Are there dead souls trapped within the walls of Buzludzha? Here Isabella answers that question.

PART THREE

Chapter Thirty-Five

Introduction

"Litchfield 2, Litchfield 2, do you copy? Over..." "Litchfield 2, this is Michael 3, update, update, do you receive? Over..." The base station, Michael Three, had desperately, but in vain, tried to contact the Litchfield, but now, after several hours without contact, it was all to apparent that their mission had failed. Litchfield Two, a code name used for two Anarchist Stalingus agents on Earth, had vowed

to destroy the regime at all cost. Had they now paid dearly with their own lives? Michael Three, an outpost of the frozen Colne-7 within the deep Marxun space-way cc14, was now helpless to act further. Without reliable agents on Earth, who would now be able to stop the Zhivkovites, the armed guerrillas and right-hand arm of the Bulgarian Socialist and Totalitarian leader Todor Zhivkov?

Leninite had ordered the closure of the chamber, destroy if necessary, de-activate and neutralise, immediately, but contact with Earth was now over. Their Socialist revolution was failing, orders to stop de-atomisation had failed. So how? How would the Zhivkovites be stopped? Michael 3 continued to broadcast, desperately, radunas after radunas, but contact could not be re-established. Any second now they would arrive, the Socialists of Earth, free to attack and plunder. Michael 3 had issued Act 173a to decommission all receivers throughout the known galaxies, but was it too late? Had the Zhivkovite forces already transported...

It was during the early hours of Friday morning that I first heard these voices. It doesn't matter which Friday, and I don't really recall a date. My medical research at the Buzludzha facility had been stopped abruptly and I was now held in captivity. It appears that I had upset someone very powerful somewhere, over something. But when you stop working, step out of the rat race, take a moment for yourself, the peace and quiet of it all, well it is only then you start to hear things. You tune into what you were previously oblivious to before. I do swear that this is what I heard, a truth sent to me from beyond. I cannot explain further. I truly can't as I don't understand myself,

The medical field is easy. It's all about substantiating fact, medical trials, the records and statistics, and fact is the most essential part of my research. Discovering the proof needed to uphold my theories, to back them up, to make them concrete, unshakeable. It was I, yes I Isabella Davies PhD, who first proved beyond all reasonable doubt that a psychopath cannot be created. Despite all of my hard work and efforts, no, it was impossible. It is purely a genetic thing, DNA undoubtedly, for psychopaths are born psychotic, and my psychopic husbandry studies and experiments were all too well documented, though they are no longer in my possession.

Perhaps this unexplained confinement was my destiny. As others throughout time had retreated into isolation on mountains or in deep hidden caves, on sea-locked islands to find God so now it was my turn. Had I been sealed inside my own cave, a round concrete tomb? Was Buzludzha so much more than it had at first appeared? Indeed I questioned my own sanity as I'm sure Moses himself did, but that is where faith develops. You cannot prove it, but you know it to be true. I am sure there are many scientists out there who also believe: Christians, Muslims or Jews, even Buddhists and Hindus. For I too now believe. I believe in the final words of the Prophet, Dimitar Blagoev.

I was told how loyal members of the party, only those true to Todor Zhivkov and his regime, had paid financially for the construction of Buzludzha – and this payment was a one way fare to another world, a right, now secured and guaranteed by the Communist Party. Many others, farmers and workers, had also donated, but these loyal Party members had paid substantially above this general requirement and way beyond the publicly acknowledged one leva donation for the cause: a public fundraising cover for something much more sinister. As Earth's socialist revolution was failing and anything other than true communists were now maintaining a stranglehold on power, the Soviets and their puppets had a much greater need to fulfil – to conquer outer space.

It was O'Neil and Richter who had discovered the bodies of the Litchfield 2. O'Neil was a Technician with responsibility for the quarter, and Richter, a Charger. The Hadron accordingly was sectioned into four parts. The quarter simply referred to the first section facing northward and a charger's role was to input the collide-codes upon start-up. The discovery of the brutalised bodies was reported to command immediately – both Litchfield agents, Rebecca and Danny, had been severely beaten before being shot. Senior command consisted of House Marshall Villette and Commander-in Charge Heraud. Both were the sons of French Partisans, and acknowledged heroes of World War Two.

O'Neil reported on the obvious facts of the incident and Richter was more than happy to provide witness to the day's accounts. Undoubtedly, information had been sought from the victims before they were executed, but by whom?

Leach was an expert radio-hand, a decoder. He had been given the task of re-establishing a link with Marxus, a link that had been unilaterally and quite intentionally cut-off by the Marxus previously. Indeed, it had been down for many years.

It was not for him to reason why. This task he had only very recently achieved and since this time, most, if not all of the party elite and loyal followers had entered the chamber. De-atomisation had commenced and many many thousands had by now, been coded-down. Written documentation would later emerge in China to support this fact. Yang, an eminent female astrophysicist and writer, would add in her new book, a travel guide called 'Space-Hoppers and Inter-Stella Compression', "It is without doubt that we have succeeded, a guide such as this will soon prove itself to be vital."

Daily I fell to the floor, prostrate, receiving and bearing witness to the broadcasts of Michael 3, and what I learned of the New Truths I now document for you here. For the final transmissions of Leninite have spoken to us, the work of those Great Minds, Kötter, Tager and Massmann, as they had broadcast from Michael 3, are revealed to Earth below. If you ever take time to listen, to open your heart, mind and soul, you too will hear.

Little is known of what happened between the re-activation and de-atomisation period but folklore and belief as widely acknowledged in many Balkan households today strongly suggests that those left behind, upon realising what the Zhivkovites had achieved, completed the Litchfield mission. An old Bulgarian storyteller by the name of Hare regularly tells us, the believers amongst us, of "Communist souls now lost in space, cut-off between both worlds and forever in spiritual limbo." As if they had all somehow transported but never arrived... The regime that was left here on Earth now brought down by the forces of freedom and democracy just a mere physical duplicate, a clone of its original human-carbon-housing, but now for all eternity drifting in purgatory through outer-space. For that is how the Psychopath is created, I am sure of it, that deep matter of atom-space, the soul removed and a human shell recreated elsewhere without it. Maybe?

But for now let me remind you that a British film-crew recently visited the site: Garrett, Archer, Florence-Mace and Woodcock, I studied them for quite some time and they too now believe. For the film 'Lost Contact' does in some way I suppose, try to explore the truth. They too must have heard the voices of the lost souls of Buzludzha. I wanted to invite them downstairs for dinner, but I think Gabriela may have eaten them...

PART THREE

Chapter Thirty Six

A Prophet Is Born

Dimitar Blagoev, a comet upon the 17th Marxus Globus, passed by a little moon hidden away in the shadows of Leninite. This was the moon of Engels. The two men, Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels both looked up from their books and bore witness to its splendour and magnificence. Marx turned to Engels and said "There upon your own birth star, we have found the name for our new socialist prophet." Engels now smiling and drawing down upon his pipe, "Indeed Karl, to this I must accordingly agree." The new messenger of the Marxus Revolutionary Committee, known locally as the Stalingus, would be known on Earth as Dimitar Blagoev. A new Socialist prophet had been born.

Blagoev had formed the Bulgarian Social Democratic Workers' Party (BSDWP) in 1894. He had known from a very early age that he was chosen. His mother and father had named him on the orders of the Stalingus, his name given by the Leninite comet. His parents had become deeply religious. They would often talk of a world beyond the stars, an unknown Galaxy not visible from Earth. It was there on Leninite that Socialism had been born. Socialism was going to feed Earth and it would save the whole Globan, the entire depths of unlimited and unchartered space. The two great leaders of this new Socialist Faith were born on Leninite. They were called Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels. The men were very good friends and spent most days talking, philosophising and writing together. The Stalingus, the supreme ruling party born of the Marxus Revolutionary Committee had honoured the men and their great work. The Galaxy, previously known as Arnul 4 was renamed Marxus in Marx's honour and a small moon called Zult now known as Engels. The two men had prophesied that a Prophet would arrive on a distant planet called Earth and that he shall be called by the name of the comet. That a further false Prophet shall follow his ideals and would lead the new world on a journey of destruction \- and he shall be called Stalin.

Their home planet was renamed Leninite following the great Arnul 4 revolution, a greater improvement on the original that quite simply said Zed. The authority of the new planet was to be known as the Stalingus. The two men would often joke together, "So you get a galaxy and I get a mere moon," Engels would say. Marx would in turn laugh, "That's because I did all the hard work, but I accept the original idea was yours." A system of short wave radio beamed the revolutionary message out to other worlds, bouncing off the stratosphere of one to another. It was on Earth that Blagoev's parents heard it and awoke to its purity.

Dimitar Blagoev was a natural teacher. His greatest speech was delivered at Shipka in the year 1891. Here the New Socialists, led by Blagoev, assembled to deliver the Sermon on The Hill. It was on this very spot that Buzludzha would later be built upon a historical peak of 1441 metres in height, set within the Central Balkan Mountains.

His message soon spread and Socialists of the world united. Upon joining the party a strict code of honour was adopted. Not a word of the existence of Marxus would be uttered until the revolution on Earth was complete. Only then would the whole truth

be told. It was generally felt that the existence of Extra-Terrestrial Beings from other worlds, even though humanoid in form, could lead to world panic and be counterproductive to revolutionary forces. All that was necessary for the capitalist forces of evil to succeed was to have the ability to dismiss the socialist voice of social justice as the words of maniacs and lunatics, those who believed in the stuff of space-ships and of space-aliens.

Leninite was a planet in the centre of the Marxus Socialist Galaxy (MSG). A Lenuser was an inhabitant of Leninite, but for an accurate definition we need to go a little further. The first three letters derive from the planet's true revolutionary name, Len/in/ite. A Lenuser, with the word user added is not just an inhabitant but also a user of the Socialist Doctrines. Thus a Lenuser is a user or subscriber of literal Lenin Philosophy. The 'ite' form is an abbreviation from original translations, a shortened form of In The End: the acknowledgement that Socialism, as a religious and political system, will eventually win over all other forms of political and economic systems – in the end.

Of the two men, Karl Marx was always the more astute. He was the writer, the thinker, the philosopher, but it was Engels who held the power of prediction. Friedrich Engels was blessed with future sight, visions of new worlds yet to come, and it was he who had first predicted the coming of the new Prophet: a prophet who would unite all humanoids across all solar systems. Whilst Friedrich was the idea maker, Karl was most certainly the go doer of the two. He was the office administrator and secretary. The Communist Manifesto was originally called the Manifesto of the Communist Party but the two men disagreed on the latter title. It was felt that the addition of the word Party would be viewed as oppressive. In communicating their voice to worlds beyond, a more neutral title had been agreed upon. The work was published on Earth during the Earth year 1848, although it was not published as originally intended. The intention was to be one of a more philosophical and religious-based scripture, but the Earth translation, upon final publication, had become one of economic and political theory. Now becoming recognised as one of the Earth's most influential political manuscripts, the new translation had now omitted the central character, Jesus Christ.

The Holy Bible had originally been transmitted from Zed some two thousand years previously. This initial failed revolution and the subsequent execution of the Arnul 4 Prophet on Earth, Jesus, led the two men to rethink. Whilst Earth had received a Holy message from the now named Marxus Galaxy 100 million light years away, the essential political message had been lost. More effort was now to be placed on economic and political systems, socialism as it became to be. Religion and faith would play a much smaller part. It had never been their intention to remove Jesus Christ completely from the new publication.

The Arnul 4 Revolution that occurred just 300 years after the publication of the first Socialist Manifesto The New Testament (a re-work of much older text known simply as The Old Testament) had been successful. It was a revolution of heart and mind, and the inhabitants of Zed had evolved spiritually and accepted the new system of love and compassion. Not one drop of blood was spilt during that revolution. The Socialists of Zed appeared to possess a human capacity that their brothers on Earth now lacked. This would eventually result in the execution of Joseph Stalin in 1953.

Marx and Engels had set out to present an analytical approach to the class struggle, both historical and present. The original faith-based works were now presented in a modern, understandable format, recognising the problems of capitalism and the capitalist systems of production. Marx and Engels' theories concerning the nature of society and politics were never intended to be a prediction of Communism's potential future forms on Earth as the Earth later came to know it. However, it is widely accepted by intellectuals today that the inscription by the two men inside which reads "The history of all hitherto existing society is the history of class struggles," remains a verbatim translation. The following original written sentence "Go forth and spread the Prophets words" was removed. It was a book of socialist ideology; to lead the Earth to true Communism as was now enjoyed widely by the Marxus Peoples.

Radunia was a system of short wave radio transmission the United Marxus Galaxy had used for long distance communication where long distance was considered to be anything exceeding 20 million light years away. It was known that such strong signals could be bounced off planets akin to a game of snooker. Whilst Earth could be seen and communicated with, it was at the time beyond the technology available to Leninite to develop practical travel arrangements. It was in Germany, on the Earth, a part of the new world's zone entitled Europe, that the first Radunia signal of the new text was received.

Hannah Habsburg-Lorraine, a German literature teacher and Jewish scholar had first started to hear voices whilst taking time for silent prayer; voices that she first documented as 'The Draft of a Communist Confession of Faith' in 1847. Germany at the time would not recognise the literary talents of women, let alone a Jewish woman. Therefore, much of her work was published under the pseudonym Karl Marx – the very voice she had been tuned into although in reality and unbeknown to Hannah, most historians credited the original manuscript to Friedrich Engels. This pseudonym was adopted not just to hide her own real identity, but also to disclose the true writer's identity. This conspiracy continued well into modern Earth history when she wrote the following words under another pseudonym, Engels, "I cannot deny that both before and during my forty years of collaboration with Marx, I had a certain independent share in laying the foundations of the theory, but the greater part of its leading basic principles belongs to Marx... Marx was a genius; we others were at best, talented. Without him the theory would not be anywhere near what it is today. It therefore rightly bears his name." Back on Leninite, the originators of the text, the real Marx and the real Engels would both chuckle over these additional words that Hannah Habsburg-Lorraine had now unilaterally added.

At the time, broadcast from Marxus of Radunia Mind Waves was a relatively straightforward procedure. The difficulty lay in the inability of Earth to reply, hence the inevitable mis-translation of major aspects of the text. Hannah's re-assembly of the originally transmitted work 'Draft of a Communist Confession of Faith' contained almost two dozen questions that helped express the ideas of both Engels and Karl Marx. 'The Principles of Communism' however as the major canon of Stalingus literature would not be published on Earth until much later on, at the outbreak of the World War One on Earth of 1914. The 'Communist Manifesto', and 'The Condition of the Working Class in England, 1883' were written in fact by Habsburg-Lorraine. She had compiled much of what she received (heard) into her own literary works. All of the works were originally published in German, translated from their original Aramaic origins. Aramaic, the language as used by Jesus Christ was also the original language of the Lenusers. Aramaic, with its origins in ancient Hebrew allowed Hannah to understand her voices from God with relative ease.

'The Condition of the Working Class in England' is to this day the best known of Hannah's works. 'Die Lage der arbeitenden Klasse' in England was her self-study of the working class of Victorian England. Much of her research was gained from the voices of Engels. She had sympathised with these voices as she had lived in Manchester, an Earth city in Northern-England, for two years between, 1842 and 1844. It was this first hand understanding of the conditions of working class Victorian life that made clear, in her mind, the truth behind the messages she had been receiving. She had by now attracted a considerable following, consisting of those who would even pretend to be Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels in public, attending political rallies and repeating her words as published. The reality was that of the two body doubles, Marx was her brother Abe, and her cousin Arik that of Engels. Minutes recorded later during the Stalingus World Arena parliamentary meeting of the Leninite Star Year, 1223/56, recorded: "Members of the conference note that only one sentence of truth was ever spoken by the Earth Dictator known as Adolf Hitler, and it is this: "Communism on Earth was indeed a Jewish conspiracy". But regarding the body doubles used within this conspiracy, that of Marx and Engels, neither men ever in reality ever possessed a beard. It would appear to us that Hannah Habsburg-Lorraine, without diverting from the fact that she had completed a heroic task, seems to also believe in the fictional character of Father Christmas. The truth was that Marxus was widely known to be a Galaxy contained only of hippies of which Marx and Engels were prime examples. Rock 'n roll music, the expression of free love and the consumption of marijuana would not arrive on Earth until much later.

Manchester was at the very heart of the Industrial Revolution, and Hannah compiled her self-study observation, linking these observations to her new Socialist ideals. No Lenuser had ever stepped foot onto the planet Earth and for the conspiracy to succeed, the new works had to relate to known historical events here, and obviously because of Hannah's own Jewish origins she had decided that the original Marxus Prophet, Christ, was no longer necessary in contemporary delivery. She argued that the Industrial Revolution had had a grave negative effect on the working classes. She documented, for the first time, the mortality rates in large industrial cities, focusing on disease, which was much higher now than of their counterparts living away from the cities in the countryside. In Manchester and Liverpool, premature death from smallpox, measles, scarlet fever and whooping cough increased fourfold, mortality from convulsions was ten times higher. The overall death rate of the inner cities was significantly higher than the national average. On average most adults died before reaching 39 years, compared to a lifetime expectancy of 823 years on Leninite. Continuing to write under the pseudonym Friedrich Engels, she was extremely influential with many British historians; particularly the top-tier scholars of the industrial revolution. She focused on workers' low salaries and poor living conditions. She argued that the unhealthy and unpleasant environments had made them worse off than they had been in their pre-industrial lives.

Marxist scholars and historians were now born. The Socialist message delivered by Hannah as Marxism was now becoming a popular political Earth philosophy. 'Das Kommunistische Manifest' (The Revised Communist Manifesto) and 'The Principles of

Communism,' published later in 1914, were considered to be authorised publications by the Stalingus Peoples Democratic Leadership. It was generally believed that some mis-translations could be revised after Earth's own socialist revolution.

It was decreed that a Prophet be born upon the crossing of three stars, and that he was to be called Dimitar Blagoev.

PART THREE

Chapter Thirty Seven

A False Prophet Dies

Dimitar Blagoev was born on Earth in the village of Zagorichani, then a region within Macedonia, now a part of Greece. At the time of the True Prophet's birth, Macedonia remained a part of the Ottoman Empire. As a young man he was greatly influenced by the Bulgarian National Revival movement. In 1922, Blagoev wrote in his memoirs that he was born "pure and below the Line of Stars." These three stars of ancient context, the Orions, passed overhead at the moment of his birth, the significance of which we will focus on in following chapters. Blagoev was educated by Bulgarian agitators in the nationalist spirit. During the Russo-Turkish War of independence he supported the Opalchentsi (volunteer combatants) and the Russian Army. He then went on to study at the Odessa Realschule from 1878 to 1880. Dimitar Blagoev became involved in many public activities. He had known of his divine birthright and true message from an early age. He had been surrounded by supporters of Hannah Habsburg-Lorraine throughout his young life: by an army of Socialist Disciples whose singular purpose was to protect the young Prophet from harm. During the 1880s he was sent to Saint Petersburg University in Russia to study the words of Marx in preparation for his chosen prophetic destination. He was a profound speaker, a just man, a pure Socialist who experimented in politics by creating the first social democratic group in Russia called the Rabochii. The Rabochii was a Leninite word somewhat confused in translation by Hannah. The word was in fact RABzeroC11, a system of inter-galactic portal delivery of human mass via a deep sleep induced stasis. But the essence of the word's origin remained. Rabochii became a newspaper to transmit the workers voice.

Blagoev's close friendship with a fellow Disciple and Socialist, Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov in Moscow, soon drew negative attention to the pair. Dimitar Blagoev, as a foreign national, was extradited by the Russian government and returned to Bulgaria in 1885. During this point, the Buzludzha Project was well established on Leninite but years ahead of the technology available on Earth. Blagoev had shared his ideals and visions with his fellow Socialist and dear friend, Vladimir, but unbeknown to him, upon his arrival back in the Bulgaria city of Sofia, Vladimir had appointed himself to be Lenin, An Apostle of Socialism. The Stalingus authorities were powerless to intervene. In Sofia, the Prophet Dimitar had now begun to propagate his message and socialist teachings. Tarnovo, Gabrovo, Sliven, Stara Zagora and, Kazanlak, along with other cities had united and formed the Bulgarian Social Democratic Party (BSDP) in the July of Earth year, 1891.

The Hannist or Marxist membership of the BSDP was initially opposed by some who were essentially opposed to forming the BSDP into a political Socialist party. In 1893 these opposing members led by Yanko Sakazov, formed the Bulgarian Social Democratic Union. The two groups reunited in 1894 in the interests of working class unity. The revolution in Bulgaria was now born as the Bulgarian Social Democratic Workers Party (BSDWP). "It was prophesised and it will be so" read the ancient scripts of Marxus. It came to be that in 1903, the Marxists again split with the party to become known as The Narrow Socialists (officially the Bulgarian Social Democratic Workers' Party). It was in 1905 that Dimitar Blagoev translated Hannah's re-assembly of the work 'Das Kapital' from German into Bulgarian. Though originally translated from the ancient Aramaic of Marxus into Earth German, it was considered to be beautifully converted. The Prophet Blagoev soon started to deliver his own works, works suitable for the process of Bulgarian Marxist historiography. One was entitled 'From the History of Socialism in Bulgaria', published in 1906. Whilst he was busy leading the Narrow Socialists at the Balkan socialist conferences of Belgrade (1910) and Bucharest (1915) his former Russian friend was plotting against him. Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov who had now taken the name Lenin, was to start a revolution of his own. Lenin, took the name during an alcohol-fuelled mockery of his old friend Blagoev and his belief in a planet called Leninite beyond the stars. Lenin, along with a colleague, Leon Trotsky, would both go on to play senior roles in the Russian Revolution of October in 1917.

This Socialist revolution had overthrown the Tsarist Provisional Government, and established the Russian Socialist Federative Soviet Republic. Stalingus looked down with concern. Why had Lenin failed to follow the words of Dimitar Blagoev? What was it about the Earth's humanoids that, just as had happened previously with the revolution of the prophet Jesus, they too would now seek to pollute the purity of the original Socialist message that was sent down to them? But there remained hope for this self-appointed apostle. Under his leadership the All-Russian Congress of Soviets nationalised the estates and former crown lands. They also legalised abortion, birth control and homosexuality. 'No fault' divorce was also legalised, along with universal free healthcare and free education for all although, in fact, marriage had long been dismissed as an archaic method of personal oppression back on Leninite - so no-fault divorce was quite out-dated.

Furthermore, the ideals of world revolution in common with the message of Blagoev were supported and he proposed during 1921 a New Economic Policy, a form of state capitalism for the process of industrialisation and recovery. In 1922, Lenin joined together the territories of the Russian Empire and formed the new Soviet Union. It was at this point in time that the Stalingus leadership, having placed a new confidence in the small, then quite unknown upstart Lenin, realised that they had backed the wrong horse. For only 13 months after the galaxy Marxus had officially declared Lenin as a friend of Socialism, Lenin became incapacitated by a series of strokes. He died at home, in the Moscow district of Gorki on January 21, 1924. His successor would now prove to be most unpleasant.

If the Earth's Cold War between the two post-World War Two superpowers had begun in 1947, and had lasted until 1991, then it is here at this point of the millennium, 1924, that the Dark War had begun. Lenin had formed an alliance for world revolution with the true Prophet Dimitar Blagoev, and Russian Socialist support was needed for the scheduled Balkan uprising of 1925: an alliance for world revolution that Lenin's replacement would now no longer honour, for after his death there was an immediate power struggle within the Soviet Union. Lenin's close friend Leon Trotsky became the de-facto leader. Stalin, the false prophet who Lenin had disliked and distrusted now vowed to be in power, began eliminating any political opposition in his way. As Trotsky fled for his life, Stalin's thugs soon caught up with him in political exile in Central America, killing him with a single blow of an ice-pick to his head. Iosif Vissarionovich Dzhugashvili as he was known, had directly mocked the Stalingus leadership by taking the name Stalin and had declared himself to be the Only True Prophet. The entire galaxy of Marxus, united in untold grief, would now have to change its plans.

The false prophet was born in Georgia, a country soon annexed by the Soviet Union during WW2. Joseph Stalin ruled the Soviet Union from 1924 – 1953. He had come to power in 1922 when he was appointed General Secretary of the party's Central Committee. Following Lenin's death, he suppressed all criticism of his leadership. Stalin had been aware of the Communist Conspiracy on Earth, but instead of embracing the philosophy he actively resisted the power and influence of the Leninites. Throughout the Dark War, he would regularly flex his muscles in the direction of Marxus. The Leninites viewed him as somewhat awkward, the spoilt-child that couldn't be controlled. This was all to change during the later years of the Space Race.

Under Stalin's rule, world revolution was now rejected in favour of socialism in one country. He believed that a Socialist state could operate and trade directly in association with the Capitalists. He destroyed the New Economic Policy of Lenin instigated in 1920, replacing it with a highly centralised command economy. His rule was one of industrialisation and agricultural collectivisation, seeing rapid transformation from an agrarian society into an industrial power. However he imprisoned millions of people in the process, holding them in correctional labour camps, and the disruption to food production caused the catastrophic Soviet famine of 1932–1933, and also the Holodomor famine of Ukraine. During the years 1926-1934, an estimated 10 million people starved to death, almost all of whom were peasants. He was responsible for ordering the Great Purge of the party, government, armed forces and intelligentsia. His opponents or so-called enemies of the Soviet people, were imprisoned, exiled or executed. From 1936 to 1939, the Old Bolsheviks, supporters of Trotsky and most of the Red Army Generals were convicted of plotting against him and killed.

At the outbreak of WW2, August of 1939, Stalin entered into a non-aggression pact with Nazi Germany. The two Dictators happily carved up Eastern Europe between them, and this involved the invasion of Poland. The Nazis later violated the agreement and invaded the Soviet Union in June 1941. The fascists came within miles of the two major cities of Moscow and Stalingrad. Such was Stalin's arrogance he used the stolen Leninite name to also rename a city after his own ego. Eventually, as the Axis of Evil was defeated, the Russians drove back the Germans from the Eastern Front, and the Red Army captured Berlin in May 1945. The Soviet Union was now one of two world superpowers, the other being the United States and its Allies. The Yalta and Potsdam conferences established communist governments loyal to Joseph Stalin thus forming the Eastern Bloc. Fearing further invasion he later developed close relationships with Mao Zedong of China and Kim Il-sung of North Korea.

The Cult of Personality was the brainchild of Stalin. Towns, villages and cities were renamed after him and the Stalin Prize and Stalin Peace Prize were also named in his honour. Grandiose titles such as 'Coryphaeus of Science', 'Father of Nations', 'Brilliant Genius of Humanity', 'Great Architect of Communism', and 'Gardener of Human Happiness', were all bestowed upon him, by himself. He even re-wrote Soviet text books to provide himself with a more historically correct and fundamental primary role in the success of the revolution of 1917. Statues of him greatly exaggerate his height. Evidence suggests he was only 5 feet 5 inches tall but the new statues depicted him as taller than the 6 feet 3 inches of the highest Russian Tsar, Alexander III.

Trotsky criticised this cult of personality. He was infuriated when the new Soviet National Anthem was now to include Stalin's name. He had been a close friend of Lenin and Lenin had informed him of the existence of the true Prophet Dimitar Blagoev. Leon Trotsky, now living in exile, had in fact signed his own death warrant when he became the only Bolshevik still living to know the truth - that Joseph Stalin was the false prophet - but by now Stalin was equipped with almost God-like qualities. He was the focus of literature, of poetry and music, and of paintings and film. His successor, Nikita Khrushchev, on the orders of Leninite, publicly denounced Stalin's personality cult, stating the original words of Marxus in unpolluted form, "It is impermissible and foreign to the spirit of Marxism-Leninism to elevate one person, to transform him into a superman possessing supernatural characteristics akin to those of a god."

Stalin was assassinated by Leninite agents in 1953, using new technology that was invented during the years of the Space Race. This afforded Leninite the possibility to build advanced weaponry on Earth. It was still based on information delivery only and not the transmission of physical or bodily forms. A system of de-atomisation was being developed by the Chinese to deconstruct and reconstruct humanoid atoms based on this information. The basic building blocks of life could now be separated. This was technology the Lenities already possessed and had supplied to Stalin as early on as 1944. Stalin realising the dangers, refused to develop the system beyond blueprint form. A much required de-atomisation chamber was never built at the time.

Stalin was now paranoid. With the exception of one, Vladimir Milyutin, a former Red Army Commander who died in prison during 1937 (and of course, Joseph Stalin himself) every single surviving member of Lenin's original Bolshevik cabinet was executed during Stalin's Great Purge. Joseph Stalin was not going to receive any mercy from Marxus, and this he knew all too well. He tried in vain to hide his secret and prevent the new technological advances from becoming a reality. However, the one thing he couldn't do was control the Peoples Republic of China.

Stalin was raised within the Georgian Orthodox faith. Though he publicly claimed in office to be an atheist, it was later reported that he took Roman Catholic Mass on at least 6 occasions in secret. His position was that religion was an opiate and a pollutant of the working class that needed to be removed from healthy society to facilitate the ideals of communist society. Atheistic education took place in schools. Anti-religious propaganda was produced, the anti-religious work of public institutions was founded and discriminatory laws put in place; all to prevent faith based belief from gaining a foothold in the daily running of Soviet society. Stalin did everything possible to prevent receivers of the messages from Marxus formulating into opposing ideological systems. During the 1930s it was almost suicidal to be publicly associated with any religion. In part the early incorrect translations of Hannah Habsburg-Lorraine, in which the central figure of Communist Ideology, Jesus Christ, had been removed, could be to blame. But as Stalin had rejected the single message of universal communism and world revolution in favour of a system of communism in one country, few scholars today adhere to this view.

Stalin and his regime were socially, morally and politically condemned following the years after his death. In the Earth year, 1956, his Stalingus appointed successor, Nikita Khrushchev, officially denounced his legacy on behalf of the True Prophet Dimitar Blagoev and the Socialist Peoples of Marxus. A process of total de-Stalinisation followed.

The Doctors' Plot identified by Stalin during 1952 and 1953, a plot that had apparently involved several prominent medical doctors, all of whom were of Jewish ancestry, had allegedly attempted to kill him and other Soviet officials. It prevailed outside the Soviet Union that Stalin was creating this false conspiracy in order to launch a massive party purge of all Jewish members. It was nothing more than ongoing anti-Semitic provocation. It followed the 1952 show trials of the Jewish Anti-Fascist Committee and the secret execution of thirteen during the Night of the Murdered Poets. Stalin was aware that Marxus agents would soon arrive. Judaism was the original religion of the Marxus Peoples and its language was ancient Aramaic, the language of Christ, a Prophet and Jew. By killing and or exiling all Jewish Communists, he believed he could secure his own personal safety.

The false prophet died on the 5th March 1953, at the age of 74, following an assassination team compounding administered on March 1st. Compounding was a process which de-atomised his respiratory system thereby causing immediate death. His personal guards thought it odd that he did not rise from bed at the usual time but having received strict orders from the known successor, Khrushchev, they were too scared to check on him and so left him alone, unattended throughout the entire day. Peter Lozgachev, the Deputy Commandant of Kuntsevo, discovered him at 10 p.m. that evening soaked in his own urine and lying on his back in the centre of the floor. He was wearing only his pyjama bottoms and a white stained vest. A terrified Lozgachev tried to communicate with him but heard in reply just the muttered, "Dzhhhhh": Dieh-Zah-Heine, an ancient Aramaic word meaning, "The Death Squad."

Following his death, various conspiracy theories were born. The political memoirs of Vyacheslav Molotov, 1993, claimed that Deputy Premier Beria had boasted "I took him out." In 2004; the American historian Jonathan Brent along with Vladimir Naumov published a book claiming that Beria, on the orders of Khrushchev, slipped an overdose of warfarin into Stalin's wine. Lavrentiy Pavlovich Beria, a fellow Georgian, was Marshal of the Soviet Union and chief of security and secret police. He was a very good friend of a Bulgarian party official with whom he had studied at the Saint Petersburg University in Russia, a friend who went by the name, Dimitar Blagoev.

PART THREE

Chapter Thirty Eight

The Cold War Ends

The House of The Bulgarian Communist Party, a giant structure atop a mountain, was built in a quite different era. Whilst Communist ideology crumbled, she remained, patiently waiting for the day of her own re-activation. Stripped, decaying but still standing there to remind us of her power; an abandoned flying saucer, akin to something created on another planet. You would be wrong to believe so. She was created exactly where she now stands on Earth, but by utilising the technology of another planet - the planet of Leninite. Leninite is in the galaxy of Marxus, some 100 million light years away.

As the Iron Curtain fell, Bulgaria in 1989 moved into a new era of parliamentary democracy, but whilst they, the humans on Earth, wasted paper on their new gained and quite useless voting system, the communists were still watching. For across Marxus, there in the shadow of Engels, a small satellite moon, the planet Leninite waited patiently. Atop of that mountain back on Earth, a flying saucer, as likened to something created on another planet, was indeed a flying saucer: the original Buzludzha Earth Mother Ship.

At Shipka Pass, she, Buzludzha, still remains, the only one to survive from of the ashes of the former Soviet Union. An abandoned concrete structure that serves today to attract Western tourists, those who arrive in droves and campaign verbally for its restoration – this amounting to 12 million pounds worth of restoration. Bulgaria as the newest and poorest member of the European Union doesn't have the political will to do it. The European Union doesn't have the cash even if they wanted to, but that was until recently. All previous attempts to demolish the building have failed, but at least now people are starting to ask questions. Who is keeping the structure standing? Where is the money coming from? You'd be right to ask these questions for yourself.

Buzludzha, a Lenus word (Lenus/Humanoid inhabitant of Leninite) meaning glacially/icy) is a historical peak of 1441 metres in height set within the Central Balkan Mountains. Built there by the Bulgarian Communist regime, the structure commemorated the events of 1891 when socialists led by Dimitar Blagoev assembled on the site, and with the Lenities of Marxus, organised the socialist movement. The Bulgarian Social Democratic Party and forerunner of the Bulgarian Communist Party was formed by humanoid-aliens. Officially it was opened in 1981, but now no longer maintained, it has fallen into disuse, the monument, abandoned and vandalised. The roof of copper stripped clean like flesh from a psychopath's BILE; copper that served only to absorb solar rays to power a space-ship, all delivered by our very own sun.

You, if you are an ignorant tourist, can reach Buzludzha from two sides. From the town of Gabrovo (12 miles), travelling south up through the Shipka Pass or through the village of Shipka itself travelling northward from the town of Kazanlak (9 miles). The unsuspecting traveller should take care not to go there alone, so do be careful for it is an area of strange events, unexplained sightings and countless human disappearances. A toxic, most pungent smell exists likened only to that of rotting flesh.

The Cold War, that state of unease between West and East, that terrifying daily political and military tension that followed World War Two, was as politically bitter as the freezing, cutting Buzludzha cold. When the powers of the Western Bloc, the USA and her NATO allies, and others such as Japan looked down the barrel of warfare at the powers of the Eastern Bloc (the Soviet Union and its allies, and those other members of the Warsaw Pact) we all knew that overpowering sense of looming danger, that soon just a single shot could be responsible for the start of World War Three. Ultimately one side would lose the Cold War, but none could win the Third War. This is when the Soviets began to make their battle plans to leave.

The start of the Cold war doesn't really matter to us. It doesn't make any difference or alter any outcome to this book but agreement between historians centres on 1947 – 1991. There was no large scale fighting between the two super powers, just regional wars. NATO and the Warsaw Pact flexed their muscles at each other across a very big wall. How far was each prepared to go? What would it take to press that button, to launch the nukes and destroy it all? Who would do it first? Regional wars were fought, those of North Korea, Vietnam and Afghanistan. But it was called the Cold War for a reason and because in reality there was no large-scale fighting between the two sides, the East and West.

A self-proclaimed neutral bloc also arose following WW2. A non-aligned movement founded by Egypt, with India and Yugoslavia rejecting an alliance with either the East or Western bloc powers. But the temporary wartime alliance, following war with Nazi Germany, had now split the USA and USSR, turning former allies into foes. This left the two superpowers with profound economic and political divisions: the United States of America with capitalism and free elections, and the Union of Socialist Soviet Republics with socialism and totalitarianism.

Whilst the two never engaged in direct all-out warfare, both continued to arm themselves heavily in preparation for World War Three knowing that they could never recover from the mutually assured destruction of both in nuclear attacks. The people of Lenus initially stood back, watching with disbelief from across Marxus. Eventually, when it was realised that all would be lost within the new outpost, decisions were made. This Mutually Assured Destruction (MAD) status was born out of a nuclear deterrent. Should either side strike first, total destruction would certainly and unequivocally follow.

This doctrine of Mutually Assured Destruction, ironically and in a most perverted way, kept peace between the two. Neither could fight without destroying themselves in the process. So then followed the proxy wars across the globe, psychological warfare between differing ideologies, propaganda designed to destroy from within and espionage amass. More importantly however, the Cold War gave us the Space Race, the competition by the USA to be the first, not only in space, but to land a man-made craft on the Moon. The USSR was happy to play along with them, and still to this day they, the Russians, have never landed a craft on the moon. Why would they? They already possessed inter-galactic technology. They've had it since 1891.

Dimitar Blagoev was a comet in a galaxy many, many, many miles away from us, a shooting star that every 17th Marxus Globus, passed by a little moon hidden away in the shadows of Leninite, the moon of Engels.

Lenusers, the people of Leninite, first became concerned that their socialist vision was unobtainable with the onset of the Cuban missile crisis during October, 1962 when the whole world (Earth) waited for fifteen days on the brink of a global disaster, waiting nervously for a peaceful, political solution. This is when, the actual point in history, the Buzludzha project was first conceived.

The Cold war, leading up to this crisis of 1962 was actually born of 1945. The USSR consolidated itself into the states of the Eastern Bloc and the United States responded with a strategy of global containment. Whilst the Communists could not be defeated, they could be prevented from extending their post-war boundaries any further. The USA provided military and financial assistance to Western Europe, even taking sides against the Communists during the Greek civil war. Forming the North Atlantic Treaty Organisation (NATO) gave them the first major crisis between the two huge powers - the Berlin Blockade of 1948–49.

With victory for the Communists during the Chinese civil war and outbreak of war in Korea, 1950-53, the conflict of ideology continued to expand. There was competition by both East and West over influence in Latin America and the Soviets were ordered by Leninite to brutally oppress the anti-communist revolution in Hungary of 1956. Aides to Joseph Stalin reportedly said that this was the only time they had seen the Great Dictator tremble with fear. Later, having all witnesses to this episode executed, Stalin admitted to the Politburo that he could not be viewed by Leninite to lack control. He would regain power at any cost. Thus, the Lenusers clearly had great political, financial and military sway over Earth's Communist revolution. An inter-galactic will, unknown to NATO to exist at the time, led to further escalations: the Suez Crisis (1956), and as previously mentioned, the Berlin Crisis of 1961 and the Cuban Missile Crisis of 1962.

The Missile Crisis of '62 was the final straw for the Socialists. Attempts to intimidate the USA had failed and had nearly activated an all-out thermal global nuclear war. Leninite soon realised that the USA would push the button if threatened too far and instructed the Soviets to stand down on the issue. It was with this realisation that the Buzludzha Project came into being.

The Peoples of Marxus Galaxy had no will for war, but equally had no will to be bullied into submission by Capitalists on a distant planet. Marxus Galaxy had evolved way beyond the founding ideals of Socialism, and was truly united and Communist.

A new phase in our Earth's history had begun and this was further complicated by the Sino-Soviet split. Socialists on Earth no longer liked or trusted each other. US allies such as France became scared and demanded greater independence of action. The USSR had crushed the Prague Spring of 1968 with Leninite approval and had also brutally oppressed the Czechoslovakian people. Relationships between the Soviets and the Leninites was strong again and recovering. A relationship that had started to break-down following the Lenusers' assassination of Joseph Stalin in 1953 was reinvigorated. The Vietnam War (1955–1975) had ended in the defeat of the USA and the Republic of South Vietnam. Moscow had demonstrated yet again its power and control to the Leninite authorities and both had supported the communist forces of North Vietnam.

By the 1970s both sides of the galaxy had sought to create a more stable and predictable international and co-galactic system, inaugurating a period of détente. On Earth the USSR invited the USA to the Strategic Arms Limitation Talks. The USSR invited the Chinese to open up relationships with the US. Outraged by implied Earth Independence, this period of détente collapsed in 1980, the end of the decade when Leninite ordered the Soviets into a war in Afghanistan.

The Lenusers flexed their muscles further, keeping pressure on the Soviets to maintain Communist control by shooting down Korean Air Lines Flight 007 in 1983. This incident led to the NATO Able Archer 83 exercises of that same year, a ten-day NATO command exercise that started on November 2. It spanned Western Europe and centred on the Supreme Headquarters Allied Powers Europe (SHAPE) Headquarters in Casteau, north of the city of Mons. The Able Archer 83 exercise simulated a period of conflict escalation which would culminate in the DEFense readiness CONdition DEFCON 1 – a simulated and co-ordinated NATO nuclear attack against the USSR.

The exercise introduced unique formats of coded communication and radio silences and it involved the complete participation of the heads of all NATO governments. The simultaneous arrival of the new Pershing II nuclear missiles in Europe also led members of the Soviet Politburo and military to believe that the whole exercise was an act toward war. They, the Soviet Bloc, were unclear who had started it all, the USA or its European Allies? Or was it once again, the work of the Lenusers of Marxus? Were they demonstrating that they could start the third war on Earth without firing a single shot from Marxus? Russia was now scared.

Deteriorating relations between the USSR and USA had in fact been manipulated from Marxus. It was the closest the world had come to war since 1962. Moscow backed down again on the order of Leninite. They, the Lenusers, had again demonstrated their greater strength to that of the Socialists of Earth. With improved relations and with Leninite in firm control, the threat of nuclear war ended on November 11th 1983.

With firm preparations in place for the Buzludzha project since 1962, the Leninites now found, to their great disapproval, that during the mid-1980s the new Soviet leader, Mikhail Gorbachev, had introduced Perestroika, a re-organisational process of 1987 following the political openness of Glasnost in 1985. Soviet involvement in Afghanistan ended without the wishes of a single government of the Marxus system, and accordingly a wave of anti-socialist revolutions on Earth now followed. Leninite stood back as it watched the Warsaw Pact regimes collapse and fall.

Most fell peacefully except the Romanian revolution which was brutal and retaliatory. The Communists had gone and Marxus had been betrayed by its own kind – the socialists of Earth. Soviet troops did not bolster the faltering regimes and the Communist Party of the Soviet Union soon lost control of Central and Eastern Europe. Following an abortive 1991 coup attempt in Russia and the further collapse of the Socialist regimes of Mongolia, Cambodia and South Yemen, the United States remained powerful. It was now this planet's only superpower. The Cold War was over, but unwittingly the Dark War had just begun.

PART THREE

Chapter Thirty Nine

The Dark War Begins

Russia had historical experiences of frequent invasions and the immense death toll of World War Two had exceeded 27 million. On the orders of Leninite's highest authority, the Stalingus, the Earth's counter equivalent, Joseph Stalin, had dominated control of the post-war Soviet Empire installing a new dictatorship of the proletariat that was controlled from across the universe. The new Socialist empire sought only to dominate the internal affairs of the countries that bordered it. Stalin created Communist training centres based on those of the Stalingus, the purpose to set up secret regimes and police forces loyal to both Moscow and Marxus. The media, especially the radio, were all controlled by Russian Agents, and the independent civic institutions such as schools and associated youth groups, the church and any oppositional political parties were outlawed and banned. Now, after all was done, Stalin wanted peace with Britain, primarily for the purpose of post-war reconstruction and economic growth.

Different world views of a new vision for the new post-war world existed. For the Americans and Roosevelt, Stalin seemed to be a potential ally but for the British, Stalin was viewed as the greatest of threats. The Soviets already occupied most of Central and Eastern Europe and the Lenusers occupied the entire Marxus system. They too peered down on Stalin with great suspicion. The revolutions of Marxus were most successful and the Socialists had now turned their attentions toward the outer worlds of the Milky Way.

Political differences between the two Western powers resulted in Roosevelt and Churchill negotiating several separate deals. October 1944 saw the British Prime Minister, Winston Churchill, travel to Moscow. He agreed to divide the region known as the Balkans into respective spheres of influence. Whilst in Yalta, Roosevelt signed a separate deal with Stalin concerning Asia having refused to support Churchill's demand for reparations and the resolution of issues such as Poland. A general consensus on a framework for post-war settlement of Europe failed.

In April 1945, President Roosevelt died. His successor in April of that year, Harry S. Truman, had always distrusted Stalin. An elite group of foreign policy intellectuals was formed. Churchill and Truman both fiercely opposed the Soviets' decision to prop up the Polish puppet provisional Lubin Committee whilst the true Polish government remained in exile in London. The Lubin Committee was the new Soviet government put into place in Poland by Stalin. Accordingly all relations between the Truman/Churchill alliance and the Soviets had been severed.

The Potsdam Conference held in late July following Germany's surrender, brought to the fore serious differences concerning the future post-war political development of Germany and Central and Eastern Europe. The Lenuser government paid great attention to the words of Earth's great post-war leaders and of their hostile intentions and entrenched positions. War with Earth was now an imminent possibility and Leninite put its full support behind the Soviets for it was at this Potsdam Conference that Truman informed Stalin that the United States had new technology within its control. This was nuclear weaponry.

Stalin was very well informed and already aware of this but what the USA did not know in return was that the Soviets' own rival program was already firmly in place, and had been for a considerable time. He reacted calmly, smiling at Truman from across the room but looking upward toward Leninite with a sarcastic wink of eye. In fact it is correct to say that the Soviet leader was most pleased with the Americans news and urged that the Atomic Bomb be now tested on Japan.

Just one week later the United States bombed both Hiroshima and Nagasaki, both cities on mainland Japan. Following her unconditional surrender, the Americans refused Stalin any influence within the new leadership of the Japanese Empire and accordingly Stalin protested to US officials. The Stalingus of Marxus then ordered that the post-war territories become known as the Eastern Bloc, and built for themselves a defensive line. In this way was the so-called Iron Curtain thus created.

The Soviet Union had, with the onset of war, already laid the foundations for the Iron Curtain. The Eastern Bloc had been created by directly annexing several countries given to it by the Nazis under the Molotov–Ribbentrop Pact. The new Socialist Soviet Republics had been born; they included Eastern Poland, Latvia, Estonia, Lithuania, parts of eastern Finland and quite a large part of Romania. The territories having been gained from conflict, following the break-down of relationships between Joseph Stalin and Adolf Hitler, were converted into the so-called satellite states; East Germany, the People's Republic of Poland, the People's Republic of Bulgaria, the People's Republic of Hungary, the Czechoslovak Socialist Republic, the People's Republic of Romania and the People's Republic of Albania.

These Soviet-allied regimes of this formidable Eastern Bloc not only reproduced Soviet command economies, they also adopted Stalin's brutal repression techniques. The Soviet Secret Police suppressed all potential opposition to their outright control. The Red Army had now also over-run Manchuria (Asia) during the last month of the war, occupying large areas of former Korean territory, north of the 38th parallel.

Winston Churchill had long been concerned by the enormous size of deployed Soviet forces that remained in Europe at the end of war with Nazi Germany. Stalin was, he believed, a man who could not be trusted and was most unreliable, a dictator of a brutal totalitarian regime and a Soviet military threat to free Western Europe.

In preparation for a renewed third war, the famous Iron Curtain speech was accordingly delivered by the British PM. It was delivered to the Americans whilst in Fulton, Missouri. Churchill called for an Anglo-American alliance, united against the Soviets to oppose the so-called Iron Curtain that existed from Stettin in the Baltic to Trieste in the Adriatic. Socialist ideology was enforced within the international communist movement and tight political control maintained over all of the new Soviet satellites through co-ordination of communist parties in the Eastern Bloc. This new Communist Information Bureau, Cominform, a universal agreement set up to support all satellite members faced an embarrassing setback. This following the Tito-Stalin split in June of the same year. Stalin ordered its members to expel Yugoslavia. Although communist, Yugoslavia had adopted an aligned East versus West political stand. For the Americans witnessing this new socialist in-fighting, the priority was now containment of the USSR. The new Union of Socialist Soviet Republics and all of its satellite states were to be maintained exactly at existing borders, and this was fundamental within the Truman Doctrine. The Soviets would be allowed to go no further. In doing this and unbeknown to the USA at the time, Marxus too could go no further on Earth.

The Bulgarian Communist Party (BCP) was the Marxist-Leninist ruling party of the People's Republic of Bulgaria between 1946 until 1989. Bulgaria had ceased to be a Communist State following the fall of the Iron Curtain during the late 1980s. The Fatherland Front coalition had taken control of the country toward the end of the war in 1944. Although a workers' socialist coalition, it was in many ways dominated by the Communist Party and jointly forged in opposition to Bulgaria's fascist-aligned Tsarist government. In conjunction with the Red Army's crossing of the Romanian – Bulgarian border, an effective coup succeeded during 1944.

The party's origins lay in the Bulgarian Social Democratic Workers' Party, known as the Tesnyatsi or Narrow Socialists. It was founded in 1903 following the political differences born of the 10th Congress of the Bulgarian Social Democratic Workers' Party. Dimitar Blagoev, named after a comet, had founded the BSDWP in 1894. Opposed to World War One, the party was sympathetic to the Russian October Revolution in 1917. Under his leadership, the BSDWP joined the Communist International at its outset in 1919. Later on having joined Stalin's post World War Two 1948 - Comintern, the party became known as the Communist Party of Bulgaria.

Georgi Dimitrov was Bulgaria's first post-war Socialist leader from 1946. He too had also been a member of the Communist Party's Central Committee since 1919. He died suddenly in 1949. In 1938 the party had merged with the Workers' Party and later in 1948 merged again with the Bulgarian Social Democratic Workers' Party. A united Bulgarian Communist Party was born.

Dimitrov's sudden death gave way to Vulko Chervenkov, a cold-hearted Stalinist sympathiser who aimed all too eagerly to please Moscow and Leninite. He was responsible for many high-profile party expulsions, gaining great favour with the Soviet leadership in Russia and jointly the Stalingus of Marxus. He ensured the expulsion of any member suspected of being sympathetic to the Titoites following Yugoslavia's expulsion from the Soviet alliance. He had also imprisoned suspected counter-revolutionaries and any non-party members who had sought to establish an alternative to his repressive control. Following Joseph Stalin's assassination, in 1953, Chervenkov was soon deposed by much greater forces beyond.

Todor Zhivkov was appointed by Leninite and led the country from 1954 until 1989, up until the fall of communism. His period in office was one that afforded relative political stability for Bulgaria and an increase in overall living standards. He supported the principles of the Soviet Union and remained close to its leadership after Nikita Khrushchev was deposed by Leonid Brezhnev. But the winds of change and demand for political reform that swept across the East during 1989 had now led to Zhivkov's resignation and much of what we now know of the existence of the Buzludzha de-atomisation files came from testaments given following his arrest.

His leadership was followed by the liberal socialist, Petar Mladenov. It was Mladenov who on December 11th announced that the party was giving up its guaranteed right to rule. This sealed the fate for Communist rule in Bulgaria. The constitutional right of the socialists to lead was deleted forever. The communists now also denounced Marxist–Leninism as a political system of influence in the country during the spring of 1990. The Communists formally changed their party name to become the Bulgarian Socialist Party (BSP).

It was here, at this juncture of time in modern Earth history that some hard-line Communists, unable to let go of their socialist ideals, established their own new splinter groups. Most with only a handful in membership were of no real political threat, but of these, one political party continued with the name; Bulgarian Homeland Communists Union, led by Radislav Stanus-Aleksandar. The Dark War had now begun.

PART THREE

Chapter Forty

The Space Race

Stalin's successor within the USSR, Khrushchev, was now in power. The year was Earth: 1954. Khrushchev was a Hannaniam, a believer or subscriber to the conspiracy of Hannah. Khrushchev was a sworn-in member and a crucial part of the Stalingus inner circle of secrecy. He was in regular contact with the political agents of the Marxus Galaxy. Back in Bulgaria, the prophet's peaceful call to revolution seemed to have failed. The first post-war Bulgarian Prime-Minister, Georgio Dimitov, had died suddenly in suspicious circumstances; his death making way for Vulko Chervenkov. Chervenkov was a ruthless Stalinist. He had admired the leadership of Joseph Stalin in Russia and sought to emulate many of his oppressive practices. It was also widely believed that Chervenkov had been involved in the sinister removal of Dimitov from office.

Within a year of the assassination of the false prophet, Stalin, Vulko was also removed from office. The Soviet Union was now in firm control of all satellite states and with de-Stalinisation, a force akin to a run-away train, being the new ideology of the new Socialist Motherland, Bulgaria was pulled back into line. Nikita Khrushchev would ensure that the Buzludzha project would happen, that the Prophet Blagoev's message was pure and true, and that the World Socialist Revolution was imminent. Chervenkov was given a choice: resign from office immediately or be de-atomised. Chervenkov thus accepted early retirement.

The years 1955-1972 saw both Cold War rivals on Earth compete in a new technological war, the Soviet Union (USSR) and the United States (US), a war for supremacy amongst the stars. The Space Race gave the world the first artificial satellites and unmanned probes that were sent to the Moon, Venus and even Mars. It also gave us the first human space-craft that could circle the Earth in low orbit. Officially the Space Race began on August 2nd, 1955; this when the US announced it would launch its first space satellite. The USSR already possessed its own satellites and US agents (spies) had long operated behind the iron Curtain. Russia was furious at the theft of their Marxus technology and vowed that the US would fail.

What became known as the International Geophysical Year saw the USSR's launch of Sputnik-1 on October 4th, 1957. The US was the first superpower to land a man-made craft on the moon on July 20th, 1969. Apollo 11 witnessed the first humanoid footprint upon it. However, the USSR had no interest in ever wasting its valuable time and effort on what was described by Nikita Khrushchev as a "floating lump of compounded dust akin to a blocked American vacuum cleaner." Khrushchev's administration was far too pre-occupied by the receipt from outer space of further developed Marxun technologies thousands of years in advance of anything that the Capitalists had on offer. They sat back and allowed the US to waste its time, even entering into a period of relative peace and co-operative agreement under the 1972 Apollo-Soyuz Test Project. Whilst the two superpowers could not be friends on Earth, this space rendezvous of 1975, saw the linking of hands in orbit of a US astronaut crew and a Soviet cosmonaut crew. The origins of the Space Race had been born out of the need for a missile-based arms race that started during World War Two. Both superpowers had captured advanced German rocket technology, along with all of the German scientific personnel who had worked on it.

For the US, it was a race for profound propaganda purposes and pure research, but for the USSR, they were focused more on its spin-off technologies. Marxus remained 100 million light years away and humanoid travel over such a distance was beyond reach, even for the Leninites whose normal life expectancy, as we know, exceeded 800 years. Radunas technology had advanced significantly; regular broadcasts were now received by Communist networks all over the Humanoid Globe. It was the spin-offs, along with technical information supplied by their Inter-Stella comrades that could produce the much needed results; to see the completion of the blue-prints, the building of the Buzludzha project on Earth.

The Communists still feared invasion from the US at the end of the war. There had been at least 27 million Russian casualties during World War Two. The false prophet had then gone on to execute over 21 million more during the initial period of the Dark War. For Stalingus, the message was now clear: the Earth revolution had failed. The beauty and purity of the original message given to the Prophet had now been twisted and contorted completely beyond recognition. The Socialist Motherland pleaded with Stalingus for support. The USA could not be allowed to become technologically superior or all would be lost. Though hesitant at first, Stalingus, following the Great Meeting of the Minds of The People, reluctantly agreed. The Dark War, the unspoken war between Communists on Earth who all vied for totalitarian power, continued. The Cold War between the superpowers continued, as did the new ideals of the Prophet, Dimitar Blagoev. The latter was concluded without the knowledge of either superpower. Both the USSR and the US now lived in total darkness. The Stalingus communications with Bulgaria were now shrouded in secrecy. Unbeknown to Khrushev, the USSR would no longer be given the technology needed to complete its own Buzludzha Mothership.

The US's air force had always been bigger than that of the USSR. Advanced American airbases were deemed to be far too near to Soviet territory. It had been Stalin, who in 1947, had ordered the development of the USSR's first InterContinental Ballistic Missiles (ICBMs). During the year of Stalin's death, he had given his commander, Korolev, the go ahead to build an R-7 Semyorka Rocket. Notably its boosters still resembled those of the original German G-4. Overall however, it was a major advance on the original design and successfully flown on the 15th May, 1957. The R-7 was now the world's first fully operational ICBM. It was R-7 technology that would also be used to launch Sputnik into space, and power all other piloted Soviet aircraft.

Korolev was all too familiar with the success of American's von Braun's 1956 Jupiter-C test, and soon expected to get his own satellite into space. Since his R-7 was more powerful than anything else the US had at the time, he continued to take full advantage of Object D to use as his primary satellite mission. Object D was of Marxun design and would easily dwarf the American satellites. Object D had a "weight of 1,400 kilograms (3,100 lb), of which 300 kilograms (660 lb) would be composed of scientific instruments that would photograph the Earth," Source: Stalingus 12278/366. Object D could take both radiation levels and check on the planet Earth's magnetic field. This was to be crucial in aligning the Buzludzha Motherships with the crossing of the stars, aligning them serially with Orion as expected. Korolev failed with this mission, further angering the Stalingus authorities'. Things were not going along well with the design and overall manufacturing of the satellite to meet Marxun standards.

Korolev was granted permission in 1957 by the USSR Council of Ministers to make a reduced capacity model: a prosteishy sputnik (PS-1), this was a simple and most basic satellite. The launch of Object D was now postponed until April 1958. The smaller satellite would not contain any of the complex instrumentation that Stalingus required for the completion of the Buzludzha project, but it did have two separate short wave radio transmitters operating on different frequencies. One was for the use of Earth whilst the other beamed out directly toward Leninite. Its orbital position allowed it to skim the surface of a moon called R12, within a star system known as Terminus 4. Now, at last, direct communication with the inhabitants of the Marxus galaxy could occur in real-time. The bouncing of radunas short wave rays, now called Radio on Earth, worked in a manner similar to the breaking of snooker balls against each other, the balls dispersing in a multitude of directions under force and bouncing back off other objects in return. Until now the Earth had been somewhat snookered.

The successful launches of the R-7 rocket paved the way for Sputnik. In the meantime the Americans attended the International Geophysical Year Conference held at the National Academy of Sciences in Washington DC, 1957, and published their paper "Satellite over the Planet." The USSR now feared that von Braun might launch another Jupiter-C in-conjunction with the release of this paper. Korolev refused to be beaten and he hastened the launch of the Soviet PS-1, the simplified satellite. It was to be launched early. At exactly 10:28:34 pm Moscow Earth plus 2, on Friday October 4th 1957, the Soviet R-7 Sputnik 1 Satellite lifted off. Just a few minutes later the Sputnik had delivered the first artificial moon, a man-made satellite directly into Earth space. The name translated into English, Sputnik, simply means Fellow Traveller.

Now it was the Americans time to be scared. Observers asked "Would the USSR now be the first superpower to put a man into space as well?" By 1959, the US had begun to realise it was running out of time. Project Mercury was way behind schedule and its planned launch date could not be met. On April 12th, 1961, Yuri Gagarin was the first humanoid Cosmonaut to orbit the Earth. The Soviet Union had won the Space Race. Just as Sputnik means fellow traveller, Cosmonaut means 'Sailor of The Universe.' When the flight was publicly announced, it was celebrated around the whole Globan as a great triumph, not just for the Communists, but for all socialists Globan-wide. Source: Stalingus 12328/671.

The US was shocked and embarrassed to its very core. Their own space travellers, the so-called Astronauts, from the Greek meaning 'Star Sailors', had yet to get off the launch pad. But on May 5th, 1961, Alan Shepard became the first American in space, arriving there just three weeks after the Russian, Gagarin. He did not achieve orbit as the Russian had done so, but he was the first Earth humanoid to manually control his spacecraft's altitude and retrorocket firing systems. Gherman Titov in Vostok 2 was the first to control a manually operated spacecraft for the Soviets on 6th August 1961. A year after the Gagarin space orbit, the American John Glenn was the first American to successfully orbit Earth on February 20th, 1962 inside the Friendship 7 craft.

The United Nations General Assembly speech of the US President John F Kennedy (September 20th, 1963) proposed that both the Soviets and the Americans join forces in their efforts to land upon the moon. Nikita Khrushchev initially rejected Kennedy's proposal but later realised that Capitalists could, he concluded, share cost benefits and some technological gains within a joint venture. As Khrushchev had reconsidered and was poised to accept the US Presidents offer, in November 1963 The Ark, the security wing of the Stalingus leadership, ordered the immediate elimination of, and if necessary, assassination of the US President, JF Kennedy.

Khrushchev and Kennedy had become somewhat close during the years. Despite the horrors of the Cuban Missile Crisis of 1962, which brought the Earth to the brink of a Nuclear War, it had also, and in many ways brought the two leaders closer together. They had to talk to each other and had to resolve their differences peacefully – for if they did not, then the end of the World was now upon us. It was Vice President Johnson who assumed the US Presidency after Kennedy's assassination. He however did not have such a good rapport with Moscow and most certainly did not trust the Soviets. Knowing that any attempt to establish dialogue with Johnson would anger the Commralienists of Leninite (a nickname built of the phrase Comrade Aliens) further and fearing his own execution, Khrushchev dropped the proposal of a joint moon programme.

PART THREE

Chapter Forty One

The Great Meeting

The Great Meeting of The Minds of The People is often referred to today as simply The Buzludzha Files. It was on the Deep Space Dateidium of Marxus Globus 17/333425.16 that the meeting of all great minds was called. The future of the Globan was threatened by the behaviour of the humanoids of the Earth and urgent decisions had to be made. The Lenusers were peaceful people, their hearts full of warmth and joy, their own Socialist revolution had been won by the mind, and they were happy and content with their Socialist utopia, up, up and away beyond the stars. In contrast, planet Earth's revolution had been one of bloodshed and suffering. Millions had died in the class struggle against Capitalism. The planetoid was now separated in two by an invisible wall referred to by the Humanoid Earthlings as the Iron Curtain. The false prophet had destroyed any hope of a peaceful world revolution and the capitalist forces were hell bent on the total destruction of the great Socialist Empire on Earth, the USSR.

Amongst much great forward leaping technology shared with the Earth was the technology to split the atom and the process of matter de-atomisation. It had been hoped that the technology would be used for good, for the joining of the two distant Socialist Peoples; that a distance of 100 million light years would become just a mere second away; that with the completion of the Buzludzha Project the different worlds of Leninite and Earth would become as one. But the Great Council of Great Minds had its own fears and insecurities. Neither the Soviets nor the Americans could be trusted but they did all agree on one thing - only the original Prophet, the Macedonian known as Dimitar Blagoev could be trusted. He was the only True Prophet of the pure Socialist cause on Earth.

The Great Meeting of The Minds of The People was the first emergency meeting called by the Stalingus leadership since the beautiful revolution of 96 leagues before. In Earth terms, this amounted to some 3000 years. It was 1000 years later that the United Marxus Galaxy had first broadcast short wave radunas mind waves out into the beyond in the hope that other civilisations, should they exist, would receive the message of faith. The Jesus experiment and the belief that there was only one true political system had united two thirds of the Globan already. Only the unchartered remains of the Earth star systems and the Milky Way, remained uncharted. Many Prophets on Earth had received the message but Earthling unity had failed. This was a fact that Stalingus was unaware of until late into the 20th century when spin-offs of the space age, such as satellite transmission of digital media for television broadcast, allowed the Lenusers to assess the evidence. It had appeared that the whole project had failed. One core statement; "Earthlings of The World Unite" had become "Workers of The World Unite." A struggle of species was merely a struggle of human labour. The Vegetarian Moral Code was almost non-existent on the Earth. There had been some success; a third of the world was Socialist and in a loose kind of way this was viewed as a good start. Here, today, the decision had to be made, and the big question answered; was the Earth really worth saving at all? Communication was in real time. A mass of information and technology had been given but Communism on Earth was seen by most as failing. Here at Marxus Globas Agearian: Point 6, the Council considered that the time to pull the plug had finally arrived.

It was the casting vote of Sector 9 that won the day for Earth. There was something inherent within the humanoid Earthling that was not compatible with other Socialists of the wider Globan, this was true. Their evolution had failed to keep pace with reality, most were carnivorous, and billions still believed in a central creator who they called God which was a belief that had killed more of Earth's own citizens than any other revolution. But there was a much bigger concern – the matter of the ongoing Dark War. If the Socialists on Earth couldn't even work together, then what really was the point of it all? It was this Dark War that created fear amongst the civilised Globan. The Marxus federal administration, this year being held on Leninite, had been given the task of coming to a final decision.

The Buzludzha Project was an inter-galactic transport system.

In simple terms, a long-haul flight that you had no knowledge of ever undertaking. Buzludzha Motherships, as they were known, had been installed all over the Marxus Galaxy, The Marian Galaxy, The Falling Starways and all other major Globan positions. The handful of a few unreachable outposts of humanoid civilisation that remained had included the Milky Way, and consequently the planetoid Earth. It was not until the advent of the Space Race and the appointment of Khrushchev as Soviet Leader, that the Council had even realised there was anyone out there who was actually listening, although it was acknowledged that the technology, the blue prints as it were, had already been utilised. The Stalingus had messed up in assuming that all humanoid life had evolved at an equal speed and intellectual capacity. It had assumed that any receiving mind would welcome the message. On Earth this had proved to be quite the exception.

The casting vote to save Earth, afforded by Sector 9, was based on the original premonitions of Orion. Sector 9 and its Line Three Peoples were still deeply spiritual, and the aligning of the stars had never failed them. It was the crossing of these very same stars that had predicted the arrival of Dimitar Blagoev. The Leninite Father, Engels, had also confirmed this. Orion was the Greatest Leader of all known space time, an ancient ancestor of Engels, and the greatest thinker who had ever lived. Orion had been named after a star system; three aligned stars that were present in all galaxies. Orion 1 was known to be within the Milky Way and Orion 16 was within Marxus. It is from within the Earth's own solar system that life had at first been formed. The solar system had been evacuated following the Great Flare of: MM224-5673zlld.12, approximately 24 billion Earth years earlier. It had always been believed that human life would soon re-evolve, following the explosion of the original sun, a sun some 90 times larger than that of the smaller one which now remains.

The Orion Star System is found on the celestial equator of all known galaxies of Globan. It is exactly replicated in all star systems and easily recognisable as a prominent constellation. It is the most recognisable constellation within every galaxy. The name Orion comes from the figure of a hunter in early Mtihian Greekeen mythology. The Greatest mind of all time had spent his entire existence of 1,232 Earth years (13ste if measured in Lenindon of Marxus) hunting for knowledge of other life amongst the Globan. He, down through the bloodlines of all great thinkers, had passed on The Sight, eventually arriving to Engels of Leninite. Every prediction of Orion had always come true, and it was Orion who had predicted new life below Orion 1 would evolve. He had predicted that life had started there, but life would also end there.

All Orions of all galaxies consist of Beta Orionis and Alpha Orionis constellations. They are the umbilical cord of all star systems of the Globan, holding them together as one great space expanse. It is the beta that creates a negative force, the alpha a positive, which is in fact completely opposite to what was originally believed by many great minds of the Multus Billoneum beforehand. The three stars in the middle form a unique asterism known on Earth as Orion's belt. An Orion Nebula is located to the south, and is the closest region of unique massive star formation to Earth. This nebula is not present within the Orions of any other galaxy. Thus, the Milky Way's own Orion 1 remains unique within the Globan. This additional Nebula star system is believed to be debris from the Great Flare.

The Line Three Peoples of Sector 9 deeply believed in the power of the Orion to hold together the Globan, as did most Great Socialist thinkers. But of the so-named Prophet Orion, the great Mind-Father of Engels of Leninite, they held one distinct and quite separate belief from the others. The observations from Earth, the Cold War and the creation of the power vacuums of the East and Western Blocs and of superpowers with Nuclear Weapons poised to strike – didn't look too hopeful. But if humanoid life had started on Earth (date un-known) and had later been destroyed by the Great Flare of 24 Million Earth years later, the fact that human life had re-evolved demonstrated a great power source, non-existent elsewhere within the Globan.

The founding philosophy of the Line Threes was that they did not believe the unique and additional Nebula Star-System to be debris of the Great Flare. This theory they had always contested. They believed it to be the Orion of Life. The very origins of Globan life: 'ori' from the Latin 'originem', 'gins' from 'genes' and 'Ori-on', the original source of life on or from Orion. For them, the Socialist Earth Peoples Revolution was no longer the important central issue. If they wanted to kill each other all over again with a few Atom Bombs, this was their problem. The Stalingus had done its best and had no longer any moral responsibility for Earth or its people. Pulling the plug on the Earth's Buzludzha project would halt any hope of direct inter-galactic travel from Leninite to Earth. So was the council seriously considering this? "We have for the first time in our glorious Socialist existence the opportunity to make contact with the origins of life. From Earth we can easily reach the Nebulus. We have the craft available to us this very day and can easily make such a journey. We can de-atomise and re-atomise on Earth..." Vold C.P. informed the Council, most assertively.

Efon C.P. of Sector 67 leapt to his feet, a gesture not heard of or seen of in Council since the great plot of the Turners during the Marxus Tinanus Globus of 1187-43.221. "Brothers, Sisters, Comrades of the Council, we protest." A shocked Vold gave way to his interruption. Efon continued, "We have had peace throughout the Marxus Galaxy, The Marian Galaxy, The Falling Starways and all other celestial outposts since the glorious revolution. I beg for the attention of the Great Meeting; I beg for the attention of the Minds of The People, for if we develop a system of atomised transportation to Earth, what guarantee do we have that they will not re-atomise back? They are not Socialists. They are failures with no hope of ever achieving Communism, and they are nothing more than a humanoid subspecies who have failed their own evolutionary existence. I beg of you, stop this." The Moldonons of Starway Nine adding, "It's not them you need to worry about Great Minds - what if the capitalists try to come through? What if they send one of their bombs through?"

The debate continued and much consideration was given in regard to a mercy mission, a rescue mission of the Earth's genuine Communists. Drik C.P. A Moldonon of Starway 2 suggested to Efon C.P. of Sector 67, "Whilst, she of Great Mind, we respect your concerns in this matter, can we not all of us use this as instrumental in an opportunity to rescue our fellow Comrades from the evils of both Earth superpowers? Did not the Prophet Dimitar Blagoev spread the divine words of Marx and Engels? The word has been delivered. Whilst we cannot directly intervene we can offer refugee status to those in need? Why...? Because we are all Socialists and Comrades, all of us, Earthling or otherwise." The issue of intervention was still a sensitive one. The Glorious revolution was of single mind. Violence was now almost unheard of and deeply frowned upon. The peoples had united in Socialism because it was a system of beauty, of love and friendship to all humanoids. Now absent of the old systems of free-competition, the new association economical trade-way had removed all of the old conflicts and competition that had led to so much human aggression and sacrifice. Over 86 per cent of the known Globan was now united in Socialism.

The word Communism, from the French as broadcast to Earth 1900 years after the Jesus project, literally means a social system based on collective ownership. It is based on the socio-economic system of common Globan ownership and the means of production, a system first developed some 36th Marxus Globas Eraticus ago following the strikes of the Space-Ways and Planetary Assignments Workers Union. It became prominent for its removal of a class-based system, money and the state. It is a social, economic and political ideology that stabilised social order across the known Globan although on Earth, it had evolved into nothing less than the Dark War of Socialist states with different interpretations of this ideology given to suit it seemed, any person or purpose.

Communism, as delivered on Earth through Hannanism, was in turn directly associated with Marxism of Stalinite. The Stalingus believed themselves to be embodied with scientific socialism. According to the Great Minds, capitalism was a historical necessity. It had split the Marxus Galaxy into two different groups; the Proletariat and the Bourgeoisie. The proletariat had to work to survive, whilst the bourgeoisie, a minority within a ruling class had simply sat back and enjoyed the profits of the proletariat labour. It was the latter Bourgeoisie who owned the means of production, the factories and industries, wherein which the proletariat became slaves. This inevitably led to great social unrest and political and economic geographical conflict within the planets of the Marxus and later became known as the Great Class Struggle. Within the class struggle the power of each was tested with Ruling Classes pushing their own interests to the full. Eventually, and after the birth of the power-sharing autonomy, the Stalingus of Leninite, a system of public ownership and management of the means of production by society for society was established. The Great Minds had predicted through all eternity and beyond that "Socialism shall come to us and it will be fair and just." The Father of All Prophets, Orion himself quoted, in Nexus R1 the authority's Canon of all Great Revolutionaries. This defining communism as: "a stateless, classless and moneyless society, structured upon common ownership of the means of production."

All services were now to be made available on the basis of free access. As the class-struggle ended, the so-called administrative power of the state had no further relevance and disappeared from history. The collective self-management of the united Globan continued very happily without it. The problem with Earth was that the October Revolution, as led by Lenin and Trotsky, had set the conditions for Marxism on Earth in the wrong place. Though both had originally set out to follow the Prophet Dimitar Blagoev's words, to eventually establish Socialism, and eventually Communism on Earth, it was never prophesised that this should occur at first in Russia. In fairness, the Great Meeting heard that Earth Lenin had never claimed that Socialism had been achieved; in fact he openly admitted that state capitalism was now the driving economical force. Brol. C.P. Agenda item 14443a. Brol, of the Falling Starways, was in admiration of Lenin and Trotsky's achievements, the eminent Sister adding, "He (Lenin) also stated that socialism was eventually going to be developed, and during the last days of his life had asked for Joseph Stalin, that repugnant false prophet, to be removed from his position. Was it thus the humanoid Socialists' fault for the failing Earth revolution, or was it caused by the direct interferences of the Capitalist powers of the West?"

Lenin's death had indeed led to a struggle for power between several opposing Socialist factions within which, and most regrettably, Stalin had won. Stalin had now invented the term Marxism-Leninism, a so-called professed adherence to Marxism and Leninism by rule of fear. This was a most controversial terminology which described the political ideology Stalin had gone on to implement in the formation of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union and on a much bigger global scale, the creation of the Communist International, commonly known as the Comintern. Stalin's creation of a single state and socialism in one country resulted in much laughter and folly within the Great Meeting. The meeting could not come to any definite agreement. Its historians failed to advise the Council whether in fact Stalin had followed any principles of Marxus or the humanoid upstart, Lenin, at all.

J4-Dacaus, the most prestigious of Lenuser's historians added to the debate, "Marxism-Leninism is the creation of a single party state which has full control of the entire economy. According to this, this system of Marxism-Leninism within the Soviet Union had achieved socialism. Who can then say if it was on the way to communism? But it is true to say that the other communist tendencies of Earth disagree, some Marxist, others not. They, the opposers, claim that it had now merely transferred capitalism into the single party state's own dirty hands. Indeed many believed that with Stalin in control, the development of true Marxism on Earth had now been halted. What I say to the Great Meeting and to the Minds of The People is this: Marxism-Leninism is neither Marxism, Leninism, nor is it the union of either. But we do know that the honourable Leon Trotsky led the struggle against it for which he paid dearly with his life. We do know that this distorted truth was made into the official ideology of the Comintern and thus exported under the guise of Marxism to all other countries. However, these receiving states did not, as we are aware now, develop communism. If I may end with this, Great Minds, the degree to which they had achieved even a basic form of socialism will be discussed for evermore."

The emergency meeting of The Great Meeting of The Minds of the People lasted an Earth equivalent of 19 days. The summary finding was this: That Earth's revolution could be saved and that any emergency intervention needed to be immediate. The Soviets, as ordered by Stalingus, were now at war in Afghanistan. If Earth's revolution was going to be saved it had to be done now before this new Earth war was lost.

The Afghan government had secured a treaty with the USSR in December 1978, and just as any NATO member would from within the Capitalist superpower camp, it in turn allowed the Afghans to call on Soviet forces. This they had done during the spring and summer of the following year. Repeated requests for Soviet troop support were made in order to provide security and to assist in the fight against the Mujahideen rebels, a terrorist group supported and funded by the Americans and Western powers. On April 14th, 1979, a request was made for 20 helicopters with their crews, and on June 16th, a detachment of tanks followed. A request to secure the airport followed on July 7th, and in response an airborne battalion, commanded by the USSR's Lieutenant Colonel A. Lomakin, arrived at the Bagram Air Base. These paratroopers were under the direct control of Soviet military officials and did not interfere directly in Afghan politics. Stalingus had become most concerned when some leading Earth Socialist politicians, namely Alexei Kosygin and Andrei Gromyko resisted the ordered intervention, infuriating the Marxus further. It seemed to them, though, they still remained some 100 million light years away from Earth's own battlefields - that if the planet's Socialist leaders were not prepared to save the Glorious Earth Revolution, why should Marxus?

The following month, requests from Afghanistan for assistance became more demanding. They wanted much larger forces, - full Soviet Regiments - to intervene. Then in July, the Afghan government requested two motorized rifle divisions and the following day a request for an airborne division additional to all previous requests. "Despite our Socialist Brothers and Sisters begging for their (the Soviets) help," said J4-Dacaus, "this Soviet government would not assist." The Council fell quiet as he reiterated with just a single tear falling from his face, "This, this is why we ordered the Soviets to intervene and if they didn't, we told them we would. Have we forgotten this already?" Accordingly the Soviet war in Afghanistan started during the Earth Month of December, 1979.

That old informed reliable ally to the Stalingus, Nikita Khrushchev, had now passed away and this had given way to a new form of leadership within the Soviet Union, that of Leonid Brezhnev. The United Marxus Socialist Front, a galaxy thus far unknown to most, and remaining millions of light years away from Earth; a galaxy beyond the minds, the sight and sound of the everyday normal people across the Transunium, was required to flex its muscles once again.

PART THREE

Chapter Forty Two

Noah's Ark

There is a reason why Buzludzha is round. There is a reason why every flying saucer ever witnessed has been round. There is a reason why the planets, moons, stars and suns are all round as well, and why great comets circumnavigate around all universes in a perfect circle. But don't get this wrong. I, the author, ask as there is no such thing as a flying saucer, is this is just the mere mad rantings of the UFO community here on Earth? The reason they invent these fictitious alien spacecraft to us as circular in fashion is because we all share a common round ancestor – the Atom. Therefore being round is instinctive to us. We think round, hence the expression 'thoughts going round and round inside my head'. But for the Lenusers of Marxus, being round is more complex as all de-atomisation chambers, by the very nature and law of physics, have to be round in structure. This is why Buzludzha is round. Round is in our culture and ingrained belief. You may think that this has been since the early years of the Jesus experiment and the ancient pre-Judaic stories of Noah's Ark. A fact that we accept today is that this historical Ark was also round. But let me enlighten you further, as in actual fact, Leninite has been beaming out short wave radunas for over five millennia - did you never notice that Stonehenge and all other worldwide pre-historic stone circles are also round?

Noah's Ark as written in ancient Marxun Aramaic, was the sailing ship born of the Genesis flood. This much historically-distorted story differs considerably from the original truth – but the essence of fact does remain. The popular myth is that God saved Noah and his family. Noah in turn then saved all the world's animals from the flood that God created to punish mankind. God is credited for giving Noah detailed instructions for building the Ark. The material used was basic, a gopher wood hull which was smeared inside and out with pitch. The blueprints also detailed three decks with internally housed compartments. The measurements were to be 300 cubits long (137.16 m, 450 ft.), 50 wide (22.86 m, 75 ft.), and 30 high (13.716 m, 45 ft.). The Ark is to have a roof and as instructed, "Finished to a cubit upward." There was to be just one entrance on the side. (Fire exits were not required as there would be no land to evacuate onto). The biblical story goes on to describe how the Ark remained afloat throughout the duration of this apocalyptic world flood, and only after the water finally receded did the Ark come to rest on land again. The location of its landing was Mount Ararat. This story is repeated in numerous world texts including, but with variations, the Holy Quran. Here the Ark appears as Safina (Arabic: "Noah's boat").

Hannah wasn't the first person to get things a little wrong when translating radunas' wave texts as historically first transmitted to Earth. The essence of the Ark story as widely accepted by scholars today is true but with two glaring errors: 1 - It was not God who had transmitted the Ark blueprints, but the Lenusers of Marxus and 2 - the Ark was in fact round and not boat shaped as we recognise traditional shipping design today. The Genesis flood was also one of many such floods of the time and was caused by Pole Shift Factothesis following the first Great Earth War. Reference to several of these disastrous floods can be found as narratives in numerous other flood stories and are born out of a variety of cultures. One of the earliest Earth records is of the Sumerian flood myth found in the Epic of Ziusudra. Earthlings generally believe that there is no scientific evidence supporting a global flood. Disbelievers of the theory referred to it as arkeology. This ignorance was often born out of the disappointment of the many expeditions that brought forth no scientific evidence. Remains of the Ark have never been found. But as to why archaeologists expect to find remains of a wooden saucer left on top of a mountain for God knows how long, is beyond the reason and rational mind of modern Lenusers today. Cataclysmic pole shift hypothesis as understood today, suggests that several geologically rapid shifts occurred to the Earth's crust creating modern-day calamities such as floods and tectonic events. It is, however, a documented fact that our planet's tectonic plates are shifting the poles and the axis of rotation for the Earth, but of course to nowhere near the degree caused by the first Earth World War One of 200 million BC. Today we (Earthlings) find that there is evidence of a change in axial tilt but over a much longer time-scale and does not involve relative motion spin axis. We often refer to this modern day phenomenon as true polar wander as Earth rotates with respect to a fixed spin axis. Since the destruction of Earth in its original form some 200 million years ago, a total true polar wander of only 30° has occurred. Since then, there have been no further super-rapid shifts of the Earth's poles.

We need to understand Pole Shift Hypotheses further as it is not connected with plate tectonics, and quite separate from the Polar Shift Factothesis of Noah's great flood. Tectonic understanding is a well-accepted geological fact as the Earth's surface consists of solid tectonic plates which move slowly over a semifluid asthenosphere or crust. Polar Shift Factothesis resulted in massive continental drift, resulting in the emerging and breaking up of continents and oceans over a relatively short period of time; some ten years. Modern day Polar Shift Factothesis refers to a process lasting hundreds of millions of years. The Great Stalingus historian J4-Dacaus does offer some guidance in saying that the First Great Earth War and Cataclysmic pole shift factothesis was caused by "human interference to the Old Earth structure." Though we believe it to have been atomic, this is not a proven fact. But it is widely acknowledged that the geomagnetic reversal, the original reversal of the Earth's magnetic field, occurred at this point in history. It effectively switched the north and south magnetic poles around.

Many qaudnordic millennium before the Jesus experiment, Marxus had transmitted radunas mind waves to try and educate lost or evolving planetisations with the true words and origins of life. One such broadcast was the history of Old Earth (Part 222.134.bb9) and the 'Origins of Original Life Theory and Polar Shift Factothesis' (First Edition). It was not until a 1872 article entitled 'Chronologie historique des Mexicains' by Charles Étienne Brasseur de Bourbourg appeared, that confirmation that this broadcast had ever been the case was accepted, and that it had in fact been passed down over many millennia as an oral tradition. Charles de Bourbourg was a specialist of the time in Mesoamerican codices and ancient Mexican myths. He argued that four periods of global cataclysms had occurred around 10,500 BC. Further references to Earth understanding occur in 1948 when Hugh Auchincloss Brown advanced a hypothesis of catastrophic pole shift and again in 1950 in a work called 'Worlds in Collision' by Immanuel Velikovsky.

The 'Earth's Shifting Crust' written in 1958 by Charles Hapgood, and including a foreword by Albert Einstein, was the first authentic work to argue that, "ice mass at one or both poles over-accumulates and destabilizes Earth's rotational balance causing slippage of Earth's outer crust around the Earth's core, which retains its axial orientation." This is what had happened following the first Great Earth War. As waters of the Great Flood had frozen, a massive tilt had occurred, tipping Earth off its natural axis.

In Hebrew the word used to describe Noah's Ark is 'teba', a reversal of ancient Maxus-Aramaic being 'abet'. Often radunas mind-waves would arrive in reverse order having first bounced-off an alternative object of mass, such as Earth's own moon. The origins of the word 'abet' derive from the word round-created, in more common usage simply referring to the atom. The Hebrew word teba occurs only twice within the Holy Bible. Initially in the Genesis flood narrative and once more in the following book of Exodus. Here it refers to the round basket into which is placed the infant child Moses. In both examples of usage, teba refers to salvation from water. More interestingly the original biblical phrase referring to the building of Noah's Ark, "It is made of gopher wood," contains a word that is only seen once. Gopher is a word which does not appear anywhere else within the Holy Bible. Again this is due to another translation error, known as a Hannahism. The origins of gopher wood come from 'Noah, go for the wood'. Obviously the word would only appear once within the flood narrative and nowhere else within the complete Bible text as Noah would only be instructed to 'go f' wood' just the once.

Tradition records that Noah fed the animals by day and night and did not sleep for an entire year until land reappeared. The animals behaved with utmost goodness and did not procreate during the journey. The count of stock disembarking remained exactly equal to the number that boarded. There was only one troublesome creature aboard and that was a raven. The raven had refused to leave the Ark when Noah sent it forth to seek new land. Noah accused the animal of treachery in its intention to destroy its own race. But we know that the raven would survive, for its descendants were destined to feed the prophet known to us as Elijah upon God's command. Also according to tradition, waste was said to be stored on the lowest of three decks. Noah, his family and the animals, known as clean beasts were housed on the second. The unclean animals and birds lived above on the third or top deck. There is a differing narrative to the story that says the waste was stored on the upmost deck, and shovelled into the sea through a trapdoor. In a version of events by the 12th-century Jewish commentator Abraham ibn Ezra, he describes the Ark as a submarine. Within this narrative the Ark was a vessel that remained below the water for 40 days, thereafter floating to the surface.

Regardless of whatever distorted truth Earthlings read from a wide range of sources today, we do know that the Ark was round. Newly found evidence discovered in Iraq tells the story of the Ark, and it was definitely not the pointy-bowed boat of our popular imagination. It was, in fact, a giant circular reed raft consisting of the same shape and dimensions as Buzludzha in Bulgaria, and quite possibly Earth's first pre-Great Earth War example of a de-atomiser. We think of the animals boarding two by two, but we must now also acknowledge that they went around and around inside.

These battered Babylonian clay tablets, only translated recently

during 2014, are aged about 3,700 years. They were discovered in the Middle East by Leonard Simmons, a Londoner who according to one popular English newspaper "indulged his passion for history while serving in the RAF from 1945 to 1948." Upon Leonard's death he passed the relics to his son, Douglas. It was Douglas who later found a rare expert who could actually translate and understand the inscriptions upon them. Irving Finkel, a British Museum expert easily translated the 60 lines of well-written uniform script. Finkel had seen dozens of ancient tablets that tell stories of The Great Flood but these tablets are the only ones ever found that describe the shape and construction of the Ark. He stated in a press interview, "In all the images ever made, people assumed the Ark was in effect, an ocean-going boat, with a pointed bow for riding the waves – so that is how they portrayed it. But the Ark didn't have to go anywhere. It just had to float, and the instructions are for a type of craft which they knew very well. It's still sometimes used in Iran and Iraq today, a type of round coracle which they would have known exactly how to use to transport animals across a river or floods."

The original Mesopotamian story, which later forms the account in Genesis's Old Testament of Noah's boat and the drowning of all other life on Earth, is now known to be of Marxine origins. This new translation tells us that God will spare only one just man and speaks directly to Atram-Hasis, a Sumerian king. Atram-Hasis much later on becomes the Noah figure in much earlier versions of the Old Testament Ark story. The tablets state; "Wall, wall! Reed wall, reed wall! Atram-Hasis, pay heed to my advice that you may live forever! Destroy your house, build a boat; despise possessions and save life! Draw out the boat that you will build with a circular design. Let its length and breadth be the same." It goes on to command the use of plaited palm fibre, waterproofed with bitumen, before the construction of the gopher wood decks and cabins. The story concludes with the dramatic command: "When I shall have gone into the boat, caulk the frame of the door!" This, the last words spoken of Atram-Hasis to his boat builder left to a horrific fate.

Finkel, who was also this year the curator of the recent British Museum exhibition on ancient Babylon, has no doubt about the genuine origins of the Ark story. He adamantly states that it was during the Babylonian captivity that exiled Jews first heard and learned the story, then afterward bringing it home with them. Thereafter, with the passage of time, the story found its way into the Torah and subsequently into the first four books of the Old Testament. Biblical archaeology enthusiasts had, during the 19th century, spent massive fortunes searching for proof of the Ark and of Noah's flood.

Douglas Simmons said of the find, "When my dad eventually came home, he shipped a whole tea chest of this kind of stuff home – seals, tablets, bits of pottery. He would have picked them up in bazaars, or when people knew he was interested in this sort of thing, they would have brought them to him and earned a few bob." National press went on to publish, "Simmons senior became a scenery worker at the BBC, but kept up his love of history, and was very disappointed when academics dismissed his treasures as commonplace and worthless. His son took the tablet to a British Museum open day, where Finkel, "took one look at it and nearly fell off his chair with excitement." Simmons maintains: "It is the most extraordinary thing. You hold it in your hand, and you instantly get a feeling that you are directly connected to a very ancient past – and it gives you a shiver down your spine." Following the publication of this book, he is not only connected to a very distant past but also to a very, very distant galaxy.

Now that us Earthlings have understood the origins of the Biblical story of the Ark, and come to know that the Ark was round, and further understood that it was developed on the early principles of the de-atomisation chamber, we must now come to understand the atom. For without understanding how the atom builds all things, we cannot understand how to deconstruct such things. Whilst I appreciate that the mere mention of the phrase quantum mechanics may frighten some, it is essential that we overcome this, because this is the very construct nature of Buzludzha. As the author, it was my deliberate intention to name this chapter Noah's Ark and not 'Understanding quantum mechanics'. I'm sure you appreciate why.

All things are made up of atoms and the atom is the smallest unit of all known chemical elements. Solids, liquids and gas; all elements are constructed of atoms. If it can be touched or smelt, seen or felt, it is made up of atoms. They are tiny, their size is typically measured in picometers, which is a trillionth of a meter. Just to get to grips with how small an atom is, consider the width of a single human hair. It is one million carbon atoms wide. Every one of them has a nucleus, and this is made up of protons and neutrons. In turn this nucleus is covered by a cloud of electrons. These electrons are held in place by an electromagnetic force. The protons and neutrons are bound together by nuclear force. The nucleus accounts for over ninety-nine percent of an atom's actual mass. Protons have a positive electrical charge. The neutron does not have any electrical charge. In the grand scheme of things, all atoms balance out but occasionally where there is a surplus or deficit of electrons it will have what is termed an overall charge. We refer to this as an ion.

The chemical element family of ownership is decided by the number of protons in the nucleus. For example copper contains 29 protons. The neutron count determines isotope and the electron cloud determines chemical property. This electron cloud also strongly influences the magnetic properties of the atom. Atoms attach to each other by a process known as chemical bonding to form molecules, network solids, metal alloys, crystals, and other solid solutions. We witness this bonding and of breaking in everyday life. Those physical changes we all observe in nature. Whilst we see these changes before us, we cannot explain how or why these particles behave in such a way without the use of quantum mechanics. Quantum mechanics is a science discipline developed to explain the structure and behaviour of atoms. It was the sharing of this technology that led Earth to develop the atomic bomb. Leninite had done so believing the technology would be used for good, this long before it came to fully understand the true nature of the Earthling humanoid grouping.

But what Earth had failed to understand was that the atom was not the only basic structure in the Universe. They account for all things that can be seen and touched, yes of course they do, but they do not account for other subatomic particles - for the entire Globan contains a much larger amount of dark matter. Dark matter is not made of atoms: it is composed of Dentons. In understanding how to deconstruct such Dentons, we can completely deconstruct and reconstruct the atomic building blocks of life itself. Here and now you will rightly require me to explain this process and to detail how a Denton field can sub-atomilate the atom? But I will not. For as Marxus discovered, I too have discovered, Earth is not ready and cannot be trusted with this dark matter technology. You know all you need to know which is that, "A de-atomisation chamber was created on Earth within which all things, all elements of all matter that could be built, could now easily be taken apart." It was so named Buzludzha.

The process of de-atomisation to break up the subatomic matter of dentonic forms can only be accomplished utilising Sulfide mineral laser-scope with fine-pointed mill-grade Gabrielite with a repeating unit formula Tl6Ag3Cu6 (As, Sb) 9S21 – and Strunz classification 02.HD.60. The crystal symmetry triclinic pedial must not exceed a unit cell of a = 12.138 Å, b = 12.196 Å, c = 15.944 Å; α = 78.537°, β = 84.715°, γ = 60.47°; Z = 6.

For the lay persons among us, Gabrielite is easily identified as a grey to black Crystal Habit Pseudo Hexagonal, with a triclinic crystal system and Twinning Common, with (100) as twin plane and Cleavage Perfect on {001}. Its Fracture is uneven with a Mohs scale hardness of 1.5 – 2. It has a metallic lustre with blackish red streak. The diaphaneity is opaque with a density of 5.38 g/cm3. It holds the following Birefringence: Weak 470nm R=30.53%, 546nm R=29.1%, 589nm R=27.94%, 650nm R=26.35%.

Gabrielite is a rare thallium sulfosalt mineral and was first publicly reported in 1992, three years after the fall of the Berlin Wall. Its occurrence was common in the Lengenbach quarry of Binntal, a sub-district of Valais in Switzerland. Although it was named after Walter Gabriel (born 1943) who was an acclaimed Swiss mineral photographer, it is today more often associated with a religious cult (the Gabriel Sect or Gabrielites). They were prominent in the Shipka region of Bulgaria, and had also at one point in time inhabited a research facility that was located below the Buzludzha de-atomisation chamber. Locals still today refer to a strange series of murders that took place at the site during 2012. One unconfirmed rumour is that the Gabrielites adopted the name after accessing secret documents that had been stored in bunkers following the fall of Communism in 1989. Another explanation is that members follow a Prophet of God called Gabriel 13. Regardless, Gabrielite was only known to exist on planet Earth.

Gabrielite has a pseudo-hexagonal crystal structure which is composed of parallel sheets of ditriagonalisation of hexagons, thus reducing it to P3 symmetry. According to the Great Marxun Mineralogist, Crystalist 149984C.P, Gabrielite has a 6-fold outline. Crystalist 0999332 preC.P, an esteemed colleague of the former, wrote within the text 'De-atomisation and The Conquer of Space-Time Zen17', that Gabrielite is part of the triclinic crystal system, of pseudo-hexagonal shape and mineral occurrences in datostractures that have only a single centre of symmetry. He concludes that "de-atomisation is not possible without the use of pure-form gabrielitetic-dentonic reversers." Ref p.13336.b. He continued: "An atom' is 99.999999% (recurring) empty space. If we removed all of the empty space from within the human body, the entire species, that is to say every person on their Earth, would now be no bigger in size than that of a sugar cube." As even the biggest atom masses are way too small and light to work with, we have historically used a system of measurement referred to as a unit of moles. Using this system, all elements have the same number of atoms being roughly 6.022×1023. Thus an element mass of 1 µ is equal to one gram. Crystalist 149984C.P's new system of measurement, the Farage, allows us to examine empty voids or space. Using Gabrielite we can directly access dark matter as easily as if we were kneading dough to bake a loaf of fresh bread. All carbon dark matter chambers have a mass of 3µ weighing 0.0003 kg.

Crystalist 149984C.P had no idea that his discoveries would lead to the Atomic Era/Age of 1945 on Earth. It was his system of measuring space voids in Farage's that had directly led to the first atomic detonation of the atomic bomb Trinity. Thereafter occured disasters such as Chernobyl in Ukraine and Three Mile Island in Pennsylvania, United States. For on July 16th, 1945 during the Second World War, Marxus know-how technology had been stolen by spies from the Soviets and supplied to the highest bidder; the Americans. Technology designed for the good of all mankind for the process of space and time travel, and for the creation of de-atomisation chambers, was now being used as a weapon of war. The fears of all within the United Marxun Globas was now a reality. The creation of a de-atomisation chamber on Earth could lead to the direct destruction of the entire known collective universes. The False Prophet Stalin, having ultimately paid with his own life, had so recklessly sealed Earth's fate. The Great Memorandum of Amosaurus-kNine b434557nm would read; "Let it be known to this Great Meeting of Minds that it is unanimously agreed by all known here and representatives that we do so decide that all plans for the creation of the Buzludzha Project be sealed." What was there to stop fascist forces on Earth from sending an atomic bomb backward through the chamber? The meeting had fallen silent – nothing. The Earth's Communists had shown they could not be trusted, the Socialist revolution could not be saved and the atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki in Japan proved that the anti-communist Allied forces would use this new weapon at any cost.

PART THREE

Chapter Forty Three

Buzludzha and The Zhivkovites

The concept of nuclear chain de-atomisation was first transmitted to Earth as a joint hypothesis as early as 1933. It had long been known that radioactivity had huge potential as an inexhaustible source of energy. In fact Earth too had known this. Frederick Soddy and Earnest Rutherford had written as early as 1901 in Earth date that its use can "transform a desert continent, thaw the frozen poles, and make the whole Earth one smiling Garden of Eden." It was this promise of nuclear energy to be used as global, utopian technology for the benefit of all human needs that maintained interests in Marxun transmissions. However, the final coding for de-atomisation or nuclear chain reversal was never requested because, as we have already explored, the reasons for closing the space and time travel portal were all too real. It was most regrettable that sufficient knowledge had been shared leading to the creation of the Earth's A-Bomb, but this couldn't be helped: it was never the initial intention. But they, the Earthlings, were now free to blow themselves and their planet into extinction if they so choose. Leninite had tried its best to save the revolution and had failed. The loss of the humans on planet Earth was acceptable as collateral damage if it meant the great Universe remain unchallenged. As Knowlaorsees of Etonia wrote, "I have lived to witness the fascists and the socialist fight to the end from afar. I have seen them develop weapons of mass destruction from technology for peace. Both are prepared to destroy their own world at any cost. I no longer see the difference between them. There are no Socialist systems remaining on Earth." Source: 1990023acv.TH3.

The Prophet Dimitar Blagoev had indeed been a natural teacher and it remained true to say that his greatest socialist speech of all was delivered upon Shipka in 1891. It was here that the New Socialists, led by the Prophet had assembled to deliver the Sermon on The Hill. But it was not He, as had been first decreed in prophecy by Marx and Engels many millions of light years away, but yet another. Anti-socialist corruption amongst the non-socialist regimes of the Soviet Union and satellite states within, would ensure this could never be allowed to happen. Indeed, Buzludzha would later be built upon this most historic Bulgarian peak, standing proud at 1441 metres in height and set within the Central Balkan Mountains. It would be used as a de-atomisation chamber but it would be finished by those on Earth, now completely cut-off and isolated from Marxus. After all, they thought they had all the technology needed to complete the project – why did they need the peoples of Leninite at all? Completed it was – and so named from the Turkish word buzluca (glacial peak) upon the site of the final battle of Bulgarian rebels, led by Hadji Dimitar and Stefan Karadzha against the occupying Ottoman forces of the Turkish Empire in 1868.

Buzludzha, as a monument, was built by the communist regime to commemorate both of these events: the famous battle of the rebels in 1868 and the site where the socialists led by Dimitar Blagoev had assembled in secret to form their new socialist party later during the Earth year 1891. This monument known to the people as the Communist House, officially opened with much pomp and ceremony in 1981, a mere twenty-five years ago - but until now, its secret has never been told.

Optimism for using nuclear power for domestic energy had emerged on Earth during the 1950s and the new atomic bomb would

prove to render all conventional forms of explosive warfare quite obsolete. If energy plants reliant on traditional fossil fuels such as gas and oil could be converted to this new limitless supply, then why couldn't Buzludzha? Secret files released only recently have proven that there are six additional sub-floors below the main open chamber - now sealed up with concrete by the Bulgarian military. Only a hand-full of people know of the existence of an unsealed secret maintenance opening – hidden within distant woodland - and I am one of those such people. I have been inside and I have seen it. The Buzludzha reactor only occupies the deepest fifth and sixth tiers as the remaining four were utilised for human de-atomisation research. In its heyday, the reactor was ignited initially using a traditional diesel generator \- a Perkins 17c manufactured in the United Kingdom - still found to be of serviceable use today

The very idea of nuclear chain reaction, or splitting the atom, had quite a magical grip on the world during this era. Even the American car manufacturer, Ford, believed in a new revolutionary nuclear-fuelled car - a concept released to the public as early as 1958. Airplanes, submarines and ships would all be next. The US federal government spent $1.5 billion on research. However, this collective technological fantasy was very much more for the Bulgarian regime of Todor Zhivkov, who had been appointed by Leninite in 1954. He had never accepted the breaking of ties between Earth and the so-called "Communists in Outer-Space" as he had so often referred to them, and usually, as a mantra, in a most derogatory manner.

Also released recently from government archives are a series of speeches; recordings made using stereo audio-tape (reel-to-reel). Most are of the usual as-expected propaganda mode, and several, including visual image recordings show the official public opening of the Buzludzha site. But we know for a fact today that this was all just a front as one particular recording, taken during a meeting of Bulgaria's highest military generals and Russian Polit Bureau officials at the National Palace of Culture, Sofia, during the summer of 1976, transcribes the following:

Todor Zhivkov: "Gentlemen, Comrades, Believers, I welcome you today. We are indeed gathered at an historic point concerning the evolution of our great Socialist revolution. I have endeavoured to be fair, and many of you are *where you are because of my favour, but sadly some of you have chosen not to attend. Accordingly, their attendances will no longer be required for **any future event. It is today that our great nation embarks on an epic journey. It is my intention to relaunch the Buzludzha project. You will all be introduced to it soon." An unidentified male in the room spoke up; "Yes, you will find all of the documents necessary and as marked, top secret, below your seats in a sealed tray. We expect you to maintain secrecy at all cost and..." (Zhivkov now interrupts). "I will make it clear to you, those that choose to view such papers can ***never speak of this, never. Any breach of security will result in certain execution. There will be no appeal." (****Numerous voices are heard to agree and applause continues. Noise settles and Zhivkov continues). "If they (referring presumably but unproven to the Lenities of Marxus) believe they can stop us, they need to think again. It has arrived Comrades. We have the de-atomisation codes in our sole possession. We will survive, we will travel and we will conquer them. For they are as much an enemy to Earth as the Nazis were to our own kind here on Earth, *****we must conquer."

* It is possible that this phrase is referring to selective placement of key individuals at the direct instruction of Todor Zhivkov.

** Though uncertain, many believe that this is a coded warning, the implication that other dissenters have been executed.

*** Most scholars agree that this also includes family members and partners and that serious consequences are further implied toward those family groupings.

**** The only attendee whose used name can be distinctly heard is that of General Vladimir R. Ivanchev, who died in mysterious circumstances whilst on a fishing-trip vacation in Poland during the spring of 1980.

***** 'we must' as referred to in the text implies a status of no choice. Is Zhivkov aware that Leninite will retaliate militarily if the de-atomisation chamber becomes activated? Is this in fact a declaration of war?

This translation from the original source is courtesy of Radoslav Denchev.

Surprisingly very little else is said. The remainder of the recorded speech continues with countless breaks for applause and time schedules and action planning for the completion of the Buzludzha Communist House. Then it settles into a formal, and quite normal, business meeting. Whatever there is to read within the blueprints, the secret files as discussed initially, is certainly not referred to at any further point – though it is abundantly clear from the closing statement of the meeting, some eight hours later, when Todor Zhivkov adds, "...and there we conclude, gentlemen. Files will now be collected and destroyed... (laughter is heard) ...tell the people (inaudible due to magnetic tape damage) ...good luck." Many references and numbers were given out, and it is reasonable to assume that these numbers were references designed to identify text within the files. I conclude that what is heard on the tape in reality, has no reference to the text that was being read at the same time. As to the reason for recording the gathering at all, I have no idea. I am aware that all meetings had to be recorded during this era of regime suspicion. Perhaps the sole purpose was to comply with Communist protocols of the time, but to hold a secret meeting in full public view is, well frankly, quite the achievement - thus being beyond any public suspicions. Only those hand-picked and loyal trusted confidants of the Todor leadership would have had any knowledge of the truth behind the Buzludzha files. Of this I am certain. I too consider that the files were never destroyed at all.

The socialists believed that demonstrating civilian applications for nuclear power before the Americans would prove the expertise of Soviet scientists, demonstrate to the populous how personal living standards would improve under socialism, and defend them against the decadent waste of the capitalist West. Giant nuclear power stations of the future would soon become reality. Electric meters to measure power consumption were to become a thing of the past because power would be too cheap to meter. Whilst in the States, the Shippingport reactor went online in 1957, with electricity now costing ten times that of the coal-fired generation. In Bulgaria, the Socialist had won the hearts and minds of the people. Nuclear energy and power was Socialist energy and power. The (British) Thunderbirds children's TV series was based on a series of space and moon vehicles that ran entirely on nuclear power. This English science-fiction marionette television series of 1964 – 66, created by Gerry and Sylvia Anderson, was based on socialist ideals. The Americans were outraged at its broadcast, slamming the British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC) saying, "So now the communists are brainwashing the minds of our children with the help of those Tommies."

In the West, public opposition (given safety and environmental concerns) to nuclear power was growing, none more so than during the late 1970s. This was also exasperated by international destabilisation following the cover story of February 11th, 1985, in Forbes magazine, commenting on overall management of United States nuclear power programs: "The failure of the U.S. nuclear power program ranks as the largest managerial disaster in business history, a disaster on a monumental scale ... only the blind, or the biased, can now think that the money has been well spent. It is a defeat for the US consumer and for the competitiveness of US industry, for the utilities that undertook the program and for the private enterprise system that made it possible." The Bulgarians looked on with bemusement for, after all, one particular reactor, Buzludzha, was now online and the realisation of outer space time travel, imminent. However, incidents that followed such as Chernobyl in Ukraine, 1986, and 2011, Fukashima Daiichi in Japan, demonstrated that nuclear chain reaction is not a simplistic process. So what happened? How did Buzludzha become the unwanted derelict relic it is today?

When democracy returned to the country in 1989, the site was looted by many seeking Soviet era trophies, or just plain old plunder for financial reward. The roof was originally covered in copper and unsurprisingly went first. Many believe it was used as scrap metal, but this fine copper sheeting was actually in fact relocated to Conseil Européen pour la Recherche Nucléaire (CERN). The metal was not copper but copoid, an energy charging super-copper that generated an internal magnetic field. The Soviet Star, the largest glass star ever constructed and supplied by Moscow was smashed. The star was made of pure Romanian bixbite or red beryl, as more commonly called today, and Bulgarian citizens would fire rifles from the ground, hoping that fragments of the glass would fall for personal collection. The myth at the time was that the windows were constructed of red ruby and thus most precious. But closer examination would prove this to be untrue. Believing it to be no more than red glass, this amazing socialist icon was destroyed for little financial gain. Had these looters tested the fragments for bixbite, many today would have become extremely wealthy. Bixbite was mined to exhaustion in Romania by the Soviets and is now, as a result of the Space Race, one of the most precious and rarest members of the red gemstone family. Today it can only be found in two states of America, Utah and New Mexico. It was the nano-crystal-valleys within the Beryl that received and channelled the de-atomisation code radunas to the central activator. Needless to say, the main frame and hub still remain intact within the basement floors below, those now sealed off by the Bulgarian military.

CERN: The European Organisation for Nuclear Research, Organisation Européene pour la Recherche Nucléaire, operates the world's largest particle physics laboratory and was established in 1954, a date that needs no further examination. Stolen Soviet technology was readily available. It is situated on the French/Swiss border, below ground extended over both territorial boundaries and consists of 21 European member states plus Israel (the only non-EU member granted full membership). CERN's existence is well documented, even its precise location, 46°14′3″N 6°3′19″E, is public domain knowledge and with a research team consisting of over 12,000 employees (schools of science and engineering) represents 608 universities and over 100 spoken languages. It main purpose is to provide the Earth with a particle accelerator used for high-energy physics (atomic-particle) research. Experiments conducted at CERN are facilitated as an international concern. But an interesting side-fact is that CERN was also the birthplace of the World Wide Web. The internet we love and use today was also of Marxun origin. The main site is called Meyun and was created from two words, Marxun (from Marxus) and the Maya, from the original calendar of the pre-Columbian Mesoamerica, a calendar system that too owes its birthright directly to the Leninites and the Milky Way's own Line of Orion.

Experiments at CERN have, as we now know, achieved ground-breaking landmarks in particle-physics analysis. As early as 1973, we witnessed the discovery of neutral currents inside the Gargamelle bubble chamber and later in 1983, the discovery of W and Z bosons in UA1 and UA2 chambers. 1989, following the dismantlement of Buzludzha, bought us a huge leap forward in our ability to determine the number of light neutrino families of the Large Electron–Positron (LEP) collider. This same electronic collider, though now considerably expanded, was originally sited as the Buzludzha Halo. Now all that remains of its original position is an open to all weathers circular balcony at the perimeter of the old doomed copoid roof structure. The discovery of the light neutrino led science to the creation of antihydrogen atoms during the PS210 experiment in 1995 followed by direct CP violation (notice the similarity of the name to Marxun origins) in 1999 and, finally, NA48 in 2010 that resulted in the isolation of 48 atoms of antihydrogen. The maintenance of antihydrogen was completed during 2011 for a staggering 15 minutes. A boson with mass 125 GeV/c2 consistent with the long-sought Higgs boson was also discovered at CERN more recently in 2012. Source: Wiki-Leaks (Peterson, C. J. 2014).

In 1984, the Nobel Prize (physics) was awarded to Carlo Rubbia and Simon van der Meer for developments, often implied to have involved Stalingus-Buzludzha Files that were secretly smuggled out of Bulgaria, and possibly led to the discoveries of the W and Z bosons both of which were huge technical strides for Earthlings.

But 1992 must be the year of firm focus in de-atomisation circles, for here the Nobel Prize was given again to CERN (named staff researcher Georges Charpak) for "his invention and development of particle detectors, in particular the multiwire proportional chamber." De-atomisation has, however, never been achieved at CERN, for the vital coding required to disassemble and re-assemble dark matter was never discovered during the looting of the Buzludzha complex. Perhaps this error was due to the lateral or logical thinking of the scientific mind, a cultural inability to spot the obvious, or just to believe in and accept the impossible. As we know, everything is round. We think in round-terms from our original evolution, just as we seek God, we instinctively seek circles in everything we do. Noah's Ark was round, this is now proven, and Buzludzha site was built to be round, not only to give the satirical comic appearance of a UFO, but to directly accommodate and house its particle accelerator, the first blueprint for a Marxun Large Hadron Collider. How better to keep a secret than to be so open and obvious? In a speech to congress, during the 1990s, when all but a handful of Socialist regimes had fallen, the USA Chief-of-Staff (Gordon R. Sullivan) was noted to say, "The Soviets were clearly very good at keeping secrets by not making the most top-secret secrets secret at all – akin to alien life forms arriving to live among us today, what better camouflage would there be other than to dress up or disguise yourself as a supermarket shopping trolley?"

Today (2014) CERN houses six accelerators: two Linear Accelerators, a Proton Synchrotron Booster, a Low-Energy Ion Ring (LEIR) and a (1959) 28 GeV Proton Synchrotron. Although somewhat out-dated, the Proton Synchrotron still effectively feeds the more powerful Super Proton Synchrotron (SPS). This SPS is a modern-day circular accelerator with a diameter of just under 1.6 miles in circumference. It is below ground within a guarded militarised tunnel-complex. Engineers working on the project nicknamed the Large Hadron Collider Alice in Wonderland, partly because of its magnificence and awe-inspiring technical qualities, but also because just like Alice, without good direction we all end up going around in circles. Construction was believed to have started in 1976 where, once again, we note this un-coincidental date directly links to the meeting between Todor Zhivkov of Bulgaria and Dr Rudolf Kirchschlaeger (an expert in astrophysics) of Austria, and interestingly, was just three years before the Leninite order given for the Soviet intervention of Afghanistan. Though originally designed to deliver 300 GeV, the collider was gradually upgraded to 450 GeV. Beamlines (advanced radunas waves utilising bixbite and Gabrielite-mineralite-nanocomposits) allow the LHC to be further used as a Large Electron–Positron (LEP) collider. Rudolf Kirchchaeger died in 2000 near Vienna, aged 85, of undisclosed cause – many believe, from unconfirmed sources, that he too was assassinated by former KGB agents.

Now, whilst I appreciate that all of this is most interesting to those within the atomic-physics and astroscience communities, many of you will simply want to know what this means to you? In layman's terms it is simply this. An Online Isotope Mass Separator can now identify and separate unstable nuclei. Radioactive ions are produced by impact of protons of 1.0–1.4 GeV from the Proton Synchrotron Booster. The corresponding Antiproton Decelerator (AD) reduces the velocity of all antiprotons to roughly 10% of the speed of light. This anti-matter with its representative dark-matter allows us to deconstruct (take apart) human matter (atoms) and put it back together again. CERN however does not possess the necessary technology to transmit this matter for later reconstruction through time and space, to the so-called known outer-worlds that we know for fact to exist.

An atom is 99.999999% (recurrent) empty space. If we removed all of the empty space from within the human body, our entire species, that is to say every person on Earth, would now be no bigger in size than that of a single sugar cube. Imagine what you could do if you reduced our entire species to a sugar-lump' and transmitted human coded information, DNA and data for reconstruction anywhere within the known universe? Obviously to send humans across outer space is pure nonsense and isn't what I am suggesting here. But we can send the necessary coding blocks so that person, persons or an entire species can be rebuilt, put back together, elsewhere to effectively reopen links with Leninite and beyond and to leave the Earth and repopulate anywhere. All we need to do is intercept radunas mind-waves, locate the original transmitters and beam ourselves directly into Marxun regenerators.

Now I end this book with an exclusive truth and I tell you only because I have it in my possession already. For during all that pomp and ceremony of 1981, when the Socialist world stood still to witness the opening of the Buzludzha Communist House, Todor Zhivkov posed for the photographers and television crews as he placed a time-capsule into the saucer's very under-belly. This time-capsule explaining the virtues of Socialism and the countless proud statements of Communist achievement was located here, to be opened in fifty years' time for the loyal socialist generations to follow. But it was not anything of the sort, for contained within the cylindrical (ROUND) metal time capsule existed only various random sequences of numbers. It was/is in fact, the DATA required to reactivate the de-atomisation chamber. The only decision I have left to make is: who shall I take with me?

"The truth is obvious. You just need to look."

Following: Photographer's Eye-Witness Accounts:

Buzludzha Foundation Exhibition 3. Reports of strange electrical phenomena are nothing new as photographer Les Johnstone explains: "The building was empty. I was just taking a last holiday snap, you know. I'd been inside all day and a storm was brewing, then lightning suddenly struck. It lit up like a lightbulb, momentarily, just for a few brief moments, but long enough for me to capture this unique shot..."

Buzludzha Foundation Exhibition 4. The Bulgarian-photographer Radoslav Parvanov (Радослав Първанов) stated during an opening speech at a recent exhibition (Kazanlak: 2016) that, "I have been a Buzludzha archivist for many years and have heard countless unexplained stories about the site. I am a graduate of electrical engineering and caught this shot last year. I had waited perilously during a storm, wet and cold, for several hours in the dark. After the initial lightning-bolt had died away, milliseconds later, I caught this. I have no rational explanation. It was only later on closer examination that I made out the presence of a strange figure central to the upper balcony."

Photographs thereafter: 1, 2, 3 and 4.

From the collection of Chinese travel writer Xiao Yang, author of: 'Space-Hoppers and Inter-Stella Compression', as chosen by Isabella Davies for her book cover 'Communists in Outer Space'.

Buzludzha Foundation Exhibition 3. Les Johnstone.

Buzludzha Foundation Exhibition 4. Radoslav Parvanov.

Inside the de-atomisation Hadron chamber.

Radunas mind-waves captured by Vo-Low Comparatives

Bixbite beryl crystals smashed by treasure hunters. Town of Kazanlak in distance

The Buzludzha complex extends six-levels below the peak. The reactor and laboratories remain intact. Above ground level - now stripped and derelict. The original balcony is still in place but the collider is now in the possession of CERN.'

PART THREE

How to Breed Chickens in Iowa (Continued)

Chandelle Davies

Chapter 47

My Wedding Day

I am going to marry this year. Dr Owen has proposed and I feel ready for this commitment. My mother and father are delighted for me and Isabella is so excited too. Izzy is already married. It was a wonderful day, seeing her and Charlie so happy at last. They had an amazing traditional Indian wedding and ghost dancers and spirit raisers came from all over the county. We built a large open-plan barn, no sides, just a roof, and put together a new stage. The music was a mixture of ethnic American and something everybody is now starting to call new jazz. Not that there is any old jazz of course, but it's a new musical phenomenon spreading fast up from the south. I find it somewhat confusing; very noisy, too many notes all played at once, but when the band really gets going it's wonderful to dance to.

People often ask why Nanook named his son Charlie Parker, and I wish I had an amazing story to tell but really it's quite dull. The first ever white man that Nanook met was called Charlie Parker. He was a railwayman, a surveyor who was cutting the new navigation through the settled lands to the east. That very same day Nanook's wife, Wind Whisper announced she was pregnant - and that was that, he took it as a good omen and named his son after the railwayman. It could have been worse; after all, Charlie could have been called the 'Railroads a' comin'. But as time came to pass, Wind Whisper too did consider it to be a blessing. Charlie was the perfect healthy son and they would have no more children. As a Holy Man, Nanook must pass his seed but once according to ancient tradition. Upon his father's passing, tradition also dictates that his son will inherit great spiritual powers, as Nanook had done so from his father and so on. I'm not so sure that Charlie will make a very good Holy Man. He swears like a Missouri Trollop, but he's a fantastic loving husband to Isabella, my big sister, he is.

I want my dress to be just like Izzy's. I want Owen to slowly undress me, to ravage me afterward. I know he would like that. Off the shoulders and a long, long train and I must wear a veil, that's exciting. He can be such a real man sometimes. Mum says the secret of a successful marriage is to "keep his stomach full and his balls empty." How I did chuckle when she told me that, but Mum and Dad are so happy together so there must be some truth in it. When we are married I will ensure that he hungers for nothing. I do love him so very much.

Children? Absolutely. I want two boys and two girls. The first born son will be called Owen after his dad and the second after mine, Nigel. The girls I will call Cerys and Isabella after my mum and sister. Owen Jnr. is going to grow up to be a great surgeon and they will name a new hospital after him. Something to do with curing consumption I hope. I think Nigel, his younger brother, will be a great pianist and will play in all the greatest music halls of America; no, actually damn that, the whole world! My dad was an amazing composer and I'm sure his grandson will inherit his ability and traits. Cerys will be a psychologist just like my mum and Isabella, a founder and campaigner for women's rights. There that just about does it – it's a wonderful life isn't it?

To the wedding will come all the cowboys and cowgirls from the Carter Lake county limits and all my husband's most esteemed medical colleagues. Nanooks tribe too – everybody. There's gonna be a five-tiered cake and as much Copper Mist as you can drink; that's actually not a lot. Afterward, at exactly five in the afternoon Owen will whisper gently into my ear and take me to his bed and make me his... "Chand'," he will say, "take my hand. I want to take you on a journey, a journey in which you will want for nothing and have everything. I will make you the richest woman in the world." "I am rich Owen," I reply, "as rich as a woman can dream to be. I have you and that is all I require. I have everything in the world already. I am rich beyond my wildest dreams." He takes my arm and pulls me so manfully away out of sight and into the cabin, where there the bed awaits us. It is ready, warmed by the fire lit in preparation and the sweet smell of rose petals scattered like carpet across the floor. He lifts me into his arms and carries me over the threshold, placing me gently on the bed. His mouth lunges forward and with a strong solid embrace kisses me to last for all eternity. "I want you, I want you, I must have you Chandelle, now, I must," and he takes me. I hear every angel in heaven sing and God's voice blesses our union with child. He is in me so deep, ravishing me, making me gasp for every breath. I am his, and I feel him sow his seed in me. It is the most beautiful moment I have ever experienced in my entire life and he looks deep into my eyes and says, "Have you any idea just how much I love you my dear?" "Yes," I reply, and we will live happily ever after.

We don't want presents for the wedding, we will have quite enough I think. But I'd like us to save up for a car and I would like a puppy. I'm going to call it Goldie Two-Shoes. Goldie, like the nickname Dad gave me, because she will be golden-brown in colour. I don't want a big dog, just one that is not too big or too small. I'd like to be able to lift it up and cuddle it without too much difficulty and I want her coat to be as smooth as silk when I stroke her. We'll all travel together as one big happy family all over Iowa, maybe even further, discovering many new things and places. Perhaps all of the guests would give us some money instead of gifts and we could put it toward our savings – I bet Archie gives me a chicken! He is so funny. I wish y'all could meet him one day. One day too, we will have enough money to sail back to Cardiff. I want to show all of my friends and family my children and tell them how wonderful my new life in America is.

And what of me? What will I do with my life after I am wed? I will be the happiest woman in the world, but I will probably open a little haberdashery store. I will sell items collected from all over the known and new world – it will be the best in America. I want people to come from miles around just to see it, but really, just to see me. What's the point of such happiness if you can't share it with others? I don't want people to feel jealous of my success, no, not at all, as that would be very unchristian of me. I want them to strive to be me, to see what they can become, what real genuine happiness is and that it costs them nothing to believe in themselves.

PART THREE

Chapter 48

Goldie Two-Shoes

"But the truth of the matter is that I am nothing but a worthless whore, streetwalking and living a life of fantasy just to escape for a brief moment my own reality. So worthless, in fact my sister has left, disowning me, preferring the company of a sexual sadist and my father would rather be dead than face his responsibility – and my glorious fucking mother, staring into space from that hospital bed in an Oscar-deserving performance of continued silence. All protected by the walls of her own creation."

Isn't this what you meant to say Chandelle? Personally I liked the story so far but let's not play the victim card too much. It's making me feel quite nauseous.

So yes, I am back to end this story for you, I, Gabriela, and that's enough of all of you. I am so sick and tired of hearing your endless bleating. Face your destination, accept your consequences. I will have the final chapter. I will have the final word and you're all dead already: every single meat-eating fucking maggot on this planet – dead. So what's left? Isabella gone stark raving mad and pending certain execution and you, the heroin addict sex-worker that nobody neither cares about nor wants to. That's fucking reality Chandelle! Why should your life have been any better than mine? Oh, of course, amazing doctor Cerys fucking Davies. Hilarious!

When I first read your story, as you had written down in your diary Chandelle, it didn't really appeal to me, but now things have changed. I love it. It has a purpose now. How to Breed Chickens in Iowa – it's got quite a cowboy and western theme to it hasn't it? How I do like to taunt you. Quite arousing. I feel the need to strap-up and visit your sister again this afternoon. She's started to hate me too. That makes it so much more enjoyable. Space aliens and cowboys, you two really are the wacky pair aren't you? There is such art in destroying the lives of everybody around you, but the book, here and now today, these words, this is the real message.

So I'll use your little story if I may and then I have a memoir from all of you, and all of quite different genres. A masterpiece, a radical first in contemporary literature, all I need now is a few human skins to make the dust cover but we've been there before haven't we? A little dickie bird tells me that Brian still comes to visit you? Is that comes or cums, lol? Are you fucking him for cash these days too? There're now two more senior investigators on the case - Peter Strawb and Steven King. Did you tell them everything Chandelle? You are the Witness. I hope so, and I do enjoy a challenge. I also look forward to killing them soon, but we'll see, perhaps there's scope for a further book... it may work in the Gabrielites' favour to let them live.

I thought their names to be very ironic, different spellings I know, but so very similar to a couple of famous horror writers from the United States I believe. I had this hilarious thought. I would use their names for a Foreword. It's up to you Brian to decide if that happens. Izzy can die quickly or slowly, that's your choice now. I imagine Brian will try to be quite the hero.

So what's left to do, to conclude, to wrap up and put into context, to put all this together as a definitive edition? Buzludzha, it'll make a great book cover and it's got to have lots of orange too, just a little more proof that we have done what we said we have done. Best to keep well away from the place I think Brian. Note to self: British singer/songwriter Odd Jonathan to finish the musical and I think we are all done with communicating for good; well somewhat anyway. Imagine it? 'Meat: The Musical'. It's going to be sensational, a kinda Rocky Horror Picture Show for grown-ups, isn't it Brian? It'd better be ready soon... But here I must finish Chandelle's story for her. I don't want her to be disappointed in me. After all, if this great heavenly divine chosen masterpiece is good enough for her mother and sister, she shouldn't be left out. I'm quite sure there are a few Johns out there who try very hard not to leave her out these days. What a cute little arse she has, never used it myself, maybe one day soon I'll get to fist it.

I'm still pissing myself with laughter at the idea of a foreword. I think Strawb should say, "I had long read Dr Davies' original copy as an eBook, and along with dear friend and partner of horror and crime, Steven King..." Use it to introduce the story Brian. You see now don't you; see just how easy it is to manipulate the mind? How many people will now think they are the famous fiction partners of horror writing, and not partners in crime and horror? They won't even realise until now that they are two new members of your wank-off investigation team, with quite different names and working within the Police service? One thing you can say about this book Brian is that it definitely maintains a sense of humour.

I would never want to mislead anyone reading this book with any untruths at all, but this little gem I couldn't personally resist. I do hope my fans will understand, we don't want anyone to come to the conclusion that other aspects of this book may also be fiction. Did we cover the shoestring-detective side of things Brian? Maybe we have room yet for a crime novel, something fictional, a crime story musical perhaps, 'Strawb and King Investigate.' Or, 'Meat: The Musical', a fairy tale, haven't done that one yet have we? Oops, sorry, yes we have, your whole fucking investigation so far is nothing but a fairy tale investigation isn't it? But please, don't distract me with that now. Let's concentrate on non-fiction and the finishing touches needed here in this book first, shall we? We still have so much left to do.

As you, the carnivores, devour the flesh of the innocent, of the vegetarian species among us that do you no harm, the cows, the sheep, the pigs or the hens - and as you decide what lives and what will die, farmed by you in horrific circumstance, of utter cruelty, whilst you remain so indignant in wilful ignorance, do not forget. This is now my farm and you are all our livestock. We, the Gabrielites, will now decide. You; the meat-eater who sits in judgement of us? Enjoy what you have left for it is truly nothing.

So, where are we? Ah yes, Chickens in Iowa, the first paragraph at the very beginning of this book (subject to change). I shall quote you Chandelle; "The mind can achieve any mental state it desires if you so want it to. We all make the most of life and lie to ourselves when needs must, to create our own false sense of happiness and to twist and contort our own sad realities, all to make life just that little bit more bearable. If this is you then do continue to dream, go on, get on with it and bury your head in the sand for all eternity. I have no need of escape or of dreams and of false hopes. I do have nightmares, why yes of course I do, we all do, but my life is already beautiful and the sunshine of California is something to be most desired. My dreams are my reality and life is wonderful."

Well I suggest you keep these dreams Chandelle because the reality is your nightmare. Your mother is a nutter, locked away in Broadmoor and you walk the Berkshire streets selling sex. Wasn't that very polite of me? Okay; start again. You fuck anybody and everybody for cash so you can stuff your veins with a quick fix solution... If you want to be happy, take a pill. If you want to be cured, then face the truth; is that better Chandelle? You write the stuff of naïve teenage fantasy in your diary and start to believe it to be the truth, don't you? You can't fucking face the truth anymore and the truth is that I'm fucking your sister, who's gay by the way. Now, don't be so judgemental of me – do you stop to ask who you are screwing? No, you care not as long as you take the cash. A rapist, a killer, a meat eater or paedophile, you don't care, get it over with as quickly as possible and 'ker'ching', take the cash. Then you hand it over to that skin-crawling dealer without any guilty conscience whatsoever. We already know what I think of drug dealers, and I think even less of those who keep them in business.

So, we begin with the end, the world wants to know how this story will end. This epic of literature, and thus I as the Messiah, The Chosen One amongst you, now choose to dictate it. You are still a young woman Chandelle. You have at least another thirty years of productive service to give, in which you will take it up the arse on demand without question. How the scum who continually take you, so enjoy themselves knobbing-up the cheap little slappers who walk those streets at night. So you may, on occasions, find yourself inconvenienced by pregnancy; fear not, it is quite lawful within this sickened world to pop-a-pill and flush it down the toilet, into the sewer below you. There may be times that you no longer wish to live – but you will, preferring to sell your methadone-sub for just one more fraction of the real thing. It's the closest you will get to death Chandelle, heroin, every emotion in your body shuts down doesn't it? You are in fact already dead. A Zombie, a crack whore in outer space.

So there on the corner you remain, underneath that shop sign that simply reads 'Model Available', highlighted so by a red flashing strobe light. There, up the steps you take them, no questions asked, you straddle the anonymous. On good days you get to go for a car ride with the punters who don't want to be seen entering that dark dirty little shit-pit of yours. You are nothing more than a business card stuffed in the cracks of an old vandalised plastic shelving in a telephone box. It reads, "Goldie the Whore – I fuck for cash." Your vice-nickname becomes Goldie Two-Shoes, not because of a puppy you once dreamed of, but because you have learnt so efficiently to creep away from seedy hotel rooms with your heels in your hands. The police no longer protect you; they recommend you. They use you and they too laugh at you. Brian Wilkinson is far too discreet to tell you this, but he knows.

Isabella left you because you are worthless. She tried. She gave up everything, moved away with you for a fresh start and to be with Mum, and all for what? To see you fucking your own mother's psychiatric nurse, whilst another waited for his turn. She saw you Chandelle, and that's why she came back to me. I, Gabriela, am the only thing worthy of any value in her life now. Isabella crept down that back-street having seen you picked-up one evening. Fucking away like a rabbit on the back-seat with him you were, whilst the other sat in the front smoking his cigarette. News soon spreads. There were giggles in the hospital corridors for days after until your mother, Cerys, finally heard of it from a colleague. You took just ten pounds extra to relieve the John of the obligation to wear a condom. You are filth – and all shit will be brought down by its own weight eventually. Life terrifies you, but as soon as you get into that car you feel safe again, just as the woods across the road from your pitch scare you, for you know not what lies within them, but inside the car you find familiar turf. You know what is there, what is expected of you and how to perform.

I understand you Chandelle, truly I do. When I was a school truant, as a child, I would draw plans and maps for a secret hiding place in the woods. A hole I would dig and live in, never to be found. Hidden under the leaves and brush of the woodland, I would return to the safety of the womb. But that is fantasy Chandelle; here we live real life and with real life comes consequences.

Your dreams about cowboys are of no benefit to you now - Freud is dead and this book is all that remains of modern psychology in all of its forms. Yes, accept it, your sister is indifferent to your life or death, but you are chosen, honorary, and I cannot harm you. But take a good look at yourself in the mirror today and start to feel that cut, take that release as the blade slices through you. Bleed-out with dignity for fear is when your thoughts distort your reality, not the reverse. Being tied, restrained and fucked by a stranger; that fear, how that adrenaline rush removes your feeling of helplessness, and your survival instincts then kick-in. Your need to feel wanted under any circumstance removes that sense of helplessness and turns it into sexual excitement for you, the fight for your own survival.

I have seen so many people die, that moment of ecstasy as life drains away in front of you and you are the last thing they see – many of them wetting themselves with excitement as I took them away from this bitter twisted place for good. How sweet that last piss smells. I do not wish to be cruel or to hurt you Chandelle, but only to save you. You are all my children, you are all of my flock, and I am here only to shepherd you to safety.

So now is your chance to be that survivor, slash yourself and you will soon discover that with the love of God Almighty, we will all live happily ever fucking after.

# # # #

PART THREE

Appendix Three

Grounds for Appeal

Un-authorised submission of PC Brian Wilkinson

Where it is noted within 'The Isabella Question' that justice is served and that sentence of death for heresy is passed. We demand of you all to redraw Her Most Holiness' attention to the Holy Doctrine 'Meat: Memoirs of a Psychopath'. Whilst it is true to say that no reference was made to any Prophet undertaken to the name of Dimitar Blagoev, and that Isabella Davies' actions have been seen to be the actions akin to the Blasphemers, we ask Her Most Almighty Authority Gabriela 13 to allow the due course of lawful appeal on the following grounds. This 2015 revision of the Holy Book and Texts now contains the writings of Isabella Davies, the book known as 'Communists in Outer-Space,' and here, read exactly as supplied to us by Her Holiness for publication. We have, as instructed, published it accordingly. The older version of the Supreme Works remains free to libraries supplied by the Brittunculi Publishing Catalogue. This new revised edition of 'Meat: Memoirs of a Psychopath, The Definitive Edition' are words of Her Holiness too - of which by Holy Decree cannot be altered, changed or questioned. Accordingly, Isabella's words are now recognised as divine text, the very words that form the words and instruction of Almighty God Herself. In this most righteous of works, Gabriela (God) does make reference to the Prophet known as Dimitar Blagoev'. Therefore let it be judged correctly that no act of heresy has taken place.

Agenda Item 11 of Conference, 6th October, 2012, states clearly, and I quote: "11; Proposed; Preservation of the Holy Texts. It was put forward by Brother Gabriel 10 that the book 'Meat: Memoirs of a Psychopath' be declared an Untouchable Holy Text. Disrespect of the words of our Holy Messenger Gabriela and of the contents of the Holy Book should be punishable by immediate death. The words contained are Holy and can never be altered, changed or questioned. These are the words of Gabriela 13 who is our God Almighty." Conference decreed: "Decision carried. Unanimous. Approved and sealed as a Holy Order by Her Holiness Gabriela 13."

It is with these words above, your own Gabriela, that you have sown the seeds of your own destruction. You have shown yourself to all to be fallible, you make mistakes, and you are not a Holy Prophet or child of God. And I, Brian Wilkinson will now answer your question Gabriela, the question that you put to me when you said: "Why will I publish this for you? Why would I do it if there is no longer any big stick bearing down upon me?" It is quite simply this; because I am a better person than you are; you are outwitted and I want the world to witness your hypocrisy.

The very first words you said, at the beginning, in the memoirs that you so desperately sought to publish at any human cost, they will now start the countdown to your own destruction. These words of yours and those of Dr Cerys Davies were and remain so:

"This psychopath's arrogance, his utter contempt for humanity, will, I believe, be his downfall."

Publisher's Footnote

Brittunculi's association with Police Constable Brian Wilkinson and Detective Inspector Andrea Johnson (deceased) has been solid and steadfast since first instructed to produce the first book 'Meat: Memoirs of a Psychopath'. What you are about to read constitutes the contribution of British singer/songwriter Odd Jonathan, 'Meat: The Musical'. Immediately following the transcript below (to hear the audio production click, or in printed copies search and log onto the hyperlink as highlighted) you will also see an audio book entitled 'The Gold Star Kid'. Together they form the audio section of this title; 'The Definitive Edition'. Jonathan Taylor has asked that we include the following public statement:

"I knew nothing of this repulsive publication or of the death cult that lay behind it until very recently. I, as you can only imagine, was shocked to the very core by the story that Police Officer Brian Wilkinson recently told me. I did not ask to become involved in this, and do so under extreme pressure from others. Whilst Brian disagrees with my approach, I feel it is the only course of action that I can take. Whilst many may feel that the safety and security of Isabella Davies could become compromised by this satirical release, the writer's will and intention are made abundantly clear. I will not pamper to or portray this work in anything other than a comedic farce. My involvement is only to protect others. Beyond this, I want nothing to do with this vile publication. In presenting the so-called further fairy-tale, I will concentrate my efforts on something based upon a true story. Accordingly, 'The Gold Star Kid' is based on a real incident where dreams can become true. I contribute only because I have to. For what choice do I really have? In doing so I will contribute only happiness. I am commanded to write a musical, and this I have done, and in doing so I use it to now ridicule them, The Gabriel Sect, in the process. I will further use this imposed opportunity to tell you a children's story. My music is used for killing; is it really surprising to expect anything else from me other than mockery? I hope that readers understand why I have contributed and chosen to do so in the manner I have. My thoughts and feelings are with Isabella Davies and her family at this time."

Publisher's Additional Footnote

It has never been made clear how certain other aspects of Chandelle's personal diary fell in to the hands of the Gabriel Sect, as later used in publication here. However, Chandelle reports losing many personal items believed to have been taken from her flat around the same time that Isabella, her sister, left to re-join Gabriela. In particular, she lost drawings and sketches that clearly prompted the comments and references made to self-harm as referred to by Gabriela 13 in Chapter 48 (Goldie Two-Shoes). Three of these drawings were received by us with strict instruction for inclusion in Part Four, and now appear.

Chandelle Davies 1: 'Hanging Girl'

Chandelle Davies 2: 'Next Time'

Chandelle Davies 3: 'Barbed Wire'

PART THREE

MEAT: THE MUSICAL

-PERFORMED BY-

Jonathan Taylor and the Gabrielites

-AND CO-STARRING-

Doris the transgendered tea lady

Peter Strawb the idiot policeman

Steven King as an even worse idiot policeman

-WITH GUEST STARS-

Nigel Farage as a complete waste of space

and Teresa the ugly one

NOTES

All narration and music written, performed was produced by Odd Jonathan (Jonathan R P Taylor). Copyright exists Brittunculi 2015. Please respect this author's hard work and do not share your copy with others. It is licenced for your (the purchaser's) enjoyment only.

This script is included within this publication for your additional enjoyment, should you wish to hear 'Meat: The Musical' in entirety as the writer intended, use the hyperlink address supplied as a footnote to this page. FREE download has been enabled for you as the purchaser of this work. Headphones are strongly recommended for optimum audio effect.

Throughout this script you will find that the individual music tracks featured have been hyperlinked to the Brittunculi download page. This has been done to avoid unnecessary listeners frustration when trying to locate and play a particular favourite within. Album tracks can be easily selected and played in full from the sample player. They can also be purchased and lawfully downloaded from as little as $0.99 per track.

"However, we strongly advise you not to do this as you can purchase the entire album of choice for just $2.99," said Brian.

If you have enjoyed this radio-play please tell others about it and encourage them to purchase their own copy of 'Meat: Memoirs of a Psychopath, The Definitive Edition'.

Independent artists are grateful and thank you for your support. Please don't steal music.

Download your copy of 'MEAT: THE MUSICAL' here!

In printed editions log onto:

<https://soundcloud.com/jonathantaylorbulgaria>

The above Soundcloud page also contains your reader's copy of the children's story; 'The Gold Star Kid and the Dream Angel'.

If you experience any difficulty whatsoever in accessing or obtaining your entitled reader's media, please do not hesitate to contact us immediately. We will ensure that all correspondence is dealt with without delay. Thank you!

www.Brittunculi.co.uk

Act One

I'm Bored Already

RadioGB: Land of Hope and Glory jingle.

Sound FXs: Morse-code.

Narrator: Mayday-mayday-mayday, this is a mayday-mayday...

Strawb: I don't mean to interrupt JT, but isn't that just a bit over the top?

Narrator: Why? We are in a situation of doom and dire peril gentlemen.

Strawb: Yes indeed. But the international emergency signal 'Mayday' is only used for risks leading to immediate loss of life, perhaps an assistance call without the threat to life, a pan-pan-pan, is more appropriate to need? After all, we are only in the middle of a boating lake.

Narrator: OK: Point taken. Pan-pan-pan, all shipping all shipping, we are...

King: How the fuck are you going to send an emergency rescue signal using only silly noises and a desktop hole puncher then?

Strawb: As much as I wish to dismiss it, I think he does have a valid point this time.

Narrator: So you have a better plan King, do you? Well let's have it then?

King: Well, as we are in the middle of a big pond, I suggest we send a message in a bottle, and just in case we are all found dead, we can put the sound recordings we made for the new radio-play inside it too.

Narrator: I like it!

Strawb: Yes, there is something in it isn't there? Excuse the pun.

Narrator: Pass that pen Strawb, and that USB stick. Here goes;

Dear listeners, we are stuck, help. We fled into hiding last week to hide from a very dangerous psychopath. We went to the mountains but it was too cold there. We are now inside a most top secret underwater secret secret ballroom, in the middle of a lake. To assist you in your search for us, we can see fish.

The top secret, secret cheap disposable inflatable boat which cost only £9.99 and was used to get us across here, now has a hole in it. We are stranded below. It is the same one we hid on the bank until the very early hours of the morning, rowing across to the island in the middle just before dawn to avoid detection. Please do not tell anybody about our secret location as the owner said that if any more urbexers hang-out here he will flood it, and I only have one spare t-shirt left. I'm not sure if he was joking or not.

Please help us. We are at Witley Park, between Godalming and Haslemere in Surrey.

PS. When you get to the island in the middle, there is an old Victorian spiral staircase. We are down there; and bring you camera. The most secret entry password is 'Rich Bitch'.

1: Music: Zombies in Outer-Space (Instrumental Mix) Written and performed by Jonathan Taylor

Narrator: 'Meat: The Musical', hmm, narrator, ah no, I don't read that bit... 'Meat: The Musical' from 'Memoirs of a Psychopath, The Definitive Edition'. 'Meat: The Musical', all songs written, arranged produced and performed by (pause) Zombies; and about British singer /songwriter Jonathan Taylor whilst we are here... (Coughs) A review by Cursty Hoppe, writer and journalist; Taylor notes with a smile, "At 15 when I bought my first second-hand guitar and amp (that's short for amplifier) for £75, my mother said it was a complete waste of money." Although it's left unsaid, one gets the feeling she's probably still eating her words today. Since then, his reviewers have been somewhat more generous. It's been said he is the possesor of a marvellous dusty, dusky voice full of resonance and beauty' by local press and a real talent by the British Politician Tony Benn, (God rest his soul, yes) while fans continue to liken him to Don Mclean, Neil Young, Leonard Cohen and even Neil Diamond. Taylor's lyrics remain consistent in theme, his overwhelming need to lend his voice to those who remain without (Oh, that's very profound, yes, Okay, I'll keep that bit). Whether they're victims of the Bulgarian Communist Regime (Izvinavi) or an elegy to those lost in 9/11 (if only) and the messages they left behind. Again and again he returns to his subject, in 'Holocaust Denier' written after meeting England's only known Jewish Auschwitz survivor Leon Greenman, his words convey not only the horror of genocide but implore us to remember, should we let it happen again. Both tracks featured on BBC and worldwide radio and for which the British PM of the time Gordon Brown, wrote to thank him (He did actually, yes, I, I still have it in my little scrap book, the letter, yes, direct communications department it said, anyway, I digress). Even the house he now calls home in central Bulgaria, used as a partisan hide-out for anti-Nazi resistance fighters throughout World War Two (Oh, that was a mouthful), has brought him inspiration in the form of the song 'Partisan'. You begin to get the feeling Taylor needs this kind of connection to the past and a large delping of tragedy for both sustenance and creativity (Helping! That is not delping. I've lost my place. Ah, yes). Taylor's music urges us to question why atrocities happen, whether they are individual or collective. He takes tragedy, seemingly internalising the pain and then slowly from his depths comes something beautiful, skilful, deeply memorable and strangely - immensely listenable."

Narrator continues: Ah, don't need to read that - That was me by the way. I thought I sounded all posh and professional, didn't you?

Strawb: Not bad at all JT, I think that'll sell a few copies...

King: It says here in 'Porthole, Chapter One', I want it (grunt). "Jacques was of course always happy to oblige. You couldn't possess such a beauty and not service her needs at any beckoned request."

Narrator/Strawb together: Do shut up King.

Narrator: COPYRIGHT EXISTS, ©Brittunculi 2015. (Parental guidance: And there may be some swearing too, actually there's quite a lot of swearing). Strawb, it's time for the serious bit...

Act Two

Je Suis Charlie

2: Music: Je Suis Charlie  
Written and performed by Jonathan Taylor  
Sampled 'viral speech angry British Asian male' source unknown

There were these shootings in Paris by Muslims.  
Yes, they were Muslims, don't get me wrong, they were Muslims.

Why did they shoot?  
Because a so-called cartoonist, they made some cartoons of our

prophet.  
But the question is – do you have the right to go and kill?  
Fuck you, you don't.

I'm a Christian, a Muslim, an Atheist, a Jew.  
All I wanna' do is ride with you.  
I'm a Christian, a Muslim, an Atheist, a Jew.  
Je suis Charlie, can I ride with you?  
Can I ride with you?

What does your religion, our religion, my religion Islam teach us?  
Islam teaches you to be tolerant.  
And to respect other people's faiths.  
But if their views do not respect, what you gonna' do?  
Go and shoot in this 21st century?  
No, you cannot do that, you have to accept that...  
That in this country Islamic rule does not rule.  
If you want to win the hearts and minds of the people.  
In your views, go and preach.  
You do not fucking shoot people to believe in whatever...  
You or I believe in, even – correct?  
Cartoonists in Paris, Charlie Hebdo.  
They were criticising people of all faiths, yes?  
They even mocked the, the Pope, It is their, it is their way of thinking.  
And if you know, if you know there were cases after cases against them.  
They were fighting in court, some of the cases they were winning.  
And some of the cases were pending in the court.  
And if you believe the court in, in, in Paris doesn't deliver what you want.  
Then what do you do?  
You try to change the law in the way you want by doing what?  
By preaching logic, reason, love, not by imposing your law.  
(Reggae, soul, rock n' roll jazz, funk and punk, rock against racism, hatred is junk).

Forget about imposing law; that is gone.  
And if you believe that, that here, in, in, in this country.  
That people are just going to accept whatever you believe to be.  
Or I believe to be religious thinking, and their way of thinking.  
Are checked the same, it can't be.  
Whatever is religion to us are simply ideological views to non-believers.  
Accept that, digest that, you do not have the right to...  
To impose any one-sided view in any way.  
Atheists do not have the right to impose their views on us as-well.  
If you think they're mocking, find out the definition of mockery?  
And if you think that, that, that is insulting.  
And that has no logic behind what they are doing.  
Then what do you do – challenge it in the legal system.  
And if you believe that you cannot change it.  
If you do not have the guts, the reason, the logic to change the minds of the people.  
What the fuck do you do – you leave the country.  
And go away, go home and live the way you want, go back, go back.  
So fuckers, the truth is if you're coming to European countries.  
If you don't have the tolerance, don't fucking come.  
Okay; you're not fucking welcome here.  
Alright, mother fuckers, bastards.  
You don't have the right to go and shoot people.  
Alright – did you read my lips? Read it again, fuck you!  
Alright – did you read my lips? Read it again, fuck you!

Studio Audience: Shout out - "Je Suis Charlie!"

Strawb: Foreword - The Definitive Edition – by me, Peter Strawb. "It is the authoritative cult novel of the century, destined to be the only book of the millennium." Thousands of copies have already been downloaded, so did you get yours? Because if you haven't you haven't got a clue what we are talking about have you?

Narrator: Don't worry about that bit, they can do it later.

Strawb: Roger dodger, over and out, I mean, in. Here we go then. "When a copy of the printed definitive edition first landed on my desk via a rather bemused New York agent, I could only assume it to be nothing less than a practical joke. I had long read Dr Davies' original copy as an eBook, and along with dear friend and partner of horror and crime, Steven King.

King: Is that me you're talking about?

Narrator / Strawb - together: For fuck sake, will you shut up King.

Strawb: Steven King had, as so many others did at the time, dismissed its original authenticity. At first it seemed to be a farce, comedy at its darkest level - but then, when you go beyond your initial shock, do the research and have the honour of meeting the author – fear freezes you in space and time. To quote a review from a fiction and non-fiction writer, John Dodds. "The contrast between the psychiatrist's analytical writing and the killer's horrific ranting is really clever. By turns fascinating, grotesque and horrific, this book breaks all the rules. A sort of anti-narrative with a strong narrative drive, contemporary writing driven by the desires and the powerful, pounding pulse of one of the nastiest serial killers I've ever encountered. The shift in gear from the domestic to the almost apocalyptic is both startling and shocking, to say the very least."

I consider Cerys to be a very dear friend, and I wish I could encourage every success with this latter publication, but I cannot, for it is a tragedy, an utterly unspeakable horror.

The definitive edition differs considerably from the original published eBook of 2012. Principally; this is the only version available in the publisher's printed word format (that's a book by the way). It also contains three further works and within this publication only, the author's original concept is achieved. The author's intention was to create a world literary first, a single plot from which collides a series of individual books. Whilst literary work such as this already exists, the New Testament, for example, 'Meat' differs considerably from others in that each book is of a quite different and separate genre. Fundamentally; each book is considered to be a personal account and thus created by the characters within the original story. Whilst all works unfold into one single narrative, they also stand alone and can be read as unique individual pieces (inhales).

Whilst the original publication of 'Meat: Memoirs of a Psychopath' was always considered to be a yin and yang approach to anti-narrative writing, only the whole truth is contained herein. 'Meat' is a vile, sadistic onslaught of violence, whilst in complete contrast, 'Please Take Care of Bethany' is a story of romance, heroism and patriotism. "The only way to make the psychiatrist (intentional error) even more disgusting than he was, was to make his victim even more pure." Source unknown: 2012. The original release still remains available as a free eBook.

ADDENDUM: The Definitive Edition 2016 now contains 10 works. Free copies of the original release are no longer available. The information above was correct only at the time of publishing; previously, in 2015 editions.

King: Does it? Why's that then?

Strawb: I don't know do I. I'm just reading what it says here.

Narrator: I have a plan, gentlemen. If the first book is free, when they finish it, they will want to know what happened in the rest of the story won't they? And then they'll have to buy the big book, 'The Definitive Edition' to find out - and I'll be rich beyond my wildest dreams, again.

King: Oh yeah, clever that.

Strawb continues: The original release still remains available as a free eBook with deserved cult status and it is the authoritative cult novel of the century, destined to be the only book of the millennium.

(Narrator intervenes with wicked laughter)

Strawb continues: With thousands of copies already downloaded. What appears to us, the reader as totally unbelievable is now accepted to be completely believable. Is fact masquerading as fiction or is fiction masquerading as fact? Is this an Urban Legend born out of truth? Only you the reader will decide. (inhales/smokes-yeah, hmm, where was I, oh yeah) only you will decide, but I do advise that you decide swiftly

But the truth is here should you chose to know it. The definitive collection contains the following titles and must be read from beginning to end as they appear, for only the fool would question this.

King: Can I read this bit out? I'm bored.

Strawb: If you must.

King: (Excitedly reads) How to Breed Chickens in Iowa: Chandelle Davies, I, o'er, aye, that's in America, stop shouting in my ear, Chandelle Davies, country western romance fantasy. 'Meat: Memoirs of a Psychopath': Dr Cerys Davies, psychological thriller horror and crime. Please Take Care of Bethany: PC Brian Wilkinson, that's my favourite one, I likes a bit of war me, military espionage shoestring historical-fact. Porthole: (expresses pleasure) DI Andrea Johnson, it's period-drama erotica comedy slap-stick. Cor, it's a bit of alright actually. Communists in Outer-Space: Isabella Davies, political

revisionism, that's a big word isn't it? Revisionism, Sci-Fi sociology, (muttered) that's it, it's got an 'ology at the end. AND 'Meat: The Musical', Jonathan Taylor, musical radio-play, comedic farce, soundtrack. What do you mean this is a farce? You didn't tell me it was a farce. Anyway, it's a musical, horror, scary not soundtrack radio-play kind of thing that you're going to listen to...

Strawb: (All pompous) And for my part, I am a dedicated vegetarian.

King: (Abruptly) Oh no you're not!

Strawb: Oh yes I am.

King: Oh no you're not.

Strawb: Oh yes I am.

King: Oh no you're not.

Strawb: Yes I am. It's in the contract. Shut up already will you?

Narrator: Thank you Strawb, shut up already will you!

Strawb: (Coughs, clears throat and continues) Peter Strawb, 2015.

Doris the Tea Lady: (Squeaky trolley, knock, knock, and knock) Hello boys, it's only me.

Studio Audience: It's Doris the transgendered tea lady everybody!

Doris: Would anybody like a cuppa? Would you like a cuppa?

Narrator: Not when the red light is on Doris!

Doris: Oh, ever so sorry, I do get so confused these days, tatty-by, (sings) they'll be blue birds over the white cliffs of Dover...

Narrator: What you are about to hear is 'Meat: The Musical.'

Studio audience: Loud appreciative clapping – wolf whistles.

Narrator: What you are about to hear is 'Meat: The Musical'. Introduction (echo). Farage was a total idiot, an absolute waste of space, hence the name Farage. Although he was the leader of the Zombie fraternity, stupidity was his only success. The Gabrielites, a communistical Zombie community living in the mountains had kept him on as leader only because of this fact. He could do them no wrong as he was utterly and completely incapable of doing anything right. He'd been given his name following the release of a new book, 'Communists in Outer-Space'. Within the title, the author Isabella Davies, had referred to the measurement of atoms. Apparently they are 99.999999 percent recurrent empty space. In fact it is known that if we reduced all of the empty space from within the atom, the entire human race could be reduced to the size of a sugar cube. This system of measurement was called the Farage – and some people still believe to this day that the name given to this vacuum observational technique was given after a famous British Independence politician, Nigel Farage, who was a complete and absolute waste of space. Though, unlike the sugar cube, there is nothing so sweet about politicians.

Act Three

What A Cunt

3: Music: Nigel Farage Blues  
Written and performed by Jonathan Taylor  
Based on the true story of the unanswered letter

Hey, Nigel Farage baby, I know that you're full of shit.  
So this Englishman in Bulgaria wrote you a letter.  
I guess you got the gist of it.  
But something's gone wrong. I never got your reply.  
Do you think you could write and advise me further before either one of us dies?  
And I know that you think I'm really Bulgarian, and even a Tory spy.  
So could you please apologise and stop telling lies?

I was gonna' work on another verse...  
But I understand that too much information is too hard for you to understand.  
So I'm gonna' re-write my letter.  
Dear Nigel, what you did was not very nice.  
Would you please say sorry?

Did you know that you can download your FREE 'Nigel Farage Blues' ring tone here.

In printed versions visit:

<https://soundcloud.com/jonathantaylorbulgaria>

Narrator: Steven King and Peter Strawb were both fast-track graduates, having joined the Merseyside Police force on the same day, having attended the same university, and now both men had worked their way up together (not) to become lead investigators for Europol, yes, the European Union equivalent of Interpol. (That's the international police in case you didn't know). They too were complete and absolute wastes of space.

Strawb: That's not very nice of you is it?

Narrator: I didn't say that. That's what Brian thinks, not me. I have to read what's written down don't I or that psycho'll 'ave me.

King: What a cunt!

Narrator: Brian Wilkinson, on-the-other-hand, was a good old fashioned time-served copper. He had got where he was by rolling his sleeves up and getting on with the job, real policing as he called it. Brian had retired, and had, rather unfortunately, become the target of a notorious sexual sadist and serial killer, Gabriel-ah 13. Brian, had sought volunteers to join him on a rather extraordinary expedition to Bulgaria, to the former Communist House, Buzludzha. He soon found that Europol were more than happy to put King and Strawb forward - but to this old copper's disappointment, he soon found out that the pair were more than happy to come with him, but such is life.

Sound FXs: old Russian jeep noise

Narrator: The mission was clear-cut. Reports of a strange orange powder and the smell of decaying flesh had aroused much interest. So too had accounts of numerous disappearances, walkers, photographers and shepherds or woodmen alike, they just seemed to vanish without trace. Heading from Gabrovo, south and up a steep, windy mountain cutting, toward Shipka peak, in a rather battered old camo-green Russian jeep, Brian pressed play: track one of his latest homemade CD compilation, Big Jesus.

4: Music: Big Jesus  
Written and performed by Jonathan Taylor

Alright, alright, alright.  
Well, I was on the road to Nazareth.  
And I asked him.  
Hey, Big Jesus, the man in white.  
Is this the way to right and wrong?  
'Cause somewhere back there I took a wrong turn.  
Big Jesus, with all your might.  
Hey Big Jesus with all your might.  
Hey Big Jesus with all your might.  
Hey Big Jesus with all your might.  
(Are you Jesus?)

Well he didn't know what to say to me.  
Couldn't say what his advice should be.  
Said, best not hang out with me.  
Bastards are gonna' nail me to a tree.

(Said Jesus Christ Almighty).  
Said big Jesus, the man in white.  
Said big Jesus, the man in white.

So I guess if he couldn't get it right.  
I'd got no chance to do all right.  
But I had to ask him, why do you keep on trying?  
If you know that you're dying?  
You know that you're dying?  
If you know you're dying?  
If you know you're dying?  
If you know you're dying?

He said, comin' soon to a planet near you.  
Is this wrath of God, this lunar dude.  
And he is singing a very different tune.  
About love and peace man.  
Love and peace man.  
Love and peace man.  
Love and peace man.  
It's fucking peace man!

Well I guessed that Jesus was hallucinating.  
About UFOs and emancipation.  
(Jesus Christ our saviour).  
Alluded to death, He just kept saying...

(Hallelujah Jesus).  
(Hallelujah Jesus).  
I gotta' keep dying.  
So you can keep trying.  
I gotta' keep dying.  
So you can keep trying.  
I gotta' keep dying.  
So you can keep trying.

(Is this your joke? Jesus Christ Almighty, our saviour, the King of the people). Repeats... (The chosen one).

KING: So what's the story Bri? Said King.

Narrator: No, I have to say that bit, the 'said King' bit.

King: Why's that then?

Narrator: Well, because if you speak in the present and then refer to yourself in the past, it'll sound stupid. Somebody else has to say what you said. Good grammar matters you know.

King: Okay, I'll do it again then. So what's the story Bri, said King without saying it. I get the feeling you're a bit of a religious nut then?

Narrator: Oh, for fuck's sake, forget it. Let's just get on shall we? Brian thus began to explain the story to the idiot sat on the back-seat. Strawb, however, in the passenger seat, was now silent, out for the count and fast asleep. The strength of Balkan hash had proved far too much for him. The song 'Big Jesus' was a particular favourite of the serial killer who had stalked Brian for many, many years.

Brian: (No Brian. Absolute silence for 10 seconds)

Narrator: Where's Brian?

King: Who the fuck's Brian?

Narrator: Oh shit, I forgot about him, actually that's not true. I couldn't afford him so I made do with you two idiots instead. I forgot to change the script. I'll be Brian as well then, shall I? I just need to find a silly policeman's voice. I'll change his parts to red, so I don't get confused. Here goes, "He listens to it when he kills them," in red, exclaimed Brian. "He suffocates them in a most horrific manner, and gets off sexually whilst listening to it. Where have you been, living under a rock or something? That's so typical of you fast-tracks, totally clueless in every respect." In response to the extremely rude verbal torrent King thus replied so...

King: How the fuck was I supposed to know that?

Narrator: Brian passed to him a personally autographed copy of the book 'Meat: Memoirs of A psychopath'.

Narrator: "You read that, twat, that's all you need to do. It's really not that fucking complicated, is it?" Then pointing upward to the top of the hill, "There she is, the mighty Buzludzha, this is where the research facility was and this is where we start." Music plays; Buzludzha theme.

Act Four

The Mighty Buzludzha

5: Music: Buzludzha Theme  
Written and performed by Jonathan Taylor

Buzludzha, Buzludzha, Buzludzha, Buzludzha (Repeats)...  
Communists in Outer-Space (Repeats)...

Narrator: After a good night's sleep in the Hut, the local youth hostel, and Strawb having snored all night long...

Strawb: Now snores loudly.

Narrator continues: Thank you Strawb. King soon found that he had finished the book. It was not so much out of police curiosity or efficiency, or indeed any interest at all. No, it was more a matter that Strawb's snoring meant he couldn't sleep and needed something else to do. Brian on the other hand had taken the early opportunity to investigate the site. Over breakfast King explained to his partner.

King: It's like this, Strawberry mate. When Bulgaria was under the oppression of the Ottoman yoke, there was a famous battle here, between Bulgarian freedom fighters and the Turkish imperialists.

Strawb: You mean Ottoman Imperialists, King, don't you?

Narrator: Strawb answered back, he was always the politically correct one of the pair.

King: Does it really matter, anyway?

Strawb: It does if you're Turkish...

6: Music: Hadzhi Dimitar  
Written and performed by Jonathan Taylor  
Based on a loose translation of the original works of Hristo Botev  
Backing vocal (Bulgarian: traditional folklore) Nikolina Boteva

He breathes, he still lives!  
Upon a Balkan Mountainside.  
Drowning in blood.  
His smothered battle cries.  
Mortal wound in his chest, a hero lies.  
That's Hadzhi Dimitar, Hadzhi Dimitar.

His rifle's cast to the side.  
His sword broken in two.  
His eyes peer last in a thrashing of head.  
Cursing what is of heaven ahead.

The fallen one lies below deep blue skies.  
Baking beneath angry sunshine.  
A harvest girl sings in pastures today.  
As his blood drains faster and faster seeps away.  
Hadzhi Dimitar.

Let me hear you sing your harvest songs.  
Sing of freedom, be strong.  
Sing for me slave girl oh beauty sing.  
For the last beat of my heart.  
I pray you sing.  
Sing of Hadzhi Dimitar.

ORIGINAL BOTEV VERSE NOW SUNG IN BULGARIAN:

A martyr who gives his life for his country will never be forgotten. He will never die!

By day an eagle lends him shade.  
A wolf he cleans his wounds.  
High above the heroic falcon flies.  
Protecting a living hero's tomb.  
And when evening comes upon the cover of moonlight.  
And under a star-studded dark.  
As wind blows and woodland rustles.  
Hark, the Balkans sing.

The beauties of a nation dressed in angelic white.  
Sing of sacrifice throughout the night.  
Through forest they scramble.  
To sit within the fallen hero's sight.  
See how the beautiful binds his wound with herbs.  
Another with water, she freshens.  
A third kneels, her lips to a legend's mouth.  
He gazes back, absent of doubt.

But tell me sister, but tell me sister, but tell me sister?  
Where is Karadzha?  
And what of my men?  
But tell me sister, but tell me sister, but tell me sister?  
For if not, I beg of you - leave me die here with them.

Narrator: King continued.

Studio audience: Wolf whistles.

King: Revolutionaries, Hadzhi Dimitar and Stephan Karadzha were both killed here in 1868, and as a matter of fact, much later on the Socialist party of Bulgaria (bomp, bomp, bomp), was formed here too, following a secret meeting with leader, Dimitar Blagoev, blag, Blagov, or something like that.

Narrator: Strawb now felt the need to interrupt.

Strawb: So let's recap. We are here to investigate a series of possible murders. Brian gave you the book, and you have sat up all night reading the background to the case and you wake me up for a history lesson – is that correct? That is what all this nonsense is about King, yes?

Narrator: Strawb now buried his face deep into his banitsa, a local cheese-breaded traditional, a day starter.

King: I'm not sure that works.

Narrator: What?

King: That bit, "Strawb now buried his face deep into his banitsa, a local cheese-breaded traditional, a day starter."

Narrator: What's wrong with that?

King: The grammar, its crap (exaggerated) int' it? Best grammar mattered dunnit?

Narrator: Strawb now buried his face deep into his banitsa. It is a kind of bread and cheese thing that lots of Bulgarians eat for breakfast.

King: That's better, trust me, you'll appreciate it later. There's nothing worse than a bad literary review because of poor grammar.

Narrator continues: (Annoyed) As he was now further given the history of Brian Wilkinson's war time hero father, 'Bull's-Eye', the best rear gunner in the sky.' (And a fucking grammer lesson too).

Strawb: It's spelt wrongly.

Narrator: What is? – And you mean wrong don't you?

Strawb: The word, grammar, you used an 'e' for the second 'a' instead of 'a'.

King: I'll continue shall I? Its amazing mate, Brian wrote a book about his father, 'Please Take Care of Bethany' only to find out years later that he had been followed by this looney tune, Gabriel. You should read it.

Narrator: In fact his colleague Strawb already had, during studies at Uni, and long before he had joined Europol, but he simply couldn't be bothered to tell King this as it would require further conversation with him. This he definitely, by now, did not want to do.

Strawb: He's such a prick isn't he?

Narrator: Yes, but let's just play the music 'cause I wanna get off early tonight.

7: Music: Sofia City of Love  
Written by Jonathan Taylor. Acoustic guitar and vocal Jonathan Taylor  
Upright bass: Hugh Bradley. Drums and percussion: Leigh Stothard  
Flute and whistle, accordion and balalaika: Tim Moon – Barking by Soosh his dog  
Produced at Blacksail Studios UK by Jonathan 'Afterwish' Taylor

I spent the night in Sofia.  
With the girl who I loved in my arms.  
She showed me all the places of her childhood.  
Held dear in her heart.  
And as the rain fell down off her shoulder.  
We took shelter in the Palace of Culture.

The market hall, the clock tower.  
Flowers for the Bulgarian girl of mine.  
To the Nevsky Cathedral, I will ask.  
Our souls will entwine.  
And in the park the old men all play chess.  
Doing their best to impress.  
Sofia my city of love.  
Sofia, city of love.

Awake to love songs on the radio.  
Awake to a city born new.  
Awake in the arms of my true love.  
Awake in the arms of you.  
Awake in the heart of new Europe.  
Awake to the sunshine so blue.  
Awake such a long way from home girl.  
I choose to awake here with you.

The street dogs they bark at the trams.  
Making their way.  
I gave one a biscuit, I said my friend.  
How are you today?  
And just like Georgio Rakovsky.  
My friend is now looking out for me.  
Sofia my city of love.  
Sofia, city of love.

The sound of her heels.  
Cobble stone, yellow brick road from Vienna.  
From Boyana, we walked arm-in-arm.  
To the Boulevard, Vitosha.  
And my eyes took the sight of the dress.  
Will you wear it my love? I bequest.  
Sofia my city of love.  
Sofia, city of love.

(Chorus repeats)...  
Awake in Sofia beside you.  
Awake in Sofia beside you.  
I'll awake in Sofia beside you.

Narrator: Brian's father was indeed a war hero of World War Two, and in his book Brian explained how his father had been present during bombing raids of the country's capital city, Sofia. 'Bull's-Eye' Wilkinson, a rear gunner aboard a Wellington Bomber had not managed to live with his guilt, and had mysteriously died during a secret mission - and also, his father, Brian's grandfather, he too had also died in a war, but earlier-on, in the trenches of the Great War, World War One

King: Get this.

Narrator: King said, unable to contain his excitement.

King: He was shot a dawn by the British.

Doris: Are you ready for a cuppa tea now?

Studio Audience: It's Doris the transgendered tea lady everybody!

Narrator: Not now Doris, the red light is still on, do pop-along and put the kettle or something.

Doris: I already 'ave, seventeen times, or is it eighteen, anyway, what red light, I can't see a bloody thing these days, tootde-pip, must dash, can't stand here talking to you all day...

Narrator: You sound just like Brian!

Doris: If Brian was here, he'd 'ave a cup of my tea, oh yes he would I say.

Narrator: That's probably why he's not here...

Act Five

Don't Touch The Orange Powder

8: Music: Mother  
Written and performed by Jonathan Taylor

Mother, I'm dying.  
They're gonna' shoot me at dawn.  
Mother, I'm writing.  
Before they bang on the door.  
Mother, forgive me.  
I've got no stomach for the war.  
Mother, tell father.  
He won't believe what I saw.

It goes;  
Bang bang bang a bang bang (Repeats)...

Lay down you're dead.  
It goes;  
Bang bang bang a bang bang (Repeats)...  
You're dead.

(Whistles).  
(Sergeant speaks).  
Alright, alright, left right, left right.  
Next? Over the top.  
What you doin' hangin' around on that wire?  
Mother'd be ashamed of you.  
Come on boy, you chicken?  
Seen more balls on a pussy lad.  
Now get yourself over...

Bang bang you're dead.  
Mother, I'm dying.  
They're gonna' shoot me at dawn.

Sound FXs: (chickens/goats/sheep etc.)

Narrator: Both men approached Buzludzha walking upward by the front steps. They found the doors to be welded firmly shut. This had been done to keep sightseers out and away from harm's way as the structure was, by now given the passage of time, in a very poor and dangerous condition. Brian, leaning over the balcony shouted down to them, "Are you pair of prats gonna' do any police work today or what?" Oh shit, that bit was in red, "Are you pair of prats gonna do any police work today or what?" And then proceeded to direct them to a hole in the wall to their right through which they could both climb into the building. Inside they found a big round domed chamber, and in the roof the centre-piece of the ceiling was a hammer and sickle motif. Strawb, by now awake and ready to face the day decided it was his turn to give the history lesson.

Strawb: Now, if you'd read 'The Definitive Edition' of 'Meat', kinky babes, (that's for calling me strawberry earlier) you would have known that this was the site of a former de-atomisation chamber used by the socialist forces of Todor Zhivkov to transport themselves into outer-space, and below your feet, exactly where you are standing now are at least six lower basement levels used as research facilities by the Gabriel Sect. They conducted experiments into psychopathy, searching for the truth needed to create these Frankenstein-like psychopaths in their laboratory.

Narrator: King accordingly shit himself, no, not literally, but in a manner of speaking because of the fear he now felt.

Strawb: Blows a long raspberry...

Narrator: Thank you Strawb.

King: You mean people really did get killed here? It's not just an urban myth?

Narrator: He said, his teeth now chattering with fear, (chatter) Strawb continued...

Strawb: You've been reading that Abandoned Berlin website haven't you? Oh well. Yes, King my old matey, lots and lots of them. It all started with the murder of two French urbexers, they're kinda' photographers who like to take pictures of derelict stuff, They like the decay and all that. They like to catch on film how a building deteriorates over time within a man-made-environment once deserted and disused.

King: Can you smell summat?

Narrator: He could see the boredom now start to climb all over his colleague's face, and in many ways enjoyed witnessing this frustration as revenge for the historical World War One/Two lecture, over breakfast this morning.

Strawb: Okay, I'll get to the point. They, the two French guys, Achille Pinet and Marrok Brideau from Paris, they disturbed a secret meeting of a religious cult called the Gabriel Sect, and obviously paid with their lives. They had their throats cut and their bodies dumped and burnt in the woods. Gabriel, the leader of the cult, was probably abused by a Priest or something like that. It makes you go mad you know, that kind of thing happening in childhood, it's enough to damage anyone.

9: Music: Priest  
Written by Jonathan Taylor. Acoustic guitar and vocal, Jonathan Taylor  
Upright bass: Hugh Bradley. Drums and percussion: Leigh Stothard  
Produced at Blacksail Studios UK by Jonathan 'Afterwish' Taylor

I'll look into your eyes, Priest.  
I'll watch you die, Priest.  
Is it true that men of God can burn in hell, as well?  
Is it true the men of cloth they burn so well? Priest.

For the secrets that you keep. Priest.  
And those I cannot tell.  
Does your conscience help you sleep so well at night, Priest?  
The man of God who taught me wrong from right.  
Was you priest.

The corridors they creak, Priest.  
Just as the gallows, tight.  
I want it to be slow, piss yourself with fright, Priest.  
Hypocrisy's your sin, you had no right, Priest.  
Shush...  
(Repeats)...

Narrator: Brian now intervened between the two. "This is all very interesting but we're here to solve a case, and the history of the place can wait. Now to business. I have watched carefully and there are Zombies living here. I know it sounds fantastical but it is true. I've managed to make friends with one called Farage. There are footprints in the lower generator room. They'd been left behind in a type of orange powder." He said, just like he was reading from his notebook. "Looks like talcum powder but orange. I followed them through the ventilation shafts." King and Strawb froze on the spot, to digest what they were now hearing. Brian was indeed telling them that Zombies really did exist and how they liked to play blood games.

Strawb: What do they look like, Bri?

Narrator: Asked Strawb, fumbling through his own pockets pretending to look for his notebook, but really in a desperate search for a fresh strong Balkan joint to now calm his own nerves. It was all he could think to say, nothing too profound I agree, but it was straight to the point in question. "Well I've met two of them now, apparently there are sixteen in total downstairs. To be honest the one called Farage appears to be a complete waste of time but the other one, Isabellastein did very much remind me of my wife before she died. Ah, you must have read about her in the book I lent you?" "Yes, of course," replied King.

King: She was called Doreen wasn't she?

Narrator: "Yes, Doreen it is. I try not to think of her in a past tense. We loved each other so very much. She still talks to me you know. Anyway the one called Isabellastein did remind me of her." Brian then became quite overwhelmed by his own emotions (Narrator sobs).

10: Music: 'Till My Heart Stops  
Written by Jonathan Taylor. Acoustic/electro guitar and vocal Jonathan Taylor  
Upright bass: Hugh Bradley. Drums and percussion: Leigh Stothard  
Electro-lead guitar: Jonathan 'Afterwish' Taylor  
Produced at Blacksail Studios UK by Jonathan 'Afterwish' Taylor

This is the first day of my life.  
This is the first day of my life.  
This is the first day of my life now that I've seen you.  
(Repeats)...

Standing there, without a care.  
And your long, long, long, long hair.  
Beware, I can't help but stare.  
Wish I was standing there right beside you.

I take a breath, another breath.  
Okay, just one more breath then I'll make a plan.  
Believe me, I won't deceive you.  
But I've never felt this way before.  
I want to confess.  
To the Goddess right before my eyes.  
But it's hard, to say to you.  
Without you probably thinking that I'm mad.  
I want to, I need to.  
Get to know you, somehow.

This is the first day of my life (Repeats)...  
'Til my heart stops (Repeats)...

Narrator: Brian continued, "We are not allowed to know where the secret entrance is. I think they have trust issues with us. He's coming back in a few hours with the rest of them, to introduce us all, so we just need to kill some time in between." King, true to character, did just that. He sat all day reading his copy of Porthole, (sexy laughter/porthole) written by an old colleague, DI Andrea Johnson.

King: Have you ever read this Brian? It's pornography you know. Imagine that, a senior policewoman secretly writing erotica. You knew each other didn't you?

Narrator: "Yes I did, we worked very closely together on the original investigation, but I've never read it myself. Doreen wouldn't approve." Strawb however, being the brains behind the two fast-trackers used his time more efficiently and concentrated on something more appropriate, the memoirs as written in Part Three, Psychopic Husbandry (sniggers).

King: (Stupidly) Did she really shag the psycho?

Narrator/Strawb: (Together) Shut the fuck up why don't you?

11: Music: Ain't Nobody Does It like You Do  
Written and performed by Jonathan Taylor

We're alone, I turned-off the phone.  
Nobody else is home, do you wanna; roam, upstairs?  
It's getting late, just anticipate.

Don't hesitate having a good time, with me.  
Yeah, there ain't nobody does it like you do.  
No, there ain't nobody gonna' do it like you do.

Yeah, there ain't nobody does it like you do.  
Yeah, there ain't nobody does it like you do.  
No, there ain't nobody gonna' do me like you do.  
There ain't nobody does it like you do.  
No, there ain't nobody does it like you do.  
And there ain't nobody gonna' do me like you do.

Yeah, there ain't nobody does it like you do.  
No, there ain't nobody does it like you do.  
No, there ain't nobody does me like you do.  
No, there ain't nobody gonna do it like you do.  
There ain't nobody does it like you do.  
Yeah, no, there ain't nobody gonna' screw me like you do.  
Yeah, there ain't nobody does it like you do.  
No, there ain't nobody does me like you do.  
Yeah, there ain't nobody screws me like you do.  
No there ain't nobody.  
No there ain't nobody.  
No there ain't nobody does it like you do.  
I said there ain't nobody does it like you do.

Narrator: Strawb, following his intensive reading session, was still somewhat confused.

Strawb: Brian, in this book, Memoirs of a Psychopath, Part Three, it refers to an orange powder, yes?

Narrator: Brian explained; "Yes it does Strawb. The powder was a biproduct of nuclear experiments accidently discovered after the war."

Strawb: Okay, yes, I've got that bit Brian, but it's this bit that concerns me...

Narrator: He continued to look bemused.

Strawb: The orange powder is used to poison the food chain when it is genetically spliced into the plants, the animals then eat the plants, and the carnivore human accordingly eats the animal...

Narrator: "Yes Strawb, it's called the food chain - why is that so complicated for you to understand?" asked Brian in return.

Strawb: Brian, it's not bloody complicated at all!

Narrator: Was shouted back by a now very angry Strawb.

Strawb: Surely this is the same orange psychotic zombie inducing powder that's all over your fucking shoes, man?

Narrator: A few moments of silence then understandably followed this crucial public health and safety risk assessment and Brian was quite offended by the tone of voice used, and so abruptly used was it that even King had managed to now pull his face away from the antics of Paris's Revenge. "It's not a problem mate," Brian encouragingly stated, "I'm a vegetarian."

Act Six

Here Come The Zombies

12: Music: Grow Old Along With me  
Written and performed by Jonathan Taylor

I cherish the day we first met.  
When our eyes at first took a glance.  
And I cherish the day when beside me you sat.  
We drank Champagne.  
And how we laughed and how we joked.  
And how together we blushed.  
I asked, may I please walk you home?  
You made coffee for me and you lit up your cigarette.  
I talked as if life knew no end.

Your smile like the dawn awakens me.  
Your smile like the stars of the night.  
With all the love and the grace of the mother.  
Holding the new-born so tight.

Won't you grow old along with me?  
And scatter my ash to the wind.  
And at the foot of the old, old Oak tree.  
Where there I remember we first kissed.  
And may the wind take us out to the sea.  
On the crest of the waves souls are free.

For there I will wait for my true love.  
For there I will wait patiently.  
But now, how I wish I'd live forever.  
For-ever together, eternally.  
You and me.

Your smile like the dawn awakens me.  
Your eyes like the stars of the night.  
With all the love and the grace of a mother.  
Holding the new-born so tight.

Grow old along with me?  
And scatter my ash to the wind.  
And there I will wait for my true love.  
For there I will wait patiently.  
Grow old along with me?

Narrator: Brian awoke, dreaming so deeply and contently about Doreen, he hadn't been too over-zealous in realising that he had actually fallen asleep at all. But something was now different: Strawb looked dead, and King looked even; deader. "How could this be?" he thought. He leant forward and prised the copy of the book from the corpse. No, it wasn't possible, the powder only affected meat-eaters and Strawb had come-out as flesh-free earlier on. There, in the introduction of 'The Definitive Edition', as written by Strawb, it said (strong voice/stretched verbatim) No, I mean this is what he said, he didn't say verbatim, verbatim.

Strawb: "For my part I am now a dedicated vegetarian."

Narrator: You can't say that bit. You're not allowed to talk anymore.

Strawb: Why not?

King: Well, we're dead aren't we! Even I managed to work that one out, dick 'ed.

Narrator: Clearly Brian had made an error concerning King. He had presumed that as a friend of Strawb, he too would subscribe to a meat-free diet. And now... now, pressing on Brian's mind were two most serious factors of the utmost serious concern: 1) The amount of paperwork he now faced when back home in Liverpool and 2) These two bastards were about to come back to life as Zombies. Strawb had definitely been dishonest with his public proclamation in the foreword of the book, 'Meat: The Definitive Edition'. That's an advert by the way. And Brian had never understood the need for anyone to be so dishonest, and especially police officers, such as the dead pair had once been.

Doris: Tea's up. I've got some bickies too, underspend from last year's budget. Betty said not to tell finance.

Studio Audience: Not now Doris – the red light is on! (Tea trolley squeaks away).

13: Music: Hello, How Low  
Written by Jonathan Taylor. Acoustic/electro guitar and vocal Jonathan Taylor  
Upright bass: Hugh Bradley. Drums and percussion: Leigh Stothard  
Electro-lead guitar: Jonathan 'Afterwish' Taylor  
Produced at Blacksail Studios UK by Jonathan 'Afterwish' Taylor

Shut your face, you'll take that back.  
You know I know, that you're talking crap.  
Back to basics, let's deal with the facts.  
You know that I know, just where we're at.

You've never stopped, to pause to think.  
Always pushing me to the brink.  
Secrets and lies, well apologise.  
You're just a stranger here in disguise.

I know where you go, where you go at night.  
I know where you go, where you were last night.

Hello, hello, how low you go.  
Hello, hello, how low.  
Hello, hello, how low you go.  
Hello, hello, how low.

I know where you go, where you go at night.  
I know where you go, where you were last night.

Your secret emails, the hidden chat.  
A secret friendship locked away in the crack.  
Well truth is costly, from a liar's rack.  
I wrote you love songs, give them me back.

Have you ever looked in my eyes?  
You've seen the hatred, pain and despise.  
Not much to ask, a reason why.  
Lamb to slaughter, alone here to die.

I know where you go, where you go at night.  
I know where you go, where you were last night.

Hello, hello, how low you go.  
Hello, hello, how low.  
Hello, hello, how low you go.  
Hello, hello, how low.

I know where you go, where you go at night.  
I know where you go, where you were last night.

Shut your face, you'll take it back.  
You know I know, that you're talking crap.  
Back to basics, let's deal with the facts.  
You know that I know, where we're at.

Narrator: There was only one way to kill a Zombie, and that was to completely sever the head from the torso - but this wasn't really Brian's scene, and sure enough, the two Zombies he had met earlier that day had seemed to be quite pleasant enough. Perhaps all we believe to be true in the movies, isn't after all, but it was more likely to be, as referred to in the text, that Zombies simply don't attack vegetarians. He decided to bide his time and waited for Farage to return as planned. After all, there could be a cure. (Bomp, bomp, bomp.) Is that noise copyrighted? Okay, we can use that one. Time passed and the Zombie known as Farage did so return as promised, which was quite unusual because with a name like that, well you expected quite the opposite didn't you. I mean, a Farage that can keep his promises, it's unheard of. Farage's wife was, as Brian now found out, called Teresa. Isabellastein was merely a cheeky little nickname, a Frankenstein pet name used between the two.

Teresa was by all accounts a direct creation of Isabella Davies PhD, the author of 'Communists in Outer-Space.' (That's another advert.) She was also the famous geneticist who had worked downstairs whilst the cult had occupied the premises previously. They had now long gone, stories told of a new church hidden away on a secret island, somewhere, but nothing was known of their true location. The original Gabrielites had all disappeared as quickly as they had formed. What was known for certain is that they had completed their intention, the powder had been released and for sure, they would be hiding low for the time-being.

Doris: Is it one lump or two these days Brian?

Studio Audience: (Shouts) Who the fuck's Brian?

Doris: If Brian was 'ere, he'd 'ave a cup a' tea.

Narrator: The pair's exposure to the orange powder was to be considered extreme indeed, breathed-in in its purest form, inhaled and digested in huge quantity. Had it been digested naturally as intended through the process of the local food chain, well who then knows how long the transformation from human to Zombie would have taken? Brian hadn't noticed any Zombies outside during his long journey from Merseyside in England to Bulgaria.

14: Music: I'm In Love With Teresa  
Written by Jonathan Taylor. Acoustic/electro guitar and vocal Jonathan Taylor  
Upright bass: Hugh Bradley. Drums and percussion: Leigh Stothard  
Electro-lead guitar: Jonathan 'Afterwish' Taylor  
Samples: Die Antwoord (Fok Julle Naaiers)  
Mike Tyson (Tyson-Lewis Press Conference, Jan 22, 2008)  
Produced at Blacksail Studios UK by Jonathan 'Afterwish' Taylor

I'm in love with Teresa.  
But when I told her she laughed.  
Well if it wasn't for my pride.  
I'd have curled up and died.  
I'm in love with Teresa.

She said.  
Don't ever come around here again.  
My brother's a boxer.  
He's six feet, ten.  
And I ain't got time for you.  
Little boy in your little world.  
With your little toys again.

Well, I don't know where this takes me.  
I'll go along for the ride.  
And I don't know what this makes me, baby.  
It's a hell of a high, bitch!

I need drums, bass guitar, give me lead?  
Take me to my insanity...  
There must be a million and one ways.  
To fuck with the brain.  
Ha ha ha...  
One; cocaine.  
Two; acids.  
Three; it's glue.  
Four; sniffing lighter fuel, that'll kill you.  
Six; try sniffing petrol?  
It's big in Indian, so they tell me.  
Seven; good old fashioned alcohol.  
Eight; mushrooms.  
Nine; methamphetamine, maybe ketamine.  
Nine; ten, five is neither here nor there.  
It fucked my memory.  
Ten, it's Teresa!

I don't know where this takes me.  
I'll go along for the ride.  
I don't know what this makes me baby.  
It's a hell of a high.

I'm in love with Teresa.  
But when I told her she laughed.  
Well if it wasn't for my pride.  
I'd have curled up and died.  
I'm in love with Teresa Brown.

She said.  
Don't ever come around here again.  
My brother's a boxer.  
He's six feet, ten.  
And I ain't got time for you.  
Little boys in your little world's.  
With your little toys again.

Ketamine, just say nay!

I don't know where this takes me.  
I'll go along for the ride.  
I don't know what this makes me baby.  
It's a hell of a high.  
I'm in love with Teresa.  
When I told her she laughed...

Narrator: The psychopic husbandry experiments conducted by the Gabrielites at the Buzludzha facility had indeed been brutal. Zombies had never been the best of lookers, but the Zombies of Shipka were particularly unpleasant to the human eye. Teresa most definitely loved Farage very deeply but he too was also quite absent of the intelligence necessary to enter into such a consensual relationship. Zombies in love, how could it be?

They reeked of excrement and stale piss, their putrid flesh so rotten and decomposed it fell from them like dandruff, this given any sudden movement, and how could they possibly do it? How can a Zombie be intimate? If the flesh of their lips so easily fell away from them, how was it possible to maintain an erection? So many questions needed answers. But for sure, confronted with the vulgarity and total rotten ugliness of the normal every-day Zombie, this Buzludzha clan were particularly horrendous, aaargh, hideous! "I wanted to say to Farage, that if my Zombie had a face like Teresa's, I'd shave her arse and make her walk backwards," thought Brian. It was drugs apparently that saved them. An array of hard class As used within the clinical trials of Isabella, left behind.

The Zombies had started to use them, and they had all now got quite hooked. Zombies on crack wasn't half of it. They had not ventured out beyond the building as they were too high. They simply couldn't be arsed to chase and kill people anymore, unless of course, people found them first. Naturally they had to protect their own. So how does this story end you may well ask? Well, it is like this; (Bomp bomp bomp) well, if it's free we might as well use it again. Yeah, Okay, yeah? Keep that edit in. "I got the fuck out of there of course. And the last thing I saw of Strawb and King was their intestines. It appears that Zombies can be quite xenophobic. They don't mix well with foreigners, a bit like Nigel Farage. It was a fair deal, my freedom for a few spare parts, and accordingly, fuck all that missing persons paperwork, we all lived happily ever after." Said Brian.

Finale

Off To Outer Space

15: Music: I'm Sorry, Please Forgive Me  
Written and performed by Jonathan Taylor

I sat down and I started to cry.

I guess I never knew me at all.

Coca Cola, sex and pineapple you said.

And how that made me laugh.

(Humming).

Bismillah, God is great.

I pull the trigger and detonate.

(Whimpering)

Woke up this morning.

Wished you were dead.

Reached for the table lamp.

And a blow to your head.

Such a powerful feeling.

Thought of what you said.

And I can hear a heartbeat.

It's just a thread.

I'm sorry, I'm so sorry.

I'm sorry, please forgive me, I'm sorry.

Yeah; I'm sorry that I met you.

I'm sorry that I loved you.

I'm sorry that I cared.

So sorry; please forgive me.

I'm sorry that you're dead.

King: That's crap.

Strawb: Frankly that's crap.

Narrator: Why?

Strawb: It just is, isn't it?

King: I think I should have a happy ending, personally.

Narrator: Oh for fuck's sake!

Strawb: Good karma and all that Boss. Happy ending means happy lives. Here, have a drag (Inhales loudly).

Narrator: And so the Zombies who had so happily played blood games inside the building, this in complete isolation for so many, tortured, lonely years, then decided, to throw a party. "They said you are all invited," said Farage, in orange. "Oh yes, please come," said Teresa, the ugly one. (I made her orange too.) "We've got lots of rakia."

King: That's better, you feel good now don't you?

Strawb: That rakia is some good shit too mate. I feel a little dizzy.

16: Music plays: The Rakia Song  
Written by Jonathan Taylor. Vocal/acoustic guitar Jonathan Taylor  
Violin: Dimi Dimitrova (arrangement V. Totev) Classical guitar: Parvel Petkov  
Backing vocal: Harmony Choir, Sevlievo. Bass guitar: Stanislav Takinsa  
'Rakia still' percussion: Ivo Stamboliev. Additional Percussion: Vladimir Totev  
Sample: Charlie Chaplin, 'The Great Dictator' 1940  
Bulgarian viral chant, 'Оставка' (resign) 2013 unknown

(Intro: Chaplin).  
I'm sorry, but I don't want to be an Emperor, that's not my business.

I want Rakia, I need Rakia, I love Rakia.  
(Bulgarian choir sings backing: Rakia Pia).  
Earli' in the morning.  
I want Rakia, I need Rakia, I love Rakia.  
Earli' in the morning.

What shall we do with the drunken celo?  
What shall we do with the drunken celo?  
What shall we do with the drunken celo?  
Earli' in the morning.  
(Repeats)...

I want Rakia, I need Rakia, I love Rakia.  
(Bulgarian choir sings backing: Rakia Pia).  
Earli' in the morning.  
I want Rakia, I need Rakia, I love Rakia.  
Earli' in the morning.

What shall we do with the drunken celo?  
What shell we do with the drunken celo?  
What shell we do with the drunken celo?  
Earli' in the morning.  
(Repeats)...

Bez darvo, bez voda, bez tock,

Bez robotnic, bez parrie, bez dom.  
Niamo Rakia, Kackvo Pravish, Koodai Rakia?  
What shall we do with the drunken celo?  
What shall we do with the drunken celo?  
What shall we do with the drunken celo?  
Earli' in the morning.

(Chaplin speech).  
For those who can hear me I say, do not despair.  
The misery that is now upon us is but the passing of greed.  
The bitterness of men who fear the way of human progress.  
The hate of men will pass and dictators die.  
And the power they took from the people will return to the people.  
And so long as men die, liberty will never perish.

What shall we do with the drunken celo?  
What shall we do with the drunken celo?  
What shall we do with the drunken celo?  
"Оставка, Оставка, Оставка."

King: drunkenly asks: What's this knob do then?

Strawb: Err, dunno, try it...

King: Are you, are you, are you sure I should? Don't want to go upsetting any Zombies like. They're a bit sensitive this bunch aren't they? Perhaps it turns the heating on and off'able.

Studio Audience: Sound FXs: rocket launch

Narrator: And then, without a moment to spare they all took-off. Up, up and away they went, the saucer launched itself into the heavens and sped off at light speed quite out of sight, (and every one was as high as a kite too) and the moral of this story is this...

King (drunkenly): If you'd read the book in the first place, you'd have known not to touch, wouldn't you King?

Narrator: This musical was written by Jonathan Taylor; in actual fact everything was. If you too had read the big book first you too would not have known this fact. The narrator and Brian in red was played by me, Jonathan Taylor. I also did the two orange bits for the Zombies.

King: (Hiccups-drunk) Jonathan Taylor played the part of Steven, Steven King was played by him as well.

Strawb: (High) Yeah man, and I, Strawb, yeah, in space and time, peace brothers and sisters, yeah, I was him too, aha, peace y'all.

Narrator: Come on you two, we have a party to get to...

Strawb: Just don't touch anything else King.

King: (Remaining drunk) Only the rakia this time dudes (he now sings) I drink Rakia, I love Rakia, I need Rakia, early in the morning (Into distance) I drink Rakia, I, I love Rakia, I drink Rakia early in the morning, he-he-he, oh dear, silly me, silly-silly me.

Narrator: The End

17: Music plays: Zombies in Outer-Space  
Written and performed by Jonathan Taylor

I'm a Zombie in outer-space.  
So sick and tired of the whole human-race.  
They said I'd got an ugly face.  
Completely destroyed my self-confidence.  
So we're gonna' start all over again.  
In a different place.  
Buzludzha countdown initiated...  
Teresa, fill the tanks with Rakia?  
(10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1).  
Here we go...

Zombies in outer-space.  
Zombies in outer-space.  
Sick and tired of the whole human-race.  
Zombies in outer-space.  
Gonna' start again in a different place.

Blast off!  
Zombies in outer space.  
(Repeats)...

(Backing vocal reads).

Are you coming Brian?  
Strap Strawb and King in...  
Fuck sake don't let them touch that one.  
Hold tight, off we go.

Throw them communists out.  
And all that orange power too.  
Don't need that where we're going.  
Yeah, ugly bastards!

Because we're Zombies in outer-space.  
We could be the master-race.  
Outer-space Zombie-race.  
Yeah, that's freaky.  
Bravo, bravo, yes, loved every minute of it.  
Congratulations bravo, bravo, bravo, bravo.  
Yes, yes it was...

ALL characters now say as one: The End!

Doris: Oh no it's not...

Studio audience: Oh yes it is...

Doris: Oh no its not...

Studio audience: Oh yes it is...

Doris: Oh no it's not because my name isn't Doris, it's...

Studio Audience: Bomp, bomp, bomp!

Doris: It's VLADIMIR! And I'm coming with you, secretly I am a secret spy for the CIA. I am to find those communists in outer-space and assassinate their leader Todor Nock-A-Bollock-Off, but don't tell anyone.

Narrator: That won't be hard love. Just make him a cup of tea!

Studio Audience: Shush – the Koreans are listening!

Outro Music – Communists in Outer-Space

Narrator: THE END, really, or is it?

Telephone rings, now diverts to answer machine

Narrator: Hello, you've reached the answer machine of Jonathan Taylor. I'm sorry but I can't take your call just now. I've run away. In fact I've gone to live in the mountains where nobody will ever find me and I probably won't ever be able to answer your call ever. I'm sorry, it's nothing personal. It appears that a psychopath by the name of Gabriel-a 13 is rather pissed off with me. He instructed me to write a musical to accompany his Holy masterpiece, but he seems to think that the end result is some sort of piss-take, can't for the life of me understand why? There it is. No sense of humour these psychotic killers... (Beep) leave your message after the tone (Beep).

Doris: Is it one lump or two these days Brian?

RadioGB: Big Ben jingle.

WE THANK you most sincerely: For the courage and bravery of the few. Those members of the live studio audience who stood together in solidarity and defiance for the recording of this radio play, recorded live at Buzludzha's 'The Hut' Hostel. Bulgaria.

Nicola Miller, Les Johnstone, Chrissy Eastwood, Alex Wright, Caroline Mazens-Trotman, Vincent Mazens, Jeremy Cauchois and Eliza Bailey. Thank you for the whisky Les. Nice one!

End

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The GOLD STAR KID here! In printed editions log onto; <https://soundcloud.com/jonathantaylorbulgaria>

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Thank you!

PART THREE

THE GOLD STAR KID

Children's Fantasy Story and Audio Book

JRP Taylor (Odd Jonathan)

Introduction

Myles Eckert, a boy of just 8 years of age from Ohio, USA, looked down at the tarmac of the Cracker Barrel car-park at the Ohio Air National Guard near Toledo. There on the floor beside him, sparkling upwards in the sunlight towards him, he saw an old twenty dollar bill.

His thoughts immediately turned to the purchase of a new video game, but whilst sat beside his mother awaiting his food and pondering over his options, his eye was drawn to the attention of a soldier. This army man's name was Lt. Col. Frank Dailey, a member of the Air National Guard. Myles had never seen him before.

Picking up a small, scrap piece of yellow note-paper, Myles decided to write a letter to the soldier who was sat opposite him in the restaurant whilst eating with his own family. "Dear Soldier," he wrote. "My dad was a soldier. He's in heaven now. I found this $20 in the parking lot when we got here. We like to pay it forward in my family. It's your lucky day!"

Frank Dailey reported to CBS news reporters later; "I consider Myles' act of kindness as an honour. It's incredible being recognised in such a manner. I will remember the gift for a lifetime." In concluding the letter to the anonymous soldier Myles had ended, "Thank you for your service, Myles Eckert, a gold star kid." Lt. Col. Dailey, overcome with gratitude for the gift said, "I look at it every day... Myles gave me so much more than twenty dollars. He gave me a lifetime direction, for sure."

Myles' father, Army Sergeant Andy Eckert, had died just five weeks after his son had been born. He had given his life whilst serving his country in Iraq. Myles' mother, Tiffany, drove him to his father's grave after the gift was made. Myles wanted to be alone with his father. "He wanted to go see his dad, and he wanted to go by himself that day," she explained to the news reporters. She had never anticipated that his story would now be featured on national television. "Good deeds like this are not out of the ordinary for the Eckerts," she said. "This is actually something that we do on a regular basis. We pay it forward often. This story just happened to take off."

The story first aired on the CBS television channel across America, and the little 8-year-old boy from Toledo, Myles Eckert, had now become a local celebrity.

"After church (a few days later) we went to Five Guys (a fast food burger outlet) and we walked in and there were some soldiers from the 180th and we went over there to say thank you for your service," Tiffany recalled most surprised. "They all knew who Myles was.

While we were there it was like every single person knew who Myles was, and they were coming up to him in tears and giving him $20 and wanting pictures with him," she added. "I couldn't be more proud, but this is our normal life," she told the reporters. "Kindness always wins, and that's something I've been teaching our kids forever."

This story that now follows is based on the true events of March 2014 above. I too believe that kindness always wins; why do we forget to teach our own children this?

JRP Taylor.

PART THREE

THE GOLD STAR KID

Chapter Forty-Nine

Copper's End

"I'm so sick of chicken," said Ryan, dropping his third clean fork to the floor as he struggled to eat and play Dragon Raid at the same time.

"You'll get fat!" shouted his mum, Tanya, from the kitchen as she mopped the floor. The new puppy, Thumper, had given the family yet another free gift, a small wet patch on the linoleum covering, to say thank you for its new home.

"Will you take Thumper out for a walk for me?" she asked. "I just haven't had five minutes to turn around today," she said. Muttering under his breath, Ryan reluctantly agreed.

Copper's End was a lovely quiet, rural village, and nothing much ever happened. Last week Ryan had seen a fox, and that was about it. They hadn't long lived in the countryside but it was something they had long dreamed about.

Ryan lost his father, Norman, many years ago and Copper's End would be a fresh start for them both, his mother hoped.

Norman was a soldier, a member of the Queen's Royal Lancers and he had given his life in service at the Battle of Telic, following the 2003 invasion of Iraq in the Middle East.

Ryan often thought of his dad. He was thirteen years old now and very happy to finally be a teenager at last, but being a teenager meant that he had now lived for thirteen years without ever meeting his father.

Naturally this saddened Ryan a great deal. What saddened him even more was that now they had moved from the city to Copper's End, he could only visit his father's grave following trips back to see his grandparents in Warwick every four weeks or so.

The family had not coped well with the tragedy of Norman's loss. Initially it was very difficult and painful, but as time passed, and with only happy memories to talk of, they eventually decided they had to move away and make a fresh start for themselves.

Thirteen years in mourning had now proved to be enough. The wider family; aunts, uncles, cousins and grandparents were happy for them too. Granddad said to Ryan; "Your mother has always wanted to live in the country. I think this new beginning will be great for you both."

Norman had always dreamed of buying a house in the country for them all, after Ryan was born, but sadly it would never happen. Tanya had always dreamed of owning her own horse.

As Ryan walked Thumper in the woods, continually fetching her ball back and forth as Ryan would throw it, and occasionally chasing the odd wood pidgeon or two that, startled, would now take to flight, he wondered what life would be like if his dad were still alive today.

"What would having a father be like?" he thought to himself. He thought too about what he would actually do if "this stupid dog ever managed to actually catch one of the pigeons it so eagerly chased." Though this was most unlikely to ever happen.

After finishing the dog walk he went promptly back home. It was almost five thirty on a Friday afternoon and this meant that later on that evening mother and son would enjoy a fish and chip supper together.

"I've only got five pounds and twenty pence in my purse," Tanya said. "I'll tell you what: we either have chips and make a chip butty each, there'll be enough for that, and some mushy peas too, or we can wait until tomorrow for a change and I'll treat you to supper out at that new restaurant in town."

Ryan had tried to remind his mum to take some money out of the ATM during their last shopping outing but, as usual, her mind had been miles away.

Living out in the country miles from a bank meant that the normal things they would take for granted, such as access to cash machines, needed more planning.

"Okay Mum, that's great," he said. "Let's wait until tomorrow then." He was of course a little disappointed. He loved his special treat, his weekly chip supper, but he would never want to upset his mother over such small things. Being brought up without his father had made him value the good things in life, his family and friends, and never to take anything else, no matter how small, for granted.

Ryan's mobile rang. "It's Asan," said the caller. "We're all going to watch a new DVD tonight, and my dad said you can come over too, do you want to?"

Ryan paused, turned to his mum and asked, "Can I Mum, please?"

Asan's dad was called Iqbal and he was a teacher at the local school. Both Ryan and Asan studied there together and were the greatest of friends.

Tanya knew that Asan's family had taken pity on her son, and that Iqbal had tried to be a father figure as well as a teacher to the boy. She did appreciate the family's kindness.

When the family had first moved into the village six months earlier, it was he who had taken the time to stop by and introduce the locals; this by means of countless never-ending stories that caused much folly and laughter.

Iqbal was a good, honest man. "Go and have a great time Ryan," she said, and "I'll pick you up around 10."

After Ryan had ran through the village and, as arranged, waited to meet Asan outside Rayner's, the local grocery shop to buy crisps and pop for the evening's viewing, something caught his eye.

As he had sat waiting on the wall opposite the shop he noticed a twenty pound note on the ground below him. He had to look several times before he realised it really was a twenty pound note and not just a figment of his own, over-excited imagination.

He jumped down and picked it up. "Who could it belong to?" he thought.

He told Asan of his find and decided it was best to hand it in to the shopkeeper. After all, it must have belonged to somebody who had been shopping earlier that day, mustn't it?

He explained to Mrs Rayner what had happened. "You two must be the most honest boys in this village, that's for sure," she said.

Ryan explained that he had not kept the money as he knew many people in the village were very old and relied only on their pensions from the government, and this was not a lot of money to live on, this his mother had told him.

Mrs Rayner shouted for her husband, Bill. "Come downstairs. The young ones have found some money outside. Do you know anything about it?" She most loudly called up to him as he was somewhat a little deaf these days after years of working down the West Midland pits.

Arriving promptly out of curiosity, Bill said, "Nobody's been in asking about a twenty, that I'm sure of Mrs Rayner."

"Then here's what we'll do with it," she said in reply. "I'm going to give you this note to keep. You deserve it for your honesty and there's not a cat in hell's chance of anybody coming back for that now. Lord knows who it belongs to, and if I give it to the local policeman, he'll not be happy about all the paperwork, of that I'm sure."

She continued: "I'll tell him what I've done and if anyone by an angel's miracle does come looking for it, I'll give it back out of my own pocket. That's the deal son."

Mrs Rayner was also all too aware of how difficult life must be for Tanya, the boy's mother, struggling to cope alone on her war widow's pension from the army, but she did not embarrass Ryan by adding such a comment to the conversation.

"I'll tell you what," Bill uttered, certain that his wife was correct and that nobody would ever come back to claim the money. "I second that Make that ten pounds from each of us if they do. It'll be a blinking miracle if anybody comes in for it, for sure."

PART THREE

THE GOLD STAR KID

Chapter Fifty

Decisions, Decisions

  *

Decisions, decisions. Making the correct decision had kept Ryan awake for what seemed like most of the night.

He had had a brilliant time. The two boys had watched an action movie together, an army movie called Carter's Command and they had both loved every minute of it.

But now back at home, he found he hadn't been able to sleep. All he could think about whilst lying awake in bed was making the correct decision – just which new video game was he going to buy?

His mum had already heard all about the find long before she had collected him at ten. Mrs Rayner had telephoned to tell Tanya all about it shortly after the boys had left the shop with their sweets and drinks.

"I'm just phoning to say," Mrs Rayner had said, just so Tanya wouldn't worry that. "Ryan did the right thing in offering me the money he had found outside my shop," adding how he'd been "very honest about it." She then explained her reasons for not accepting it.

Over breakfast Ryan scoffed down his cereal, at one point almost choking himself. He was all too eager to get online and check out the latest gaming reviews.

He knew that he didn't have enough money for a brand new game, but just opposite Reggie's Pizza Emporium in the town centre, there was a second-hand dealer called Gamezone Corner.

He knew that if he part-exchanged his old version of Swat-17 as part payment, he could probably pick up something quite decent and not too long out of date.

"I want to tell you how proud of you I am. I love you so much, and if your dad was here, he'd be so proud as well," said his mum.

"I've made a decision," she continued. "As you could have handed the money in and had nothing to show for it, I've thanked the Rayners for their kindness and told them I will now double it."

Ryan was so happy with his mother's most generous offer and that, he now calculated, added up to forty pounds in total. With the part-ex too, he could probably get something really decent, quite new in fact.

Ryan gave his mum the biggest hug in the world. "And don't worry. We are still eating out as promised this evening too," she joked.

After much discussion with friends on social media and the online gaming forums ran by enthusiasts, he finally made his mind up, he decided on Slender Man.

It was out only six weeks, within his budget and a quick email to Gamezone Corner had confirmed they had a copy in stock.

The day seemed to last a lifetime, and he had arranged that evening for Asan to come over and play.

As 3 p.m. arrived, his mother called him down from his bedroom. "If we go now we can have dinner and catch Gamezone before they close on the way back."

They soon arrived at Ma Baker's, the new restaurant in town, the one that everybody in Copper's End had been talking about. This certainly was a fish and chip supper worth waiting that extra day for, they both agreed.

With mushy peas, a pickled egg and a cheese and onion pasty soon consumed, his mother couldn't quite work out where he had put it all. Every bit was gone. "Are you going to lick the plate now too?" she laughed.

As Ryan finished drinking his favourite drink, a hot chocolate with vanilla, he noticed that a man who had been outside earlier, as they'd arrived to eat, was still stood there. It had now been for at least an hour he observed.

"Why is he still standing there Mum?" he asked inquisitively. "He's there for the soldiers' charity, Help for Heroes. He's raising money for the injured boys," she told him.

Ryan noticed a single tear fall from her right eye, landing on the dinner plate in front of her. Tanya tried to dry her eyes without any fuss, though succeeding only in noticeably smudging her eyeliner.

"Sorry Mum," whispered Ryan, adding quietly, "I didn't mean to make you feel sad."

"Oh don't be silly child," her gentle return. "Just enjoy your drink and tell me about the new game you are going to get today. I want to hear all about it."

She smiled at him across the table, but even though Ryan was only thirteen, he had already worked out when his mum was just trying to bravely change the subject.

"I'll just be a moment. I'm popping to the ladies to do my face. I'll just be a minute," Tanya said back over her shoulder as she now walked away from the table.

Ryan, now alone, thought hard about the new video game as he occupied himself by playing on his smartphone, and concluded that he didn't really need it after all. In fact he hadn't even finished all of the levels of Dragon Raid yet. He still had seven and eight to go, so he wasn't now sure why he wanted to swap it at all.

Indeed, if he did sell it today, he would never find out what the secret code for Scarcom Cave was, would he? All he could think about really was this man collecting money for the injured boys, and after a quick search via the free Wi-Fi on the Ma Baker network, he soon found his answer.

Help for Heroes was a charity run by soldiers, many themselves injured during war, run on behalf of other injured soldiers.

The closer he looked, again and again at the man raising money on the corner outside, the more he noticed that the reason he didn't move very far was because he had two artificial legs. Of this he was certain.

"Look Mum," he said as his mum returned. "He hasn't got any legs, has he?"

"I don't think he has son, no. I think you are correct, but let's not stare, that will be very rude of us wouldn't it?"

Ryan put his hand into his pocket and pulled out the old twenty pound note that he had found the day before outside Rayner's of Copper's End.

Using a new black crayon that had come free as part of a colouring set with his meal, he said to himself "sorry Your Majesty," and proceeded to write across it under the Queen's head. "This is for my dad." He then went out to give the money to the soldier collecting on the corner.

Tanya once more left the table and went to the ladies room, but this time, running and quite inconsolable through tears. So noticeably upset was she that one of the young waitresses felt the need to follow her.

In between several bursts of uncontrolled emotional outpouring, Tanya told the young girl the story.

"Then you have the most wonderful son in all the world don't you?" the young waitress informed. "His father will be so proud to look down on him today. He's a Gold Star Kid, isn't he?"

By the time his mum had composed herself, and after much fun and laughter to cheer up the mood with the waitress now known to be called Alina from Ukraine, Ryan had already given the soldier on the corner the twenty pound note.

He proudly told his mother, "His name is Nathan, he comes from Birmingham and he is 32 years old. He has three children, a boy and two girls, the youngest of them, a boy, is three."

Adding; "He lost both of his legs in Helmond Province two years ago, to an improvised explosive device. Exactly the same as the one that killed Dad and."

After pausing for a breath, he further added, "In fact, he looks a bit like Dad but he has a beard and wears glasses."

He stopped abruptly at that point. Tanya accordingly reached deep into her handbag to find her purse, "Then you'd better give him that one as well son. Here's the other twenty I promised you."

She passed her crumpled note over to him. "No, that's not necessary" said the now highly enlightened child. "Nathan says you've already lost enough... He said you've given more than any other could possibly offer. He says you gave your husband and he's proud of you."

PART THREE

THE GOLD STAR KID

Chapter Fifty-One

Dreaming

Quite exhausted from the day's activities, Ryan settled down to sleep early that evening. It was now half past nine. It was not long before he fell fast asleep.

He was dreaming about racing cars and video games, nothing out of the usual, until he suddenly felt a warm breath upon his forehead.

Then he heard a very gentle beautiful whisper to his left ear. "Come with me son," a calming male voice said, and as Ryan tried to open his eyes he gained the sense that he was travelling very quickly, flying as fast as a rocket deep into a strange world he knew nothing of.

He was no longer certain that he was still dreaming, but neither was he sure that he was awake either.

Then, just as suddenly as his light-speed trip had started, it began to end. The whole journey lasted just a matter of seconds.

He finally opened his eyes expecting to be back inside his bedroom, but there he was, sat upon the hook of a crescent moon, high, high above the world below him.

Next to him sat a man holding a fishing rod, and every so often he would say to himself, "I've got one, there it is, caught it this time son..."

"Who are you?" asked a very sleepy and confused Ryan. "Well, that's a long story. I'm not sure where I should begin," the gentle man replied.

"Am I dreaming?" asked the boy. The man went on to tell Ryan his own story.

"I was a soldier a long time ago, and I died fighting in a war a very long way from home and away from my family. As I lay there looking up at the sky, wondering what would become of me, I heard a voice say to me, "Do not fear, for it is not for you to be frightened. I thank you for your service."

The voice had continued he explained. "Those who die selflessly fighting for the freedom of others cannot die, they are not forgotten." The man explained further whilst Ryan sat quietly and patiently listening.

"I have travelled in the dream worlds of children ever since, and I saw what you did today, and that's why I am here inside your dreams too."

"Am I really dreaming?" again enquired Ryan. "Well that would be telling, wouldn't it?" the man still trying to catch other children's dreams with his fishing rod replied, adding, "If you believe you are dreaming, then dreaming you are, but if you believe in the truth of your dreams then you are no longer sleeping."

The boy was, unsurprisingly by now, very confused. "So if I jump off this moon what will happen to me? Will I fall to the ground or will I wake up?"

"Try it and see," and with just these four little words the man patted Ryan just hard enough on his back to make him fall forward and off the moon.

As he fell, faster and faster toward the earth below, he could see his house, his garden and even Thumper the dog sleeping on the door step after scoffing down this evening's supper.

Momentarily he could even see his mother, Tanya, sat in front of the television watching her favourite late night soap drama whilst knitting him, in secret, his new football scarf.

Suddenly he stopped, as if caught by a parachute. There, mid-air, he found himself caught by a fishing hook stuck in the back of his pyjamas and being reeled back up towards the moon again.

"Glad you made it back young man," laughed the kind figure. "Did you enjoy the trip?"

Ryan hadn't felt scared at all. He had actually enjoyed the fall and knew deep down inside that he would not come to any harm.

"So who are you then, and why are you here in my dreams?" he asked. And again a rather vague reply was returned. "Consider me to be a Dream Angel, that's the best way. It's quite a bit more complicated than that but that's the easiest way for children to understand."

"Did God send you - have you come from heaven then...?" the boy interrupted.

"You can call it anything you like, and you can believe in anything you like," said the Dream Angel. "There are many ways to get there, but you must be good and you must always be kind. I'm here only to show you the direction. The rest is up to you."

The Dream Angel explained that he would visit the boy five more times during the week ahead, and including tonight's visit that would make six appearances in total.

On the seventh night he would rest and watch. "Watch what?" asked Ryan. "Well I don't know because it hasn't happened yet," the Dream Angel chuckled.

Ryan awoke and found that it was now quarter to eight on Sunday morning. His mum was still sleeping so he, as usual, helped to tidy the house before going out to play football on the green.

He put the washing machine on, washed the dishes, walked Thumper and even made his own bed (the last bit was indeed most unusual). He left a note on the kitchen table that read, "Gone to play football with Asan and the others. Back at lunchtime. I made you some toast and here's a glass of orange, love you xxx."

Given the rush to do his chores this very morning and his need to get out of the house as quickly as possible, he quite forgot all about the strange dream he had had.

He returned at twelve fifteen, worn out and very tired, but happy.

"Who won today?" asked Tanya. "We did of course," laughed Ryan. "Listen son," she said, "I've made you a present, I finished it late last night. I hope you like it, it's a...?"

"It's a new football scarf you've knitted for me, red and white for my favourite team, Nottingham Forest, isn't it? You've even included the oak tree logo too! Oh Mum, that's ..."

Overcome with excitement and until now he had quite forgotten all about last night. His mum interrupted him mid-sentence. "How on earth do you know that?" she asked Ryan. "It was a surprise, I kept it secret, and I even hid it so you wouldn't find it..."

"I dreamt about it Mum," he said. "I was sat on the moon last night watching you make it."

His mother didn't argue, she knew he must have seen her doing it somehow. Perhaps he had woken up during the night and peeped through the door without her knowing. However, it didn't matter. As long as he loved the scarf and was happy with it, she was happy too.

Today was the last Sunday of the month and that meant that they would visit Grandma and Granddad in Warwick for Sunday dinner and then go to Dad's grave.

Tomorrow, Monday, was a Bank Holiday, and there was no school – they would be staying over-night in the town.

"Grandma's putting dinner on the table at two," said mum, "And then we are all going to see Dad at five."

Grandma was very excited about the family dinner she was preparing today. She was a fabulous cook and today she had gone vegetarian. She had prepared something very special for the family, and very proud of it she was too. It was the first ever nut roast she had ever made!

PART THREE

THE GOLD STAR KID

Chapter Fifty-Two

Six Visits

As Ryan slept that night upon the sofa in his Granddad's study, the Dream Angel, as promised, returned to him.

"Wake up young man, we've much to do," the Dream Angel said as it shook his shoulders to interrupt his slumber.

"You've come back into my dream again," said the boy. "Of course I have, I said I would visit six times and this is the second. Maths isn't your best subject at school is it young Ryan?"

"No, not really, in fact I've been trying to work out..."

"Yes I know you have," The Dream Angel interrupted Ryan this time.

"You've been trying to work out how old I am because I look like I am ancient to you, don't I? And you didn't want to ask me my age as that would be rude of you wouldn't it?"

"Yes, but how did you know?" the bemused boy asked. "I'm a Dream Angel boy. I live in your dreams so I know everything.

Today you went to your Dad's grave and you and your mother put a glass of Irish whiskey on it for your dad to drink, yes? And Thumper ran off with one of the Daffodils you placed there too..."

Ryan didn't bother to try and understand how this could be. He now just accepted the weirdness of the dream he yet again found himself in.

"If you really want to know, in dream years I am just a mere forty seven thousand, two hundred and twelve years old. I think I look rather good for my age, don't I?"

"I thought you were about forty something," said the boy. Laughing loudly, the Dream Angel replied. "I suppose in Earth years that'd be about right..." Then assertively, the Dream Angel now changed the subject.

"We've much to do and must get on. Look over there." he commanded.

Ryan looked down. He was again high up in the sky and travelling at great speed, but this time he found himself sitting on the wing of a plane: a very big red and white jumbo jet plane. "Why are we up here?" he asked.

The Dream Angel pointed to a young girl sat inside the plane. "Her name is Ayla and she is going to Disney World. It's over there. Can you see it in the distance? And it's all because of you."

"Because of me?" enquired Ryan. "Yes, because of you," came the appreciative reply. The Dream Angel explained...

"When you gave your twenty pound note to the disabled soldier standing on the corner, you gave him so much more than just money. You gave him a Dream Bond."

Continuing, he told Ryan, "It was a Dream Angel that had dropped that money in Copper's End, there outside the Rayner's shop, and it was you who was the lucky one to find it and pick it up.

After you gave that soldier the money, he awoke the next day to find he had won a holiday in Florida, and he was going to visit Disney World with his children."

Adding more he went on to say, "But his children, having heard the story he had told them about you, asked that the prize be given away to someone who needed it more than them. This girl sat in the plane, Ayla, is a friend of the soldier's children and she is very ill. It was her dream to meet Mickey Mouse, and now she will."

The Dream Angel pointed toward Ayla and said, "If you look closely you will see she has your twenty pound note with her. The soldier gave it to her to spend whilst she was on holiday." Adding; "Don't worry, he replaced with another one for his day's kitty!"

"But I only found the money two days ago and I gave it to the injured soldier yesterday, didn't I?" Ryan asked, a little confused.

"What you see here and now Ryan is in Dream Time. It is what will be and what will become," calmly smiling, the Dream Angel told him. Ryan looked blank faced as if he did not understand.

"Let me explain," he continued. "What you see now hasn't happened in real life yet. It is simply a premonition of what will happen in the future if you believe in it."

"But... but what would have happened if I had kept the money, if I had not told Mrs Rayner about it, or if I had never seen the soldier on the corner, or what if I had not found the money at all...?"

Ryan had so many questions...

"Well that's a different story for another time," explained the Dream Angel. "But you did find the money and you used it to do good for others, and that is why you found the Dream Bond. Maybe it was always going to be the way it is or maybe not. I cannot tell you this answer, but you gave the money away because you believed in selfless kindness to others, and not because you feared the consequences should you not. That's what matters and that's all that matters."

Every night that week the Dream Angel came to Ryan and showed him, time and time again, where the twenty pound note had now travelled to.

On Tuesday he saw how Ayla had given the money to a homeless man. She had been given the dream holiday of a lifetime, and she too felt that she must now pass the money on.

The homeless man then gave the money to his local church whose vicar had so kindly fed and clothed him. They exchanged it into a twenty dollar bill. Within a Dream Bond moment he had a new home, a job and a good future ahead of him.

Ryan soon began to realise that it wasn't the money that carried the Dream Bond, it was the kindness hidden inside the hearts of the people who spent the money.

On Wednesday, he saw how the note had been returned to a bank in England and how it had then sat inside a business woman's purse. A business woman who had that very evening realised her idea to revolutionise medical care for cancer sufferers worldwide.

By Thursday the note was now in the hands of a charity organisation that raised money for hungry children overseas, providing health care and schooling for them, and so on and so on it went...

Ryan had spent his nights watching his old twenty pound note travel everywhere, all over the world, and had seen so many good things happen with it. But he knew he was still dreaming, and on Friday, he had the best dream of all.

He dreamt of how the Dream Bond had found its way back, all the way back to Copper's End again.

For on Friday night, the Dream Angel had whispered a secret into his ear. He told Ryan that he must never forget what he had now been told. Tonight's dream was about his mother.

However, unlike all of the other dreams that week, tonight's was completely different. All of the countless dreams he had seen come true in Dreamland were now passed, and now in this new dream, he saw only his mum, Tanya.

Ryan and the Dream Angel sat on a fence together and watched from a distance how Tanya now rode her own horse. She was the happiest he had ever seen her, smiling and so full of joy, laughing and joking almost like a child.

He could see several horses in a field beside a big house. It wasn't a house he could recognise but he did seem to believe it was in Copper's End or somewhere very close to it.

There, leaning against a gate, across the paddock where Tanya rode the horse, he could see a man. He immediately recognised him as the injured soldier, called Nathan, he had met outside Ma Baker's restaurant.

Of this he had no doubt!

PART THREE

THE GOLD STAR KID

Chapter Fifty-Three

A New family

The week had passed quickly and so impressed were Ryan and his mother that again they sacrificed their Friday chip supper for the second time, preferring a Saturday afternoon outing to Ma Baker's again.

"I dreamt about the soldier last night," he told her. "Did you dear?" she politely responded with much interest and enthusiasm. "You've had some very strange dreams this week haven't you? Is something upsetting you - is everything alright at school sweetheart?"

"Everything's fine Mum, honest. They are just really weird dreams, but according to my dream I won't dream tonight because tonight is seven."

"What's so special about seven Ryan?" Tanya enquired. "Well, the Dream Angel takes a rest and just watches, but I don't know what because he said it hasn't happened yet. Maybe the Dream Angel's coming out for dinner with us today," he laughed.

Arriving later on at Ma Baker's that same day, and having parked the car, the two walked across to Nathan the soldier who was now beckoning them both over to him most excitedly.

As always he was collecting on Saturday afternoon outside the restaurant on the corner of Browning Avenue and had recognised Tanya's car.

"You're famous!" he shouted out. "You're the Gold Star Kid!" Reaching behind him into his back pocket, he pulled out a rolled-up copy of the local newspaper.

"Did you know about this?" Ryan asked his mother. "Yes of course I did," she giggled. "I was going to take you to the newsagents to buy a copy as a surprise. I don't know how I've managed to keep my mouth shut all day..." whilst laughing aloud.

The story went on to tell readers all about the previous week's encounter with the Help for Heroes fundraiser and the twenty pound note that Ryan had found.

It also informed the reader that the loss of Nathan's legs was not the only tragedy of the war. After he had returned from the war in Afghanistan, disabled, his wife, quite unable to cope, had left him. Ryan soon started to realise the full impact and cost of war; that it had both a physical and emotional impact. Nathan didn't blame his wife. The article said that, "He had returned from the conflict a broken man."

Nathan did apologise for unfortunately letting the cat out of the bag, but told the pair how the local office had insisted on contacting the local paper about the goodwill story.

"Unfortunately there's no picture young man," he said, "but that'll soon be rectified later, I promise."

The soldier exchanged personal addresses with Tanya and explained how the charities publicity team would soon be in touch, "If of course that is okay?" he added.

They all exchanged pleasantries and the soldier explained how nothing but good fortune had seemed to have befallen him lately.

He was about to realise his own dream to open a new riding school for disabled children and was in the process of buying a local property that was perfect for this purpose.

After Nathan had spent what felt like ages describing the location in fine detail to Tanya, Ryan noted how this property was not so far from Copper's End - indeed, "What a coincidence," he thought.

"Yo"In fact, I'm out that way tomorrow. If you'd like to join me, you are most welcome." Nathan suggested.

"That would be lovely, wouldn't it Ryan?" Mum smiled, and Ryan agreed. "Yes please Mum. I dreamt about you and horses last night, didn't I?"

Going horse riding together had always been an unfulfilled passion for the pair and when they'd moved to Copper's End a few months back, they finally took lessons. Ryan couldn't contain his excitement at the prospect of riding again with Mum and Nathan the next day.

The soldier went on to explain that he'd been so busy lately that he now fancied a good holiday abroad with his kids. Jokingly he remarked how he had just entered a competition to win a holiday to Disney World in Florida that very same morning. Ryan, by now almost freaked out by the countless unexplained coincidences this morning, merely answered quietly, "I have a feeling you are going to win it."

Dinner was wonderful together that day. Ryan's mother now had a natural, radiant glow about her face, one which Ryan couldn't quite explain, although she seemed to have lost her appetite somewhat.

In the meantime, Ryan definitely enjoyed eating most of his mother's left over cheese and onion pasty too. They laughed and joked together and Ryan never caught sight of the Dream Angel watching him that day. "I wonder where he is," he thought to himself.

Then he remembered what the Dream Angel had said. He had almost forgotten, despite promising that he wouldn't.

"Mum," he said excitedly, "I've just remembered more of my dream. I have to say to you, Bella will run like the wind..."

Tanya froze, as if the world had suddenly stopped spinning. "How can you possibly know that?" she said quite taken-aback and overwhelmed.

"The Dream Angel told me in the dream that it would make you happy," Ryan told her.

Again his mother started crying, and again Alina, the waitress from Ukraine, came to comfort her.

"So this is your second time here and the second time you have burst into tears! Is the food really that bad?" Alina joked.

Tanya replied, "No, not at all, it's wonderful, honestly, it's my son's fault, he's always so utterly amazing!"

During the drive home after dinner, she tried to explain to Ryan why she had once again cried.ur father had left me a letter to be opened only if should he be killed in action and not come home to us. In the letter he had told me he was sorry that he wouldn't be able to buy me my horse, the one I had always dreamed of, but if heaven allowed he would call her Bella and she would be able to run like the wind," she said in between her inconsolable tears.

Unable to concentrate on the road ahead, she stopped the car, turned off the ignition and turned to face Ryan. She told him that nobody else, that never, had anybody ever read that very personal last letter - And she had most definitely not ever discussed it with anyone else – never!

Of this she was unequivocal, unshakeable and adamant. In fact the letter had been buried in Norman's grave alongside him during his funeral. It was absolutely, completely and irrefutably impossible, she told her son, for him to have known this unless... unless of course...

She stopped speaking as Ryan now finished her sentence for her "... was the Dream Angel really my father?" he said.

"You're dad wanted me to move on and re-marry, "she sobbed, holding her son's hand as if she would never let go. "But I just couldn't, not unless I knew you would be happy too."

"I am Mum, I promise you," he replied. "The Dream Angel said that you would know when the time is right and that you will be happy again living as a new family."

After much emotional upheaval and turmoil that day, Sunday morning soon arrived. Having slept well and both now fully refreshed after a good night's sleep, Ryan brought his mum a cup of tea in bed and he soon noticed that her rosy glow had returned to her face once more.

After getting up and only a short time later, "It's nearly nine thirty!" she shouted up the stairs to him. "He'll be here soon. Turn your computer off. Are you ready?"

"Nearly. I'm just doing my teeth!" Ryan shouted back down.

He heard the clatter of horse's hooves and peering out from the bathroom window, he was amazed to see Nathan had arrived with three horses, one of which he was riding and two others in tow. He looked so organised and had even remembered to bring spare riding helmets with him.

Tanya laughed and waved out from beyond the kitchen door. This wasn't quite what she had expected but a wonderful surprise it was, heartfelt and most welcomed. The pair were soon found to be hurriedly rushing outside into the garden...

"What are their names?" asked Ryan. "Well mine is called Wellington, yours is now called Gold Star Kid because she is named after a famous boy called Ryan, and your mother's is called Bella." "I'm told she can run like the wind..." replied Nathan.

The pair were very excited, mother and son both mounted and they all trotted steadily away up the road together as Thumper too, happily ran along after them.

"I'll take you to the new house," Nathan said. "I'd be delighted

to show you if you want. My riding school is only just through the next village. Well I call it mine, it will be in a few days, and I just need to sign the papers. I've paid the deposit and they were more than happy to loan me the horses for the day, and I've got enquiries from many charities and organisations wanting to support it already."

"Only if I can pay for lunch," insisted Tanya. "That's good for me," Nathan replied. "How about the Weaver's Arms? We can pass it on the way back through the bridleway trail at Brook Wood." They soon arrived...

During the pub lunch that day, as Tanya looked into her purse for the money to pay for lunch as promised, she noticed she had gained an extra twenty pound note.

"Where on earth has that come from?" she said. "It wasn't there last night. I only had four ten pound notes and another fiver?"

As she passed it over to the landlord in payment, she noticed written across it, in black crayon just below the Queen's head, the words;

"This is for my Dad."

- END -

Taylor defiantly performs 'Freedom Song' after the TV studio power is cut deliberately for 15 minutes during the live Nova TV show Vsyaka nedelya (Nova TV Bulgaria) with journalist Kevork Kevorkian. "This is the first time in 30 years, since the communists" stated Kevorkian. Watch video; part one and part two here! In printed editions log onto: www.YouTube.Com/user/JTBulgaria

Publisher's Addendum: March 14th 2015

Following the first release of this edition 'Meat: Memoirs of a Psychopath, The Definitive Edition' 2015', the publisher, Brittunculi, received a postcard. It was sent by first class airmail from Somalia and signed by Gabriela 13. It stated:

"So you think you are fucking clever do you? A musical that mocks and degrades me? The audacity to include a happy fucking ending... Bollocks, your dreams will not come true. You should have known better Brian; do you really believe you can publicly challenge my authority like this? Road kill Brian, road kill – did you forget this? And now you will pay for it... Must rush, I have Part Four to complete..."

Brian Wilkinson's Merseyside apartment (on the Drover Estate) was later forcibly entered by Police on Saturday 15th May 2015 at 1.30 PM. Brian had been reported missing by worried neighbours who could not get a response at the door. The premises were found to be deserted; a half-eaten meal was found to be on the kitchen table and an unfinished mug of tea beside his armchair. His radio was also found to be still on. It had been playing loudly throughout the night, and it was this unusual behaviour that had at first raised such neighbourly concerns. Upon his writing desk a manuscript entitled 'The Man Who Buried Himself' was laid out, finished, with the following note attached and written - in an all too familiar hand.

"Brian is cast unto the wilderness to wander for all eternity – publish or he will die"

The author and songwriter, Odd Jonathan (Jonathan 'JRP' Taylor) is now in police protective custody.

To be continued...

PART THREE

The mysterious case of

'The Man Who Buried Himself'

PC Brian Wilkinson CBE

For Clara

Brian Wilkinson had been a serving police officer for his entire life until he retired in 2010 at the age of sixty-five. Brian, a keen amateur military enthusiast, wrote his first novel in 2006 which was called 'Please Take Care of Bethany'. It's a voyage of discovery; a journey of romance, patriotism and espionage that was written about a forgotten hero of World War II. This was his father Brian 'Bull's-Eye' Wilkinson. 'Bull's-Eye' was not only the best rear gunner in the sky but a hero who had saved the world. It is a deeply moving story, a personal quest for the truth about a father who he had never known.

However, here, he now tells us quite a different story. Beyond his famed notoriety within the Gabriel Investigation, 'Meat: Memoirs of a Psychopath', for which he was awarded a CBE (Commander of The British Empire), here Brian now tells us about a most peculiar case. For it was during a BBC press interview (Scotland Yard, 2014) that Brian was asked: "What is the most unusual case you have ever encountered?" Brian replied to the reporter, "Well, the hunt for Gabriel is certainly the most disturbing, but if I am asked unusual, then it has to be the case of the man who buried himself." After listening to Brian's brief synopsis of the story, the enquiring News Night journalist joked, "Then you must write a new novel about this too, and tell us all about it." This year, 2015, Brian Wilkinson finished that novel and here it is.

Police Constable 5427 Wilkinson was born on Merseyside in 1945. Brian and his wife Doreen both grew up together as post-war children in Liverpool in the north-west of England, where they married as childhood sweethearts in 1963. Sadly following Doreen's prolonged illness and battle against cancer, Brian was widowed in 2004.

Introduction

A missing person is one who has disappeared, and as their fate cannot be determined, we cannot confirm that they are alive or dead. But in most cases we have an identity, and somebody close to them believes they have disappeared. When someone is missing it creates uncertainties. There is a lack of closure, painful and long lasting for those who love and seek them. For those who are never found, there is no funeral or farewell, no goodbye for family and friends.

There may have been an accident, a crime or a death in an unknown location, perhaps out at sea or underground. But often people are missing because of their own decisions. Decisions they make inform the choices they take and many wish never to be found.

When a child goes missing, it's different. We investigate, as it is our duty to protect them. Criminal abduction is common we believe, but not so. Crime accounts for less than 5% of such disappearances. There are many organisations today who seek to share information and pictures of them, to find and reunite the children with parents and siblings. Millions of children go missing, worldwide every year.

But why do adults disappear; the ones who never reappear, particularly? 'Vanishing Point', a press release recently suggested '4,432,880 missing persons have vanished without trace in the last twenty years'. To escape domestic violence perhaps? Or physical, emotional or sexual abuse from a spouse? Do they hide away somewhere else under a new identity for some other reason, or have they been the victim of a kidnapping? Perhaps some have been seized by dark forces operating beyond the due process of law, or have they merely run away to commit suicide, under an assumed name at a remote location, to spare loved ones at home the pain of discovery. These are the ones to be declared dead later, in absentia.

Have they been murdered? Are they mentally ill? Are they victims of crime, abduction, slavery, sexual servitude or are they the criminals, hiding to avoid apprehension? Could they have joined a religious cult? Or are they suffering with a confusing debilitating illness that leads to their loss, such as Alzheimer's disease. I wonder if many of the disappeared have gone out that day and simply forgotten where they live. It's possible that they have now died in an accident, or of a natural cause, a long way from home and unidentified.

You can go mad thinking about it, looking for them, turning over every stone. But what do you do when the disappeared themselves never existed? Not only the person has disappeared but their entire existence, everything, wiped away like a classroom whiteboard cleaned by the teacher at the end of the lesson – gone, as if they were never here.

PART THREE

Chapter 54

"Mrs Stinchcombe"

I was first introduced to Mrs Stinchcombe the day she barged into my office. With two plastic carrier bags almost bursting at the seams, she had charged in, quite unannounced, and shouted at me, "He's gone! That was it. "He's gone..."

"Who's gone?" I replied. "Him, the Vicar, Walton, he's gone," to which she volunteered no more.

I sat startled, looking out across my desk at the rather plump, ageing woman, quite bemused by the whole thing, and asked astonishingly, "Is that it? Is there anything else you wish to add?" And that was my big mistake. For over a four hour period, way into the late afternoon, she told me this most incredible story. So intriguing it was, I quite forgot to take lunch.

She was a retired nurse, and had moved up north to the village of Stretton three years ago. She had arrived to care for an elderly man, apparently a retired Vicar, Reverend Jeremy Walton. He was described as being in his mid-sixties, of very good health and stamina, but possessed of the disorder agoraphobia, a fear of open spaces which, sometimes, looked as if he had a fear of meeting people simply because he never left the house. How strange I thought, but there it was. The Vicar had lived, during the complete employment of Mrs Stinchcombe, inside a single bedroom. She had never met or seen him.

"Madam, I don't wish to appear rude, but you are telling me that a man you've never met, or even seen before who you say has employed you as a private nurse for three years, has now disappeared?" "Yes, and it's about bloody time someone started listening to me," her anguished reply. The tormented lady began to sob.

WPC, Karen Kneed soon assisted with tissues and a good cup of tea, served with a cup and saucer as demanded and two sugars. "My dear, why have you travelled all this way to Merseyside to tell me this when you could have easily gone directly to Stretton Village police station and saved yourself all this bother - you've travelled quite a distance haven't you?" "Yes, indeed Mr Wilkinson, but they refuse to listen to me, and I saw you in the paper, all about that Bethany thing, clearly you are the only man who can help."

I began to listen more closely to her words. She seemed believable, adamant, asserting herself and backing up what she was saying with stories that were not possible to make up in such an impromptu way. Above all, she appeared credible.

Today's date was 26th August 2008. Having left London three years earlier, in January 2005, following her successful application for the post of Personal Carer, she had now left Kent. She was widowed, had committed her entire life to nursing and had no children or family of her own to speak of: just one sister, Anne, who had died many years ago at a tender young age. This had been a wonderful opportunity for her and she was very keen to move to Cheshire, a small village known locally as Stretton, with a pond, a pub and a post office. The Police Station was much as you would expect to find, located in the front room of the local officer's house. But none-the-less, it was always available to her.

Stretton's full title was Stretton Bank Willowfields. I telephoned the local station, keen to get to the bottom of this story. My call was promptly answered. "Good afternoon, 4452 Totwell here, how may I help you?" I explained the problem.

I held the phone as close as I could to my ear to protect Mrs Stinchcombe from hearing what was now being said, this in between bouts of uncontrolled folly and laughter. "That bloody old fool," Totwell added. "I must apologise Brian. I made a joke and clearly she has taken it seriously. She's been in and out of my office countless times over the last ten days, stating that her employer has disappeared without trace. I merely suggested, given your reputation as the British Columbo, that maybe you could solve this mystery for her, just like the one in your book. I didn't think for a minute she would seriously go all that way to find you." I accepted the apology and engaged further. "Has she got two plastic shopping bags with her Brian?" "Yes," I said, "and apparently they are quite full." "Okay, here it is," and he continued...

"The Vicar has never been identified, traced or even any confirmation offered that confirms that he ever lived in that house... All I have is the nurse's word for it, and as convincing as she is, that's it! How can I possibly investigate the disappearance of a man who never existed in the first place? I would be the laughing stock Mr Wilkinson, you do understand don't you?" "Of course," I agreed. The call ended politely.

"Mrs Stinchcombe, may I please address you by your first name?" "If you must," she abruptly replied. "It's Clara, and you're about to patronise me aren't you?" I had no intention of doing so, and genuinely felt quite sorry for this silly old bugger, but what could I do? "Stop it right there Brian!" And without further ado, she tipped out the entire contents of both plastic bags onto my desk.

The first bag had contained all of her medical notes and a journal of activity, her log, in various bound forms, and as eccentric as it all appeared, very well written and informative. The second bag contained his notes; the Vicars rantings as she put it. These were all loose scattered papers with no apparent order. "He used to slip them under the door to me when I left his food," she added. "This all began about a year ago. He was always odd, don't get me wrong, but he'd never been mad that I was aware of."

"Brian, I've read your book 'Please Take Care of Bethany'. Did anybody ever believe you at first? Well no, of course they didn't. This is what happens isn't it. They convince you that you're mad, don't they? Well, you've got the reputation as quite the sleuth now, and I damn well suggest you've earned it!" And with that she stood up, turned around and stormed out.

It was 1 am the following morning before I had finally finished reading through the contents of both piles of paperwork. She was obviously well organised and highly professional in her dealings with Walton.

"Tuesday 14th March"

Have been here for three months and have never set eyes on my employer. All dirty linen is left in a pile, weekly, outside his door. His room has apparently been fitted with an en-suite. I do hear the noise of running and flushing water in the pipework from time to time. Notes with my instructions are still left daily, as ever, with his dirty plates and cutlery etc. after dinner, as usual outside of the same bedroom door.

I read on. Everything was there, a very accurate account of her daily practical encounters covering the entire period of her employment. But there was no description of the Vicar or any evidence of any personal interaction. On the whole a most professional relationship between nurse and patient had taken place although it was entirely through a locked door. She obviously believed he existed. There had been no sightings, but there had been countless active conversations.

"One Journal entry of May, 2006, read:"

I told him that the internet connection was very slow this morning. He assured me he had emailed the company directly and they'd increased the bandwidth. There has not been a problem with the connection since. He sounded very tired and I suggested he sleep. I apologised for my knock having woken him."

It became apparent that her salary had always been paid directly into her bank account by BACs transfer. I noted a sum of one thousand and eighty six pounds was paid in every four weeks; in fact on the 15th of every month, regularly, like clockwork without fail. Curiosity got the better of me. After a good night's sleep, I asked the appropriate colleague, Sheila (from CID) who held security clearance to telephone the Cooperative Bank's local branch in the town of Morton. After her initial enquiries on my behalf, Sheila told me something even more intriguing. The manager had been most helpful to her. This sum had been paid into Clara's account for three years without fail, until quite recently that was. It had now stopped following a huge sum that was finally and inexplicably transferred - Two hundred and seventy four thousand pounds, twenty six pence.

Further; there was no record of a Vicar or Reverend Jeremy Walton ever making these transfers. Strangely, there was no explanation at all. The funds were in her account as demonstrated, and the address of the account holder was Mrs C. M Stinchcombe. She was indeed a resident at the address given; The Old Bore Hole, 14 Willow Rd, Stretton Bank Willowfields, Cheshire.

So what was she up to? What on earth did she think she had been playing at? I didn't want to accuse her of wasting my time or of dishonesty. Perhaps she was ill? She was evidently aged and it could, after all, just be a simple case of Alzheimer's. I needed further evidence before I telephoned her and confronted her with my findings.

PART THREE

Chapter 55

"A Day Trip"

Something didn't add up. Totwell had told me she was barking mad, and completely off her trolley. Okay, I understood this, and as much as I had warmed to her, the evidence was suggesting she had some kind of personal issue going on. But how had she managed, if this was the case, to find me? To read the newspapers, and to travel to Liverpool quite unassisted in tracking me down... All that paperwork. Had she really falsified an entire three years of correspondence? What would be the point?

Had she murdered him? I mean, he suddenly disappears following the transfer of a large sum of cash into her personal account. But why would she be so insistent for me to investigate his disappearance if she had? After all, Jeremy doesn't exist as far as we, the police, are officially concerned. If she had murdered him, then she had most certainly got away with it.

No; it was more complicated than that somewhere but where? A day trip was required. I decided I must travel down to Cheshire and visit her. This all had to make perfect sense somehow. Before I left, I entered her postcode to find details of the ownership of the The Old Bore Hole property and looked up the land registry on the net. To my absolute surprise, it was hers. The house was registered to Mrs C. M Stinchcombe. So, more telephone calls were now urgently required.

Sheila again reported back to me. Interestingly the property had only very recently changed hands but there was absolutely no record of who had previously owned it, a complete mystery the man at land registry had tried to explain. He had said, "A computer glitch, that's all it could be. A bug in the system."

Clara had purchased the property only two weeks ago on the very same day that the Vicar had reportedly disappeared. The value of the The Old Bore Hole was three quarters of a million, confirmed as accurate by the local authority housing offices.

We contacted the Royal College of Nursing in London. Their own records showed she was professionally registered and she held the appropriate recognised nursing qualifications. She had a registration number and had never been any cause for professional concern to them. Clara had qualified over 36 years ago and had indeed left Kent as she had said. They read out a most competent reference that had been supplied to an address in Cheshire, the same address and for the attention of Mr Jeremy Walton.

By now I was intrigued. This was evidence that she believed the Vicar existed some three years previously; but it was still not evidence that he did. But the story had been going on over the entire three year period so was she quite obviously mad?

I had all I needed, and off I set to visit. It was an amazing house built next to the site of the former village well and obviously 19th century. Not a property one would associate with a nurses' salary. I knocked firmly on the door. She answered and was evidently delighted to see me. "Brian, thank you, thank you. I am so pleased you've come. Come in. I'll put the kettle on." She took me through to a downstairs bedsit room with a small kitchenette off to the side. "This is mine," she said. "I live in this room, humble I know, but cosy enough just for one." "How many rooms are in this house?" I asked her. Clara told me that there were fourteen if you included the conservatory out back. As she poured the tea I took note. There was a bed recently slept in, wardrobes and personal affects. She or somebody else evidently did live in this room.

"Why don't you use the whole house then?" I was curious. "The whole house Brian? But it isn't mine. I just have this part. I live in as part of the job. I thought that was obvious..." "But you own this house Mrs Stinchcombe. It is yours, all of it." "Don't be so bloody ridiculous Brian," came the reply. "This house is probably worth over a million. How on earth could I pay for that on a nurse's salary? Anyway, I told you, he's gone, so I won't even get paid this month. Such a worry it is." I informed her that she had over two hundred thousand pounds in her bank account, and that there was certainly no need to worry to which she laughed at me.

"Oh dear Brian, I don't think you're going to be much help are you? I'd be lucky to have two thousand in it. I give half of my salary away every month to charity, animals and children usually. Two hundred thousand indeed... silly old fool."

I explained, and I'd even brought printouts of Sheila's correspondence with me so I could confront her with hard evidence of her dishonesty. Although after the initial confusion it became clear to us both: Clara had no idea that she was the one who now owned the house and she could not even begin to explain the large cash transfer into her account.

She took me upstairs, still in disbelief that she had somehow, overnight, become a millionaire - uttering at me under her breath believing that I couldn't hear her "Bloody nonsense Brian." We soon entered the Vicar's room. "Have you ever been in here before?" I asked. "Only after he disappeared on me. I brought him his breakfast as I have done for three years, but this time I found his door open. I didn't go in initially. I left the tray by the door as always. Later, when I came up with his lunch, it was still there, untouched. So then I did go in. I was worried about him you see."

The room was left exactly as she found it two weeks ago though she had picked up some paperwork she had found thrown on the floor. She was aware that it was a crime scene. "I haven't touched anything since!" she informed me. It was apparent that the Vicar was something of an artist with numerous drawings and sketches about the room, all dark in nature with a common theme that seemed to be holes or caves, even dungeons. "Did he ever go outside in all the time you were here, Clara?" "I think so, yes, he was scared of people but I think he did go out at night, especially recently. Last three months I would say." "How do you know this if you have never seen him in person?" The answer to my question came back without a second's delay. "Mud, wet mud, all the way up the stairs. It would take forever to clean it. It happened two or three times last few weeks: Wellingtons, size 9," she said. "Definitely him!"

At last, I thought I had her; tripped her up finally. "Wellingtons, size 9, and you know this how, Clara?" I asked. After all she had claimed that she had never met him. "Easy Brian. I bought them for him from the local shop. He told me to get them for him. I checked the prints against a new pair first time it happened, from the same shop and found them to be identical – there was no mistake there. Definitely the boots I had bought for him. Always gave me the money, mind, when I went shopping, never failed me there."

That evening, I booked into the local pub The Talbot Arms, a nice room, and quite cosy enough for my needs. Two nights over the weekend, Saturday and Sunday night, as I would travel back to Merseyside on Monday, after lunch. By now I thought the best way to get to the bottom of all of this was to talk with, and mingle amongst the locals.

Saturday evening was, as you would imagine, quite lively. An array of people from all walks of village life but I decided to start with the landlord first - Keith, a nice enough man from North Wales originally. He and his wife Cheryl had lived in the village for just two years having taken over the lease of the pub from the brewery. The pair knew Clara Stinchcombe very well. She was, by all accounts, a regular visitor for the darts evenings on Wednesdays and quiz nights on Thursday. They knew nothing of Reverend Walton adding only that this was understandable as Clara had explained to them on many an occasion that, he was an agoraphobic and consequently, never left the house." They took no time at all in informing me that she was never any later than 10.30 PM in returning home. Whether it was quiz or darts, she would always leave the pub by 10.15, to allow time to walk the short distance back home to make Jeremy's hot chocolate, his favourite night-cap.

The local milk woman, Jeanette, who I also met that evening in the bar confirmed she would leave two pints of milk on the door step every day, all except Sunday of course, one for Clara and the other for the Vicar. It wasn't long, however, until I realised she too had never met him. Though Jeanette added, with the full agreement of Keith and Cheryl, "She always spoke very fondly of him." Mrs Stinchcombe would always exchange doorstep pleasantries with Jeanette, usually about 7.20 am, as the milk was delivered.

I did not let on that I doubted the nurse's story, quite the opposite, as I wanted people to believe I was investigating this sudden disappearance, and most interestingly, nobody ever doubted it. They had all found the nurse to be as utterly convincing as had I.

Jack the gardener, with whom I enjoyed two very good games of chess that evening, also confirmed he had been the groundsman at The Old Bore Hole, but it had always been Clara who instructed and paid him. "She did everything for him," he stated most adamantly. "She was always the boss because she lived in at the house. He never came out of his room and I never saw him, couldn't tell you what he looks like to be honest." I duly noted one very interesting fact of the conversation; a spade had recently gone missing from the garage where he, Jack, would keep all manner of garden tools. "Most unusual," he had said. "It was there one minute and gone the next. I know this as I wanted to plant a pear tree and couldn't. I had to return home to fetch my own in the end as I simply couldn't find it anywhere." Was this a coincidence? New Wellington boots, muddy footprints on the stair carpet, and now a missing garden spade. If it wasn't a coincidence, it was most certainly, very interesting.

It was the day after, Sunday, that proved to be most revealing. A local man known as Bob the Builder was seated for Sunday lunch with his family. He had shouted over to me as I enjoyed a real ale at the bar. "Are you that fella that is asking questions about the Bore Hole?" "Yes," I replied. "I am a police officer from Liverpool. Can you help at all?"

Bob went on to explain to me that he had renovated the property back in 2004. "Spent most of the year doing it actually. It's a listed one you see, a grade two. I was doing it up for a chap who bought it from an online auction site." The builder had been hired, instructed and paid but he'd always considered it to be most strange as he soon informed me, "I never met the guy either." He too, was paid by online bank transfer by this mysterious person known only to him as Mr Walton. "I would do the work and take photographs and email them to him. He always paid me well, upfront as necessary, never had a problem. When the job was done I left the keys, two sets as requested, hung on a hook in the porch, and that was it, job done." It soon became evident that the work on the house was only completed a handful of days before Clara, the nurse, had moved in. He had finished off the guttering during the January of 2005. Was Mrs Stinchcombe really the mysterious Mr Walton, I thought.

I had my lap-top with me and logged on to The Talbot Arms' Wi-Fi system. "Can you log into your email for me Bob," I asked. "Certainly," he replied and this he soon did. I just wanted to check a few dates with him.

"That's bloody weird. They've all gone, deleted, I didn't do it... I would never delete a work email, legal reasons and all that, never know when you're going to need them." He easily convinced me that this was true as he was completely paranoid about being sued for poor workmanship.

He'd been stung by a contract once apparently, many years previously, and had lost a considerable amount of money on it. "I keep an exact record of what they ask for, how the job is to be done and the price, near as damn it, and I've never been ripped off since," Bob informed me. "It's like this. I keep a folder for each job, evidence of what is said and agreed upon, here look; there it is, The Old Bore Hole, see for yourself, nothing, all of the emails have gone."

The land registry had no data available concerning the property's previous owner, other than confirming the nurse had received the property just two weeks ago. This unexplained loss was put down to a computer glitch. The bank too had lost all records of financial transactions concerning her account, other than the ability to now confirm the amount deposited into it. Then today, I am confronted with a builder who has lost quite inexplicably all of his email correspondence regarding the renovations he had been contracted to undertake.

If Clara Stinchcombe was not mad, and was certainly not a murderer, then was she now some kind of computer genius with the ability to hack into protected data systems? Perhaps she was a spy of some sort? But I soon dismissed this nonsense for once again, why and what would be the point of it all?

PART THREE

Chapter 56

"The Prescription"

I returned to Liverpool on Monday as planned arriving back with Winjin' Pom just after 2 o'clock. Pom, of course, is my old faithful British Motor Corporation (BMC) camper van now as old as the hills like me.

I hadn't managed to track down the local doctor. Jeremy must have been registered with a general practitioner somewhere nearby, especially given his odd disorder. I'd kept this from Stinchcombe for the time being. I thought if anybody would talk sense here it would be someone in the know, a medical professional.

The nearest surgery (based on the knowledge that the nurse no longer drove a car) had to be within easy walking distance of her home, and this was one called Willowfields, a well-established practice with two GPs and a practice nurse. The extremely helpful receptionist put me through to Dr Rebecca West who, after a brief explanation, informed me that she was aware of the disappearance and also of my presence in the village over the weekend and that she was most keen to help. Jokingly she said, "Mr Wilkinson, this is a very small community. You can't hide anything away here you know."

We chatted for several minutes. The Vicar was registered with her and had accessed medical care frequently. Many of her diary entries from her appointments book, corresponded exactly with the dates given within Stinchcombe's notes, the journal she had given me the previous week. It was a small practice and only detailed medical notes and prescription issues were uploaded onto the computer system. General enquiries and appointments were still entered into a traditional, paper-based hardback diary.

I soon discovered that the doctor had never met her patient, Jeremy Walton, in person either. This was rationally explained, "Well, his medical condition was such that he would not leave the house, and accordingly he stayed inside his bedroom. Never left I understand. It was pointless trying to get him to come into the surgery and pointless me going to visit him at home. He refused to allow me into the house from day one." How did she know this I asked? "Mrs Stinchcombe, she told me, when she first arrived. I wanted to go and give Jeremy Walton a full registration medical, but he refused point blank to even talk with me over the telephone. I'm not in a position to force myself on him Brian, strange as that may appear. Clara his nurse is, after all, a highly qualified medical practitioner. I've never doubted anything she said. She collected his prescriptions and that was that, I'm afraid." I queried why she hadn't communicated with him directly by email, to which she replied, "I did try. I only ever received one answer in return and that was to confirm that Nurse Stinchcombe had his full authority."

Rebecca could not tell me anymore about his condition. "Highly confidential that one. I'd like to help but without this being a formal enquiry, well I simply cannot. Do try to understand that the confidential nature of patient-doctor relationships must be protected. You'll need to seek clarification for that at Clara's end. She knows all about it, especially the very strange behaviour over the last few weeks - I had had to prescribe powdered pentobarbital for him. I wish I could help more, but you never know do you? He may suddenly re-appear next week, explain to us that he has been away on holiday, and promptly get me struck-off for breach of confidentiality!" I too had to join the doctor in laughter at this stage. "Yes! – You do have a very good point," I replied.

The doctor had already talked to the local officer, PC Totwell of Stretton, and all three of us now agreed on one point; none of us could prove that the Vicar had ever existed at all. It was no longer as simple as branding Stinchcombe the local looney, but more of a split personality. as she both people, herself and Jeremy? Moving into the village three years ago and playing out some huge fanciful Shakespearean drama. But why?

Afterward, I telephoned the nurse, Clara Stinchcombe immediately. "Why on earth didn't you tell me that the Reverend had been prescribed powdered pentobarbital just before he disappeared?" "Why would I? That's private that is," she stated. "The doctor had no business telling you that. I came to you to report him missing, not dead Brian. If he found out that you knew this I'd lose my job straight away, and then where would I be? Homeless, that's what!"

She still had no idea, or belief in the obvious fact, as I had previously told her, that she now owned the house. It was this single verbal exchange that now convinced me of her sincerity. She certainly was not a liar.

I remembered watching a BBC Two documentary titled "Choosing to Die." An Alzheimer's disease sufferer guided viewers through an assisted suicide which took place at the Dignitas facilities in Switzerland.

I was aware that the Dignitas clinics use the following procedure. First, they administer an oral dose of an anti-emetic drug, a drug that is most effective against vomiting and nausea. An hour later they follow this with a lethal overdose of powdered pentobarbital. It can be easily dissolved in water or fruit juice. Pentobarbital depresses the central nervous system, causing drowsiness and sleep within 5 minutes of taking it. Respiratory arrest and death, following a brief coma, occurs within 30 minutes.

"Brian, I'm sorry if you felt that I should have told you, but if you find him, well, at the end of the day I am still his personal carer, and must respect his confidence." Clara most definitely believed that Jeremy was simply a missing person and not a figment of her own imagination. I decided to confront her. "I'm not sure he ever existed, Clara. I think the Vicar is a creation of your own mind....and..." Then slam, the telephone was put down most abruptly on me.

About twenty minutes passed and then my mobile rang. I'd given my private number to the doctor, trying to keep the general office out of the loop on this one. I was starting to get a sense that Totwell's approach was the correct one; laughing stock and all that. I most certainly did not want her to leave a message at the station for me.

Rebecca West went on to tell me that, "It's the strangest thing ever Brian. Everything's gone, all of the data, the computer files, gone..." "You mean somebody has deleted your files too?" I asked, most surprised. "No, they haven't been deleted. They don't exist at all. Gone, like they were never ever written at all. I know damn well they were because I wrote them myself..." she continued. "Brian, it's like he was never registered here, that he was never my patient. Every record I had of Jeremy Walton is gone I tell you." Okay, it was clearly time to take the matter upstairs. I thanked the doctor most profusely, and told her I would keep her informed. Stinchcombe being a dual personality, a nice version of psycho Norman Bates was one possibility, this was true, but a highly skilled computer hacker? I thought not!

I went to speak with my senior, Detective Inspector Andrea Johnson. It wasn't quite the outcome I had hoped for but I did genuinely understand her concerns, and those of budget constraints. "Brian, I believe you, I do, sincerely, but Stretton don't. It is their patch and their problem. I do not have any jurisdiction to take this enquiry over if they do not wish us to pursue it. This is a Cheshire issue. How can I justify spending Merseyside funds on a man who may never have existed?"

Johnson opened up an incident log sheet from her desktop computer. It was titled "Fund allocation (Merseyside 08) Major Incidents." "Brian, please look: missing – Thomas Totes, aged 7, taken from a local park last week. Here: arson, three dead in the same house, outstanding inquiry from three months ago – unsolved. Gun crime: Get guns of the estates, priority for this year, pre-election government campaign. If we ignore that one we all lose our jobs. I know I don't make the budgets Brian, but when I assign officers to a case I have to justify the costs, and in this case Brian, as much as I want to help you, I will not do it."

DI Andrea Johnson also pointed out something obvious that I had failed to consider. The nurse, Stinchcombe, had been employed to do a job. She was the primary carer. Had a confused and unwell Jeremy, her charge, left the house of his own volition late one night and got lost in the woods somewhere? Well fact was, she has to take ultimate responsibility for failing in her professional duties toward him. I again, had to agree. If Jeremy did exist and had died whilst lost and confused, his body would soon be discovered. The inquest would whole heartedly agree with Johnson's statement of fact.

But a corpse had not been discovered and it had now been over two weeks since the disappearance. If it had not been for the inexplicable data disappearances, the doctor's, land registry and bank (all far too coincidental to this most mysterious case), I would have agreed and, of course, not forgetting the missing builder's emails. But everything told me that the Vicar wasn't dead, and I no longer thought for a second that this would somehow now develop into a murder enquiry. Indeed, nor did anyone else.

I took the time to prepare my apology in words and telephoned old Mrs Stinchcombe back. Though still somewhat cross with me, she understood and accepted. I assured her that I would return to the paperwork she had left with me, and examine it most thoroughly; the documents that she had left the first time we had met in Liverpool. In particular, I would focus my scrutiny on Jeremy's rantings.

I left the conversation with one final question. "What did Jeremy Walton actually do for a living?" I asked. After all, she must know this having lived under the same roof for three years, even if it was a relationship divided by a door at all times. "He never really said. I just assumed that because he was called the Vicar, that's what he was, but he must have been retired, mustn't he? He never left the house to go to Church that I'm aware of."

"There must be something else Clara," I probed. "Well, he was always writing I suppose. I could hear him tapping away at his computer all hours of the day and night." "Of course," I blurted out, "the computer, what sort is it?" "I've no idea have I? I've never seen it..." the curt but obvious reply. I assured her that a local officer, probably Totwell, would be around to find and collect it.

She had never used a personal computer herself, other than of course to request the increase in bandwidth whilst living there. Her use of the internet, as she put it, was for Coronation Street in high definition, followed by a list of many other programmes too long to mention. I remarked that this was one thing that she and my wife had in common together. It was a brave man indeed who dared to interrupt her Corrie. "That's why he'd upgraded the bandwidth for me Brian, he knew how much I liked my soaps. You can get very lonely living here alone downstairs, and with only a voice behind the door. Sometimes the only person I would see all day was Jeanette, the milk woman, and she was always in such a hurry to get off to do her round; well it was just pleasantries really."

Other than the milk woman and gardener, the postman was the only daily caller. Could he or she offer anything new to the mystery I wondered? "No," said Clara. "Jeremy never had a single letter delivered in all the time I've been here, not once. It's like nobody knew he existed." Then what did the post bring?" I asked. "Nothing really," she replied. "Junk mail most of it, put it straight in the bin, and of course things for me such as my copy of Nursing Times once a month, and bank statements and suchlike."

PART THREE

Chapter 57

"Hackers"

A laptop computer from Stretton soon arrived. PC Totwell had found it in a bedroom cupboard drawer and sent it straight up to Liverpool the following day. I rushed it down to the lab but it was soon found to be blank, nothing...

"Surely we can recover the data that was there?" I asked. I knew very well that data cannot be deleted. It would just be hidden from the laptop's file index. "I like to think that was possible in most cases," Abby, the technician of the day informed me. "But not this one I'm afraid. Whoever owned this did a very good job on it. Do you see these codes? There's some kind of over-write program going on here. It's continually rewriting over the entire capacity of the hard drive. It's all just gobbledygook now... Nothing I can do for you. It may as well have a new hard drive in it. Useless lead I'm afraid Brian. He didn't want anyone to know what he'd been up to, that's for sure," she continued.

"I recommended you take this to Professor Ivan Grossman over at the university. He may be able to help you but I can't promise anything. I'll ring him in advance if that helps?"

This I did. The following day I met up with the professor who was most keen to assist. "Oh yes, nothing like a good hacker's story to get my interest officer. I'm always looking for new substance for my lessons, keeps the class interested you know. Especially if it's local and contemporary," he told me.

It was soon confirmed; the laptop was quite useless in assisting further with my enquiries. "I don't get it, Brian. The knowledge required to do this, well, it's not what you expect of the local Vicar is it?" - "Isn't it? Do tell," I insisted. "It's a very complex program that has self-destructed, but before doing so it's filled the hard drive with nonsense and to overcapacity several hundred thousand times. It must have been running for at least a fortnight to achieve this degree of data destruction." Grossman went on to explain the principles of overwriting and the degree of skill required to do so. "I understand that this man has disappeared, but he obviously realised someone was going to look for him afterward... He wanted to disappear without trace. Either that, or your little old nurse is quite the genius. If I thought she could have done this, I'd be giving her a job tomorrow!"

"After Abby, your tech at central phoned me yesterday, I spent the evening looking into this so-called Reverend Jeremy Walton. He doesn't exist does he?" I then explained the story from the beginning, blow by blow. "Data cannot just disappear," he explained, which I already knew. "If it has it is because somebody wanted it to. All of these leads of yours, the ones that have inexplicably lost their records, absolutely not possible unless someone had wished it to happen and set the wheels in motion." He fully understood that the mad old lady theory, the split personality disorder, was plausible. But not the rest of it. "There are too many people involved now. Are we suggesting a whole village-wide cover-up? That the bank, the doctor, land registry (God knows what would be in it for them, they're not even within fifty miles of Stretton) and the builder, and Lord knows who else, are they all in cohorts with the nurse? No – I don't buy that for a second – but you're the police officer, not me."

I agreed. I asserted again that I believed that this man did exist, and that the nurse, Stinchcombe's version of events, was truth, and that somehow he, Jeremy, had been taken. "Well it's not space aliens; of that I'm certain," laughed the professor. "Maybe it's the Illuminati he added before laughing.

"Mr Wilkinson, with your consent of course, I'd like to hand this one over to my hackers." "Hackers?" I asked... "Is it legal?" "Yes of course it is. They are my group of high flyers. Most of them want to work for governments and spy agencies and the like. They are brilliant! Finishing off the PhDs before they fly the nest so to speak. If anyone can crack this case, it'll be them, I promise you." We left it there. The hackers would hack away whilst I studied the rantings.

A week soon passed. The paperwork I was reading was slowly coming together. It became apparent that it was not so much born of madness, but more a thought-through book synopsis. Most of it didn't link and huge parts made no sense at all, but there was a common narrative amongst it. As a Freemason myself, I had long known of literary codecs that could easily be hidden away within a much wider text, remaining quite unnoticed to the untrained eye. Clara, having found the room to be still open at lunch time, had instinctively, and without thinking, tidied up. It was only after a few days, the natural passage of time, did she really start to consider the possibility that the bedroom could be a crime scene, as she had put it.

She had picked up all of this loose paperwork from the floor, crumpled, scrunched and ripped, torn and apparently tossed away, collecting it all in a single supermarket plastic bag. She didn't throw it in the bin 'just in case' and had left the carrier bag hung on Jeremy's brass bed frame. Much was missing, this was clear, and I had noticed during my visit that paper had been burnt in the fireplace inside the room quite recently. However, the significance of this find was now giving me a firm insight into Jeremy's state of mind. He was clearly very disturbed.

The first question I had to ask myself was, "Is this really the Vicar's own handwriting?" After all, Clara could have written these words herself. But the medical notes and journal, from the pile of the first bag, was most definitely not of the same hand of the second.

Jeremy Walton, if he had written these notes, was a very disturbed individual. But equally, these essays may not have been personal memoirs. They could have been the start of something fictitious – a novel or something else, who knows? The 'story' if I may call it that, centred on a man who wanted to disappear. A lonely isolated tragic figure who had said in one paragraph - "I want to just step off the planet. I feel like Arat trapped in a corner, unable to escape."

Suicide was a common thread. Though, it was also apparent that a painless, peaceful death was sought. Various methods were highlighted, often literally with a coloured marker pen, but they too were soon discredited as unfeasible. Whoever had written these words had considered suicide very carefully. They had referred to drinking household bleach, to self-immolation using petrol, and to asphyxiation by hanging; they were all particularly unpleasant ways to go.

Interestingly, suicide did not seem to be the answer for the author. There was a need to erase all traces of himself completely beyond the grave. He had a need not only to dispose of his life but also of his mortal remains, all in one.

One particular page struck home:

"Acid, acid in a bath tub that would do the job. But would it leave traces? Haigh was not so much caught by the personal absence of his victims but by the substantial forensic evidence." I knew who this referred to immediately. It was a direct reference to the serial killer John George Haigh who was executed in 1949. He was known as the Acid Bath Murderer, and convicted of six murders, though at his trial he claimed to have killed nine. I'd studied him during criminology lessons at college. All police officers study Haigh at some point. He used acid as he believed it was a fool proof method for disposing of the bodies. It was concentrated sulphuric acid. It became apparent that Haigh misunderstood the meaning of the term corpus delicti. He believed that without a body, a murder conviction was not possible.

Walton wrote on: "Fire: Always a good way. Enough heat and you can incinerate anything – but who will tend to the fire? I'd need the retort to be filled with heat resistant bricks or an insulation material such as mineral wool to ensure the heat is maintained. This cremation would be delivery only, a West Chapel job, it needs to be a temperature of 760 to 1150 °C to vaporise my organs and soft tissues. At that temperature I'd be gone in about 90 minutes. But then I will still leave dry fragments - I cannot pulverise myself without a Cremulator. As much as I desire my scattered 4 pounds of ash, I cannot do this myself." He had then added later to his text;

"I could always jump off the back of a cross channel ferry with a large weight tied to my ankle, on the way to the Isle of Man, but what if I were seen? There are over 1.85 million CCTV cameras in the UK today. Here, in Cheshire, on a typical day you can be seen on average by 70 cameras. I live in a country where there is one camera for every 32 people. No, I cannot let anybody witness such a death as that would render it all pointless. They would know I had existed – I would be a Joe Bloggs, a John Doe, no, death does not suffice, I need my existence to die along with me. And I want to die as peacefully as possible. This is not about suffering. There must be no remains of a body left behind. Regardless, I cannot bear the thought of being outside with them." I believed this last sentence to refer to people generally.

Rather interestingly, on one corner piece of evidently torn-off paper, I found the following, hurriedly, scribbled words; "I like the words of Jonas Salk; "If all insects on Earth disappeared, within 50 years all life on Earth would end. If all humans disappeared from the Earth, within 50 years all forms of life would flourish."

PART THREE

Chapter 58

"The Asylum"

It was Friday afternoon and I was sat at my desk contemplating the week's events, trying to balance my own increasing work load, and Mrs Stinchcombe's request for help. My usual business had carried on as usual, and I had already given her as much time as I could this week. After all when said and done, I was a copper with a job to do locally. Cheshire really wasn't my problem today; it was teenagers setting fire to wheelie bins on the Drover Estate, my local beat.

The phone rang. "Professor Ivan Grossman here. Is that you Brian?" "Professor, how delightful to hear from you, how are the hackers getting on?" I politely asked. "All very interesting on that front, but that's not the reason I rang actually. It's a bit of a heads up on your nurse, Clara Stinchling..." I interrupted. "You mean Stinchcombe." "Yes, Stinchcombe, so sorry, that's the one," he continued rather cautiously.

"Something's come up that's very interesting, concerning her former life in Kent. Problem is it's highly confidential, needs to be under the counter so to speak. My students feel the need to share something without the professional come-back - shall we agree? The thing is this; it's her medical records. As you can imagine that's quite dodgy ground to get into." After a pause of significant silence I replied, "I thought all of this was legal and above board Grossman? What on earth are you hackers getting me in to?" The professor then continued. "Most interesting indeed Brian, you know how one thing leads to another and sometimes, well, off the record you just have to take a peep in don't you?" The curiosity got the better of me and I agreed to meet up with him for an afternoon beer in the university's Academic Staff's Common Room at 4 pm. It was indeed to prove to be a most enlightening conversation.

At this point I must remind readers to please duly note that I am now retired from the force and would never have put such a thing in writing previously. I've changed the professor's name too! But this is the account of what he or she discovered.

Clara had had a nervous breakdown, following the death of her husband. She had taken the loss very painfully and failed to cope or adjust. It was recognised and written at the time; that "The patient is failing to grieve." Evidently she could not move on.

Clara had started to behave very strangely at work. Colleagues initially reported to each other that she was continually talking to herself. But this "out of character" and "strange unexplained behaviour" soon escalated into complaints that she was being "followed and harassed" by her own hospitalised patients. Patients of the hospital, from a surgical ward, were apparently following her. Clara was making up stories, unbelievable ones, but in a most believable fashion. Often, truth and fiction could not be separated. This was all starting to sound very, very familiar.

I wanted more detail about the stories but the info wasn't available. In the print-outs I read was just medical references to them. Clara Stinchcombe had eventually agreed to commit herself into an asylum; in reality she had little choice in the matter. The medical notes made clear that should she not agree, then she would be committed under the Mental Health Act.

Clara was institutionalised for eight months. Upon release she had worked as a locum for an agency, covering staff absences and illness. As she had volunteered herself into hospital, no records were shared beyond her immediate care team. It was apparent that the Royal College of Nurses, who had given her such a glowing reference of employment, knew nothing of this event. This was a matter purely between her and the hospital. Not even her local GP was (according to the cross-referencing of the hackers) aware of her eight month sojourn.

"What date was this professor?" I enquired. "It all seems to go off the rails for her after her husband's death in 2003. Her employment records (sorry; took a peep at them as well whilst we were at it) say she worked for Angels Health Care, Kent, until January 2005, as a supply worker. They gave her a good reference, addressed to a Mr. Jeremy Walton of Cheshire. The same request for an employment reference as equally given by the RCN."

"So everything she says adds up, but we still do not know if Jeremy exists do we?" "No," was his reply. "And if he did it looks certain that he knew nothing of Clara's recent illness." It appeared to me now that, well, just as I had become convinced by her story about the Vicar's disappearance, everything was now about to come crashing down around us. Ivan Grossman, upon seeing my despair in making quite the fool of myself, felt the need to rescue me. "That's not all. She's definitely no computer hacker, Wilkinson, far from it." "And?" I asked desperately. "She's never done a day's computing in her life. Hates the things by all accounts. She's a complete technophobe! She couldn't possibly have erased all that data."

"Okay, so now we have a conspiracy do we? If she has a history of making up fantastical stories and she doesn't have the ability to hack into computer systems, somebody she is working with somewhere else, must." The logical conclusion drawn was apparent. "Is she paying someone to help her with this?" I asked. "But paying for what Brian? What has she got to gain from it? Zero!" "Unless," I added, "what if she were in cohorts with the Vicar for some other reason - that this little merry-go-round farce somehow suited the both of them equally?" But the more I thought it over the less credible it became. There was still no reason for it. She had nothing to gain. If he had wanted to disappear he had already done a very good job of it.

"That's it. I'm done for the weekend. I have a battle re-enactment to get ready for, the local civil war history group, and I'm now switching off until Monday!" This, I told the professor. But I also felt the need to ask just one final question, just so I could find some peace over the weekend. "Any good news on the Vicar at all then?" Unsurprisingly he replied, "None, sorry Brian, he doesn't exist."

I don't know where I would be without the local civil war group, the Sealed Knot. We took our name from the originals, a secret association committed to the restoration of the monarchy. It's just fun for us. Our group today has none of the political affiliations of its historical namesake. Many Police officers are members; it's a way of winding down after work, and an excuse for a good night out afterward: an opportunity to escape that all Seeing Eye occasionally.

We have a huge membership and we are very high profile. I think it is safe to say, these days, we are the largest of all re-enactment and historical groups active in the UK. I do enjoy a good read of Orders of The Day, our bi-monthly magazine. We send copies to the British Libraries service and all of Liverpool's police stations.

But I didn't find any peace, and on the Sunday evening, after the re-enactment, I decided again to take the following day (Monday) off work. Sunday evening I found myself once again, driving that short two hour journey, with my best mate, Winjin' Pom, down to Stretton.

I didn't tell Mrs Stinchcombe that I was back in the village that Monday. I felt that she had messed me about for long enough. News of my reappearance would soon get back to her via the village grapevine, and any pressure, a sense that I was actually now watching her, could yield a result.

If Jeremy had been taken, or even worse killed as part of a conspiracy, where would he be now? I purchased an Ordnance Survey map of the area. I enjoyed a real ale as before, as I had on my last trip and overnight at the village watering hole; the Talbot Arms pub. The map was very interesting; 14 Willow Rd, Stretton Bank, Willowfields, where Jeremy Walton had disappeared from, was surrounded by a horseshoe lake. Over time the local river had eroded the soil away and had almost encircled the village and behind the property was a substantial river-crossing. This would prove hard for any man to undertake in the pitch black, let alone a nervous old man (despite how physically fit he may have been). I felt that he certainly hadn't crossed the river that evening unless suicide was the intention, and his body was now floating in the Manchester Ship Canal, to turn up at some point downstream.

The only other choice he had would have been to walk straight through the centre of the village to the main road. There were no buses or taxis locally available at that time of night and the nearest service ran from Morton, sixteen miles away. Notably, services did not resume until 5.45 am in the morning. So where could an older agoraphobic male, with his medical condition, really wander off to in the dark? I realised; if he had, he was dead. The river had to be the only logical explanation. Other than that of course, that he never existed at all.

Then I recalled the conversation about the dirty footprints, the mud from a size nine Wellington boot on the stair carpet. Why would he go out and come back in during those last few weeks if he wasn't able to do so? It did seem that he would not really be lost at all. The missing spade that the groundsman had spoken of; where was that?

Murder just didn't add up, nor did suicide. His notes confirmed that he had no intention of suffering a painful death unless he had died peacefully by his own means, and somebody had assisted, by disposing of the body afterward. But who and why? It wasn't the nurse, I was so certain of this. She had been far too persistent in her search for him and the same old, same old kept coming back. I felt certain; the Vicar, known as Jeremy Walton didn't exist at all, so why go to all that trouble in reporting him missing? Case closed: Mrs Stinchcombe was mental.

PART THREE

Chapter 59

"St Mary's"

Looking back on the case I realise that I could appear somewhat insensitive, perhaps quite derogatory of this lady and her needs. But I was very busy, I had done all I could, and I was working this case alone and now in my own unpaid time.

I had no choice. I telephoned Totwell at Stretton and handed the case back. I could do no more for her. I faxed through all the associated documentation and told him, off the record of course and during the brief telephone call, all about the previous incident in London with regard to the asylum.

"We have little choice now Mr Wilkinson I feel. She has obviously managed to live this fictionist fantasy among us for three years. I feel now, the fact that her delusions have led to the other character's disappearance, we must step in," he said very calmly. I had to agree, but I couldn't be the one to do this to her. This had to be his responsibility.

Dr West, PC Totwell, and the practice nurse arrived at The Old Bore Hole later that day, after tea, around 6 pm. Mrs Stinchcombe, oblivious to the developing seriousness of the situation, collapsed upon seeing them at the door. She was assisted into the comfortable seating of an old grey armchair by Totwell. "Clara, do you know who I am?" asked Rebecca. "Of course I do. I'm not stupid and I'm not bloody mad. I know what it means when a doctor and a nurse come to the door unannounced with a policeman." "I've telephoned for an ambulance for you. Nurse, can you make Clara a cuppa please?"

Dr Rebecca West telephoned me later that evening. "It was all very sad Brian. She is absolutely convinced that Jeremy is real. I've never seen anything like it, so plausible." "We did what we could," I explained, as if to try and appease my own guilt in all this. "I know," she in turn replied. "I managed to trace her records back to St Mary's in Kent. She's been admitted there again and is, on my insistence, under the care of the same consultant as previously. I thought that would be best," the doctor went on to inform me.

I spoke directly by telephone to that consultant. As part of her terms and conditions of employment with Jeremy she had been provided with private medical insurance. "Yes, very good scheme too," the consultant psychiatrist, Dr Henderson, informed me. "She's got a room to herself, and in the private wing directly under my care. Do come and see her Brian. She is asking for you continually. I think it will help with recovery"

I allowed a full month to pass. I felt she needed some time to settle in, get used to being in hospital, again, and to accept her problem and the care now offered although I wrote weekly. I knew she would worry about the house and the Reverend Walton, so after checking up regularly with Totwell, I could honestly inform her that all was quite safe and well back at The Old Bore Hole. She asked me in one of her replies if I would kindly collect a few things for her. It had been my intention to take the fast train down to Kent from Merseyside, but I suppose I could drive to Cheshire and then take the rail journey on from Manchester, quite easily, I told her. Mrs Stinchcombe had become very withdrawn, quiet, not her assertive self at all. Not the lady I knew. I realised this by the tone of her letters, and the handful of telephone calls I made to her. She was very, very polite and accepting of her incarceration. I began to believe that she had accepted that the Vicar was, after all, just a figment of her own imagination.

It was Dr Henderson's belief that, following her husband's tragic death, she had created a new life for herself; one in which she became invaluable to others, needed and relied upon for everything. In her mind she had made a new nest, a new life completely removed from the old. That former life, memories she simply could not deal with.

This was most interesting. She had never discussed her previous life in Kent with me, and I was surprised by this. Her husband was a librarian by all accounts, as Henderson now informed me. He was a former Dickensian scholar at a grammar school, private, not far from the family home. Clara had started her first nursing post at the very same school. That's evidently how they met, and later they married. The old family home in Chasterton was sold after his death.

This did, in many ways, answer some outstanding questions. "If Stinchcombe had purchased the Bore Hole, in Cheshire, personally with her own funds years previously... well, judging by the house prices in Kent, this is where the money certainly came from." This I repeatedly assured myself. "And had she invested the money from this sale? This could also account for the unexplained deposit of the Two hundred and seventy four thousand pounds, twenty six pence."

It all started to make perfect sense, finally. But, just like everything else connected with Clara if you scratch the surface you find underneath something quite extraordinary. I entered the address of the old family home in Kent into the search engine of my office computer to see if I could gauge its full financial value. "Still can't leave it be, can you Brian?" remarked WPC Karen Kneed, as she dropped next weeks' contacts log onto the desk in front of me.

It was now a children's home, operated by a national charity and most interestingly it is was called Clara's Place. "Strange," I thought, "to buy a house and name it after the previous owner." Maybe it was just coincidence; perhaps Clara was someone else? - a patron of the charity? I had wanted to see the property whilst I was down south visiting her, Stinchcombe, in the hospital, so I telephoned and explained who I was. I made an appointment to look around. This would be on Sunday afternoon, before I went back north to Merseyside, via Cheshire.

I did as I had promised and travelled south via Stretton. I didn't take an overnight room as the weather was quite delightful, so Winjin' Pom and I camped out alongside the river, to the rear of the house and Doreen was delighted. "Look, Brian, a Kingfisher... Isn't that amazing?" she whispered so not to disturb it and frighten it away. We watched together for at least twenty minutes, sat on the river bank, sharing the binoculars, our hands clasped tightly until it had fed and flown away. Yes! I am aware that Doreen is deceased, but as I explained in 'Bethany', she is still always with me, at my side throughout.

Spring was well underway. The ploughed fields, the same ones that I had first viewed several weeks ago, were starting to burst into life. The dirt on my own shoes reminded me of what the nurse had said when I was first here, concerning muddy footprints up the stairs. I laughed out aloud. Doreen chuckled too. In creating this fantasy, I thought, what on earth was she thinking of with the Wellingtons story? That was one for the corner shop in the morning.

I popped in, as it opened, at 7 am on this now, rather wonderful Saturday morning. Mrs Pilkington remembered Clara buying the Wellingtons. "No doubt about it. We sell several pairs at this time of year," she added. "Very muddy here with all this water about." She went on to give me a full list of fishermen and dog walkers who had also purchased boots from her store. "I remember it well because she asked for a size nine but didn't want to try them on first. She insisted it was for Mr Walton, who had told her he was definitely, no argument, always a nine."

Back at the house, the doctor having loaned me the key she had for safe keeping, I took the opportunity to look around again. The Vicar's room was odd. It was all self-contained and I could see that, given such a condition, you could comfortably live inside without coming out. Suggesting it had an en-suite was a bit misleading. It was not really a room but a flat without dividing walls. Noticeably, it was much bigger than one would need for just a bedroom. But it was the artwork that disturbed me; those pencil and charcoal drawings of caves and dungeons. One in particular stood out.

It was of a hole, a perfect rectangle, about six feet in depth. To its right was a tube labelled 'Cardboard such as large old carpet shop roll or similar'. It was obviously now I looked more closely at it, a plan or a sketch of something. I felt sure it was not just a drawing, but something more significant. Perhaps in his dark mind he held a fear of death? Then I realised; I too was doing it – starting to believe in a man who never existed, a pure fabrication. "Stop it, you silly old fool," insisted Doreen. I collected Clara's personals as I said I would, returned the key to Rebecca, and left for the railway station.

PART THREE

Chapter 60

"Clara's Place"

I found Clara Stinchcombe to be in very good spirits when I arrived on Saturday at 2 pm. She was delighted to see me. "Doctor's coming to see you," she informed in a most cocky arrogant manner. "He wants you to sign this too, feels silly asking you for himself" It was a copy of my book, 'Please Take Care of Bethany'. "Still talking to Doreen are you?" You could see she had been itching to get that one off her chest. "So here I am. I talk to a real man through a door and I get committed. You, on the other hand, talk to your dead wife and you're a policeman!" I burst out laughing. "That's a very good point Clara," I chuckled. "It's not me who should be in here, is it Brian?" she replied with a glowing smirk written all over her face.

Henderson soon arrived. "Hello Brian. How good of you to come for her." "Come for her?" I replied. "Yes; you're here to pick her up aren't you?" I explained that actually it was just a courtesy visit, to see how she was to which Clara then interrupted, "And you can stop talking about me like I'm not here as well."

Dr Henderson invited me to his office, a short walk down Fleming Wing's adjoining corridor. "Tea, coffee?" he asked. "I don't wish to be rude doctor but can we just get straight to the point? Why has she told you I am here to collect her?" "Okay then, there's nothing wrong with her. She's as sane as you and I." "WHAT!" I yelled. "Well, you can 'WHAT' all you like officer. I'm telling you she is completely sane and thus I'm discharging her. She can go whenever and wherever she wishes."

Henderson went on to explain further. "Reasonable probability is this Brian. The Vicar, as we know him, I'm confident doesn't exist at all. He never has existed anywhere else other than in her own mind." "Then how can you say there's nothing wrong with her and discharge her back into the community so soon?" I demanded, and quite rightly asked how such a decision could be justified. "I am a psychiatrist Brian, not a psychologist. There is nothing wrong with her in the medical sense of the word. If you like it in layman's terms, she is definitely NOT mad! Now, she might believe in a fictitious employer, which she refers to as the Reverend Jeremy Walton, but frankly that's her business, not ours." "But if he doesn't exist, she has to be mad. What other possible explanation is there?" I asked.

"Okay, let's do it your way then Brian, shall we? Go out and fetch me all of the Christians, Jews and Muslims you know" "Stop right there" I interrupted. "These are major world religions, not isolated cases of delusion. How can you make such a comparison doctor?" "Okay Brian, so it's about the numbers is it? Then go out and fetch me all of the Seventh Day Adventists, Jehovah's Witnesses and Mormons then" "That's ridiculous as well," I replied. "Is it Brian? Then let's go for those who believe in Fairies, Troggs, ghosts and Father Christmas. And don't forget people who talk to their dead wife while we're at it." I soon got his point.

"Mrs Stinchcombe may well have a delusional disorder routed deep in personality, but she isn't insane. There is no medical cure where there is no illness. She may need counselling or even therapy from a behavioural psychologist, but I cannot help her. If I keep her any longer, she'll threaten to sue me too" "Sue you too?" I said. "Yes Brian. She's threatening to sue you if you don't take her home immediately. I thought you should know!" I laughed out loud again. "Then perhaps now is not the time to remind her that she is a millionairess then," I joked. "Indeed," he replied. "Tea or coffee officer?"

I arranged with Clara to collect her on my way home on Sunday evening. We would take the train up to Cheshire where I would collect my camper van from the village. "Now Brian, I don't want to muddy the waters, but don't you think you need to clear the air between us?" She was clearly gloating. I apologised, but also let her know that it wasn't me who'd made the decision to put her in there. "Maybe not," she said, "but you were a very big part of it, weren't you?"

I spelt it out for her. "I AM VERY SORRY! Do you really have to make me feel any more guilty than I already am Mrs Stinchcombe?" I snapped, adding, "and talking about muddying the waters, why didn't you tell me about the missing spade?" "What missing spade?" she demanded to know. "The one from the garage. Jack the groundsman had to go home to fetch his so he could plant the pear tree" "Don't know anything about it. If I had, it would be Jack who would be paying for another. He's responsible for the tools in the garage, not me. Bloody cheek keeping that quiet. I'll be seeing

him about that," she snorted. "Just forget I ever mentioned it," I infuriatingly muttered under my own breath. "Oh, I see, you can mutter away all you like. We only had one spade, what use is more than one to a man who never leaves the house?" And there we both found ourselves all over again, "Here we go. Another descent into the impossible," I thought.

I had spent Sunday at Clara's Place, the children's home and the nurse's former dwelling. The Officer in Charge, Nelly, was most helpful. The kids were happy, it was clean, and the staff a delightful, cheerful crowd. It was a good place to be. It didn't have that stale urine smell I was so used to from the many I had been in during my career. There was no shortage of money for care here.

I discussed my interest in the former owner, without giving away any confidential information. Nelly told me, "Oh, that's our Clara." "Your Clara?" "Yes," she replied, evidently surprised that I didn't already know this. "She gave the house to us, completely free of charge, ours to keep, and what's more she sends us half of her salary every month to cover the bills too." My head fell into my hands. "So she didn't sell this house to you?" "No, of course not. This charity of ours could never afford to buy a place like this."

Nelly produced a scrapbook from the cupboard drawer below her desk. "We use this to show the kids," she said, "to explain why this is Clara's Place." The scrapbook was full of photographs and press cuttings. There were several of Mrs Stinchcombe with her husband. "He died of leukaemia. It was all very tragic. She'd already lost her sister, Anne, many years ago, and decided to give the house to us. Originally we were situated on a very poor estate, not so far from here, but look at this now. Without her, well, where would we be today?"

As we boarded the train that evening I noticed how threadbare her clothes were, and the sole of her right shoe, visible to me, a definite hole. I waited until the train was underway and north of the city, then seized the moment of this relaxed atmosphere. "Clara, may I ask you something?" "I suppose so if you must, though I was rather enjoying the peace and quiet." "I know, and I am sorry, yet again, but today I went to Clara's Place. Why didn't you tell me about it?

After a few moments of silence, and I could see she didn't know how to answer, a reply was given. "I don't go there anymore, not since Giles my hubby died of leukaemia, upstairs it was, in our bedroom, 4 am on a Wednesday morning." After a few more seconds of silence, she continued. "Giles and I spent our lives working with fortunate kids, in a private school actually. We had always said that we would give back to the poor when the time came. Unfortunately he went first, bless him. I was taken quite ill, but nobody knows about it." Obviously I did, and all about the school but respectfully kept my silence.

"Doctor Henderson looked after me then as well. He's a good man. I've had quite the time actually when I think about it this month. A nice little holiday in some respects, I suppose. Many of the old nurses, my former colleagues, they still work at St Mary's and came to see me, you know. It was very nice to see them all again. Anyway, I did as we had both discussed, and gave the house to the children. I had no need for it without Giles. I didn't want to be there alone in such a big place so I left everything behind. I've never been back, but they do write to me, the children, and let me know how they are getting on."

"You never told me about these letters, Clara, when we talked about the postal deliveries to The Old Bore Hole?" I reminded her that she had said just her copy of Nursing Times and bank statements and suchlike. "I didn't see the point Brian. What's the connection? You won't find the Vicar there will you? If he'd gone there they'd have telephoned and told me wouldn't they?"

Nothing had changed in her mind. Jeremy Walton was as real to her now as the day I had first met her. But Clara was now the great philanthropist. She had impoverished herself, giving away her entire estate, and subsequently half of her low salary to a children's charity, all without telling a soul. She didn't want any public praise and attention for this most generous, most selfless of human acts of kindness. She had done it purely because, for her, it felt like the right thing to do. She was definitely not an attention seeker: all this Vicar business, it was not for a need to be noticed.

I questioned her further. I pointed out how old and worn her own clothes were, did she not spend anything on herself? "Yes I did," she said. "I bought myself a big telly to watch Corrie on. I had it delivered directly to Cheshire when I started. It's the one I still have. Hi-Def, it hooks up through the internet."

"How did you get the job, Clara?" I suddenly realised I had never asked her this. "In the bulletin it was. I hadn't long come out of St Mary's like I just told you. I worked for a supply company covering nurse sickness and annual leave. It was well paid and I didn't find it too stressful. I couldn't go back to full time on the wards you see. I felt silly having made up all those stories, like I just told you, about patients following me. I was very ill for a while Brian. Anyway, to the point. It was in the nursing bulletin, a vacancy release we got weekly from the NHS Trusts. It said something like "Vicar wants live-in carer, must have nursing experience and preferably qualified. Oh, and it was desirable to have mental health experience, and knowledge of a depressive illnesses. It was to live in, all expenses paid, food, electric, everything, and including my health care insurance." She laughed first, and I soon joined her, in the irony of it all; together we agreed that the latter part was very humorous indeed.

"So how did you get to Stretton on your own then?" And again, without any need to pause to think, an answer that only a genuine reply could offer was immediately forthcoming. "I thought that was obvious; didn't I tell you this? He sent a van down for me. I'd given most of our old stuff away to animal charities and decided the rest was for the local kids. Except Giles' rare books of course, the Dickens' collection. I just couldn't part with them. They are the ones you saw in my room." "And?" I prompted her to continue. "And what? I packed the van with personal stuff, clothes and bedding, my photo albums and ornaments and then I met the solicitor, signed over the house papers and left."

It had seemed like a hell of a risk to take, but she assured me she had spoken with Jeremy several times by phone, and as an assurance he would pay her monthly in advance. The van hire company and driver supplied were local, based in Kent. I didn't confuse her by letting her know that the utility bills did not confirm her story. I'd checked these too. The only records available were for a Mrs C.M Stinchcombe. Unsurprisingly all of the previous occupier's data relating to telephone bills, internet service use and electricity consumption, etc. for The Old Bore Hole, were also without explanation, found to be deleted.

I could neither deny nor confirm that she had spoken several times by phone with the Vicar. But it was her final statement of this particular conversation that was most enlightening. "He seemed like such a nice man, a Reverend of the church, why would I not trust him?" Clara asserted, adding "He even said I could have the house if he died."

PART THREE

Chapter 61

"VICARS"

As soon as I returned to the Police Station, my first instinct was to track CID Sheila down immediately. "Something's come up again regarding Stretton. Do you think we can keep this low key? I just need to trace a copy of a magazine." "Of course," she said, "for you Brian, anything." Though, I could not help but think that this was as much to do with sarcasm, as a genuine offer of assistance. "I know you're busy. I am sorry Sheila, but upstairs are keeping it out of the budget – can we run it through as something else?"

Sheila said she would find and order me a copy of the NHS Trust's vacancy bulletin for Kent, and I suggested she get a copy for November and December 2004, and January 2005 so as to be certain. It was delivered from Kent by motorcycle courier the same day. I think she offset the cost to missing persons, and remembered too, most impressively, not to mention Cheshire.

I soon found the original ad that Clara had read. It was on the back page of the November issue, 'Job Lines Kent', miscellaneous vacancies. Why a post in Cheshire was advertised here, I had no idea, but that didn't really matter. I could only assume that it was because any recruit who was hired from so far afield, then maybe they would prove to be more reliable. At the very least, friends would not come over every evening to chill and watch videos, disturbing the household. This was a position that required the successful applicant to move away and live in isolation. I was aware that hotels often recruited this way. It made it very difficult for staff to just quit and not show for work at the drop of a hat.

Everything nurse Stinchcombe had said was, considering the passage of time, very accurate except one thing. It didn't say 'Vicar of Stretton' but 'VICARS of Stretton'. The word VICARS was intentionally in upper case, capitals throughout. This was starting to sound more like a public limited company, than a man of the cloth.

Sheila couldn't find anything on the company, locally or nationally. Perhaps Grossman could help. "What harm could a few hackers do?" I thought. As usual he was very excited by this discovery. "Rings a bell that Brian, definitely, I've come across that name somewhere. I'll put a shout-out on the dark web straightaway for us, there's a hacker somewhere who knows who that is, that's for sure. Damn this failing memory of mine. Does let me down sometimes."

A couple of days later, I remember it very well as I was watching the golf on TV, the professor rang me. "I knew that I knew that name Brian, wow, what a gem you've turned up. The group have been crunching away non-stop, and nothing, absolutely nothing on them, zilch my lad." "Then why are you sounding so excited professor? I asked, "I sense you are going to tell me something, Ivan?" "It's a beauty this one Brian, a stonker, a true stonker." "What's a stonker?" I laughed, "That's a new one for me." "Oh don't worry, Welsh word, means gorgeous or something like that, my students are always using it, anyway listen up!"

This I did most intently. Grossman went on to give me a blow by blow account of a hacker he knew from the city (London, not Liverpool). This operative worked in commercial banking. He had responded to the ad and had been most forthcoming with intel, the professor's words not mine. "You've been watching far too much American television," I thought at the time it was said. But one thing was sure; it was a stonker!'

This operative as he was called, was a hacker. His specialism was insider trading, selling financial secrets, and he had apparently made a very good living from it. He, and a second man, had created a programme that deleted its own footprints. It was used to access bank accounts but, and Grossman stressed this point, it was never used to steal but to monitor and evaluate fluctuations in financial chatter. If specific chatter was intercepted, for example, colleagues of the same company or of sister corporations suddenly all investing heavily on a non-public lead, they were the first to be aware. It was all highly illegal, as was insider trading generally. Merely tipping a colleague off about a good insider investment could lead to a prison sentence or, at best, massive fines being imposed by the governmental watch dogs; the Office of Fair Trading just for one. But hacking and monitoring of corporate accounts, well that meant eight years to life inside.

Understandably this man was not going to come forward anytime soon, but as a friend of the professor's hackers, he had felt obliged to help. "VICARS of Stretton," said Grossman most excitedly, "was the company set up by his colleague."

Was I missing something? Was that it? I waited for something bigger. I had expected by the manner of his excited tone for an answer to the mystery, but that was it. "Did you just hear what I said Wilkinson?" he shouted most anxiously down the phone. "Yes, but I don't get it professor. So you know a man who knows a man who set up a company called Vicars in Stretton but I was already aware of that from the vacancy bulletin ad, and CID Sheila cannot find any trace of the company in existence today." "Exactly!" he shouted again at me.

"I tell you what, I'm going to put the phone on loud speaker and open a bottle of wine. So do enlighten Grossman, what am I missing here?"

He continued. "That's it, it's all missing. The company data, records, registrations, all gone, doesn't exist and never has. This guy, his name wasn't Jeremy Walton by the way, well he set up the company VICARS. It was a software development company. Don't you get it yet – he did it didn't he?" I laughed. "What, he stole the spade?"

"Brian, you're being silly. He and Jeremy are the same person. He was building on top of the existing programme, the hacking software that very successfully deleted its own footprints. He was a depressive, and wanted to die. He was so disillusioned with life following the bankruptcy of his own company, VICARS, he became a total recluse. Cut ties with everybody apparently, friends and family, colleagues, everybody." "So who was the man Clara knew as Jeremy then?" "Who knows Brian, doesn't exist does he?"

So here we were again, back at the beginning; going around in never ending circles to find out I had just spent thirty minutes discussing the existence of a non-existent man who I believed to exist who now no longer exists after all - and all over again. "Stone the crows, you finally got it Brian, well done!" "Got what Grossman? Now I'm really confused," I told him. "Well that's what happens when you drink at this time of the day," he retorted.

"Brian, how many people do we give new identities to? Think about it. Those in witness protection, informers and the innocent; we can reinvent them anywhere in the world. It is so easy these days to create a false identity. There's no paper work anymore, it's all data, number crunching on computers, and we are all merely binary codes. The technical brilliance required already exists today; barcodes. They can be inserted under our skin, a small chip, like you do to your dog at the vets should it ever get lost. It's all there, our entire lives on one signal data chip. We are nothing more than a number. Though, I admit, we are not very good at getting the systems to talk to each other yet, linking everything up everywhere, worldwide, but the technology to do it is there."

"Imagine Brian, you have a completely new identity created for you, very easily too, it's standard, but what happens to your old one? Well you disappear without trace don't you? One minute you live there, in that house whatever, and next, you and your family have gone, moved away without a word. When we hide people we don't tell their friends or family about it. That would negate the whole purpose of witness protection, wouldn't it?"

He continued: "Now enter into the equation a computer virus that can trace your entire life, using your national insurance, personal tax reference or driving licence number, your baptism or birth certificate, your passport, it's endless... A virus that deletes your own existence and is so effective in doing so, it hides its own existence too – it's brilliant!"

"So are we saying that Jeremy Walton, or whatever his real name was, did this, and in the process left his wealth and house to Clara?" "Yes, that is what I am suggesting, but I can never prove it, nor can anyone else. He doesn't exist anymore. But reason tells me that Clara's Vicar of Stretton and the VICARS of Stretton Software Company are way too much of a coincidence to ignore. Up until now only Clara Stinchcombe had ever spoken with him, through the door, but now we have a second most credible witness who used to work with him. Surely you don't doubt the connection?" "I get the connection, as amazing and unbelievable as it seems Grossman, but

what did this guy, your hacker contact say Jeremy looked like? Surely we can now identify him in the system, pick up on his driving licence photograph or something with digital image matching?" "No good I'm afraid Brian, it was all done online; over the dark net, the two men never met each other."

We chatted through the different scenarios until we had exhausted the conversation and ourselves. "Let's leave it there for now, Brian," he ended. "Don't forget you owe me a beer at the weekend!"

PART THREE

Chapter 62

"A Spade's a Spade"

It didn't add up, I got it, but it just didn't add up. The blatantly obvious still had not been addressed. So a hacker in pursuit of his dream to create the ultimate virus now erases his own identity. Yes, that made sense, and it all tied in with Stinchcombe's version of events too, if this was indeed the case. But Jeremy, let's please just stick with that name for conveniences sake, now falls into a deep depression when his company goes bankrupt. I can go along with that scenario too. Nobody ever met him; I can go with that as well. He had a weird form of agoraphobia, and we know this. Why else would he go to all that trouble to employ a live-in carer?

If I had achieved my dream and created an extinction virus, I have to call it something for the sake of my notes, yes, I would test it first on my own personal data and records. It's the safest thing to do. After all, you don't need to worry about being sued if it goes wrong, do you? Or further still, worry about spending the rest of your life behind bars. But Professor Ivan Grossman is convinced that Jeremy succeeded. So why now disappear at all? He'd be rich! Where is he now – why hasn't he come forward to claim his prize? Imagine for a second what that programme would be worth on the open market?

Consider further his rantings and disturbed state of mind. He succeeded in developing the extinction virus, but hasn't come forward as he genuinely wants to now end his own life. His depression and despair are such that he is beyond saving. I can go along with that one as well. Until that is, the obvious. Where is the body?

The penny finally dropped. This is definitely not a suicide, nor is it a murder. Equally; this is not a confused old man who had got himself lost in the dark and stumbled into the fierce underswell of the river, and Mrs Stinchcombe is, officially, now declared quite sane. I have that on expert authority. It was obvious. This was now a clear case of kidnapping. Yes! Jeremy had succeed in creating the virus, probably attempted to sell it on the black market, and as a result was taken, probably by MI5 or MI6 covertly. Case solved! Or was it?

Firstly; how was I going to convince anyone to investigate the kidnapping of a man who did not exist? Secondly, my star witness, Clara, had a history of mental illness, in particular a history of making stories up. Thirdly, my only credible source of information was an anonymous hacker who was, never in a month of Sundays, going to come forward to the police. Case solved and, now in the same sentence, case closed. If the Vicar was now spying for some kind of covert governmental operation, I was not going to get myself involved any further!

I went to see DI Andrea Johnson again. It was a curt meeting. "Of course Brian. I'll just summon the Chief Inspector down straightaway shall I? In fact I'll pull him out of his meeting with the Home Secretary for you. I'm sure he'll be delighted to hear how you have finally solved the case of a missing man YOU CAN'T prove ever BLOODY EXISTED!" "I get the feeling you being a little sarcastic with me ma'am," I said, I didn't think it was appropriate after all my hard work. Especially as no-one else was interested in the case. "Brian, please, I'm just trying to be honest with you. He'll only have one question to ask. Do you know what it will be? Guess. Here it is for you: 'Have you ever considered early retirement?' Now get the hell out!"

There was only one option left. I had to convince Totwell down at Stretton. I wrote up my reports, faxed them down to him and copied DI Johnson in on the conversation. Neither replied, but at least it was now on record.

I telephoned the nurse and updated her. Well, most of it, suggesting to her that the investigation was still open. I didn't want her rushing off to the local press or anything else that could jeopardise my position. "Good job you phoned Brian," she said to me." Frank came round today. He's found the spade."

I asked her who Frank was, and found out he was the local farmer, the one who'd ploughed the fields to the rear of the house. The river had recently flooded, and following both rotovating and a good raking, the tangled and badly damaged spade had been found. "I put a note in the shop window asking if anybody had found my spade. I described it and he, Frank, today after work, kindly returned it," Clara explained. "Surely a spade's a spade Clara? How do you know if this is the same one that went missing from the garage?" "I know it is. It's the one I bought from the shop for Jeremy." "You bought it Clara?" I enquired. "Yes Brian. He asked me to the same day I bought the Wellingtons."

If I had not been separated by a telephone cable and countless miles, I think I would have strangled her there and then with my own bare hands. Why hadn't she told me this? Wellingtons and muddy footprints were one thing, but a spade too? Jeremy had been digging, but what for? Or had he hidden something? "It's a Williamson Shields, with a green handle, and a steel blade. Even now, it still has its life time quality guarantee sticker on the back. I don't think they'll change it for me now though, not after the rotovator's been over it. Shame really. It cost the Vicar £29.99 – wasn't a cheap one at all."

I tried to elicit as much information as possible and insisted that the spade be put inside a sealed clear plastic bag and kept very safe in case it was needed as evidence later on. Perhaps we would find finger prints. A long shot after all this time outside I know, but you had to chance it sometimes. It was amazing how prints and DNA could be recovered in the lab these days. But then, regardless of this find, his bedroom was full of prints and samples too if we needed them, but what was the point? If they were of any use to us, he had certainly deleted all of that data chain too. "Just hang onto it somewhere safe for now," I requested.

"Where exactly did the farmer find it? Could he show me? Could he please, Clara, if I came down again next weekend?" "I asked him that Brian, said we could drive a stake in to mark the spot. But he said "No." He'd turned over the 21 acres, the paddock and park fields and long bottom too, in all over 78 acres. Said the spade was jammed up inside the rotor blades; could have been there for hours, days even, without him realising it. Frank said he'd been rotovating all week. It was only when he came to grease up last night he saw it. Had to smash it free with a sledgehammer."

So now I was confronted with 78 acres of ploughed, rotovated and raked mud. It was impossible to locate where the spade had been left by Walton. A complete nonstarter. If Jeremy's buried treasure or something else he was digging up was still out there, we were never going to find it. That fact I reluctantly accepted.

PART THREE

Chapter 63

"Agoraphobia"

"If you drink this, you will die" These were the words that were repeatedly stated to the patients at the Dignitas clinics who, having been supplied with pentobarbital, were to imminently end their own lives. How could Doctor Rebecca West prescribe such a lethal medication, one that could be so easily abused, without ever meeting her patient? And what form of agoraphobia would possibly warrant its use?

Unsurprisingly, perhaps the first predictable incident within the whole investigation was that the doctor soon clammed up. She refused to talk unless through her medical union representative. He, her representative, wouldn't talk to me either as "there was no case for Rebecca to answer." "Are you suggesting that Dr West was neglectful in prescribing a medicine for a man you cannot prove ever existed, officer?" He arrogantly continued; "If you wish to imply that our member's actions have led to the death of this man, then I suggest you produce the body." That was the only telephone call I received from him, a man called Pearson who had taken the trouble to proactively contact me first.

It had all got rather out of hand. I had merely probed the doctor further for what I thought was legitimate information. I wasn't making allegations against her. But she had obviously taken offence and overreacted. Rebecca closed all lines of inquiry, refusing to comment further, and we never spoke again.

Medical records were useless. They had all been deleted as the doctor had previously informed and this was soon confirmed by Ivan Grossman's collective of hackers. So I decided to inform myself using local groups and the World Wide Web. Agoraphobia comes from Greek ἀγορά, which means 'large public square or marketplace', and φοβία, a phobia meaning fear. I thought that I, like most lay people, already held a good general understanding of what agoraphobia entails, but the learning curve was steep. I admit my priority, I wanted to find out why a convulsion suppressor, such as pentobarbital would be prescribed. Beyond its use at Dignitas, it was after all the major ingredient for lethal injection into inmates of death rows overseas.

The body muscles contract and release in spasms, repeatedly and rapidly during a convulsion. This results in what we often associate with epilepsy; uncontrolled seizures, often displayed as violent shaking. But interestingly, not all epileptics had these seizures and epilepsy was not the only cause of them. It's common apparently for scuba divers who inhale improper enriched air, and for those who have had an electric shock. Such non-epileptic convulsions are known as paroxysmal events; mimicking epileptic convulsions but absent of abnormal rhythmic discharges of cortical neurons.

There is some difference between the two that the medical expert observes during diagnosis. In a non-epileptic attack, the patient often keeps their eyes firmly closed, and they rarely cause harm to themselves. Misdiagnosis for epilepsy is common apparently; convulsions can also be caused by head injury, toxin overdose including drugs, and eclampsia. The list was not exhaustive, which did surprise me, particularly as it included fainting and holding breath during childhood. However, it was parasomnias that intrigued me most. Parasomnias are more commonly known as night terrors. It is estimated 20% of misdiagnosed epileptics have convulsions triggered by psychological problems.

Was it possible that Jeremy Walton was suffering convulsions due to his panic disorder, schizophrenia or other depersonalisation disorder, a panic disorder or other associated mental illness, which had been caused by childhood abuse or repressed memories? A commonality I understood was that patients often have multiple vague and unexplained medical problems, psychiatric conditions such as acute depression, major anxiety issues or bipolar disorder. It certainly sounded as if Jeremy, with his extreme form of agoraphobia, could have quite legitimately been prescribed pentobarbital. I saw no reason for malpractice on the part of the doctor, Rebecca West, whilst drawing this conclusion. The local a-phobia friendship branch that I spoke to told me that research shows that non-epileptic seizures have been connected to abnormal personality traits or personality disorders. Childhood abuse as a cause kept resurfacing but also trauma in adulthood played a significant part.

Sadly, positive outcomes for sufferers are relatively poor. In fact, what I read and discussed demonstrated that two thirds of patients who suffered from psychologically triggered seizures (leading to uncontrolled convulsions) were beyond help. Jeremy Walton was probably among this group, accordingly choosing to incarcerate himself, to remove himself from public interaction, seeking only to find a way to remove his existence. It wasn't just the bankruptcy of his company that had caused this disorder, it was an already present and most serious psychological condition that had already sown the seeds of his downfall.

The agoraphobic suffers from severe anxiety attacks. They see and perceive extreme danger and are overcome with fear in what most of us take for granted; open spaces or crowded areas, including uncontrollable social situations. I tried to imagine my life if I were unable to go to the supermarket, catch a flight abroad or even drive Winjin' Pom over a river bridge... to have such a panic disorder that meant I would do anything - absolutely anything, to avoid these environments. In Jeremy's case, this meant locking himself away behind a door for at least three years. Was his condition so serious that he could never open the door to face another human being in person, even the nurse who he had hired? Tragically many agoraphobics never leave their own homes or other safe havens.

A-phobia, the Liverpool support group, told me that agoraphobia accounts for 60% of recognised phobias today. Of all the phobias I could think of, I had no idea that this one was the most popular or prevalent. It is more common in females and usually develops between the ages of 20 to 40 years. Repressed memories and interrupted learning result from a traumatic event. Sufferers often disconnect from themselves – depersonalisation - and then disconnect from their surroundings - derealisation. 'Social agoraphobia' can then take hold; this is the fear of being seen to have a panic attack, leading to further isolation.

I read of cases so severe that sufferers even refused to the leave their own homes during medical emergencies. Sufferers will go to great lengths to avoid being in a place where they have previously had an attack. They are often obsessive compulsives with repressed memories due to post traumatic stress disorder. It is not unknown to suffer separation anxieties, the onset of an attack when someone else in the household leaves the home to go out. Perhaps this was the reason why Jeremy Walton recruited his live-in aid from such a distance - to ensure she could be relied upon to be in the house at most times. Patients have not only reported a fear of dying but also of losing control over emotions and behaviour.

But whatever our own perceptions or experiences of the condition, it is certainly a most debilitating one. The agoraphobic suffers sudden panic attacks which release large doses of natural epinephrine, triggering the bodies fight or flight response, lasting up to thirty minutes. It is brought on suddenly, without warning and peaks around fifteen minutes in. Palpitations, rapid heartbeat, sweating and trembling, nausea, vomiting and dizziness are all present, followed by tightness of the throat and shortness of breath. Agoraphobia is certainly most unpleasant.

A common associative disorder of agoraphobia is thanatophobia, the fear of death, and with this in mind I again ruled out the feasibility of suicide. Anxiety often increases when dwelling upon their own inevitable deaths, which they may consciously or even subconsciously link with separation of soul from the safety of mortal body.

Pentobarbital depresses the central nervous system; so was it now possible that with it, in controlled dose, that he was able to leave the house and go outside \- especially whilst dark so he could not see to focus on the endless dimensions of his open surroundings? If the drug had been prescribed to control his seizures, perhaps this new freedom now discovered was a side effect

most welcome? And this was not uncommon I believe; The science fiction writer H.L.Gold (1914-1996) suffered with agoraphobia as a result of post-traumatic stress disorder from warfare. As per Jeremy Walton, his condition was so severe that he did not leave his apartment for two decades, but toward the end if his life he did achieve some control over it.

Whatever the conclusion, being outside meant that he was now vulnerable. A vulnerability which I believe had most definitely led to his kidnapping.

PART THREE

Chapter 64

"Loneliness"

Of course, people feel lonely for a number of reasons, but the main issue with Mrs Stinchcombe wasn't social isolation but her new found social awkwardness. The days, the weeks and months started to pass. She had adapted to being alone in the house very well, or so I had thought, and would often ring me with her updates and news, but it was mostly village gossip. But in regard to the Reverend Jeremy Walton, we had nothing new to discuss these days.

He had disappeared without trace, and no ransom note had ever been forthcoming. This had destroyed my belief in a kidnap plot, but then again, dark establishment forces, the government, the military or police don't leave ransom notes. It's the person they want, not the cash rewards. What else could I do but assure her he would turn up, dead or alive, somewhere at some point? Until that day, worrying about things beyond her control, would only result in making her ill.

It was true to say there was awkwardness around the village. I certainly felt it during my last couple of trips down when I drove down to find out how Clara was getting on alone. She had changed doctors' practice, and was now shunned by the proprietors of the local shop. "They think I killed him, Brian," she had once said to me. "I know they're talking about me behind my back. When I go in it all goes very quiet. I don't think they want me here." On one occasion a young man, in his late teens, had shouted across the street to her, "Do you need to borrow some boots and a spade to bury anybody else today? You silly old cow!" The local children too, the younger ones, they were now referring to her as the Village Witch. Clara had found this most upsetting and had resorted to staying in the house as much as possible.

She had finally accepted that the house was hers, and the cash in her account too. Clara had wanted to sell it and leave, but couldn't. A solicitor had advised her of the need to wait seven years for Jeremy to be ruled officially dead in absentia. I, on the other hand, advised her that she could, as officially Jeremy Walton had never existed. There was no official investigation taking place, and without any proof of existence, there never would be. I was worried that she would stay in Stretton, be unhappy, and soon fritter away her funds unnecessarily.

I concentrated on getting her to overcome her loneliness and move on, to start valuing and comforting herself. I needed her to realise she wasn't alone. That we all get lonely, and this is why I still talk to Doreen as if she were still alive. "It comforts me," I explained. "That's why I moved here, to deal with my husband's death," she told me. "Where has it got me? At best they call me 'Mad Old Cow' and at worst, 'The Murderer' – now."

I would try to encourage her to find people from outside the village who shared similar interests; but she was never interested in socialising these days. She had not been to quiz night or darts evening at the village local for months. "You need to focus on new alternatives and paths for yourself," I would say, but to no avail.

I sent her a leaflet, archery classes with a sports league nearby, but she argued that her eyesight would never be good enough. I also asked the local conservationists' group to get in touch with her. She could help plant trees and build bird boxes I thought, but she insisted they had never contacted her back. I offered to ring them again on her behalf but she said no. "If they don't want anything to do with me then let them be, I don't want to make a fool of myself by forcing myself on them. Perhaps they think too, that I only want to go in the woods to hide more bodies." I was worried about her ever-increasing sense of social anxiety. I even thought she was becoming agoraphobic because of the trauma of Jeremy's disappearance without closure for her.

There were many activities going on in the local area, and Clara had tried some of them out. One she was very fond of was Book Club, but it soon fizzled away. She would always go with the intention of making friends, and when she felt ignored, her confidence was knocked back in ever increasing degrees. I said, "Try going to social activities without any expectations at all and just enjoy yourself regardless of what happens," but she would have none of it. "When Doreen passed away, I joined the local military enthusiast groups, as many of them as I could and at first I felt uncomfortable, but by being myself, natural, I soon made friendships," I said. "Perhaps you're trying too hard Clara?" I tried to reinforce the positives of getting out and about. "Well those groups weren't in 'Stuck-up Stretton', were they, Brian?" was her reply. I suppose this was true. Stretton was a very wealthy conservative village. Clara would not get involved with any local political campaigns or the organised fundraisers of the parish's church group.

It was evident that she wanted to wallow in it, sit around the house all day persistently dwelling on Jeremy's strange disappearance. At times I could see she got angry, "Why has he done this to me?" The nurse had done everything for him, given three years of her aged life to a man she had never seen. "Surely that was worth something?" she would often ask me. "Just a simple thank you and goodbye would have been better than this." All I could do was explain how ill Jeremy had obviously become. "You can't expect normal things from a man who has no normality in his life," and this would often lead to a controlled argument between us. "I'm not defending him. I'm merely suggesting it's more complicated," I would state as fact to her.

"Try new things," I would urge. "Take a walk or buy a new bicycle. Write a book perhaps Clara? You're never too old to try out new things." I wanted her to keep busy, to throw herself back into work somewhere. I believed it was mulling around the house that always made her more and more depressed.

Nurse Stinchcombe had managed to retain much of her previous sense of humour. It wasn't all dark clouds. I explained that Doreen and I loved going out to the cinema together and afterward we would go for a meal. I explained that after her death, I dated for a while. I was then Wilkinson Billy No-Mates! Always eating and watching films in the same places we had shared, the venues and restaurants we had visited together when she was alive. That's why I still pretend to have her with me now. "She can't be very good company then, Brian," Clara laughed out once. "Seeing as you obviously prefer to spend your day sitting here with me – perhaps I've murdered your wife too?"

Clara always missed the central issue. "Just don't hold yourself back is what I'm trying to say to you." Most of what I said was always dismissed as babble. "It's not strange to be by yourself you know," she would say, and I would always reply, "No, but it is when you don't want to be."

I've lost count of the magazines, journals and books I had recommended she read over a good cup of tea or coffee. I had always found reading such a comfort. "Written words are often as good as company if you are enjoying them," I told her. "I know how to bloody read!" she would shout, "but there's only so long you can sit in the café doing it before everybody else realises you have no friends." Clara was just no good at accepting that me time had its place in replacing conversing time.

Eventually I gave up trying, and insisted she buy herself a new pet. "Don't be ridiculous," was her response to me. "The Vicar's allergic to cats and dogs. Haven't I told you that?" "No, actually that's a new one Mrs Stinchcombe, but the relevance of it here and now today is so what?" After an uncomfortable pause she again addressed me sternly, "You've given up on him too, haven't you?" "No, Clara, I haven't; and I'm not going to give up on you either." I felt that if Clara listened more instead of talking at people, she'd probably make friends quite easily. But a pet, well, she couldn't argue back at a dog could she? An old mutt would be ideal company for her. She could talk endlessly about herself and it would probably listen.

I challenged her to take up the initiative. Not to wait for a dog to turn up, but to go out and find one. If she didn't, then the next one I found during my beat, dumped on the Drover, was hers for sure. I was not going to take no for an answer.

PART THREE

Chapter 65

"Patch and The Pit"

Patch wasn't quite what I had had in mind for Clara Stinchcombe, but they got on very well together. Following my last stay over in Stretton, she had left a message for me on my answer machine, by the time I had got home. "Hello Brian. Clara Stinchcombe here. Yes, I'll have a dog, thank you,. Let me know when you have found one for me. A proper dog mind, not a silly little thing. Hope to see you soon. Goodbye." I asked about the station and Patch was put forward as a good choice for her.

Patch was a very friendly retired police dog, specialist trained to find cadavers - a bloodhound for odour-specific ID and the tracking of evidence. She, a bitch, had completed eight years in service, and despite still being more than able to perform her duties, was retired by her handler. There was a new younger mutt on the block. Patch was very lucky. Many of our dogs get killed in the line of duty but they receive full posthumous honours, as all fallen police officers do.

It was a match made in heaven. I was all too aware that Clara had fallen head over heels in love. I was joyed to see her so happy. I imagined her as a younger woman, married and working, a smile on her face, daily.

I told her all about Patch's work history, and her delightful sense of humour soon engaged again. "Well if anyone can find him, the Vicar, I guess it'll be her then," she laughed. But in reality she wanted the cadaver search dog because, "They'll have to believe I didn't kill him now won't they? Because if I had, this dog's soon going to find him and dig him up, isn't she?" And she had a point. I couldn't help but think to myself, "If you have killed him Clara, I hope you've buried him very deep."

Stinchcombe was adamant that Jeremy was still alive, and I too. I still held dear to the kidnap theory as the most plausible. In the back of my mind, however, there were a couple of nagging doubts that remained; had she killed him and did he ever really exist at all? I couldn't help it. I did believe her, but something had never been quite right with this case and I still maintained an open focus on it.

I hoped she wasn't a murderer. I'd preferred that he was a figment of her imagination in preference to that. Mrs Stinchcombe was not going to thrive well in prison, and at her age the thought of her dying inside, regardless of the crime, upset me deeply. Any outcome but killer bodes well with me.

Patch had retired with flying colours. She had just reached an age where retirement was mandatory. She had started out in narcotics at Manchester Airport, but side-stepped into homicide in Liverpool, this when her owner had transferred. Patch was a bloodhound with a very distinctive black patch over one eye, the right eye, whilst the rest of her face remained brown tan. When I telephone the nurse to say the dog was available to her if she wanted it, that I had personally vouched for her as a most suitable new owner, I'm sure I had heard her jump up and down with joy. At this stage it wasn't the dog that excited her so much but what the dog could do.

The bloodhound, as a distinct breed, was originally bred because of its large scale scent ability, and for hunting deer and wild boar. It had been used for hunting (in partnership with man), since the middle ages. Today in Britain, it is used primarily for locating drugs, explosives and human remains. Though, in many European countries, it remains to be a most effective hunting companion. The bloodhound line is said to be descended from the hounds of the Abbey of St Hubert in Belgium.

This dog is famed for an ability to detect specific human odours, often many days later and over considerable distance. This includes an ability to detect scent even across water. It has a strong and tenacious extraordinary tracking instinct and is used by law enforcement officials across the globe to track escaped prisoners, missing people, lost children and even lost pets.

She, Clara, now started to write a different diary. Clara logged every inch of soil to the rear of The Old Bore Hole and beyond. Mapping every inch of the area that the two of them, woman and hound, had now covered together.

A year had soon passed and the first anniversary of the Vicar's disappearance was upon us, and I was so glad that Patch had not found a body anywhere out back.

So too was Mrs Stinchcombe. She was delighted that the dog had not discovered any remains. The fact that somebody would most certainly have found one by now, after all this time, had it been there to begin with didn't enter her head. I allowed her to believe in the strength of her search. The depression had lifted and she, and her dog, had a purpose in life again. What was the benefit in letting her know that her efforts were futile? Jeremy could not have buried himself! The best part of it all, however, was that all of this effort to find him did not go unnoticed. Many of the villagers now chose to join her, helping out where they could, amazed at this woman and her dog's joint determination and commitment.

Whilst we enjoyed a cup of tea together in the garden one afternoon, Clara demonstrated to me that she felt the time to move on was upon her. "I know he's alive Brian, I know it, I know it for certain now. His body has never been found and he can't just have disappeared." I listened intently to her as she continued. "I don't want to rubbish your kidnap theory, believe me I don't, but it is flawed isn't it?" "How?" I asked her. "Well, he gave me his money and his house didn't he? So am I to understand that he knew he was going to be kidnapped before it happened? Well, I cannot, that seems silly to me." She had a very valid point and went on... "I'm going to be kidnapped next week so I'll just give away everything I own to my nurse first," didn't sound very clever, I agreed but then that relies on the fact that he knew about it in advance. Maybe it was, after all, just coincidental?

"I think it's like this," Clara continued. "He wanted to disappear, to delete his own existence, but didn't tell me because then I would know for sure what had happened to him, and that would render the whole thing useless. I would be able to tell people what had really happened, so in his mind, somebody would know that he had really existed." "Yes, I get what you are saying Clara. Carry on." "Well, it's like this, this way, even though I have told people all about him, I cannot prove it can I? And, still, most people think I am mad. If it hadn't been for you there would be no investigation whatsoever. One day I would naturally discover that the house was mine, and that I had been given a lot of money that I couldn't account for, but I do not believe that Jeremy thought I would look for him. In a nutshell, I would never have found out about the extinction virus, would I?" "A very interesting new perspective Mrs Stinchcombe. To sum up you are saying what?" "I'm saying that he thought I would realise that the house was now mine eventually, that I was rich too, and that I would accordingly keep my mouth shut"

We discussed the pro and cons of this new scenario, and it was very plausible. Perhaps he hadn't said goodbye to her because he believed in his own mind by now, at this critical stage of his illness, that he no longer existed. Nurse Stinchcombe continued, "I think he successfully achieved what he had set out to do. By now he couldn't prove he was telling the truth as everything was gone, his entire life record removed. So even if he tried to explain to others what he had done to himself, nobody was going to believe him, were they? Where's his proof? If nobody believed me at first, who was going to believe an agoraphobic who hadn't left his bedroom in years? Would you have believed him Brian?" "Actually, when you put it like that, so simplistically Clara, no I wouldn't have. I'd have had him committed." "Yes Brian, we know that don't we?" she effortlessly replied. It always seemed she had quite the knack to guilt trip at the perfect moment.

"I think he made the virus and sold it for many many millions of pounds, and is probably living in a mansion in South America somewhere, under a new identity he created for himself and is laughing his head off at us. He gave me the house and money to say thank you. I've decided to keep it. That's what he wanted. After all, every reason to go is a reason to stay, and Patch likes it here." What could I say? Result! The power and companionship of a new pet had worked wonders.

Clara decided she would pack up all of the old things from Jeremy's room for in her mind he was clearly never coming back again, and she had now moved on. The worm had finally turned. She asked me if I would like anything to keep; to remember all of this by, and there was just one thing. "Actually Clara, there is something I'd like to have. Do you remember that old charcoal and pencilled drawing of the pit? It was hung on the wall in Jeremy's bedroom. I'd like that if I may?" "You certainly can," she keenly replied. "Looks like a grave to me. It's creepy. I don't like it at all." "I can't say that I do either," I replied, but if anything is going to remind me of this, this most bizarre of cases, it was certainly going to be that very same picture, the one with the pit and labelled cardboard tube.

Now, back in Liverpool, I decided to re-frame it. As soon as I removed the back I realised it was a large piece of paper folded over multiple times. Immediately I noted, that a torn off corner, missing, was the same shape as the triangle piece found on the bedroom floor a year before. I matched the two together and it was a perfect fit. Those original words of Jeremy's now reunited with its original source; "I like the words of Jonas Salk; if all insects on Earth disappeared, within 50 years all life on Earth would end. If all humans disappeared from the Earth, within 50 years all forms of life would flourish."

Whilst framed, it had only appeared to be about A4, but now its size had folded-out four fold to A2 size. It was covered in sketches, plans and many more mad rantings, the worst of which simply read; "to poison the food chain is also to poison the insects" I looked closer. Immediately the pit and cardboard carpet shop or similar tube became something much more sinister. To the rear of the sheet of paper, the drawing was much bigger, more detailed, with many more labelled parts. It was very clear for the reader to understand.

It was a grave that had been dug to traditional proportions, six feet in depth. Above it, but sunk about two feet below ground level, was a door with door frame, labelled to indicate it worked as a stage trap door or hangman's gallows. It would with appropriately fitted mechanism, drop open. The grave was empty of soil. It had been dug out, and then the soil re-shovelled back over the top of the door, in a large heap, but perfectly, centrally placed above the pit below. Also, opening up into a smaller chamber, just below ground level, was a wide cardboard tube that went down at a gradual angle from one end to the other until it entered the larger chamber. Inside the raised and smaller chamber, at the outer end of the cardboard tube, I could clearly define the shape of a garden spade.

The text read; "Having dug out my grave, ensure that the side chamber allows entry to it by tube. Tube must be cardboard, this is critical, and allow for my entry into larger chamber below by sliding through. Pile dug out earth back on top of door. Enter through tube ensuring that afterward, using spade to prod, soil around entrance collapses and covers opening. Then push spade back up inside tube to farthest point away as possible. The metal blade must not be left inside the main chamber with me. Cord attached to trapdoor mechanism via wooden leverage rod is secured to my neck. Take powdered pentobarbital diluted in orange juice; enjoy last moments - max time left is 30 minutes but expect to be irrecoverably unconscious in 10. Take inside with me a candle and French cheese, with a good bottle of Australian red for last meal. As I fall backward into deep sleep, the trap will be triggered and soil will fill pit. I will know nothing of my painless death. Cardboard tube will soon collapse and start to rot at first rainfall. Wooden door frame and mechanism will also rot all in good time. I must ensure that all wood is sunken below plough depth so as not to be discovered beforehand."

It was obvious now where Jeremy had gone. He had successfully deleted his own existence and apparently buried himself without trace. He had died as intended, in a painless, peaceful way, sealing himself for all eternity inside his own tomb. He had intended for the spade to be eventually found, found somewhere away from the location of his body. His worry must have been that at some future point in time, and for whatever reason, a metal detectorist, amateur of professional, could have located it; and this would have led to the certain uncovering of his mortal remains.

I never shared this discovery with her, with Nurse C.M Stinchcombe RCN. What would have been the point? I couldn't prove it was true, but I certainly believed it to be so. Maybe in a few years when she has passed away, and at a point in time when people start to believe the truth behind this story, maybe then, and only then will it be appropriate to start digging up the fields behind the house. Clara believes Jeremy to have been real and Clara believes him to be still alive today, somewhere.

Had the Reverend Jeremy Walton, the Vicar, actually achieved the absolute deletion of his own existence, and had he really managed to bury himself without trace? We will never know.

Because I can never prove he ever existed to begin with!

- END –

PART FOUR

MEAT: MEMOIRS OF A PSYCHOPATH

THE DEFINITIVE EDITION

"IT WILL BE CONTINUED for it is commanded of you"

_Continued_ _by JRP Taylor_

So there it is. That is how part three ended and where Part Four now begins; but as you are all too familiar now, we have already began at the beginning of this book with the end. For when Part Four of this manuscript 'Memoirs Of A Psychopath' was delivered to me in person by Arat on that fateful Sunday morning in October 2015, we had soon come to learn of Brian Wilkinson's true fate. Examination of the film, also received that day alongside the free cookery supplement, informs us of the fate of so many others.

The film script, as instructed will soon follow below, but not because we have decided to continue to comply with Gabriela's instructions, but only because we want you to see first-hand the true depths of her absolute inhumanity and depravity. They, the Gabrielites, are exposed, and they will now be hunted down by us all; hunted to extinction. Freemasons and church worldwide will seek to purge themselves of the scourge of the Illuminati, and in turn, Illuminati will turn on each other to finally identify the Gabrielites living amongst them.

**Publisher's Legal Notice** :

Police and Criminal Evidence Act 1984

Criminal Justice and Immigration Act 2008

Offences against the Person Act 1861

Computer Misuse Act 1990

Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

The British singer/songwriter known to us as Odd Jonathan disappeared without trace on Sunday 25th, October 2015. This final manuscript, what you are about to read, was covertly supplied to us on 14th November 2015. Jonathan's whereabouts or proof of life has never been substantiated beyond this latter date. Whilst social media feeds connected to him have remained active, they have been maintained in his absentia by his publisher.

Odd Jonathan (Jonathan 'JRP' Taylor) is now presumed to be lost. As publishers, we have declined to release any copy, whatsoever, of the DVD 'Surge', as supplied to us for inclusion in Part Four. This is on the strict guidance and agreement of countless law enforcement organisations worldwide. To do so would be contempt of court. Should you obtain an unlawfully released copy, you MUST return it to us immediately or contact your local police station.

**Brittunculi Records and Books:** www.Brittuncui.co.uk

**Exclusions to above:** We are aware that a number of re-enactment and parody versions of 'Surge' have been recreated by over-enthusiastic amateur film-makers, fans and readers alike. Because of such events, by statute law the Bulgarian authorities have instructed that the site, Buzludzha, be permanently sealed. **Trespasses now face immediate arrest and imprisonment.** Whilst re-enactment and parody versions are lawful, in the interests of public safety, we must ask that this practice cease forthwith. If you have made such a film, we would be delighted to receive a copy to share on social media. Anonymous submissions are most welcomed. Thank you!

'SURGE'

The Movie Script

A film written and directed by Her Holiness Gabriel A. Thirteen

Starring:

'The Brotherhood and Their Victims'

With a rather thin performance by **Isabella Davies**

And special bit part by dear friend **Brian Wilkinson C.B.E**

**Location:** Buzludzha Communist House, Bulgaria

**Genre:** Classical Horror / Supernatural

Then let us begin...

_On screen:_ Definition appears...

SURGE

A sudden powerful forward or upward movement, especially by a crowd or by a natural force such as water or electricity.

Additional text now scrolls upward on continued black screen

"It is the summer of 2015. What you are about to see is lost footage now recovered. A horrific catalogue of murder, all captured on DVD, and addressed in person to the UK publishing house; Brittunculi. It was noted FOA: Odd Jonathan. Its delivery was intercepted by covert agents of ARAT. The investigation continues."

OPENING SCENE

A basement unknown. The body of an elderly man is seen to be carved up. Piece by piece his flesh is sliced away and removed by a hooded male. In the background, a young fragile woman is seen. She is chained, hog-tied on a stone slab and clearly weak from starvation. The same hooded figure is seen to feed her, orally, with the human flesh.

The camera now focuses on a message, written in blood along a dank concrete wall. It simply reads 'This is Part Four'.

SCENE ONE

Backpacking

Home movie footage of a recent holiday undertaken by a group of six back-packers now takes over. Five of the group are British, the sixth member is a Kiwi from New Zealand and is the group's leader. The camera focuses on five people walking in line ahead of a camera operator who appears to be female judging by her clothes. They are approaching a cylindrical UFO object, atop of a remote secluded hill, in the distance.

**Jade:** _(Shouts_ ) Will you guys slow down? I can't film and walk at this pace.

**Gunner:** ( _Replies as walk leader ahead_ ) You wanted to do the filming today. Anyway a bit of camera shake will all add to the impact won't it? You were the one that said keep it authentic.

**Candy:** ( _Mid group and now laughing_ ) No pain no gain sweetheart. You wanted to do Bulgaria. I did suggest the Pyrenees this year.

**Jade:** There's authentic and crap you know. We need this stuff for our Major's project. We do want to pass it after all, fuck-heads.

**Kate:** ( _Nearest to camera turns around to face Jade_ ) It's not far now. Look, Buzludzha. There she is. This is what we came for. Don't worry about it. We can't fail with a shot like that.

**James:** ( _Mid group interrupts her_ ) You can always fuck your way to a grade one later Jade, ask Candy!

**Candy:** You can really be a piece of shit sometimes. I started fucking Professor Dean long after I had finished his module. You fucking know that jerk-off. I wish I'd never told you.

**Jade:** Children, stop fighting!

**Alex:** ( _Remaining group member_ ) Yeah, come on dudes. Were here to enjoy ourselves. You know how busy we'll be when we get back. Fuck talking about campus, we deserve a holiday!

**Gunner:** We need to crack-on. Look. There's a storm coming in, fast. We need to get in there before dark. You don't want to be struck by lightning at this altitude.

**James:** Fuck aye. Bring it on God!

The group finally arrive, exhausted.

**SKETCH** : **One of nine to follow**

Rare and original. The priceless pen and ink doodles of Buzludzha House architect and designer Georgi Stoilov. Shared with Odd Jonathan during his meeting in March 2015 (Sofia). Reproduced here by kind permission of the Buzludzha Foundation and Her Holiness Gabriela 13.

Georgi Stoilov was born April 3rd, 1929, in Bulgaria. He is one of the founders of the Union of Architects in Bulgaria, the founder of the International Academy for Architecture, and also President of the Union Internationale des Architectes (International Unions of Architects), a position he has held since 1987. His notable world famous works include the monument at Buzludzha, the inverted pyramid building of the Bulgarian Natiional Radio in Sofia, the Freedom Arch at Beklemeto and the Art Gallery of the Union of Bulgarian Artists. He is a former Mayor of the nation's capital, Sofia.

SCENE TWO

Arrangements

**Jade:** ( _Group now sitting on steps of Buzludzha main entrance_ ) I'm fucked, have you seen the state of my feet?

**Alex:** Me too. What's the plan?

**Gunner:** Safety, that's what's first! Helmets on!

**James:** What - are you serious? I'm sweating my bollocks off.

**Gunner:** Yep. You all appointed me group leader so live with it. No helmets means no insurance cover. It's in the risk assessment, you know that!

**Kate:** And cameras on at all times please guys. We need to get everything; and seeing as the cameras are helmet mounted, no helmet means no footage.

**Alex:** We'd better get everything. I'm not doing that trek again, never! I reckon my ankles are going to explode.

**Gunner:** Okay, have I got your attention now?

**Candy:** Well get on with it then

**Gunner:** We have enough battery for all six cameras for twenty-four hours max. That's it. Then we have a choice. Return to the hostel and recharge or get the job done quickly, like now. That means no rest for the wicked!

**Kate:** So what's the brief? Gunner, you're the team leader.

**Gunner:** Okay. Here it is then. We stay in pairs for safety reasons. Seeing as ( _pointing to Candy and James huddled together_ ) you two are now love birds, you take the basements together.

**James** : That's fine by me. Yet another big dark hole to explore.

**Candy:** ( _Giggles_ ) I hope we'll take our time then. I do like the damp beneath me.

**Alex:** That's sick you two. Get a room will you!

**Gunner:** Alex and Jade, you're the experienced climbers, take the tower please.

**Jade:** Will do!

**Gunner:** Kate, we'll take the dome.

**Kate:** Boring!

**Gunner:** Thought you'd say that, ( _Then whispers in her ear_ ) that's why we do the tunnel first!

**Kate:** ( _Whispers back_ ) Now you're talking.

**Candy:** I'm starving to death. I take it we eat now?

**Alex:** Yeah. Let's eat now before dark, here. The view's amazing. Might as well catch as much of it as we can before sunset.

**All:** Agreed!

Group unpack camping stoves and prepare dinner on steps as Jade films them.

SCENE THREE

Business

**Gunner:** Right then, let's pack up and get off. We meet back under the dome, below the hammer and sickle, in six hours. Let's synchronize our watches, mine says it's now just after 6 pm.

**Alex:** Synchronize to "it's just after 6..." What the fuck?

**Kate:** Don't be a twat Alex. We're not invading Iraq you know.

**Gunner:** For fuck's sake then. Its 4 minutes past. Do you need the seconds too? We meet back inside at midnight. If for some reason you can't, then 6 am tomorrow morning is an absolute must, okay! We all leave here together or not at all.

**Jade:** Leave a note guys. I mean if you get there early there's no point in standing about wasting time, is there Gunner? We can all get on with the other stuff.

**Gunner:** Good point. But weight the paper down so it doesn't blow away. Obvious I know, but the wind here can be extreme, look at what's left of the roof.

**Candy:** Can I write mine now then? ( _Laughing_ ). Having a great time with James downstairs. See you in the morning!

**Jade:** Come on. This is serious. We need to know we are all safe and that means knowing each other's whereabouts at all times.

**Gunner:** Absolutely. We need to log everything or the University will be pissed off and that means we fail guys! We got our grants for a reason and that involves backing this up with evidence that we did what we signed up and agreed too.

**James:** Rodger, over and out squadron leader. Catch up at midnight guys, we're off.

**Candy:** Have fun all, see ya.

**Jade:** Let's do it then Alex. It's pitch black inside until we get to the top of the tower. I'd like to be there, on top, for sun set.

**Alex:** Self and torch on its way. You sort the ropes.

_Only Gunner and Kate remain_.

**Gunner:** Let's make our move too. We've got a big job on finding that shaft.

**Kate:** Shaft? I thought we were doing a tunnel.

**Gunner:** Semantics, semantics. It is a tunnel but almost vertical in places, especially when it breaks out into the lab.

**Kate:** What fucking lab?

**Gunner:** You're gonna love it! Mum's the word.

**Kate:** Stop right there. No secrets, what fuckin' lab?

**Gunner:** Well, I didn't want to say anything until the others were out of ear shot. Apparently, well according to that drunk Russian we met last night, remember, the one that couldn't keep his eyes of Candy's tits, well, anyway, he said there's a secret military access tunnel that leads into a bunker below the cellars. It was sealed off years ago.

**Kate:** Why haven't you said anything until now?

**Gunner:** Because the early bird gets the worm, stupid. And so what? If I had the others would have wanted to come with us and then nothing that we really need to do here today would get finished. Face it Kate. James and Candy would just shag all day and Alex and Jade would just moan about their feet! Anyway, what's the point in us all going if we don't even know if it's true or not.

**Kate** : And the rest? You're holding back again, I can tell.

**Gunner:** Wait and see will you.

**Kate:** No! All of it now! Spill the beans..

**Gunner:** Don't be such a kill joy, mate. Where's that sense of adventure gone girl?

**Kate:** ( _Prompts Gunner demandingly_ ) Gunner?

**Gunner:** For fuck's sake, we're wasting time now. Okay. Laboratory six levels beneath, sealed up after a serious of murders. Is that enough for you? Oh, I almost forgot. He mentioned countless disappearances too.

**Kate:** You prick.

**Gunner:** I know, but don't say it too loudly, I don't have planning permission. Anyway, it's probably all balls, but I just wanna find out either way. But if it's true, think of the grade we're gonna get for finding it. A plus all round.

**Kate:** Of course it not true. Urbexers would never keep that one down, and seeing as they gave us most of the research data for this trip in the first place, shit for brains, I think somebody would have let that cat out of the bag soon enough, wouldn't they?

**Gunner:** Urbexers yes, but...

**Kate:** But what?

**Gunner:** But what if it wasn't urbexers who said it. What if, just what if it was a certain drunk Russian man who had shown me a video of the entrance? The very same drunken Russian who has now lost his cell phone?

**Kate:** You didn't? What the fuck Gunner!

**Gunner:** He doesn't know a thing, trust me. He was way too smashed to remember anything. Look... ( _Gunner now shows Kate a phone video of entrance and entry route_ ). It's easy! Nice phone too!

**Kate:** We don't know what's in there. It may be unsafe, snakes, spiders, bears for Christ sake, and anything could go wrong.

**Gunner:** Look Kate, the decision's yours. You can come with me or be the killjoy and stay here. The Russian said nobody's been up it in years. It's just a service tunnel; an exit route in case of emergency. But if it does open up into an old laboratory, I want to be the first in. Got it?

**Kate:** ( _Angrily addresses Gunner_ ) If something goes wrong you'll fuck this trip up for all of us. So here it is. I'll be the adult here if you don't mind, cretin. I'm going inside to do the dome. You can go off and get lost in a shitty make-believe hole if you want to. You're on your own with that one pal. You fuckin' explain yourself to the others, don't involve me!

**Gunner:** Snooze you lose, girl. Your choice. Helmet, camera, lamps and ropes, nothing can go wrong. So I guess I'll see ya later then?

Gunner disappears into woodland in the far distance whilst Kate watches on angry and bemused. The storm starts to close in with loud cracks of thunder heard overhead. The sky darkens. Her head cam is still filming, both video and audio. Gunner too is filming his walk away as he sings to himself. Kate walks around to the right-hand-side of the building and enters through a hole smashed in the concrete. Steel bars welded together block the original main entrance.

SCENE FOUR

Basement

James and Candy film as they both walk down a stairway towards the basement levels. They come across a floral tribute midway in the stairwell.

**Candy:** What the crap's that for?

**James:** Haven't got a clue, but it seems to be a memorial to two French guys. Look, there, at the photo.

Camera sees framed text amongst tributes left by others.

**James:** ( _Reads out aloud_ ) In memory of Achille Pinet, 23, and Marrok Brideau, 29. Look here? It says murdered on this date.

**Candy:** So whose great idea was it to upgrade their 3G then? Candy's of course – go girl or what! ( _Smug mocking laughter_ ) I guess you call that girl power?

**James:** Let's see what you can find out.

**Candy:** Here; there's a blog about them. It's from a book called 'Meat: Memoirs of a Psychopath'. Scrolling down now...

**James:** Sounds pretty sick to me. What does it say?

**Candy:** It says it's a hoax. Some kind of promo thing.

**James:** Are you sure? Look. Those flowers are rotten, and those ones there next to them are quite recent. And there's everything in between. There's a memorial book, see, under those bottles. It looks like people have been leaving stuff here for years.

**Candy:** Perhaps we should leave them some wet panties then! Come on, let's keep going. I'll make sure it's worth your while.

James's camera shot catches her tuning back as she walks on blowing him a kiss. She turns away and pats her own arse beckoning him on sexually.

James reads the memorial book and examines other memorial items at the site for a few minutes more whilst left alone. Sprayed on the wall Hashtag Gabrielites. Then continues his journey further downward into the basement to catch up with Candy.

**James:** ( _Shouts_ ) Candy, Candy! Wait up. ( _There is no r_ e _ply_ )

**James:** Candy! Where are you? This is freaking me out. ( _He continues to search for her in the darkness until eventually she jumps out on him_ )

**Candy:** Boo! ( _Now laughing_ )

**James:** You fucking bitch! What did you do that for?

**Candy:** I hear that fear can make a man hard - big boy!

Candy seductively falls to her knees down toward James's crotch. Head cameras continue to film each other active in passionate sexual scene. Both release loud groans of pleasure as the noise of their sexual coupling echoes out into the darkness.

SCENE FIVE

Tower

Head cams capture ascent eventually opening up into star room.

**Jade:** ( _First to arrive at the top_ ) Fuck me; that was some climb but this makes it all worth it. Wait 'til you see this.

**Alex:** My fucking ankles are killing again. It'd better be good!

**Jade:** Let me get the script out. You set the tripod up. We need to do the project intro here, and no camera shake this time.

**Alex:** Jade, you're such a slave driver. Let me know when you've finished rehearsing first. I need at least 10 minutes off my feet. Until then, fuck it all.

**Jade:** Lightweight!

As Alex rests, pouring a coffee from his flask and lighting a cigarette, Jade practices her narration for the project script.

**One of Five:** Architect Plan - Main Entrance.  
Courtesy of Dora Ivanova: Buzludzha Foundation.

SCENE SIX

Ghost

Footage cuts back to scene of intense sexual excitement between Candy and James in basement until Candy suddenly freezes, still as stone.

**Candy:** What the fuck was that?

**James:** That's the sound of hard fucking! ( _Continuing to thrust into her from her behind)_

**Candy:** James, seriously, fucking stop already, there's someone down here with us. ( _As James ejaculates with loud release_ ).

**James:** I hope they enjoyed the show then.

_Candy hurriedly tucks her breasts back into her bra and pulls up her jeans_.

**James:** What the fuck, Candy? What's going on? You look like you've just seen a ghost.

**Candy:** I'm telling you James, there's someone in here with us, my head torch caught them watching us, just a glimpse in the dark, down there, listen.

James listens in silence but hears nothing.

**James:** So let's go see who's down there. Smack the twat in the gob then. The fuckin' perve.

**Candy:** Don't be fucking stupid. There's something wrong in here. It wasn't normal.

**James:** Wasn't normal? What the fuck do you think you saw then? You think you saw a ghost or something? ( _Mocks her with exaggerated ghostly sounds_ ).

**Candy:** ( _Pauses for a moment and replies in a terrified tone_ ) Shut up. Stop. Stop it now. Yes!

SCENE SEVEN

Dome

Kate is examining and cataloguing artwork around the inner walls of the dome. She reads into her Dictaphone. Poor quality audio is picked up and duplicated by her helmet camera.

**Kate:** So here we are, inside the former Communist House at Shipka Peak in Bulgaria. Welcome all of you to Buzludzha. James and Candy are in the basements below. Alex and Jade have gone up the tower and Gunner - well he's gone solo looking for a tunnel that apparently may or may not exist, and that may or may not lead to a subterranean laboratory. But for now, this is me speaking, so for all of you folks watching this at home - Hi, I'm Kate.

I want to start by explaining the purpose of the project for which we thank you. Oh yes we do! Without you guys watching this, and the generous funding you have provided, well, needless to say, there would be no project at all, so again, and firstly, thank you!

So here it is: Soviet Ghosts. This project is part of our media submission for our masters. We're here today to talk about iconic socialist era constructions, architecture and brutalist structures you either love or hate. And where better to start than here. I'm sure you agree.

Buzludzha was built in... ( _Lightning strikes roof and interrupts her mid speech_ )

**Kate:** ( _Now continues_ ) Fuck! What the fuck was that? Something just touched me. I felt it, it was like electricity running through me, and it just tried to pull me over.

_Her head cam continues to film as she silently scans the room, but nothing can be seen_.

**Kate:** Okay, that's the freakiest thing. I don't know what you will see on film but, I swear, something just touched me... not touched, more like grabbed at me. Okay, let me start again then. Buzludzha was built in...

Physically scared and shocked she attempts to continue as she composes herself.

**Kate:** ( _Continues_ ) ...was built, in fact opened in 1981, on the site of a battle between Bulgarian rebels led by Hadji Dimitar and Stefan Karadzha against the Ottoman yoke of Turkish occupation. It's 4,726 feet above sea level and takes its name from the Turkish word meaning icy peak. It was built by the former communist regime to commemorate the events of 1891, when Dimitar Blagoev met in secret with other agrarians on this site to form the first Bulgarian socialist party: The Bulgarian Social Democratic Party. As you can see it is now derelict and....

Scene fades out as Kate continues her commentary.

Architect Plan 2: Dome

SCENE EIGHT

Lightening

Footage cuts back to Alex and Jade in the tower.

**Alex:** Okay, tripod's as solid as a rock now. I'm ready when you are Jade?

**Jade:** So here we are, up the tower. We wanted to go out onto the roof but as you can hear clearly, and no doubt you can catch the flashes too, there is a thunderstorm brewing, and yes, as you can also see, the ladders here are metal. So not a good idea. We'll try and catch that bit for you later on, in the morning. So, let me tell you about the star behind me and then we're gonna get the hell out of here. The star, the largest ever built in Russia was made out of... ( _Lighting strikes and Alex is thrown violently from his feet_ ).

**Jade:** Alex, Alex, fuck Alex... talk to me. ( _As no response is received, panicking, she now attempts mouth to mouth_ ). Don't die, fucking come on man, breath.

**Alex:** ( _Coughs and draws in breathe deeply and suddenly. Mumbles_ ) What happened? Where am I?

**Jade:** Thank God. Can you hear me? Speak to me? Alex, say something.

**Alex:** ( _A now terrified expression as he re-gains his senses_ ) Run Jade, run, get out, get out now.

**Jade:** What do you mean, run? Run from what? I'll go and get help.

**Alex:** Run! It's here. It's with us. I can see it. Run!

**Jade:** There's nothing here Alex. You're in shock. I'll go for help.

**Alex:** It's here. Run! ( _Grasping Jade's wrist firmly, he reiterates_ ) Run. Go now. Leave me. Run. You have to run!

**Jade:** I'll be back. Hold on, I'll get you down from here. Just hold on. You're in shock.

_Jade frantically descends from the tower in search of help. In her haste through the darkness she slips and falls. There's a loud crack as of bone breaking. Her leg is shattered_.

**Jade:** ( _Screaming in agony_ ) Jesus, Jesus, fuck, help. Fucking help me someone!

She senses a presence. Something or someone is descending the stairs above her. It is pure evil. She starts to crawl her way down, back toward the dome, finally losing strength beside the lift shaft of the first floor stairwell.

**Jade:** ( _Panting and crying, sniffling_ ) Help. Please help me, someone please. Please help me, I'm here. Alex, is that you? Alex?

Architect Plan 3: East View

SCENE NINE

Tunnels

Gunner's head cam films as he struggles through a drainage pipe, at times using a rope to secure him from falls. The storm has brought heavy rainfall and risks washing him back down the pipe to certain death. He speaks into his camera.

**Gunner:** Well guys ( _Jokingly_ ), the road to hell is pathed with good intentions and this seemed like a good idea at the time. There is some good news though; at least Kate had the sense to break away from it.

**Gunner:** ( _Later continues_ ) So here's the situation. I found it, the way in down in the woods way below the building. It's difficult to crawl through but doable. Ropes are essential! I guess I'm kind of midway now. I feel like I've been climbing through for hours but ( _Shows watch to the camera_ ) it's now 9.40. I guess there's one hell of a storm going on up there. The tunnel seems to be flooding. The decision is, do I turn back now and risk being washed away or carry on upward? The tunnels much thinner back down, or I guess, I'll carry on until I eventually level out into the basement. If it exists that is. I frigging hope so!

**Gunner:** ( _Later continues after more progress_ ) So dudes, if you find this footage later washed up, I guess ( _Jokingly, but clearly scared and saving face_ ) that means I'm dead. I'm still going on though, it's all here in the camera, but I can see a shaft ahead, I'm going on again. Catch you later!

He stares up a large vertical shaft with an iron access ladder. He starts to climb. He finds himself within a basement. Though clearly unused for some time, the basement is not as derelict as the remainder of the building. There is evidence of an old laboratory and he finds a room with what look like sick beds. There are stairways to two upper tiers. He starts to read old documents from desk drawers but cannot understand them as some are written in some form of Hebrew and others in Bulgarian. However; horrific illustrations of human degradation and torture are all apparent. After some time here, he now hears noises behind him. Footsteps. It is the Russian.

**Russian:** Get out, get out! You cannot be here.

**Gunner:** Fuck man, you frightened the shit out of me.

**Russian:** Get out now!

**Gunner:** Are you here for the phone? You dropped it last night man. I didn't give it back because you were too drunk. I was going to give it back tomorrow at the hut, when I was back at the hostel... honest. I was just looking after it for you. I couldn't find you when I left, earlier on today but...

**Russian:** ( _Interrupts Gunner_ ) Get out now. You cannot be here. Listen to me. Get out whilst you still can.

**Gunner:** I don't understand. Its derelict man. Nobody owns it. What the fuck's it got to do with you if I'm here or not?

**Russian:** It breathes. Life returns in the electricity. This building lives during the storms. Get out now! You must get out whilst you still can.

Lighting again strikes and the pair feel a surge of power within the fabric of the building around them. Suddenly an unknown force, an unseen entity starts pulling the Russian toward the tunnel entrance shaft. Gunner grabs at his wrists but is unable to counteract the enormous power. Eventually he lets go. The Russian is dragged, screaming, and away into the darkness. Footage then caught on Gunner's head cam is captured as he, the Russian, is apparently now thrown by the invisible force down into the vertical shaft. All that is left is the Russian's torch, still on, lying on the ground. Panic struck, Gunner ascends upward in sheer terror. Eventually he hears Kate, moaning and groaning in pain above him. He finds his way into the lift shaft but above him, the old seized lift, rusted in place for several years, prevents him from gaining access to her.

**Gunner:** Jade, Jade, is that you?

**Jade:** Gunner! Thank God. Help me, my leg is smashed, I can't move. There's something here.

**Gunner:** We've got to get out, we have to go now, but I'm stuck, I can't get past the lift. Where are the others?

**Jade:** We were up the tower. Alex was struck by lightning. He went strange, he said he could see things, bad things.

**Gunner:** Jade, don't worry. I'm gonna get you out, but I need to go back down first. I'll be a fast as I can. I'm coming to get you, just hold on.

Gunner terrified but methodically commences the tunnel descent back out toward the open. He does not discover any remains of the Russian. Jade remains still, but is breathing heavily. James and Candy, having finished their basement exploration early, now come across her.

**Candy:** What the fuck happened Jade? Jesus sister, are you alright?

**James:** We need to patch up that leg quick.

**Candy:** What the fuck was that?

**James:** What?

**Candy:** That. Listen...

The sound of electrostatic noises can be heard approaching from both the stairway above and basement stairs below. It is deeply disturbing.

**Jade:** Get me out of here please, I beg you. Please get me out, don't leave me here. It's evil.

**James:** Were not leaving anyone. Come on, we're all getting' out of here right now, but I warn you Jade; it's gonna hurt!

_Candy and James lift_ _Jade to her feet, where she hops in severe pain, supported by the shoulders of her friends, back toward the inner dome._

**Candy:** ( _En route conversation takes place_ ) Have you seen any of the others, Jade?

**Jade:** Gunner's gone for help. He's in a tunnel that leads back outside. He was under the lift but, but Alex...

**Candy:** ( _Interrupting_ ) What about Alex?

**Jade:** He's still up the tower. He's hurt too. It's bad. I was rushing to get help when I fell. He's been electrocuted. He's mumbling like a mad man.

**James:** Don't worry about that for now. Gunner and I can get him down later, but you're first, we need to get your leg fixed up.

The noise of electrostatic power grows louder as some form of entity approaches from both directions. The sound contains distorted contorted multiple voices, begging to be saved from purgatory, "Save us, save us, save us...purgatory, save us." They flee together to the sanctuary of the dome.

Architect Plan 4: Stairway

SCENE TEN

Sanctuary

James, Candy and Jade storm in to the inner domed area.

**James:** Quick, morphine Jade, we need the morphine, and bandages, now!

**Kate:** What the fuck happened?

**Jade:** It hurts Kate. Where's the morphine? I can't breathe properly.

**James:** Now! Where is it? Quickly. She's in agony.

**Kate:** Gunner took it. I don't have it. He went tunneling.

**Jade** : Fuck. He's gone back down now. He went for help.

**James:** I'll kill that fucking Kiwi arsehole. He'll fuckin pay for this one!

The group attempt to patch up Jade's leg the best they can under the circumstances. Lightning again strikes the building with enormous power; lighting up the entire dome ceiling above them. Beyond the broken roof and hammer and sickle central motif they look up to see Alex. He is stood on the apex of the tower above them.

**Candy:** What the fuck is he doing?

**Kate:** What the... Jesus Christ!

The group watch as Alex calmly steps off the tower without making a sound. He falls, crashing down onto the roof above them. His twisted mangled body hangs from a girder. His blood drips down making a pool at their feet. The building starts to throb. A pulsating energy force starts to light up the cylindrical walls around them, dimly on and off; in repeated electromagnetic pulses. Multiple figures appear to come from beyond the walls surrounding them, from within the concrete structure and slowly they approach the small group huddled in the middle of the room.

**James:** We need to get the fuck out now, let's go! Go!

**Jade:** Don't leave me, please, don't leave me.

**Candy:** Get up Jade, now, we need to run. Get up!

**Kate:** Fuck; what is it? What are they?

Struggling to hold up Jade and her body weight slowing them down whilst attempting to run up the stairs to the dome's outer balcony they all stumble to the ground together. Jade is pulled back down the steps toward the center by a mystery force. Alex's body now falls to the floor beside her. They both begin to spin in ever increasing circles with increasing speed within a gravity-free environment.

**Jade:** ( _Screaming hysterically_ ) Help! God help me. I don't want to die, please, help me. Someone help me!

Now within the balcony area beyond the steps, James, Candy and Kate look on. Helpless to intervene as Jade and the remains of Alex's corpse are ripped apart organ by organ, limb by limb, by the ever increasing force. As they rotate, their body parts smash outward against the outer dome walls. And now they are both sucked into the wall; absorbed, disappearing without trace. Not a drop of blood is left afterward. What remains of the group now run in sheer terror and panic around the balcony in a desperate search for an exit. Breathless they stop.

**Kate:** There is no way out guys. We can run forever. We've just come back to where started.

**Candy:** There must be a way out... for Christ sake, there must be.

**Kate:** Believe me, there isn't. I wish there was, but there isn't.

**James:** The ropes? Where are the ropes? We can abseil down the outer walls, to the ground, look. ( _He drops a stone over to prove his point_ ). It's not that far.

**Kate:** There are no ropes James. Gunner took mine with him and Jade's must still be up the tower.

**Candy:** You mean the only way out is back through the dome to the inner stairs? This is so fucked up.

**James:** We have to do something. We can't just run around in circles all night. My head torch is already starting to dim. I left my rucksack, with the spare kit downstairs.

**Candy:** Listen; Jade told us Gunner had gone for help, right? So we can wait for him. Someone will come, they must.

**James:** We don't even know if Gunner's still alive. Just look at the rain. If he's in a tunnel he might have been washed away now?

**Candy:** But we have to do something. I'm not going to end up like the others. I'm not, I'm not.

**Kate:** When I was alone earlier, waiting for the meet-up time, I felt something, it touched me. And it was there again every time the lighting struck. It was inexplicable so...

**James:** So what?

**Kate:** I found out online that this building used to house a hadron collider. The communists used it in experiments, to access a portal to outer worlds beyond outer space.

**James:** I've read that crap too. It's fiction. 'Communists in Outer Space', it's just cheap pulp fiction. It's bullshit Kate.

**Candy:** Does this look like fucking fiction to you prick. This is real shit and it's happening to us now. Right here, right now! And you need to get us the fuck out of here. Just fuckin' man up will you!

**Kate:** The book said that the collider was deactivated after the regime fell, but souls were trapped within the building's structure, in limbo, a purgatory from which they could not return. But they do, when the lighting strikes. It's true, all of it. They can come back.

**James:** Are you saying that the electricity brings them back to life? What the fuck are you on Kate?

**Candy:** What else is it? We all saw them come from within the walls. Kate, you saw them didn't you? Tell him it's true.

**Kate:** James, you saw exactly what just happened. Don't even try to deny it. That was some kind of electrical tornado and our friends are dead as a result. We don't need a cunt head here; you fucking saw it too.

**James:** So what now? We wait for the next surge or do we get the fuck out of here?

**Kate:** They can only exist momentarily when the lighting strikes. As the surge discharges, they disappear again. But, with each strike their power grows. It's storing electricity somehow. There must be batteries somewhere or something.

**Candy** : That's it Kate. We wait for the next strike, and then we leg it down to the exit below... out through the hole we came in by.

**James:** If we can make it to the hole bashed through the outer wall then... ( _Kate interrupts him_ ).

**Kate:** James; I'm confused. I can't find my bearings. Which stairwell was the hole on?

_T_ _he group face each other in silence as not one of them can remember how to find the way out._

Architect Plan 5: Underground

SCENE ELEVEN

Headless

_Footage now cuts to Gunner_ _._ _He has finally struggled down and is nearing the exit to the pipe. He is shivering with cold, the water almost drowning him as he struggles to catch his breathe. He can see moonlight at the outer end and continues determinedly on. On hands and knees he finally exits._

**Gunner:** Thank God, thank God... God I love you!

At that point, an axe is brought down onto the back of his neck. A single clean swipe removes it from his torso. With his head cam still recording as it remains strapped to his head, it is placed into his killer's woven sack.

SCENE TWELVE

Hopelessness

Captured footage now shows us a return to the balcony where the group await the next surge. They look outward into the darkness and torrential rain.

**James:** Look; it's Gunner, he did it, there, I can see him. He's on the steps.

**Kate:** He's got the rope bag. Fucking way to go Gunner, fucking way to go.

**Candy:** That's not Gunner.

**James:** Gunner, Gunner, we're up here. ( _Waving frantically_ ) Gunner!

**Kate:** ( _Also waving_ ) Here Gunner. We're on the balcony above you!

**Candy:** Stop, I'm telling you, that's not Gunner!

_They continue to peer down into the darkness as the figure slowly approaches them, climbing the pathed steps to the front of Buzludzha. It stops below them, looks up momentarily and then throws the sack up to them from below. It lands beside them_.

**Kate:** Is it the ropes. Is it?

Shining their head torches upon it, they locate the blood soaked package. James lifts it slowly by both outer bottom corners. Gunner's head rolls out. Candy runs, screaming and terrified, back into the dome. James, her lover, follows.

**James:** Stop, Candy, stop, we must wait, stop, don't run.

**Candy:** I'm not dying in here, I'm not. It's not gonna happen to me, I'm not dying here.

She reaches the stairs but in her desperate flee for safety she falls down into the bottomless darkness of the stairwell below. Looters have removed the metal stairway balustrades. As she now falls, her neck is snapped. James peers down on her from considerable height above.

**James:** No, no, no, please, no, Candy, no. Oh, Jesus no.

_Lightning strikes_ _._ _James feels a presence behind him. He turns to see multiple silhouettes; black and featureless. They pull on him, and after falling over, he is now taken, dragged by his ankles into the walls. Just as a sponge expels water, the walls are sodden with flesh and blood. Eventually evaporating within, absorbing his remains as if nothing had happened at all. His head torch and camera, and all other metal non-porous objects remain on the floor below._

**Kate:** ( _Screams out_ ) James, Candy, where are you, come back. James, Candy, don't leave me here. Come back, where are you? ( _Thunder has dulled the noise of their screams_ )

Eventually; after many hopeless hours she now falls, shattered and exhausted, shivering, into a deep sleep, huddled under the overhanging concrete sill of the outer derelict window sockets.

**Kate:** ( _Awakening and neurotically talking to herself_ ) I'm on the outer boundary of the building. They can't get me here, they can't. I know this, get a grip, just need to focus, pull myself together and wait for daylight. If, if... if I stay under here they cannot get me. They didn't get Alex did they? No, no... he jumped by himself to get away from them. Focus Kate, focus.

The storm subsides whilst she sleeps and daylight finally arrives. Still terrified but composed she stands. She finds that Gunner's head has disappeared, but his camera remains on the floor at her feet.

**Kate:** ( _Continuing insanely to chant to herself_ ) They took it. It was absorbed. Yes, his head, they took, took it into the walls when I slept. The cameras. I need the cameras. I have to collect the cameras. They won't believe me. I need the cameras. I must find them all. Focus, I must find them.

She picks up Gunner's camera, and after entering the dome, locates Alex's and Jade's also. They are smashed from violent impact so she removes both memory cards. She also collects the group's additional memory cards and back-ups from personal baggage left behind at the scene. James's video camera is later found beside a stair well and Candy's is on the floor of the main hallway below the dome. She kneels, having emptied her own personal kit bag, as she now frantically packs everything else, her finds, back into her own backpack. She steadily begins to collect her own thoughts. Now with the storm long over and bright daylight shining in through openings in the roof above, she finds her way back to the small exit hole. One large enough for just one person at a time to crawl through and out into the open air beyond. It was smashed through the outer wall and led out onto the first floor landing, the very same one through which the group had entered the previous day. After the main doorway gates to the complex had been previously welded shut, to prevent continued looting, this new borehole had been the only way for tourists and sightseers to gain entry. Dropping her rucksack outside to the floor first, she pulls her way through into the broad daylight beyond.

**Kate:** No! Dear God, no, please not me, no... I beg you, no... Please! Don't take me!

Kate realises that something or somebody has grabbed her by the ankles. Powerless, she is pulled back into the hole from which she came, feet first. Two of her finger nails are caught by her own head cam as they are ripped from her fingers. They fall to the blood-splattered ground outside below her as she desperately attempts to cling to, and accordingly violently scratches the concrete surface of the outer walls.

Footage cuts to a source of unknown origin. Not video previously captured and recovered from the group's own head cams but a return to the film's opening sequence. That dark dank cellar in which a woman appears to be starved alongside an older man being stripped of his own flesh. A figure walks around to the front of the video cam.

Holding a blooded sack in his left hand which is obviously the remains of Gunner's head, the killer now removes his hood and reveals himself. His face is that of the covert agent Arat, the Vicar Jeremy Walton.

Le Fin!
Dear Jonathan,

What a fucking crescendo indeed! I hope you liked it. I can almost hear you from here. Shall I write down now what I think you are screaming? "No, no, no, not Arat, it can't be..." Oh; yes, yes, yes it is! The Reverend Jeremy Walton; you were such a gullible twat. It seems like you can't even trust your local Vicar these days. Love is such a delusion.

And twelve scenes, just like the twelve apostles of Jesus. We put so much time and personal investment into the film, and now you, we feel sure, will fully appreciate how much your own contribution inspired it. Consider it the last supper to introduce you to Part Four; and what ab epic delivery it is! We got it just perfect, didn't we? And it's all down to you – you absolute total piece of twisted shit.

I begin to gain the sense that you regret your mockery of The Holy Texts now? Never mind; we all make mistakes. There's no hard feelings (excuse the pun for this final time); it's purely business, I'm sure you understand.

Yes; of course we had to embellish somewhat; supernatural and all that. The idea came from Isabella's book (the one about communists in outer space). What a star she is, even if it was just a thin cameo role at the intro. Lol. Do keep your DVD safe won't you? It's signed by the entire cast, very collectable I'm sure. I hope the pigs don't take it off you? But then it's evidence, isn't it?

They're all dead, all six backpackers, and Brian too; and it's all your fault yet again. Embrace your descent into hell for a final time. Enjoy every moment of it, please, do.

I need to be honest with you. The Russian wasn't really killed. He was Brother 8; a superb actor in any one's league. He helped us to butcher them all. What fun we had together. We trapped them inside and collected their film footage afterward. Amazing cinematography and all real (except the ghosts as I have said).

But the end: what a dramatic twist and all just for you. Arat! Can you imagine that? Yes; Arat. He was one of us all the time, delivering Part Four to you in person. What priceless entertainment you are. How Brian squealed that day he arrived looking for Isabella. He told us everything about you. There's no honour amongst thieves you see. Who, where, why – everything! A personal delivery seemed to be the obvious course of action didn't it? Just to let you know that you can never hide from us.

So where are you now? I wonder; let's see... YES: I think your hiding from me... Oh; and I promised you a happy ending didn't I? I almost forgot. A promise is a promise after all. So we now conclude 'How to Breed Chickens in Iowa' with a very happy fairy tale ending just for you. It all happens at chapter 69, such a wonderful number; reminds me of a pair of lesbians I once met in Canada. You'll love it.

You see the whore always gets it in life doesn't she? The film industry always kills-off her character first, but not this time. Prostitution, drugs, abuse... No! How many hookers ever get that happy ending? Come on; it's Hollywood - fuck the PR, they don't deserve happiness. But we'll now break away from predictable scripts for this one. She's not going to die of an overdose in the bath or be strangled by some twisted psycho in an alleyway. Not even gang raped as you expect the movie tradition to be for ending the life of a sex worker. Chandelle is going to get her dream come true. It's the least I can do for her. So I conclude with the final collation of her notes, her fantastical journey of escapism all in her very own words from her most private diary. You can thank me later. Isn't she the most romantic fantasist? I wonder what's she like in the sack?

I truly appreciated all your hard work on PING; it's good. The Vicar told me all about it! Such commitment. I guess you, for one, will never fly again. And so with that it is finished. The end of the world has arrived. It's been a pleasure to have you onboard working with us. I hope you will enjoy your latter stay and find your new accommodation most satisfactory to your tastes. To imagine that you are only finding this out now as you read it. We've given you the very first edition and I've signed it just for you. Imagine how much it won't be worth one day? There will be no-one left to buy it. Such glee you bring me. Brittunculi; now under new management!

Do you now realise how powerful I am? I mean really appreciate it? We are untouchable. We are above everything and we control everything. For how long did the Catholic Church hide the sexual abuse cases that came to light in the 1980s? The cover-ups committed by Catholic priests, nuns, and Roman Catholic orders. Crimes against boys and girls. Some victims were just 3 years old. They knew about it for decades. Allegations were frequently made; the Catholic hierarchy only serving to move abusive priests to other parishes where the abuse continued. The Holy See, the central governing body of the Catholic Church, now forced to examine sex abuse allegations concerning nearly 3,000 priests worldwide. Cases dating back as far as fifty years.

Do you think they'll ever expose Mother Teresa? Their Blessed Teresa of Calcutta. Who, despite billions in wealth denied medical care to the sick and dying. Pat them on the back with the words; "God bless you; pain is your penance" and all will be quite well, won't it? You see; you need to understand how your suffering brings you closer to God. Jesus suffered for our sins so we too must all suffer. But I feel you truly understand this basic principle now.

I'll let you into a little secret. Whilst Big Jesus is simply wonderful music to kill to, I do these days so much prefer your other song, 'Priest'. I assure you Jonathan, men of cloth burn very well indeed! I'm so delighted you included it in the musical. You are such an inspiration at times.

Anyway; to the point. With great institutions comes enormous power, and they are all beyond reproach and reach. But we can reach into them. We, the Gabrielites, the new order of things. We will find them and they will pay for their sins. They cannot hide within the church anymore. We are the church. God doesn't love you, he wants you dead. You need to understand this. That there is no longer any hope for human kind. You're maggots, parasites, all of you.

All this chaos in the name of God. Seeds! That's the future. I suggest you all invest in seeds. Money is already quite finished and I have a hunch that the banks will collapse again, very soon. Do be careful where you buy them from. You don't want contaminated ones do you?

In the beginning there was darkness. And as darkness was the only true creation of my Lord Almighty, then darkness it shall be. The year is zero.

With all our love, the Gabrielites xxx

P.S: I've added YOU to my 'things to do' list!

*****

PART FOUR

HOW to Breed Chickens in IOWA – Conclusion

Chandelle Davies

Chapter 66

Western

Western, our ranch hand, disappeared one year. I remember it very well. There was so much snow that year, we were snowed in for months, out on Carter Ranch. The wild bears were starving, but Dad being Dad, did what he could. He would drag old live-stock carcasses up into the woods to feed them. We always thought that the bears had taken Western; but we were wrong.

As the snow cleared in May, the following year, he reappeared walking out from the wilderness toward us as if he were a ghost. He was frail and tired and clearly hadn't washed or shaved in weeks. Nanook's wife, Wind Whisper, made several potions for him and he soon started to recover. Dr Owen did what he could to treat the frost bite, but Western eventually lost four toes and his little finger of his left hand. We all knew how lucky he was to be alive.

He'd been up with the cattle on Beaker's Glen, not so far away from the ranch, maybe just 12 miles or so. Jank was off on his Towning Day and Old Dan, although still as keen as ever to help, had not fully recovered from his fall. He hadn't been able to ride and was still recovering some eighteen months later. He would stay back and do chores around the place, gently, step by step trying to bring the feelings to the nerves in his thigh back. It was to be expected, after all Old Dan was called Old Dan for a very good reason. He was very aged, but nobody knew his true years.

Western had been all alone the day he went missing. Slide had stayed with his grazing horses whilst his friends, Tilly and Ornesto, undertook a search. It was a complete mystery. The cattle were fine, none were missing, and there was no sign of a bear attack. The heavy snows arrived just a couple of weeks after he had disappeared, and any hope of finding him was soon lost. But there he was, the following May, found when he had returned again safely to us all.

He had fallen from his horse, banged his head on a rock and lost his memory. He had vague memories of his life but was mostly, confused, not knowing truly who or where he was. His horse had returned all by herself to Jank, and that's when the alarm had been raised. Western had wondered off into the wilderness, in quite the wrong direction, and had become lost in the hills. When the snow arrived he had bedded down in an old mine shaft cabin. It had been disused for many years. The miners had never found anything of value there and had long moved on west to the Klondike in search of other riches. Western had fed on rabbit and squirrel. Using a snare, they had proved easily caught. Slowly but surely his memory had returned and as the weather improved, he made the decision to attempt his return to Carter Lake. His belief was that as the snow thawed, the bears would soon come out of hibernation. "It was now or never," he had said although his journey had taken several weeks more than he had expected.

He told us so many stories. The snares had been made from old telegraphy cables left behind by the miners. They didn't use them for cabling, but for charges to detonate the gunpowder kegs. "They were capable of producing a most impressive spark," we were told. He had explored the mine several times over using an old whale oil lantern that he had found in the cabin to guide his way. The deeper he went the warmer he felt. It was deep down in the shaft that he had discovered fresh spring water, flowing freely through a crack above his head. Most of the lower depths were flooded, but the abundant supply of drinking water which he had found, had undoubtedly kept him alive.

Water wasn't the only thing he had discovered though. We didn't realize it yet, but Western's disappearance was soon to prove to be a blessing in disguise. In the flooded shafts there was found to be a dark congealed pitch that floated on the water top. It had reminded him of the old tar pits that were common back in his homeland, Rancho La Brea (a Mexican land grant in southern California). He said he would scoop it up and strain it through small pebbles. Then, having soaked old pine cones, ignite it with his flint. "The day I found it was a great discovery," he told us. "I had heat for the first time." Western also had hot water and tea; a tea made from the pine trees that were evergreen throughout the winter months. Nanook added to the conversation that this had prevented him from becoming ill, as the pine tree spikes were rich in health. Indian tribes, such as his, had used and known of this medicine's benefits for centuries.

Nigel, my dad, had a most interesting reaction to Western's tales of tar and fire. He had been reminded of a story he had heard about two men from Pennsylvania who were developing a new drilling system to extract the pitch from deep below in the ground. Archibald soon added more to the conversation: "It seeps naturally up, such as can be found in the McKittrick plains of California. Native Americans have used it since prehistoric times and more recently it has been mined by settlers too. We can't be sure that the miners from Western's find have gone off elsewhere for gold, can we?"

What was for sure is that the conversation wasn't going to end with the damping down of the camp fire that evening. There was a sense of excitement that wasn't going to die with the evening wind, and this was certain. The following day, midafternoon, Archibald ran excitedly across to the paddock where we were all to be found that day, working the root crop. The snow was finally clearing and Western now found to be fit and well following his convalescence. "I have it. I have it in my hand." He shouted out across to us as he approached. He'd been into Saratoga Crossing, and after much ado, he had found a map of old mine workings up on the Beaker's Glen ridges. "Western, where's Western? I need him to show me exactly which one," he was shouting. "He's over in the upper pound with the Montana stock horses, I think he's brushing down Blaze and Trigger, the Broadmoors," Mum replied. Within an instant, having only replied "Thank you Cerys my dear" he was gone off again in a quite different direction.

We had much folly in the field that afternoon wondering what Archibald was up to. Charlie Parker had suggested to us all that maybe he'd discovered a new breed of chicken again. "Perhaps he's going to call them Westerns," he joked. "Suits me just fine," chuckled Nanook. After all, he was a cowman and had nothing to do with the hens. "I thought the Australorps were the best hardy chickens in the world – why would he want to breed something else now?" I contributed. "Chand," Izzy replied, "I shouldn't worry too much about chickens until we find out exactly what's going on." A fair point that I had to freely concede over to my older sister's wisdom.

The conversation moved swiftly on, and not by accident, but by design. My mother and sister drew my attention back to my wedding day. Dr Owen and I were soon to be married and I had no doubt at all that my every fantasy, as I have told you, would come true. Mum and Izzy were to be bridesmaids, and Charlie Parker, Izzy's husband, was to be Dr Owen's best man. Dad would walk me down the aisle and that was that. Why was I going to waste any more of my day talking about chickens again!

The ranch hands were all busy, time allowing, building a new chapel. Archie Barnes was himself a Methodist, and this suited my family well given our own origins of South Wales. The Chapel was to be the first Methodist Hall built along the Saratoga Crossing, and Archibald was paying for everything! It was small, very modest, but large enough for purpose. Sixty could be seated quite amply and comfortably inside. It wasn't a difficult task in choosing the new name for it. It was to be called Esther's Kiss after Archie's beloved wife Esther who had died tragically during the winter of 1849. She had been reinterned by him in the grounds of the new cemetery at Esther's Ridge. As legend now tells it, Nanook had witnessed Esther ascend to the spirits that day, blowing her loving husband a final farewell kiss as she travelled on. I'm so privileged to be getting wed there.

PART FOUR

Chapter 67

Exciting Times Ahead

Many exciting things started to happen over the following months; not just my wedding day. Rumours abounded that a transcontinental railroad was soon to be coming. One day there would be a link from coast to coast, overland. The Pacific Coast at San Francisco Bay was to connect directly with the Council Bluffs region of Iowa. The original idea, Dad's, was to go gold mining in California, and now there would be a train that could take us there. Can you imagine that? No more wagon trails and horses. No more silly stories like that one of the Tamlin's of Gloucestershire and their fate at the hands of the Indians. There was a lot of talk in these parts; the railway wasn't to arrive for many years to come. Steamboats on the river remained as they had always been. Dad would stay to care for his chickens and would never leave to dig for gold.

I would often think back to our former days in Cardiff: our life before we sailed to America aboard the Steam Packet _Adventurer_ on 24th January 1851. Where we would be now if Blakeley's of South Street had never sold the old print shop works to Meridian Shipping, I would wonder? After all, the company had paid for all four tickets; Mum, Dad, my sister and I, on that seven week journey together, one big happy family en route to the new lands. Dad certainly was a very canny Welshman. He was also quite the expert these days at making Copper-Mist bourbon!

I became pregnant soon after we married. Our first born would be the boy we had hoped and longed for. We called him Owen after his father. I still called my husband Dr Owen after we married. Mum would ask of me, "Why on earth are you still insisting on addressing the father of your child as Doctor?" I would merely reply to her, "I still find it all rather romantic... don't you think so?" She would just laugh, but that was fine.

Iowa was created in 1846. Unlike Missouri beneath and bordering us, we did not use slaves. To think that such suffering could be allowed to continue in many parts was beyond us. Just as the talk of the new railroads, there was also much talk of abolition. Many believed that one day the whole continent would be united, not just by transport links, but by a single unified government. Mum was very excited by this idea.

To the north and west of Iowa remained huge expanses of unregistered territories; "Thousands upon thousands of miles apparently," as Dad would say. It was this that had led to much of the land being grabbed quickly and cheaply by new settlers and prospectors alike.

Nigel and Archie had both behaved most suspiciously since the day that old mining map had been acquired; strangely, to say the very least. You got the feeling that Western was in on something too. Whilst Izzy, Mum and I would talk about politics over an evening, usually whilst sat together in front of the stove knitting, or dressmaking at times, they, the men, were often distracted with something else. But what was it? My husband and I were busy saving up for our new home. In the meantime we still remained at the ranch. Charlie Parker was far too occupied with his studies to be distracted by any of us, male or female, of an evening. As Nanook's son and only bloodline, one day he would become a Holy Man. It seemed logical to him that seeing as we had built the new church, the Baptist ministry was also now a religious calling, much to Isabella's delight.

One evening, as usual, and following far too much bourbon, all became revealed. The men had developed a scheme to buy the old mine workings. As they made a fresh pot of coffee to sober themselves, I asked, "Why do you want those old mine workings Father? There's nothing in them you know. Western searched every bit he could." Archibald then let slip, "It's not what's in them, but what's under them that counts." A remark that made no sense to any of us. "In them and under them, isn't that the same thing?" "No!" Dad replied emphatically and with a definite smirk on his face.

The men explained. Nothing had been sealed in stone, but they were working on a plan to acquire the land that ran from Beaker's Glen and beyond, considerable miles of unclaimed territory in fact. They had both now become quite overexcited like children, for tomorrow they expected a decision, not concerning the purchase of land but from (what was to become) the Union Pacific Railway Company. Both were keen to elaborate further

A man called Anthony Francis Lucas, who they had both come to know of, was an experienced mining engineer with much experience as a salt driller. In 1901, he had drilled a hole at Spindletop Hill. Spindletop was a considerable distance away on a little hill south of Beaumont, in Texas, and he had quite by chance made the first discovery of drilled oil. The ground had trembled, at first nothing but mud had risen, but then suddenly, under intense pressure, and having knocked the crown block of the derrick, the Lucas gusher came to life. I do declare here that I had no idea what they were talking about until they explained further. It was oil, a man-made drilled hole had released tons of black pitch. But this had all happened many years ago and I, along with Izzy and mother, still failed to see the connection.

Archie pompously took over the lead of the conversation. "Here it is," he said. "I'll put it as simply as possible. Talk has it that a new company called Union Pacific is soon to be founded by a group of individual investors. It may be years ahead of its time but that's not the point. The railroad is coming this way, one day or another, whether we like it or not. So, your dad and I have been busy making connections with this in mind and yes, Cerys has known about it all the while." Mum blushed and nodded in agreement. "Its true girls, yes it is, isn't it exciting?" she said as Archibald continued. "So Nigel and I jointly hatched a plan to sell the right for the railroad to pass through Carter Lake unhindered, the land I own and the home where we all now live. They want to link up with the Central Pacific Railroad." "But if you sell the ranch what will become of us?" I had to ask him, most concerned. "We're thinking about moving. It's only twelve miles," his immediate reply. "To the old mine shafts, Western's mine, is that what you are talking about Archie?" "Yes!" Archie informed me.

Dad soon realised my confusion and tried to explain a little more clearly to both Izzy and me. "It's like this girls. The surveyors have told us already that the railroad, if it ever happens, will follow the easiest route down through the valley and winding alongside the river. As most of the land is unregistered it can be easily disputed. So we agree to allow them to build the railroad through Carter Lake unhindered. In return, they, the railroad company, in whatever form they will be, will hopefully that is, pay us in advance a small sum of money to secure this bond. It won't be more than the ranch is worth, but it will be just enough" Dad concluded. "I still don't understand, just enough for what?" I was still very confused. "To buy the old mine works!" As Archie interrupted again adding, "We sell the ranch, not all of it, of course not, just the rights for the railroad to cross over it should they want to in the future, and with the money they give us, we buy all of the old mine works and surrounding pastures. It will pay for at least fifty times the acreage we now have here."

Thankfully Mum took over. "Children," she said, "the railroad may never come, or at least it may be twenty years away, but we are guaranteed the money regardless. We don't want an old derelict mine, if it had any further use the miners would never have left it. What we get out of this is the oil underneath it!"

I learnt later that evening that Spindletop Hill turned out to be nothing more than surface expression. The oil had accumulated around an underground salt dome, but it was the first time the new oil men had taken drilling seriously. "Oil is the new gold. We've been sitting on a gold mine all this time," Dad joked with me. "I thought there wasn't any gold left in that old mine?" Izzy said. We all laughed. Dad added, "It's just a saying my sweetheart."

Archie explained that the Standard Oil Company had never appreciated the economic potential of Spindletop, and had acted far too slowly to invest further. Others had been allowed the opportunity to realise this neglected potential, now free to explore new oil fields. This is what they too would now, the men, jointly exploit. "It was an opportunity sent down from heaven," they agreed. Pennsylvanians George Bissell and Edwin L. Drake were making huge advances in new drilling technology, using prototype drilling rigs designed specifically to bore deeper. They would soon find countless oil reserves below American lands. Like the arrival of the new railroad, it was just a matter of time. "If large-scale drilling could be done in Titusville, Pennsylvania, it could be done just as easily in Iowa," Dad said before adding, "It's all attracting a great wave of new investment."

I expect you are wondering where Western fitted into all this? After all it was he who had found the pitch in the first place. I will now tell you. My father would become drilling manager due to his experience with machinery and the fact that the enterprise was his idea,. He would receive a 25% share in the new company. Western would be his gang foreman. He too would receive an equal 25% shareholding. "He's lucky to get anything at all, that one," Archie had laughed. "We all know he fell of his horse and banged his head drunk that day, nothing out of the ordinary there, as usual. He's lucky he's got a job at all." Archibald owned the land to sell to the railroad in the first place don't forget, so Archie would retain, as a sleeping partner, 40% of the new Australorp Oil Company. He had no intention whatsoever of becoming an oil man. "Chickens, that's what I'm good at and that's where I'll stay thank you very much," he calmly stated. "Nigel, Western and Nanook are more than capable of running this little affair on my behalf. "But what about Nanook?" Mum enquired, but we were all glad she had asked. "Yes, I'm giving the remaining 10% to him and his family. Don't forget, if it was not for him helping me at my time of greatest need, all those many years ago, I too would surely be dead in the snow now."

So there it was. The rider arrived with the railroad letter the following morning, confirming that all contracts were now sealed and the Australorp Oil Inc. was officially founded in this old wooden ranch house of Carter Lake, Iowa. The year was 1853.

PART FOUR

Chapter 68

Black Gold

There was an overriding negative factor within the mining plan, one that the men had failed to consider. I, too, had never thought about it. As the years passed, there was still no railroad. No railroad meant no investment, as there was absolutely no way to transport the oil. Interest had been shown by the oil men in drilling here but alas, still no railway lines came through Carter Lake. Our year of fortune would not arrive until some ten years later. It was in the year 1867 when everything started to change.

I had now been blessed with my four children and I did so name them after my family. Dr Owen and I had two boys and two girls and married life was simply wonderful. Owen Jnr., as you know, was my first. He was soon followed by his little brother, Nigel Jnr. The first of the girls was Cerys, and the year after, little Isabella arrived. We were the perfect family. Not to mention that Izzy's husband Charlie presided over the Baptisms, all four at the same time in Esther's Kiss Baptist Hall. We waited for Charlie to pass his theology studies even though the new church had long been finished. Pastor Charlie Parker, how thrilling it was for us all to see him succeed.

One day we awoke to much excitement. Settlers, now living in this much increased community, had news. A new hotel was being built with haste, and this could only mean one thing, that workers, "probably Irish navvies," as Mum said, were coming into town. Archie referred to it as the Irish diaspora. Many had come across the pond to the new lands to join us, but they had never come as far across as Carter Lake other than pioneering for gold of course, to travel on to the west. The Irish had emigrated in their thousands for at least the last 150 years Dad had told me, but this new wave was different. He said that since the 1830s, almost 5 million had now come to America. "This can only mean one thing for us, children," Dad continued. "Their coming over for work on the railroads. They're called navvies for a reason, they cut navigations." It seems logical to me that if navvies were coming into town, that meant there would soon be a new navigation. Had the railroad finally arrived?

Archie and Dad saddled up and rode into town to see what all the fuss was about. They were away for several hours until they arrived back for supper. "This is for you, Cerys," he said to Mum. "And for my two beautiful daughters, I have these." We were presented with three boxes, tied handsomely with red bows. Isabella and I had new bonnets and matching shawls. Mum had a beautiful new dress, one she had always wanted. She been hinting for it for many months, every time we had passed Jacksons Hardware and Haberdashery, on the main street. "Do try it on, oh yes do!" Izzy and I yelled. She looked magnificent in it. "It's for church on Sunday," Dad added. "We must thank the Lord Almighty for the blessings bestowed upon us."

The men gathered around the stove. Their own treat was a bottle of rare Irish whiskey. "To the luck of the Irish and the Union Pacific," they said as they raised their glasses in a toast high in the air. "The railroad's comin' gentlemen. I told you it would, didn't I?" Archie boastfully chortled.

The new hotel wasn't for the navies. It was for the bosses. Dad had confirmed this from Hancock, the local Sheriff. The workers were to live in camps along the cuttings. "Bosses," he said. "Bosses can only mean one thing. Something big's a'gonna happen here, I'm tellin' y'all." Western butted in.

He was right. Carter Lake was soon to become a Union Pacific Railroad Yard with countless sidings for sleeping freight. "Tomorrow I'm off to wire a telegraph to the oil men over in Pennsylvania and tell them all about it," Archie replied. As soon as daylight arose, he was keenly off as promised. Though none of us, I confess to you, fully understood what exactly a telegraph was.

Oil City in Venango County, Pennsylvania, was booming. The petroleum industry and their oil wells were now known as the Black Gold. Archie had had several communications over the past years with Colonel Drake, a man he considered to be his friend. He had drilled the first commercially successful oil well in Titusville during 1859. Titusville was a boomtown with a fine collection of chickens of its own, all courtesy of course from Archie. The men were convinced that Carter Lake would soon boom too.

Drake replied to him by wire that same day at the new Lovington Hotel telegraphy point. The Lovington was the new railroad hotel under construction in town. They had already installed the telegraph system along the proposed iron road navigation and were keen to maintain contact; at least that was as far away as Iowa. It read;

"Overland Route 1,907-mile (stop) Contiguous railroad started construction 1863 (stop) West Mississippi and Missouri Rivers to connect Pacific coast at San Francisco Bay (stop) Three companies to create rail network Council Bluffs Iowa (stop). Carter Lake Iowa terminus from Council Bluffs eastern shore of Missouri River (stop) Completed Carter Lake 1869 (stop)."

Everybody on the ranch was ecstatic with this news, but there was more to come;

"Investor for oil boat system Saratoga River Bend secured (stop) Mines link to network (stop)."

It was the news that we had waited years for. The river would link our oil with the railroad network at Carter Lake terminus. The oil would be transported along the river in barrels before being loaded onto the new coast to coast network. Investors would soon start to queue up to buy shares in the Australorp Oil Inc. and oil well pioneer himself, Drake, was among them. Needless to say, there wasn't much work done that day on the ranch. Nanook was to play us the finest Irish tune on his accordion too; I wish you'd been with us that day to hear it!

'The Green Fields of America'

So pack up your sea-stores, consider no longer,

Ten dollars a week is not very bad pay,

With no taxes or tithes to devour up your wages,

When you're on the green fields of Americay.

The first well to reach oil was drilled just two years later. On Monday, 29th February, 1870. Within weeks we found ourselves to be producing tons of pitch on a daily basis. We couldn't sell it fast enough. Initially we would have several days down, not because anyone was lazy, no, not at all, nothing could be farther from the truth, it was because we simply couldn't store it all. We soon learnt to become a more efficient oil company with my dad at the helm. Supply and demand, and we regulated our output to meet it. That old whale oil lamp that Western used during his wilderness year is now proudly on display at the local museum, and Carter Lake was soon to become the place for anyone who was anyone to be seen in.

The petroleum industry was now in control. How far we had all travelled since the early discoveries of the indigenous peoples and other ancient American societies and since the first successful well at Oil Creek in Pennsylvania was bored. Our ancestors who had collected pitch to use as ointments, insect repellants, skin colouring and in religious rites had no idea what they were playing with. We were now, all of us, a part of an American society that was rich beyond its own belief.

The new refinery funded by businessmen and bankers from New Haven, Connecticut. was soon completed on the plains beside the Saratoga Bend. One of these investor names will be all too familiar to y'all, that of the banker, James Townsend. He was one of our biggest stockholders. We were refining oil for everything, and Australorp oils became famous for providing the cleanest and most efficient lighting fluids available in America. Creek was one of our bestselling by-products. Mum realised that the thinner oil we separated from salt waters found in the many other wells we drilled further beyond Western's, was the same as medicinal oil being prescribed by many doctors including my husband, Owen. We continued to grow wealthier and wealthier every day. Every drop we produced turned to gold.

It had been difficult at times, this is true to say. We had endured a costly fire and some initial financial setbacks, but the worst thing of all was the ridicule of a handful of the town's men and their families. Many had branded us all as lunatics in the early days, but now... Even the most reverent of scorners, the Shackletons, built their own business around ours, selling a full range of Creek lotions and ointments, shipped out wide across the whole continent.

We were so grateful to God that no-one was hurt in the fire. It was late on a Tuesday afternoon that the fire took hold of the refinery. Fortunately it was unfinished, and sure, we were still in the very early days of petroleum production. A single spark drifted from the smoke stack of a shunting loco in the yard and within an instant, twelve tons had gone up with an almighty flash. Rebel soldiers were initially blamed, Confederates, but it wasn't true. Much of what we did was an experiment in the early days and we soon learned, very quickly, from both our experiences and our mistakes.

The financial setbacks came mainly as a result of the civil war which started in 1861. But I don't want to dwell too much on these sad moments. I have always kept my diary close to my heart and I want to tell you only of happiness here in these, my words. All of the younger men had gone to fight leaving Archie, Dad and Nanook to run our daily business affairs. They all came home afterward, during the year of 1865, safe and sound; that's the most important part to remember. The Confederacy had gone, the slaves were now free and the Union was finally born.

PART FOUR

Chapter 69

A Fairy Tale Ending

"The mind can achieve any mental-state it desires if you so want it to." Do you remember me saying that earlier? "We all make the most of our lives and lie to ourselves when needs must, to create our own false sense of happiness and to twist and contort our own sad realities; all to make life just that little bit more bearable." I said that too; remember? But as I near the end of my story, my fantasy, as written within the pages of my diary, a log of my life itself, I do hope you have joined me. I don't need to pretend, my life can have a happy ending. I am so wonderfully happy and so too you can be. So now I must tell you about Mrs Shackleton's wardrobe. I feel I must for I did buy that haberdashery shop I spoke of so many years ago, and in Carter Lake, my dreams remain. Do let's continue to dream on together.

I was often cold standing street side, waiting, on so many of those dank damp nights, but it was always Mrs Shackleton who provided for everything. For her shop is the one I always dreamed of owning for myself. Here and now today it is that black gold that still provides for it. Through Mrs Shackleton's window I could see an old wardrobe. It was a beautiful thing, a Georgian with a central dress mirror, and so bursting full of clothes. I would peer in through the shop window dressing and watch as customers would open it and peep inside. I wondered who they were and what their own lives held for them. There was a very special collection of clothes and fineries hidden away. In my haberdashery here, on Carter Lake's main street, there is such a wardrobe too. But it's a magical place where only special things can happen.

"Good morning Chand," the ladies say to me as they greet the day. "We'd like to try on some clothes from the wardrobe if we may?" "Of course," I reply. After all Chandelle's Haberdashery and Clothing Emporium is the only place where we can truly escape and be anything we like.

Isabella and I would have so much fun dressing up together. Taking the cloth from the rail, she would say; "Today I am going to..." and within an instant that magic wardrobe would take us both there. Isabella loved the idea of being French. Baroque costumes were her favourite. "I am going to be a queen to Louis XIV, oh, my Sun King, I was just addressing the court, how tardy my delay your Majesty," and then she would fall into bursts of uncontrolled giggling. "Do you think being married to the monarch of France would be fun? He's quite the European power I hear?" She would laugh. "He's such a true fashion idol I'm told. Every lady desires him my dear."

Personally, I wasn't much interested in distant history but I had always wanted to see Dr Owen win the war. I would reach into my wardrobe, and there at hand I would take from it an Officer's uniform. Within an instant Isabella and I were away in our dreams and together, side by side, on the battlefield.

"We must ride on, quickly, like the wind Izzy. The lives of so many depend on us." "Faster Trigger, faster Blaze, your nation depends on you," she would cry out to the horses in hastened fashion. On one occasion the magic wardrobe had taken us to Fort Sumter. Here in the middle of the harbour of Charleston, soldiers of the fort's garrison were trapped. "Fly like the wind Trigger, fly Blaze, we must reach South Carolina by day break!" Up into the air the horses rose, above the clouds at lighting speed. We soon arrived.

"I'll address your Captain," I demanded. "You must withdraw your forces to safety. The militias in the streets plot against you. They mean you harm," I shouted at him. "Yes Chandelle, immediately," replied Major Anderson. "Do not fire until fired upon. We are not barbarians," I cried. "Look, there, over there, Chand," Izzy shouted. "It's Beauregard. He comes with his army." We fled to rally the troops of the North to our aid.

"This is an unspeakable act of aggression. On every street corner we will speak and muster both men and money," President Lincoln told us. "We must use all presidential powers available to the nation to recapture the fort and all other federal properties. We will conquer this traitorous unified South, this viper's pit of secessionists," his address to us continued.

The wardrobe also took us to Marye's Heights. We had both adorned the uniform of Union nurses this particular dress-up day, and as if this old wooden cupboard could read our minds before we could even utter a word, we soon found ourselves in the midst of this most awful battle.

"Bandages, I need more bandages, Chand," Dr Owen demanded. "But they have all gone Doctor. I fear the worst," my faint hearted reply. "Take the horses and ride fast yonder to Fredericksburg. Find General Ambrose Burnside, tell him of our plight, quickly, the war depends on you. Chand, go quickly, before all is lost." Dr Owen pleaded.

I rode Blaze fast, faster and faster, with Isabella at my side holding fast upon Trigger. The sound of muzzle blast and canon fire echoing out over the fields behind us, bullets ricocheting toward and up over our tender sisterhooded shoulders. The sound of the Broadmoors' thundering feet more frightening than anything the enemy could throw at us.

"I see him, there, upon the ridge, look at the men fight, so brave all of them, victory will be ours!" Isabella screamed, as we approached them. Burnside, without even thinking, gave us all the medical supplies we needed. "You'll find a bottle of finest Copper-Mist inside the wagon too," he told us. "Dr Owen is a hero of the war. My fondest regards to him upon your return."

We could go anywhere by adorning the clothing we found inside Mrs Shackleton's wardrobe. Mum and Dad would also join us on our travels, Isabella and me. "Look at this beautiful old lavish boutique dress, my love," Mum said to our father on one occasion. "Do you fancy a good cup of best Empire tea back at home in Cardiff with me today? I do so fancy a good pot of English afternoon tea at Tanner's." "Oh yes, my love, that will suffice most correctly," Dad replied. He soon found himself a most suitable fine cut and tight-fitting calf length frock coat and a vest and waistcoat to suit. His vest was double-breasted, with notched collar, finished in double points to his lowered waist. My sister and I also dressed most appropriately for the occasion.

"Good afternoon Sir, Madam. How may I be of service to you this fine day?" our waiter enquired of us. "It's our first visit back for many, many years. Do tell me young man, does Mister Blakeley of the old South Street print shop still frequent this fine establishment?" Dad asked. "I worked for him a long time ago before

my family and I sailed for America." "Oh, yes indeed he does Sir, a rather frail man these days, considerably aged somewhat as you will understand, but of fine health and fettle." "Splendid news," Dad replied, "Do show him to our table should he arrive, tell him it's Nigel and Cerys Davies who ask of him, won't you?" The waiter smiled; "I can do much more than that Sir. Mr Blakeley bought the Tanner's tea house many years ago. He is upstairs now keeping warm beside his fire. The waiter summoned a maid to the table; "Inform Blakeley that Mr and Mrs Davies and family from Iowa are here to visit with him. He'll be most thrilled to learn of their return, I am sure." The maid attended to our need and we waited most excitedly to meet with him again after all these years. Isabella was keen to know how the waiter had known of our origins in Iowa for after all this fact had not yet been announced. "Forgive me young lady," he said, "I knew who your family were as soon as you entered the premises. Mr Blakeley is most proud of you all and your achievements concerning the new Australorp Oil Incorporated. Look at the frame above you." He pointed and there hung high above our table, initially unnoticed by us all, was a framed archived front page of the local newspaper. It read; "Canny Welshman, the Cardiff gold rush printer strikes oil." We had been sat at this very table as a great honour, the waiter told her. "This is Mister Blakeley's very own seat," he added. "Such a fine salon de thé parlour," Izzy confidently announced, again returning to her boastful subject admiration of French culture and language. The jam scones and beverages served that day were simply quite divinely consumed.

We left Mum and Dad, and older Blakeley to catch up and talk about old times together. It seemed like the appropriate polite way to proceed. "Why don't we put on a sailor's suit each and go off on the high seas this evening?" Izzy asked me most determinedly. "I fancy getting fat on ice cream, do you?" I could tell she had much more in mind, she was so easily read, just like a book, my sister Isabella. "What are you up to now? Come on, pray tell all my big sis?" I asked, and to which she duly replied, "It's 14th April. Do you know what happens this evening at twenty to midnight?" "No," was all I could offer her, as quite frankly I hadn't got a clue. "Tonight, in 1912, the Titanic is going to sink!" So off we both went, out into and beyond the stars again. You see, if you too had a magic wardrobe, you would surely agree that it is only right and proper that it be used for good.

We had so much fun together that evening. Captain Edward Smith was most grateful for our advice. "So less haste and steer north a bit, is that right girls?" he confirmed back our instructions we had given to him. "Yes," replied Izzy. "That'll do it nicely!" Needless to say the ship arrived safely in New York without incident and no souls were lost at sea. And in return, as much ice cream as we could both eat.

We could go anywhere and be anything, but of all the places we travelled to and from together using the special mystical powers of Mrs Shackleton's old wardrobe, our favourite would always prove to be that of the ranch back at Carter Lake.

For it was only there that we all truly lived happily ever after.

_The End... Is Nigh_ **!**

# # # #
PART FOUR
Chapter 70

Conclusion: The final testament of Isabella.

Sniper: Revelations Two

It was on the 6th December 2016 that final contact was made. An eerie period of silence had befallen us all. A final note from Isabella Davies was received. Delivered by motorcycle courier to a footman at Kensington Palace. It read:

Dearest Jonathan,

Here you find my Revelations: the conclusion to the end. I had wanted to write to you for some time but circumstance prevented my doing so. You are nothing but goodness and I spend my days looking back, contemplating my involvement with Gabriela and questioning myself, my motives and personal ambitions. What we did was wrong. I know this now. We wrought pain and unbearable suffering on the world and for this I apologize. There have been changes.

It was an author, a British man who goes by the soubriquet of Ben-the-Pen you have to thank. You really should acknowledge him in any final edition. In many ways he truly did save the world from utter chaos. I understand that Daws-Penguin, the New York based publishing house, have lost their copy of the Definitive Edition. It's interesting how a solicited and signed for package of March this year can so easily disappear? We have long reaching hands. I have instructed (we are a true democracy now and I do so hate the word ordered) that all previous copies of the work now be destroyed. You have one last task to complete for me; do include these Revelations if you would be so kind.

I am in communication with him, but do not fear, he is quite safe. I want him to finalize this work, to create a final proof-read edition of Gabriela's teachings. I could never tell her at the time, but her dyslexia accounted for many errors which personally, always irritated me. This I owe her. He will reply directly to you: his reply and biography must be attached to this, my end notes.

Ben-the-Pen is a retired engineer. He spends his days writing, researching, and watching sci-fi and horror movies. But it is his fine attention to detail that forced us into an untenable position. A decision had to be made. I do believe it was the correct one. Let me tell you about it.

Yes: I adored Gabriela with all my heart. You need to understand that in her presence you find yourself powerless. Her soul=piercing hypnotic blue eyes are just the beginning; eyes that made you fall instantly in love. She was a woman who could have anything she wanted and she did. I still love her. I miss her deeply, but the reality was I changed inside. I came to see her as a deeply manipulative figure who lacked humanity and conscious. We were to create a new world order together, where animal suffering would end. The Brotherhood would cleanse the world of flesh-eaters finally and forever. God had spoken. The Garden of Eden, where all sentient creatures, the earthlings, would live in peace and harmony. It was to be returned, our year zero; the new beginning.

I see your have spent your isolation at the palace most constructively. You have completed 'Mein Kampf for Anti-Fascists' - so congratulations! And you will write a stage play based on the work. You are free now Jonathan, free to return home and dedicate yourself to your dreams and aspirations. You will hear no more from Gabriela. The control of Brittunculi is handed back to you. Treasure it.

It's interesting that nobody will publish it, your anti-fascist version. There's too much profit to be made in murder you see. A free edition – whatever next? Smashwords, Amazon, they both deleted your uploads didn't they? This must be so soul destroying for a creative person such as yourself. And now even the YouTube audio version is under scrutiny from profiteers who seek their cut. Shameful isn't it? I don't mind if you choose to promote it here: I wish you every success.  In fact use this hyperlink. Perhaps you should adopt the business strategy of the Gabrielites. It would be published then wouldn't it? But this you won't do. You still believe in a world that is fair and just don't you? I was once that naïve but Gabriela took that from me. Hate sells!

I know it's unpleasant of me to speak ill of the dead. When did I change Jonathan? That's easy to answer. I as the mother of our child, now brutalised, starved and fed the flesh of Brian. What did he ever do wrong, I ask? He was beautiful too, graceful, a man who existed solely of an inner kindness. And he was killed to make a film, just so 'this work' would contain another genre for readers to devour. His book didn't really tell anyone anything other than what was already known. Clever codes; yes - but quite amateur. Gabriela used it as an excuse to kill him. After everything he had done for her. For us, the sect, the brotherhood. Without Brian there would be no Definitive Edition, and this is how she repaid him. She had no mercy at all. She fed me his flesh and videoed it, released it to the world.

You were going to die too. You were the next and then Ben-the-Pen, and so on so forth. Where would it ever end I asked myself. You don't see her on that film do you - but she was there, masturbating as the mother of her own child was vulgarly debased in front of her. All this just to fuel her own ego, her need for fame and notoriety at any cost. Well in this she succeeded. Arrogance, complacency, the belief that she was untouchable to the very end led to her own downfall, Jonathan. The Sniper: I think that's a good title here. The sniper never extrudes his barrel beyond the window frame, no, in reality beyond the movies he remains way back in the room totally hidden out of sight. To think that Gabriela believed that God would always protect her. Gabriela - nothing more than a deluded psychotic. A monster amongst our midst. God showed his true vengeance. It was God who chose to protect me that day, not her.

Ben-the-Pen had posted onto his blog:  Murders at Buzludzha: the Secret Revealed

"So, there you have it. The two Frenchmen were murdered by the Gabrielites and Gabriela 13 herself, the leader of the death cult, built the shrine as a mockery to their memory. I did wonder about the names however. Achille is a French name for a boy but Marrok is a very unusual name originating from Arthurian legends. I played with the names using an anagram solver and came up with Patience Hill or Anthill Piece (Achille Pinet) and Buried Ark Roam or Abroad Murkier (Marrok Brideau), none of which makes any sense. I also searched far and deep into the Web looking for a newspaper article or similar about the murders and found nothing. So I am led to the only conclusion possible: the two Frenchmen were indeed murdered by the Gabrielites in the depths of the Buzludzha monument and that the local hoteliers have conspired with the Bulgarian Police to suppress the story in case it impacts revenue from tourists"...

On the evening of Saturday, 24th September, they arrived. A snatch squad; US (special ops) Navy Seals I believe or so I am told. I don't think there was ever any intention of taking her alive. In the darkness, just as they did to Osama Bin Laden: a single shot to the forehead. Upon which it was all over for Gabriela. Arat too. I never liked that man, more so after what he did to me. ARAT as an organization still exists, but as a Sisterhood now for we are a matriarchy. Arat was named so after his nickname - 'A Rat'. He was an Urbexer, a specialist in tunnels; hence rat. It was he who discovered the covert egress system at Buzludzha. The nickname soon became his name. It was coincidental that ARAT as an acronym shared the same lettering. He used to boast that ARAT was named after him: he was a complete tosser most of the time! I'm afraid that I do not share Gabriela's conceit and belief in invincibility: the key to ARAT remains with me until a later date. I hope you understand.

Brian died trying to save me. It's that simple: nothing more complex than that. If he had never tried, never let his intentions be known in his final book, he would be alive today. I live with this guilt daily as an ache that never fades. A cancer eating away from within. If I had not returned to the sect of my own free will, he would never have been murdered. Maybe his death serves as a sign from God that he wanted me to see Gabriela for the abhorrent creature that she had become.

Brian defied her, challenged her authority and he paid the ultimate price. He publicly interfered in the order of things. YOU: you were to die upon the publication of the book in New York. Had the publisher not lost that copy, you too would be history. You can thank me later!

The two Frenchmen were murdered at Buzludzha. This is common knowledge among locals. They still talk of it though in guarded fashion. I witnessed it - but their names were not Achille Pinet and Marrok Brideau. This was just silly games, a mere nonsense. Gabriela created the shrine to mock the world. She was a complete computerphobe. You know this from the original memoirs. Never managed to type anything down without it containing a string of mistakes; but she was dyslexic. A dyslexic with a fabulous sense of humour too. She once said; "What do you call an agnostic insomniac with dyslexia?" and replied: "A person who sits up all night searching for the dog!" It was this intellectual humour that made me fall for her.

She left all the administration to the Brothers. I think she's turning in her grave now (wherever that is) at the thought of a computer-based anagram-solver beating her. All this stuff about poisoning the food chain and creating a third world war - all good in its way but imagine what could have been achieved if we had taken the IT route instead? Gabriela would never hear of it. World financial crashes, phantom nuclear launches, all as the global electronic networks became infiltrated by us. Power: she didn't understand computers and therefor saw any such thing as a challenge to her power and control. Female on top but underneath still very male.

She was good at research though, biology and chemicals. The findings of our medical trials at Buzludzha had true value. That's why I too was to be killed. I had achieved far more than she ever did. She was in essence just a glorified lab rat. I was the true genius! I'm starting to sound like her now aren't I? I must remain focused, do let me come back to that point later.

The shrine. Should it be a capital S as 'The Shrine' I wonder? I think so. After all, it is the name of a historic sight, a happening in world history. Anthill Piece as identified by Ben-the-Pen in his blog was just reference to our labyrinth of underground tunnels. Anthill was the project name given to our new community down below and Piece, though unbeknown to me at the time, was to be my own final destiny. Patience Hill – this is, or was I should say, the location of the secret Church.

At the western end of a Caribbean island we sighted the new facility. This labyrinth of underground structures, ancient workings, and caves all lost in time and known only to Arat. The small hill we settled beneath shared the same name of the local town: Patience Hill, a mere stone's throw from Tobago and easily accessible. One way in, one way out, and that became Gabriela's downfall. The secret entrance by means of the old 18th century Fort King George in Scarborough. Gabriela told the world where we were: the Shrine. Her sniper's barrel now in full view from the street below. She was obsessed with the notion of hiding in full view. As if the obvious would never be discovered for that very fact. Silly games that resulted in the Shrine's anagram being broken. It all reminded me of Dr Cerys Davies words, Gabriela's own words at the very beginning: "This psychopath's arrogance, his utter contempt for humanity will, I believe, be his downfall."

I remember little, if anything, of that fateful Saturday night. I had been taken from Buzludzha in an emancipated and fragile state just as I had left the UK originally and arrived in Bulgaria - the same drug, the same dose, the same sketchy memories and complete loss of time. I was to be the new altar piece; my bones to be placed among all the others, the countless victims of her barbarity. To be starved to death to the point that my own flesh wrapped and contorted itself, twisted and fused to my own skeleton - to be preserved and then to be nailed on the cross as she had done with Sandy Tomlinson, the journalist in Mexico during 2009. Gabriela took great pleasure in informing me of this, with that perverted sycophant Arat at her side. I think they were lovers.

Brian was an Untouchable; you, me too, all Untouchables. At the end of the day that meant nothing. Her Holy words and decrees, the Holy Seals, all just lies. The vegetarians were now killing vegetarians. I remember nothing of the final raid but murmured distorted voices telling me; "Hilary will protect you. Do not be scared." Later something to the effect of: "They've all been destroyed. All the emails have gone." The word sisterhood repeated many times to me.

I awoke in Cuba. Flown in by US Navy helicopter to Guantanamo Bay Naval Base. I was treated well, with respect and dignity. These past three weeks have afforded me a slow recovery. I saw nothing of the Brotherhood until yesterday, the day I was removed, until two of them, Brother Gabriel Twelve (Holy Relics) and Brother Gabriel Eight (Restorative Justice) appeared. They had apparently been tasked with overseeing my execution, as if a natural death by hunger can be called an execution. A slow one at that. They were there, behind the wire fence, tied to flat trolleys and wearing the most glorious of orange jump suits. I only saw them briefly, just a quick glimpse. I am told they will never be heard of again. Indeed, sources tell me that global rendition has disposed of most of the former Brotherhood.

I can't tell you how and where I was released or relocated. I am safe and happy though and we have much work to continue. The former apprentices are now the new Sisterhood and we fully reject sexual violence. It is incompatible with our mission. We are a Sisterhood of peace and love, of compassion and forgiveness. I owe my life to Ben-the-Pen and to the speed and efficiency of the Navy Seals. I thank you. _'Ben-the-Pen (real name Ben Bennetts) of Hampshire (UK)' be declared Untouchable in status. Decision carried. Unanimous. Approved and sealed as a Holy Order by Her Holiness; Isabella 1_ st _._

Tie up all the loose ends Jonathan and prepare. Virtually nothing more is asked or expected of you. I ask only that you append this, my Revelations, to the Definitive Edition. There are no threats attached. It is your choice. There are no consequences for declining. Your life has been returned to you so treasure and embrace every second of it. Did you really think you would live after making a mockery of Gabriela's holy work? Whatever possessed you to include that radio play, that comedic farce? You too owe your life to others and accordingly I think you will publish it. Gabriela's death is truly born of a happy ending and not one of a fairy tale. To do that to my very own sister, to humiliate Chandelle publicly in that fashion. To do what she did to Brian, all so utterly unthinkable. And of DI Andria Johnson – for what end did that mental anguish and torture serve? No: no more suffering! Let the world know this Jonathan. Love and peace as old-fashioned as this may sound will now prevail.

WikiPedia – that's where the word of God came from. There're no new revelations contained here. Consign the Gabrielites, as they were, to history. You'll understand from your work on Mein Kampf (<http://jtbulgaria.wixsite.com/brittunculi>) that Adolf Hitler didn't say anything new. You've covered this very well. He took ancient anti-Semitic hatred and theories of the established xenophobic racist rant-writers of his time and merely claimed them as his own. To think Gabriela hated Nazis and fascism to the point where she failed to see herself within its ideological frameworks. She was not a genius. Any fool can rewrite from the public domain although an acknowledgment to Wiki under the commons share alike license is appropriate. We don't want to be accused of plagiarism, do we?

I still love her. I know that's hard to believe after everything she did to me. But it is the truth. Her beauty was astonishing to me. Her tenderness and warmth was real. I was young, naïve and foolish, I know, but I have grown up so very much now. I've sent you a file on a SD card. The footman who handed you this letter will have given it to you. Surely you didn't believe for a single second that you were beyond reach within Royal circles did you?

Other than this book, it's is the only thing left of Gabriela. I want the world to know her and see her as I did. It's old, late 1980s, possibly early 1990s - a grainy camcorder film from her own private collection. Nobody dies in it, don't worry about that, but it is explicit, graphic, by all definitions pornography. Those readers who are curious to know her more personally may choose to watch it or not as the case may be. Password protect it on the Brittunculi website with the words _I Am Over 18!_

The purge of The Brotherhood by the new Sisters continues. We have some mopping up to do but most is completed. The Sisters have been very active. The slave is now the master. Just as the socialists of the late '50s de-Stalinized, we have now de-Gabrielised. The cult of her personality is no more. Keep the footage safe won't you? It is the only visual thing left that exists of her.

Oh - I almost forgot Jonathan. Marrok Brideau! Yes; the anagram is 'Buried Ark Roam'. Abroad Murkier, the filth of those outside of us. There it is for you, a Buried Ark. Can it be both buried and roaming at the same time you may ask? So do let me inform you.

I was proud of my research, I've said this, and it was I who discovered how to annihilate the human race, just the carnivores that is, swiftly, easily and most efficiently. That's why Gabriela turned on me and betrayed our love. A jealousy consumed of my achievements. She proved to be human after all, didn't she? I succeeded where she hadn't and for that I would pay with my life. The Buried Ark is of course my child, our child if you prefer. I never let Gabriela talk of her in the book as I wanted to keep her out of the press. Gabriela announced only its conception. Privacy is everything to the family these days, isn't it? Where, when, boy or girl – it doesn't matter in the grand scheme of things, does it? I'm not as narcissistic as its father so that's all for me and the Sisterhood to know for now. 'It' is safe and protected by forces beyond reach and reproach. I'm not a game player who sows the seeds of my own destruction through silly foolhardiness. Gabriela not only gave the world our hidden location but also our most powerful weapon. What kind of a father would do such a thing I ask?

I completed my paper: Blood Babies. The Brotherhood was most excited by my empirical findings. It was my intention to release my virus upon humankind until Gabriela decided she wanted all the glory. She announced it as hers. I was tried under pumped up allegations and removed from public life. Incarcerated below; but you know this already. The virus known as 'Ark Angel' was injected into our child's blood stream, not only to hide it away but to allow it to develop, to evolve as necessary. It is harmless to 'It'. At the age when human reproduction can be arranged then its release is assured. So for now the virus is content only in pumping around the bloodstream, secretly hidden away, roaming until the day the Buried Ark procreates. Human cell development is however increased threefold; a mere two years from now should suffice most adequately. I don't want it to be part of all this, this book, Gabriela's work is old school.

I will reveal more later on in the next book: a different title called Blood Babies. I'm feeling most creative these days. The Gabrielites are under new management!

Isabella xxx

PS. Do consider offering this definitive edition as an abridged work. It is quite a boring composition at times and quite a lot to ask of my readers.

Footnote from Ben-the-Pen

Dear Isabella, allow me to add a comment or two to your revelations. Your rise to fame has been extraordinary and I applaud the new sentiments expressed within your policy statement above — love, peace and security. I also wish you every success when, finally, the result of your sexual congress with Gabriela issues forth from between your thighs for it is often said that opposites attract and good eventually overcomes evil. I look forward to hearing about the birth and observing the Sisterhood evolve into a force for good, even for those who continue to eat meat, albeit not of the human kind. In the future, MEAT will, of course, stand for Mankind for Ethical Animal Treatment and not the flesh of slaughtered docile hand-raised birds of the feather and beasts of the field similar to those ushered into the Ark by Noah all those years ago.

I would like to explain more of my role with this book. I first heard of the Definitive Edition after researching the October 2012 deaths of the two French urbexers at Buzludzha in Bulgaria. I have never visited this place but I am an avid reader of science fiction and I already knew that the building was, in reality, the remnants of an ancient spaceship that had come to rest on a hill not far from Shipka (more correctly spelt Ship-Ka and named after the landing of the Ship combined with the ancient Egyptian word Ka meaning spirit or soul — the final resting place of the souls of the occupants of the spaceship). I was intrigued as to the cause of the untimely demise of these two young men and my search for the truth led me to the harrowing story of first Gabriel's, then Gabriela's horrific spiral into the depths of terrifying sexual behaviour, torture, and death throughout the western hemisphere. But, the truth about the deaths of the two urbexers was not to be found in the sordid narratives of murderous mayhem and I was further enticed to scour the pages of the Definitive Edition to discover the truth and, as Jonathan has already explained, in an act of journalistic madness I exposed my findings in a blog. I lived in fear however that Gabriela would discover my public divulgences and I sought to redeem myself, to buy favour, to make myself an Untouchable. Clearly, I could not alter history. What's done is done and cannot be undone. (Ain't that the truth, Isabella? I'm sure someone famous must have said that.)

(Editor's note from Isabella. This saying is attributed to Shakespeare's Lady Macbeth as she sleepwalks, washing imaginary blood from her hands, after the death of King Duncan slain by the hand of her husband Macbeth.)

My initial thought was to seek out Gabriela and apologise, ask for her forgiveness, but I knew in my heart of hearts that this wouldn't work. She was at the height of her heinous crimes and would probably serve me up in seven different culinary ways, a bit like she did with Brian, and rename the seven days as _Benday 1, Benday 2,_ ... all the way to _Benday 7_. I tell you Isabella, I would not have liked that! Nor would the consumers. My flesh is old and wizened; my liver corroded by alcohol; my eyes rheumy and my ears failing. I am no longer a tasty morsel. Here are the opening lyrics of a song from my youth that sums it all up:

My days of youth are over;

My torch of life gone out.

What used to be my sex appeal

Is now a water spout...

(Anon, traditional rugby ditty)

I won't go into further detail Isabella, but I'm sure you can fill in the gaps. After all, you have a PhD in Psychopic Husbandry and thus know the intimate workings of the human body.

But, back to my dilemma. I wondered whether a contrite telephone call would have worked — you know, stay distant but at least make a voice-to-voice contact. That might have been a way to seek forgiveness but, as you see, I am hard of hearing. Telephone calls are an anathema for me. And then it hit me. I could best serve Gabriela by correcting the many solecisms (grammatical mistakes, Isabella) I had observed in my reading of the Definitive Edition. I am a writer. In the days when I was gainfully employed, I wrote scientific papers that commanded great respect among my contemporaries and peers. These days, I write erudite books on a variety of subjects such as religion (I must add a new chapter on the Gabrielites when next I update this book), long-distance walking (a hobby of mine), and on several other topics including some of the idiosyncrasies of the English language. With this background of semantic and syntactical knowledge, spiced with logophiliac and etymological leanings, I took it upon myself to obtain an original copy of the manuscript from Jonathan and read through correcting what errors I could find, employing the mighty power of Microsoft's Word program to search out multiple instances of common mistakes, utilizing my skills as a fact checker to corroborate and verify the many factual statements contained therein, and generally to improve the readability of the book for the discerning reader who seeks the truth without the distraction of a misplaced comma or aberrant word or phrase. Did I succeed? Yes, insofar as you have granted me the Untouchable status for which I will remain eternally grateful and forever at your service. No, insofar as I know I did not catch all the solecisms. I've only read the book twice. Ye gods and little fishes, Isabella! It's over 312,000 words long! That's big. That's 100,000 words longer than _Crime and Punishment_ and that book took me over two months to read. Remember; I was working to a deadline here. I had no idea when the wrath of Gabriela would descend upon me, upon my many wives and children, upon my fowl in the barn, my beasts in the pastures, and my goods and chattels as bequeathed to me by my forebears. I had no idea, Isabella. All I knew is that I had to be quick about it. And so I toiled. I worked late into the night. I got up early in the morning. I wore out two laptops through overheating and pulverized keyboards. I lost weight. My friends and family deserted me as my crankiness level rose. But I did it. What I know however is that I have not caught all the errors. My experience as a writer tells me I really should read the book at least one more time but I have a life to lead, Isabella. There are fine wines and succulent fruits still awaiting my consumption; new sci-fi and horror films to watch; untrodden footpaths to trudge. I need to regain the life I've lost over the last two, nay, almost three months.

So, dear Isabella, thank you again for removing the Sword of Damocles from above my head and please forgive me for the grammatical errors that surely must still lurk within the pages of the Definitive Edition. I am only human but at least I am an alive human thanks to you.

Yours with humility,

Ben-the-Pen, aka Ben Bennetts

December, 2016

PS: you may read more about my own exploits as a writer of cultured literary offerings based on excellence in penmanship on my blog https://ben-bennetts.com Please enjoy the content.

Faded newspaper photograph of Ben-the-Pen (right), as a young engineer (1962), receiving an award for penmanship and excellence in engineering research from Horace King, Labour MP for Southampton Itchen constituency. In the background: Arat looks on.

(^_^)

The New Yorker Review, amendment, January 8th: 2016.

Reproduced by courtesy of Adele Mountier, Guardian Voice.

PHOTO: Taylor: Gaunt, confused and missing: Topping's frozen image taken during a recent Skype online call.

As I have previously explained, as a British journalist for one of the UK's top selling broadsheets, I had always pondered the thought - exactly what it is that underpins a good conspiracy theory? Are they fanatical fantasies or truths born of fact that they do not want us to know? That concept of merely telling the people what you want them to know? But the more I continued to look into these bizarre events, the published works of the Gabrielites, over the following twelve months, the more I found to be true.

The publisher, Brittunculi, who had originally responded with such short shrift was now informing us that Brian Wilkinson was the victim of a brutal murder. They would not comment further other than to say, "We are now under new management." They adamantly refused to comment on any matter concerning the investigation. Yes, I already knew this full-well. My countless attempts to speak with anyone concerned had all fallen on death ears. Dr Cerys Davies was still ill but continuing to recover in hospital from that so-called prolonged illness.

Peter Topping, the former publicist and close political confidant of Taylor was the only one to make contact with me. We met up later in the year, on the 22nd November. He confirmed that the songwriter Odd Jonathan, the man we know of as Jonathan 'JRP' Taylor within these texts, had indeed disappeared on Sunday 25th October 2015, just a month beforehand. He confirmed that contact was maintained initially, though infrequent. His whereabouts were not known due to the veil of secrecy surrounding him.

It was what he added to this information afterward that concerned me most. "Destroy them. Destroy all of your copies, sell them, get rid of them, give them away, do anything but don't keep them. Just get rid of them as quickly as you can." He was referring to the book I had with me, the 'Gabrielites: The Definitive Edition'. "If you deny the truths and do not spread the word as instructed, they will kill you."

Topping produced two items from his briefcase. A recent photograph of Taylor taken during a recent online Skype call (as above) and a list of names. "Here. They're all gone, dead or missing." The list was extensive. "There's only three people I know who had seen the truth and survived," he further explained. "All of them have apparently passed on their copy of the book after they had read it."

They were himself, myself and YOU!

# # # #

SPONSORED ADVERTISMENT: THE GABRIEL SECT

We hope you have enjoyed reading the truths as they have been given to you. You will note that as a church, we correctly strive to make our world a better place for us all to die in. That's why this publication has been produced as a compressed edition. Did you know that by removing pointless blank pages and space between chapters, we not only keep costs down, enabling us to reach a wider membership of our fast growing brethren, but we also save trees!

Our commitment to ecology and preservation goes further. You will find at the end of this book information about the Buzludzha Foundation. We encourage you all to take part. We have shared original sketches and drawings with you, in order to seduce your curiosity further.

Please take the time to read Dora Ivanova's contribution, and if you can please donate accordingly. Thank you. God Bless You!

Her Holiness Gabriela 13

# # # #

About British singer/songwriter

ODD JONATHAN

Jonathan 'JRP' Taylor

Photograph: Michael Kötter

Taylor notes with a smile, "At 15 when I bought my first second-hand guitar and amp for 75 pounds, my mother said it was a complete waste of money." Although it's left unsaid, one gets the feeling she's probably still eating her words today. Since then, his reviewers have been somewhat more generous. It's been said by the local press he is the possessor of a marvellous dusty, dusky voice full of resonance and beauty, and a real talent by the British politician Tony Benn, while fans continue to liken him to Don Mclean, Neil Young, Leonard Cohen and even Neil Diamond.

Taylor's lyrics remain consistent in theme, his overwhelming need to lend his voice to those who remain without. Whether they're victims of the Bulgarian Communist Regime ('Izvinavi') or an elegy to those lost in 9/11 ('If Only') and the messages they left behind. Again and again he returns to his subjects. In 'Holocaust Denier', written after meeting England's only known Jewish Auschwitz survivor Leon Greenman, his words convey not only the horror of genocide but implore us to remember, should we let it happen again. Both tracks featured on BBC and worldwide radio and for which the British PM of the time, Gordon Brown, wrote to thank him. Even the house he now calls home in central Bulgaria, used as a partisan hide-out for anti-Nazi resistance fighters throughout WW2, has brought him inspiration in the form of the song 'Partisan.' You begin to get the feeling Taylor needs this kind of connection to the past and a large helping of tragedy for both sustenance and creativity.

Taylor's music urges us to question why atrocities happen, whether they are individual or collective. He takes tragedy, seemingly internalising the pain and then slowly from his depths comes something beautiful, skilful, deeply memorable and strangely- immensely listenable."

Cursty Hoppe 2012

Breaking News:

The American Dyslexia Association

Jonathan Taylor, known as Odd Jonathan due to his profound dyslexia and learning difficulties has been awarded the prestigious Best Folk Song December 2015 by top record industry executives of the Akademia Awards, Los Angeles, with the comment that judges considered it to be:

"Odd Jonathan, despite the name, offers one of the most lucid narratives folk music has produced this year, fluidly foiled by an intricate fiddle descant."

The comments made by Ken Wilson, who supports musicians interested in receiving a higher degree of market exposure and recognition in the new music business era, are most appreciated by the artist. From senior posts at Arista Records, Columbia and MCA to J Records and Warner Brothers, veteran record executive Ken has shaped the careers of legendary artists such as Beyoncé, Alicia Keys, Whitney Houston, Mariah Carey, Michael Jackson, Seal, Sade, George Michael and many more, leading to record sales in excess of $2 Billion.

The winning song, "If Only (The Falling Man)," details the desperate plight of those trapped within the burning World Trade Centre following the attacks of 9/11. It was inspired when Jonathan watched the TV documentary 'Voices from The Towers' in which anguished relatives and loved ones spoke on film about how last minute answer machines messages, from those trapped, gave them a lasting memory, a farewell and a sense of closure. The artist has never detailed which particular story the song focusses on, merely to add that he "considers the track to be for all of them, none are any more significant than the other. This is a work that remembers them all, the victims of an unspeakable horror that killed so many."

He adds; "I am delighted that this song has received such a high status of recognition from such a high profile figure. My own experiences of profound abuse gave me a talent. I never know whether to consider my condition as a curse or a gift. Somehow I can descend into very dark places and return again with something beautiful. In many ways this is the song that should never have been written, but if such a song should exist, then I am delighted that it be this one..."

Jonathan was born in Warwick: UK. 1966, but moved to Bulgaria in 2006 to concentrate on his writing career. He has been regularly featured on Bulgarian TV and press and is an outspoken critic of the UKIP leader, Nigel Farage which gained him much public support in his new homeland. "This is the second major recognition of my life" he states. In 1998 he was awarded, by nomination, 'The Principles' Award for Outstanding Achievement in Education' whilst studying for his youth work diploma at Bradford and Ilkley Community College, North England. He had no previous formal school education, being placed on a supervision order at the age of 13. A persistent truant he was quite illiterate when leaving school without qualifications. "I had not been entered for exams as all others were due to years of nonattendance. I was hated by many teachers and peers alike. I was terrified of school and was horrifically bullied and abused. You soon learn to keep away."

I returned to part time education in my late 20s and thereafter studied fulltime. After nine years I eventually graduated as a teacher, how ironic now when I think of it... These days I spend most of my time teaching English and have the pleasure of writing learning materials (to music) for the Cambridge based teaching and learner resource, English Club online. The '98 award recognised my need to succeed at all costs. I was hungry for education and loved every second of mature study though had to do many resits, including a full year. These days I have completed 15 solo albums and have written several books; fiction novels. Sadly upon my diagnosis for dyslexia (I had no idea what the problem was at the time but just knew I was capable of so much more) my stepfather said; "so you are still looking for excuses for being stupid?" and upon receiving my Honours Degree, (grade 2.1), my mother added "Well anyone can get a degree there..." This was extremely hurtful. You realise it's not what you do that matters but what people actually think about you. You just have to believe in yourself! This Akademia award means so much to me. It doesn't matter what happens now, only that somebody has acknowledged my contribution to art and culture."

If Only (The Falling Man) already features as part of the artist memorial gallery of the 9/11 Memorial Museum in New York City and former English language students of Jonathan, of The American College Arcus, Veliko Tarnovo, Bulgaria, created the accompanying video. "I told them what I wanted and they just got on with it," he said. An American flag drifts gently in the wind as the names of all victims scroll upward across it. As the song finishes, due to the sheer volume of named victims it contains, it continues afterward for a further 15 minutes in respectful silence. The song debuted on BBC Radio Leeds and features a sample recording, of the time, from BBC news reports.

Taylor ends: "This is not just recognition of my work but recognition of the contributions that all brain damaged or disabled writers can offer. We are not disabled, we are differently able... I had always dreamed of an acting career but my short term memory loss makes it impossible for me to remember lines... I can't even perform my own songs without lyric sheets to prompt me, so music, no matter how dark the subject matter, allows me to put the emotional expression I need into song. It's taken a while for it to be noticed and in many ways I thank the outstanding contributions of Canadian violinist, David Copeland, for doing this. He created a violin melody that haunts you throughout and carries it to a much higher level."

Check out the ADA blog below for more:

http://www.dyslexia.me/jonathan-taylor-wins-academia-music-awards-for-9-11-memorial-song/

The Definitive Edition for Dummies

SPOILER ALERT!

I'm okay! That's the good news! But, here it is so far.

So, Brian was a copper, a really nice guy, and everybody loved him. He took a mega road trip (time off from the police force) and went off to find out the secrets that lay behind his father's death, a war hero. And as Brian is really big time into military history, he writes a book called 'Please Take Care of Bethany' about his adventures. It gets published by Brittunculi (an ancient Roman word meaning nasty little Britons), a small independent British company owned by yours truly! A British singer/songwriter – that's me! But, someone is following him.

Brian's nice but dim, and thinks it's the secret services! Later, back at work, he finds a set of memoirs dumped in an old house and soon realises it's all about to get rather personal. Enter stage left a nutter, a distant relative from Brian's routes back in Poland. And guess what? Brian is chosen to deliver a Divine Message, a Holy work, and to get Brittunculi to publish that as well. Of course they don't want to 'cause this psycho's killed lots of people, but if they don't, he's gonna kill even more. He sends the severed finger of one of Brian's friend's, Dr Cerys Davies, the best psychologist in the country, just to prove his point. Brian complies. The book 'Memoirs of a Psychopath', goes to print!

But the killer doesn't stop there. He's shagged the leading detective in the case (DI Andrea Johnson) quite a few times apparently, and decides he'd like to fuck her over; all over again. She secretly writes erotica ('Porthole'), and when this becomes known she has to quit her job because of the shame of it all. And what a shame it is 'cause then she does the only decent thing and tops herself!

Meanwhile, Dr Cerys Davies goes quite insane, and after her later release from captivity (it's complicated), for her own protection, she is held at Broadmoor Hospital. Top max security! Her daughters are, however, not quite so fortunate. The youngest, Chandelle, gets a really bad crack-cocaine habit and now works the streets as a prostitute. Her only escape is to write a series of fantasy stories ('How to Breed Chickens in Iowa' - she's got a thing for cowboys) down in her personal private journal!

The older sister, Isabella, develops a thing for her psycho captor (Stockholm syndrome or something like that) and they go off happily together, into the wilderness, and try to make more psychopaths (think Frankenstein). They set up a laboratory in the secret underground bunkers of Buzludzha. That's the place on the cover! There're loads of them by now, a new world order. Whilst Brian discovers the secret behind his dad's death, the nutter used the same opportunity to discover apocalyptic military chemicals. They've poisoned the food supply with them!

Okay, obviously I don't care much for these guys, and when Brian tells me I have to write a musical ('Meat: The Musical') to include myself in the nutter's Holy book, I say, "Fuck all that for a game of soldiers!" After all, he's using one of my best songs in ritual killings. He's (the nutter in all this) got this crazy idea that he's gonna create a literary world first, a Bible covering every genre, and he needs the missing bits to finish it. I comply, reluctantly, only to protect the hostages but, I confess, I took the piss a little bit too much. I figured, if this was an opportunity to get some of my stuff published worldwide, I'd include my new children's story, 'The Gold Star Kid,' in it. Great idea at the time, but clearly the psycho has no sense of humour at all and gets pretty pissed off that his Holy book is now becoming a bit of a joke.

He now starts being pretty cruel to Isabella, that's true, who by this point appears to be quite the looney tune herself. She's now writing a book called 'Communists in Outer Space'. So I too do the decent thing: hide! But later, when I'm in protective custody, I get a mysterious visitor. A top secret government agent who's read one of Brian's other books about 'The Man Who Buried Himself'. It's full of secret masonic messages and Brian's now run off to help Isabella escape! In order to put things right again, I have to reveal the truth behind the pyscho's true intentions, expose them for what they really are, all with the support of world-wide governments. They've (the Gabriel Sect) have taken over the Illuminati and want to start a third world war. I've got nothing to lose so I write the story for him, just as the agent asks me to. Until...

Part Four of the book soon arrives, and it's got a film script 'Surge' with it. Isabella's in it. She looks pretty hungry, but at least she's not dead. But Brian? Oh dear. They've eaten him. Just because I put my kid's book in the last one, they decided a new cookery book would be fun too. Lots and lots of people are killed again, and apparently it's all my fault. But get this: the guy in the film takes his hood off at the end and it's Arat. The secret agent who told me to write 'Pre-Installed Navigational Guidance (PING)' in the first place! What a total fuck up to say the least.

So now I'm in hiding somewhere else. I got a really cool letter from Prince Charles who thanked me for confirming that he was not an alien reptoid after all and asked if I would I like to go and stay with him for a while. We're gonna work on the next bit (Part Five) together! Sadly I need to find a new publisher. Brittunculi's now under new management.

**Happier times:** Above from L to R - Nikolay Berievski (Youth Development Coordinator), Odd Jonathan and Sergay Stanishev. (Former Bulgarian Prime Minister and President of the Bulgarian Socialist Party). PES: Party of the European Young Socialists, at conference, Veliko Tarnovo. Below: Words of encouragement from the current Bulgarian Prime Minister: Boyko Borissov. Nova TV studio, Sofia: Bulgaria. None appeared to be reptilian in any form.

©ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 2016

www.Brittunculi.co.uk

Definitive Edition 2016: Dr Cerys Davies et al.

